It was back while writing at the now deceased Vinings Gazette that a stupid idea was
hatched. I’d stay the night in a supposedly haunted house. Alone. This stunt was for
our Halloween edition. My search for such a place led me to the popular Atlanta
restaurant Anthony's. Construction on the house-turned-eatery was started in 1767
by Wiley Woods Pope. It first stood in Washington, Georgia, 117 miles east of
Atlanta. During the restoration and move to Atlanta, original boards and pegs of
lumber were used. The manager of Anthony's had no problem with me spending the
night alone in her restaurant.
“But you can’t leave until the morning crew comes because you’ll set off the security
alarm,” she said.
“Have you ever seen a ghost in the house?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” she said. “But I don’t stay there by myself at night. We’ve had pastry
chefs come in around the middle of the night and swear they hear chains rattling
around. Most refuse to work here by themselves after dark.”
I next spoke with Mrs. Sally Cwik who left Atlanta for North Carolina. She and her
husband used to manage Anthony's.
“Yes, the house is haunted,” Sally said. “There’s a main staircase at the front of the
building. Near there is an old photograph of Annie Barnett. She was married in the
house in 1882 I think. Some people can sense her presence near the staircase. Some
hear children singing there. Others have seen a cat at the top of the stairs.
“We’ve had people quit after being there late at night. Some of our employees who
worked there late by themselves burned sage to keep away the spirits. A chef named
Jesse came in early to prep and saw an arm come out of the wall that mirrored
whatever his own arm did. He refused to work by himself after that.”
“Have you seen a ghost there?” I asked.
“No, but my husband and I had to close one night. After turning off all the lights we
were in the parking lot and noticed the lights on the second floor were on again.
There are no switches up there. You have to unscrew the lights from out of the
sconces to turn them off. When we went back into the house the bulbs were screwed
in tight. We unscrewed them again. When we got back out to the parking lot – the
lights were all back on.
“And a woman named Margaret who helped open Anthony's thirty years ago had a
heart attack and died in the back of the house on Valentines. We had 300 people
there that night. She always said she’d die at work at the most inconvenient time.
Misty blotches have shown up on photos over the spot where she passed away.”
“Has anyone stayed the entire night in the house by themselves?”
“No. Not to my knowledge.”
The paper had to be out before Halloween. So I had to choose another night for my
sleep over. I chose the night of September 22, the equinox, for my visit. I had read
to look for times of transition if you are after the uncanny. Solstices, sunsets, new
moons, midnight, cross-roads – these are times and places where opposites meet.
And ghosts are transitional entities seemingly caught between this world and the
next.
The night before I was to go to Anthony's, I lay awake in bed and thought about
bringing company. Both my wife and brother offered to go with me. When it comes
to things that go bump in the night, lighting a candle may help a bit to dissipate the
bug-a-boos. But another warm, living soul by my side would be like a million
candles shoring up my courage. Still, staying in the house with another person was
not the point. In the bright light of the next day, my nerves returned along with a
sense of adventure. Alone I would go.
At twilight, driving home from work, I swerved to avoid driving over a large, dead
black cat in the middle of the road. Once home, I tried to relax a bit with my wife
before leaving for the night. Tomorrow would be our second wedding anniversary. I
gathered some essentials and said farewell.
"My love!" I cried. "I hope to see you again in this world – or the next."
"Goodbye," she said, pushing me out the door.
I stopped. Turning, I grabbed her by the waist. We shared one last lingering kiss.
Then I left.
* * *
As I walked alongside Anthony's, I looked at the black windows above me. I heard
the rumbling of the ancient air conditioning unit near the back offices. There
Margaret might be waiting for our time alone together. I imagined plodding through
a room, searching the dim corners for danger when the lights would inexplicably go
out. I’d freeze. An icy hand slowly slips into mine and I slip into mindless terror.
The End.
I rounded the corner of the house and ran into the valet as he left for the night.
“Jeez! You scared the – out of me!” he exclaimed, continuing off to meet his ride.
The night crew was finishing washing the dishes. I lay my sleeping bag on the floor
of the glassed-in front porch on the second floor. From there I could see a few of the
lights of Piedmont Road flickering through the trees. Anthony's, though in the
middle of the city, is set back on deeply wooded property.
