Richie woke from a long slumber, feeling more rested than he had in a while. He stretched; surprised his back didn’t hurt more from sleeping on the hard floor, and sat up, smiling at the sun that streamed in through the sparkling windows. He stood and crossed to the back of the room, staring out over the wide expanse of luxurious green lawn and at the apple trees that still bore their fruit. Getting dressed, he went outside to enjoy the crisp autumn air. He strolled around the house, enjoying the sights and smells of the fall flowers.
Rounding the side of the house, he started for the maze. As he traveled its neatly pruned lanes, he let his mind wander. He was really in love with this house, and was so glad that it seemed to love him back. When he got near the center of the maze, a soft, lilting voice made him stop short. He peeked around the corner of the bush he was standing behind and gaped at what he saw. Sitting there on the ground at the base of a beautiful fountain was a small waif of a woman with dark hair so long its edges touched the grass around her. She wore a pale peach old-fashioned gown, and Richie could swear he saw the toes of sturdy walking boots peeping out from under the hem of the dress. The woman was smiling with her face tilted up to the sun, and humming a tune he didn’t recognize. Richie smiled at her and turned his own face up, enjoying a shared stolen moment with this woman.
When he looked back at her, he was startled to see she had gone. He hurried to the fountain and around it, but she wasn’t there. He went out the back of the maze, knowing she couldn’t possibly have passed him without him seeing or at least hearing her. He followed the flagstone path down to the lake, but there was no sign of her there, either. He scanned the shoreline, but didn’t see even a footprint in the soft moss that lined the lake’s edge.
When he turned away and started up the rhododendron path that skirted the edge of the maze, he felt rather than saw someone watching him from the bushes.
“Hello?” he called softly. “Miss, are you in there?”
Hearing no answer, he continued along slowly, peering through the branches to see if he could get a glimpse of the woman or her peach dress. Halfway up the path, a skinny hand reached out and grabbed his arm. It was clearly a woman’s hand by the size of it. There was blood under her nails, her skin was dirty, and it held a smell that Richie could only describe as decay.
With a startled curse, he reared back, but the hand held fast, and when he stepped backwards, more of the woman was revealed. A tattered sleeve with patches of clean peach fabric among the filth came out of the bushes. The curve of a bosom and a long sweeping skirt peeped out. Richie tried desperately to free himself, clawing at the ice-cold hand that was clamped tightly to his forearm, but he couldn’t. He really didn’t want to see what the rest of this creature looked like, but he couldn’t make it let go.
As he took another step back, a scuffed and battered black boot came out of the shrub border. He jerked his arm hard, and the woman-thing’s nails raked his skin, leaving angry red trails along his forearm. He watched in horror as a swing of dirty, matted dark hair emerged from the bushes. With one more step, the woman was revealed. She had been badly beaten. Her left eye was puffy and bruised, and her lower lip was split and caked with dried blood. He could see a welt on her cheek, and leaves and dirt clung to her hair and tattered gown. She held the ruined garment closed at her breasts with a tiny, damaged hand, and Richie could see finger-shaped bruising around her neck. Outraged, Richie immediately forgot his fright.
“Oh my God, what happened to you?” he whispered.
For a moment, the visage before him shifted to that of the woman he had seen sitting at the base of the fountain. When their eyes met, his brown to her gray, Richie saw flashes of images behind his eyes – a wedding, twin baby girls, a Christmas tree, a baby boy, the lake, and an angry man’s face. In a split second, the woman turned back to the horrible thing that he had pulled from the rhododendrons. The woman-thing leaned forward.
“Will you find me,” it said with a slightly accented voice that was barely a whisper. “Help me, please.”
Richie gasped and bolted upright on his bedroll; a sheen of sweat covering his chest. For a moment, he was disoriented, hanging in that realm between conscious and subconscious thought. Before he knew it, he was on his feet and running for the door. He didn’t recognize his surroundings and had started to panic, but he knew it would all be okay if he could just get out of the room. He threw open the door, and was startled to see his truck parked at the bottom of a short staircase. He squeezed his eyes closed, and willed himself to wake completely up. Tentatively, he opened his eyes and focused on the truck. Slowly, his consciousness caught up to his body, and he remembered where he was. He turned to look behind him and saw the empty room, the cold, dark fireplace, his sleeping bag, duffel, and guitar. Once his breathing returned to normal, and his heart rate came down from triple digits, he frowned impatiently. “What the fuck?” he asked the room. Of course, there was no answer.
After that dream, Richie knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. He wouldn’t even try. He groaned when he looked at his watch and saw it was only 5:30. With a muttered curse, stalked back to his bedroll and folded it up. He snatched his jeans up off the floor, and pulled a fresh pair of Calvins and a clean black t-shirt out of his duffel. He rummaged around until he found his towel and a bar of soap, and went upstairs to use the one bathroom that worked. Maybe a hot shower would help clear his muddied head.
Richie sat on the closed commode lid and waited for the bathroom to fill with steam. He thought about the dream last night. It was so vivid, so real. Shaking his head, he got up and climbed into the shower, groaning as the hot water pounded into his back. He turned and hissed in pain when the water hit his arm. He looked down and was shocked to see four angry red scratches, like fingernail marks, on his forearm where the woman in his dream had grabbed him. Startled, Richie’s knees gave out and he sunk to the floor of the tub, the water pounding his head as he examined his arm, turning it this way and that. On the underside, was the fifth mark, where the thumb had dug in.
“What the fuck?” Richie exclaimed for the second time that morning, truly scared now. He tipped his head back against the edge of the tub and had an argument with himself over what could be going on. Richie was never one to ignore the spiritual – he was raised Catholic after all, but this was pushing the limits of his beliefs. Did he really believe that the woman in his dream, whoever she is, really lived here and died here? That he had a ghost? He laughed to himself. He had bought himself a haunted house? He shook his head. It was almost too crazy to be true, but he looked down at his arm again. The evidence was there, but still, he was reluctant to believe it.
Richie stood; his resolve firm. Antiquing will have to wait – he had some sleuthing to do.
* * *
The little placard on the window of the Historical Society said it opened at 9:00. It was only quarter past seven. Grumpy and grumbling, he angled across the street to the diner he had seen the night before. It was a charming old-time diner with a metal-edged Formica counter-top running down its length, anchored by a twenties-era mechanical cash register. Cracked red leather booths flanked tables covered in red-and-white checked tablecloths.
Richie selected a booth in the back and sat heavily, dropping his Stetson on the bench seat beside him. He opened the menu and chuckled at the selections – Breakfast, Lunch, or Dinner. A tired 40-something waitress approached with a pot of coffee and Richie eagerly turned his mug over so she could fill it.
“Are ya having breakfast with us this mornin’, hon, or just coffee?” she asked, with a voice made croaky by too many years of smoking unfiltered cigarettes.
“Breakfast would be wonderful,” Richie said.
The waitress nodded and left. Richie scanned the other patrons in the diner. Even at this hour, the counter was full. A contingency of old men sat placidly sipping their coffees and reading their morning papers. Richie sighed and sipped from his own cup, pleased at the brew’s strength and rich, delicious flavor. A short time later, the waitress reappeared with a heaping plate. Richie’s eyes went wide at the amount of food she had brought him. The plate was full with scrambled eggs, pancakes, grits, bacon, sausage, and biscuits with gravy.
“That’s a hell of a lot of breakfast, darlin’,” Riche said to the waitress.
She winked at him. “Well, hon, ya look like a hell of a lot of man.” Richie laughed, and the woman smiled and blushed, taking ten years off her face. “Give a holler for SueBeth if you need somethin’ more,” she said before disappearing into the kitchen.
After lingering over breakfast, and eating everything on his plate, he left a generous tip, pulled his hat down low over his eyes, and walked up and down the length of the main street waiting for the Historical Society to open. Finally, a few minutes before nine, a car pulled up in front and parked in the spot next to his.
Angel Rose Summerlin got out of her car and sighed at pickup parked next to her. She didn’t recognize the truck. Sure enough, when she checked the rear license plate, she saw it was from New Jersey – definitely not someone she knew. “There goes my quiet morning to myself,” she lamented, and shook her head. From the corner of her eye, she noticed someone at the far end of Main Street heading her way. Ignoring him, she let herself into the building, and turned on the overhead lights. She dropped her bag into the plush leather chair that sat behind her antique partner’s desk, and tossed her keys into the copper pot she kept on the corner of her desk for odds and ends. The floors creaked under her well-worn cowboy boots, and her heels made dense happy clunk sounds as she crisscrossed the room to open windows. A small credenza at the back of the room held a coffee pot, set up from the night before, and she punched the ‘on’ button before settling behind her desk.
Satisfied that everything was ready for the day, she took a few breaths, and checked the answer machine. There was one message.
“Ms. Summerlin, this here is Marty Halstead. The old Thompson place sold today, and the gentleman who bought it is gonna be itchin’ to learn all about it. I give him only a day or two before he’ll be at your door. Could I ask you to start pulling a basic history together for him? I’d leave out any of the spooky stuff if I was you, but of course, you know best. I surely would appreciate it. You take care now, Ms. Summerlin, and I thank ya kindly.”
Ang loved her job. She’d been running the Historical Society for a few years now, and though not too many of the townspeople stopped in anymore, it never got old. She loved digging through the journals and papers that were stored in the two climate-controlled stories above her in fireproof file cabinets. She loved going into the basement vault and fingering (through white cotton gloves, of course) the dozens of gowns and other items of clothing that had been donated over the last century. The vault also contained precious, some would say priceless, jewelry; either purchased from estate sales or donated by local families.
