by Mia Easton
Rain began to fall and a flash of lighting splintered the night sky. A corpse popped up from ahead. "That's it, folks," he called. "We shut down when there's lightning."
"Not yet, it's not over," Jeff complained. "I gotta see the headless vixens. C'mon."
A gust of wind whipped Liz's hair straight back. "We should go now," she called to the others. The hanging lanterns that lit the paths were swaying crazily.
"Oh, come on," Ethan said. "Don't be such a skirt." He started off with Jeff. Hannah looked at the girls, who were hesitating, and the guys who had gone on and then ran after the guys, yelping, "Wait for me."
"Hey," Jordan yelled after them, but they were out of sight. "Those jerks." She looked at Liz. "Want to go back?"
Liz nodded. "Let's find cover."
They took off in a run but had to slow down. It was not easy to retrace their steps in the rain and watch the path for obstructions. Thunder boomed and echoed, and lightning lit the woods up in an incandescent way. When they came to a fork, they stopped. "We go right, right?" Jordan called.
Liz could make out the mansion through the trees, but it was some distance off, and the paths were winding and tricky. She shrugged. "Or left." She laughed because it was so stupid fighting the wind and rain. They were drenched and probably lost, but this would be one All Hollow's Eve they would never forget.
"Come on," Jordan called as she broke into a run again.
Liz glanced behind to see if the others were coming, but something else caught her eye from beyond the path, something colorful and large and swaying to and fro. She held a hand over her eyes to block the rain and squinted. She couldn't make out what the things were, but she was getting a creepy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Jordan was already out of sight. "Jordan," she called anyway. Her voice sounded small in the wind.
Liz looked back to the slightly swinging object. It had to be one of the displays, but why was it so far off the path? Her curiosity got the better of her and she began making her way toward it, picking through the woods. The trees shielded the rain, except where it collected in leaves and came down in fat, cold drops. She reached a clearing, but there were no lanterns. It was too dark to see. She was about to turn and go when a flash of lighting revealed a massive oak tree. With men hanging from it.
Men.
Hanging.
She cried out and turned to run, but her foot caught on something and she fell. Hard. She was outraged that anyone would create a display so real and graphic and horrible. It was sick.
As thunder rolled and kept rolling, she looked back to make sure the hanging men weren't coming after her. But they were gone. Now there was a campfire and a man standing there looking at her. He looked astonished and flat-out gorgeous. An actor? Part of the hanging men display? What kind of an illusion had that been? There one moment, gone the next. It was mind blowing.
It wasn't raining anymore, she realized.
No.
It wasn't raining in the clearing. She could still hear the rain falling around her. She could see it beyond the man, but, in the clearing, there was only him and her and the fire and the tree, sans dead men. It was all so bizarre, her skin crawled. Every hair on her body and every hair that had formerly been there felt like it stood on end.
Fog began rising from the ground. A fog machine? Part of the show? Her heart hammered to see the fog quickly thickening, obscuring everything beyond it. She scrambled to her feet, keeping her gaze locked on the man.
"Hello?" he said tentatively, as if testing whether she was real or a trick of his imagination.
"Hello," she returned in a voice that sounded no less tentative. He was real. Real and in an eighteenth-century costume. She started toward him, but some sort of barrier halted her. An invisible, freezing cold barrier. Because he was of another world. This wasn't staged. She stared as the fog between her and the man grew denser. He'd be gone in a moment and forever. Her miracle man.
Jordan called her name. The man also heard it and glanced behind her. Then he looked at her again and lifted his hand as if beckoning her to him. There were particles of glistening silver mist in the air, but the fog had claimed his lower body and was steadily climbing. He was about to vanish. In a split second of desperate impulsiveness, she rammed her body forward with all her might. Electricity pulsed through her, robbing her of breath. She felt herself falling even as blackness closed in.
Chapter 4
October 31, 1783
Wes exhaled shakily as he crouched beside the woman and felt for her pulse. It was there. She was alive. Only two or three minutes ago, he'd been torn from slumber by a woman's cry. He'd sat and reached for his musket, confused by the storm raging just beyond the clearing. A storm that didn't touch him.
He'd seen her then, staring at him from where she'd fallen. Even wet and frightened, she was lovely, but that wasn't what made his breath catch. There was something remarkably different about her and about everything around him. The area was changed. There was even a large home in the distance. But his attention was riveted on the woman.
Now, he placed the backs of fingers in front of her mouth and nose and felt breath. "Miss?" He gave her a gentle shake, but she didn't rouse. Something had felled her. He had seen it happen and yet he couldn't explain it.
He glanced up to where the house had been. It was not there now. In fact, nothing seemed different now except the fact that she was here. He swallowed hard and looked back down at her. She was wearing long trousers. He pushed back the wet hair from her face wondering who she was and why he had reacted to her with such need and longing—as if his very life depended upon her coming to him.
What had transpired was strange beyond description. It was otherworldly. They had stared at one another as an unnatural fog rose between them, a barrier that demanded a choice be made. He hadn't wanted her to disappear. Come to me, he'd commanded silently, extending his hand to her. Come! And she had tried, causing a flash of light so intense he'd been blinded for moments after.
