When I told a friend that I spent a Friday night on a Jersey Shore Ghost Tour in Red Bank, she teased me, asking if I had come across any apparitions. Well…
It was a dark and stormy night. Really. Before the tour, my husband, Nishi, and I had dinner at the Dublin House. The Irish pub occupies a revamped Victorian mansion that belonged to the same family for generations before it became a buzzing bar that attracts a rowdy crowd of 20- and 30-somethings. The dining room features dark woods, a fireplace and French doors, through which we watched the dark clouds roll in and the wind and rain pick up.
The tour would start outside the Dublin House, rain or shine. Nishi and I decided to linger inside until the last minute. I took the opportunity to use the ladies’ room one last time before going outside to meet our guide. I was in one of the stalls when I heard the ladies’ room door open and the door of a stall near mine slam. Then I heard a harsh, scratchy voice. “These damn kids these days,” it said. “They get toilet paper everywhere, and look at this seat. There’s pee all over it…disgusting!”
Not a fan of public restrooms myself, I could relate, but I didn’t reply. The irritated voice sounded like that of a much, much older woman, and I thought it would be best to leave her alone. But she didn’t stop. Her tirade got louder and more vulgar. “These damn kids!” she cried. “All they do is have sex with each other and spread disease. If I use this seat like this, I am going to get herpes!”
Her rant started to frighten me. She sounded not just annoyed but furious. I wanted to get out of there. As I fled my stall, I considered not washing my hands, but my germaphobia held me back. The tirade continued. Rattled, I zoned in on my hands, fumbling to turn on the water, pump the soap, scrub and dry as fast as possible. Hurrying to the door, I reached for the long brass handle, just as she spat out, “…but you don’t do that, right?”
The voice sounded much closer this time, as if the woman was standing right behind me. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but I was too afraid to look. I pulled open the door and burst into the hallway.
The rain had subsided, and we left the pub to join our tour group. Outside, I told my husband what had happened. He laughed, but I was still shook up.
Our guide, Genny Kelly, lifted her glowing lantern and led the way. She’s been hosting tours for several seasons and looks the part in gothic garb. Tour owners Ryan and Tabitha Bradley established a tour in Keyport in 2006 and later expanded to Red Bank. (For reservations, visit jerseyshoreghosttours.com.)
As we weaved through town, Kelly told stories of untimely deaths, unsolved mysteries, unfinished business and lost loves. Finally, she returned us to the Dublin House. The building, Kelly said, was once owned by a Mrs. Patterson, and everyone who’s ever worked at the pub has had some sort of encounter with her ghost.
She’s been accused of knocking over glasses and blamed for a tray of dirty dishes that seemed to toss itself into the air. But that’s not the norm for Mrs. Patterson, who has a reputation for being tidy. Managers have said they sometimes return to their upstairs office to find papers that had been strewn about their desks magically arranged in neat stacks and disarrayed chairs put in their rightful places. “She has also been known to follow people into the restroom,” Kelly added.
I reviewed every second of my experience in the ladies’ room, and goose bumps started to form on my arms. I had only heard a voice. I hadn’t seen anything—not even feet under the stall.