Her very favorite piece was an oval gold locket on a delicate chain. On the front was engraved a rose, and inside were old sepia-toned pictures of three children. On one side was a young boy, no more than five, and the other, twin girls. The piece had no provenance, so she had no idea to whom the locket had belonged, but she felt a strange little shock whenever she looked at it, almost as if she had a connection to the people in the photographs.
Almost as if her curse was rearing its head again.
She usually would love a project like the one Marty had asked her to complete, but something about it was giving her an uneasy feeling – a feeling she hadn’t had in many years. The ‘spooky stuff’ as he called it scratched at a scab in her psyche she thought was healed.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Chapter Three
The Past
October, 1861
Kirstin was enjoying the autumn afternoon. All Hallow’s Eve was a week away and there was still work to do to get ready. Each year, she and Geoffrey had hosted a party at their home – a tradition that started after their wedding. Their children especially were excited this time of year, and Kirstin and Geoffrey were not going to let a little fighting get in the way of their children’s happiness. Fort Sumter was attacked just a month after their new president was inaugurated, and the country was torn. Of course, the South would emerge victorious, any day now in fact, so there was no reason to curtail plans for the party.
The elaborate costumes had been planned for the last several months. Her daughters had helped her decide on the party games, and James had helped his father in decorating the barn. She still needed to finalize the menu for the evening and complete her own costume, but most of the preparations were complete. It had been a harried several weeks, but the end result would be well worth the work.
Needing a moment of solitude, Kirstin left her third-floor office, slipped down the servants’ staircase and out the kitchen door to the garden. She meandered through the topiary maze, trailing her hand along the soft evergreen hedge and releasing a light but potent honeysuckle aroma into the air. Once at the center, she sat at the fountain, listening to the water – a rare commodity and absurd extravagance – as it cascaded down its nested bowls to the basin at her back. She tipped her head back to catch the rays of the autumn sun, still strong at this time of the year.
Rolling her shoulders, Kirstin sighed. She loved her family more than her own life, and even in these few minutes alone, she missed them terribly. Her children were her light; her husband, her life. She considered herself the luckiest woman she knew, and knew there were those that envied what she had.
Kirstin stood, dusted off the seat of her dress, and wound out the back end of the maze, intending to visit the lakeshore before heading back up to the house. The trees made beautiful reflections in the mirror-flat surface, and the rays of sun playing across the water always made her smile. She had a small crust of bread in her pocket, in case there were fish or birds looking for a treat.
As she wound down the path toward the lake, she heard a noise behind her; a rustling in the bushes. She judged the sound too large for the rabbits or squirrels that sometimes slipped down to the lake. Her pulse quickened. Smiling to herself as she realized who must be behind her, she hastened her step. The further away from the house she was, the less likely she and Geoffrey would be interrupted. She skipped a bit, and hurried down the flagstone path.
The Present
By the end of the day, Richie had all the paperwork signed, and keys in hand. The town rolled up its sidewalks promptly at five, so nothing but the diner was open as he drove home from Marty’s office. Home. That had a nice ring to it.
It took him all of five minutes to bring his things in from the truck. He had brought with him a single beat-up duffel bag containing some of his clothes and toiletries, a camper’s bedroll, a fan, and his favorite guitar. He had been staying in local inns while he visited various prospects, but now that the place was his, he wanted to settle in as much as he could. He’d need to be sure he had running water before he canceled his reservation, though.
Richie set the fan up in the great room, intending to get the almost stifling air circulating, but he was worried about the old wiring. Shrugging, he unplugged it and left it in the corner. Looking around the empty room, he spread his arms wide, grinned, and spun like a child. There was so much space! He would have to arrange for a moving van to bring the rest of his personal stuff in the next few days, but he decided he didn’t want to transport any of his furniture; he wanted things that would fit this house, and his stuff was too modern.
Smiling happily, Richie took his time exploring many of the rooms on the upper floors of living space in the house. He wanted to get a sense of what he’d need for furniture, and he had to make sure that at least part of the house was inhabitable while the renovations he wanted were taking place. As he strolled through the second-floor rooms, he found that most of the lights worked, though they flickered, and he was able to get the water in one of the bathrooms to run clear. That made him happy; he wouldn’t have to go back to the hotel. One by one he examined the rooms but they were all empty. He was hoping to find little treasures like end tables or old chairs, but everything was gone. Maybe when he got to the attic he’d find something.
When he got to the third floor he found a door that wouldn’t open. At first he thought it was just stuck, but the knob wouldn’t even turn. Richie tried every key he could find, and finally gave up, went downstairs to fish his cell phone out of his duffel, and called Marty.
“Hey Marty, it’s Rich,” he said into his phone, as he sat down in one of the window seats in the great room.
“Good evening!” Marty replied, surprised. “Is there a problem already?”
“Not really,” he said. “I just had a question: do I have all the keys for this place?” Richie gazed out over the grass – it couldn’t really be called a lawn yet. A truckload of fertilizer and a good watering would start to remedy that.
Marty sounded puzzled. “Yes, I believe so. Why, is there a problem?”
“Well,” Richie said, “There’s one room upstairs that I cannot open – one of the front rooms; the first door at the top of the stairs on the third floor.”
“The door is probably just stuck due to the humidity,” Marty said, unconcerned. “I’m sure it’ll sort itself out.” Marty didn’t want to get into what the problem most likely was with that door – just like didn’t give his opinion on that cold draft earlier.
Richie shrugged, and after thanking the man, he hung up. There’d be time enough to explore that door. Noting the time and realizing his stomach was growling, Richie decided to head out to check out the Blues Festival advertised on roadside signs all over town. He didn’t have any way to keep perishable food from, well, perishing here at the house, and his mouth watered at the thought of true Southern barbecue. He looked at his guitar, then back at the door. “Nah, I’ll just listen,” he said, and left; locking the door behind him.
The young woman sat and watched him go; staring at red lights fading in the distance. She could sense his affinity for the house; could tell that if he stayed, this man would make it a home again. She hoped and prayed that she was right this time. Taking in his meager possessions, she fervently hoped there were more bags and boxes coming; that he planned to live here.
Looking longingly at his guitar, the young woman sighed. How she hoped to hear music again! She crossed the room to kneel by the gorgeous instrument. The rich mahogany color contrasted beautifully against the light tones of the maple floor, and the guitar seemed to shine like a beacon. She reached out to touch it, and concentrating hard, was able to strum her fingers across the strings. The perfect tone resonated through the room, and she laughed with pleasure. Music was something she really missed – that and the laughter of her children.
Sighing, she rose and went upstairs to the room the Yankee wasn’t able to get into earlier – HER room. Though it was on the servant’s floor, this room had been her place to go to when she needed to think or plan a surprise. Her husband had his study, she had hers. It had been furnished simply; with a roll-top desk and matching high-backed chair, a deep soft couch by a window, and high-backed leather chairs flanking a modest fireplace. The wall coverings were a floral fabric, and the hardwood floors a honey-streaked brown. A rocking chair, brought up here when her son moved from the nursery to his own room, sat by the other window.
Few rooms in the house had a lock on the door. She had rarely used the lock on this one – really there was nothing to safeguard. Though on her last day in the house, she did turn the key; she had secreted small gifts in her room for the All Hallow’s Eve celebration that she didn’t want her children coming across.
The gifts were long gone, but the room remained locked. Her husband had locked it and slid his copy of the key under the door on his last day in the house. She looked at the key. It had sat there for years. Whenever one of the new owners would “find” the key and come into the room, she would make herself seen. The person would either back out the door, shaking his head and holding out his hands as if to stave off an attacker, or else run screaming from the place and not return. In either case, the room would get locked again, and the key returned to its place on the floor. She knew if she tried hard enough, she could slide it under the door for the Yankee to find, but she wasn’t yet convinced that he would understand or welcome her presence.
Many hours later, she heard the front door open. He was back.
Richie had spent longer than he had intended in Leland, but there were so many good bands at the Blues Festival, he was reluctant to leave. He chatted up some of the performers; old men with grizzled beards and battered guitars, and talked music until he was one of the few people left on the fairgrounds. God, he loved the South. The music all but dripped with history, and more than once during the evening, his mind wandered back to the room under the stairs. He had wondered how many of the old men he spoke with were descended from slaves that may have taken refuge in the very house he now owned.
By the time he had arrived back in town, even the diner was closed up. He drove the dark streets back to the house and parked by the front door. Once inside, he kicked off his boots, stripped off his socks, and padded barefoot to the French doors, which he threw open to the night. He grabbed his guitar, settled in on the top step of the porch, and turned sideways to rest his back against a post. He strummed absently, a slight grin on his lips. He closed his eyes and lost himself for a little while, playing whatever came to mind.
The young woman stood at the doorway, transfixed by the music. She didn’t recognize any of the songs, but she did recognize the pure, clean sound of a well-played instrument. She watched the Yankee’s fingers dance up and down the neck, and swayed along with the beat. After a while, she glided over to the edge of the porch, and sat on the step against the opposite post to watch and listen.
Richie felt eyes on him. Abruptly, he stopped playing and sat up straight, looking around. “Who’s there?” he called.
The young woman was startled by the Yankee’s perception. She almost reached out to him then, but didn’t want to spook him any more than she already had. She sat, silent and still, and waited.
After a minute or two, Richie chuckled to himself. “Probably just raccoons or something.” He shook his head at his own silliness. “I must be tired.” He stood and stretched before going back into the house.
The young woman followed.
After stowing the instrument back in its case, Richie went about setting up his bedroll. He considered sleeping on the porch, but only for a moment. If there were animals out there, he’d just as soon they not find a nice warm body to investigate. That was a bit more roughing it than he was prepared for. No, he would lie on his back in the great room and gaze up at the pressed tin ceiling and let his mind wander – after he studied the fireplace more closely. Richie rubbed his hands together with glee. He felt so happy with himself. He was taking control of his life, and doing what he felt he needed to do.
