Chapter Thirteen

Richie was following behind Angel Rose as they walked back into the great room. He was telling her about the ceiling, and had his head tilted back while he pointed at the features as he went.

Ang wasn’t listening. There, in front of her, was Kirstin, wringing her hands together as if she was worried about something. The ghost was standing right in front of her, plain as day, and Ang stopped short to keep from walking through her. After the briefest hesitation, in which she mentally berated herself again for visiting the hidden room downstairs – she should have known a place like that would loosen her mental blocks – she took a couple of steps to the right, ostensibly to look at the massive fireplace.

“This is huge!” she commented, stepping in to look up the flue and hoping Richie hadn’t noticed her abrupt change of course.

Kirstin’s eyes immediately went wide. “You can see me?” she demanded of Angel Rose.

“I know!” he answered, oblivious to what had just happened. “Check this out.” He ducked slightly and sat on the bench inside the fire place. He laid on his back, stretching out his legs, and still didn’t touch the other side. “It’s awesome. I can’t wait to fire it up, but it has to be cleaned and stuff first. And it should probably get cold. Does it get cold here?”

“Sure does,” Angel Rose said, sitting on the bench opposite. “You are certainly going to keep warm with this.”

“Uh-huh,” Richie said. You can sit in the window seats too,” he was saying. “The sun comes right in and warms you to your bones.” He smiled wryly. “Of course, just right now, that isn’t quite a selling point, but when it gets cool, it’ll be great.” Angel Rose followed him over to the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows, and indicated the benches built just under the sills. “They’re pretty comfortable too,” he said. “Give it a try.”

Angel Rose couldn’t move. The bench that Richie was pointing to was already occupied. Kirstin was sitting there, pleased as could be, with a wide smile on her face. She patted the space next to her on the bench indicating Angel Rose should sit next to her.

“What’s wrong?” Richie asked, watching Angel Rose stare at the window seat.

Kirstin narrowed her eyes. “You CAN see me and I’m not even trying!” she shouted, making Angel Rose wince just a little. “Oh! I saw that! You flinched when I shouted. You can HEAR me too?”

“Angel Rose? What is it?” Richie asked. He grabbed her hand, forgetting for the moment that Ang didn’t like to be touched. Her skin was ice-cold and just before she wrenched her hand away Richie caught a glimpse of something on the window seat. “What the hell was that?” Richie asked. “I saw something just now, when I took your hand.”

“I don’t know what you saw,” Ang said distractedly. Kirstin vacated her window seat and circled Ang, chattering at her like a little magpie.

“Could it have been Kirstin?” Richie asked, examining the window seat again and finding nothing out of the ordinary.

“I suppose,” Ang said, heading for the French doors on the opposite side of the room. “What do the back gardens look like?” she asked.

Kirstin swooped in and stopped in front of Ang, who veered around her without thinking. “What the hell?” Richie asked.

Ang didn’t hear him; her only thought was getting outside.

“He can’t see me, but he saw you walk around me,” Kirstin crowed, bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet like a child. Angel Rose took a few steps more and Kirstin moved with her, blocking her path.

“What are you doing, Ang?” Richie asked.

Ang tried to step around Kirstin, but the ghost matched her step-for-step.

Kirstin grinned at Angel Rose. “You can try to ignore me all you want to,” she said, “but I’m not going anywhere. Not now that I know you can see me.”

“Angel Rose!” Richie said, exasperated now. “What in the blue HELL is going on here? Why are you dancing around my living room?”

Richie strode over to her and stopped in front of her. Almost immediately, cold air engulfed him, raising gooseflesh. After a moment, it dissipated.

“It’s cold again,” he said. Then realization dawned. “That was Kirstin, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Kirstin answered for Ang. “Yes, it was me.” She stepped back onto Richie, and his skin cooled again.

“Holy shit,” he said, watching his flesh pucker.

“She’s here, isn’t she?” He stepped away from the cold air and his skin settled once more. “And you were – wait, she was standing right here in front of you. And you were moving – damn. Shit. You can see her! That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t want to walk through her, and you’re trying to go around – holy SHIT.” Richie looked around the room.

