Tag Archives: Tennessee

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Dial 911 for 311 Hauntings

 

While visiting Chattanooga, Tennessee for Zip’s annual gun show, we stayed at the Sheraton Read House. The National Register of Historic Places recognized the hotel for its Georgian architecture. The hotel brags about its Drexel Furniture and Sheraton Sweet Sleeper Beds, and I am here to tell you, the sleeping situation is outstanding. There is a rumor about the hotel being haunted and seeing as how I love a good mystery, I had to check it out. The hauntings are so well known, the locals believe them full-heartedly and even use the room to their advantage. As a joke, they put Al Capone in room 311 on the night he was taken into custody before being tried and convicted for his unlawful gangster related tax evasion.

Site History

The hotel site has had several names beginning in the 1847 when the Western and Atlantic Union train station was built across the street. During Civil War days when it was referred to as the Crutchfield House, the location thrived with politics, social events and boomed economically, acting as the Union occupied headquarters and hospital during the war. In 1861, Jefferson Davis and William Crutchfield argued vehemently about whether or not Jefferson was a traitor and military despot, drawing guns and firing into the crowd. After a fire, the hotel was reinvented as the Read House in 1872, with Georgian Revival additions in 1926. The impressive guest list includes, Winston Churchill, Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, Bob Hope, William McKinley, Eleanor Roosevelt, Margaret Truman, Charles Laughton, Tallulah Bankhead, Eddie Rickenbacker, and along with the many other famous folks, of course, Al Capone.

Likely Spirits

During the Civil War in 1863, a prostitute was taken to room 311 and heartlessly murdered by a soldier. Coincidentally, in the late 1920s, after the Crutchfield House burned to the ground and was rebuilt as the Read House, a woman named Analise Netterly died in the new room 311. There are several versions of her story. 1) She was a kept woman and once she realized her male suitor was dishonorable, she unexpectedly died, some believe due to a broken heart, others say suicide and still more claim murder. 2) She was a wife who cheated on her husband and was cast off at the hotel. Determined to get even with him, she intended to live a lavish lifestyle on his dime, but days before the divorce was final, she was found in the bathtub with a slashed throat.

The Haunting

Regardless of which woman remains attached to the property, men who smoke cigars or cigarettes have reported being harassed by a female spirit. For many years, the third floor of the hotel was the smoking floor but with so many guests checking out during the middle of the night, demanding a refund because they woke with a woman sitting on their chest, or slamming the bathroom door, or staring at them inches from their faces, the hotel came up with some strategies. 1) The hotel switched the room number with 313, thinking people fabricated the sensations, but the hauntings never left the original 311. 2) After switching the rooms back, all guests were responsible for the hotel fee regardless of what time they checked out. 3) When hauntings continued after the smoking floor was removed, room 311 was removed from the guest room list. It is no longer available for lodging and has been converted into a broom closet.

Why Al Capone?

Chattanooga was once referred to as the Dynamo of Dixie because the town relied on manufacturing for its revenues and with that, was a strong supporter of unions. Al Capone was incarcerated nearby and spent his last night as a free man in room 311 during the early 1930s. The guards stayed with their ears against the door, laughing amongst themselves, expecting to hear Capone cry out in fear any minute. Instead, all they heard was loud, rattled snoring. A new legend was born. The discontented spirit in room 311 recognized Capone as being more evil than she was, and hid from him that night.

Al Capone in Chattanooga 

My photos suggested to me that an evil spirit looms in room 311 as opposed to a woman with a broken heart. Could it possibly be the intense personality of Al Capone? I wondered if the gangster leader would have close enough ties to the hotel for him to remain there in his afterlife.

He owned property on top of a mountain forty-five minutes west of town. Today, it is called High Point, a restaurant voted as having the Best Gourmet Meal in Tennessee. Capone financed the stone house for John Dillenger as a hideout for booze transported across the country during the prohibition years. The building has underground tunnels and escape hatches and sand under the floorboards to stop bullets, plus numerous bullet holes in the walls. On December 30, 1941, his son, Albert Francis “Sonny” Capone, married his sweetheart Diane Ruth Casey who was from Chattanooga. Apparently, Capone spent quite a bit of time in the area.

Haunting Encounter

Once I heard the stories about the 311 hauntings, I rallied my children to investigate the third floor with me. My husband, Zip, who doesn’t believe in such rubbish, couldn’t resist joining us, just in case something interesting happened. The hallway was empty and just as the story said, all the rooms on the floor were numbered except for 311.

