When the moon is full above the Castle on a summer night—that is when they say it happens. And for all we know it may be happening tonight. Pray it won’t. Or pray, at least, that neither you nor I will be there to see it if it should.
There is much early history of our country in this story, and that is one of the reasons I enjoyed writing it.
Most of the stories in this book are about places you may tour, in which you may spend the night, or which you may at least drive past and wonder about. (Please respect the owner’s privacy when doing so.)
And now, dear reader, here is your opportunity to visit some unforgettable houses!
−Nancy Roberts
A SHOT IN THE DARK
HOTEL DEL CORONADO, CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
The legendary Hotel del Coronado near San Diego has a room said to be haunted.
Across from San Diego on a balmy beach by the blue Pacific is the Hotel del Coronado. It is a legendary place. The Prince of Wales (Edward VIII), Ronald Reagan, Richard Nixon, Lyndon B. Johnson, Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne, Shirley MacLaine, and countless other celebrities have enjoyed its 1880s opulence.
Built when Wyatt Earp was keeping order in Tombstone, the palatial hotel is one of the last great seaside resorts. It has excellent food, a magnificent expanse of ocean, and a haunted room.
The hotel on Orange Avenue in Coronado resembles at first view a huge colony of many different-sized mushrooms, each capped with a pointed red Mediterranean roof. When I went to the desk and inquired about the haunted room, the assistant manager replied abruptly, “We do not have such a thing.” I nodded politely and asked to see the manager.
“Well we do have a room that some people say is haunted,” answered the manager reluctantly, “but, of course, it isn’t.”
“Would it be possible for me to see it anyway?”
“No, I’m sorry it wouldn’t.”
That seemed a strange reply, so I went on to explain that I was collecting stories for a book of supernatural phenomena at famous places. Again, I asked to view the room and again, he refused.
“Would you like to rent it?” he asked.
“What number is it?”
“Number 3502.”
How odd that he immediately knew the number if it were not haunted. Something must have happened in this room, I thought. “Well, what is the price?”
“It would be one hundred and five dollars.”
That seemed reasonable enough for a haunted room, I thought. “Would you kindly show it to me?”
“I’m sorry ma’am, I can’t do that, but if you wish to rent it for the night . . .”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll think about it and let you know later,” I had another approach in mind, but it could wait. It was time to try the Sunday luncheon buffet in the majestic Crown Room. An impressive display of delicacies graced the long tables, and I observed at least a dozen varieties of luscious-looking desserts. As I sampled the buffet, I admired the dark magnificence of the vaulted oak ceiling, contemplating all the famous people who had dined here. There was a sense of awe at being in the same room where Charles Lindbergh had been honored following his solo flight across the Atlantic in 1927. Here too the Prince of Wales had been feted, and, unfortunately for a man named Simpson, it was on that occasion that his wife, Wallis, met the prince.
But on with the ghost story quest. After brunch, questioning various employees of the hotel, I discovered that many had heard stories of the room being haunted and some believed them.
Through the years the girl’s identity and details of her background gradually came to light. The true story is not a happy one. It is about a wicked stepmother and a lovely young girl.
Kate Morgan was born in Dubuque, Iowa, three years after the close of the Civil War. Her father was a well-to-do farmer, and, when she was a child, he and her mother gave the golden-haired little Kate every advantage. She was in her early teens when her mother died and her father remarried. Despite the girl’s efforts to please her stepmother, Maggie, she was never able to do so, and as time went on, the girl’s life became increasingly miserable.
The lovely clothes her parents had given her were now tattered and outgrown, and anything Morgan did for his daughter made her stepmother madly jealous. Even his bringing her a bright ribbon from the store was an occasion for harsh words from his wife. It irritated Maggie that despite Kate’s faded calico dresses her beauty shone bright as a new Indian head penny.
In 1868 Dubuque showed some of the promise and much of the tawdry glitter of the city it would one day become. Rough bootclad cattlemen trod the muddy streets, their pockets full of money to squander, and saloons and gambling houses attracted all kinds of men.
Demure, well-dressed ladies flourished parasols shielding their delicate complexions from the rays of the blazing Midwest sun as they strolled along the wooden sidewalk in front of the stores. And then there were women whose hair boasted a brassy henna brilliance and who wore color on their lips as red as the blossoms of the trumpet vines that twined over unpainted shacks. Real ladies could spot that kind in a twinkling, Maggie Morgan always said, and with her sharp tongue was ever ready to point them out contemptuously.
Often while Maggie lay languidly in bed resting, Kate was sent through the flat Iowa countryside, bright with purple phlox and wild roses, on errands to the store. One July afternoon she had just come out of the Dubuque Supply Company, carrying her purchases when a cattleman grasped her arm.
“You’re sure a pretty gal. I wanna buy you a drink,” Bill Bailey said.
Kate pulled away and tried to pass him, but his big, calloused hand reached out, encircling her waist, and he spun her around
