“You're late,” she said to me.
“Only a little,” I said with a smile, determined to show everyone she didn't intimidate me one bit.
“I'll get to you in a minute, Tori. Please be patient while I tell the girls what to do.” Even though she spoke to me as if I were a freshman, I kept smiling. One of the gowned students winked and handed me a program, and I read The Lickin Creek College for Women presents the Annual Harvest Time Legends Tour featuring Tori Miracle as the Nun in the Attic.
“Excuse me,” I said. “What's this ‘featuring Tori Miracle’ business?”
Helga simpered as the girls giggled. “You're our Celebrity Ghost this year. I thought you knew that.”
“I didn't expect this,” I said gruffly, but way down under my habit I was tickled with the attention. Maybe I wasn't a big name in the literary world, but at least I was recognized in south-central Pennsylvania.
The girls were to be the guides and ticket takers, I learned. They represented the six original students who had been brave enough to seek out higher education equal to that offered to men. A man in a black suit played the part of the Presbyterian minister who had founded the college in 1860. Another man in black, with a stovepipe hat and a beard, was obviously portraying Abraham Lincoln. Keeping a low voice, I asked one of the guides, “What's he doing here? I never heard anything about President Lincoln coming to Lickin Creek.”
Unfortunately the acoustics in the hall were very good, and Helga threw me a dirty look. “If he hadn't died at such an inopportune time, I'm sure he would have visited our town when the war was over.”
Helga handed each of us a flashlight, a supply of candles and matches, and a small lantern. “Make sure all the lights are off in your area, then assume your assigned positions. The first guests should be coming through in about ten minutes, so please have your lantern lit with the chimney on. And keep your eye on them. We don't want a repeat of last year's near-tragic accident. Repairs to the second-floor carpet took all our profits. And don't use your flashlights unless it's absolutely necessary.”
The other nuns flocked to the staircase, and I started to follow them, but Helga put her arm on mine and stopped me. “Yo u ’re the attic nun, Tori. You can take the elevator up.”
“Why do I have to sit all alone in the attic?” I grumbled to the pretty girl in a powder blue silk gown who pushed the elevator button.
“That's where they always put the Celebrity Ghost. Guess they figure nobody would climb all the way up there unless there was someone worth seeing.” She chewed a fingernail for a second or two and looked nervously at me a couple of times. Finally, she asked, “Just what are you famous for, anyway?”
“I wrote a book.”
“Oh. Why haven't I ever heard of it?”
I wanted to shout, because you're an ill-educated slob with no literary taste whatsoever, but deep down inside I knew it would have been unusual if she had read my poor little novel. Last I heard, it had been spotted on a remainder table at Barnes & Noble; maybe somebody would pick it up there.
She pulled the grate open. “I'll get off here,” she said. “I'm going to be on the third floor. I'm the beautiful virgin who committed suicide when my lover deserted me. According to legend, I still wait for him at my bedroom window.”
“During the war?”
“No. It happened before that, when this building was still a private home. Better go up and find your spot,” she said. “We've only got four minutes till lights out.” She waved as I closed the elevator door.
I went up to the floor where the PR department had its offices. There were a few other offices there too, mostly empty, since no one wanted to be stuck in the unpleasant attic. But there was one, I recalled, that had been given to Mack Macmillan when he became chairman of the board of trustees. It had not yet been reassigned, and I wondered if it had been thoroughly searched. As I passed by, I tried the door and found it locked.
The hallway was hot and airless. Now I remembered Lizzie saying to me, “Whatever you do, don't let them stick you in the attic.” I wished I'd listened. Spooky, she'd called it. It sure was. I found the chair where I was supposed to sit in a shadowy alcove near the back of the main hallway, facing the stairs. I switched off the overhead light, followed my flashlight beam back to the chair, lit my candle, and pulled out my information packet to read through it once more. A cool breeze ruffled the pages of my job description and caused the candle flame to flicker, reminding me to put the chimney on. Lizzie Borden once told me nobody in their right mind stayed in this building after dark. I really wished I hadn't agreed to sit in this creepy attic alone.
After a short while I heard footsteps on the stairs below, and the voice of the girl from the elevator telling her story of unrequited love. She demonstrated real dramatic talent and even had me looking over my shoulder for etheric figures. The footsteps grew louder as the group climbed the staircase, and I blew out the candle in my lantern as my directions said I should, then waited quietly until they were all in the hallway. There were about fifteen people in the first group of visitors, and I could see them quite well because they were all carrying small illuminated lanterns, but I knew they couldn't see me lurking in the alcove. Several were small enough to be children, but I couldn't really tell since everyone wore costumes and masks. The guide hushed them, saying she thought she heard something, and that was my cue to turn on my flashlight beneath my chin to illuminate the white wings of my cornette. There were several screams, and I figured I must look pretty darn scary.
Using my best woo-woo voice, I said, “I am Sister Camilla O'Neil of the Sisters of Charity. I nursed soldiers at Gettysburg, then came across the mountain to assist after the Battle of Lickin Creek.” Was there really a Battle of Lickin Creek? I couldn't recall ever hearing about it. “I cared for the rich, the poor, the officers and the privates, the white man and the Negro. One poor soul said my cornette made him think of angels’ wings.” I paused here and shook my head to make the elaborate white headdress jiggle. “I emptied bedpans, fed those who could not feed themselves, changed dressings, and combed the lice from their heads and beards. And then one day, while cutting the dressing away from an infected wound, I accidentally sliced my finger. By nightfall, red streaks had rushed up my arm and taken over my brain. I was carried here, to this very attic, where I lay upon a bare cot and with feverish eyes looked out through a dormer at the heaven I was soon to visit. Within my-”
“Mama, I have to go to the potty.”
I stopped short. Where was I? Oh yes, the cot. “Within my brain was one thought only, to-”
“Now! Mama. I can't wait.”
The guide turned on her flashlight. “I'll take her.”
The mood I'd strived to create was all but gone, and I decided to expurgate my death scene. “And there I died, grateful for having suffered in the service of my Redeem-”
“Sorry to interrupt you, Miss Miracle,” the guide said. “But we're going to have to leave.” To the assembled people, she said, “The bathroom door's locked. We'll have to go downstairs at once.”
The little girl clutching her hand was sobbing miserably and hopping from one foot to the other. She ran to a masked woman in a gypsy costume I assumed was her mother and buried her face in the woman's skirts.