It was late evening when we reached Mrs. Bigelow’s tourist home on Bangs Avenue. It was Saturday, October 9, 1948, and I’d woken up thinking about Asbury Park. Over the years, my mother had told me so much about this New Jersey seaside resort that I felt as though I knew it. That morning I had the feeling that I had to see it, and see it that day, or I never would.

My husband was skeptical. Bill was one of those people who always need convincing, but he gave in just to make me happy.

The afternoon ride down from Harlem was beautiful. He did admit that. The autumn leaves crinkled with color. The warm air was a  welcome sign of Indian summer. Once we pulled up in front of Mrs. Bigelow’s establishment, he perked up even more.

I’d picked her place out of the Negro Motorists Green Book, which I’d bought down the street from our home on St. Nicholas Avenue. After we hopped in the car, I opened the book, closed my eyes and let my index finger do the choosing. Bill thought that was a silly way of doing it. But once he saw how spacious Mrs. Bigelow’s place was in comparison to our apartment, he said that maybe my method wasn’t so bad after all.

Set up on a slight rise of land surrounded by trees, the sturdy little two-story house was charming in every way. From an inviting front porch to lace curtains hanging in every window, it really stood out. When I saw it, it occurred to me that we hadn’t called ahead to reserve a room. If she didn’t have space, we were in trouble. But I had a feeling she would, and she did. Indeed, she had a number of empty rooms.

Mrs. Bigelow was every bit as solid and pleasant as her accommodations. She gave us a warm welcome and said it didn’t matter how late we’d arrived. She was just happy we were there. She even had a little snack laid out for us.

“It’s as if she knew we were coming,” I told Bill later when we were alone in our room.

He gave me a neutral grunt and unlaced his shoes. He was tired. We both were. We worked long and hard at our teaching jobs in Harlem and this was a rare weekend off from other obligations. Any time spent away was well appreciated. I went into the bathroom to freshen up. We were hoping to make it to the last seating at the West Side Dining Room on Springwood Avenue, another find in the guidebook.

I pulled the chain to turn on the ceiling light and stood there for a moment. Despite the lingering heat of Indian summer outside, it was cold in there. Real cold, like a refrigerator. Little bumps of goose flesh rose up on my arms.

I should’ve turned around and walked out right then and there. I should’ve told Bill I was wrong about Mrs. Bigelow’s and gotten him to leave. Instead, I turned on the water faucet.

At first, there was nothing. Not even a gurgling. Then there was a little cough. I thought that meant the water was coming out. It wasn’t until I felt the hand on my shoulder that I realized the cough had come from behind me.

“Bill,” I said, half-turning. “There’s something wrong with this faucet. Nothing’s coming out. Bill?”

The hand on my shoulder had slipped toward my neck. I jerked up and saw a face in the mirror. It was a man I’d never seen before. He was in his forties, had thin blond hair, a heavy square jaw. Where’d he come from?

Shot through with fear, I spun around just as both his hands closed around my throat. I don’t remember much after that.

When I came to, I was lying on the bed. Bill told me he’d heard me scream and rushed into the bathroom. I was on the floor, he said, clawing at my throat. When he tried to calm me, I kicked him. Finally, he’d gotten hold of me and carried me into the main room.

“What happened?” he asked, tipping a glass of water to my lips.

“I don’t know. I...”

I was afraid to tell him what I’d seen. He was a practical, steak-and-potatoes man. The salt of the earth, as my Mama used to say. Didn’t have a lick of imagination. It was one of the things I loved most about him. But there were times when it was mighty inconvenient.

“Nothing,” I said. “It wasn’t nothing. Just me being silly.”

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, about to stand up. There was a knock at the door. Bill answered it. Mrs. Bigelow looked in at him, and then peeped past him to me.

“Is everything all right?” she asked. “I thought ... well, I know it sounds odd but I thought I heard a scream.”

Bill glanced over his shoulder at me.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I just had a little ...” I paused, trying to think of a lie on the spot. But I’ve never been good at fibbing, so I decided not to do it. Instead, I blurted out a question. “Mrs. Bigelow, have you got another roomer in this hotel? A man in his forties, maybe? Big fellow with thin blond hair?”

The color fled her face and she swayed. Bill reached out to keep her from falling, but she waved him off.

“Oh, sweet Lord,” she whispered. “I never thought – oh, please not again.”

“Mrs. Bigelow?” Bill’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by ‘not again?’” He swung around to me. “Carrie, what’s going on? What happened in that bathroom?”

“The bathroom?” Mrs. Bigelow repeated.

“Yes,” I nodded. “He was in the bathroom.”

Mrs. Bigelow wiped her face with her hands. Now Bill, my Bill, he didn’t have much imagination. But what he did have was a good, strong sense of human nature. He could tell from Mrs. Bigelow’s face that she was hiding something.

“Mrs. Bigelow, is there something we should know?” he asked.

She gave him a frightened look. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. So Bill made his voice gentle, invited her to come in and sit down. Hugging herself and rubbing her shoulders, she sank down in the armchair near the bed.

“I thought he was gone,” she said.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Who is who?” Bill asked. He was getting angry. He hated feeling left out.

“His name was Boz,” Mrs. Bigelow said. “That’s the only name people knew him by.”

Bill and I exchanged glances. He came and sat down next to me.

“Mrs. Bigelow,” he said. “Continue.”

What followed was a story we’d never forget. I’d wondered how a black woman came to own such a fine-looking building. Mrs. Bigelow said she’d inherited it. She used to work for this wealthy family that lived on Park Avenue. Old man Mason and his wife had had this country house on the West Side of Asbury Park for years. They never used it, but would never say why. Mrs. Bigelow said she only found out about the house by accident when she overheard the butler talking about it. Apparently, the couple’s daughter, McKinley, had died in the place. After that, Mrs. Mason couldn’t stand the sight of it.

