Row House Days [Excerpt]

Written by John Ellingsworth

Wednesday, 07 July 2004

Another excerpt from the book Row House Days by Jack Myers, a local writer who has many a story to tell about living in southwest Philadelphia near Mount Moriah Cemetery. Disappearing Diana (© Copyright 2005 by Jack Myers, from Row House Days) It happens just about every May, sometimes early June. Usually during prom season. Dressed up high-schoolers out in tuxes and gowns, enjoying their big night on the town. Too much to drink, too far to drive. Boys trying to impress the girls. Teens, parties, alcohol, automobiles, adolescent hormones - not the best of combinations. Nervous parents wait up anxiously for the sound of a car pulling up out front. Most kids don't have a problem, most make it home okay. Meanwhile, out on dark, lonely Dobbs Creek Parkway, a solitary car negotiates the tricky twists, the dangerous curves. It's late, the driver's probably fighting back a yawn. Suddenly, in the beam of the headlights, seemingly out of nowhere, materializes a young woman. Hello, what's this? Startled, the driver slams on the brakes, barely stops short of the young lady. She wears a beautiful white prom dress, carries a bouquet of flowers, seems strangely disoriented. Even though it's a crystal-clear night, stars shining brightly and not a cloud in the sky, the girl is thoroughly soaked from head to toe. Sloshing, dripping. . . . Still shaken, the driver pulls off to the road's shoulder. Opens the door, hops out. Miss? Miss, are you all right? Dazed and confused, the young lady replies, Yes. Yes, I think so. The motorist looks around. Doesn't see any other cars. That's odd. Where did this person come from? Why is she wandering all alone in the park so late at night? So oddly out-of-place. Dressed like that? Miss, do you need some help? Is there anything I can do? Again, a look of bewilderment crosses her young face. Then she answers, hesitatingly. Yes, thank you. I'm trying to get home. My boyfriend's car broke down, and I promised my parents I'd be home before one o'clock. Can you drop me off? Sure, no problem. Get in. Where do you live? Hayden, she replies. Adjoining suburb, other side of the park, just a few minutes drive. She gives him the address. He's a local, knows right where it is. The teenager sits in the passenger seat. Water runs down her hair, her face, her expensive dress. She stares straight ahead, shivers despite the warmth of the evening. How'd you get so wet, Miss? I don't know, the girl whispers. Continues looking straight ahead. A very sad, very faraway look. The two make some small talk. The ride doesn't last very long. Soon they've arrived at the address in Hayden. Our Good Samaritan hops out, goes around to open the passenger door for the young lady. When he does, he gets the surprise of a lifetime. Nobody is there. There's nothing but a damp seat and a puddle of water on the rubberized floor mat. The man looks up the street, down the street. Even under his car. Gone! Nothing, nobody, empty. . . . Impossible. Yet she was there not a minute ago - he saw her with his own two eyes. And now there's this puddle, sure to befuddle. Despite the late hour, the man decides to ring the doorbell. He's angry, wants to get to the bottom of it all. Must be some sort of teen prank. But how'd they manage to pull it off? Like magic? A few moments later the light goes on. A grey-haired woman answers the door in her bathrobe. Fearful and suspicious. Can't blame her, strange man at the door this hour of the evening. What's the matter? The driver explains his predicament. Describes the young lady, the dress, the bouquet of flowers. The old lady's eyes grow big. She covers her mouth, turns, retreats into the house. Soon the husband appears. But when the driver begins to retell his tale, the old man breaks down. Sobs uncontrollably. The wife coaxes everyone inside. No use disturbing the neighbors so late at this late hour. There, on the mantelpiece in the living room, is a school yearbook picture of the same young woman the driver had been sitting with in his car not ten minutes before. Same blonde hair, same blue eyes, same dimpled chin. In an expensive white prom dress, carrying a bouquet of flowers, carrying on a two-way conversation. Anxious to get home before the dreaded one a.m. deadline. In the flesh and blood, very much alive. Only problem is, Diana Whitby has been dead for most of a decade now. It happened on prom night. Her careless boyfriend driving too fast, taking the curves on Dobbs Creek Parkway just a little too wide. Some bourbon on the rocks, too much centrifugal force. Lost control right by the little bridge that spans the creek. Ran his father's Buick clear off the road, down the short embankment, glanced off a tree. Flipped those shiny new wheels with the sporty tail fins right smack into the muddy water. Roof face down, spinning wheels face up. The boyfriend climbed his way out with a only broken wrist, some minor scratches and bruises. Poor, pretty Diana never made it home. Rescue personnel pulled her from the partially submerged wreck nearly an hour later. They buried Diana right there in nearby old Mt. Lebanon Cemetery. Just a stone's throw from the scene of the accident. Just Miss Whitby, a few thousand other departed souls, and Crazy Sam bouncing up and down the cemetery roads, looking for juvenile trespassers to plug their backsides full of his signature rock salt. The man who visited the Whitby house that night wasn't the first, probably won't be the last. Every year, about the same time, around the same place, the ghost of Diana Whitby tries to hitch a ride home. Succeeds . . . then disappears. That's prom season in old Kings Cross. Legend has it that if you lie down on Diana's grave at night and look up at the stars, you'll get a big surprise. They say at the stroke of midnight her ghostly arms will poke straight out of the ground and wrap around you in this great big spirit-world bear hug. Ghostly white arms. Slender, icy, bone-chilling fingers. All you gotta do is say the magic words. Three times. . . . Diana, please come home. Diana, please come home. Diana, please . . . come . . . HOME! Gives little Jimmy Morris the willies just thinking about it. Me, I'm taking their word for it. Fat chance you're gonna catch me out in the middle of Mt. Lebanon Cemetery at the stroke of midnight. No way. Not with Crazy Sam around. And certainly not with Disappearing Diana on the loose.

Last Updated ( Tuesday, 25 March 2008 )

 

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