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Shadow Tales

Page 3

by Shirley Damsgaard


  “Do you know which child lost it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Just a minute,” she replied and held up a finger. She picked up the phone and dialed an extension. A moment later, a teacher I recognized from the day before entered.

  “Hi Jennifer,” she said with a smile. “The kids are still talking about the tour.”

  “Great,” I answered, returning her smile. “One of your students left their jacket.”

  A small frown creased her forehead. “Really? I don’t recall any of the kids wearing a jacket like that. Do you remember the student’s name?”

  “No, I’d hoped you could tell me. The boy who lost this was small for his age and had dark hair.”

  She chuckled. “That describes about half the boys in my class.”

  I tugged on my bottom lip. “Umm, his eyes...they were a striking shade of green.”

  “Green?” she shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone in my class. Maybe your thinking of a child from another tour?”

  “No, he was definitely with your group.”

  “Well,” she said, taking the jacket. “I’ll ask my class.”

  Confused, I left the school and drove to the mansion. We’d only had one tour yesterday, and if the kid hadn’t been with them, who had brought him? Kids don’t just wander in off the street. I gave a mental shrug. Even if I had learned the kid’s name, it wasn’t like I could question him. Most parents don’t appreciate strangers interrogating their children.

  My luck hadn’t improved when I reached the mansion. Sneaking down the hall toward the library, I’d hoped to avoid Mrs. Emory, but she nailed me before I’d reached the door.

  “Jennifer, would you like to explain the large hole in the floor of the folly?” Mrs. Emory’s mouth tightened in a grim line.

  “Yes, Mrs. Emory. I’m very sorry. I don’t know how it happened.” I said, trying to sound as placating as possible. “All of a sudden my foot just went through the boards. Probably dry rot.”

  “Nonsense. As a historian, I would have thought you would understand the importance of preservation and shown more care, instead of tromping around like an elephant.” She huffed.

  I felt the comparison to an elephant particularly unfair, but I let it pass.

  “You’re right, Mrs. Emory. I’ll be more careful next time and avoid boards that look damaged.”

  Confident that I had been properly reprimanded, she strode off.

  The rest of the day I was buried in the Captain’s library. I went over every scrap of paper I could find containing any reference to Letty or her family.

  The picture of a man who loved both his lovely home and his young wife emerged. He was so grateful, almost pathetically so, that Letty would marry a man old enough to be her father. He spent his youth in the pursuit of success and had despaired of ever finding, ‘that connubial bliss so many of my friends enjoy,’ as he put it. Captain Madsen had shown his gratitude by lavishing material possessions not only on Letty, but her family as well. His words of devotion rang true. I went over everything, line by line, looking for hidden meanings or subtle resentments, but found none. His grief at Letty’s death was real and searing.

  By mid afternoon my eyes were ready to cross from scrutinizing the Captain’s small, tight handwriting, and I had a headache. Maybe Eric had better luck at finding out about the mysterious “T.”.

  I was quickly disabused of that notion when I called that night.

  “Sorry, Jen, no go. Three young men from there joined the 1st. Minnesota Regiment, all with names beginning with the letter T: Thomas, Thaddeus, and Timothy. We can eliminate Thomas. He survived Bull Run, but died in a Washington D.C. hospital in March of ’62. I’ll keep digging on Thaddeus and Timothy.”

  “I didn’t find anything either. No kid, no clue.” My weariness was apparent in my voice.

  “Well, I guess you have no choice then.” Eric said.

  “What do you mean ‘no choice’?” I asked, my heart thumping.

  “You have to go to Letty’s bedroom.”

  “Are you kidding?” I sputtered, “You said I shouldn’t go in there unless I knew what I was dealing with.”

  “I think you’ve already learned all you’re going to from the records. The idea is frightening, I know.” His voice took on a soothing tone. “But like I said, it’s science. I don’t suppose I can talk you into taking a camera and a thermal scanner with you?”

  “No way,” I exclaimed, appalled at his suggestion. “If you think I’m taking on a second career as a ghost hunter, you’re crazy.”

