I dropped my sewing in a hurry, because any visitor at all was a welcome break from the dreariness of my brother’s farm. David’s wife, Betsy, was moving toward the front door at a snail’s pace. Wide and slow moving, she was expecting her third child. She was expecting her third child, wide and slow moving. I skirted around her and managed to open the door before Mrs. Redfield could burst through with her knocking.
“Why, Margaretta, fetch your mother,” gasped Mrs. Redfield, looking red faced and breathless. “There’s someone here to meet her!”
“Who is it?” I asked, peering around Mrs. Redfield. There was a young man coming up the steps to the front porch.
“He’s a writer,” Mrs. Redfield whispered loudly. “He writes for newspapers, and he publishes pamphlets, and he wants to speak to your mother.”
By this time, Betsy had arrived to greet the visitors, and my mother was coming down the stairs from the second floor. Betsy ushered us into the parlor, where the young man removed his hat and bowed deeply to each one of us as Mrs. Redfield made the introductions.
“This is Mr. E. E. Lewis, come all the way from Canandaigua to write about the supernatural events that have overtaken our town!”
“I received a telegram from Mr. Artemus Hyde,” explained Mr. Lewis. This produced the expected reaction of awe, as none of us had ever been the recipient of a telegraph message—they had been invented only four years earlier and still were an amazing modern marvel. Mr. Lewis seemed rather a marvel himself for this backwoods township in the wilds of New York. He wore a tightly tailored cutaway coat and a vest with a shawl collar, showing off his starched white shirt and loosely tied cravat. He had the longest, thickest sideburns I had ever seen, and dark, curled hair coming down to his collar in the back. His eyes were blue and twinkling, and when they grazed over Betsy, she patted her hair and smoothed down her farm dress. When they rested on my mother, she turned quite pink and sank quickly to a sofa, one hand reaching out to grasp mine.
I turned a saucy smile in his direction and asked, “What does the E. E. stand for, Mr. Lewis?”
“It stands for my Christian names,” he quickly replied.
“And those Christian names are…” I encouraged him.
“Two names given me by my parents, both beginning with the letter E,” he said with a returning smile. He pulled a small blank daybook from the inside pocket of his frock coat and turned to my mother. “Mrs. Fox, if you don’t mind, I am greatly interested in the events that have so perplexed this town. I would like to take a statement from you regarding this strange affair and your role in uncovering the crime revealed by the ghostly manifestation. With your permission, I shall take down your words and print them for the edification of interested readers across this great nation.”
“Land sakes!” exclaimed my mother, fanning herself. “Do you think anyone would be interested in what happened in our house? I don’t know where to begin!”
“It is best, Mrs. Fox, to begin at the beginning,” the young man reassured her. “You could start by telling me how long you have lived here in Hydesville, and in this house particularly.”
My mother began hesitantly, but she quickly warmed to her tale and recounted all the details of the evening when Kate had first commanded, “Here, Mr. Splitfoot, do as I do.” Mr. Lewis made notes in his daybook, his blue eyes moving steadily from the book to my mother, as if no one else were in the room. He interrupted her once to ask if I was the daughter who first spoke to the spirit. “No, that was Catherine, my youngest, who is upstairs sleeping. This is Margaretta,” replied my mother.
When Mother had finished, Mr. Lewis turned to Mrs. Redfield and asked her to make a statement about her experiences that first night. Mrs. Redfield was more than happy to comply, and she embarked on a lengthy tale that repeated much of what my mother had already said. Mr. Lewis did not seem to mind but wrote every single thing down in his book. Mrs. Redfield’s memory of the events wandered occasionally from the truth and sometimes seemed self-serving. She claimed, for example, that she had asked the spirit to rap out her age as a test of its supernatural knowledge. “There were thirty-three raps,” Mrs. Redfield emphasized, “and that is my age.” My eyebrows rose in disbelief, because I felt sure Mrs. Redfield had bid farewell to age thirty-three a long time ago, but Mr. Lewis showed no such doubt and wrote it down.
