by Stuart Jaffe
“I told you,” Sandra said. “A ghost.”
Max put his arm around his mother’s shoulders and directed her to a chair. “It’s true. There really is a ghost.”
“A ghost?” Mrs. Porter said with glazed eyes. Her look gave Max an uncomfortable view of a dementia patient — lost and confused, trying to grasp onto anything familiar. She placed her hand on Max’s cheek. “I don’t understand.”
“I know. You don’t have to. Just know that I’m not losing my mind and neither are you. Okay? Everything here is fine.”
Drummond leaned near the bookcase. “Might I suggest some medicinal fortitude?”
Thinking he could use some himself, Max pulled out one of Drummond’s fake books and removed the whiskey flask hidden inside. He snatched a plastic cup from the bathroom and poured his mother a stiff drink. Then he tipped the flask back for a quick shot himself.
After two helpings, Mrs. Porter began to calm. Her color returned, and her face grew stern. “I’m not going to pretend that any of this makes sense, but perhaps I’m too old to figure out the way you young people do things. I don’t get how the Internet can do so much — and apparently it can play tricks on an old person’s nerves. Look, as long as you’re okay, that’ll have to do.”
“I am fine, Mom.”
“Then we’re all good,” Sandra said. “It’s been a long day, and from what I could make out of Max’s brainstorm, we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
“Yeah, that’s true. We need to interview a man in Alamance. It’s a bit of a drive from here. I’m sorry, Mom, again. I really hate how these days are turning out for you.”
She fluttered her hand as if shooing away a fly. “I feel quite tired. I think I’ll go back to the house and call it an early evening.”
“Sounds like a smart idea,” Sandra said. “Plus, you’ll be there when J gets back. He shouldn’t be too late.”
Max escorted his mother out of the office and down to the street. He gave her the keys to his car and sent her on her way. When he returned, Sandra had already shut down the computers and put away their papers.
She pocketed her keys and looked to Drummond. “Well, where exactly do we find the real Chester Stanton?”
Chapter 19
Driving along Route 62, Max sat in the passenger seat and attempted to pull himself together. “I can’t believe we told my mother about ghosts.”
“You’d rather she cart you off to a nuthouse?” Sandra said.
Sitting in the back, Drummond said, “The two of you need to forget about that. It’s done. You can handle the situation with her in the morning. We’ve got more important problems right ahead.”
On either side of the road, the zigzag pattern of split-rail fencing could be seen under a near full moon. The battlefield stretched off in both directions. Back in 1771, the fencing would not have been there but the road was — not paved, of course, and named the Hillsborough-Salisbury Road. Sandra drove straight through to a driveway on the left with a metal-bar gate. She parked parallel to the road and shut off the car.
Moving her head slowly, she surveyed the area. “Strange. Not many ghosts here.”
“Should there be?” Max asked.
“It’s a battlefield. Lots of painful deaths, youth cut down early, violent deaths — yeah, there should be a lot of ghosts.”
Drummond said, “Not here. Most have moved on.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m still not used to thinking about ghosts that way.”
After scanning the area, Drummond went on, “One of the few ghosts here should be Stanton, and he ain’t one of the Brits, so that narrows it down some.”
Max looked over his shoulder. “You don’t know what he looks like?”
“I found out he’s here, didn’t I? I’m the one who got the information. It didn’t come with a photo. You’re the research guy. Why didn’t you find a picture of him?”
“Okay, okay. Point taken.”
Drummond readjusted his hat. “Look, I’ll go out there and chat up those ghosts until I find Stanton. Then I’ll come get you two. So, stay here.”
“I’m not sitting in this car for another hour while you roam around. We’ll be on the battlefield. I don’t think you’ll have a hard time finding us. This place isn’t that large.”
“Fine, fine. Can I get to work or are you going to talk a dead man into his grave?”