The past few years had been a whirlwind of activity. Between studio time, promotions, travel and touring and all the bullshit that went with it, not to mention the business side of things which Jon usually handled himself in the background, but had started to bleed into the forefront, there was barely enough time to blink, never mind relax. It was emotionally draining as well as physically -- especially the shit with Doc. He still couldn’t believe all that had happened. The guys were all living in each others’ pockets and getting on each others’ nerves. Too much togetherness was definitely not a good thing.
He was glad when Jon had decided he needed to unwind and hopped a bike for a destination yet to be determined. Honestly, all of them were. They had made their piles of money, managed to keep bunches of it, and had a good run. Richie knew they’d always be friends, and he’d always have his music, but if the two never came together again, well, maybe it was for the best. Exhausted, Richie had spent most of the first week home asleep, practically comatose in his bed. The next few weeks were spent catching up with his parents and friends and doing just about as little as possible. Then he started getting itchy fingers.
Of course, the first thought he was to call Jon and see what was going on, maybe get together and dick around in Jon’s studio. The second thought was, “why not use this time to do something for myself?” and he did. He had worked with a great team, enlisted help from Teek and Dave, and put together what he thought was a good solo record. He’d done some interviews and promotion for the record, which was due out in the fall, and had lined up a few tour dates, just to test the waters. Richie had to admit, he was never happier than when he was playing to a crowd, and was looking forward to this adventure. He had his music, and now he had a place that spoke to his soul rather than his sense of image. The music was taken care of, and his house now needed his full attention.
He thought about what he’d do first. There was a small store in town; it would have to have local papers. He’d get one of everything, and scour them for estate sales. Not really being one for antiquing – he was more of the ‘hire a decorator’ kind – he’d decided to make an exception and furnish this place himself. If he was lucky, he thought, there might be an original piece or two in the attic he could use. He’d check that out after he finally got into that locked room. And called the electricians, the plumbers, the bank, the post office to get his mail forwarded... Richie laughed to himself.
“Better make a list,” he chuckled to himself. Richie sat cross-legged on his bedroll and spent the better part of the next hour doing just that, and soon, he had quite an inventory of things that needed doing. He stretched and grimaced as his back popped a little.
The young woman watched as the newest inhabitant of her house readied himself for sleep. He zipped the bedroll open and spread it wide, fishing a small pillow from his duffel to finish the makeshift bed. He circled the room, opening windows to let in the night air and sounds, and hoped to hell the mosquitoes had forgotten about this place. He looked longingly at the fan again, but really didn’t want to burn the place down his first night. Shrugging, he stripped his t-shirt over his head.
The woman gasped at his half-nakedness. He was certainly quite a specimen; tall and broad shouldered, with a mostly smooth chest that was ripped with muscles. When the Yankee started to unfasten his pants, she squeaked and turned away quickly, rushing upstairs to her room.
Richie thought he had seen something out of the corner of his eye –a flash of something pale, almost like a dress flapping around a woman’s legs. It was just for a heartbeat, and when he whirled around to get a better look, it was gone. Laying on his blanket in just his briefs, he thought about the strange occurrences that had been going on all day. The drafts, the condensation on the window, the mysterious locked door, and now the strange flash of something – either he was more stressed out than he realized, or something else was going on.
Shaking his head, he chalked everything up to being exhausted and burned out, and went to sleep. After a short time, he began to dream.
October, 1861
Kirstin was enjoying the autumn afternoon. All Hallow’s Eve was a week away and there was still work to do to get ready. Each year, she and Geoffrey had hosted a party at their home – a tradition that started after their wedding. Their children especially were excited this time of year, and Kirstin and Geoffrey were not going to let a little fighting get in the way of their children’s happiness. Fort Sumter was attacked just a month after their new president was inaugurated, and the country was torn. Of course, the South would emerge victorious, any day now in fact, so there was no reason to curtail plans for the party.
The elaborate costumes had been planned for the last several months. Her daughters had helped her decide on the party games, and James had helped his father in decorating the barn. She still needed to finalize the menu for the evening and complete her own costume, but most of the preparations were complete. It had been a harried several weeks, but the end result would be well worth the work.
Needing a moment of solitude, Kirstin left her third-floor office, slipped down the servants’ staircase and out the kitchen door to the garden. She meandered through the topiary maze, trailing her hand along the soft evergreen hedge and releasing a light but potent honeysuckle aroma into the air. Once at the center, she sat at the fountain, listening to the water – a rare commodity and absurd extravagance – as it cascaded down its nested bowls to the basin at her back. She tipped her head back to catch the rays of the autumn sun, still strong at this time of the year.
Rolling her shoulders, Kirstin sighed. She loved her family more than her own life, and even in these few minutes alone, she missed them terribly. Her children were her light; her husband, her life. She considered herself the luckiest woman she knew, and knew there were those that envied what she had.
Kirstin stood, dusted off the seat of her dress, and wound out the back end of the maze, intending to visit the lakeshore before heading back up to the house. The trees made beautiful reflections in the mirror-flat surface, and the rays of sun playing across the water always made her smile. She had a small crust of bread in her pocket, in case there were fish or birds looking for a treat.
As she wound down the path toward the lake, she heard a noise behind her; a rustling in the bushes. She judged the sound too large for the rabbits or squirrels that sometimes slipped down to the lake. Her pulse quickened. Smiling to herself as she realized who must be behind her, she hastened her step. The further away from the house she was, the less likely she and Geoffrey would be interrupted. She skipped a bit, and hurried down the flagstone path.
The Present
By the end of the day, Richie had all the paperwork signed, and keys in hand. The town rolled up its sidewalks promptly at five, so nothing but the diner was open as he drove home from Marty’s office. Home. That had a nice ring to it.
It took him all of five minutes to bring his things in from the truck. He had brought with him a single beat-up duffel bag containing some of his clothes and toiletries, a camper’s bedroll, a fan, and his favorite guitar. He had been staying in local inns while he visited various prospects, but now that the place was his, he wanted to settle in as much as he could. He’d need to be sure he had running water before he canceled his reservation, though.
Richie set the fan up in the great room, intending to get the almost stifling air circulating, but he was worried about the old wiring. Shrugging, he unplugged it and left it in the corner. Looking around the empty room, he spread his arms wide, grinned, and spun like a child. There was so much space! He would have to arrange for a moving van to bring the rest of his personal stuff in the next few days, but he decided he didn’t want to transport any of his furniture; he wanted things that would fit this house, and his stuff was too modern.
Smiling happily, Richie took his time exploring many of the rooms on the upper floors of living space in the house. He wanted to get a sense of what he’d need for furniture, and he had to make sure that at least part of the house was inhabitable while the renovations he wanted were taking place. As he strolled through the second-floor rooms, he found that most of the lights worked, though they flickered, and he was able to get the water in one of the bathrooms to run clear. That made him happy; he wouldn’t have to go back to the hotel. One by one he examined the rooms but they were all empty. He was hoping to find little treasures like end tables or old chairs, but everything was gone. Maybe when he got to the attic he’d find something.
When he got to the third floor he found a door that wouldn’t open. At first he thought it was just stuck, but the knob wouldn’t even turn. Richie tried every key he could find, and finally gave up, went downstairs to fish his cell phone out of his duffel, and called Marty.
“Hey Marty, it’s Rich,” he said into his phone, as he sat down in one of the window seats in the great room.
“Good evening!” Marty replied, surprised. “Is there a problem already?”
“Not really,” he said. “I just had a question: do I have all the keys for this place?” Richie gazed out over the grass – it couldn’t really be called a lawn yet. A truckload of fertilizer and a good watering would start to remedy that.
Marty sounded puzzled. “Yes, I believe so. Why, is there a problem?”
“Well,” Richie said, “There’s one room upstairs that I cannot open – one of the front rooms; the first door at the top of the stairs on the third floor.”
“The door is probably just stuck due to the humidity,” Marty said, unconcerned. “I’m sure it’ll sort itself out.” Marty didn’t want to get into what the problem most likely was with that door – just like didn’t give his opinion on that cold draft earlier.
Richie shrugged, and after thanking the man, he hung up. There’d be time enough to explore that door. Noting the time and realizing his stomach was growling, Richie decided to head out to check out the Blues Festival advertised on roadside signs all over town. He didn’t have any way to keep perishable food from, well, perishing here at the house, and his mouth watered at the thought of true Southern barbecue. He looked at his guitar, then back at the door. “Nah, I’ll just listen,” he said, and left; locking the door behind him.
The young woman sat and watched him go; staring at red lights fading in the distance. She could sense his affinity for the house; could tell that if he stayed, this man would make it a home again. She hoped and prayed that she was right this time. Taking in his meager possessions, she fervently hoped there were more bags and boxes coming; that he planned to live here.
Looking longingly at his guitar, the young woman sighed. How she hoped to hear music again! She crossed the room to kneel by the gorgeous instrument. The rich mahogany color contrasted beautifully against the light tones of the maple floor, and the guitar seemed to shine like a beacon. She reached out to touch it, and concentrating hard, was able to strum her fingers across the strings. The perfect tone resonated through the room, and she laughed with pleasure. Music was something she really missed – that and the laughter of her children.
Sighing, she rose and went upstairs to the room the Yankee wasn’t able to get into earlier – HER room. Though it was on the servant’s floor, this room had been her place to go to when she needed to think or plan a surprise. Her husband had his study, she had hers. It had been furnished simply; with a roll-top desk and matching high-backed chair, a deep soft couch by a window, and high-backed leather chairs flanking a modest fireplace. The wall coverings were a floral fabric, and the hardwood floors a honey-streaked brown. A rocking chair, brought up here when her son moved from the nursery to his own room, sat by the other window.
