do so in Mr. Sylvan’s presence would have piqued his curiosity, and I was in no frame of mind to share my personal horror with him. Instead, I answered his curious gaze at my response by saying, “My goodness. We never appear to be quite ourselves in a photograph, do we?”
Then I took the photograph and the packaging straight to my room and locked the door behind me. There was a heavy crystal bowl on my writing desk, something the staff always kept full of sweet bits of wrapped toffee. These I dumped to the table before—Zzzip—I ripped off the top of the tree. Zzzip, and my skirt was gone. I tore and tore until I held between my finger and thumb nothing but our two faces: Sallie’s and mine. Hers a blur, mine not. Despite what I’d said to Mr. Sylvan, I thought myself quite beautiful. My gown was new, purchased on a whim only days before, its neckline broad and sleeves capped. I stared at the dark hand outlined on my white skin. How could I not have felt that? How did I not sense her behind me? Had there been the slightest rustle of the tree? I closed my eyes and tried to recall some jostling of the ornaments, a whisper of blown-glass baubles brushing against each other. Now, many years later, as I commit my memories to the page, I feel it. The rough brush of her cotton uniform against my back. The cold touch of her flesh on mine. Her broken breath as she rushes through the boughs.
Finally, I said, “Goodbye, Sallie. May the devil take your soul,” and dropped the last scrap of the photograph on the pile of shreds and set a match. The fire burned within the crystal, reducing the lot of it to curled, black ash.
I sat at the desk and took a page of stationery, prepared to write a letter equally as fiery to J. P. Haley, Photographer, but the pen hovered above the page. What could I say? I saw his face; he was as terrified as I. Perhaps Bert would have had some words of comfort or wisdom, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him either. Tears pricked my eyes, brought on only partially by the acrid stream of smoke rising from the crystal. Now that I no longer had the image to ignite my fear, my heart had time to seize its sense of shame for being hunted by such evil. Certainly a ghost could haunt my hallway, scratch at my door, say my name. I never asked any of my fellow guests if they heard her, for fear my own sanity would come into question. I assumed that is why they never asked me either. And if, on occasion, I would overhear a delighted whisper about a moving shadow, or a sudden chill, or the unexplained swaying of a hanging lamp, I said nothing. Let them keep their ghost their way, and I, mine.
But to see her in that photograph? Profane. Dozens of families stood in the same spot as I, their smiles frozen in the spirit of the holiday, yet they were spared the same ghoulish apparition. Or, I assumed they were spared. No, I didn’t assume. I knew. The deepest part of me lived with certain assurance that I alone shared my photo with Sallie White. Her hand touched my shoulder only. The dream I had of reconstructing the good, respectable life I enjoyed with my late husband shattered beneath her skin. Her first touch burned my flesh, but this one broke my spirit.
At this, you might be thinking, why did I not leave? I could have packed my trunk, paid my bill, and moved myself to another establishment. The Crockett Hotel was just across the street. The Gibbs only a block away. Either would be a perfectly acceptable home, however temporary. Those of you who have enjoyed the luxuries of the Menger, however, well understand my choice. There is no equal to its elegance. It is where my late husband would have insisted we stay, had he lived long enough to realize our adventurous dreams.
There is another reason, though, for my stubborn refusal to vacate. I may present myself as a lady of fine breeding, but I’ve never been one to back down from a fight. I was raised in streets and alleyways and courtyards of darkness. I’ve had more than one occasion to fight for my life. Rest assured, if I