A September Haunting

Condominium property managers come and go, but the steadfast individuals that manage the waterfront properties that can rise over twenty stories, and stand like sentinels of time, often stay much longer than the residents that actually live in the high-rise homes…which always have a past.

When the snow flies and the icy fingers of winter reach down into the heart of the Deep South, the influx of snowbirds in South Florida can be impressive. During the winter, anyone can take attendance of the residents of any beachside condominium simply by looking up and counting. In winter, almost every apartment is bustling with a multitude of life and lights. Virtually every building, from the first sandy floor of the swimming pool deck to the lofty and exclusive penthouse terrace, lights will be glowing to suggest warmth, comfort, and safety.

When the winter season ends, however, and Easter and spring break become only a memory, the lights in the high-rises become fewer - but much more distinct. By the time lizards are the only sunbathers on a pool deck and lightning cracks under dark and gathering storm clouds, the attendance in the towering buildings can drop to only a few. When the big beach towers go dark and any light will not only alert a sea turtle ranger, but also a roaming property manager, legacies, and perhaps energy from the past might be the only explanation for something without explanation.

Almost everyone who lives in a waterfront condominium has heard the stories and the urban legends. One story relates that for every high-rise built in the last century, one construction worker fell; and a residual energy from each of those deadly falls haunts the heights of every property that lost a laborer.

Other stories tell of a lost love, and the bride who never made it to her honeymoon condominium. A bride in a wedding dress who still walks the beach at night searching for her groom, who married another.

Property managers will often explain that out of 100 residences in a luxury high-rise, only two or three apartments will have an actual occupancy in summer. Only three apartments on average, with a family, a couple, or a single person living in the building during the slowest month, which is always September.

September in Florida has always been slow. The lack of business drives restaurant owners crazy. It makes hoteliers go mad with critiques, projections, and hurricane forecasts, but the lack of human activity can allow the paranormal to get busy.

Many properties on the Collier coastal islands are from the last century and are aging gracefully. Almost all the buildings are immaculate, but good maintenance and new windows cannot clean away the stain of a residual haunting or seal out a mysterious entity that can slip through any brick and mortar.

When Pete first took the job as the property manager of the towering condominium, the massive building on the beach was definitely subject to the seasons. Winter was busy, summer was slow, but no matter the drama or who was in the building, a good property manager must always make daily rounds and inspections.

Pete chose sunrise and sunset as his favorite times to make his rounds because of the beauty of the island during the most dramatic hours of the day. He also quickly became accustomed to the “haunts,” that were the little quirks and peculiarities of his building.

In the pump room for the swimming pool, where the chemical feeders, the constantly running pumps, and the big filters dominated the dark and ever-wet concrete floors, an occasional spark jumping over the puddles was probably nothing but electricity on the loose. The darting sparks were certainly not daily visitors in the shadows of the underground machines but were most likely from wiring that was standing too long in an atmosphere of caustic chemicals and corrosive salt air.

Near the fifth-floor corner apartment, even in September, when no one was in residence anywhere near the fifth floor, the scent of a fine Cuban cigar was always lingering. On every round Pete made to the fifth floor, and even in the stairwell where the rusting standpipe for the fire department was constantly dripping an everlasting echo, the drifting smoke from the cigar was always present during the hour before sunset.

On the 14th floor, which was actually the 13th floor, and named the 14th because of superstitious traditions, a little orange ball of glowing light was always darting and disappearing into the closing doors of an elevator whenever Pete stepped out of the stairwell where the fire department standpipe was always hissing something.

At the top of the building, where the lofty penthouse was ruling over all the other apartments and the wrap-around deck was crowded between sliding glass doors and a concrete railing that was beginning to crumble after a thousand storms, Pete could always feel the cold at the corner of the railing. The cold and fateful edge that was the last place the construction worker stood before the slip, and the failed grasp that ended at the base of the building, where no flowers or plants would ever grow.

Before the next new property manager took the job at one of the oldest condominiums on the beach, a question from the condominium board of directors was about a fear of ghosts. After the new applicant explained he had no such fear or belief in anything supernatural, he accepted the position and worked all during the winter season. When summer came, however, and reptiles once again ruled the pool deck, and dark and stormy skies cast lightning and rumbled whispers, the new property manager disappeared in September - just like Pete, who became the urban legend of the missing manager from half a century before.