“Oh, for a Yankee, he’s pretty smart,” Kirstin said, clapping her hands. Angel Rose threw her a withering glance.

“Who are you scowling at? Oh man, she’s really here?” Richie said. “He turned to the room and raised his voice. “I’m going to help you,” he shouted.

Kirstin clapped her hands over her ears. “Sweet Lord, I’m dead, not deaf, you silly Yankee!” she complained.

“You don’t have to yell,” Angel Rose said softly, nearly in tears. She was so mad at herself for not trying harder to ignore Kirstin. Now he knew.

“What do you – wait, she told you that? You can HEAR her too?” Richie’s eyes were close to bugging out of his head.

He looked at her more closely, and saw there was something else. Something more she wasn’t telling him. “What else?” he asked her, coming up close to her, forcing her look up at him. “What else is there that you’re not telling me? You see and hear dead people. That’s a hell of a thing, Angel Rose – what else could there possibly be?”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she shrank into herself. He may as well know the last of it. “I think that Kirstin Maddox was my great-great-grandmother.”

“You THINK she’s your great-great-grandmother?” Richie asked; disbelief in his voice.

“You’re my blood?” Kirstin said; her joy and exuberance turning serious. “Lord, child, you’re mine?”

“More greats than that, actually,” Ang told him, casting a wary eye at Kirstin. “Seven generations ago, I think. But you get the idea.” Angel Rose haltingly told him about her mother’s adoption, her relationship with her birth mother, and the conversation she had had with her mother that confirmed the Maddox connection.

“Oh child,” Kirstin said, raising a hand to try to caress Ang’s cheek.

Sobbing, Angel Rose turned from Kirstin’s touch, and fled. She threw open the front door and ran.

With a muffled curse Richie chased after her. “Ang, wait!” he called. “Fuck, she’s fast,” he muttered to himself. He caught up to her and she whirled on him, fists flying.

“Damn you!” she cried, pounding at his chest. “Damn you and your estate, and your research project and your cursed money and your fucking GHOST.”

Richie trapped her arms between them as he crushed her to his chest. Adrenaline pumping, he tried his best to calm her down. “Angel Rose, it’s alright,” he soothed. “Just relax.”

He whispered to her as he held her, and gradually, she calmed. When he felt the tension leech from her body into the ground, he relaxed his grip on her. Without him to support her, she started to sink to the ground. He helped her down, and sat beside her.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“It’s okay,” Richie answered, smoothing her hair away from her forehead.

“This is so awkward,” Angel Rose said, turning away from Richie’s touch.

“I’m sorry for that too,” Richie said. “But from where I’m sitting, it’s actually pretty impressive. I mean, I know a lot of people, and other than Miss Nellie, I’ve never met anyone who can talk to ghosts.” He was quiet for a few minutes, but Angel Rose knew he wanted to ask. She could practically feel the words building in his throat.

“Go ahead,” she said, resigned to sharing this bit of herself. “You know you want to ask.”

“I’m sorry,” he said for the second time. “But you’re right. Have you always seen ghosts?”

Ang nodded. She told him a story from when she was a girl. She had imaginary friends like none of her other girlfriends did. Her best imaginary friend, the one she saw the most of, was a lady named Mathilda. Mattie, as Ang called her, was an old woman who had lived for more than a hundred years. She told Ang stories about raising her children on a farm during the Great Depression, and for days, Ang thought she was hearing the locusts coming; great swarms of them, with their ominous hum growing louder in her head until she couldn’t stand it any longer. She’d wake in the night, sure that the flower garden would be gone, and wouldn’t go back to sleep until her father had taken her to check it out.

There were other friends, but Mattie illustrated the point for Richie. When Ang finished telling her story, Richie just looked at her. “Wow,” he said. “I just had an imaginary dog.”

Ang burst out laughing. “Oh God”, she said. “I can’t believe you said that.” Getting herself under control, she looked in his face and tried to gauge if he was making fun of her or not. She decided he wasn’t.

“So,” Richie said carefully, “I take it you are not overly pleased with this gift you have?”

