“The one by the road is the 4th US Battery B and, I think, the one down by Howard’s monument is New York Battery I. I think, this was all the 11th Corps. Howard’s headquarters were over there.”
“And they got all the way to the Spangler Farm?”
He nodded. “We can debate the maneuverability of the 11th Corps all you want later, but I was wondering… I mean, if it’s too late you can say no, but I’ll be done with the counselor at seven or seven-thirty. I can pick you up and show you around the battlefield. Uh, if you want. Or we can just hang out or…whatever.”
Or…whatever left a lot open for her imagination to fill in. She suppressed a smile. “I wouldn’t classify seven-thirty as too late. Text me when you’re on your way, and I’ll make sure I’m presentable. Or, at least, wearing adequate shoes.”
“I think you’re beautiful now.”
“Well, I…um…” She blushed. “You’re sweet, but I’m fully aware I smell like sweat and bug spray, not to mention the fact I look like I crawled out from underneath the bank barn.”
“I wasn’t going to mention the smell, but if you’re going to bring it up…” He chuckled and turned the Jeep into the hotel parking lot. “I’m kidding.”
“I’m not. I’m offending myself.”
He slowed the Jeep to a stop and shifted it into park. “I’ll text you as soon as I’m finished. I’m only over in Chambersburg, so I can be back here in less than half an hour.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She unfastened her seatbelt, hesitating before opening the door. Something felt left unsaid, as if she should say more to him. He still sounded like he was apologizing for having to go to a counselor.
“Hey.” He caught her arm and gently pulled her back to him, pressing his lips to her cheek. “Thanks for understanding.”
Invite him in. The idea sounded ridiculous and presumptuous; it was exactly what she wanted to say. Instead, she restrained herself, pursing her lips into a coy smile. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Yes, you will.”
She felt like she could do cartwheels the whole way back to her hotel room. It was like some kind of kitschy musical. The fact he’d kissed her on the cheek was far more meaningful than it probably should have been. They were adults. Yet, she felt like she did the first time Joey Clarke kissed her in their church’s kitchen when they were twelve. Giddy. Stupidly smiley. Propensity of walking into walls.
She forced herself to walk across the parking lot at a respectable pace, turning to wave to him before scampering inside the building. There were only a couple hours to kill before he’d be back. Quick shower. Quick dinner. Then, just a marginal amount of time to waste waiting for his text, time that she could maybe fill up with a crossword puzzle or paperback—a sentiment that made her feel closer to seventy-one than twenty-one.
The hot water and steam of the shower was relaxing, enough to kick the butterflies in her stomach into submission. Her muscles ached. The tendons and ligaments in her upper shoulders and back throbbed as if she’d been moving heavy furniture all week instead of throwing her weight against the screen sifter. It was just another brutal reminder that, although she was thin, she was pathetically out of shape.
She stood under the unrelenting water, craning her neck from side to side in an attempt to work the muscles loose. Maybe Mike could crack her back for her. She smirked. Now that was a pickup line she’d have to remember: say, care to get on top and crack my back?
Once the conditioner was rinsed out of her hair, she turned the faucet off and reached for a towel. Her hair was getting long. It seemed like she’d need to use two or three of the thin, white hotel towels to sop up the excess water. No matter, she could resort to using the room’s hair dryer and, in forty-five minutes or so, the feeble little machine might get her hair dry. Damn it, of all the things to leave at home. She hadn’t planned on needing to look as attractive and desirable as humanly possible. If she had, she’d have brought along a better selection of makeup.
She towel dried her hair enough to keep water from trickling down her back, and then wrapped another towel around her body. It was a good thing she’d done a load of laundry the previous day. Not that she had “date” quality outfits with her, but she was fully aware which pair of jeans accentuated her curves the best. She pulled on a red vintage style t-shirt emblemized with a grayed out Union Jack. It was casual and cute, though she was reasonably sure her clothes were the last thing on his mind.
