By Julie Lindsay, Guest Columnist
What is it about a vault that gets the hair on the back of your neck to stand to attention? That’s certainly the reaction I’ve witnessed among people visiting the new Murphy Art Center that has set up shop in an old bank building in the heart of downtown.
Right next to the cash desk is a substantial, stainless steel bank vault, complete with a sleek, door wheel lock that wouldn’t look amiss steering a stealth submarine. This is not your old, creaking, oak-timbered crypt that inhabits the world of Dracula … but the vault still provokes instant, excited reactions from customers who frequently cry: “What’s in the vault?”
My stock response is “Naughty customers.” This usually elicits a giggle or guffaw, but it’s nearly always accompanied by an unmistakable, nervous glance at the steel edifice and an almost imperceptible shift backward.
I don’t blame them. Vaults don’t tend to have a friendly reputation. Fears range from being locked in and putrefying, to fears of something that is already locked in and putrefying. Usually, a skeleton is involved.
As a MAC artist, I take my share of shifts on the sales desk, along with 60-plus River Valley River Arts Guild members. Granted, as a Brit, my chief challenge is fear of change, and by that I mean the hapless panic that overwhelms me any time I navigate a cash sale with alien American coins.
That said, the vault makes me nervous, too. And perhaps the strange shuffling sound I heard one night, emanating from inside the supposedly empty steel chasm, has embellished a gnawing sense of bone chilling anxiety. Given that, plus a few other ghoulish experiences at the MAC, I decided to embark on a search to uncover a history of possible hauntings.
It turns out the bank was built on the site of the old Regal Hotel, gutted by fire in 1978. Now we’re talking. I snatched a notebook and trekked intrepidly to the museum across the road.
Sadly, my avid inquiries were immediately squashed by a jocular rebuff from one historian, who waved me off with a distinct air of “nothing to see here.” Crestfallen, I wandered off round town,
pressing town dignitaries like April the famed Bistro barkeep for ghostly tales of mystery and imagination.
I’m assured the orange building that was also previously a bank is definitely haunted – in fact, the new owners say they have encountered a mischievous spirit who enjoys stealing keys and rolling baseballs around the place to terrify unsuspecting builders. The owner also told me about an entire conversation, using a divining rod, with a female spirit who claimed to be the previous owner. This is just a stone’s throw from the MAC.
Naturally, the cemetery, just a block away, is also a veritable stomping ground for hoards of specters … but when I ask about the MAC … blank faces. Shrugged shoulders. Lips are sealed. Supposedly … no tales of mystery or imagination to be had. I schlep back through the gloaming in a disconsolate mood.
But, as the night falls over the jaunty MAC awning and the works of art bed down for sleep, I swear, I spot a fairy doll winking at a tiny, sculpted bird and the emerald eyes of a brooding, acrylic wolf start to rove narrowly around the darkened room. A low growl permeates the silence, and something stirs in the steel jaws of the crypt.
Now we’re talking.
The writer is a resident of Cherokee County.