The Rosary Bride
A Cloistered Death
Book One
Chapter One
Barely muted by the crash of shattered stone
on wood flooring, a shouted expletive reverberated off the high ceiling of
In that frozen moment in time, I heard a
slight rustling sound followed by a click,
click, click.
As if on cue a small glass bead rolled out of the jagged hole and
tumbled to the floor.
The spell was broken as quickly as it had
been cast. Hurrying forward, I dimly
heard the questioning voices of my friends as I pushed between the two men and
bent to retrieve the tiny bead. Another
bead trickled from the wounded masonry and joined its predecessor on the
floor. One more hung on the edge of a
gray shard like a tear poised to drop. I
knelt down to pluck it from the rubble.
The assault on my senses began
immediately. A puff of cold, dank air
long imprisoned in the wall pushed against my face in search of freedom. My stomach tightened and the hair on the back
of my neck scraped against my collar. I
wanted to turn away; I was drawn closer.
My jaw tightened and bits of my breakfast rocketed to my throat and
stopped just short of gagging me. Head
pounding, filled with noise and motion, I saw what they couldn't see; what I'd
never forget. Suspended
in the dark hole, as if in a desperate stretch to the light and perhaps the
touch of another, dangled a bony hand.
I screamed and pulled back. The room seemed to tilt and shift my focus
from the gaping hole up to the chandelier twenty feet above me and back again.
"Gracie, what's wrong? Grace, what is it?" Strong arms lifted me to my feet and pulled
me back from the fireplace. Someone placed
a chair behind my wobbly legs. I sat
down quickly and clamped my knees together to keep them from shaking.
"Call Ric. Call Ric now."
"Ric. What are you thinking? What's…"
"Call him, now. There's someone in there."
My announcement of entombment caused a minor
uproar. Gasps and shouts amid a building
crescendo of questions filled the air around me. People began pushing and moving.
Don Rakin's
soothing voice could be heard moving through the chaos, calming pockets of
people as he moved among them. He was
tall, six feet, six inches but his stooped frame hid his height, as the
oversized sweater and baggy khakis hid his slender build. His pale blue eyes blinked more than usual
even for him. He was the coordinator of
the library move and in that capacity, he took charge. He asked us to move away from the crumpled
structure.
The pounding in my head diminished. I looked around. Karen stared at me. I smiled weakly and saw relief on her
face. Don pushed a glass into my
hands. I sipped the icy water. The clean taste filled my mouth, easing the
tightness in my throat and erasing the cotton dry taste of fear. The gaping hole drew everyone's
attention. Several friends moved closer
to me. Sitting on the chair, I had a
lower sight line. I could see some white
lacy material. My shoulders twitched and
I looked away.
I stared into the water. My hands automatically sought the chain of
yarn I always carried somewhere on my body.
I pulled a bright red length from my pocket and began a memorized
pattern of loops and twists. Immediately
the familiar process soothed my jangled nerves.
My adrenaline flow ebbed and my stomach seemed to retreat to an area
closer to my waist. Curiosity overtook
my initial fear and I looked back toward the hole. It wasn't a pleasant sight, but I had really
come unglued. I usually handled shock
better than this histrionic display. For
some reason, this felt different. I was
still shaking.
"Who's Ric?" A second shock seemed inevitable.
"What?" I turned to look at Doreen.
"Who's Ric? You told Karen to call Ric."
"I told her to call the police," I
corrected her.
"You told her to call Ric. You didn't say
anything about police."
My face flushed hot. My head pounded with renewed ferocity; I
turned away from her and walked the length of the library toward the
doors. Ten feet before the exit I made a
sharp right turn, passed the abandoned circulation desk and stopped at the door
to a windowless room housing thousands of periodicals and magazines shelved on
metal racks.
I glimpsed my reflection in the window in the
top half of the door to the room. My shoulder
length, dark brown hair seemed more tousled than usual even for me. Lavender eyes with flecks of gold and an
expression of fear, maybe panic, something not normal, stared back at me. I pushed the door and moved past my
image. The area I was in was referred to
as the stacks. I stopped to take a deep
breath. My lungs filled with the
delicious smell of old and new words blending and living on paper. The saying, 'so many books, so little time'
caused a smile. I inhaled deeply again
and continued to walk through the stacks for another twenty feet before I
reached the exit. Now I was in an alcove
at the back of the building. In the
1940's, there had been three small dormitory rooms and a hall with direct
access to the Sisters' dining room and the college chapel. During a renovation of the area, the two
rooms at the far end had been remodeled into a reading room for the nuns. A long narrow hallway led to the remaining old
dorm room. The door and part of a wall
to that room had been removed to make a study alcove for students in Power
Hall. The long hall
and partial room made half a cul de sac. Students used it as a shortcut from the dorm
to the library or to the chapel. No one
ever studied in there. The room had
never been comfortable; it had always been the coldest spot in the building.