Few rooms in the house had a lock on the door. She had rarely used the lock on this one – really there was nothing to safeguard. Though on her last day in the house, she did turn the key; she had secreted small gifts in her room for the All Hallow’s Eve celebration that she didn’t want her children coming across.
The gifts were long gone, but the room remained locked. Her husband had locked it and slid his copy of the key under the door on his last day in the house. She looked at the key. It had sat there for years. Whenever one of the new owners would “find” the key and come into the room, she would make herself seen. The person would either back out the door, shaking his head and holding out his hands as if to stave off an attacker, or else run screaming from the place and not return. In either case, the room would get locked again, and the key returned to its place on the floor. She knew if she tried hard enough, she could slide it under the door for the Yankee to find, but she wasn’t yet convinced that he would understand or welcome her presence.
Many hours later, she heard the front door open. He was back.
Richie had spent longer than he had intended in Leland, but there were so many good bands at the Blues Festival, he was reluctant to leave. He chatted up some of the performers; old men with grizzled beards and battered guitars, and talked music until he was one of the few people left on the fairgrounds. God, he loved the South. The music all but dripped with history, and more than once during the evening, his mind wandered back to the room under the stairs. He had wondered how many of the old men he spoke with were descended from slaves that may have taken refuge in the very house he now owned.
By the time he had arrived back in town, even the diner was closed up. He drove the dark streets back to the house and parked by the front door. Once inside, he kicked off his boots, stripped off his socks, and padded barefoot to the French doors, which he threw open to the night. He grabbed his guitar, settled in on the top step of the porch, and turned sideways to rest his back against a post. He strummed absently, a slight grin on his lips. He closed his eyes and lost himself for a little while, playing whatever came to mind.
The young woman stood at the doorway, transfixed by the music. She didn’t recognize any of the songs, but she did recognize the pure, clean sound of a well-played instrument. She watched the Yankee’s fingers dance up and down the neck, and swayed along with the beat. After a while, she glided over to the edge of the porch, and sat on the step against the opposite post to watch and listen.
Richie felt eyes on him. Abruptly, he stopped playing and sat up straight, looking around. “Who’s there?” he called.
The young woman was startled by the Yankee’s perception. She almost reached out to him then, but didn’t want to spook him any more than she already had. She sat, silent and still, and waited.
After a minute or two, Richie chuckled to himself. “Probably just raccoons or something.” He shook his head at his own silliness. “I must be tired.” He stood and stretched before going back into the house.
The young woman followed.
After stowing the instrument back in its case, Richie went about setting up his bedroll. He considered sleeping on the porch, but only for a moment. If there were animals out there, he’d just as soon they not find a nice warm body to investigate. That was a bit more roughing it than he was prepared for. No, he would lie on his back in the great room and gaze up at the pressed tin ceiling and let his mind wander – after he studied the fireplace more closely. Richie rubbed his hands together with glee. He felt so happy with himself. He was taking control of his life, and doing what he felt he needed to do.
The past few years had been a whirlwind of activity. Between studio time, promotions, travel and touring and all the bullshit that went with it, not to mention the business side of things which Jon usually handled himself in the background, but had started to bleed into the forefront, there was barely enough time to blink, never mind relax. It was emotionally draining as well as physically -- especially the shit with Doc. He still couldn’t believe all that had happened. The guys were all living in each others’ pockets and getting on each others’ nerves. Too much togetherness was definitely not a good thing.
He was glad when Jon had decided he needed to unwind and hopped a bike for a destination yet to be determined. Honestly, all of them were. They had made their piles of money, managed to keep bunches of it, and had a good run. Richie knew they’d always be friends, and he’d always have his music, but if the two never came together again, well, maybe it was for the best. Exhausted, Richie had spent most of the first week home asleep, practically comatose in his bed. The next few weeks were spent catching up with his parents and friends and doing just about as little as possible. Then he started getting itchy fingers.
Of course, the first thought he was to call Jon and see what was going on, maybe get together and dick around in Jon’s studio. The second thought was, “why not use this time to do something for myself?” and he did. He had worked with a great team, enlisted help from Teek and Dave, and put together what he thought was a good solo record. He’d done some interviews and promotion for the record, which was due out in the fall, and had lined up a few tour dates, just to test the waters. Richie had to admit, he was never happier than when he was playing to a crowd, and was looking forward to this adventure. He had his music, and now he had a place that spoke to his soul rather than his sense of image. The music was taken care of, and his house now needed his full attention.
He thought about what he’d do first. There was a small store in town; it would have to have local papers. He’d get one of everything, and scour them for estate sales. Not really being one for antiquing – he was more of the ‘hire a decorator’ kind – he’d decided to make an exception and furnish this place himself. If he was lucky, he thought, there might be an original piece or two in the attic he could use. He’d check that out after he finally got into that locked room. And called the electricians, the plumbers, the bank, the post office to get his mail forwarded... Richie laughed to himself.
“Better make a list,” he chuckled to himself. Richie sat cross-legged on his bedroll and spent the better part of the next hour doing just that, and soon, he had quite an inventory of things that needed doing. He stretched and grimaced as his back popped a little.
The young woman watched as the newest inhabitant of her house readied himself for sleep. He zipped the bedroll open and spread it wide, fishing a small pillow from his duffel to finish the makeshift bed. He circled the room, opening windows to let in the night air and sounds, and hoped to hell the mosquitoes had forgotten about this place. He looked longingly at the fan again, but really didn’t want to burn the place down his first night. Shrugging, he stripped his t-shirt over his head.
The woman gasped at his half-nakedness. He was certainly quite a specimen; tall and broad shouldered, with a mostly smooth chest that was ripped with muscles. When the Yankee started to unfasten his pants, she squeaked and turned away quickly, rushing upstairs to her room.
Richie thought he had seen something out of the corner of his eye –a flash of something pale, almost like a dress flapping around a woman’s legs. It was just for a heartbeat, and when he whirled around to get a better look, it was gone. Laying on his blanket in just his briefs, he thought about the strange occurrences that had been going on all day. The drafts, the condensation on the window, the mysterious locked door, and now the strange flash of something – either he was more stressed out than he realized, or something else was going on.
Shaking his head, he chalked everything up to being exhausted and burned out, and went to sleep. After a short time, he began to dream.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Chapter Two
Richie hadn’t committed to the sale yet, but Marty had seen enough buyers in his time to know when someone was completely taken in by a property. Richie had that faraway look in his eyes, as if he could see what the house looked like in its heyday, when it was truly a home. When Richie looked out over the acres of land, Marty knew he saw the ruin and decay, but he also saw potential. Someone like that was just what this house needed – Richie was a perfect match for this house.
The two men had spent close to an hour touring the grounds and outbuildings. Richie hadn’t seemed daunted by the mess that had once been beautiful landscaping. On the contrary, once he started walking around, his reticence faded, and he seemed excited at the prospect of cleaning the place up and bringing life to the gardens. Marty was surprised. He’d just assumed that someone with Richie’s money would have hired people to take care of that, but Richie had volunteered that working the earth was soothing for him; a kind of therapy.
When they stepped through the door into the great room, Marty could tell from the look on Richie’s face that the man had changed from browser to buyer. Marty just had to seal the deal. And pray that the haint kept to herself for the remainder of the house tour.
After the exchange in the foyer, the pair of men started the tour in earnest, heading down to the basement. Richie found the stone walls and packed dirt floors fascinating. He wondered about the masons that laid the stones and about the countless broom sweeps this floor must have seen. As he ran his calloused fingertips across the smooth, cool stone, he marveled at the workmanship and thought about the history of the house. He was amazed that a house this old was in such good shape. This house had survived when the Union and the Confederacy battled over slavery. It had seen most of the presidents of this country, and countless wars. If the walls had memories they could share, the stories would be endless. He almost wanted to tell Marty to skip the rest of the tour, but he really wanted to get up to the top floor, to look out the windows at the garden maze.
Aside from the house itself, the maze was the element of the property pulled at Richie the most. When they had come to the overgrown mass in the back of the property, he was able to enter the maze only a few yards before running into a veritable wall of leaves. The hedges were so unruly that the path was choked closed. He had never actually seen a hedge maze before, and he was anxious to get this one back to what it once was. He was sure he’d be able to see most if not all of the maze from the third floor. But, he was determined to let Marty show the house his way, in his own time. He let his mind start to wander, trying to imagine his kids, when he got around to having them, running wild through the maze.
Richie’s attention was snapped back to the tour when they entered the kitchen. He whistled as he looked around at the massive space and the appliances spread throughout the room. These clearly hadn’t been updated in a good long while, but the quality of what was here was impeccable. Pale yellow Geneva steel cabinets ringed the room about halfway up the walls. Some of the space above the cabinets would have been used to store the larger pots and serving platters. The rest of it was clear, albeit dusty, glass; casement windows that let in lots of natural light. An island divided the space neatly in half, its thick wooden top scarred from years of knife cuts. A steel rack hung suspended from bulky chains and would easily hold three dozen pans. The eight burner stove sat next to deep double-sinks, all of which were the same pale yellow as the Genevas. The walls and cabinetry all glowed softly in the afternoon light. There were fixtures overhead that would brighten the space even more, but it was nearly perfect the way it was.
Richie listened as Marty went on about the kitchens – there were two, one down here, and a smaller one upstairs connected by a dumbwaiter. Richie smiled, imagining David demanding to be raised and lowered by that pulley system. He shook his head. He’d have to remember to tell D that it was broken. Marty showed Richie the laundry area, added in the 1950’s, the root and wine cellars, and the storage areas before finally leading him back to the staircase where they would climb back up to the main living floor.