I was ready to tell my story next. In my mind, of course, I was the most important person in the story next to Kate, and so it was with a bit of shock that I saw Mr. Lewis rise and close his book.
“I would like to speak to your husbands, ladies, so that I might record their versions of this story as well,” he said. “It seems as if I should also speak to Mr. Duesler, and a few other people who were present.”
“And you will want to come to the house tonight and hear the rappings for yourself, will you not?” Mother asked anxiously, forgetting that she had sworn that very morning not to set foot in the house again after dark.
Mr. Lewis seemed a bit hesitant. “My task here is to record, not necessarily to witness.”
“Oh, Mr. Lewis,” exclaimed Mrs. Redfield, “you can’t come all this way and not hear the rapping for yourself!”
“I suppose I might want to see the house…and certainly the cellar…”
“Then we shall meet at dusk at the Fox house!” proclaimed Mrs. Redfield, and it was clear that Mr. Lewis would bend to her will, just as so many good people before him had done.
I jumped up as he started to leave the parlor, springing into his path. He smiled and nodded in a polite good-bye. “But, Mr. Lewis!” I began.
“Miss Margaretta?” he raised an eyebrow quizzically.
For a moment I was speechless. I could not ask him why he did not write down my story, because my story was largely a secret. Finally, I said, “Those Christian names, sir. Might they be Edward Enoch?”
He smiled. “They might be. But they are not.”
***
That evening, Father drove the wagon into town, conveying Mother, Betsy, and me to meet Mr. E. E. Lewis at the house. Kate had been left behind, over her protestations and wailing. I know she was angry about being left out, and I had some reservations about creating the rapping by myself. I feared the peddler would be more subdued tonight, and I was not sure that Mr. Lewis would be impressed. I think I was more worried that Mr. Lewis would not even notice me than I was about being caught.
We could see the lights of the house and the lanterns carried by neighbors as we approached. A small group waited upon the doorstep, and my keen eyes quickly picked out Mr. Lewis. Father reined in the horses, and as the wagon came to a halt, someone lifted me down. I gathered my skirts and hurried forward, eager to be at the forefront of the crowd.
Mr. Lewis had his daybook out and was leaning down to catch the words of one of the neighbors when a sudden commotion from inside the house caught the attention of all present. Heavy footsteps and excited voices approached, and then my brother flung open the door. Poor David had been single-minded in his endeavor to dig up the cellar. He felt that there had to be an explanation for the mysterious events in the house, and that if he could find some physical proof of an evil deed committed there, it would shed a good deal of light on the problem. He had even pulled up some of the floorboards in the bedroom to make room for a block and pulley to hoist buckets of mud from the cellar.
Now, with his hair askew, his sleeves rolled up, and his trousers coated with mud to his knees, David looked like a ghostly manifestation himself. He was grinning madly, and he thrust out his hand to us triumphantly with the announcement, “I’ve found him.”
At first it seemed to me that he was holding some fragments of pottery in his hand. And then I realized that I was looking at bone, smashed pieces of bone. Yellow-white, smooth in one part and jagged in another, they were tangled in what might have been hemp but was actually hair. As David jiggled his hand a bit, some of t
he pieces rolled about and I could see that two teeth were included among the bones.
A hush fell over the crowd as one of the men held up a lantern and David presented his find for the perusal of Mr. Lewis. “What do you think, sir? Is this him?”
Mr. Lewis pushed his hat backward on his head and closely inspected the gruesome collection. He made a move as if to poke at them with his finger, but he drew back before doing so. “I can’t say, Mr. Fox. Those look like a man’s teeth, but the bone could be anything. Is there more to him?”
David’s face fell a bit. “No,” he admitted, “not yet, anyway. We’re still ankle deep in water down there. I haven’t given up, though. If he’s down there, we’ll find him. The rest of him, that is. Why, if this isn’t human, what is it? What else has hair like that?”
“A horse?” came a voice from the crowd.
“Buried in the cellar?” scoffed David. “With a man’s teeth?”