She just glared at him. “You mean ‘curse’, don’t you? Do you know how long it took me to suppress it? Of course you don’t. No, I’m not overly pleased, as you say. It’s damned inconvenient, truth be told, and frankly, I wish it wasn’t so. But, oh God, she is my great-great-whatever-grandmother; at least I think she is, so I owe her. I have to help you help her.”

Chapter Twelve

Richie found himself outside the Historical Society early Monday afternoon. He wanted to do more research now that he’d learned more over the weekend; he had managed to find someone who knew something about the ghost in his house. SueBeth at the diner introduced him to Samson Woodbridge, one of the older men who had “his” stool at the counter, who’s Auntie had the sight. Richie had spent the afternoon drinking sweet tea with Mrs. Cornelia Woodbridge who knew all about the Thompson haunting and had a gift for telling stories.

Richie learned about the rumor that one of Kirstin’s “childhood chums”, as Miss Nellie called him, grew sweet on Kirstin, and became enraged when she had gotten married. He had bided his time and waited long years until he had the opportunity to find her alone, and beat her to death. Richie had shivered at that one.

Another rumor had her coming across a family of runaway slaves who didn’t know that Kirstin was the woman of the house at one of the safe houses along their escape route. The family, which included three nearly grown sons (though the number of sons varied, Miss Nellie had said, depending on the story teller) who protected their family by killing the woman so she could not expose them to the authorities.

There were other rumors too, but they all ended with Kirstin being beaten to death. He had to wonder if that part was actually the truth, or just repeated as rumor so often that it made it into all the stories. Nobody knew for certain, and he wanted to check the newspaper reports he and Angel Rose had uncovered so far to see if there was anything in them about a jilted would-be suitor or scared slave family.

Kirstin had never been found. No trace of her, alive or dead, since she disappeared on that night in 1865. She would most assuredly stay with her home, Miss Nellie insisted, until her remains were found and properly laid to rest. Miss Nellie believed that Kirstin was indeed the spirit that remained in the Thompson house.

Kirstin’s spirit was quiet for the rest of the weekend, and Richie slept deeply and dreamlessly. He had even had spent hours in Kirstin’s office, poring over the papers there, but did not see the rocker sway again.

Richie sighed now and looked up at the sign above the door. “Historical Society” it read, in large block letters. Underneath, in a feminine, flowing script was added, “Angel Rose Summerlin, Director”. He was anxious to share what he had learned from Miss Nellie with Ang, and to see if he could sort out which of the rumors was most likely to be true. He didn’t know what he would do with the information, but knowledge was power, right?

The buzzer over the door sounded as Richie walked in. Angel Rose was not at her desk, but her voice came over the intercom almost immediately. “I’ll be right there.”

Richie crossed to the desk and leaned over, finding the little speaker. He pushed a button marked ‘Talk’ and spoke into the white box. “Ang, it’s me, Richie. I’ll come up.” He chuckled. That was far more civilized than shouting.

As he reached into the copper pot for the key ring, something on the desktop caught his attention and he stopped. There, in the center of the desk was looked like a pile of sketches. The one on top was of a roll-top desk and delicate chair. It was clear – to him at least – that this was some of the furniture in Kirstin’s room. Stunned, Richie sat at Ang’s desk and flipped through the sketches. Parts of the room – the rocking chair, the pattern on the fabric walls, even the small fireplace, were depicted perfectly in pencil on the heavy parchment.

Ang’s came through the archive-stair vestibule, stopping short when she saw what Richie was looking at. “I’m sorry; did I take the keys with me?” She patted her pockets as Richie startled, not expecting her.

“Huh? Oh, no, no, I have them,” he said, holding up a key ring in one hand. With the other, he lofted the sheaf of papers. “What’s all this?”

“Oh,” Angel Rose said, self-consciously. “Just some sketches I did this morning – that room wouldn’t leave my mind last night for some reason.”

“These are really good,” Richie said, shifting through the drawings until he got to the one of the rocking chair. He brought the paper up close to his face and squinted. He could just make out the faint outline of a woman in the chair. “Hey,” he said, crossing to Ang. “Is this a ghost in the chair?”