The steam from the small bathroom had filtered out into the sink area, fogging up the mirror and giving everything a generally damp feeling. She wiped her hand across the condensation covered mirror. In the unobstructed reflection she could see a figure, a man, standing directly behind her.
She bit back a shriek and jerked around. There was no one there; the room was empty.
“Shit.” The words felt as if they bubbled out of her throat, pushed out by her rapid heartbeat. She gripped the countertop with one hand to steady herself. The reflection in the mirror was clear and crisp. It wasn’t a shadow or the light playing on the steam from the shower. It was a man. It was him, the man who’d been watching her for days. He’d stood and watched her at the Spangler Farm. He’d breathed on the back of her neck, whispered in her ear as she worked in the test pit.
Now he was in her room.
Madison swallowed hard, peering into the main section of the hotel room. It was empty. Nothing was out of place, no one was watching her from any corner of the room; yet, she didn’t feel completely alone. He was still there.
Her hand faltered on the countertop and she sank backward, half sitting, half leaning against the sink. The air in the room felt soupy and stale. Gooseflesh rippled down her still damp arms and across her back. What in Christ’s name did he want from her?
She felt him next to her, his breath on her shoulder. Please.
Could he hear her when she spoke to him? It was worth a try. “I’m not sure I know how to help you.”
But she knew someone who did.
* * * *
It took her far longer to get dressed than it should have, as she’d made the clumsy effort to keep her towel around her while pulling on underwear and bra, but she was out the door and down the stairs in less than ten minutes. She hadn’t wasted time drying her hair, though she realized she should have. It was brushed, but hung down to her mid-back in dripping tendrils that left her shirt increasingly damp. Ridiculous. Part of her felt like a child; running away from a voice in her head, from things she couldn’t explain. Maybe she was crazy, maybe it was all in her head, but she felt the desperation in his voice better than she could hear it. Something was wrong.
The windows of the palm reader’s shop were dark. She slowed her pace considerably, almost to a stop and studied the front door. Too late. Shoot, how had she missed her? Closed. The sign in the front window was almost mocking: too slow, Madison. Always too slow. Always missing out. She exhaled loudly, pressing her palms to her forehead. Maybe there were weekend hours.
As she stepped toward the store front, the door opened. Lenore’s eyes widened and she shifted her bag and stack of books to her other arm. “I figured there was a reason I was running late this evening.”
“I can hear him now.” Madison heard the waver in her voice. “And I don’t know what to do.”
Lenore’s expression softened and she motioned her into the store. “Does Mike know you’re here?”
“I’m sorry for what he said to you.”
“Mr. Caldwell is more complicated than you are. I didn’t take his sentiments personally.” She set the stack of books on the counter. “Do you want a cup of tea? I have spice and chamomile.”
“Oh, no, please, I don’t want to keep you. I just have a few questions and…I guess…” Madison hesitated. “I need advice.”
“I’ll help you as best I can.” Lenore flicked on the waiting room lights and sat down in the arm chair, tucking one of her legs beneath her. “You’ve come a long way in a few days if you can hea
r him now.”
“I can hear him, I can feel him, I can see him.” Madison sat down across from her and again pressed her palms to her forehead. “Even when I can’t exactly hear him, I feel like I can hear him in my head. He’s always there. And…the more I actually verbalize it, the crazier I feel.”
“You’re a sensitive, Madison. It’s a gift, not a curse. Though,” — Lenore sighed — “sometimes it isn’t necessarily a blessing.”
“But, why me? Of all the people who crawl all over this battlefield and all the people who know they’re sensitive and know how to use their gift, why did he pick me?”
“That’s not something I can answer.”
“Well, that’s not something he can answer either.”
“Did you ask him?”
Madison stared at her.
“You should ask him. I highly doubt he wouldn’t tell you, if he could.” Lenore adjusted several oversized, gold bracelets over her wrists. “There are two types of hauntings, residual and intelligent. Residual hauntings are like a broken record, just a blip of action or speech pattern the spirit continuously repeats. They can’t see you, they can’t interact with you. They aren’t necessarily cognizant that it’s even happening.”
