Another Personal Ghost Story
ROOM 406 of the Norman Hotel
It’s half past midnight and all is quiet on this early Thursday morning here in North Braddock Pennsylvania. Since this is considered to be a borough of working class families, most are already in their beds and have been for some time. From where my apartment is located, I can not only look out and see the smoke and steam rise from the chimney’s of the steel mill down the hill, but over the sound of my bedroom fan, I am able to hear the rumbling of the furnaces in current operation. As for myself, yes - I should have been in bed a long time ago and asleep as well. I normally am. However on this night, I have been struck by the rare case of insomnia and predict that it will be a long night for me. So, with coffee cup in hand I’ve decided to tell you another one of my ghostly encounters.
I’m going to take you back to Chicago of course, and back to the Norman Hotel where I’d once worked. (CLICK HERE if you haven’t read the first ghostly tale of the Norman Hotel) -Apartment 406
The occupants of this deluxe studio apartment had lived in the building for a number of years. Two gentleman of middle age, both in their early fifties and life partners. Prior to the events which bring about this story, I had the opportunity to speak with them and nice people they were. Mr. A had worked for the Post office for the better part of his life and was forced to retire a year previously to my meeting them, due to a heart attack. His partner Mr J. had been working as an LPN (Licensed Practical Nurse) at a downtown hospital. The two had been together since their mid-twenties, although when first getting together, their choice in lifestyles was not particularly understood or acceptable at that point in time. But by the time when I had met them, things in the world had greatly changed and the two were able to come out and admit their love for one another and live as they wanted to live.
It was eight months into my employment at the Norman and a Sunday morning. I remember it quite well you see, because it was the early part of March and spring was going to be late that year with temperatures still in the thirties and snow still on the ground. I had been working the front desk that morning because the relief desk clerk had come down with a nasty cold and had not been able to work. I didn’t mind it of course, I only had to pop downstairs from our apartment on the sixth floor and Sunday’s were always quiet, especially since the owner had removed the switchboard set up and a new individual telephone system had been put in. All I had were three basic lines I had to deal with. The Main number, the secondary phone line and the owner’s private line which we never were to use unless directed to do so. At any rate, Sundays were quiet and to keep me company I had a nice coffee maker and a small portable black and white television. So there I was at slightly past eight, a hot cup of coffee in my hand and a cigarette in the other while I watched the Local news. It was about a half hour into my shift when the sound of an ambulance pulling up in front with it’s siren’s wailing interrupted the peaceful morning quiet and three paramedics rushed into the lobby and boarded the elevator, stopping at the fourth floor. Now prior to the removal of the switchboard, the residents, if an emergency needed to be dealt with, would have to call down to the desk, who would then relay to the 9-1-1 operator, the nature of the emergency and whom had requested the emergency service. Now however, all I knew was that someone on the fourth floor had called for an ambulance. The next to arrive were the Police six minutes later who also headed upstairs to the fourth floor. I picked up the phone and called my second shift clerk Delmar, who was married to the Housekeeper, Mary. Within a few seconds, I had only the who as the Police had shooed Delmar back into his apartment at the farther end of the hall. The ambulance and Police were at the Apartment of Mr. A and Mr. J. Half an hour after the arrival of the police and paramedics, a van from the coroner’s office arrived and made their way upstairs. Another thirty minutes went by before they wheeled the lifeless body of Mr. A out on a stretcher, his body covered by a sheet and Mr. J following directly behind them, obviously in a state of both shock and grief from the loss of his life partner. Hours later, upon the return of Mr. J. I learned what had happened over a cup of tea.
The two had gone to bed the night before as usual according to Mr. J. without a sign of any problem. Sundays they tended to sleep in a bit and always awakened around seven or seven-thirty (their normal time getting up was five or there abouts). Mr. J had made the comment that Mr. A’s hand was cold to the touch and was turning onto his side to face Mr. A when he noticed that Mr. A had passed away. Mr. J. had forced himself to remain calm as he got out of bed and made the call to 9-1-1 and then quickly got dressed. It was only after the arrival of the coroner and the official pronouncement of death, that Mr. J. finally broke down emotionally and began to cry. A couple of days later, Mr. A’s death had been labeled as Natural causes, having suffered a massive Coronary Infarction while sleeping. He never knew what hit him! A few days later, a nice funeral was held for Mr. A and many attended the service. He had been a well liked and respected person and many stood and spoke of their friend and family member at the memorial service and the day, although chilly, was sunny and not meant for a funeral of any sort.
Each of us handles grief differently and for Mr. J. it was isolation. The hospital where he worked had given him some time off to grieve and he’d asked from family and friends for a bit of time alone. In retrospect, it was probably not a good idea to give him that time of isolation, and perhaps he should have talked to someone about his emotional and mental state of being but in those days, finding such help was not readily available as they are today and a week after the funeral, a single gunshot was heard early one evening coming from apartment 406, and when I let the police into the apartment, Mr. J. was found sitting in a chair facing the window, dead from a single gunshot wound to the head, the small handgun still clutched in his hand, in his lap. A note was found by the police, which I was never shown and a few questions were asked of me which I answered while the apartment was being ‘processed’ and the police were awaiting arrival of the coroner. Late that night the body was removed and the apartment was sealed up.
Continued Tomorrow
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