Before they headed upstairs, Marty directed Richie’s attention to a small door tucked under the stairs.
“What’s this?” Richie asked, “more storage?”
Marty chuckled. “Not quite. This is an historic home,” he said proudly. “Inside that little crawlspace, there is another panel leading to a bigger space – nearly a full sized room. Did you notice that the root cellar did not seem to span the length of the kitchen?”
Richie crouched down and peered inside the crawlspace. Sure enough, at the back of the space was another knob, all but hidden in the shadows. He crawled in, heedless of the dirt he was grinding into the knees of his jeans. He grasped the knob and pulled, having to put some muscle into it. Almost reluctantly, the door gave way, and Richie swore under his breath. “Marty, do you have a flashlight?”
“As a matter of fact, I do have one in the car. I won’t be but a minute.”
Richie nodded absently, and crawled through to the larger passage. The room was pitch-black, and Richie did no more than stand up and feel his way along the wall to find a place to lean. He waited anxiously for a light.
A few minutes later, Marty returned with two large flashlights. He crouch-walked through into the hidden room, and handed one to Richie. “This, sir, is one of the very few Southern homes to have been part of the Underground Railroad.”
“Whoa,” Richie said, shining his light around.
“Yes.” Marty cleared his throat and tucked his thumbs into his suspenders like an old-time orator. “When schoolchildren are taught about the railroad, they’re taught more myth than truth – not that it’s bad. But really, there were very few places in the South where a slave could find respite on his or her journey North. This was one of maybe a half-dozen such places in the whole of this great state. Most of the safe havens were in the North, and even then, most Northerners, though anti-slavery, were not receptive to what they called ‘fugitives of the South’.”
Richie was playing his light around the room. The walls, floor, and ceiling were dense, packed earth, and there were holes here and there, both carved out of the walls and into the floors. Richie imagined that the wall-caves were for candles or perhaps a place for the runaways to store their meager belongings. The floor holes, he assumed were toilets of some sort and cringed at the thought of what these people had gone through.
Richie searched his school-days memory and turned to Marty. “Were there signs, you know, to flag this for the slaves? Like a lantern in the window or white bricks along the chimney – something like that?”
Marty shook his head and chuckled. “No, though folks around here did know that the family who lived here at the time didn’t believe in keeping slaves. No, it was really word-of-mouth. Folks were real cautious though. The family that lived here was well-loved by the community, but one couldn’t be too careful.” Marty cut himself off before he went on too much about the history of the family who lived here during the Railroad time. He had to remind himself that he didn’t have this Yankee’s signature yet.
Richie nodded and started for the crawlspace door. “Let’s get on with the rest of the tour. I’ll have plenty of time to explore and dig into the history later.”
Marty smiled at Richie’s tell. Another satisfied customer.
After closing the doors and dusting off their hands, the men made their way up the staircase back to the main level of the house. Richie was turning over in his mind everything he’d seen so far. This house had a ton of history and amazing stories. What that room downstairs alone must have seen... Richie shivered involuntarily, and fleetingly wondered if it was the same breeze from earlier.
The young woman was pacing nervously back and forth across the scarred maple floors of the great hall. She hadn’t meant to be so angry at the men’s intrusion, but she had forgotten for a moment that they could not see her. Any self-respecting Southern woman would have taken umbrage at the intrusion into her home, but she had forgotten for a moment that she was no longer technically a Southern woman and this was no longer her home. It was easy for her to think of herself in the present tense, as she still walked and thought and apparently talked; though with nobody to talk to in the last several decades, she hadn’t heard her own voice in a good long while. It had been even longer since someone else had heard her voice. She wondered if the Yankee would be able to hear her if she tried harder. Perhaps he would; after all, he appeared to have felt her anger. When she heard the men’s footsteps approaching, she hurried to sit at one of the windows to see what would happen next.
Marty led Richie through the main floor of the house. They went through the butler’s kitchen to the formal and receiving parlors, the library, dining room, conservatory, billiard room, and ended in the grand hall, where Richie rubbed at his arms. This chill was still there. Where was it coming from? It didn’t feel like just a breeze, but it had to be, right? It was summer for Christ’s sake. Nothing else made any sense; but this felt different from just a summer breeze. He thought back to the room in the cellar.
Surely not everyone who sought refuge here found it, he thought. Maybe...naw it couldn’t be.
Richie looked around and finally up and his eyes widened with delight at the pressed tin ceiling. The craftsmanship was just amazing. He could feel his fingers itching to trace the patterns, and would have to make sure a ladder was on the list of purchases that needed to be made.
He took in the moldings, the wood paneled walls, and the massive stone fireplace and hearth. He mused that he could recline in the fireplace and there would still be room at his feet for his guitar. He barely had to duck to stick his head into the flue, and made a note to have it cleaned, and to see if the chimney needed to be straightened.
“Marty, what did they use this room for?” he asked, as he continued his circuit around the room, trailing a hand gently across the walls. The space was enormous, spanning the entire depth of the house, and taking up fully one-half its length. Set into the middle of the back wall was a set of extra-wide French doors that led out to the lawns. Almost the whole length of the room was waist-to-ceiling windows, with generous seats built under them. The cushions would all need replacing, but Richie could imagine himself sitting in a sunbeam, playing his guitar while a gentle honeysuckled breeze streamed in through the open doors. He smiled to himself – he always was a romantic.
Marty answered, “Oh, balls and celebrations. There would be music and dancing, and hundreds of people spilling out of this room onto the back porch and lawn.” He crossed to one of the wide window seats and with some effort, managed to throw up the sash. He turned back to Richie. “These windows would let the joy and laughter from this house out into the world. It was a grand time.”
The woman had tears of in her eyes. It was so long since music or laughter had a part in her existence. Hearing her home discussed so casually, as an anecdote to history saddened her. But as she remembered the music and dancing, she smiled wistfully. Maybe this time, with this Yankee, her house would be a home again.
Richie stopped in front of the window seat currently occupied by the young woman. He stared at her, she thought, as if he could see her. He reached out, and the woman held her breath. His hand passed through her cheek to touch the smooth glass. She couldn’t feel his touch, and knew he could not feel her cheek, but she drew back. When Richie lifted his hand from the glass, he stared at the condensation left behind. That shouldn’t happen. It was far too warm. Before he could say something, however, it dissipated. He shook his head and turned to his agent.
“Marty, I don’t think I need to see anymore,” he said. “I know there is much to be done here, and frankly, a large manually intensive project is just what I’m looking for.”
Richie added to his mental list of everything he would have to do. Most of the electrical and plumbing throughout the house would have to be updated. Nearly everything needed to be scraped and painted. It was gong to be a huge effort, and he couldn’t wait. He was burned out from the last couple years of touring, and was looking forward to unwinding. He was working on a solo project, but it was nearly wrapped up, and he really needed time to relax. The record would hit stores in the fall and he’d go and do the promotions and performances late in the summer, but in the mean time, he needed something to sink his teeth into that would let him just relax.
He’d have to contact the local Historical Society, newspapers, and the County Clerk’s office, and see if they could get him information about the house’s history. He hoped that there would be some old-timers around who would remember stories from their parents or grandparents about the house and times. Stories passed down through the generations fascinated him. He’d have to scour whatever archives there were for photographs of this house – if it was historical, even slightly, there should be records somewhere.
He was already onto the next steps in his mind. He decided that he’d work to get enough space renovated to live in comfortably. Once the large projects – the electrical, plumbing, and HVAC – were taken care of by the contractors, he’d complete the rest of the renovations slowly himself. His friends had all laughed at him, saying he was crazy to disappear and turn handyman. The boys in the band were all doing their own things, so they didn’t know what he was doing; but he was sure they would share the same opinions. The only people who thought he was doing the right thing were his parents. Joan and Adam had seen the stress in their son’s face and the heartache in his eyes. They knew that a monstrous project was just what he needed, something positive to focus on, and they were supportive of his decision.
Richie was excited to learn about the history of the place. He knew that it had an old soul, just as he did. “This place is speaking to me, Marty; it’s just perfect. I’ll take it.”
The woman sucked in a breath at the Yankee’s declaration and bolted from her seat, running from the room. She passed right through Richie on her way out the door, and he shivered.
The two men had spent close to an hour touring the grounds and outbuildings. Richie hadn’t seemed daunted by the mess that had once been beautiful landscaping. On the contrary, once he started walking around, his reticence faded, and he seemed excited at the prospect of cleaning the place up and bringing life to the gardens. Marty was surprised. He’d just assumed that someone with Richie’s money would have hired people to take care of that, but Richie had volunteered that working the earth was soothing for him; a kind of therapy.
When they stepped through the door into the great room, Marty could tell from the look on Richie’s face that the man had changed from browser to buyer. Marty just had to seal the deal. And pray that the haint kept to herself for the remainder of the house tour.
After the exchange in the foyer, the pair of men started the tour in earnest, heading down to the basement. Richie found the stone walls and packed dirt floors fascinating. He wondered about the masons that laid the stones and about the countless broom sweeps this floor must have seen. As he ran his calloused fingertips across the smooth, cool stone, he marveled at the workmanship and thought about the history of the house. He was amazed that a house this old was in such good shape. This house had survived when the Union and the Confederacy battled over slavery. It had seen most of the presidents of this country, and countless wars. If the walls had memories they could share, the stories would be endless. He almost wanted to tell Marty to skip the rest of the tour, but he really wanted to get up to the top floor, to look out the windows at the garden maze.
