The White Lady of Stow Lake
In my new novel, Saving Grace Devine, a young girl is drowned, but her spirit
returns to haunt the lakeside where she met her untimely end. She seeks help
from the living, to help her cross over to the afterlife.
From my research, it would appear that my
fictional Grace is not alone. Many people have reported seeing ghosts of
drowned girls and young women, who are apparently bound to the shores of the
lake where they died. They all appear to be searching for something, or someone
-in dire need of help from the living to help them join the world of spirit.
And not all of them are benign.
One such wraith seems to constitute a deadly
reason why I, for one, would think twice before venturing on a walk around Stow
Lake in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. Her appearances have been frequent
and well documented.
Golden Gate Park is landscaped on similar
lines to New York’s Central Park. It hosts a museum, Japanese Tea Gardens, the
Conservatory of Flowers, Sprekels Park and, of course, Stow Lake. It also
houses a number of ghosts – and even an allegedly moving statue. But more of
that later. We’re concerned now with “a thin, tall figure in white.” So said
Arthur Pigeon, as reported in the San Francisco Chronicle of January 6th
1908. Police had pulled him over for speeding and he told the newspaper that it
had blocked his way as he drove out of the park, “…it seemed to shine. It had
long, fair hair and was barefooted. I did not notice the face. I was too
frightened and anxious to get away from the place.”
Of course, the temptation is to say the man
was merely trying to avoid getting a speeding ticket. And if his had been the
only report, then that could well have been the case. But it wasn’t. Over the
hundred plus years since that Chronicle article, many other people have
reported seeing precisely the same apparition.
So who is this mysterious ‘white lady’ of Stow
Lake?
There are, as always, a number of theories.
One of the more compelling is that in the late 1800s, a young woman was out,
walking her baby in its pram around the lake. She became tired and sat down on
a bench. Presently another lady came to join her and the two struck up a
conversation. So engrossed was the young mother that she failed to notice the
pram rolling away. Suddenly she realized it had gone. There was no sign of
either the pram or the baby. Panic stricken, she searched high and low, asking
everyone, “Have you seen my baby?” No one had. For the rest of that day, and
into the night, she searched.
Finally, she realized the baby and the pram
must have fallen into the lake. She jumped in and was never seen alive again.
Witnesses who report seeing her speak of a
woman in a dirty white dress, sometimes soaking wet and, contrary to Arthur
Pigeon’s assertion that she had fair hair, the other reports consistently state
she has long, dark hair. Sometimes she is also seen on Strawberry Hill –
adjacent to the lake. Her face wears an anxious expression and she has been
known to approach people walking around the lake at night. She asks, “Have you
seen my baby?”
As for the statue I mentioned earlier, this is called
‘Pioneer Woman and Children’. It has a reputation for moving around – and even
changing shape. These phenomena always occur at night and seem directly linked
to the white lady. Sometimes the statue’s face changes. Other times, it has no
legs or head. Motorists have reported electrical issues. Different cars driving
near the statue or lake at the same time have stalled simultaneously.
Finally, if you are brave – or foolhardy – enough, try
going down to Stow Lake at night and say, “White lady, white lady, I have your
baby” three times. It is said she will then manifest herself before you and ask
you, “Have you seen my baby?” If you say, “yes”, she will haunt you ever after.
But, if you say, “no”, she’ll kill you.
Now there’s no documented evidence of the white lady
committing murder. But are you prepared to put her to the test?
Here’s
a flavour of Saving Grace Devine:
Can the living help the dead…and at what
cost?
When Alex Fletcher finds a painting of a drowned girl, she’s unnerved.
When the girl in the painting opens her eyes, she is terrified. And when the
girl appears to her as an apparition and begs her for help, Alex can’t refuse.
But as she digs further into Grace’s past, she is embroiled in
supernatural forces she cannot control, and a timeslip back to 1912 brings her
face to face with the man who killed Grace and the demonic spirit of his
long-dead mother. With such nightmarish forces stacked against her, Alex’s
options are few. Somehow she must save Grace, but to do so, she must pay an
unimaginable price.
Now, here’s an excerpt:
My footsteps echoed as I trod the creaky polished floorboards in the
empty room. I couldn’t overcome the feeling of being watched. For the second
time since I had arrived on Arnsay, goosebumps rose along my arms and the
little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Don’t be ridiculous, I told
myself, your imagination’s got the better of you again.
I shook my head and made for the nearest glass cabinet. Above it, a
portrait of the museum’s benefactor—Jonas Devine—gazed out at the world. I
studied his face for a minute. His dark hair, flecked with gray, receded at the
temples. He had a kind expression, clear brown eyes and a neatly trimmed
moustache in the style of the late Victorians. My attention returned to his
eyes. The artist had captured an ethereal, faraway look in them as if his
subject could see something beyond what had been in the room. He was dressed in
a dark suit of the period and one hand rested on his thigh, while the other
held a book. I peered closer but couldn’t see any title. Maybe it was a small
Bible or perhaps a novel by his favorite writer.