Madison thought of the soldier she’d seen on Culp’s Hill, crouched down and sliding toward a stone wall. Perhaps he was reliving—in death—the last moments of his life.
“Intelligent hauntings, however, are the opposite. They know what’s going on. They can see you, talk to you, and—if they’re strong enough—can touch you. These spirits don’t always know they’re dead. I think your spirit does, though. He doesn’t sound confused. He sounds like he’s frantic to get his point across.”
“I still don’t understand why he picked me.” Madison slouched back against the couch cushions. “I wasn’t trying to be sensitive to anything; I was just there to do my job.”
Lenore tented her fingers in front of her face, pressing her fingertips into her lips as if she was deep in thought. “So, you’ve never dealt with a spirit before?”
“Never. I worked on the Pittsburgh Allegheny Cemetery commission two years ago and spent five to six hours a day in a cemetery. Nothing strange or out of the ordinary happened in the three months I worked on the project.”
“Do you have family who fought here at Gettysburg? Could it be someone in your family or a direct ancestor?”
Madison shook her head. “My father’s side didn’t emigrate from Germany until the 1880s. My mother’s side had two brothers who served, but they fought in the Western Theater, mainly in Tennessee.”
“There’s something about you, though, something so strong that he’s attached himself.” Lenore tilted her head from side to side. “He won’t answer me anymore. He’s wholly focused himself on you.”
“I feel useless to him. Part of the time he sounds like he’s underwater. Other than that, he sounds like he’s screaming at me from two miles down the road.” Madison squirmed in the seat, cracking the knuckle on each finger individually, one at a time. “I get like, one or two words at most that I can hear well.”
“But you’ve seen him.”
She nodded. “I’ve seen him so well I can make out the features in his face. He’s young, probably my age or a little older. His eyes are wide, panicked almost, and he looks…he looks sad.”
“Has he told you his name?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Lenore leaned forward and reached for her hand. “Ask him now. I’ll help you.”
“No…I, I can’t.” Madison looked away, focusing her attention to the stack of books on the counter. “I feel like an idiot.”
“Just try.” Lenore grasped her hand and turned it over, palm up. “Focus your mind on him. Open yourself up, close your eyes if you have to, but try and empty your mind of all thoughts; of Mike, of the dig, of feeling silly. Picture your mind as a blank slate. Let him use your energy to answer you.”
Maybe this was the point in the evening when Lenore shoved a soldering iron through her skull. She didn’t like the vulnerability of sitting there with her eyes shut. Curiosity won out. She felt like a fool, but closed her eyes, trying to will panicked thoughts out of her mind. She focused instead on the darkness, expelling thoughts and distraction with each exhaled breath. “Can you tell me your name?”
Silence.
She frowned and took a deep breath, holding it in her lungs until she couldn’t go without oxygen anymore. Exhaling slowly through her mouth, she tried again. “Please, tell me your name.”
He was next to her, standing over her and looking down at the top of her head. She could feel him lean down closer, as if he was trying to whisper in her ear. Ben.
“Ben.” She repeated his name. There was something about knowing his name that made him seem more concrete. He wasn’t an imaginary figment, he’d been a person. He’d had feelings and desires and hopes until one day, sometime over the course of three days in July 1863, it all ended. He’d ended, but something—no doubt whatever it was he was trying to tell her—made him stay. “I’m glad to know your name, Ben.”
Madison…please… His voice faded and then was suddenly too garbled to understand.
She groaned, opening her eyes to study Lenore. “He was completely clear and then faded into mumbling. Why does that happen?”
“It takes an incredible amount of energy for him to speak to you, let alone become visual. Most spirits can only contact through tapping or light manipulation. Full figured apparitions, like you described, are rare. He’s exhausted.” Lenore paused. “And he’s obviously desperate.”
“You said he can feed off my energy.” Madison chewed on the inside of her lip and frowned. “How can I help him do that?”