Aside from the house itself, the maze was the element of the property pulled at Richie the most. When they had come to the overgrown mass in the back of the property, he was able to enter the maze only a few yards before running into a veritable wall of leaves. The hedges were so unruly that the path was choked closed. He had never actually seen a hedge maze before, and he was anxious to get this one back to what it once was. He was sure he’d be able to see most if not all of the maze from the third floor. But, he was determined to let Marty show the house his way, in his own time. He let his mind start to wander, trying to imagine his kids, when he got around to having them, running wild through the maze.
Richie’s attention was snapped back to the tour when they entered the kitchen. He whistled as he looked around at the massive space and the appliances spread throughout the room. These clearly hadn’t been updated in a good long while, but the quality of what was here was impeccable. Pale yellow Geneva steel cabinets ringed the room about halfway up the walls. Some of the space above the cabinets would have been used to store the larger pots and serving platters. The rest of it was clear, albeit dusty, glass; casement windows that let in lots of natural light. An island divided the space neatly in half, its thick wooden top scarred from years of knife cuts. A steel rack hung suspended from bulky chains and would easily hold three dozen pans. The eight burner stove sat next to deep double-sinks, all of which were the same pale yellow as the Genevas. The walls and cabinetry all glowed softly in the afternoon light. There were fixtures overhead that would brighten the space even more, but it was nearly perfect the way it was.
Richie listened as Marty went on about the kitchens – there were two, one down here, and a smaller one upstairs connected by a dumbwaiter. Richie smiled, imagining David demanding to be raised and lowered by that pulley system. He shook his head. He’d have to remember to tell D that it was broken. Marty showed Richie the laundry area, added in the 1950’s, the root and wine cellars, and the storage areas before finally leading him back to the staircase where they would climb back up to the main living floor.
Before they headed upstairs, Marty directed Richie’s attention to a small door tucked under the stairs.
“What’s this?” Richie asked, “more storage?”
Marty chuckled. “Not quite. This is an historic home,” he said proudly. “Inside that little crawlspace, there is another panel leading to a bigger space – nearly a full sized room. Did you notice that the root cellar did not seem to span the length of the kitchen?”
Richie crouched down and peered inside the crawlspace. Sure enough, at the back of the space was another knob, all but hidden in the shadows. He crawled in, heedless of the dirt he was grinding into the knees of his jeans. He grasped the knob and pulled, having to put some muscle into it. Almost reluctantly, the door gave way, and Richie swore under his breath. “Marty, do you have a flashlight?”
“As a matter of fact, I do have one in the car. I won’t be but a minute.”
Richie nodded absently, and crawled through to the larger passage. The room was pitch-black, and Richie did no more than stand up and feel his way along the wall to find a place to lean. He waited anxiously for a light.
A few minutes later, Marty returned with two large flashlights. He crouch-walked through into the hidden room, and handed one to Richie. “This, sir, is one of the very few Southern homes to have been part of the Underground Railroad.”
“Whoa,” Richie said, shining his light around.
“Yes.” Marty cleared his throat and tucked his thumbs into his suspenders like an old-time orator. “When schoolchildren are taught about the railroad, they’re taught more myth than truth – not that it’s bad. But really, there were very few places in the South where a slave could find respite on his or her journey North. This was one of maybe a half-dozen such places in the whole of this great state. Most of the safe havens were in the North, and even then, most Northerners, though anti-slavery, were not receptive to what they called ‘fugitives of the South’.”
Richie was playing his light around the room. The walls, floor, and ceiling were dense, packed earth, and there were holes here and there, both carved out of the walls and into the floors. Richie imagined that the wall-caves were for candles or perhaps a place for the runaways to store their meager belongings. The floor holes, he assumed were toilets of some sort and cringed at the thought of what these people had gone through.
Richie searched his school-days memory and turned to Marty. “Were there signs, you know, to flag this for the slaves? Like a lantern in the window or white bricks along the chimney – something like that?”
Marty shook his head and chuckled. “No, though folks around here did know that the family who lived here at the time didn’t believe in keeping slaves. No, it was really word-of-mouth. Folks were real cautious though. The family that lived here was well-loved by the community, but one couldn’t be too careful.” Marty cut himself off before he went on too much about the history of the family who lived here during the Railroad time. He had to remind himself that he didn’t have this Yankee’s signature yet.
Richie nodded and started for the crawlspace door. “Let’s get on with the rest of the tour. I’ll have plenty of time to explore and dig into the history later.”
Marty smiled at Richie’s tell. Another satisfied customer.
After closing the doors and dusting off their hands, the men made their way up the staircase back to the main level of the house. Richie was turning over in his mind everything he’d seen so far. This house had a ton of history and amazing stories. What that room downstairs alone must have seen... Richie shivered involuntarily, and fleetingly wondered if it was the same breeze from earlier.
The young woman was pacing nervously back and forth across the scarred maple floors of the great hall. She hadn’t meant to be so angry at the men’s intrusion, but she had forgotten for a moment that they could not see her. Any self-respecting Southern woman would have taken umbrage at the intrusion into her home, but she had forgotten for a moment that she was no longer technically a Southern woman and this was no longer her home. It was easy for her to think of herself in the present tense, as she still walked and thought and apparently talked; though with nobody to talk to in the last several decades, she hadn’t heard her own voice in a good long while. It had been even longer since someone else had heard her voice. She wondered if the Yankee would be able to hear her if she tried harder. Perhaps he would; after all, he appeared to have felt her anger. When she heard the men’s footsteps approaching, she hurried to sit at one of the windows to see what would happen next.
Marty led Richie through the main floor of the house. They went through the butler’s kitchen to the formal and receiving parlors, the library, dining room, conservatory, billiard room, and ended in the grand hall, where Richie rubbed at his arms. This chill was still there. Where was it coming from? It didn’t feel like just a breeze, but it had to be, right? It was summer for Christ’s sake. Nothing else made any sense; but this felt different from just a summer breeze. He thought back to the room in the cellar.
Surely not everyone who sought refuge here found it, he thought. Maybe...naw it couldn’t be.
Richie looked around and finally up and his eyes widened with delight at the pressed tin ceiling. The craftsmanship was just amazing. He could feel his fingers itching to trace the patterns, and would have to make sure a ladder was on the list of purchases that needed to be made.
He took in the moldings, the wood paneled walls, and the massive stone fireplace and hearth. He mused that he could recline in the fireplace and there would still be room at his feet for his guitar. He barely had to duck to stick his head into the flue, and made a note to have it cleaned, and to see if the chimney needed to be straightened.
“Marty, what did they use this room for?” he asked, as he continued his circuit around the room, trailing a hand gently across the walls. The space was enormous, spanning the entire depth of the house, and taking up fully one-half its length. Set into the middle of the back wall was a set of extra-wide French doors that led out to the lawns. Almost the whole length of the room was waist-to-ceiling windows, with generous seats built under them. The cushions would all need replacing, but Richie could imagine himself sitting in a sunbeam, playing his guitar while a gentle honeysuckled breeze streamed in through the open doors. He smiled to himself – he always was a romantic.
Marty answered, “Oh, balls and celebrations. There would be music and dancing, and hundreds of people spilling out of this room onto the back porch and lawn.” He crossed to one of the wide window seats and with some effort, managed to throw up the sash. He turned back to Richie. “These windows would let the joy and laughter from this house out into the world. It was a grand time.”
The woman had tears of in her eyes. It was so long since music or laughter had a part in her existence. Hearing her home discussed so casually, as an anecdote to history saddened her. But as she remembered the music and dancing, she smiled wistfully. Maybe this time, with this Yankee, her house would be a home again.
Richie stopped in front of the window seat currently occupied by the young woman. He stared at her, she thought, as if he could see her. He reached out, and the woman held her breath. His hand passed through her cheek to touch the smooth glass. She couldn’t feel his touch, and knew he could not feel her cheek, but she drew back. When Richie lifted his hand from the glass, he stared at the condensation left behind. That shouldn’t happen. It was far too warm. Before he could say something, however, it dissipated. He shook his head and turned to his agent.
“Marty, I don’t think I need to see anymore,” he said. “I know there is much to be done here, and frankly, a large manually intensive project is just what I’m looking for.”
Richie added to his mental list of everything he would have to do. Most of the electrical and plumbing throughout the house would have to be updated. Nearly everything needed to be scraped and painted. It was gong to be a huge effort, and he couldn’t wait. He was burned out from the last couple years of touring, and was looking forward to unwinding. He was working on a solo project, but it was nearly wrapped up, and he really needed time to relax. The record would hit stores in the fall and he’d go and do the promotions and performances late in the summer, but in the mean time, he needed something to sink his teeth into that would let him just relax.
He’d have to contact the local Historical Society, newspapers, and the County Clerk’s office, and see if they could get him information about the house’s history. He hoped that there would be some old-timers around who would remember stories from their parents or grandparents about the house and times. Stories passed down through the generations fascinated him. He’d have to scour whatever archives there were for photographs of this house – if it was historical, even slightly, there should be records somewhere.
He was already onto the next steps in his mind. He decided that he’d work to get enough space renovated to live in comfortably. Once the large projects – the electrical, plumbing, and HVAC – were taken care of by the contractors, he’d complete the rest of the renovations slowly himself. His friends had all laughed at him, saying he was crazy to disappear and turn handyman. The boys in the band were all doing their own things, so they didn’t know what he was doing; but he was sure they would share the same opinions. The only people who thought he was doing the right thing were his parents. Joan and Adam had seen the stress in their son’s face and the heartache in his eyes. They knew that a monstrous project was just what he needed, something positive to focus on, and they were supportive of his decision.
Richie was excited to learn about the history of the place. He knew that it had an old soul, just as he did. “This place is speaking to me, Marty; it’s just perfect. I’ll take it.”