I switched my gaze down to the contents of the cabinet. A pair of
wire-rimmed spectacles, gloves, a pen and inkstand, all personal items from the
man’s study. I moved on and came across an information board nailed to the
wall. It seemed Jonas Devine had bought the house when he brought his new bride
Margarita—a former music hall artist—to settle on this remote island. This had
followed some unspecified need of hers to leave Edinburgh, where she worked,
and where she first met Jonas. A photograph showed a dark-eyed woman dressed in
Spanish style, complete with mantilla and fan. I could imagine her dancing
Flamenco, flashing brown legs as she laughed and flirted with every man she
saw.
Another photo showed a slightly older Margarita with a little boy of
around two—her son, Adrian. Her eyes no longer flashed and the Latin
flamboyance had given way to a demure dress, well suited to a young Victorian
mother. But I read defiance in her expression. I bet she could be a handful, I
thought.
I read on. Margarita had died soon after giving birth to her second son,
Robert, leaving Jonas with two young boys. In 1897, he had acquired a
governess—Agnes Morrison—a widow with a young daughter. They were married soon
after. There was one photograph of her, with Jonas’s two sons, but no sign of
her daughter. I did learn one thing about her though. Her name was Grace and
she took Jonas’s surname on her mother’s marriage. Grace Devine.
An icy breeze chilled me, and I hugged myself. I had the strongest
feeling of someone standing right by my shoulder, but I had heard no one come
up the stairs. I braced myself, took a deep breath and whirled around, relieved
to see I was still alone. But then another sound drifted towards me. A sigh.
Again I told myself to stop imagining things and carried on wandering around
the rooms.
Jonas Devine had certainly been an avid collector. Stamps, coins,
butterflies, all cataloged in meticulous detail and laid out for inspection. I
supposed there wasn’t much else to do if you were independently wealthy and
lived on a remote Scottish island in the late nineteenth century.
One room was devoted to his collection of stuffed birds and animals, all
presented in glass cases, in an approximation of their real habitat. Goodness
alone knew where he had displayed all these things when he was alive. I found
them hideous and macabre, but then I’ve never been a fan of taxidermy.
Below each case was a chest of shallow drawers. I opened one and found a
collection of cameos. Much more my taste, and he had some lovely ones too. Some
were carved onto coral, others onto tortoiseshell, some on ebony and some
ivory. Some were the traditional profile, but most were far more intricate, and
I pulled out drawer after drawer of them, all laid out under glass. The
collection must have numbered hundreds, maybe thousands, and as for their
value…
In the second chest, one drawer stuck halfway and wouldn’t budge, and I
could tell something was wedged inside.
I reached in and poked around until I found the culprit. A material that
felt like canvas was firmly stuck there. I pushed at it but it wouldn’t shift,
so I wiggled it around and tried to grab hold of it. Eventually it gave and I
pulled out something that looked like a rolled up painting.
I unrolled it and revealed a strange picture. The bizarre subject was
painted in blue-green hues, and represented either a lake or the sea, from
underwater. In the foreground a girl floated. Her eyes were closed and I
guessed she was around fourteen or fifteen years old. She was dressed in a white
gown, decorated with a pattern of tiny flowers. Her feet were shod in black
Victorian, buttoned-up boots and the gown billowed up from her ankles, exposing
white stockings. Her hands floated next to her and her light brown hair flowed
loose around her. With a pang, I realized the artist hadn’t depicted a living
subject. This girl had drowned.
It could almost have been a photograph, and I had the strongest urge to
touch the girl and stroke her hair, but my fingers found the unmistakable
texture of oil paint.
The goosebumps arose for the third time but I ignored them, riveted by
the loving attention to detail in the artist’s tragic subject. Who would paint
such a picture? I searched around for a signature but couldn’t find one.
I don’t know how long I stared. The painting troubled, repelled and
fascinated me all in one go. Finally, I decided to take it down to Duncan. He
could find a more suitable home for it. Then, as I started to roll it up, the
girl’s eyes opened.
You
can find Saving Grace Devine in all
usual ebook formats here:
and in paperback here:
About the author
Catherine Cavendish is joint winner
of the Samhain Gothic Horror Anthology competition 2013. Her winning novella – Linden Manor – is now available in all digital formats and the print
anthology will be published in October. She is the author of a number of
paranormal horror and Gothic horror novellas and short stories.Her novel, Saving Grace Devine, has just
been published by Samhain Publishing.
She lives with a
longsuffering husband in North Wales. Her home is in a building dating back to
the mid-18th century which is haunted by a friendly ghost, who
announces her presence by footsteps, switching lights on and strange phenomena
involving the washing machine and the TV.
When
not slaving over a hot computer, Cat enjoys wandering around Neolithic stone
circles and visiting old haunted houses.
You
can connect with Cat here:
www.catherinecavendish.com
https://www.facebook.com/CatherineCavendishWriter?ref=hl
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4961171.Catherine_Cavendish
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