In this week’s instalment of “Author(ized) Accounts of the Paranormal and Unexplained,” Jordan Bartlett, author of Contest of Queens and Queen’s Catacombs, will tell us the story of the ghost bride that haunts Banff Springs Hotel…
This story comes from a place close to home and is one that has always captured my imagination. There’s something special about the ghosts in your own backyard. When I was eight, I swear I saw her sitting in the window, her long white veil hung over her face. A blink and she was gone, thus the fascination with her story began. I’ve heard her story told in many ways by many people, and I hope she doesn’t mind if I add my voice to her tale. Below is a short story about the Ghost Bride that resides in the Banff Springs Hotel.
Wispy clouds shroud the peak of Mount Rundle, creating a veil over the mountain’s cliff face. The scene is framed beautifully in the large, arched picture windows of the ballroom. Snow dusts the stonework and sparkles like diamonds in the noon day sun. White clouds, white snow, white dress.
I can hear the guests settling and the important players getting into position. Today has been orchestrated down to the last dust mote and we all move about like clockwork dancers. Standing still in front of the frosted glass, I allow my mind to go blank as my maid of honor adjusts a seam here, settles a pleat there. Last to donn is the veil.
She has been nattering away to me for the past twenty minutes, but I tuned her out after the third time she mentioned the correct pace at which to walk down the aisle.
“Not too fast, savor the moment, dear, but not too slow, we don’t want Aunt Daphne falling asleep”
Sage piece of advice, although one only requiring a single mention.
Breathe in, breathe out.
If only this second, this day, this feeling could last forever.
I shut my eyes as though to capture the moment; to place it in a snow globe where the only thing to change is the way the little snowflakes fall. The window of the castle becomes the glass dome and I see myself, now tiny and static, in the hands of a little girl. My white dress shines through the little window as she shakes the scene again and again. Snowflakes drift around the turrets and land peacefully in the grounds. She could place me on her nightstand and I would look out of the castle window forever. But already I can feel the seconds ticking by. Sand in an unforgiving hourglass.
My maid of honor lifts my veil and settles it around my shoulders. I glimpse my reflection in the glass. A pale, ghostly reflection of the girl I will never be again. The sheer, delicate fabric floats down over my face. Now the mountain and I have something in common.
Such a simple garment, an ephemeral piece of fabric. Yet it marks a divide. The next time it is lifted, I shall have a different name. A different identity. Wife. No longer a Miss but a Ms. Somehow I expected the veil to be heavier because of this, but it is as light as air. It floats about me like Rundle’s cloud.
Finally, and all too soon, I am ready. The women in my orbit now step into formation. In a single file, they pass beneath the crystal chandelier- did they not pause to look up even once?– to the top of the marble staircase.
Candlelight flickers and casts warm shadows on the wall as the ladies descend. For a moment, I am convinced the cheery light belongs to tiny fairies lining the edge of the smooth marble steps. Members of the Seelie Court awaiting their Queen to descend and marry their King.
I take a few more steps to the top of the staircase and feel a snag. My train, much longer than I had requested, caught for a moment on an uneven section of floor. A tug and it is free, another moment comes and goes too quickly.
One step, then another.
I see my father waiting for me at the base of the stairs. His face, aglow with candlelight and pride, shines like a lighthouse on a dark night. He will guide me to the harbour of my husband. Husband. How strange that word sounds. I suppose soon it will sound as common as a sigh.
Left foot, right foot.
I feel the fabric of my gown slide down each step just a moment behind my footfalls. A pure white shadow keeping pace. The music floats towards me from the room below, and I feel the strings reverberate in my heart.
Suddenly, the light from the candles is all too much. Their heat intensifies. Their warm glow becomes an oppressive inferno. All at once the moments speed up and rush past me out of control.
My father’s face contorts in horror. He races to reach me, but is running through molasses. My bridesmaids turn and shriek, but can do nothing more than stare. Their eyes wide, flames reflected within. I have become a being of light. Pain licks up my limbs. My train, a phoenix’s tail.
I claw at the dress to rip myself free. Charred lace and silk come off in my hands, but still I am bound within this nightmare cocoon. The steps beneath my feet rearrange and disappear from where I had left them. I feel myself teeter, my arms flail for purchase as I stumble blindly into the void. The veil ignites next and my vision becomes a kaleidoscope of searing, flickering light.
Then I am falling, tumbling, crashing to the cold marble below. A fallen star snuffed out. I don’t recall landing. I don’t recall who extinguished the fire. I don’t even recall if I concluded my life’s story with a final word, or where exactly my last breath fell. But I do remember, all at once, the pain stopped. My breath stopped. Everything just… stopped.
