“There were no people here before?” the French man on his honeymoon asked. “I mean, the indigenes?”
“Yeah,” said the teenager. “What about them?”
“Tell us about the house,” the retired man from Arizona said.
“So, back to the witch trials—” Harper began, impatient at the interruptions, but Joel ignored the queries.
“The mansion was commissioned by the Perles family, who came to Monterey from Galveston, Texas, in the mid-1800s. Tragically, most of the family died within a few years of their arrival. Only one brother and sister, Soren and Isabel Perles, survived, and they lived here together for many years. Soren was a respected physician, indeed the only one in town, with his very own research laboratory. He doted on his only surviving sister, Isabel, whom he called ‘his pearl.’ Isabel, for her part, was a popular socialite with a reputation for rather scandalous behavior…”
“Now we’re talking,” Tariq whispered.
“Isabel Perles was a spiritualist, and conducted séances right here in her garden. She was equally famous for her dinner parties, which she held in an octagonal room on the second floor. The room is covered from floor to ceiling in mirrors, reflecting the flickering light of the hundreds of candles with which Isabel filled the room. The sight was said to be breathtaking, and invitations to her parties were highly coveted. Artists and poets, politicians, and the wealthiest citizens of the day were the invited guests. But one day Isabel’s maid found her in her Séance Garden, burying something at thebase of the cypress tree. She then burned her many silk and satin dresses, exquisite garments that had cost her brother a small fortune.”
“Why would she do that?” asked one of the honeymooners.
“No one knows. But after she burned all her finery, Isabel wore only a simple, long white cotton gown and a rebozo, which is a long Mexican shawl. Some have speculated that she might have been overcome with guilt for carrying on an incestuous affair with her brother and was attempting to repent. We will never know for sure, will we? And then, one night…”
Joel paused, and his voice dropped to a whisper. The crowd, including Harper, leaned in closer.
“When her brother and the servants were asleep, Isabel fetched a vial of poison from her brother’s medical cabinet, drank the fatal draft, and lay down at the base of the Witch Tree. A housemaid found her pale and lifeless corpse the next morning. Some say that when the conditions are right you can hear echoes of the maid’s piercing scream. And that evening, as the last rays of the sun slipped beneath the horizon, her brother, Soren, was discovered hanging from that very tree!”
The tour group gasped, and Joel nodded with satisfaction.
“From that day forward, the Perles Mansion sat empty and crumbling, shelter only for unfortunates. But none stayed long, and many ran screaming out into the night, chased out by a spectral vision of a Lady in White. For a while, during Prohibition, the mansion functioned as a speakeasy, until one night many of those in attendance were gunned down—again, the survivors of that bloody night claimed to have seen an angry woman in a long white gown and rebozo. At one point, a local historical society stepped in to save the house from the bulldozer, but they were never able to raise the funds torenovate it properly. Decades passed until, at long last, famous local artist Delilah Mason bought the place and fixed it up, taking care to preserve the mansion’s original details, including its many original furnishings. Apparently, she fears no danger from the Lady in White, who is still said to haunt the place…But then, Ms. Mason herself is in tune with the spirit world—or so she says.”
Joel paused dramatically and placed his hand on the wooden gate.
“And you, my friends, are in luck. Mine is the one, theonlyghost tour in all of Monterey permitted to enter the Séance Garden, courtesy of the largesse of the lovely and talented Delilah Mason. Assuming, that is, you dare to step through the portal.”
And with that, Joel slowly pushed the heavy wooden gate open. The hinges made a loud, creaking protest worthy of an old radio show. The members of the group murmured nervously. The honeymooners exchanged a few words in French, and the “psychic” leaned forward, straining to peer into the garden.
“Join me, won’t you, as we pass through the gate and into history?” Joel said in a low, solemn voice, heightening the tension.
The group entered slowly, one by one, looking around at the tall adobe walls encircling the garden, the flourishing oleander bushes and angel’s-trumpets lining the perimeter, the old stone well complete with a wooden crank and bucket, and the wide expanse of hard-packed dirt dominated by the stately cypress tree, its branches draped with lichen similar to Spanish moss. Though there was no noticeable breeze, the leaves shimmered and branches swayed.
Beneath the tree was a sculpture of a melancholy angel, kneeling down, holding her head in her hands. Partially covered in lichen and moss, the angel appeared almost lifelike in the dim light, giving the garden an appropriately spooky air.
Harper glanced up at the second-story window. The shadow was still there, now standing motionless, as if peering out onto the garden. The famously fearless Delilah Mason, Harper presumed.
“As I was saying,” said Joel. “The Perles Mansion garden is known for its—”
“Do you hear that?” Harper interrupted.
“What?”
“Those sounds,” Tariq said, nodding.
“I hear something, too,” the retired woman said.
The mother and daughter from Iowa exchanged nervous looks, and the honeymooners from Bordeaux took a step back.
A movement made Harper glance over toward the house. A large, dark-haired dog emerged from the shadows and stood stock-still, staring at the tour group.
Could it have been making the sound?
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Joel. “As I was saying, this is the famous Witch Tree, where Isabel Perles was found—”
There was now an unmistakable, muffled sound of grunting, punctuated by faint groans. It was coming from underneath the colossal cypress.