“Practice. Work on honing the technique you just used now. Make yourself open. Physically relax yourself—tighten and release your muscles—from the top of your head to the end of your toes. Empty your mind, strengthen your focus, and you’ll get there. He’ll help you.” Lenore hesitated, briefly looking away. “Keep in mind, though, when you open yourself up, he’s not the only spirit who might come in. There are innumerable spirits in Gettysburg. The air is saturated with them. Residual, intelligent, what have you, but they’re here. They’ll feed on that energy as well.”
“And hurt me?” Her voice cracked. Ben was one thing, but a vindictive spirit manipulating her or attacking her was horrifying.
Lenore seemed to consider it. She spoke slowly. “I don’t feel as if there are dark spirits here. There are troubled spirits, those who are confused and scared. They don’t know they’ve passed and don’t understand what’s happened to them. They’re the panicked, the persistent. They can be overwhelming.”
“All of this is overwhelming.”
“It is, but you’ll handle it.” Lenore hesitated again, as if there was something she wanted to say but couldn’t bring herself to utter the words. “If you trust someone enough to help you, you can always consider long-standing contact methods, like glass divination. Be careful though, as with that amount of energy, you’ll be open to any number of earthbound spirits.”
“I trust you.” Madison shrugged. “Why can’t we try it now?”
“Ben is connected to the Spangler Farm. If you try something like glass divination, you’ll get the best results there. He’ll be strongest there.” She hesitated again, a habit which was quickly becoming an irritant. “You need to be careful. “
“I thought you said there were no dark spirits in Gettysburg.”
“I said I don’t think there are dark spirits here.” Lenore’s eyes fluttered shut. She inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly, turning her palms up. “But I feel there’s darkness at the Spangler Farm. It’s not Ben radiating it, it’s coming from other voices. I feel it…at least two distinct spirits are in agreement. They’re chiming in, they keep saying ‘she, she, she’. Do you know what that means?”
Madison shook her head. “No…but he’s said that to me, too.”
�
�Three spirits, one message.” Lenore leveled her gaze, her face as expressionless as solid marble. “One warning. Whatever is wrong at the Spangler Farm, you need to be careful. It will find you. And when it does, no one—not Mike, not Ben—is going to be able to stop it.”
Chapter Eleven
Madison slid her finger across the face of her cell phone. Ten minutes had passed since Mike texted her. He’d told her the trip from Chambersburg would only take him about twenty minutes, but it felt like she’d gotten the text four hours ago. After her chat with Lenore, she really didn’t feel like being alone. The hotel room seemed stifling and stale, so she decided to wait for him outside.
Outside, though, didn’t feel much better. Maybe “opening” herself up to Ben was a mistake. She felt vulnerable, as if unseen eyes were staring at her. Sizing her up. Testing. Watching.
Waiting.
She slid her finger across the face of the phone again, this time pulling up the web browser. Entering the search term “glass divination”¸ she tapped her finger against the first web address that came up. The method sounded simple enough.
Long used in séances to contact the spirits of the dead, glass divination is typically performed with two to five people. Participants gently rest their fingertips on an upturned glass, focusing their energy and minds on the spirit(s) around them. The spirit is queried by manner of yes or no questions, urging the spirit to contact and answer through direct tapping or manipulation of the glass. As the energy force increases, the spirit should be able to move the glass over and across the tabletop without direct manipulation from participants. See Ouija Board.
She looked up from her cell phone. It seemed doable. It also seemed vaguely illegal, considering the fact Lenore suggested actually going to the Spangler Farm to perform it. It wasn’t going to be easy to convince anyone—especially Mike—to help her break into park property for a glorified séance.
Most likely.
Tucking the phone back in her pocket, she slouched farther down the bench and shut her eyes. There were so many positives to this dig, namely actual archeological experience and the possibility of sex with Mike, but she didn’t feel like being a sounding board for a desperate, lost soul. She couldn’t do anything for him. Really, how could he expect her to help him when she couldn’t hear him most of the time?
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