By Veronique Bergeron
Mr. Crane is like many men who travel. Outspoken in conversation, reserved in transit; grey suit, low hat, pressed shirt and a well-worn overnight. Mr. Crane is as smart as his clothes. He is comfortable everywhere. He appears, always, unfazed. On any given day, Mr. Crane observes, considers, then reacts. He is known for being careful, and tonight is no different.
On the third floor of Chattanooga’s Read House, he opens the door to his hotel room, pops a light on and notices bars on the window of this, his haven for the night. A strange upset is almost immediately replaced by relief, even a smirk: he knows this relic from lunches with his Chattanooga clients. Al Capone stayed in this very same room under lock and key many years ago. Number 311. Mr. Crane is pleased with himself and his luck and his new story for the road.
It is a small space, but a warm one. To the right of the barred window-it’d be an impossible escape, really-a wardrobe sits neatly, sheathed with two dark, wooden doors. The view from the window, though interrupted, is of downtown almost to the mighty river. A bed for two, sheets neatly turned over, occupies most of the room, and a nightstand sits between the bathroom door and the bed.
Tonight , the road-weary Mr. Crane empties his pockets on the nightstand. On the edge of the bed, he drops his crumpled jacket and a soggy newspaper-Baltimore, January 15, 1954-its print smudged from a day’s handling. He puts his overnight, still packed, in the closet. His mind is occupied with thoughts of home and not with the state of his suit.
Mr. Crane draws water for the tub in the small, bright bathroom. He lights a cigarette and rests his weight on the edge of the sink. The bathwater throws nets of light on the tiled walls, most of all when the overhead light flickers for an instant. It is a tiny moment in a room with many stories and Mr. Crane barely notices.
Over the sound of the water, there’s a small jingle of change and a door slams in the hallway. Mr. Crane notices; the sound seems very close. He is reminded to lock the door in this impenetrable fortress of a hotel room, and more importantly, he decides: he is going to hang his jacket.
He rises achingly-when did he become so tired?-rests his cigarette on the sink, and in two steps he is back in the room, his hand pulling the bathroom door closed behind him, shutting out the din of the water.
On the bed, his newspaper has unfurled. He watches as a draft-from the bathroom? the closed window?-deliberately fans the paper’s soft edges.
His eye moves to the floor, where his jacket now sits, among the other objects in his overnight, thrown about haphazardly. The socks have been separated. The wardrobe doors are closed-he doesn’t remember if he’d shut them earlier. The bed is covered in change, keys, a watch from his pocket, and the nightstand sits unused, its surface clean.
This, admittedly, leaves Mr. Crane-the untouchable, the eternally confident-a little unnerved.
He turns turns to the door out of instinct, and finds it locked by someone else’s hand. Or by his own? The details of his entering the room are becoming foggy. Regardless, he goes to open the door and finds the lock unwilling. Deep, considerate breaths, and Mr. Crane is back in the bathroom to turn off the water and make sense of his thoughts. He reaches down to the tap and at that instant the lights flicker again, but he has the sense, this time noticing, that in that brief moment the room is occupied by two.
The lights flicker a third time, and during this pause, standing fully upright, Mr. Crane notices through the dark that his cigarette is still glowing, but has fallen to the floor. As the lights come back on, he is horrified to notice the cigarette has caught a towel, and that together, they are smoldering fast. He throws the embers into the full bath, there is smoke and steam, and the lights cut off again and he feels his breaths growing more and more shallow.
The bathroom is suddenly filling with smoke-he must have missed an ember-and he runs into the main room to attempt the lock again. He is hearing shouts and the room is turning and his change now scuttles across the floor. The bathroom door slams behind him, but it is the least of his worries. This room, also, is filled with black smoke, and the lights have dimmed and he can barely make sense of where, or how, or why. A woman’s voice echoes in the bathroom, and he hears a clink in the tub and a rustling of terry cloth.
From the street in front of the Read House, Mr. Crane appears just like any other man trapped in a hotel room, bars on the windows, space smoldering around him. One hand on a bar, two hands, then none, just the sound of voices collecting on the street and the alarms of Fire Hall No. 1. In room 311, it is as still and silent as ever.
A bathroom door opens, closes, and the room is left unlocked.
The true story
This fictionalized story above is taken from accounts of a well-documented haunting in room 311 of the Sheraton Read House. The ghost, Annalisa, was reportedly killed by her husband out of jealousy in the 1920s in the room’s tub, and she hasn’t taken well to men staying in the room ever since.
Visitors have reported finding their personal items scattered around the room, and the lock “breaks” for some. On occasion, the room has been known to fill with a dark, smoky presence. Additionally, the ghost doesn’t take kindly to smokers, and the floor was switched to non-smoking to accommodate her erratic behavior toward cigarettewielders. Today, the room is only available upon request.
As for the barred windows, Al Capone stayed in 311 under lock and key, and the bars were installed then, though they were removed during a 2004 renovation of the hotel. Today, that makes for a much easier escape route.
OTHER ACCOUNTS
Seen but not heard
John Hockings was a custodian at UTC in the 1920s. Well-liked but private, he killed himself in Cooper Hall after losing his wife and child in a fire. Later, a newspaper article reported that he was “seen but not heard” around campus-a staple in the college’s life that was often taken for granted. Today, he is far more vocal: students and staff have reported hearing shoes click by on the floors in Cooper Hall, now one of UTC’s oldest buildings. Often, signs of Hockings come accompanied by extreme temperature drops in the building.
A quiet, clear message
Georgiana Kotarski is an expert in regional hauntings. While researching for her book, “Ghosts of the Southern Tennessee Valley,” Kotarski visited the oft-spooky site at Snodgrass Hill. She interviewed a squad of Boy Scouts, and she, along with her research partner, made sure to check their recording devices multiple times. Upon arriving home to check the tape, she found hours of eerie whispers and white noise.
The (mostly) friendly ghost
Mary Becker Greene was well known as the first female steamboat captain in the United States. She took to the Delta Queen’s decks during retirement, and occupied a stateroom until her death in the
1940s. Since then, her ghost has acted as guardian and protector of the boat, reportedly even waking a boatman up at night to alert him to the ship’s dangerous bearings. On one occasion, however, she was less benevolent. Shortly after her death, a bar was built in the ship’s lounge. Greene had been part of a women’s group that forbid drinking, so the Delta Queen was a dry ship under her rule.
On the day the saloon was set to open in 1953, a nearby tugboat lost control and hit the Delta Queen, destroying the lounge. The name of that little tugboat? The Captain Mary B.