Bill always said I had an overactive imagination. Well, it kicked in then.

“Was she killed?” I asked. “Did he kill her? The man I saw?”

“You saw a man in the bathroom?” Bill was indignant. “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Upset me—”

“Shh,” I said. “Mrs. Bigelow, tell us what happened.”

She drew a deep breath. “Well, to make a long story short: When Mr. Mason and his wife died, they left me the house.”

Something about that didn’t sit right.

“You mean they died at the same time?”

She nodded. “Both of them, strangled in their beds.”

“Oh, please,” said Bill. “This is too much.”

“Who did it?” I asked.

She shook her head. “They never caught him.” Her eyes went to the bathroom. “And I don’t think they ever will.”

My gaze followed hers and my voice dropped low. “Do you mean what I think you mean?”

She didn’t answer directly.

“It wasn’t until after I got here and the old-timers got to know me that I found out what really happened. McKinley loved this place. Used to come down here every chance she had. She was a pretty young thing, and high-spirited. She fell in with the wrong crowd. Used to invite people down here that her mama and papa didn’t know. But it wasn’t one of them that did it. The Masons had a caretaker and his name was Boz. He took a liking to McKinley, the real ugly kind. One night, he came up here to try to get with her, if you know what I mean. She told him no and he didn’t like the way she said it.”

“So he strangled her,” I whispered.

She nodded, her eyes fixed on the open bathroom. “Right in there.”

She looked back at Bill and me. “The police figured out pretty quickly that it was him who’d done it. They started a manhunt. It wasn’t long before one of them saw him. There was a chase – out Bangs onto Railroad Avenue – and Boz lost control of his car.

“He lived long enough for them to get him to the hospital. And then he told everybody there, everybody there was to listen, that he’d enjoyed killing that girl, that it had given him pleasure, and he would’ve done it again if he had the choice.

“Now, if that weren’t bad enough, he said he wasn’t finished with the family. That he wouldn’t rest as long as one of them walked the Earth.”

Chills went up my spine.

“Good God,” I said. “That’s evil.”

Bill waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, that ain’t nothing but a bunch of hooey.”

I turned on him. “That’s easy enough for you to say. You weren’t the one in there with his hands around your throat.”

He rolled his eyes. “Look here,” he said to Mrs. Bigelow, “you said you thought he was gone. Why’s that? I mean, assuming his, uh, ghost, or whatever you call it, was even here to begin with—”

“Bill!” I said in a warning tone.

“That’s all right,” Mrs. Bigelow said sadly. “I thought he was gone ‘cause the family’s all gone. Mr. and Mrs. Mason were the last of their line. And they only had that one chile.”

Bill obviously wasn’t too happy with that answer, but his mind was already busy with another thought. “I thought you said they never caught him. But now you’re saying he died in the hospital. Which is it?”

Mrs. Bigelow wrung her hands.

“The thing is, he did die. At least, they thought he did. They sent his body to the morgue, but when the undertaker went to fetch him, the body was gone.”

An uneasy silence descended on us as the implications of what she’d said sunk in. Was a jealous madman roaming her property? If so, how’d he gotten in? How’d he disappeared? And most importantly, why in the world weren’t we calling the cops?

I had a sudden thought.

“Mrs. Bigelow, when did all this happen?”

“About 25 years ago,” she said. She thought about it, and gave a little nod. “Yes, that’s right. As a matter-of-fact, it was today, 25 years ago tonight, that he killed that girl.”

I shivered and shock showed in Bill’s eyes. For the first time since Mrs. Bigelow had begun her story, he was taking her seriously. He glanced at me, silently asking me a question, and I shook my head.

Mrs. Bigelow sighed. “Look I don’t know what happened in there,” she gestured toward the bathroom. “But I know there’s a kind of evil that refuses to die.” Her eyes came back to us. “I can give you two another room. Just please don’t tell anybody. Don’t say a word, about what you saw in there.”

She looked from me to Bill. We both nodded and she hurried off to prepare our new room.

After Bill shut the door behind her, he turned to me, his hands on his hips. “Carrie, did you really see something in there?”

“Yes,” I nodded. “I sure did.”

“Well, then, what’re we waitin’ for? Let’s get the hell out of here!”

That was fine with me. We grabbed the suitcase we hadn’t even begun to unpack and slipped out. Minutes later, we were back in our car, back on the highway and headed home to Harlem.

What we hadn’t said to Mrs. Bigelow was that we’d gone there to celebrate my 25th birthday. And what neither she nor Bill knew was that I’d indeed heard of Mr. Mason. Of course, I hadn’t connected him with the house, hadn’t even known of the house until chance – or fate – led me to pick it out of the guidebook.

Once we were home, I told Bill about me having known about Mr. Mason already. I also told him that Mrs. Bigelow was wrong about McKinley being the last of Mr. Mason’s line.

Mr. Mason had a mistress, you see. Mama had told me that and many other things, but the one thing she’d never said was that she gave birth to me the same evening my white half-sister died.

When I told Bill this, he paused. He didn’t hold with this business of reincarnation or the sharing of souls, but I wasn’t so sure. I’d grown up an only child, but deep down I’d always felt I wasn’t alone. And now, I knew why. My sister was me. And I was my sister. She was white and I was black, but under the skin, we were one.

Needless to say, I have never returned to Asbury Park. Oh, I've felt the pull to go there, but I refuse to heed it. You see, I have never been able to shake that haunting certainty, that terrible fear that in Asbury Park, someone lies waiting.


Copyright © Persia Walker | All rights reserved.