Felt fine to me. Right now this was what I needed, a haven
from that terrible scene in the library.
Not many people traveled all the way down this corridor anymore. They usually cut through closer to the Sisters'
reading room.
College legend persisted that a lonely spirit
haunted the alcove and nearby hall. As
far back as the forties, students talked about seeing a beautiful girl in a
flowing, white dress carrying a luminescent white rosary in her hands walking
into the room at the end of the hall.
That section of the building housed the oldest dorms. No one had been assigned to those rooms in
years. Even after the renovation
students still claimed that they saw the beautiful specter in fancy dress enter
the alcove. She always carried the
shimmering white rosary draped over her clasped hands, as though in
prayer. Some said they called out to her
and followed her but when they flipped on the light, no one was there. I had heard all the stories when I was a
student here. By that time, girls had
named the ghost the 'Rosary Bride.' No
one I knew ever saw her; no one I knew ever came here alone.
My fingers found the rough texture of my yarn
and began to work the ends round against themselves and back again over the
middle while my mind tried to deal with what had happened in the library. For the umpteenth time, I mentally thanked my
mother for providing me with a simple way to calm my nerves and focus my
thoughts.
During my early childhood, my mother had recognized
the constant braiding, plaiting, and twisting of anything I could grab as the
behavior of an obsessive-compulsive personality. I braided an assortment of string, dandelion
stems, rubber bands, twist ties, and ribbon.
Mostly, I twisted my hair to the point where clumps of it would come
out. My mother became frantic when I had
no fewer than three bald patches about the size of nickels. At that point, she ch
Until now. So, why was I sitting alone being
stressed? I was also an alumna of
Traffic had been nonexistent this morning
when I zipped eastbound on the Eisenhower Expressway. Even the 'Hillside Strangler,' the bottleneck
at the merge had posed no threat to my schedule. The drive through River Woods on familiar side
streets brought me here in no time. I
parked near the Fine Arts Building and followed some other blue jeans clad
'thirty-something's' into Lewis Hall.
This morning the lobby outside the old
library served as a staging area to tag, feed, and direct the alumni work
force. We formed a ready group gathered
by flyers, phone calls, and guilt tactics by class agents. The alumni office decided that a liturgy
should precede the breakfast. Mass at
The Chapel smelled of polishing wax and well
oiled wood. Mixed with those smells was
a touch of mustiness that lived in every old building with a past. Three-foot thick stone walls kept the Chapel
cool and quiet. The cacophony of college
life seemed to stop at the heavy oak doors, as though the concept of sanctuary
existed for all who entered. I never
forgot the peacefulness I felt each time I stopped in for a chat with God.
My husband, Harry, and I often drove in from
our home in Pine Marsh, a Western suburb near
The mass this morning had been even more
special since I shared it with women I hadn't seen in ten years. The occasion had mushroomed into a working
reunion of sorts. Some alum had decided
to stay a few days and were sharing hotel rooms or bunking with old friends
still living in the area. Friendly
smiles and quick nods crisscrossed the intimate chapel. 'Pass the peace,' our term from college days,
took longer as we moved among the pews and hugged seldom seen classmates. I saw Karen Kramer across the chapel and
moved to join her after the final benediction.
We had shared all of our English classes together and had discovered we
were kindred spirits.
Karen who was blessed with a tall, slender,
athletic build was my physical antithesis.
She wore her curly, dark blonde hair very short. Dark brown eyes, framed by large tortoise
shell glasses gave the appearance of wisdom, wit, and intelligence. I always teased her and told her without her
glasses she'd be just a blonde. She
really was the only one with whom I had stayed close - we were best friends.
The friendly atmosphere in the Chapel spilled
out into the second floor of Lewis where we enjoyed coffee, chitchat, and
croissants. The old library was soon to
become a beautifully detailed study hall.
The room had a twelve-foot ceiling all around the perimeter with a
center ceiling that peaked to twenty feet.