The woman sucked in a breath at the Yankee’s declaration and bolted from her seat, running from the room. She passed right through Richie on her way out the door, and he shivered.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Chapter One
The Past
Mid-1800’s
The white plantation house stood proudly if not gloomily, high on a hill; standing guard over the now desolate landscape. It had been many decades since there was laughter or love in this house, and from the cracked slate tiles on the roof to the peeling and faded whitewash on the siding, to the sad tilt of the black-painted wooden shutters around the house’s window-eyes, to the sagging bricks of the porch steps, the house seemed to know it and all but sighed with misery.
Built in the early-1700s by a prominent Southern businessman of wealthy English heritage, the home was once grand. Standing proudly at three stories tall, it featured a deep wrap-around porch, balconies on the second floor demarking the various bedrooms, and cheery dormers for the house staff on the third floor. Tall, graceful columns stood six feet apart all around the home, giving it a secure and stately appearance.
Beautiful hedgerows had encircled the estate like a graceful necklace; the only breaks were where the stairs descended into a sea of grass. Lush green lawns, perfect for summer picnics, had graced the front acreage. Majestic oak trees provided dappled shade from the heat of the sun, as they stood like soldiers in twin rows, leading guests from the lane to the cobbled area in front of the house. The stones continued around to a massive stable where a full complement of stable hands treated the guests’ horses like kings.
In the back of the house, a formal English garden entertained and amused many a guest throughout the spring and summer months. Leading from the porch's back stairs, partygoers found winding brick pathways, outlined with low rows of trimmed English Boxwoods. Helleri holly shrubs sat just beyond the Boxwoods, outlining colorful flower beds. Fragrant Jasmine, lavender and bay were interspersed with colorful marigolds, pansies, and hibiscus. Here and there, hydrangea-covered trellises provided shelter from curious eyes, and benches behind these floral walls were perfect for brief romantic trysts.
Beyond the low gardens was an elaborate maze, sculpted from privet hedge, and interspersed with sweet honeysuckle. As guests would navigate the maze, their clothes would brush against the blooms, releasing a heavenly scent. Those lucky enough to find the center found an elaborate fountain waiting for them – the sound of the gently falling water mesmerizing.
A long, winding flagstone path, edged by six-foot tall rhododendron bushes, led out the back of the maze and down a sweeping hill to a lake that always seemed to glow from within. The cool, clear water offered relief from sticky summer afternoons, and more often than not, the family of the house would seek the shade of the immense oak and willow trees that lined its shore.
Music, light, and laughter poured from the windows on hot summer nights, and beautiful people, dressed formally in long coats and sweeping gowns, would dance and twirl in the grand hall. Delightful children would dart in and out among the adults, chasing each other with the abandon only the young and innocent can show.
The couple who last lived, really lived, in the house was young, beautiful, and utterly devoted to one another. They met by chance when their families attended the same Christmas celebration. The very definition of ‘love at first sight’, the pair had eyes for only one another, and the girl found her dance card was filled with only his name. Geoffrey was descended from a long line of farmers who had refused to keep slaves. His family did not believe that one could own another man, regardless of skin color, and was of the mind that if the land was to be truly theirs, it needed to be worked by their own hands. Kirsten was of English noble descent. Despite living in America for ten years, still had a light, charming accent that positively enchanted Geoffrey when they first met.
They shared a connection that was deeper than even they could understand. During their courtship, Geoffrey had been injured when thrown from his horse. His dearest heart Kirsten had felt a sharp cramp in her leg at precisely the same moment, cried out in alarm, and gracefully slumped to the floor. Doctors were summoned, but nothing was found to be physically wrong with her. When it was discovered that her beloved had broken a leg, the same one that had so pained her, whispering of true love and of one soul sharing two bodies began.
The pair was inseparable, and wed on a midsummer’s night in 1855 surrounded by family and friends. They were gifted the house by Elizabeth Thompson, a maiden aunt who wanted to see the house come to life under the aura of love and tenderness that surrounded them. Under their care, the lawns and gardens flourished, the trees blossomed and bore incredible fruit, and their animals were healthy and strong. The home was called the Thompson estate in her honor.
A year after their marriage, they were blessed with twin daughters, whom they named Hope and Joy, and a year after that, a strapping boy called James. No children on God’s green Earth were loved more than these three. The young family attracted attention wherever they went; their obvious love for each other and their good looks making even the old curmudgeons who sat in rocking chairs outside the general store smile.
Their house, their home, was a happy place; full of joy and the promise of tomorrow.
Then, one mild October night in 1861, tragedy struck. The mistress of the house disappeared, and with her went all the happiness from the home. Local authorities searched for clues to Kirsten’s whereabouts, but to no avail. Friends and family of the young woman scoured the house’s forty-odd rooms, from the highest attic gable to the lowest corners of the root cellar for any sign of her, but found nothing. Men from neighboring plantations helped search the acreage and outbuildings, and rowed boats up back and forth across the property’s lake, but found no trace of her. The war had just really started to take hold, and though the South firmly believed they would emerge victorious from this frivolous squabble, there were murmurs that Northerners may have taken her.
Geoffrey, with three young children to rear, and no female relations to assist, avoided fighting in the war. As a Northern Sympathizer, he tried to do his part, opening his home to the Underground Railroad to help enslaved men and women escape their bondage, but once the war ended in April of 1865, and with nothing to take up his time, he found he could no longer bear to be in the house without his love. The children didn’t understand where their Mummy had gone, and why she hadn’t written in the years she had been away. Sad and broken, they finally left the house, taking with them precious few reminders of their once-happy lives.
For a time, friends of Geoffrey and Kirsten kept up the house and grounds in the hopes that Kirsten would someday return. As the months and years went by with not so much as a word from her, however, they eventually stopped. Soon the gardens were overrun with weeds that choked all the beauty from them. The trees, which had once borne such succulent fruit as to be the envy of the other farmers, were now barren. The topiary maze grew into one large shrubbery, its fountain run dry; and the once-clear lake had a haze of grief just beneath the surface.
The Present
The current resident of the once-grand house, a lone soul, a young woman, wandered from room to room, looking mournfully out the windows. The woman was in her mid-twenties, with long dark hair arranged in a complicated up-do and haunting gray eyes. Her complexion was as smooth and pale as porcelain, and nearly blended into the muted peach summer-weight gown she wore over her slender form.
She could feel the sadness of the house all around her, pressing on her like the thick clouds of smoke from a dense forest fire. Nothing could soothe her restlessness, and as she moved from one window to the next in the once grand great-room, the house seemed to bristle with agitation along with her.
She sighed as she glanced around the vast empty space. The rooms had all been stripped bare years ago, and the faded, peeling wallpaper lent an air of hopelessness to the already stifling sadness. A fire hadn’t graced the grate for decades, and she couldn’t remember the last time there was laughter.
A noise from outside jarred her from her reverie and brought her back to the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows. Sitting gracefully on one of the window seats, she gazed through one of the few clean panes of glass to see two unfamiliar men walking around the grounds. One man, tall and dark like her lost love, had a look of apprehension on his face as if he, too, could feel the air of despair that surrounded the house. The other man, who was shorter but obviously the one in charge, gestured this way and that, pointing at different areas of the house and landscaping. The young woman sighed, wishing she had known they were coming; she would have tried to set the front gardens to right.
As the men approached the porch, the woman put a delicate hand to her hair, checking for strays and stood, smoothing her hands down the front of her gown. She crossed to the door, but before she could reach for the knob, the handle turned, and she had to jump back to avoid being hit by the heavy oak-paneled door.
“You can see the house also needs some attention,” the smaller man was saying as they entered, his soft southern drawl sliding from between thin lips.
“Uh-huh, that’s putting it mildly,” his companion said, with an accent that was most decidedly that of a Yankee.
“But, if a person happened to have the time and money,” the speaker paused briefly, “then this place could be grand again.”
“Excuse me?” the woman said indignantly. It was simply unacceptable to walk into a woman’s home uninvited. There was a time when she would have lectured this so-called Southern gentleman on his manners. But, she supposed, that time had passed many years ago.
“Can I see the rest of the place?” The tall man asked. The woman studied this Northern stranger. He had hair past his shoulders, and an odd black banded hat pulled down low over his eyes. He doffed the hat as he looked around, revealing gorgeous soft-brown eyes – sad, beautiful eyes.
“Sure thing, Mr. Sambora,” the real estate agent said.
“Please, I insist you call me Rich,” Richie answered. He had spent the better part of the last three days with the Realtor, traveling from one end of the county to the other, and still the man would not call him by his given name. They had looked at small homes and large estates, but none of them was what he was looking for. When they pulled into the end of the lane at this latest house, Richie’s spirits sunk. The place was in such a state of disrepair, it would take him months or maybe even years to get it to where it should be. Richie was ready to give it up, and go looking elsewhere in the country. Then the Realtor started the property tour. And he saw the possibilities. More than ‘saw’, he ‘felt’ them. Something about this place spoke to him.
“EXCUSE ME!” the woman yelled angrily, stomping her foot. The men stopped, startled, and looked around the room for the source of their disquiet.
“Did you feel that?” Richie asked. A gust of cold air had blown across him, raising gooseflesh on his forearms.
“Feel what?” the agent responded distractedly. He tilted his head sideways and furrowed his brow, but made no further comments.
Richie shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. He must have been imaging things. Damned stupid stress. “Never mind. C’mon, let’s see the rest of the place.” He consulted his watch. “If we hurry, I can still get over to Leland and take in some of the Blues Festival.”
Marty Halstead breathed an inward sigh of relief, glad his client dropped the matter. He didn’t know too much about this Northerner, but he did know wealthy people, and no matter how ‘quaint’ a haunting may sound, he knew that in reality, a ghost was not high on the must-have list for any home buyer. He could only hope that this particular haint would leave them be – at least until the papers were signed.
