Dock Street Theater, built in 1809 as the Planters Hotel, has a rich and tumultuous history. Over time, the building had various uses but fell into disrepair in the early 1900s. Theater troupes used to stay at the hotel, which is ironic as the building eventually became an actual theater, a purpose it still serves today.

Some believe this building is cursed. Disturbed spirits whisper to those inside, encouraging chaos and violence. For instance, a man named Junius Brutus Booth stayed at the hotel and began acting erratically, conversing with an invisible entity. His behavior culminated in a fit of rage where he attacked and nearly killed the hotel manager. Booth was the father of Abraham Lincoln's assassin, John Wilkes Booth.

Consider also the strange case of Netty Dickerson, a prostitute from the Civil War era. Netty often fell deeply in love with her clients, who were usually married men, promising her wonderful things. However, these vows were as temporary and disposable as she was to them. Netty longed for true love but was in the worst possible position to receive it. After numerous heartbreaks, her hope in humanity was hanging by a thread. As Solomon wrote, "Hope deferred makes the heart sick."

Enter Andrew Smith, an unmarried man of means, respected in high society, and climbing the social ladder. Unlike her other suitors, Andrew was consistent in treating Netty with a form of kindness. She considered him a lover, not a customer. Andrew was playful, masculine, and loved to hold her tightly in their fortress of pillows and sheets. He spoke of them running away together, becoming pioneers in an untamed land. This was going to be her happy ending.

Netty, using all her savings, went to an expensive boutique on King Street and picked out an exquisite red dress, a dress fit for the theater. Her plan was simple: Andrew would come to the hotel that night as usual, and she would stun him with her beauty and charm, convincing him that now was the time for them to start their new life together.

That Saturday night, the weather was tumultuous, with distant lightning splintering through the heavens. Netty waited anxiously at the bar, nursing a bourbon and fending off her regular customers. As heavy rain began to patter upon the third-story rooftop, the lobby door opened. Netty lit up, seeing Andrew dressed to a tee and in a hurry to escape the rain. They locked eyes momentarily, but then Andrew broke eye contact. A stunning blonde Southern belle named Diana sauntered in, a vision of loveliness. The couple floated through the room, with the diamond on Diana's hand refracting candlelight into Netty's watering eyes. Handshakes and congratulations filled the room, and for Netty, the world went cold.

The whispers filled her mind as wind and rain battered the hotel. The lady in red ascended the stairwell, making her way to the roof. She forced the roof hatch open, and moldy water streamed onto her face, further distorting her already bleeding mascara and rouge. Standing upright, she moved to the third-story ledge, peering down at the flooding street below. "Why, God?" she cried. A deafening crack split the sky as a blinding bolt of lightning struck her. Netty fell, hitting the second-story railing and spinning to the muddy ground with a sickening thud. Her head sizzled like a roasted marshmallow.

Her malevolent specter remains. Late at night, when the halls of Dock Street are sparse and you find yourself alone, you may see her. The once exquisite dress is now stained with mold and misery, her skin cracked and burnt, limbs out of joint, and makeup smeared into an abstract portrait of bitterness and jealousy. Whispers, the smell of bourbon and burnt hair, and an inescapable feeling of overwhelming woe—the lightning-struck dreamer, The Woman in Red.

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