Ang’s color deepened. “Probably,” she said, taking the paper from Richie’s hands. “Huh,” she said. She didn’t remember sketching in the figure, just drawing the chair. Wonderful, she thought. Now her sub-conscious was doodling. “Guess that does look like a person there. Makes sense, I guess; since there is apparently a ghost in your house.” That sounded sufficiently flippant, she thought. “So, you ready to get to work?”

“Yep,” Richie said. “You’ll never guess what I found out yesterday.”

“You’re right,” Angel Rose replied as they walked up the stairs. “So why not just tell me.”

And he did. Richie told Angel Rose about Miss Nellie and her stories. He mentioned the papers in Kirstin’s desk, and mentally kicked himself for not bringing any of them with him. They weren’t of any great significance in the grand scheme of Kirstin’s mysterious disappearance, but they’d make a nice addition to the historical society. He’d have to remember to bring them by next time.

“Wow,” Angel Rose said, wide-eyed. “You sure have been busy.”

“Yeah, well Miss Nellie was a hoot. Seemed a bit, well, ‘not quite there’ if you get my meaning – I’m not what to make of what she told me. That’s why I wanted to look through this stuff again.” He fit the key into the doorknob and let them into the room. “I wanted to read some of the old articles and stuff and see what was in there.”

“Well I’ll get out of your hair,” Angel Rose said. “I have some new things – well, things new to me – to sort and catalog. Old Mr. Jamieson dropped off a load of his grandfather’s papers and memorabilia which date back to before the Civil war. Ring if you need me,” she said nodding at the phone.

“Will do,” Richie said, already riffling through the papers in the closest stack.

Several hours later, Richie stood and stretched; groaning when his back popped. None of the articles he found voiced any rumors or suspicions about Kirstin’s absence. He chuckled to himself – the press was certainly different back then than it was today. He learned a bit more about the Maddox family though, and the Thompsons before them, and was enthralled with the Underground Railroad articles he found.

Deciding he had worked enough for one day, Richie locked up and headed back downstairs. Angel Rose was on the phone when came into the main lobby, and didn’t notice him – she was in some sort of heated conversation.

“I know what I saw,” she said in a harsh whisper. “I can’t believe this is coming back again.” She paused for a moment, then continued speaking in her regular voice. “Alright then, I’ll see you in a few weeks. Love to Dad. Bye.”

She hung up the phone and slid some documents into her desk drawer before locking it. She was still unaware that Richie was watching her as she dropped her head into her hands, her fingers rubbing at her scalp. With a sigh, she raised her head and was startled to see Richie standing there.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, coloring slightly. Her eyes flitted quickly between the drawer and Richie. “You done for the day, then? How’d it go?”

Richie filled her in on the articles he’d read about the Maddox Mystery and the Underground Railroad. “You interested in taking another stab at seeing the hidden room? I promise, we won’t go upstairs to Kirstin’s room.” He made a little ‘x’ over his heart with his right forefinger and then held up the first three fingers of his right hand. “Scout’s honor.”

Angel Rose smiled. “I would love to see the room.” She grabbed her purse and her keys. “I’ll follow you there, if it’s all the same to you,” she said.

“Whatever you like,” Richie answered, dropping his key ring into the copper pot.

Ang followed Richie through town. While they made the short trek, she thought back to the conversation she had just been having with her mother, and hoped Richie didn’t overhear it. She wasn’t ready to tell Richie that she was one of Kirstin’s descendents. Something in the back of her mind was screaming at her to keep that to herself for as long as she could. As they drove up the long driveway that lead to the Thompson estate, she cast her eyes up to the third-floor window where she knew Kirstin’s room to be. Thankfully, she didn’t see any motion behind the curtains.

Richie had flashlights in his hand as he unlocked the front door. “You’re gonna love this,” he said. He led the way into the great room, and didn’t even pause on his way to the serving kitchen. “Just down the stairs here,” he said, indicating an old staircase. They came around the last stair to the pantry door. They crowded inside, and Richie shined his flashlight on the small crawlspace door. He opened it, and motioned for Angel Rose to go first.

“You can stand upright once you get under there,” he said. “But here, take this,” he added, handing her a flashlight. “It’s pretty dark in there.”