“A man could lose his teeth without losing his life,” observed Mr. Lewis. “But this bone is very suggestive of some wicked event. I do not doubt that if there is more conclusive evidence to be found, you shall discover it, Mr. Fox.”
“He needs a decent Christian burial!” exclaimed Mrs. Redfield.
“Just that bit of him?” asked her husband wryly. “Or shall we wait for more?”
There was some nervous snickering then, and David looked out uncertainly at the crowd, his big hand closing over the bits of bone and teeth protectively. “This is hardly a laughing matter,” he said with dignity.
“Indeed, it is not,” agreed Mr. Lewis. And although I would have sworn that he had not noticed my arrival or been aware of my presence, he suddenly turned and looked directly at me. “This child is shivering in fear,” he stated. With a swift movement, he removed his suit coat and slung it around my shoulders. I had hardly been aware of my own teeth chattering, but when the warmth of his coat settled around me, I looked up at him gratefully. “I suggest we disperse,” Mr. Lewis continued. “Allow Mr. Fox to close up this house—or tomb, if that’s what it be—and we can continue our investigation into this affair at another time.”
The crowd parted as he took my arm and led me down the front steps. He meant to hand me off to my mother, but she was engaged in animated conversation with Mrs. Redfield, and so I had a moment to turn and speak to Mr. Lewis. “I thank you kindly for your coat, sir.”
“Miss Margaretta, you owe me no thanks. Where I come from, a man would be horsewhipped for showing any less courtesy to a young lady in need. I am certain that if your parents had known such a grotesque discovery would be made here tonight, they would not have brought you here and exposed you to such a fright.”
“A ghost has been rapping in my house for nearly a fortnight,” I replied in what I hoped was an offhand manner. “I believe it would take more than a few bones to frighten me now, Mr. Elijah Ezekiel.”
“Ah, a very biblical appellation,” Mr. Lewis murmured with a smile. “I will be sure to remember it if I am ever graced with a son. But, alas, it does not belong to me.”
He bowed, and I curtsied. My father gave me a hand up into the wagon, and then I handed down Mr. Lewis’s coat regretfully.
Everybody seemed to think that seeing the bones had shocked and distressed me. They gave me a warm tisane of chamomile and peppermint to calm my nerves and put me to bed. The truth, however, was that I hardly gave those poor, sad bones a second thought. I always said there was probably someone buried in that wretched cellar! I bounded out of bed the next day and spent the morning hanging about the front door, eager to greet any visitors—especially Mr. E. E. Lewis, who might call to inquire about my emotional state and finally put my story into his daybook.
Nobody heard the approach of a carriage and horses that morning except for me. I hurried out onto the porch, patting my hair into place and checking my skirt for its cleanliness.
Unfortunately, the man to emerge from the carriage was a stranger to me. He was of medium height but broad across the chest. His hair was fair, but his eyebrows and beard were dark, giving him a fierce look. He took a moment to brush at his trousers and sleeves, then he looked up, faced the house, and began to stride purposely forward. He showed no reaction when he saw me waiting for him and did not speak until he had mounted the steps.
His voice was a deep baritone. “Is this the house of Mr. John Fox?”
“This is David Fox’s house,” I replied. “But John Fox is currently residing here.”
“Then please inform him that I would very much like to speak with him,” the man said. “My name is Bell.”
Chapter Seven
Maggie
The little assembly held in David’s farmhouse that day was a meeting that no one in my family would ever forget. Everyone was frozen in their places, as though it were a painting.
Mr. Bell stood stiff backed and dignified in the center of the drab little parlor, having declined the offer of Betsy’s best chair. My father remained standing, because his guest did, but looked frail next to the visitor, with hunched shoulders and a feeble gaze behind his spectacles. It occurred to me for the first time how much my father had aged since the night before April Fools’ Day.
My brother stood a few feet behind Father, lending silent support. David had a slight build, like my father, but his face resembled Mother’s in its openness and affability. David was used to being well liked, and it pained him to be seen in an adversarial role. My mother sat on the settee, plump and matronly and demurely dressed like a good Methodist. Betsy had taken a seat in the far corner, pale, weary, with a swollen belly leaving almost no room for two-year-old Ella on her lap.