He went back for his blanket. How odd; he hadn't planned to stay the night in this place, but he hadn't been able to make himself leave. Now he had this woman and this celestial mystery to contend with. He reached her again and squatted beside her. "Miss?" He patted her cheek to rouse her. "Wake up."
She moaned but didn't come to, so he lifted her limp body up against him. Her jacket was wet clear through, so he tugged it off and picked her up. He carried her to the fur bedroll he'd been sleeping on and laid her down before going back for her jacket. He turned it inside out, noticing a label near the collar with tiny writing sewn upon it. He put it on some rocks near the fire to dry and then went and stretched out behind her and pulled the flap of the fur around them. His body heat would warm her better than anything.
He maneuvered the crook of his arm beneath her head and rested his head on his hand. Her wet hair smelled of an exotic perfume. Self-consciously, he draped an arm around her waist. His hand rested against her breasts but in an effort to warm her, he told himself. It wasn't for his gratification.
As heat bloomed between them, he lay in stunned amazement. He'd seen a lot during the last several years. He'd seen battle and cowardice, gruesome death and acts of astounding, selfless bravery. He'd held dying men in his arms, and he'd come close to dying himself. But he had never experienced anything like what had just occurred. Nor had he ever heard of such of thing. There was usually a logical explanation for everything that happened, but what logical explanation could there be? What had occurred defied logic.
What if he'd left earlier as he'd planned? He'd assured John Paul that he would make it a day journey only. He'd planned on it and he had very nearly left because he'd said he would, but he had felt too compelled to stay. He'd felt compelled—or had he been compelled? To be compelled takes a participant on the other side. He had lifted a hand and urged her to come to him. Who or what had pushed him to remain there so that he would be given the opportunity?
He'd always thought of this valley a
s cursed. It's where he'd fallen in battle and nearly died. It was where some of the enemy had been unjustly hung against military code and against honor. But what if the place wasn't cursed? What if it was just the opposite? After all, he had survived what should have been a fatal wound and he had come to in time to save most of the captured enemy soldiers. And now, he'd experienced this extraordinary happening and he had her. He doubted he would sleep again that night, but he didn't care. He'd never felt so alive.
Chapter 5
Liz groaned and rolled over. Her arm hurt because she'd been sleeping on it and her freaking head hurt. Was she hungover? The next realizations came flooding all at once. She was lying next to someone. A man. On the ground. Outside. Her eyes jerked open with her senses screaming that something was terribly, horribly, way fucking wrong. She rose on an elbow and twisted around to see who was behind her. Her movement woke him and, for a few seconds, he looked as confused as she felt. "What," was all she managed to get out.
"You're all right," he said.
Was she? Bits of recollection flew at her like pellets. The Haunted Grounds. Rum and Coke. Ethan and Jordan and the others. The storm. Jeff producing a flask. Hannah asking for her not to be mad. The nice man with his granddaughter. You're going to get Grandpa into trouble.
"Wha—" She sat up. The air was cold and a headache throbbed, making it hard to think. "What's happened?"
The man slid from the swaddling of covers, causing cold air to further assault her. She pulled the blanket back around her and watched him walk toward a small mound of things on the ground near a large black horse. He was drop-dead handsome and he had a limp. He wore a loose white shirt with large, almost puffy sleeves and tight brown britches that ended just below the knee. He started back toward her with a canteen and her jacket. He squatted and offered the canteen.
She accepted it, entranced by his sapphire-blue eyes. "Do you have any pain reliever?"
"Pain reliever?" he repeated in a measured tone.
Everything looked and seemed so completely different. It felt different. It smelled different. "Are you an actor?" she asked weakly. "Was this like some special effects gone awry?"
"Have some water," he suggested evenly.
She pulled off the cap and tipped it up. The stingingly cold water tasted amazing. It suddenly occurred to her that maybe she'd been hit by lightning and it had fried her brain. Was that it?
Her hair was lighter than he'd thought, a pale golden brown and her eyes were gray-green, like the color of a lake on a cloudy day before a storm brews. She had something dark and smudgy around her eyes, but it looked like it would wash off. He watched her throw off the blanket and get up, the fingers of her hand pressed to her temple. There was a vibrancy about her that was uncommon and exhilarating, but it was startling to see the way she moved about in the long britches.
"Where's the mansion?" she asked. The question seemed rhetorical, but then she turned back to him and thrust both hands on her hips, her expression stunned and accusing.
"I don't know what mansion you are referring to," he said as he rose, "but I can assure you that I did not take it."
"Rawl's Mansion," she said emphatically. "The mansion. Built in 1818 or whenever."
He blinked. "Eighteen…eighteen?"
She huffed. "Okay, again with the tone. As if you're trying to decide if I'm crazy." She laughed a tight, little laugh. "If I'm crazy."
She was beginning to panic. "Please sit," he said, gesturing to the bedroll. "Let's both sit and discuss the matter calmly. But first, you should put your coat back on." He went to get it and turned it right side out again. He handed her the jacket. "It's not much of a coat."
"No. That occurred to me last night. I should have worn a different one. But how is it not on me?"
"You needed to get warm, and it was wet."