Angel Rose took the flashlight and directed the beam through the opening. Seeing the hard-packed dirt floor made her heart race. She crouched down and braced herself on the top of the doorframe and nearly swooned at the surge of emotions that poured through her. Alternating waves of terror and elation coursed through her, breaking easily through the barriers she thought she had solidified over the past years.

Struggling to keep a mask of wonder and curiosity on her face so Richie wouldn’t question her, she ducked her head under the door jamb and went inside. Straightening, she turned off the flash light and stood stock-still, waiting for the worst of the bombardment to be over.

Richie came through behind her and nearly walked into her in the darkness. “Aw, sorry, Angel Rose, is your flashlight dead?”

Ang shook her head. “No, I just wanted...” She turned her head to the side to try to better catch the voice that was teasing the edges of her hearing. She was quiet a moment before shaking her head. “Never mind.” She turned just right, and caught the voice; a young boy’s voice, chattering on about his run through the fields.

“No, no,” Richie said, coming to stand beside Angel Rose, and turning off his own light. “I get it. You want to get a feel for the room as a piece of history. Do you want me to close the door, so you can get the full effect?”

The boy’s voice stopped its story about darting away from the slave-catchers and materialized in front of Angel Rose. “Missus, dat door ain’t got no pull on dis side.” Ang didn’t even blink at his sudden appearance. She supposed she should have known better than to come into this room.

Richie flipped on his light and had moved toward the portal to swing the door shut when Angel Rose stopped him.

“Don’t,” she said. “Please; there’s no knob on this side; we’ll be trapped in here.”

Frowning, Richie looked at the smooth expanse of old wood under his hand. “Damned if you’re not right,” he said. The small boy crowed at Angel Rose. “How did you know there wasn’t any knob?”

Angel Rose turned her back on the boy and flipped on her own flashlight. “Most of these rooms didn’t. It was the only way to make sure that frightened runaways didn’t panic and burst from the secret rooms at an inopportune time.” She hoped that sounded right.

“Makes sense,” Richie said.

Angel Rose walked a circuit around the small room, trailing a hand gently over the earthen walls. Small crumbles of dust flaked at her touch and fluttered into the flashlight’s beam.

“How many people do you imagine the household hid here?” Richie asked.

Angel Rose closed her eyes as the boy’s voice floated into her head again. He was excitedly telling her what he knew, and Ang was unable to stop herself from relaying the story to Richie as she heard it. “There were so many who tried to get away. Whole families would run – parents with small children, or with daughters of a certain age. There weren’t many places to go in the South. Once you made it to one, runaways would rest as much as they could, saving their strength for the continued journey northward through Memphis.”

She stood in a corner of the room and braced her back against the wall. “From there, depending on where the runaways wanted to go, whether it was Chicago or Madison, or even all the way to Canada, they’d have to go through miles upon miles of unfriendly territory.” The little boy was sitting at her feet now, his talking done for the moment, with a wide smile on his face.

“I’d imagine there were dozens, if not scores of runaways who came through here.” She had a moment of sadness as she looked down into the boy’s smiling face. “And for every family that made it out safely, there was a life that was lost here: malaria, cholera, tuberculosis – so many illnesses.” Angel Rose felt drained. The boy laid his hand on Ang’s shoe and smiled sadly before disappearing.

Richie noticed the sorrow in Angel Rose’s face. “C’mon,” he said. “I didn’t mean for this to make you melancholy. Let’s get out of the dark. I don’t know if you noticed, but the great room upstairs has the most amazing pressed-tin ceiling.”

“I’m sorry,” Angel Rose said, trying to shake off the last vestiges of her blues. “I don’t know what came over me,” she lied. “But yeah, let’s get out of here.”

Chapter Eleven

When the door closed, the color began to creep slowly back into Angel Rose’s face. The swirling sensation in her head started to subside as well.

“Are you okay?” Richie asked softly.

“I – I – I’m not sure,” she answered honestly. “I just have to get out of here. Please. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Richie said. “C’mon.” He led her down two flights of stairs to the main level. With each step away from Kirstin’s room, Ang’s breathing slowed a little more. They crossed the great room quickly, and Richie spared a glance over his shoulder at the staircase. He had a ghost. Holy shit.

