Shadow Tales

by Shirley Damsgaard

  The portrait I had pointed out to them was of Letty. Captain Madsen had commissioned it shortly before her death, and every time I looked at it, I was struck at how beautiful she’d been. There was a gentleness and vibrancy about her that the artist had captured. It was easy to see why the much older Captain Madsen had fallen in love with her. Such a tragedy. A young woman so full of life, only to lose it chasing something so transient as beauty.

  “Is the house haunted?” Another question from the boy who’d asked about Letty’s death.

  “No, of course not,” I replied, giving the standard answer expected of me.

  The board who oversaw the management of the Madsen Mansion didn’t want it to earn the “wrong” kind of reputation, but I could see it wasn’t the answer the boy wanted.

  His eyes, a startling green, drilled into me. Small for his age, he stood apart from the rest of the children like he didn’t fit in. The kid was probably some kind of junior Ghost Hunter. There always seemed to be at least one on these school tours.

  Suddenly he looked away and I became aware that the other children were shifting nervously back and forth. Time to move on. For the rest of the tour I kept an eye on him, half expecting him to slip away to do a little “investigating” on his own, but he stayed in the back of the group.

  He didn’t speak again until they were leaving. Almost out the door, he abruptly turned.

  “She wants you to find the truth, you know.”

  Startled, I gaped at him.

  He assumed I hadn’t heard him.

  “She wants you to find the truth,” he repeated, “You have the power. I can see it in your eyes.”

  With that, he whirled and ran to join the rest of his class.

  *

  Other than conducting an occasional tour, my real job was a historian on loan from the university. After the tour I was supposed to be cataloging the Captain’s papers in the library, but thoughts of the kid from the tour and what he’d said kept bugging me. What did he mean...‘I see it in your eyes’? He’d made what I do sound like some investigation into the unexplained. What a bunch of balderdash. I was a historian. I made my way in this world by studying diaries, letters, and old artifacts. And from them I pieced together the daily lives of those who lived a century ago. Nothing inexplicable about that, and from what I uncovered in the Captain’s papers, there was nothing inexplicable about Letty. She wasn’t an enigma. She’d been an unfortunate woman who had died young. No more, no less. And for that kid to hint...

  “Stop it,” I muttered to myself, “you need to focus.”

  I picked the papers up. I laid the papers down. Finally I paced over to the window, looking out at the overgrown gardens and the folly.

  “He was a just little kid for Pete’s sake,” I told myself. And probably one who’d watched too many “reality” shows. He’d come on the tour expecting something more mysterious than old portraits and antique furniture, and when he didn’t find it, he tried to create it. The kid had been trying to mess with my head.

  It worked.

  Disgusted at letting myself get distracted by a child, I left the library and wandered over to the portrait of Letty. I stood, gazing at the portrait, trying to figure out what it was about her that had triggered the kid’s imagination. All I saw was a lovely young woman of over a century ago.

  “Jennifer, how did the tour go?”

  I jumped. Mrs. Emory, the curator, stood behind me.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, smiling as she looked up at the portrait. “Letty Madsen was radiant, wasn’t she? By all accounts, the captain doted on her. Her death absolutely knocked the pins out from underneath him.”

  “So I’ve gathered from his papers. The Captain was quite a pack rat.” I gazed back up at the portrait. “I can’t understand why such a lovely woman would feel it necessary to enhance her looks with arsenic.” I said, shifting my attention to Mrs. Emory.

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Jennifer, women of Letty’s time weren’t any different from us when it comes to pursuing beauty. How many women today have cosmetic surgery?”

  “You’re right. It just seems like such a waste that she died so young,” I said, shaking my head. “What happened to Letty’s family after her death?”

  “Oh, even though the captain was heart broken, he still cared for her family financially.” Mrs. Emory turned and started back toward her office. “The marriage was quite a coup for her family, you know,” she called over her shoulder.

  I ran to catch up with her. “Why?”