  “That’s too bad. They are very helpful in recording paranormal activity.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Easy for you to say, you aren’t the one going into a room full of ghosts,” I grumbled.

  By the time we finished, I was wound so tightly, I wondered if I could sleep. Eric stressed several times the importance of a protective prayer. Why did I need protection from ghosts?

  *

  The next morning I stood on the same small balcony where Letty had been found. What had she been doing there? Mourning her lost love? Had she already started feeling the effects of the poison in her system? My eyes searched the grounds. It would have been cold that day in February, not quite winter and not quite spring. The trees would have been still bare and the flowers still sleeping.

  I leaned over the banister to see what was below, trying to imagine what Letty would have seen. Unsteady, I grabbed the finial on top of a post. It came off in my hand. Wonderful, first the floor in the folly and now the post. Was this whole place riddled with dry rot? Mrs. Emory would have a fit over this one. If I could reattach the finial, maybe she wouldn’t notice. I searched the hollow post for a screw or something to hold it in place.

  My fingers didn’t find a screw—something better. Two letters wrapped in the same kind of oilcloth as the diary. With legs shaking, I stumbled into the room and over to the fireplace. I started to read.

  January 15, 1862

  My darling girl,

  I’m sure by now you must feel you are receiving a message from a spirit. That is not the case, my darling. I still am among the living. As I write this, I lay ill in a hospital in Washington. I am told over the past several months the doctors had despaired of my life, but now believe I will live. My comrades found me grievously wounded three days after the battle. I will not tell you of those wretched days, lying alone and hurt. I will only say that my love for you enabled me to survive. Come to me my love, I need your sweet presence. I am sending this letter with George so he might deliver it to your own hand. He will explain all and help you.

  Hurry.

  Yours always,

  Tom

  January 30, 1862

  Dearest Tom,

  My heart leapt with joy when I received your letter! Much has changed since we last were together, but it matters not. All that matters is that you live. I will come to you as quickly as I can. When you are well, we can start a new life in the West. May God forgive me the wrong I must do to a good and kindly man, but my love for you cannot be denied. George has agreed to bring me to you. Till I am once again by your side, know I am yours forever.

  Letty

  I was so enthralled reading the letters that I didn’t notice the subtle change of temperature in the room. When I came to my senses, I noticed my breath coming out in frosty puffs. The air around me changed, and the room filled with the overpowering stench of sickness. My nose wrinkled at the smell.

  Suddenly everything seemed to shimmer, and the next thing I knew, the room shifted and changed.

  A man stood at the window, his head bowed in grief. Letty lay in the bed, propped up with pillows, her face white and gaunt. Her eyes looked sunken as they stared from their blackened sockets at the woman sitting next to her.

  The woman was again dressed in black, and in her hands she held a bowl and spoon. She kept raising the spoon to Letty’s dry, cracked lips. Anger and hate seeped from the woman’s very pores, hitting me with
successive waves of cold. I knew at once who she was and what she was doing. She was Letty’s mother and she was poisoning her with the soup.

  A whisper in my ear, like a dying breath, told me where to find the proof of Letty’s murder. Without waiting for the scene to end, I tore out of the room, down the stairs, and out the door.

  The folly, the lone trunk sitting in the corner.

  As I ran, weeds snagged my clothes and hanging branches whipped in my face. Reaching the folly, I grasped the old door and pushed with both hands. It wouldn’t open. It was as if something held the door shut. Saying a prayer as Eric had instructed, I tried again and the door gave way.

  The trunk sat just where I remembered. Running across the room, I threw open the lid and ripped the lining, destroying it. I would worry about what Mrs. Emory might think about my willful destruction later. There it was, under the lining. Her mother’s confession, written at the end of her own life in an attempt to find mercy and forgiveness for her unspeakable act.