Once in the truck, Richie wasted no time in heading toward the street. “Sorry you didn’t get to see the Underground Railroad room – maybe next time?” he said.

Angel Rose let out a shaky breath. Right now, going back in that house was the last thing she wanted to do. “Maybe. Thank you for getting me out of there.”

As they drove away, neither looked back at the house, so they missed the curtain pulling back slightly from the window.

Kirstin watched them leave, seeing the lights fade in the distance. The man had kept the key and left his belongings in the great room so she believed he was coming back, and she was glad. This one would help her, she just knew it. The woman too. She felt it. They would definitely help her. Not like the last ones who were here.

The Recent Past
Winter, 1967

The Aragon family had been living in the house for only a few short months, but they were all unpacked and were decorating for the holidays. They had given up on the third-floor room, and in fact had made plans to wall in the staircase, and turn the whole of the third floor into storage space. They were going to open all the walls and sell off whatever they found up there, and were excited about it. Kirstin was less so. She had to try to change their minds. Later.

For now, Kirstin sat in her window seat, looking at the decorations. Pine boughs graced both window seats and mantle, and a large tree festooned with twinkling lights, glittering baubles, and shiny tinsel had a place of honor by the fireplace. The family, a young couple, a two-year-old baby girl, and a cat, all seemed to be excited about the Christmas season. Kirstin watched and laughed with pleasure as the baby tried to pull the sparkly ornaments from the lower boughs of the tree. Her mother gently redirected her, and she toddled to the window seat where Kirstin was sitting.

The child, with her beautiful moss-green eyes and soft brown hair, looked up at Kirstin with a smile on her face. “Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma,” she babbled, talking to Kirstin. Babies and animals had the innate ability to see things that more cynical adults could not.

“Hello beautiful,” Kirstin said to the child, reaching out to try to touch her. The child grabbed at her, and laughed when her pudgy little hand went clear through Kirstin’s outstretched, slender one.

“What are you looking at, Caroline?” the baby’s mother asked. She came over and squatted in front of Kirstin. Shivering, she said, “Come away from there baby girl,” and scooped up the girl. “It’s too cold over here for you.”

Christmas morning, Kirstin watched as Caroline’s parents helped her open shiny packages. The little one was more interested in the wrappings than the trappings, and Kirstin remembered back to the days when her children were the same way. Later, when the little one slept in a basket by the hearth, Kirstin watched as the couple stood guard over her, and smiled at them. This was a family strong with love, she thought. Surely they would help her.

That night, she reached out to the couple. While they slept, she joined them in their dreams. As she has always done, she let them find her in the maze, then waited to see if they’d follow her to the lake. They did, and when she approached them on the path, they ran from her, terrified. The couple woke in a cold sweat. The woman looked to her husband. “Did you just…” she trailed off, not sure how to broach the subject.

“Yeah, I did,” he answered. “What do you suppose that means?”

At that moment, Caroline cried out. When her parents went to investigate, they saw the cat hissing, standing on the edge of the crib with his back arched. They couldn’t tell what it was looking at, but it was clearly frightened. When they approached the crib, the cat whirled on them, lashing out. Caroline’s cries got louder. Kirstin tried to calm the baby, and in the process, became visible to the parents. Caroline’s mother cried out, her father grabbed the frightened cat and flung it from the crib and he scooped up the baby, and they ran from the house. The next day, they had packed up their belongings, and moved away.

After that, the house remained empty for more than twenty years.

The Present

The pair drove on in silence until they arrived back at the Historical Society. Richie parked next to Ang’s car, but neither moved to get out of the truck. “So, what happened to you back there?” Richie asked, turning toward Angel Rose. He braced one elbow on his headrest and the other on the steering wheel, and waited.

Damn, what do I say? I don’t want to lie. “I’m not really sure what happened. I just felt like I had to get out of there. I couldn’t breathe, and I was starting to get dizzy.” That part was true, at least, she thought. She forced a chuckle through dry lips. “Maybe I should have listened to you and just stayed in the truck.”

“Maybe,” he said, frowning slightly. He’d let it go for now. He could tell she was hiding something, that there was more to the story than that, but he didn’t know her well enough to press for answers. “How in the hell do I deal with a ghost in my house?”

