Page 7 of The Sisters of Crimson House

The visitors remained clustered on the sidewalk as if acknowledging some invisible barrier. If the house was dead, it was the kind that might reanimate as a zombie and eat the tourist careless enough to wander too close.

“Welcome to your final stop on the Black and Bell Memphis Mystery Tour!” A tall man with a knockout smile approached the group at a fast clip as if worried they might disappear if he didn’t reach them in time. With his skintight black leather pants, bleached curls, and brown skin peeking through a poet’s ruffled shirt, Zavier Bell looked like he had gotten lost on his way to a punk poetry slam and wound up in the tourist district of Downtown Memphis. “My name is Zavier Bell, hauntrepreneur and your ghost host for the afternoon. You are already acquainted with the most stunning tour guide east of the Mississippi, Astrid Black.”

“Just regional?” Astrid interjected, batting her eyelashes.

“Global, dearest. Just trying to keep you humble.” He winked at her, and she gave a cute curtsy in response. “And we are standing at the precipice of 878 Elizabeth Street, better known as Crimson House due to the blood spilled inside its walls…and on them.”

A game chuckle from the tourists, ready for a bloody tale as they carefully made their way up the rickety porch stairs and across the threshold of the most notorious house on Elizabeth Street.

The house was missing many things: most original furniture, rugs that weren’t threadbare if not outright mildewed, a housekeeper. But the lobby was still a jaw-dropper; a grand hand-carved stairwell was the showcase for the dizzying, two-story-tall entry. Zavier positioned himself at the top, intentionally backlit by the glowing reds and pinks of a stained-glass window for dramatic effect. Looking down at his audience, he launched into his tale.

“In 2008, Memphis, Tennessee, is known worldwide for three things: barbeque, blues music, and Elvis Presley,” he announced to the tourists below. “But in the mid-1800s, Memphis maintained a different sort of reputation as the roughest of rough-and-tumble river towns. The city was originally formed by the Cherokee high on a bluff that overlooks the mighty, muddy Mississippi River, where they could watch for incoming storms and enemies alike.” He paused as if glancing out the window for a view of said river.

“Captains of the cotton industry used kidnapped and enslaved Africans to toil in the brutal heat, and these men were made wealthy by their brutality-built mansions with a river view.” He cocked his head, grinning at his guests. “And now I make money by taking you on tours and letting you in on all of their nasty secrets.”

He slowly walked down the grand staircase, gesturing toward the expansive lobby like a game show host. “Constructed in 1858 for a steamboat captain and his bride, Crimson House was one of the newer mansions on Elizabeth Street and soon became its tallest when the captain’s churlish wife demanded he build her a tower higher than any other home in the neighborhood. She conveniently threw herself from it two years later.” For emphasis, Zavier leaped over the banister before coming to a surprisingly graceful landing in front of the tourists. He gave a polite bow at their applause. “It was on this staircase that Colonel Alexander Marquette took his own life and that of his lover after she announced she was leaving him. Pity her head made it only as far as the front door.”

A collective wince from the audience.

“1898!” he exclaimed, folding his arms and leaning against the polished stairwell. “After Colonel Marquette’s murder-suicide, Crimson House transformed into a hospital during the devastating yellow fever epidemic, run by Madam Elizabeth Becker. And I mean her title and her profession were the same, if you get my drift,” said Zavier with an oversize wink.

“Madam Elizabeth ran many a brothel, and rumor says her franchises may have included a spot on this very street. And yes, this street was renamed for this entrepreneur, her empire-building skills second only to her sacrifice. After nursing the afflicted, the selfless Elizabeth succumbed to yellow fever herself, and the house sat empty for nearly forty years. Forty. Years!” He paused to study the group’s reaction. “A house this grand just rotting away? Why do you think that would be?”

A teenager in high-tops with headphones slung around her neck considered the question. “Ghosts?”

“The ghosts!” Zavier exclaimed with a grin. “Suicides and murders and untold yellow fever deaths all crammed into one space? The city can’t give this house away with its less-than-stellar origin story. It’s rumored to be the most violently haunted property within official city limits.” The lights from the chandelier overhead flickered, and Zavier’s eyes widened, his arm clamping down on a tourist’s shoulder. “They might be dead, but their timing is impeccable,” he whispered. Zavier gave the man’s shoulder a squeeze, and the man laughed uneasily.

“Sarah Caldwell never scared easily.” Zavier walked to the center of the entry and turned to face the semicircle of tourists. “With few dollars in her pocketbook but charm to spare, Ms. Caldwell took possession of what would come to be known locally as Crimson House in 1943. As a nod to her entrepreneurial savvy, she changed her name to Beatrix Bryde—alluring, theatrical, and now married, for richer or poorer, to the house she maintained to a maniacal degree.”

Zavier motioned to a gallery of portraits hanging high above the entrance to the parlor, painted in varying styles and mediums but all of women with knowing smiles and piercing eyes: the Bryde matrilineal line. “Born in upstate New York in 1899, Beatrix Bryde lost her home—and nearly her life—in a tragic fire. But after she healed, two Seeker’s Stars mysteriously adorned the palms of both hands.” Zavier held up his own palms to the crowd for emphasis. “No doctor could give her an explanation, but Beatrix knew she had been marked for something extraordinary.