Lizzie dithered uncertainly in the doorway, with Betsy’s younger baby on her hip. Behind her, Kate and I peeped into the room, probably looking like the frightened schoolgirls that we were. Mr. Bell’s gaze swept briefly over us, with a look of consternation to find us in such a state of terror. Little did he know that we were not frightened because we thought he was a murderer, but because we thought he might murder us if he found out how we had destroyed his reputation for the sake of a prank!
Everyone had said that Mr. Bell had moved away. Nobody mentioned that he had moved only as far as Lyons, which was still in Wayne County and only an hour away by carriage. Never in a thousand years would I have expected him to hear about how we had maligned his name and come to set the record straight! Of course, neither could I have imagined a hundred people visiting the bedroom of that dismal Hydesville house to talk to the dead or a writer from Canandaigua arriving to record our stories. It was almost as if I had pushed a wagon down a hill without noticing who was in the way and then found myself helplessly watching the aftermath.
Mr. Bell addressed my father formally. “I understand that you have accused me of murder, sir.”
“Not I,” replied my father.
There was a long moment of silence, as everyone expected that my father would go on, and when he did not, Mr. Bell’s eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. “Have I been misled, then? I understood that there had been an accusation and that it originated with this family.” Again his eyes passed over the room, finding only an ordinary, respectable-looking farming family.
David stepped forward and placed one hand on Father’s shoulder. “It is difficult to explain, Mr. Bell. But there have been manifestations at your former home that defy explanation.”
“Ghosts?” scoffed Mr. Bell.
David nodded in agreement. “If you choose to use that term, sir, then yes, ghosts. Or rather, one ghost in particular. And it is true that an accusation has been made against you.”
“By this ghost?” Mr. Bell repeated incredulously. “It speaks?”
“Ah…no,” admitted David. “Rather he…raps.”
It was clear Mr. Bell was having difficulty maintaining his equanimity, his expressive face fighting down a display of temper. But he did not want to g
ive the appearance of a murderous man, and so he was weighing each statement for its measure of innocence before speaking it. Nonetheless, the idea of a rapping ghost was too ridiculous to bear, and impatience won out on his face as he took a breath in preparation for an attack on my brother’s wits or sanity.
Before Mr. Bell opened his mouth, however, my father unexpectedly spoke again, shaking off David’s hand. “I knew no good would come of it when good Christian people debased themselves by consorting with demons and spooks. I said so myself when all of this devilment began.” Father peered up at Mr. Bell and said, “I have had nothing to do with that house in a week. I won’t set foot there again. I tried and tried to find the source of those noises, sir, I truly did. Never was a man as vexed as I, trying to find a rational explanation that a God-fearing Methodist could accept. And I have prayed, sir, yes, prayed daily…for deliverance from this burden.”
Slowly, Father’s voice ran down, and he lifted a hand to his spectacles, removed them, and wiped them carefully on a shirtsleeve, his eyes cast down to the floor. David reached out hesitantly to him, and Betsy rose from her seat, reaching him at the same moment. Father turned and smiled weakly at his daughter-in-law, then allowed her to take him by the arm and lead him out of the room. Mother watched him go with a surprising coldness in her features, then turned her face back to the visitor.
Mr. Bell seemed taken aback by Father’s outburst and demeanor. He reined in his temper, and his eyes were more sympathetic when he faced David once more. “I can see that you are sincere,” he said in a quieter voice, “and troubled by these events.”
“They have indeed been troubling,” said David, “and my father, who is a profoundly religious man, has been shaken to the core.”
“I have been counseled to seek a lawyer and enter charges of slander,” Mr. Bell went on, causing a grieved look to appear on David’s face. “But I consider myself a gentleman above all, and I felt it was proper that I should come here before taking any legal action, and meet my accuser face-to-face.”
We Hear the Dead Page 4