  As I read the confession, I felt the malignancy of the words ooze around me. My hands trembled. That night in the folly, her mother learned of Letty’s plan to run away with Tom. For once, Letty stood up to her domineering mother, and they argued. It was then that her mother made the decision. Rather than lose the Captain’s financial support and the prestige of being related to such a powerful man, she would see her daughter dead. She slowly poisoned Letty with arsenic. The captain, with no knowledge of what was happening, trusted her mother to care for Letty. The poor man never knew Letty’s last meal, fed to her by her “loving” mother, had been laced with the final dose of arsenic that ended Letty’s life.

  Suddenly, gentleness flowed around me. After over a century, the truth was out. The hauntings were over. Letty’s spirit was at peace. She was, at last, with the man who had been waiting so long.

  *

  “Jennifer, so nice to see you again, my dear,” Mrs. Emory exclaimed. “Has it been six months?”

  She stood smiling at me from the doorway of the library, and with a quick wave of her hand, motioned me into the room. She had magnanimously forgiven my destruction of the floor, the post, and the trunk.

  “I’ve read the galleys of the book and it’s wonderful. The book will be of such benefit to the museum.”

  Like I said, I’d been forgiven.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Emory. I’m glad you’re pleased with the book,” I said, returning her smile. “Do you have the pictures we’re including?”

  She crossed the room to the Captain’s desk and picked up a stack of pictures.

  “Here they are. We came across something I think you’ll find very interesting. It is a small pen and ink drawing of the captain as a boy,” she said, handing them to me.

  Taking the pictures, I looked, rubbed my eyes, and looked again. The drawing of the Captain as a child bore a remarkable resemblance to the boy from the tour. The clothes, of course, were different, but the features were the same.

  “Mrs. Emory,” I began, my voice quivering, “you wouldn’t happen to know the color of the captain’s eyes would you?”

  “Yes, dear, I do. They were green, and as I understand it, a

  very startling green.”

  Beyond the Grave

  Emma’s fingers stroked the shower gift lying in her lap. Wrapped in silver foil with tiny white wedding bells attached to its bow, it was gorgeous. She glanced over at the giver, her friend Cheryl, and noticed “the cat who ate the canary” grin on her face. Either this was going to be one of the best gifts ever or another one of Cheryl’s practical jokes. She gave the package a slight shake. Nothing rattled. Carefully, she ran a finger under the ribbon and gently slid it to the side. Much to her friends’ delight she’d already broken the ribbons on three gifts, and since, according to the old wives’ tales, each one broken represented a future child, she didn’t intend to bust another one.

  Opening the box, she lifted the tissue paper. Hot blood crept up Emma’s face.

  “Come on. Hold it up so we can see it,” Cheryl called out, not hiding the laughter in her voice.

  As she held up the sheer red body stocking for all to see, she ignored the giggles, the “oh’s” and “ah’s’ of her friends, and her eyes shot to her Great Aunt Tildy, sitting like a queen in her favorite chair. Honestly, what had Cheryl been thinking when she chose sexy lingerie as a bridal shower gift? Oh sure, Nick would love it on their wedding night, but whatever happened to a nice set of towels, or maybe a deviled egg plate? Especially since Aunt Tildy was the one hosting the shower. Cheryl knew how prim and proper she was. A real lady from the tips of her conservative pumps to the top of the silver braid she wore coiled around her head. Something this risqué was bound to shock her.

  But Aunt Tildy surprised her. Instead of the stunned look Emma expected, Aunt Tildy’s gray eyes shone with humor, as if she was pleased to be included in the group of younger women.

  Emma felt her face cool and thought for the millionth time how lucky she was. She’d always had her parents and Aunt Tildy, and now she had Nick. There’d never been a bride happier than her. It filled her heart to bursting, and in spite of the joy, moisture formed in her eyes. Quickly she blinked the gathering tears away and smiled at Cheryl.

  “How did you know my size?” she asked, placing the body stocking back in the box.

  Cheryl gave a careless shrug. “It stretches. I thought about buying you edible underwear,” she said with a wink at Aunt Tildy, “but I thought that might be pushing it.”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Thank God for small favors.”

