Wanted: One Ghost Page 4

  She did not see ghosts, she told herself. She had her gift of psychometry. That was enough. April needed to focus on her research and get a handle on the past because the present was too confusing. She had no desire to go back to Aunt Vickie’s and have her try to reason with her about her ghostly heritage. She needed to do something to keep her mind focused on her task. She was a historian. She needed to research her subject. The book in her hands called her name. That settled it! She would drive out to the old mill site and see what she could find.

  ***

  The drive was further than April anticipated. The outskirts of Kings Mill gave way to large, stately mansions littered along the rolling hillsides below the Appalachian mountain ridge. She passed a few subdivisions, the little villages filled with cookie-cutter single-family homes. The parcel of land for which the town was named was outside the actual city limits, far from the downtown area.

  Pulling off the road, April got out and locked the doors. Tucking a stray piece of hair under her cap, she walked around the car, looking out onto the field in front of her. A roadside, historical plaque caught her attention.

  Kings Mill

  One of the early gristmills in the area operated by James Addison, until his death in 1774. The nearby town of Kings Mill was named in honor of the famous mill which produced most of the grain flour for the area for many years until a fire in December 1774 destroyed both the mill and manor house.

  April shivered. Even though she’d bundled in her woolen pea coat, hat and scarf, she was still chilled. Reading the commemorative inscription again, she noted the sign said, ‘operated’ not ‘owned.’ There was the source of her angst. Had James Addison only operated the mill? Was the mill owned by Henry Samuel, instead of James as some of the local history proclaimed?

  Psychic energy dominated this place. She didn’t need artifacts to get a reading of the history throbbing around her. Her psychometry picked up on it, feeding off of the historical essence still living within the site. Something as simple as closing her eyes and inhaling the air around her brought on a sense of déjà vu. History haunted her, not ghosts, as Aunt Vickie always hoped.

  Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not there.

  The quote seemed to float on the sudden burst of a breeze, as if whispered to her by an ethereal presence—or her Aunt Vickie. April sighed and rolled her eyes. Parting the weeds and brambles, she crossed the shallow ditch and stepped forward into a large, barren field. Naked trees stood in the foreground against a back drop of the grey Appalachian mountain range.

  She stooped to pick up a field rock and held it in her hand, looking around at the peaceful scene. The wind picked up a bit again, rustling the tall grasses against her legs. April closed her eyes and inhaled the late autumn air.

  Suddenly, the air turned heavy and pungent. Thick smoke strangled her airways, burning and seizing her chest as she fought to take a breath. Coughing and gasping, the scent became stronger the more she tried to breath. Her eyes flew open and she looked around—nothing. She dropped the rock back to the ground. Tears blurred her vision.

  Damn! Were her allergies flaring up again? Of course, all the pollen and dry weeds around here were enough to make anyone’s sinuses irritated. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  The wind stopped. Nothing moved. Not even the grass. Apprehension prickled her spine. A sane woman would have left. Not April, she was used to this sensation. It was history beckoning to her. She walked further away from the safety of her car and headed towards the barren fields beyond the slight ridge.

  She stopped at a partial stone foundation buried into the ground a couple of feet deep. Weeds, bramble bushes, and saplings laid down their homestead within the rocky structure, but she could still see the outline of the old building. April assumed it was the remains of the manor house. It had to be the house because there were no indications of a creek or damned up pond to show this was the remains of the water powered mill.

  Lowering herself down into what was left of the foundation, she hoped to get a sense of time and place to help her distinguish the truth behind the object of her interest. Scorch marks were evident on some of the stones where the elements hadn’t touched them, but moss and lichen had taken over much of the remainder. Black soot smudged the base of the far wall and drew her toward the anomaly. Time and elements should have worn away any markings by now. Why were they still here? Frowning, April brushed the stone to see if she could remove the black ash.

  Fire scorched her hand. She tried to pull back from the stone wall but her hand was locked onto it as if magnetized. No matter how much she tried to dislodge herself, April couldn’t release her palm. Panic set in as she desperately pulled at her arm.

  A strong smell of burning wood filled her nostrils. Muffled screams startled her and she turned abruptly to see the manor house burning around her. Licks of flame fanned her body. Terrified, April screamed only to realize the scene was images from the past. She stood in the middle of the flames, and yet nothing around her was real. There was no heat, no real fire.

  April heard a muffled noise and saw movement just beyond her vision of flames. She had to squint to see through the shimmering heat waves. A woman struggled, bound and gagged, and next to her was the unconscious body of a young man.

  She watched in horror as the flames caught on the hem of the girl’s dress and inched up in slow motion. April couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Standing encased in time and space, she could only watch helplessly as the woman pleaded, looking at her with large round eyes above the gag. The woman’s voice squealed, muffled against the cloth, as the fire engulfed her.

  The sound of splintering wood overhead caused April to crouch low against her captive wall. She cried out, knowing she could very well be taking her last breath. The creaking and snapping of the timbers holding the house in place caved in on them in an orange-red, hellish inferno.

  ***

  Moments passed as she sat crouched low against the wall to protect herself from the ceiling coming down on her. When she dared to look, April removed her free arm from over her head. Everything she’d witnessed was a hallucination.

