Her gravestone reads: A Devoted Daughter, Cared Enough to Erect This Shrine of the Most Sweet Mother of God
All ghost stories start with Once upon a death and end with white space. They say she was the wind in the chandeliers, a bone cold breath in the hallway. Donning a white taffeta dress, she strutted down Nazareth Hall like it was a runway picking cobwebs from her hair as she walked. My classmates and I heard she was in the rafters of the chapel, her shadowed body weaving in and out of the stained glass, dripping in the glossy blues purples reds. Her screams threaded in the swaying guitars, piano, in the worship songs students sang —her grief one with the music. It was said she exhumed herself in full moon’s glow to stroll the campus grounds. Born in 1830 in Illinois, she grew up, converted to Roman Catholicism, and formed a relationship with Archbishop Dowling. They wrote letters, and she made up her mind to pay all costs for a chapel shrine on an island in Minnesota. She drowned in Lake Michigan, died devoted to God at the age of sixty-two. So what was she doing outside of heaven still glued to earth to her resting place—the island chapel. She created her own death home but couldn’t seem to stay there. To us holier-than-thou Christians, ghosts were demons, and the Spirit was God, so believing in something in between was a thrilling rebellion. Some believed she was spiritual warfare to be prayed away. Some believed she was just a dead heiress. Some believed she was the exception—a witchly reminder that the earth can keep us.
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