Saying nothing more, Max gestured for Drummond to be on his way. Once he left, Max shared a glance with Sandra and they both chuckled. They got out of the car and walked around the gate — it was not designed to keep anybody out, just to discourage cars from driving in.
Max checked the road — nobody had come by since they had arrived. If they were lucky, the road wouldn’t be heavily traveled this late on a weeknight. Feeling the sore bruises on his flank reminded him not to feel too lucky.
They walked up the drive to a visitor’s center on the left. Max didn’t bother trying the doors — they would definitely be locked this late at night. Instead, they strolled around the building to a concrete porch at the back. An 18th-century cannon had been situated with its barrel pointing out into the fields.
Max marveled at the small but powerful weapon. The actual metal body only measured a few feet. Most of the weapon consisted of a frame made of thick, heavy wood, and two large wooden wheels with metal treads lined with square rivets for traction. An angled information table sat to the right of the cannon. It bore a map of the battlefield, showing where Governor Tryon’s men had lined up — mostly straddling the road to the left of Max’s current position — and where the Regulators had set camp — in a wooded area straight ahead and to the right.
Standing next to the cannon, Max pictured the scene from so long ago. Tryon’s men stretching down the line. They were not actual “redcoats” but rather North Carolina militia men conscripted by Tryon, so they lacked the discipline of formal soldiers. Yet they had sided with the British and wanted to impress the Governor. They would be at attention, ready to act, perhaps even eager to attack.
On the other side, a rabble of men and boys thrown together out of necessity. Government corruption had reached the point where it could no longer be ignored. After years of pleading and arguing and compromising, of being promised change that never came, of watching the dreams provided by this bountiful land squandered under the greed of a few, the Regulators could take no more. They were here to protest, and no amount of posturing or bullying from Tryon would stop them.
“Honey.” Sandra’s voice raced him back to the present.
He patted the cannon. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? This all happened right here. The seeds of the American Revolution were sowed right here.”
“I’m sorry. About your mother. All of it. I’m sorry. I don’t know why we can’t get along. I don’t think she’s ever tried to like me. And, well, I tend to bite back when somebody comes at me like that.”
Max hugged her and pecked her cheek. “I’m sorry, too. Not just about my mother.”
Her arms tightened around his waist. She smelled of shampoo, and Max wanted to forget the ghosts, the case, and his mother, and simply go home with his wife for a quiet night together. Too often, they did not get enough time to spend curled up and in love. Too often, work and bills and life forced them into non-stop patterns of behavior that led to misunderstandings that led to fights.
“It’s a good thing we’re married,” she said. “Otherwise, I’d probably have killed you by now.”
He snorted a laugh. “The police would find me with a knife in my chest, but my hands would’ve been locked around your throat.”
Muffling her amusement in his chest, she said, “And we both would have had guns pointing at your mother.”
They held each other a bit longer, until finally, Max broke away. He squinted into the moonlit field. The ground sloped downward slightly, and it appeared that a large rock sat at the head of a shallow gully. The ghost pretending to be Stanton had mentioned that before.
; “Come on,” he said. “I want to check that out.”
The rock poked up in the middle of a grassy area. As he came closer, Max thought it might be three rocks pressed against each other, but he couldn’t be sure. Several feet away, Max saw another angled information stand. He walked over and, using the light from his cell phone, he read:
Pugh’s Rock
According to legend, Regulator James Pugh, brother-in-law of Regulator Herman Husband, lay behind this rock while he fired on Tyron’s troops.
The sign went on to suggest that rumors of James being one of the six men later hanged in Hillsborough proved false because records indicated James signed a will in 1810. Most likely, his brother Enoch, also a Regulator, died in 1771, perhaps even one of the hanged.
Max crouched behind the rock. He could see the cannon quit clear and close. “The guts a person would need to take this position.”
“I’m glad they eventually got to move on,” Sandra said. “Anybody who died here, facing that kind of thing, would be twisted up for sure.”
“Aren’t we waiting to meet a ghost like that?”