  The stone wall released her from its captive grip. Her hand fell to her side, limp and trembling. Her throat was raw from screaming. Had she screamed? She must have. Maybe it was her own voice she’d heard in her head, not the young woman she thought she’d seen. Dazed, she scanned the space where she’d seen the girl tied up. On trembling legs she inched towards the spot. Dropping to her knees she inspected the ground. Nothing was there, not even a sense of time.

  What had just happened to her? She blamed it on her psychometry, but her gift had never been this intense. She’d felt as if she’d actually been transported back in time. Had she witnessed the mill fire back in 1774? If so, who were the two people she’d seen burn to death?

  April studied the stone wall which had held her captive. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it. It was only a wall. Her fingers tingled. She rubbed her hands together to try to dispel the effect. Dear God, her hand itched to touch the wall again! The one touch had changed her reality. Part of her wanted to test the theory but fear took hold. She couldn’t—she didn’t want to go back there and view the scene again. She needed to get out of here.

  Rising from the ruins, she struggled to pull herself together. She was in shock. Her numb body tingled. Her jaw ached from clenching it to keep her teeth from rattling. It popped painfully when a sneezing fit took hold. Her throat burned and the canals along her Eustachian tubes itched annoyingly. Her seasonal allergies had grabbed her with a vengeance!

  She ran back towards her car, up the ridge past the fields of wheat and workers. She stopped. Workers? People were out in the fields who hadn’t been there before! The lands were no longer barren. Field hands worked the crop. Stumbling under the weight of her disbelief, she tried to get her brain to deny what it was seeing.

  She turned around looking behind her towards the ruins. Ther
e stood a large, colonial manor house in its glory, no longer on fire. How could that be when only moments before she’d been held hostage to its unique historical powers, as if she’d been part of its history as it burned to ash in another dimension of time.

  This. Could not. Be happening. This was un-freakin’ believable!

  With her heart racing she slowly turned back to view the fields and sneezed loudly. Eyes from the past looked up from their work and stopped their toiling. They were as shocked to see her standing there on top of the knoll as she was to see them.

  She had to get out of here. This was too much for a sane mind to fathom. But her mind refused to obey her command. She stood there in shock and awe.

  The figure of a man appeared, his broad shoulders and lean hips encased in tight fitting beige breeches and a linen shirt. His dark hair was tied back in a queue. He stood between her and the fields perusing his workers, but as if he too sensed her presence, he turned around.

  April’s breath caught in her throat as they stared at each other across time and space. His quizzical interest turned to one of possible recognition, his lips quirked into a smile, and he touched two fingers to his forehead in salute. It was James Addison, the man she’d met last night, the one in the portrait, the legend she’d been assigned to research. As soon as she made the mental connection, the images around her shivered into nothing but mist, and then disappeared altogether.

  Chapter Four

  The atmosphere in the cemetery hung thick and damp and a cold wind whistled eerily around the barren trees as the small group of people made their way deep into the grounds. The old, white marble obelisks and arched stones, large crypts, and wrought iron fences were natural decorations for this night. Even the misty fog rolling along the hallowed grounds couldn’t have been improved upon by a Hollywood studio special effects department.

  April found the scene beautiful in a surreal way. The pungent aroma of wood smoke from the festive bonfires in the streets and surrounding chimneys mingled with the damp smell of foliage. She sneezed into her wad of tissues and blew her nose. A couple in the tour group ‘blessed’ her under their whispered breath as Tony began the tour talk.

  “We’ve been given the run of the cemetery so it is just us tonight and possibly a few ghosts,” Tony joked as he led the group of thirty people into Lilac Grove, Kings Mill’s oldest cemetery. “Stay close, the one touching you may or may not be of this world. If anyone gets too spooked, you are free to leave but please, let me know so I don’t assume you are trapped in some crypt or have been turned into a zombie.”

  Stunted laughter and attempts at ghoulish jokes to lighten the eerie mood made April snort in amusement. This was a cemetery. Nothing here at night that wasn’t here during the day. Not even on All Hallows Eve. Only overactive imaginations roamed along the shadowed paths. Tony swung his replica tin lantern around, whether to ward off the dark shadows or because he was scared as hell, April wasn’t sure. But tonight, her mystery guide was nowhere to be seen.

  She’d come to the conclusion her Sunday afternoon fright at the old mill ruins was her own case of overactive imagination and intense sinus related conditions. An incident while she’d been volunteering at the Jamestown excavation site had given her the same kind of experience of two distinct eras in history appearing to overlap each other. She’d relayed her findings to her group of friends she’d been working with.

  The same day she’d come down with bronchitis and a high fever.

  No one had believed her bizarre stories, including Jason. He’d told her the fever had caused her to hallucinate. He’d taken it upon himself to announce her illogical findings as part of her illness. When she found out he’d discredited her among their peers, it had been the beginning of the end of their two-year relationship. It had only gone downhill from there.