  “Letty’s family was poor and didn’t move in the same circle of society as the Captain. It was definitely a step up for them both socially and financially.”

  “Okay, her parents were pleased, but what about Letty? Was it a love match?”

  “Whether it was or it wasn’t wouldn’t have made a difference to her. I imagine she did what was expected of her. Women did back then, you know.” Mrs. Emory stopped at the door to her office. “And it gave her a better life than the one she’d had.”

  “But no one knows what she thought about the marriage?”

  “No.”

  “No diaries, no letters?” I asked.

  “None.”

  “What about the morning she took ill?” I pursed my lips. “Hadn’t she gone to her room to write letters?”

  “That’s what the housekeeper said at the time, but no letter has ever turned up.” Mrs. Emory shrugged and gave me a speculative look. “I thought your main focus was the Captain. Why all the sudden interest in Letty?”

  It was that kid’s fault. His oblique statement about “finding the truth” had stirred my curiosity. Yeah, I did believe he’d made it in an attempt to turn a boring tour into something more interesting by imagining a mystery, but what if one really did exist? Given the fact that during his long life, the Captain had saved all sorts of odds and ends, it was unusual that he hadn’t kept anything of Letty’s. He had been distraught over her death. Maybe any reminder of her was too painful for him. Why hadn’t he moved the portrait then? Had he left it there as the only keepsake of his lost love? Had he stood, a lonely old man, and gazed at it while mourning what might have been?

  “Jennifer, did you hear me?” Mrs. Emory asked, giving my arm a light shake.

  “What? Umm...sorry...I heard you,” I said, pulling myself out of my thoughts. “I was thinking about Letty and the Captain. You wanted to know why I’m interested in Letty.” I shrugged. “Letty’s death changed the course of the Captain’s life. To understand him, I think I need to learn more about her.”

  Mrs. Emory gave a polite snort. “Good luck on that. The only possession of hers that remains is her writing desk. According to the documents, the Captain gave all of Letty’s things to her mother.”

  The words “writing desk” caught my attention and I felt a bubble of excitement.

  “Desk?”

  “Yes. It’s in the folly. Would you like me to show you?”

  Three hours later I was hot, sweaty, and frustrated. My clothes were sticking in all the wrong places and my skin was covered with a fine layer of grit. And I was totally empty-handed. Nothing in the desk, nothing in the numerous boxes, and nothing in the trunks. Not a trace of Letty to be found. The only treasure I did find was a very fine mourning pin. A rather macabre little keepsake Victorians were crazy about, a pin with the hair of the dearly departed woven in a design and placed under glass. Mrs. Emory was going to love it.

  Looking up I noticed the light. The trees, their untrimmed branches drooping, shrouded the folly even at mid-day and now the dim light was fading fast. Soon I wouldn’t be able to see. I looked around at the mess. The boxes lay scattered around me. Repacking them, I thought about Letty. It was as if she had never existed, save for the portrait of her. Her life hadn’t left a thing behind.

  Finished, I scanned the room. One trunk stood alone, in a dreary corner. It was dirty and rusted, and all manner of crawly things had made the area their home. Obviously
, the trunk hadn’t been opened in years. I hesitated as I walked toward it. I don’t know how it happened. One minute I was standing, the next I was face down on the floor with my foot stuck through the floorboards.

  After pulling my foot out, I crawled over to the hole and examined the damage. It was a sizable hole. Mrs. Emory would not be pleased. As I stood, the faint light refracted off a piece of glass. The mourning pin. I’d dropped it. Gingerly, I placed my hand in the hole, afraid of what was waiting to skitter across it. But instead of something warm and furry, my fingers felt something smooth and slick. I sat back with my treasure in my lap. Wrapped tightly in old, cracked oilcloth was a book. With trembling hands, I removed the bindings. A diary.

  April 15, 1861

  It has begun! We are at war. The rebels have fired on Fort Sumter! All the men can speak of is fighting and the glorious cause that lays before us. Many of the young men are anxious to join the ranks of the fighting. Some are leaving to join regiments from other states. I fear that T. might be one of them.