  Cheryl’s attention turned toward the long windows overlooking Aunt Tildy’s garden. “What a perfect place for a wedding,” she exclaimed. “What’s the extended forecast for next week?”

  “Sunny,” Emma replied, “but if it does rain, we’ll hold the ceremony here in the parlor, in front of the fireplace.” She glanced over at her aunt. “She has everything covered, don’t you, Aunt Tildy?”

  Aunt Tildy sat forward, folding her hands demurely in her lap. “Of course. I want the day to be perfect for you and Nick. It’s not every day my favorite niece marries my favorite neighbor.”

  Cheryl gave a long sigh. “I wish one of my relatives would have a hunky guy move in next door.”

  “Don’t worry, dear,” Aunt Tildy said with a chuckle. “Your soul-mate will appear when you least expect it. Just like Emma’s did.” Her attention shifted to an old black and white photo, sitting prominently on the mantel above the marble fireplace. “And just like mine,” she finished softly.

  All eyes turned to the photo. “I hope I’m at least half as beautiful on my wedding day as you were, Aunt Tildy,” Emma said wistfully.

  Aunt Tildy rose and walked over to the mantle. Picking up the ornate frame, she trailed a finger over the face of the man in the photo. “You will be. I’m just sorry William isn’t here to see you. He loved you as much as I do.”

  “I miss him, too,” Emma said, joining her great aunt and placing an arm around her frail shoulders. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years.”

  She reached up and taking Emma’s hand in hers and gave it a light squeeze. “When you reach my age, time is relative.” She placed the frame back on the mantle and fiddled with it until it was once again back in its familiar spot. “I’ve had you to keep me company.” Smiling, she looked at the picture again before leading Emma away from the fireplace. “And I know, deep down inside, in whatever lies beyond the grave, William waits.” Her voice softened. “He’ll be there to guide and protect me.”

  Emma gave a chuckle. “Why would you possibly need protection?”

  Aunt Tildy waved her question away. “It’s just an expression,” she said lightly. “I only meant we would be together again. And after all, what’s ten years when we’ll be together for eternity?”

  A stab of sorrow hit Emma’s heart. Leaning her head in close, she whispered words only her great aunt could hear. “I know it’s selfish but don’t join him too soo
n, okay?”

  *

  Later that night, curled up in the guest room under one of Aunt Tildy’s heirloom quilts, she gave a happy sigh as she sank deeper into the feather bed. Life was good. In seven short days, she’d be married in Aunt Tildy’s garden—the site of so many wonderful childhood memories—to the man of her dreams. Her parents were flying in next week from Arizona and many friends, old and new,were coming in from the four corners of the country to share in her happiness. And best of all, Aunt Tildy would be sitting proudly in the front row.

  And the wedding was only the beginning, the start of a golden future with Nick. Who would’ve thunk it, she thought, wiggling her toes in delight. Not her. A year ago, when she’d temporarily moved in to help Aunt Tildy after her hip surgery, she’d all but given up on finding the right man. By the age of thirty, she’d quit looking. Who knew she’d find him literally in the backyard, shirtless and sweaty, mowing Aunt Tildy’s grass? Though she wouldn’t admit it at the time, it truly had been love at first sight.

  Aunt Tildy had been right. You meet your soul-mate when you least expect it. Just like what had happened with her and Uncle William. What a love story, a modern day Romeo and Juliet, only with a much happier ending. They’d been as much in love on the day he died as on the day they’d met. If Emma’s marriage to Nick was half as good, she’d consider her life well spent.

  A sudden knock on the door had Emma sitting up in bed. “Come in,” she called out.

  The door opened, and Aunt Tildy, dressed in her sensible night gown and robe, walked into the room carrying a tray. Balanced carefully on it was a big glass of milk and four of her to-die-for chocolate chip cookies. Crossing the room, she placed the tray on the nightstand and handed Emma the milk and a linen napkin.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” Emma insisted as she spread the napkin over her lap.

  “I surely did,” her great aunt said with a twinkle. “Haven’t I brought you cookies and milk every night you’ve been under this roof?”

 

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