  And true to past history, by the time she returned to Aunt Vickie’s after the mill site visit, she’d suffered from a full-blown sinus infection. Not even her aunt’s herbal teas and home remedies fixed her. So Monday morning she’d postponed her meeting with Beth Freelane to go to the walk-in clinic where she waited three hours to see a doctor for antibiotics and decongestants.

  She supposed it was for the best. Beth was dealing with electricians and painters at the new historical society site for the next few days and wouldn’t be available to meet with her until after Halloween. Beth couldn’t even offer her the crates of documents because they were being carted from various buildings in town to the new site. Until she could sort them out, she had no idea what they contained. April sighed. Another roadblock for her in this unsolvable mystery. She dreaded emailing Kenneth Miles about her lack of progress. So she’d put off her correspondence to him and decided to enjoy the festive cemetery ghost tour tonight instead.

  The group’s path wove through the divided plots of new and old headstones. They stopped every few feet and looked around as Tony weaved stories about former citizens of Kings Mill who were now interred in the various graves.

  Restlessly, she glanced around. Although she hadn’t fully recovered from the sniffles, her senses were as active as ever. The fact she was in a cemetery filled with natural historical energy didn’t stop her from enjoying the tour. She trailed the rest of the group, kind of the odd man out, taking in her surroundings at her own pace.

  “This is the grave site of Henry Samuel, Kings Land’s first land commissioner. His grave is the tall pointy thing you see up on the hill.” Tony pointed to a historical nameplate attached to a pole squeaking with an eerie, metallic rasp. “Rumor has it Henry owned the mill site. I know most of you think James Addison owned the mill, but there isn’t any documentation to prove it, which would mean it could have still been in the land commissioner’s possession.”

  April peered up the small hill to see the stark white obelisk standing very pronounced against the black, moonless sky. At the moment, it seemed to be the focal point in the cemetery. Even from here she could see the intricate designs etched into the old marble. She would love to get a rubbing of it perhaps before they left. Besides, Henry Samuel’s grave was the closest thing to her research she had to go on right now. His reference to a connection with James Addison was all she had—that and she was staying in his historical home.

  “Tony,” she spoke up, making her voice sound weak and stuffy. “I think I’m going to head out. My allergies are really kicking my butt, and I’m all congested.”

  “Are you sure? We’re just about done, only a few more graves to see.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Thanks for the tour and Happy Halloween everyone.” She began to walk backwards away from the group as they waved good-bye.

  She stayed in the shadows and watched the rest of the group move on, until they rounded the bend of the path. Once she was out of their sight, she reached into her large bag, retrieved her small sketchbook, pencil, and mini flashlight. Double checking to make sure the coast was clear, she made her way up the small dirt path to Henry Samuels’s monument.

  The roots of the firs were tangled and exposed in areas, moss and lichen grew around the bottom of the obelisk grave marker, a layer of dead branches and fan-like fir needles surrounded the base. She could read the month and year of his death but the date was a bit obscure.

  She buried her nose into a fresh tissue as she held back a sneeze so she didn’t alert the rest of the group of her whereabouts.

  Wiping her nose she knelt in front of the tombstone and placed the end of the flashlight between her teeth to give her direct light on what she was doing. The soggy ground soaked into the knees of her jeans. She could hear the faint voices of the group from just over the rise, yet she felt a prickling of unease. Glancing around, she didn’t see anything.

  She wiped moisture from the front of the headstone with her scarf, revealing the blackened embossing on the aged marble. Angling the paper over part of the intricate design, she fumbled with the pencil in her gloved hand. The cumbersome gloves had to go. Removing the offending obstacles and tossing
them to the side, April rubbed her pencil over the markings, steadying herself against the marble with her other hand.

  A jolt of heat coursed from her palm to her shoulder and she jerked back. Falling onto her bottom, she dropped the pencil and paper. Nearly choking on the flashlight, she threw the light to the side and fought to catch her breath. Still tingling from the shock, she shook her arm to relieve the pain.

  She picked up the flashlight again and slowly approached the gravestone. Her heart thudded in her ears. Reaching out for the paper and pencil she had dropped, she kept her eye on the stone as if waiting for it to move. Cautiously, she leaned forward and touched it. The marble was as cold and even-surfaced as an old tombstone in late October should be.

  Confused, she inched away on her knees, backing away from the headstone, a frightening wariness settling over her as she slowly stood up and continued moving cautiously away from the monument.

  “Henry Samuel is not worthy of your fascination, Dr. Branford.”

  April gasped and whirled, shining the flashlight into the night. There, mere inches in front of her, stood her mysterious tour guide. A moment of relief caused her to catch her breath before the toe of her boot caught on a loose tree root, sending her falling through a chilly mist of air. She landed on her hands and knees.

  Quickly, she turned over and stared up at her re-enactor, who stood between her and Henry Samuel’s grave. So close she should have fallen into him. And then the truth of the situation hit her. She crab crawled away from him and the tombstone, her eyes wide with horror.

  She couldn’t think. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” Her voice shook with the only words she could say.

  He smiled down at her, tilting his tricorne back on his head, revealing those damn hypnotic eyes.

  “I haven’t heard a lady say that to me for some time. Nice to know I haven’t lost my touch,” he preened.