“Hey! You still here?” shouted the night manager.
“Yeah,” I answered.
“We’re out of here. You know you can’t leave until the morning crew arrives?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck.”
I watched two cars zoom down the driveway towards their homes. I listened to little
creaks as the house began to settle. I sat down. I was quite jittery. Under the floor
on which I sat hung Annie’s picture. I could see the top of the stairs where some had
seen the ghost cat. Though I didn’t want to venture further into the house, I had to.
I would look into each and every corner to see what there was to see. My reward for
such bravery would be to return to the porch from where I would again see the
lights of the city. There I’d remain for the rest of the night. I managed to push
myself out of the chair.
“Son of a – ”
My flashlight was in the car! I fell back into the chair. There were some dim lights
on in the house, but mostly it was enveloped in shadow or absolute dark. I said a
quiet prayer. I felt as though someone put a heavy, warm blanket over my
shoulders. My nerves calmed a bit. I stood back up and ventured into an adjacent
room. I entered and groped for a light switch. Nothing. I found a candle and lit it.
Then another candle. And another. I lit every candle I could find.
In one room I found a television. I switched it on and static blared out like a buzz
saw. I quickly turned it off and crawled back into my skin. Finding a three-pronged
candelabrum, I lit its candles. It made the perfect B-horror movie prop. So armed, I
continued my journey deeper into the house’s recesses. In the wine cellar was a large
stone head. It was Bacchus. He grinned at me, looking a bit like Vincent Price.
Making my way towards the back office, somewhere in the vicinity of Margaret’s
last breath, I heard a rap on the ceiling above me. Sure. It was probably nothing.
Mice. More settling. But I was alone and my previous calm was gone. My mind
blanked. My heart thumped hard like it wanted to leap from my chest and run
away. My tongue was a lump of dry bone. Then there was another bang. I don’t
know how I didn’t faint. Or ruin my trousers.
And then there were bells. Were they bells? They were high pitched. Beautiful really.
Melodious. Very voice like. Maybe these were the children singing some had heard.
I forced myself to take another step. Then another. I continued to walk the house. I
continued to hear - or believe I was hearing - misplaced taps and voice-like bells.
I reached the kitchen where the phantom arm had reached out to Jesse. I felt
watched. The ice machine sent a resounding crash through the kitchen. I wanted the
morning to come more than ever. Yet I had barely been in the house an hour.
When I reached my sleeping blanket on the big glassed-in porch, I slowly, gingerly
slipped in. I was physically tired, but my brain was overheated and hyper-alert.
There were no more bangs or bells. I could see some of the lights of the city. I lay
there for what seemed like hours. Finally, sleep began to come.
Step.
Step.
Step.
What sounded like footfalls were coming up the stairs. Rustling. There was rustling
too. I remained in my sleeping blanket, just sticking my head out to watch the top
of the stairs. There was nothing there. Just steps approaching. And rustling. I felt
there was someone standing near me. Just a few feet away. I didn’t say a word.
Perhaps I should have. But my voice and manners were gone. My host and I
remained there for some time. Slowly, the sense of presence faded.
Eventually, mercifully, dreamless sleep came. Next, there were the voices of real
humans. The light of morning shone in my eyes. I gathered my stuff and left. I
arrived home and fell into the arms of my loving, forgiving wife.
“Happy anniversary baby,” she said.
“Happy anniversary,” I answered.
“How was it?” she asked.
“Strange. Very strange. It’s nothing I ever want to do again. How was your night?”
“Strange also. I had a dream.”
“Oh?”
“We were together at Anthony's. A woman I’ve never seen before, laughing and
wearing an old fashioned dress, came and brought me to you.”
“Huh. Maybe it was Annie.”
“That's what I thought.”
“Well, I’ve got an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“How about next year, I stay here and save you both the trip?”
“Sounds good to me.”
And since then, I’ve managed to avoid staying overnight in supposedly haunted
houses by my lonesome – especially on my anniversary.
Ghosts of Georgia – Atlanta’s Haunted Restaurant
The Spirit of Annie Barnett
by Alan Levine
More Georgia Ghost Stories