Angel Rose gave a genuine laugh this time. She put on an affected Southern accent. “One does not ‘deal with’ a haint. One strives to peacefully coexist with it. Mostly by ignoring it.”

Richie shook his head. “I know you really don’t know me, but that’s not my style. I can’t just ignore it. This ghost, if it’s Kirstin, she invaded my dreams and asked me for help.” He grinned sheepishly. “I have a bit of a white knight complex; I can’t just let it go. I have to try to help her.”

Angel Rose sighed. “Well then, I guess you need to learn as much as you can about Kirstin, the house, and the circumstances of her disappearance. Then maybe the answer will present itself.”

Richie nodded, giving the matter some thought.

After a few minutes of silence, Angel Rose cleared her throat. “Uh I really have to get going,” she said.

“Of course, right, right,” Richie said. “So, see you Monday then? I can work on the papers some more.”

Angel Rose noticed he said “I” and not “we”. She appreciated that. “Sure, sounds good. Well, g’bye”

“Bye, Ang.”

Angel Rose opened her door and slid out of the truck. Richie watched as she got into her own car, gave a little wave and drove away. Starting his own vehicle, Richie set out for a drive. Hopefully he could gain some perspective on this, this haunting. He shook his head. Never in a million years would he have believed anyone who had told him he’d have an encounter with a ghost, let alone buy a freaking haunted house.

There was no question in his mind that he would keep the house. One little ghost, so far non-malevolent, was not going to keep him from the place he fell in love with. He chuckled; he’d just have to start another list – this time of people to talk to in town who might be more knowledgeable in the ways of the spiritual. He’d been in enough Southern towns to know that each had at least one person who was in touch with the “Other Side”. He’d simply ask around, starting at the diner, until he had some answers.

He was startled to find himself in a section of town that wasn’t covered by Ang’s tour, and pleased when he spied a small park. He pulled in to the parking lot, grabbed his guitar from the back seat where he had left it that morning, and headed in. For the most part, the park was deserted. He found a quiet bench, sat down, and started to play. Music had always been a way for him to think things through. When he was playing, he could busy his sub-conscious so he could let his conscious mind go to work.

He knew that Kirstin disappeared on Halloween – could that be why she was haunting the house? Or wait, didn’t spirits stick around if their bodies were killed in some violent fashion? He shook his head. All he knew about ghosts he learned from watching horror flicks and reading thriller novels. Of their own accord, his fingers started playing something slow and melancholy, as he thought more about Kirstin.

She had reached out to him in his dreams, not once, but twice. Then again she tried to communicate to him in the house. And in his dreams, she looked like she had been badly beaten, perhaps beaten to death. And it had been what, more than a hundred years ago? Richie tried to imagine what Kirstin was thinking and feeling and he figured she had to be as scared as he was. Wait, do spirits have feelings? He didn’t even know.

But she asked for help, and he was never one to turn down a damsel in distress – apparently even the specter of a damsel. He had to help her; that much was clear. But how? Maybe there were answers in all that paperwork at the Historical Society. Wait, maybe there were some clues in the papers on Kirstin’s desk. Richie shook his head and his hands changed the music into something more upbeat; a melody he’d been toying with.

Then there was Angel Rose. When she was at the house with him, he remembered that she didn’t really enter the room – like she was afraid of what was in there. Did she know more about Kirstin than she was saying? And why didn’t Marty tell him about the supposed haunting? Richie chuckled as he answered that last question himself – Marty obviously didn’t want to risk the sale.

Richie sat and played and stewed a little while longer. When it grew dark, and the bugs came out to have him for dinner, Richie packed it in and went back to his house. He sat in the driveway for a long time, looking up at the window where he had seen the woman – Kirstin. This time there was no flutter of the curtains signaling someone watching.

If Kirstin wanted his help, he figured she certainly was not going to hurt him. Then there was the whole White-Knight syndrome thing. Plus, he really didn’t want to back out of the sale, though he’d be well within his rights to do so. No, he’d have to just suck up any residual fear or discomfort he might have and go back into the house.