I took photos from different angles, at first finding an orb beside the door, which grew smaller. As we stood outside the room discussing whether or not the hotel brochure would mention the story of Ms. Netterly being afraid of Al Capone, I noticed a black image, a reddish smokey figure shaped like splattered blood, move across the door. I asked everyone to step back and took another shot. We ordered the ghost to return to its home, i.e., not follow us back to our place. The figure slipped under the door frame and was gone.

I’d never photographed a sinister image before and all of us were a little spooked. Even skeptical Zip flinched when he saw the figure move around us. In unison, we all said it must’ve been Al Capone, maybe attached to his last great night of sleep. He might’ve been curious what we had to say about him, or wanted to protect his property. This haunting resembles the ghostly character in my novel, Under a Full Moon, by interacting with others on the material plane.

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Mud Wrestling with Pigs

Throughout my childhood, I resided in the suburbs of Memphis with weekends at the cotton farm around Longtown, Tennessee. It was the best of both worlds. Although I appreciated modern conveniences, I never forgot the difficult life-styles experienced by some of my friends who were raised in the country.

Beside our barn for the horses, two boys and a girl lived in a dilapidated shack without electricity or running water. Their outhouse was a rotting board with a torn wool blanket hung on rusty nails. I referred to their toilet as an “outing-house,” making them laugh at what a silly city-slicker I was. Even though all but one of the children had repeated several grades in elementary school, on more than one occasion they taught me a thing or two.

It was a hot summer day during junior high when I decided to frolic with farm animals. I couldn’t believe my friends didn’t realize how amazing it was to keep pigs a few feet away from their house.

“Let’s play with the pigs.” I leaped into the pig pen and wrestled the large critters. I kicked up mud and danced around the pink guys as a dozen grunting, rolly-pollies circled me.

“You shouldn’t do that,” the girl my age said. She was the oldest and didn’t like to talk about it, but her brothers had passed her grade in school. While extremely kind and quiet, she preferred napping on the porch with the flies swarming around her over anything else.

“Come on. It’s fun,” I called out, tickling the unresponsive oinkers behind the ears.

The three children stood on the fence, open-mouthed with their eyes three times their regular sizes.  The youngest one, he was the smartest, he shook his head while his siblings stared in disbelief.

“Ut-ah. I ain’t going in there,” he said.

The following Monday, I returned to my city-slicker personae. I had play practice at an all-boys’ Memphis prep school. Sitting in the red theatre, I propped my feet up on the chair in front of me as I chatted with a close guy-friend, who happened to be an heir to the largest chain of jewelry stores in town.

“What’s that smell?” He wrinkled his nose and sniffed.

“I don’t smell anything,” I said, more interested in the people on the stage.

“Oh yeah. There’s a smell.” He squinted and inhaled another drag of air. “It’s your shoes.”

I pulled my foot up to my nose and took a whiff of my Tretorn tennis shoe. It was putrid.

Bleaching and washing failed to get rid of the pig smell. I burst into laughter. How could my privileged friend understand what I’d been doing over the weekend? He had an aquarium and solarium in his gigantic home bathroom.

It hadn’t occurred to me at the time I jumped into the pig pen, but there was a reason they lived in mud while the rest of the yard remained arid. Pigs defecated, urinated and vomited within their living quarters. I did notice trash in the mud, too. My country friends had told me their father fed the pigs garbage. Why hadn’t I realized how gross that was at the time?

I might be a slow learner, but I never played with pigs after that day. And I don’t eat them either. My protagonist in Evangabella captured the same sense of never fitting in with the majority. She grew up in the ritzy suburbs of Orlando but kept strong ties with her rural relatives. Luckily for her, the survival skills she learned in the country saved her life.

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I Survived Another Road Trip to Memphis

At least once a year, I leave the safety of Florida’s flat land and subtropical climate headed for Memphis, Tennessee. Whether I trek down wide interstates, winding state highways, drive in the dark of night, or pack blankets for the temperature change, there is no pleasant route to reach Memphis. Every time I pull into the sultry city with all its bright lights and endless churches and hearty restaurants, I feel as if I’m near death.

This year, I selected the smallest, most disjointed, roads to the Mo-town of Rock’n’Roll. With my husband, youngest child and two dogs, we exited the Sunshine State easily, however, our luck faltered once we reached Tifton, Georgia.