Mid-1800’s
The white plantation house stood proudly if not gloomily, high on a hill; standing guard over the now desolate landscape. It had been many decades since there was laughter or love in this house, and from the cracked slate tiles on the roof to the peeling and faded whitewash on the siding, to the sad tilt of the black-painted wooden shutters around the house’s window-eyes, to the sagging bricks of the porch steps, the house seemed to know it and all but sighed with misery.
Built in the early-1700s by a prominent Southern businessman of wealthy English heritage, the home was once grand. Standing proudly at three stories tall, it featured a deep wrap-around porch, balconies on the second floor demarking the various bedrooms, and cheery dormers for the house staff on the third floor. Tall, graceful columns stood six feet apart all around the home, giving it a secure and stately appearance.
Beautiful hedgerows had encircled the estate like a graceful necklace; the only breaks were where the stairs descended into a sea of grass. Lush green lawns, perfect for summer picnics, had graced the front acreage. Majestic oak trees provided dappled shade from the heat of the sun, as they stood like soldiers in twin rows, leading guests from the lane to the cobbled area in front of the house. The stones continued around to a massive stable where a full complement of stable hands treated the guests’ horses like kings.
In the back of the house, a formal English garden entertained and amused many a guest throughout the spring and summer months. Leading from the porch's back stairs, partygoers found winding brick pathways, outlined with low rows of trimmed English Boxwoods. Helleri holly shrubs sat just beyond the Boxwoods, outlining colorful flower beds. Fragrant Jasmine, lavender and bay were interspersed with colorful marigolds, pansies, and hibiscus. Here and there, hydrangea-covered trellises provided shelter from curious eyes, and benches behind these floral walls were perfect for brief romantic trysts.
Beyond the low gardens was an elaborate maze, sculpted from privet hedge, and interspersed with sweet honeysuckle. As guests would navigate the maze, their clothes would brush against the blooms, releasing a heavenly scent. Those lucky enough to find the center found an elaborate fountain waiting for them – the sound of the gently falling water mesmerizing.
A long, winding flagstone path, edged by six-foot tall rhododendron bushes, led out the back of the maze and down a sweeping hill to a lake that always seemed to glow from within. The cool, clear water offered relief from sticky summer afternoons, and more often than not, the family of the house would seek the shade of the immense oak and willow trees that lined its shore.
Music, light, and laughter poured from the windows on hot summer nights, and beautiful people, dressed formally in long coats and sweeping gowns, would dance and twirl in the grand hall. Delightful children would dart in and out among the adults, chasing each other with the abandon only the young and innocent can show.
The couple who last lived, really lived, in the house was young, beautiful, and utterly devoted to one another. They met by chance when their families attended the same Christmas celebration. The very definition of ‘love at first sight’, the pair had eyes for only one another, and the girl found her dance card was filled with only his name. Geoffrey was descended from a long line of farmers who had refused to keep slaves. His family did not believe that one could own another man, regardless of skin color, and was of the mind that if the land was to be truly theirs, it needed to be worked by their own hands. Kirsten was of English noble descent. Despite living in America for ten years, still had a light, charming accent that positively enchanted Geoffrey when they first met.
They shared a connection that was deeper than even they could understand. During their courtship, Geoffrey had been injured when thrown from his horse. His dearest heart Kirsten had felt a sharp cramp in her leg at precisely the same moment, cried out in alarm, and gracefully slumped to the floor. Doctors were summoned, but nothing was found to be physically wrong with her. When it was discovered that her beloved had broken a leg, the same one that had so pained her, whispering of true love and of one soul sharing two bodies began.
The pair was inseparable, and wed on a midsummer’s night in 1855 surrounded by family and friends. They were gifted the house by Elizabeth Thompson, a maiden aunt who wanted to see the house come to life under the aura of love and tenderness that surrounded them. Under their care, the lawns and gardens flourished, the trees blossomed and bore incredible fruit, and their animals were healthy and strong. The home was called the Thompson estate in her honor.
A year after their marriage, they were blessed with twin daughters, whom they named Hope and Joy, and a year after that, a strapping boy called James. No children on God’s green Earth were loved more than these three. The young family attracted attention wherever they went; their obvious love for each other and their good looks making even the old curmudgeons who sat in rocking chairs outside the general store smile.
Their house, their home, was a happy place; full of joy and the promise of tomorrow.
Then, one mild October night in 1861, tragedy struck. The mistress of the house disappeared, and with her went all the happiness from the home. Local authorities searched for clues to Kirsten’s whereabouts, but to no avail. Friends and family of the young woman scoured the house’s forty-odd rooms, from the highest attic gable to the lowest corners of the root cellar for any sign of her, but found nothing. Men from neighboring plantations helped search the acreage and outbuildings, and rowed boats up back and forth across the property’s lake, but found no trace of her. The war had just really started to take hold, and though the South firmly believed they would emerge victorious from this frivolous squabble, there were murmurs that Northerners may have taken her.
Geoffrey, with three young children to rear, and no female relations to assist, avoided fighting in the war. As a Northern Sympathizer, he tried to do his part, opening his home to the Underground Railroad to help enslaved men and women escape their bondage, but once the war ended in April of 1865, and with nothing to take up his time, he found he could no longer bear to be in the house without his love. The children didn’t understand where their Mummy had gone, and why she hadn’t written in the years she had been away. Sad and broken, they finally left the house, taking with them precious few reminders of their once-happy lives.
For a time, friends of Geoffrey and Kirsten kept up the house and grounds in the hopes that Kirsten would someday return. As the months and years went by with not so much as a word from her, however, they eventually stopped. Soon the gardens were overrun with weeds that choked all the beauty from them. The trees, which had once borne such succulent fruit as to be the envy of the other farmers, were now barren. The topiary maze grew into one large shrubbery, its fountain run dry; and the once-clear lake had a haze of grief just beneath the surface.
The Present
The current resident of the once-grand house, a lone soul, a young woman, wandered from room to room, looking mournfully out the windows. The woman was in her mid-twenties, with long dark hair arranged in a complicated up-do and haunting gray eyes. Her complexion was as smooth and pale as porcelain, and nearly blended into the muted peach summer-weight gown she wore over her slender form.
She could feel the sadness of the house all around her, pressing on her like the thick clouds of smoke from a dense forest fire. Nothing could soothe her restlessness, and as she moved from one window to the next in the once grand great-room, the house seemed to bristle with agitation along with her.
She sighed as she glanced around the vast empty space. The rooms had all been stripped bare years ago, and the faded, peeling wallpaper lent an air of hopelessness to the already stifling sadness. A fire hadn’t graced the grate for decades, and she couldn’t remember the last time there was laughter.
A noise from outside jarred her from her reverie and brought her back to the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows. Sitting gracefully on one of the window seats, she gazed through one of the few clean panes of glass to see two unfamiliar men walking around the grounds. One man, tall and dark like her lost love, had a look of apprehension on his face as if he, too, could feel the air of despair that surrounded the house. The other man, who was shorter but obviously the one in charge, gestured this way and that, pointing at different areas of the house and landscaping. The young woman sighed, wishing she had known they were coming; she would have tried to set the front gardens to right.
As the men approached the porch, the woman put a delicate hand to her hair, checking for strays and stood, smoothing her hands down the front of her gown. She crossed to the door, but before she could reach for the knob, the handle turned, and she had to jump back to avoid being hit by the heavy oak-paneled door.
“You can see the house also needs some attention,” the smaller man was saying as they entered, his soft southern drawl sliding from between thin lips.
“Uh-huh, that’s putting it mildly,” his companion said, with an accent that was most decidedly that of a Yankee.
“But, if a person happened to have the time and money,” the speaker paused briefly, “then this place could be grand again.”
“Excuse me?” the woman said indignantly. It was simply unacceptable to walk into a woman’s home uninvited. There was a time when she would have lectured this so-called Southern gentleman on his manners. But, she supposed, that time had passed many years ago.
“Can I see the rest of the place?” The tall man asked. The woman studied this Northern stranger. He had hair past his shoulders, and an odd black banded hat pulled down low over his eyes. He doffed the hat as he looked around, revealing gorgeous soft-brown eyes – sad, beautiful eyes.
“Sure thing, Mr. Sambora,” the real estate agent said.
“Please, I insist you call me Rich,” Richie answered. He had spent the better part of the last three days with the Realtor, traveling from one end of the county to the other, and still the man would not call him by his given name. They had looked at small homes and large estates, but none of them was what he was looking for. When they pulled into the end of the lane at this latest house, Richie’s spirits sunk. The place was in such a state of disrepair, it would take him months or maybe even years to get it to where it should be. Richie was ready to give it up, and go looking elsewhere in the country. Then the Realtor started the property tour. And he saw the possibilities. More than ‘saw’, he ‘felt’ them. Something about this place spoke to him.
“EXCUSE ME!” the woman yelled angrily, stomping her foot. The men stopped, startled, and looked around the room for the source of their disquiet.
“Did you feel that?” Richie asked. A gust of cold air had blown across him, raising gooseflesh on his forearms.
“Feel what?” the agent responded distractedly. He tilted his head sideways and furrowed his brow, but made no further comments.
Richie shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. He must have been imaging things. Damned stupid stress. “Never mind. C’mon, let’s see the rest of the place.” He consulted his watch. “If we hurry, I can still get over to Leland and take in some of the Blues Festival.”
Marty Halstead breathed an inward sigh of relief, glad his client dropped the matter. He didn’t know too much about this Northerner, but he did know wealthy people, and no matter how ‘quaint’ a haunting may sound, he knew that in reality, a ghost was not high on the must-have list for any home buyer. He could only hope that this particular haint would leave them be – at least until the papers were signed.