  April 20, 1861

  My heart is shattered. The heaviness lies so deep in my breast I can scarce breathe. He is gone, left to join the 1st. Minnesota Regiment at Fort Snelling. T. told me not to fret and assured me the war will not last, that it will end in a few months. I pray he is right! Mama was glad to see him go. I think she suspects the depth of my attachment to T. and does not approve. I tried to hide my distress, but she knows. May the Good Lord and all his angels watch over my beloved and bring him home safe to me!

  May 29, 1861

  These past weeks I have been so downcast, I have been unable to write in this journal. I have spent every free minute writing T., but have had trouble avoiding Mama’s watchful eyes to mail them. I was rewarded for my efforts by receiving a letter. His regiment is being assigned to the Army of the Potomac in Washington D.C. So close to the rebels! I shall know no peace till this wretched war is over!

  July 1, 1861

  T. has arrived safely in Washington. It has eased my mind some to know he is safe. Mama almost caught me with T.’s letter. I must be more careful. Capt. Madsen was here again today to talk to Papa. He seems like a kindly man and very solicitous in his attention to me. Mama flutters and fusses so when he is here. It allows me to slip away unnoticed.

  July 30, 1861

  I have no time to write, not even to T.! Capt. Madsen is here almost every day for one thing or another. He seeks me out now and Mama will no longer allow me to go quietly to my room when he is here. I overheard the captain and Papa talking on the porch after supper about a battle in a place called Bull Run. A feeling of dreaded premonition came over me as I listened. It is my fervent prayer that T. is safe.

  August 1, 1861

  This is the last time I shall write in this journal. The events of my life are no longer of any importance to me. The light of my life is gone and with it all hope of happiness. T.’s regiment was engaged in the terrible battle of July 21st. His name is listed as ‘missing in action’. I know he would never desert his comrades, so he must be dead. Obliterated by the awful cannons. It is my prayer he did not see his death coming. The pain I feel shall be my constant companion for the rest of my miserable days.

  Poor Letty. Her marriage to the Captain took place in September of 1861. I wondered if her parents knew or cared about her unhappiness. Or was she simply a tool to be used to advance the family fortunes? I doubted we’d ever know.

  I rose stiffly to my feet, weighed down by the sympathy I felt for Letty.

  Suddenly I heard it. Softly at first. It sounded like the breeze whispering through the trees, but it slowly grew louder. I strained to listen. Not the wind...a woman weeping. Every inch of my skin prickled. Mustering my courage, I turned.

  I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. The folly was no longer the folly. The boxes, furniture, and trunks were gone. The walls were clean and freshly whitewashed, no cobwebs drifting down like cotton from the rafters. Placed around the room were wicker chairs and a chaise. On the chaise sat a young woman reading a letter and crying. Letty. She was dressed in a simple blue day dress with her hair falling in a soft cloud around her shoulders. She looked impossibly young and the atmosphere in the room was one of incredible sadness.

  As I watched her, the air around me changed. Tension began to build until it was so thick that I felt it clogging my lungs. I fought for breath.

  Letty had stopped crying and was looking up at a woman dressed in black standing over her. I hadn’t seen the woman approach though my eyes never left Letty. They were arguing, but I couldn’t hear their words. I felt the woman’s fury. The woman bent and slapped Letty with such force, her head snapped back.

  I blinked, and in the space of that blink, the room was as it had been—the boxes, the trunks, the cobwebs. Whatever had just happened was over. Gasping, I turned on my heel and ran.

  *

  I didn’t realize that I still clutched the pin and diary until I’d reached my rented room at the local bed and breakfast. I should return them to the mansion. Glancing at the window and the darkness beyond, I imagined creeping through the old house at night. No, I told myself, it would wait until morning.

  Finally safe in bed, with the quilt pulled up to my chin and every light on, I thought about what I witnessed. As a historian, one hears stories all the time about ghosts. I’d never put much stock in them. Now I felt like the Cowardly Lion in the ‘Wizard of Oz’, “I do believe in ghosts, I do believe in ghosts!”