Ten chandeliers divided the long room and provided basic illumination.
Studying there had always been a romantic,
brooding experience. It seemed all the
English majors studied in the Library.
Science majors labored in well-lighted areas. They probably realized the damaging effects
to one's vision from squinting at badly illuminated pages. I thought it was necessary to read Wuthering Heights in the atmosphere of a
dimly lighted, drafty Great Hall. I
believe I understood the ambiance of the English novel because of this old
library. The alcoves created by the
lower bookshelves, had since been fitted with spot lighting, which wrecked the
mood, but saved the vision.
My team, Karen Kramer, Doreen Ripler, and Marietta Doyle, was assigned bookcases #16-#20,
next to the fireplace. I had always
tried to sit near the fireplace and had often imagined what it would have been
like to study by the light of a blazing fire, reading about Heathcliff
and Cathy searching for each other on the cold unforgiving moor while I sat
warm and safe until only the red-hot embers in the heavy metal grate remained.
That fantasy had never happened since the
fireplace sat empty and cold throughout the four years I attended
Some workmen were already chipping around the
front of the mantle. The stonework with
the original inscription was to be removed and affixed in the new library's
foyer for the dedication in two weeks.
The ceremony was pl
We worked in friendly closeness exchanging
small talk on kids, careers, and significant others. Our task was to remove the books from each
shelf, wipe them off with a specially treated cloth designed to clean and
hydrate the covers. The next step was to
shelve them on rolling carts to be taken to the new library. After ninety minutes, we were ready for a
break and Karen offered to go for coffee.
During that entire time we had been subjected
to the constant bickering of the two men hired to relocate the mantle. They argued about the process they should
use. They argued about the tools they
would need. They cursed the bricklayer
since apparently the original installer had taken no shortcuts. He had mortared and cemented every inch of
the structure not just the contact points.
The argument escalated into a shoving match as a small crack in the
firebox widened into a gaping hole when one worker lost patience. Each blamed the other for the damage. The final culpability was laid at the feet of
the original artisan for doing too good a job.
He obviously had never intended this fireplace to be moved. Had he known its secret?
My heartbeat kicked into high gear as I
remembered the 'secret' I had glimpsed in the crumbled masonry. The memory spun my thoughts to another
anomaly, namely, the 'Rosary Bride.' I
shivered.
"Dammit,
Grace, you came in here to think about seeing Ric
again, not fifty year old ghosts."
I lectured myself aloud.
"Why did I tell Karen to call Ric?" I continued speaking to no one. "Maybe he won't be on duty. Maybe he'll assign someone else to
investigate. Why did I ask for him? Can't start again. I don't want to be here."
I couldn't keep my thoughts sorted and
suddenly I knew why. The room was
freezing. I don't know how but in the
last ten minutes it felt like the temperature in the alcove dropped at least
twenty degrees. The deep cold seemed to
make the room brighter as though the frigid surfaces reflected the light more
intensely. There was something else
too. No, someone else. I had the uncanny feeling that someone was in
the alcove with me. That was impossible.
A slight sound, a rustle like lace against
lace seemed close by. A freezing chill
moved slowly down my spine to my lower back until I couldn't move my legs. Goose bumps erupting on my arms were the only
movement my body could manage.
I heard a soft sound like someone expelling
breath to form the hard 'gr' of my name. I felt frozen to the chair. I didn't want to see her if I couldn't
run. I sat perfectly still and waited. The sound came again. This time stronger, not a distant motor
kicking on, not a door swishing shut down the hall. It was my name.
"Grace?
Are you all right?"
Karen's voice and my scream sounded
simultaneously.
"My God, Grace, what is it? You look like you've seen a ghost."
How could I tell Karen she wasn't far from
the truth? "Nothing. You, ah, startled me. I was thinking."
"You're shivering. Let's go back to the library. It's freezing in here. I was worried about you," she said as
she took both my hands. "Wow, your
hands are like ice. Here, take my
sweater." Karen insisted on bundling
me up in her woolly Pendleton. The
sweater was a classic, and a shade of ivory that happened only to very old and
very expensive wool.
"What made you come here? I wouldn't have walked down this far if I
hadn't seen the light blazing from the room. You know I never liked walking down this
hall. Even now, it gives me the
creeps. C'mon let's go."
What did guide
my steps? Or who? Today had begun without a hint of the events
that would shatter the calm of a beautiful fall day and challenge my resolve to
keep my marriage intact.