Sitting was necessary since her knees had turned to jelly-filled. She felt nauseous with fear as she sat cross-legged and tugged the jacket back on. On top of everything, she had to pee. Damn it. Did she even have the strength to get back up?
"Let's start with names," he said.
"Elizabeth Gordon."
He lowered himself to an elegant squat, one knee bent, his hands clasped around it. "They call you Liz."
She nodded.
"Someone called your name."
Jordan had called her name. She stared at the man in disbelief because there were no special effects here. This was real. He was real. "What year is it?"
He hesitated a moment. "1783."
The earth reeled around her.
"Miss Gordon?"
She hadn't realized she'd taken hold of his arms, but she had, and still the world spun. 1783? It couldn't be! But it was. Her mind battled between the two premises. It couldn't be, but it was. But it couldn't be. Except it was.
"What year were you from?" he asked haltingly.
Were, he'd said. "It's—" It is or it was? She couldn't think straight. "2004."
He huffed and then looked away, absorbing the fact. "I can't conceive it."
"I can't be here."
He looked at her. "You are here. I don't understand how it happened, but you are here."
She felt so disoriented. "Am I still in North Carolina?"
He shrugged. "Either north or south."
"How do you not know?"
"It's not as if there are signposts. It's wilderness. We're close to the border, but it's not as if there's a marked line."
She managed to stand. "Please excuse me for a sec. I have to—"
"Of course," he replied with a polite bow of his head.
She shoved her hands in her pockets and went to find a private place to pee. She felt the damp tissue in her pocket and sighed with relief that she had something to wipe with. "Wow," she whispered to herself when she found a spot. "Drop and squat, kid." Or was it squat and drop? She was not an outdoors girl. Never had been.
She felt anxious as she traced her path back to the clearing. What if he wasn't there? She breathed a sigh of relief to see him again. "Why are you here?" she blurted.
For a second, he seemed offended. "Because it's a place I come to."
"Why?"
"If you must know, a battle was fought here."
She gaped as she suddenly recalled the men hanging from the tree. "There were men hanging!"
The statement startled him. "What? What did you say?"
She nodded frantically and pointed to the oak tree, which was large, but not nearly as enormous as it had been. "From that tree. I saw them and I…I guess I screamed. I never scream, but it scared the hell out of me. I started to run, but I tripped and fell. Then I had the most awful feeling." She shivered remembering it. "I thought maybe they were coming after me like zombies or something. So, I turned back around, but they weren't there anymore." She paused before adding, "You were." He suddenly seemed accusing and mistrustful. "Why do you look like that?"
"There were no men hung last night," he stated.
"I saw them. Most of them were wearing these red—"
"They were in uniform."
Uniform. Red ones, military Redcoats! He was talking about British soldiers and the Revolutionary War. This was either the greatest Candid Camera moment ever, or she was in the twilight zone, or it was real. "Were they your friends?"
He looked offended again. "They were the enemy," he retorted. He looked away and a muscle bulged in his jaw. "But they'd surrendered. They should not have been hung."
So, he'd been there. "I thought by your accent—"
He glared at her. "My what?"
She seemed to be repeatedly insulting him, but she didn't understand why. "Are you not British?"
"No, I am not British. I am a patriot! I am Major James Wesley Hale, formerly with the Continental Army."
She threw her hands in the air. "Okay. Geez. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you." She almost added that he spoke very properly and with a little bit of a British accent, but she didn't, since he'd almost stroked out. "B
y the way, the British are no longer our enemy. They're our ally."
"Our ally?" he scoffed.
She drew a breath to explain, but the gulf between them was too vast. "I did not mean to offend you."
He looked at the ground as if trying to get hold of himself. He nodded and looked back at her. "Why were you here?"
"It was a thing. A haunted house thing."
He looked pained. "A what?"
"It was entertainment," she said, breaking the word into four distinct syllables. "Every year, they set up this elaborate event called The Haunted Grounds on the grounds of the mansion."
"The mansion built in 1818," he said with a sardonic nod.
"Yes. I was here with friends, having fun, when this storm blew up, which means the thing shut down."
"The thing," he repeated. "The entertainment."
"Yes."
"You speak very strangely, Miss Gordon."
She felt a flush of annoyance. "While you speak very eloquently and precisely, Major Hale. But I'm trying to tell you what happened."
"Go on."
She exhaled and shook her head. They needed to take a couple of steps back because she couldn't think straight. Everything was so mind-boggling. "You said your name is James?"
"Wesley. Wes. I'm called Wes."
"Okay, Wes. Well, here's the question. How am I going to get back?"
"Get back? To…where you came from? To 2004?"
"Uh, yes."
"Miss Gordon—"
She already knew. It was hopeless. She'd made a choice; she'd made her move and she was here. Unless her brain was fried and this was all some sort of hallucination, she was here. In 1783. In the friggin' eighteenth century. "It's Liz," she said in a thick voice. She was way too close to tears. Her throat ached, it was so tight. "Or Elizabeth. No one has ever called me Miss Gordon. Although, there is a certain charm to it."
"Elizabeth," he said quietly. "I do not believe there is any going back to where you came from."