It’s hot. Really hot. And it’s not a tolerable dry heat. Rather, it’s the humid St. Louis heat, the kind that leaves you dewy, the kind that makes you want to shower despite how drenched you already are.
The year is 1969. The setting: a gothic manor on Forsyth. A young woman walks down a richly carpeted hall. For days now, she’s heard footsteps following her every move, though each time she finds herself alone, a solitary maiden in the mansion. She’s taunted by a mischievous prankster—one elusive enough to evade her peripheral detection.
Long marked by an aura of exclusivity and inaccessibility, Whittemore House might update its image soon. “My personal view is that we should open up our membership as wide as possible,” said Art Casolari, an employee of St. Louis Catering and general manager of Whittemore House.