Even under the moon, Sandra appeared to pale more. “I know.”
“Hon, if this is too much for you, we can turn back. We’ll find some other way to get the information. Drummond can talk to this ghost without us or I can —”
“That’s sweet but not necessary. All I’m saying is that we need to be prepared. This ghost, it might not be as easy to deal with as Drummond.”
Max sat back on the rock. “Since when is Drummond easy to deal with?”
“I heard that,” Drummond said as he approached. “I’ll have you know that in my day, many of my lady friends would vouch that I am a charming and easy-going fellow.”
“I’ve met one of your lady friends, remember? Led a witch coven to possess my wife and tried to destroy us. Real nice gal.”
“Hey, we all make mistakes. She’s not the only woman I ever dated.”
Max held back further comment because he saw the way Sandra gawked at the air behind Drummond. He saw nothing, though. “Did you bring Chester Stanton with you?”
“Of course. I said I was going to get him.”
Max brushed Sandra’s arm. “Honey? You okay?”
She nodded, but her stunned expression did not agree. “I’ve never seen a ghost like that before. He’s all — I don’t know — he’s shredded.”
“Shredded?”
“He’s mostly bones like a skeleton but with his flesh and clothes hanging off in shreds. It looks like moss and vines hanging from tree limbs. And he’s weirdly tall. Maybe seven or eight feet.” She turned to Drummond. “What did this to him?”
Drummond made a bitter face. “That’s what happens when a ghost breaks the tether keeping him close to where he was cursed.”
Max cringed at the thought. He had seen it with Drummond and experienced it when cursed into a coma. The tether — a set distance a ghost could move away from his curse. If he went too far, his body stretched painfully as if an actual tether strained to pull him back. It never occurred to Max before that a ghost might be able to snap that tether, break free, and no longer be bound by the curse. Picturing Chester Stanton as Sandra had described him, Max decided the ghost traded one curse for another.
Drummond pursed he lips. “From what Theo Russet told me, Stanton took a bullet here on the battlefield, and Abagail Wallace must have pretended to aid him. She then cursed and carved his bones, letting him die out here. Don’t know what she had against him to do this, and so far I can’t get Stanton to talk. I figure he didn’t like being a ghost, so he broke apart his tether which ripped him into this. He probably spent some time by his old home or following his family or maybe his mind got shredded too, and he wandered around lost and confused. Eventually, he found his way back here, trying to find his body, I guess.”
“Shouldn’t he have moved on?” Max asked.
“I don’t know. This is the first ghost I’ve ever seen like this. Maybe breaking free of his tether also broke him free of the Other. Maybe he can’t be forced to move on, and he’s too disoriented to figure it out himself.”
Sandra grabbed Max’s hand, her skin clammy and cold. She whispered. “He has no nose, no eyes — just the dark holes of a skull.”
Nothing could have frightened Max more than seeing Sandra disturbed by a ghost. She had been seeing ghosts most of her life. They were part of everyday existence. For Stanton’s visage to unsettle her this much, he had to be more than a horrifying sight. She had to see his anguish.
As best as he could, Max pushed away his mounting fear. To Drummond, he said, “He can’t be too confused. He’s here. You were able to talk with him and bring him over to us. So, he can comprehend a few things.”
“He knows his name. He knows where he is. But I don’t know how much of this he understands. We might only be an interesting distraction.”
“Let’s not wait until we’re no longer interesting. Ask him if he knows where his body is buried.”
Drummond complied, listened to a response, and said, “He wants us to follow him. At least, I think that’s what he’s trying to say.”
“I think so, too,” Sandra said. With a sharp motion, she dropped Max’s hand and walked back toward the cannon. Max had seen this before — Sandra regaining her impressive strength. She had a moment of doubt, and then, through sheer willpower, she shoved aside her fears and refocused on solving their problems.
He jogged up next to her. “I love you, hon.”