Now, my dress shines the purest white. Forever perfect, untouched by the ravages of time. My train never catches on uneven sections of floor. I have the leisure to look up and admire the crystal chandelier for as long as I wish. For time is all I have. I peer out of my snow globe and watch the snowflakes fall in different patterns around me; watch the people scurry to and fro in different patterns around me; watch the sun rise and set and the moon follow suit around me.
My moment is frozen, now and forever. On the edge of Miss and Ms. My veil is ever-unlifted. As unchanging as the mountain my window overlooks; something else we have in common.
I’ve watched a century’s worth of brides become wives within these walls. Some even descend my staircase. There is a handrail now, and most will avoid using open flames. I expect I’ll be here to watch a century’s more walk down the aisle. The least I can do is smooth their trains and settle their veils; I try not to take it personally when they shudder at my touch. Since the flames, I’ve not been able to warm myself. If I’m feeling bold, I will walk beside them a ways. I see their brows furrow and some turn sharply if I hover too near. I don’t mean to unnerve them on their special day, but a bit of unease might make them cautious. Accidents happen. And I know I would have liked someone beside me at the end. I never walk them to their groom. I do not even stay to watch as he turns to greet her. For that is their journey to make, not mine.
Author Interview
The Night Librarian: This is such a spooky story, and the way you slipped into the Ghost Brides’ shoes feels so authentic! Tell us, how do you do research for your writing?
Jordan: Obviously there’s trusty Google up my sleeve, but where I can I like to experience what I’m writing about. This could be visiting museums, exploring locations, interviewing experts, or experiencing something for myself. I just feel like I can write more authentically when I’ve lived it rather than just read about it. It’s a great excuse to stay curious and it gives me a goal for my quests. Some of my favourite “field trips” include: I shadowed a botanist for a few hours in a herbarium where I learned all about what herbariums actually are and the process of plant collection and documentation – I saw plant samples from the 1800’s! While living in Scotland I explored as many castles as I could find so that the castles and way of life I was writing about in the Frean Chronicles felt as authentic as possible. For Contest of Queens I visited the time museum in Greenwich to learn more about how clocks work. I’ve also picked up hobbies that my characters have so that I can better write about them- my favourites at the moment are tarot reading and the violin.
The Night Librarian: Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?
Jordan: There’s the obvious: write! The practical: make rejection your friend. But I think more and more I’m leaning towards the advice that helped me through a writing block. Know why you’re writing. What message do you want to share? What is it you want your piece to say? A novel without a message is like a ship without a destination, or a person without a purpose. Figure out what you want to say to your audience and then use your world and your characters to say it.
The Night Librarian: Now I have to ask! What is the central message you hope readers take away from the novel?
Jordan: That in all things, be kind. I hope that this series shows that prejudice and division of people based on where they’re born, or what gender they are only makes us weaker as a whole. I hope that it makes people think about and re-evaluate their own prejudices and how they impact others. I hope my book shows that at the end of the day, people are people. Give one group power and how they shape the world might look different, but there will always be those who are corrupt, and there will always be those fighting for what’s right.
Jordan H. Bartlett is a New Zealand-born Canadian with a love for children’s literature and female empowerment. She grew up reading books about boys for boys and found it hard to find a strong female heroine she could relate to. Bartlett wrote Contest of Queens, Queen’s Catacombs, and Queendom Cometo give young readers that character she so longed for in a world where gender norms are reversed. Bartlett currently resides in Banff, Alberta where she works as a Speech Language Pathologist and is a certified yoga instructor.
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In a Queendom divided, can one girl unite the realms?
Jacs, an inventor’s apprentice from the Lower Realm, has only ever dreamed of what the land among the clouds holds. That is until she finds a letter from Connor, an Upperite boy hoping to learn more about the land below. Little does Jacs know, Connor is actually Prince Cornelius of the Queendom of Frea. With wooden boats and hot air balloons, the two begin a secret correspondence. But their friendship is divided by a heavily-guarded bridge and an inescapable prejudice.
The strength of their bond was thought to transcend distance and time, but when the royal family visits the Lower Realm, the Queendom’s feud is reignited.
To save her people, Jacs must infiltrate the Upper Realm and earn her place to compete in the Contest of Queens. In a story about friendship, love, bravery, and defying gravity, Jacs will strive to prove that a Queendom is strongest when united.
BibliOccult 