My father and I strolled northward on Old Plantation Road, on the second day of our summer vacation. As we approached Hollybourne, I recounted to him the research work of the Getty Institute, which had taken place over the last couple of years in and around the once-grand house. At the north end of the house, a small picket fence contained an anemometer, barometer, and other scientific equipment. The Institute was using the old residence to provide information on environmental conditions typical of old housing in semi-tropical climates.

As we rounded the corner, to my surprise there was an open-sided tent. Tables were set up under it, and several college-age people, clad in t-shirts, denim, and bandanas, were scraping, dusting, and cataloging various pieces of the house. An old shutter lay on one of the tables. Boxes containing old bits of hardware were strewn about, and a small black box tuned to Georgia Public Radio provided the background music. They were working on the house! Window frames and shutters were being sanded and primed. Terra-cotta trim was being carefully repaired.

After two years' waiting, a tour of Hollybourne finally had become possible!

Previous efforts to enter the house (with the approval of the Jekyll Island Authority) had been unfruitful, with personnel changes, and a flea infestation of the old house standing in the way. Now the Authority had decided to use a group of interns to try and stabilize the house. Their goal was to repair and seal openings to the house, to prevent further damage from the elements.

Five dollars, one of the interns told me, would get me a tour of the house on Wednesday morning at 10:30. I called the museum the next day and made reservations; plugged in my digital camera for a full charge; and filled the camera case with 3½ floppies. I was ready.

Arriving early, I was able to see part of the house's foundation exposed, studied, and then covered back up. I talked to several of the workers. "Have you seen anything unusual?" "Have you experienced any spiritual interference with your work?" The first two seemed to have no specific incidents to relate, but strangely enough, they had heard the stories. "What about Peg?", I said. One of the interns stopped her work and peered over her wire-framed glasses at me; "Oh, you mean Margaret". Then she busied herself with her work again. She said nothing more.

At last, 10:30 a.m. arrived. A pleasant young intern with a blue bandana around her head began to tell the small group the story of the Maurice family and their association with the Jekyll Island Club. Eight children and a small staff of servants required more spacious accomodations than the "Club House" could offer. So in 1890, C.S. Maurice, nationally-known bridge engineer, constructed this nine-bedroom "cottage" out of tabby, a local building material formulated from lime, sand, and oyster shells. Maurice insisted on using bridge-building techniques in the house, including unusual trusses and piers. As the intern continued her story, I could tell she had studied well. It is refreshing to find a tour guide that relates historical knowledge with such accuracy.

We walked around the house on the outside, and finally the moment arrived....we stepped indoors. Workers had built a hand-railed walkway over the unsure pine-covered floor. To the left was the dining room, once-grand but now forlorn, with dusty walls and falling plaster. I stood in the entrance hall and took photographs left and right, expecting a glimpse of a tall, bespectacled young lady, but seeing nothing. Our little group moved from the formal part of the house towards the servants quarters. As we neared the passage to the gun room, I sensed a small area that was cooler than the rest of the room. Temperatures outside had already reached the upper 80's, and the air was sticky and humid....except for this small space. But surely there was a logical explanation.

I said nothing about the cold place, simply making a mental note and moving on. The tour was near an end, and I lingered toward the end of the line, staring up the back staircase. I could see one of the rooms up above, and as the tour guide made her exit, I took a few steps up the creaky stairs. Before I could go any further, I could hear the voices of the guide and other guests outside on the back porch... "is everyone out here now?" Oh well, the upstairs would have to wait. I really had wanted to see Peg.....I had really wanted to see something. But deep down, I was a little relieved.

I lingered near the tour guide after we stepped out into the coastal Georgia heat; finally, the other curiosity-seekers had left, and I could pick her brain a bit. I asked if she had seen anything unusual while working on the house, and she, like many of the others, claimed no supernatural experiences; but she did confess a knowledge of the stories. I told her my previous findings, and also related the results of the psychic's visit. The psychic had said, a couple of years ago, that there was "activity" in an upstairs area just behind the main part of the house. The intern got a funny look on her face, and said, "You know, that section of the house is, by far, in the worst shape."

The tales continue to filter in. An e-mail dialogue with a nephew of a former Georgia State Patrol officer brought an interesting anecdote. It seem s that this man's uncle had been on duty in the old village at Jekyll Island in the 1950's. On a routine nightly cruise through the rows of cottages, the patrolman, with his windows rolled down, heard music. High-falutin', string-quartet-type music. He leaned his head out the window of his patrol car to try and determine the direction the sound was coming from. He heard the music, and also the mixture of sounds that come from a formal soiree: the melange of voices and laughter, mixed with the din of silverware and glassware. He soon decided the music was coming from the old tabby house near the north end of the compound, the Maurice house. He pulled his car into the driveway, opened his door, stepped out....and the music stopped.

On my most recent visit to the island, a Friday in early November, I decided to end a photo-expedition at the beach with a little side-trip to Hollybourne. The workers were gone, and the shutters were all closed. She looked a little better than last time, but she needed more attention. I carried my camera and tripod around to the front, and observed two young ladies photographing each other. I walked over to them and introduced myself, and asked if they would like me to take a picture of them together. Yes, they would like that, and with the house in the background, please. I asked them to step up onto the porch, and then I turned the camera vertically to frame the slighty-sad facade behind them. They thanked me for taking the photo, and told me they were students at the University of Georgia. I handed the camera back to its owner; she looked up at me and asked....

"My friend....how much time do you have?"