My Yankee husband, Zip, wanted fresh vegetables. I told him, in the South, eating vegetables doesn’t necessarily mean you are eating well. We stopped at a greasy steakhouse decorated with adorable ironwork shaped like buccaneers and cheerful saddles dangling from the ceiling. My son asked why the children’s menu offered three low-calorie dishes. Unless it was low-cal, it was loaded with animal fat. Even the steamed asparagus was doused in a heavy sauce.

We disagreed on what to do at 9 o’clock at night. Zip won, so we did not stop to refill the tank and headed toward Birmingham, Alabama.

We didn’t make it. Along the unlit highway, every gasoline station was closed. We panicked when the gas mileage announced we had twenty more miles worth of fuel. Even if the stations were closed, we tried using our credit cards to purchase gas, but they were shut down for the night. We passed one tiny motel, and another, all too offensive for us to stop. With three miles worth of gas in our tank we reluctantly pulled up to what used to be a Days Inn. The establishment had lost its franchise.

The motel required cash up front, hourly rates and a copy of my husband’s driver’s license. The dogs refused to sleep in bed with us and stood guard at the door, growling until 6 am when our neighbors finally got quiet. My husband insisted bugs were crawling on him and there was a brawl outside our door. There was one towel and washcloth and definitely the rooms weren’t cleaned between cash up front customers.

In the morning, my husband was thrilled the car drove 100 mph without our feeling it. We zigzagged our way across Alabama and think we saw the plant where ghosts were featured on Ghost Hauntings. Flashing lights demanded my husband pull over. Tension in the car was mounting. Thank goodness for headphones and a good book.

We missed the exit down highway 78 and decided the Cullman route was more scenic. Every fifteen minutes my son asked, “How much longer?” It was a long haul full of grumpy faces, when we crossed into Tennessee.

Like a pack mule spotting a red barn, Zip gunned the engine as we crossed the line. One of two sheriffs spotted us and patiently stood in the rain as I tried to find where my husband had thrown his driver’s license twenty minutes earlier when he received the previous ticket. This Tennessee sheriff was kind and chose not to arrest my husband for reckless driving.

Once we were showered and rested, we appreciated the calming energy in Memphis. Steady rain fell upon the lakes around our room as we rallied for fun. There are many museums in Memphis, one for every taste. The Pink Palace was built by a man who was declined membership in the local country club, so he went bankrupt building Xanadu to prove he deserved to be a member. The Dixon Art Museum has masterpieces and outstanding shows. Even the University of Memphis art museum offers a special display of mummies and Egyptian art. Because Memphis was named for an Egyptian town, people who collect Egyptian artifacts seemed to settle there long ago, and then buried their treasures in their backyards. The Science Museum is an interactive play zone for kids.

Music lovers head downtown for Beale Street for an afternoon and night of blues. Bands play on the sidewalks and the nightclubs are for letting your hair down. Most every bar in Memphis has live bands.  It’s the best thing about the city.

Restaurants cater to health conscious people who enjoy hearty meals. They are packed full of handsome, outdoorsy folks who love to talk, talk, talk, talk, talk. The energy is comforting.

A trip down to the river is a must. Old Mississippi River boats stayed docked at the cobblestone ramp. The show HeIlcats captures the mood. Memphis Beat romanticizes any bad boy atmosphere.

Outside Memphis is fertile farmland – proof Tennessee deserved to win awards for being the most beautiful and cleanest state in the country. The small town restaurants provide the traditional form of vegetables: fried ochre, fried beans, fried corn. Even bread is fried. Zip got his vegetables and every one of them was fried. I opted to stick with the salad bar. Low and behold, my choices were Cole slaw or shrimp.

To return home, I decided to try the age-old advice – “You got to go North to get South.” The theory about how the interstate to Nashville and Chattanooga is faster than the disjointed roads across Alabama is false. It rained and we drove 50 mph. Despite the traffic lights and low speeds, and the tornado spinning through Alabama, it still was a better drive. With no driving visibility, we stopped in Elizabeth, Tennessee, hardly passed Nashville. We couldn’t unpack the car and my husband was dismayed to learn it was unlawful for liquor stores to sell bottle openers.

Late the following morning we dragged ourselves out of bed and moaned when we saw snow. It was a long haul over the mountains and down the state of Georgia. Zip lost his fancy pants in the hotel. He already had a speeding ticket from our previous Tennessee trip. I drove the speed limit home, listening to my husband complain at every mileage sign. There is nothing like seeing that first palm tree even if it is at a truck stop. We didn’t make good time, but thankfully we were alive when we arrived.

I thought my husband would never visit Memphis with me again.  Alas, family life is good.  He forgot all the bad times as soon as we walked into our house and is planning our next trip.