“A popular spiritualist who hosted séances across the country, Beatrix gave birth to twins Eugenia and Leonore during the Roaring Twenties. Each daughter had only one star, but between them, they possessed remarkable psychic talent.” Zavier pointed to a framed painting of a delicate young woman with brown hair and a shy smile. But her eyes were luminous, the blue green of the ocean with catchlights that seemed to stare through the viewer.

“Eugenia was the brilliant artist whose work seemed to be channeled from beyond. We lost her talents too soon, but her self-portrait is steeped in Bryde family magic. With those eyes watching you, I promise you will never feel alone in this foyer.” Zavier casually made his way to a tourist who made the mistake of making eye contact, slowly advancing so that he was mere inches from his face. “Leonore the Lovelorn was said to see into one’s soul. She was a brilliant matchmaker but unlucky in love herself. Maybe it was because of all the dead people she saw hanging around this house.”

Zavier spun away and walked over to the portrait gallery. “The husbands didn’t stick around, but her legacy included one of the most powerful psychics on record.” He motioned to a portrait of a woman with auburn hair whose hazel eyes would most definitely track the guests across the foyer. “Sadie Bryde, the psychic who famously located missing child Ashley Dennan from a mere wisp of fabric from her kidnapper’s shirt.”

The audience murmured in appreciation at this. The Brydes’ renown had gone international after Sadie had helped to solve the hometown case, many a visitor making a grim pilgrimage to Memphis with photos and mementos of missing loved ones. If only they could meet with the celebrated psychic, perhaps Sadie Bryde could help bring them home as well.

“Not all was dark and dreary at Crimson House,” Zavier continued. “Inside these walls, the famous psychic dynasty that was the Bryde family gathered every October thirty-first in honor of the great Beatrix Bryde’s birthday to make predictions and channel the dead for an illustrious clientele. The Spectaculars officially came to an end with Sadie’s retirement, but join me now inside the parlor to witness how the magic continues.”

The group shuffled inside the parlor, a cavernous space without much furniture, save for a baby grand pushed against the back wall and the shabby couches Zavier offered them. The wallpaper was faded and torn, water stains spreading across the room like migrating islands. He and Astrid flanked the makeshift stage at the front of the room, looking like a magician and his eager assistant. He gave the audience a mischievous smile.

“In this room, the dead found a voice. Fortunes were predicted and destroyed. Mysteries of the heart were divined by a family of women so gifted that it was said that wherever a Bryde woman walked, the veil between our world and the beyond disappeared. Fortunately for you, the Bryde family tradition continues today. Ladies and gentlemen…”

He paused as a hissing sound filled the air. Fog snaked across the floor, mysteriously swirling around the tourists’ feet. “I am privileged to announce that this haunted tour of Memphis offers something none other can—your very own personal psychic encounter with Mistress Charlotte Bryde!”

Strobe lights flashed. The tourists shielded their eyes, then covered their ears as a column of smoke erupted at the base of the stage. The smoke cleared, revealing the long, lean figure of a woman poured into a leather corset over black jeans, wearing spiked heels and a burgundy knockout rose tucked behind one ear. She smiled coyly at the applause, her face framed by a sheet of glossy black hair.

“Thank you. I am Charlotte Bryde, mistress of Crimson House. Zavier introduced you to the members of my family smiling down at you from their portraits in the entry. And yes, the eyes follow you,” she said to her assembled guests. “Each one was blessed with otherworldly gifts unique to them. Some overlapped, and some days they weren’t always considered gifts,” she said with a wry smile. “But the women in my family were called to enlighten and entertain, and now that my grandmother Sadie has passed the torch to me…” She paused as she took in the six tourists who stood clustered together, sauntering up to a tall man wearing a backpack fairly swallowed by laminated Buffy the Vampire Slayer buttons and enamel pins. “It is my pleasure to divine and interpret your future.”

Charley took his hand and smiled as a droplet of sweat worked its way down the man’s cheek. She traced a magenta fingernail across his palm, her eyes widening in surprise. “You have a message waiting for you. Someone you’ve been trying to contact. Their name begins with the letter j.” She furrowed her brow in concentration. There was a one-in-five chance the people staring at her had a name that began with J. Odds increased dramatically that their friends or family were named John or James or Janet.

“Jessica?” he exclaimed.

“Jessica!” she repeated with a grin. Odds were that today was going to be a stellar performance. “Jessica will be contacting you anytime now,” said Charley, studying his palm more intently. He had a prominent Mount of Venus, pink and smooth at the base of his thumb. He was a romantic. A gullible one. “With very interesting news,” she added slyly. Noticing the prominent scar that bisected his eyebrow, she lowered her voice, looking him in the eye with a kind smile. “I know the scar has been a source of pain for you. But it draws people like Jessica toward you in ways that will continue to surprise you.”

“She said it was the most interesting thing about me,” the man offered, the audience oohing in appreciation.