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.”