Were it daytime, Max would have been sure that she had blushed, but at night, he could not see clear enough to know. Still, he felt the warmth between them rekindle, and that told him more than any words or look she could provide. He also saw the determined focus in her eyes. She had work to do tonight, and she intended for it to be done without fail.
She pointed off to the right of the visitor’s center toward the road. “Stanton’s going that way.”
They crossed the street onto the rest of the battlefield. Two small monuments had been built on the field. The first, encircled by shrubs, consisted of an obelisk atop three square blocks of stone. An inscription read: first battle of the American Revolution.
“Arguable,” Max whispered, “but close enough.”
He followed Sandra and Drummond further across the grass towards the second monument. Like the first, this one bore a tall pillar atop three square blocks, but instead of coming to a point at the top, this one had a statue of James Hunter, a Regulator leader who survived the battle only to be outlawed in the aftermath. Two plaques had been secured to the sides of the monument, but Max could not read them in the dim light. As he brought up the flashlight app on his phone, Sandra and Drummond continued on.
“This isn’t it?” Max asked.
Drummond waved him to follow. “Does it look like we’re stopping?”
They approached the tree line, and Max saw two signs. One read: Alamance Battleground Walking Trail. The other: Nature Trail. No Admittance when site is closed.
Passing by the signs, Max knocked on the trunk of a nearby oak. He figured he could use all the good luck nature offered at the moment.
The trail wound through the woods like a maze. At times, the path opened wide enough for them to walk side-by-side. A few sections, they had to go single file. Sounds of crickets, frogs, and other nocturnal creatures filled the air with clicks, clacks, and croaks.
Up ahead, Drummond stopped, and Max assumed that meant the ghost of Stanton had also stopped. The path went off to the left and right, but even without Max’s flashlight, he could see that the path reconnected and continued on further up. The idea that the path formed a circle did not seem so strange, except there was nothing in the circle — no old tree that need to be preserved, no historic marker to suggest something important, not even a treacherous pit to be avoided. Nothing.
“Is this where you’re buried?” Sandra asked the empty space ahead of Drummond. “Then what is it?”
D
rummond glanced back at Max. “He shook his head No.”
“Thanks, but I figured that part out.”
“Just trying to help. If you don’t want to know what he’s doing, I’ll save my breath.”
“You know I’m not saying that. And you don’t have breath.”
Drummond winked with a sly grin. “Joking around, that’s all. Stanton’s floating in the middle of the circle, and he’s got his arms out but I don’t get what he’s trying to say. Sandra?”
She said, “I don’t know, either.”
“Let me see,” Max said, moving to the front. Nothing about the area stuck out as odd or noticeable. Trees, rocks, ferns, and moss — nothing special.
“Um, Max,” Drummond said. “You better step back.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
Sandra tugged on Max’s sleeve. “Stanton is moving toward you. He’s got his hand out — I think he wants to tap into you.”
Max stumbled back. He had been through that before. A ghost could place its hand in a person’s head, and as long as they remained connected, that person would then see all that the ghost sees. But it hurt like a quadruple migraine. So far, Max had survived the experience, but he felt confident that if a ghost lingered too long in his head, the chances of dying skyrocketed.
“No, thank you,” he said to where he thought the ghost approached. “We’ll figure out what you want here. No need for that.”
Drummond flew in front of Max and pointed at Stanton. “Look, pal, he ain’t interested. Besides, I’m a ghost, too, and I don’t see anything here. So, Max won’t see anything either.”
“Duck!” Sandra said.
Drummond’s head cocked to the side and his body flew off to the left. “What’re you hitting me for?”
Fearing the ghost might act like a bear and pursue the flight of a terrified animal, Max fought the urge to sprint off into the woods. The temperature of the air near his face dropped. His breath puffed out as if on a winter’s eve. His mouth trembled, not from the cold but from the unnerving knowledge that somewhere in front of him, a ghost reached out with a hand full of frozen pain. His heart hammered. His tongue dried. The shaking of his breath filled his ears.