Shirtwaist Ghosts Chapter 1

This story is dedicated to my family, friends,and all the ghost hunters out there. I had tons of help with this and I appreciate everything! Couldn't have done it without you.

The dance was beautiful. Arms waving gracefully. Bodies swaying, doing pirouettes before slumping to the floor. Long hair floating up for a second as bright liquid strands of flame. The women that didn’t jump suffocated or burned to death. The doors locked.

1

Allen Harris lay on the bed, arms and legs splayed out, the sheets a crumpled mess around him, trying to will himself into oblivion. The refrain from a song playing in his head, Make the world go away …

His life was pretty much over, like the other estimated eight million recently unemployed workers in America. The bank he worked for failed. The ripple of fear turned into a panic on Wall Street that more banks would soon topple. In his mind, he shared some responsibility.

The housing bubble popped, an over-inflated balloon that took Allen’s career with it. Banks were making interest-only loans to homeowners and then reselling them to free up money in order to make more loans. Soon the original packaged deals were broken up and resold several times, using sophisticated computer programs to figure out the derivatives and sub prime mortgages. All went well until housing prices dropped and foreclosures piled up.

Allen’s bank, Trust and Security, moved $40 billion every three months to hide the fact that a hundred-year old company was living on borrowed money and borrowed time. With no bailout coming from the Feds, the doors closed and the world didn’t stop turning.

Make the world go away... . He covered his face with his pillow and tried to suffocate himself. A rapping at the door interrupted him. His mother’s muffled voice called out, “Breakfast is on the table, honey!”

He pushed down hard one more time then flung the pillow to the floor. Is that eggs and bacon? Be a shame to let mom’s cooking go to waste.

Allen entered the kitchen to find his father's icy blue eyes peering at him over the top of the Wall Street Journal. Allen ran a hand through his rumpled, dirty-blond hair and tightened up his bathrobe before sitting down to eat. He had a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth when his father said, “After breakfast, I would like a word with you in my office.”

“Sure, dad.”

Allen listened to his father fold up the newspaper. He felt a light tap on his shoulder as his father passed by. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

Once seated in his father's office, Allen picked invisible lint from his shirt, straightened his sleeves and adjusted his position in the cushioned chair.

“Our family owns some downtown property.”

This was not the conversation Allen had expected. “Property?”

“Yes, your great-grandfather owned the building and we’ve been using it as a tax write-off. I think it was a factory at one point. It’s been vacant for at least forty years. Well, not completely vacant, the first floor is rented out.”

“And...”

“And, I want you to do... something. I don’t care what, but it’s part of your inheritance. It’s run down, but functional. You’ll need to study the downtown economy and decide how best to proceed.”

Allen swallowed hard. “Sure, Dad, thanks. I’ll get right on it.”

***

Allen stood on the corner of Stanton and Franklin. In front of him, ten stories high, stood the first fire-proof building from the 1900s. The street level housed a popular retail shoe store, clothing retailer and a chain restaurant. Impressive for a tax write-off.

When his father handed over the keys, the old feeling of excitement at a new challenge drove Allen to see the property right away. The keys jingled, full of promise, in his pocket as approached the enclosed staircase that gave him full access to the building.