  Unless what I’d witnessed in the folly had been a product of an overactive imagination, there was more to Letty’s story than everyone assumed. But what? Had the arsenic poisoning been intentional? Had Letty been so despondent that she committed suicide?

  Questions, but no answers. I needed help. Who could I call without appearing crazy? I picked up the phone and dialed. He answered on the first ring.

  “Eric, I need help.” I said without preamble.

  “Jen, I’m fine, and how are you?”

  “I’m sorry, Eric, my social skills aren’t the best right at the moment.”

  “I can tell. What’s up?” Eric replied.

  Eric Jackson was a brilliant historian. He was also considered to be something of a crackpot by our colleagues. His tales of the paranormal had raised more than one eyebrow at stuffy academic gatherings. He was the only one who would listen with an open mind. I told him my story. He said nothing until I was finished.

  “Wow, I would have given anything to have been there,” he exclaimed.

  “I wish it would’ve been you instead of me,” I grumbled.

  “It was a residual haunting,” Eric said, his voice calm.

  “Oh goody,” I answered, with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “And exactly what might that be?” My fingers drummed a nervous beat on the quilt.

  “It’s a scene played over and over again, like an echo from the past. Not everyone can witness something like that. You were lucky.”

  “Excuse me, but I don’t feel lucky. My arms are still covered with goosebumps.”

  “Yeah, the first time is always scary, but this is science, Jen. Just look at it as a scientific investigation. It will be easier next time.”

  His words made me shudder. I didn’t know if I could handle another vision of Letty.

  “You’re sure?” I exhaled a shaky breath.

  “Yeah, I could come down there to help you, but for some reason, I have a feeling you must be the one who discovers what happened. Letty has evidently chosen you.”

  “Great.” His words weren’t exactly comforting. “What do I do? I guess I missed the class on ghosts.”

  Eric laughed. “First, you need to find out as much information as you can. My guess is that the key is the boyfriend. I can help you with that. I’ll check the Civil War data on that regiment and see if we can figure out who he was.” Eric paused. “Interesting about the boy from the tour. Maybe he’s a psychic. Wouldn’t hurt to check it out.”

  “How? Waltz into the elementary school and as
k the teachers if one of their sixth graders is a psychic?”

  “The kid might know something. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to him.” Eric replied.

  “Okay,” I agreed against my better judgment. “Then what?”

  “Letty died in her bedroom, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, that would be the place for the most energy. Have you ever picked up anything when you were in there? Any sudden change in temperature? Unusual smells, sounds?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t go in there very much.”

  “Well don’t start now, not until you know what you’re dealing with. The fury you felt in the folly, was it coming from Letty or the woman in black?”

  “I couldn’t tell.”

  “Listen, there’s a reason Letty’s spirit is still tied to the mansion. Maybe her death wasn’t accidental? Maybe it was a suicide? And it sounds like there’s some nasty energy surrounding whatever happened—” He stopped suddenly. “You need to be careful. Be sure to say a prayer for protection before you go into her room or the folly.”

  I snorted. “Really, Eric, this isn’t ‘The Exorcist’.”

  “I’m not kidding, Jen. This isn’t something to take lightly or to fool around with. Whatever it is, it has stayed buried for over a hundred years, and someone might want to keep it that way.” Eric’s voice was stern. “Call me tomorrow night.” With that, he hung up.

  I thought talking to Eric would make me feel less afraid. I was wrong.

  *

  The next day I walked into the school’s office feeling like a fool. I had my cover story down. Grasped tightly in my hand was a child’s red jacket that I’d snitched from the lost and found box at the mansion. Walking up to the woman standing behind the counter, I smiled.

  “Hi, I’m Jennifer Connors. We found this,” I said, holding up the jacket. “A custodian at the mansion found this after your tour yesterday and Mrs. Emory wanted me to drop it off.”