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Writer Hastings Hensel contemplates his choice to spend one night alone in what's purported to be the most haunted room in the Belmont Inn, Room 12.
Photo by Ian Curcio
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Opened at the turn of the 20th century, the Belmont Inn hotel in Abbeville is rumored to be home to spirits such as the Wandering Widow, Abraham the doorman and the mysterious Business Man.
Photo by Ian Curcio
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Manager Miss Dee welcomes guests to the Belmont Inn.
Photo by Ian Curcio
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A look inside Room 26 at the Belmont Inn.
Photo by Ian Curcio
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Despite its haunted reputation, the Belmont Inn is a comfortable place of respite for visitors to Abbeville.
Photo by Ian Curcio
When I called to make my reservation at the Belmont Inn, the legendary Miss Dee said, "All right, sweetie, I'll let the friendly spirits I deal with know you're coming."
I thanked her. Gulped. She'd so casually mentioned "friendly spirits"—did this imply there were, um, "unfriendly spirits"?
I almost called back to cancel. I am, by nature, a scaredy-cat when it comes to paranormal activity, and I had just booked one night alone in Room 12 at the Belmont Inn—the most haunted room in the most haunted hotel in Abbeville, the most haunted town in all of South Carolina.
My brain tried to reason: What's the worst that could happen? A flickering light? A chill in the air? A moan coming from the walls? It's not like I would die of fright, right?
Right?
When I arrived on a late March afternoon, a thunderstorm had just blown through, bringing in a cold front. The dogwoods were in bloom, but other trees were still in their wintry, spidery bare limbs. The day possessed a fitting, haunting quality.
The Belmont Inn stands on the corner of the charming town square. Three stories of dark red brick, with a round-arch entry, cantilevered balconies and a wraparound veranda porch, beside a side street called "Tinker's Alley." The building was straight out of Southern Gothic central casting. Before I arrived, I'd explained to a few friends what I was doing—if not why I was doing it—and shown them a photo of the inn.
"Oh yeah," one friend said, glancing at the picture. "You're cooked."
I carried in my suitcase Marjorie Blalock's "The Apparitions of Abbeville," and I had pored over Chapter 4, "Ghosts of Belmont Inn." So, I knew of the spirits that supposedly roamed the rooms and halls. The Wandering Widow. Abraham the doorman. Miss May Bell the cook. Charlie the Civil War soldier. The mysterious Business Man. The Bellhop.
I knew, too, a bit of the history. At the turn of the 20th century, a businessman by the name of Mr. P. Rosenberg opened the Eureka Hotel to cater to railroad workers, vaudeville musicians and traveling salesmen called "tinkers." It had changed its name to the Belmont by the 1950s, and it had survived decades of boom and bust ever since.
At check-in, I met Miss Dee, who said she'd done a little spiritual preparation in Room 12. I gulped again. Had she invited the ghosts to my room for a poltergeist party? Or asked them to stay away, like a supernatural Do Not Disturb sign?
Miss Dee answered with only a wry smile, leading me through the Victorian parlor, up the grand, winding staircase and down a hall of creaking floorboards, until we reached Room 12. (Alas, there is no Room 13!)
The knob rattled and the hinges groaned as I opened the door. Inside, however, I found a lovely room. Apricot walls, antique tables, a wardrobe, a big comfy bed. (I confess I immediately checked the wardrobe—first to see if a boogeyman might be hiding in there, then for a portal to Narnia.)
I opened the window to let in the sunlight and the cool spring breeze, and a line from an old movie came to me: "I ain't afraid of no ghosts!"
That afternoon, I walked around town, becoming not hexed or cursed by Abbeville but utterly charmed by it. Everywhere I went, it seemed, someone told me a ghost story.
At the famous Abbeville Opera House, Events Director Sidney Wells told me of the actress who haunts the third-floor balcony, and of a sign in the concession window that one day went flying across the lobby on its own.
I walked down the street to the Roughhouse—billed as the oldest restaurant in South Carolina and famous for its chili mustard dogs—and asked if any ghosts frequented the establishment. The waitress, who'd never personally seen one, told me her manager once saw a mist floating between the tables on security footage.
Later, at the Belmont Inn's cozy, dark tavern, the bartender Brandy said she'd had "run-ins" with Miss May Bell.
"She's touched me on the shoulder. She's stolen my knives."
As the evening sun went down, bats flew through the town square, roosting on the Opera House roof. I kid you not. I went up to my room and lay in the bed. I pulled the sheets over my head. I tossed. I turned. And I must have fallen asleep.
Because something woke me up. I opened my eyes. A ghostly glow edged the curtains. A stillness hummed. I checked the clock—3:23 a.m. The witching hour. On Friday the 13th. I waited for the doorknob to rattle and the Wandering Widow to wander in.
I had read in "The Apparitions of Abbeville" that "automatic writings" had been conducted in this very room by psychics. Now, I'm no psychic, but I am a writer, and there was an antique writing desk. So, I went over and put pen to pad. I think I expected the pen to move of its own volition, like a Ouija board. I waited. And waited.
I'm afraid to report that I came away with an old familiar feeling: writer's block. A blank page staring back at me like the face of a ghost. I got back in bed and slept not a wink until the morning, but I rose clear-headed about one thing.
It's only natural for a place to become supernatural when it retains, as Abbeville does, its sense of history. Or, as my grandmother used to say: "Any place with history is a place with ghosts."
Now, that makes logical sense. But also, where did I put my coffee mug? No, seriously. I know I placed it right there on the bedside table …