Season of Mists (Young Adult Paranormal Romance) (Cupid's First Strike - Teen Love In The 80's)

by Doreen Owens Malek

  I caught sight of my white face in the dresser mirror and laughed out loud. Scaring yourself, Cory? Halloween is coming. Must get into the spirit of things. Ghouls and goblins and things that go bump in the night. But as much as I tried to shrug it off, I couldn’t quite dismiss that unsettled feeling, and it kept me awake long after I heard my mother close the door to her room.

  * * *

  The next day was Saturday, and I was on duty bright and early. Benti commented that the heat seemed to be coming up all right this morning, so Alice canceled the call for the serviceman. She enlisted my aid in setting up a display on the entry table.

  “What is all this stuff?” I asked, lugging piles of books and photographs from the doorway, where they had been dumped unceremoniously on the floor.

  “Promotion for Founders’ Day,” she answered, grunting with the effort of lifting one of the heavier boxes. “The town’s anniversary is November tenth.”

  Oh, yes. I had forgotten. We had this little shindig every year. It commemorated that historic day when a group of our forefathers got together and incorporated their colonial outpost, planting the seed that had grown into present day Yardley.

  “Where did all this junk come from?” I inquired, turning over an aged, yellowed photo of the mill in its heyday. “Who’s been collecting it?”

  “It’s all on loan from the library,” Alice replied, “so take good care of it. The curator will have my head if anything happens to those old pictures. They’re one of a kind and can’t be duplicated. They tried making new prints of them, but they copy very poorly, so handle them gently. They all have to go in the display case, under glass.”

  “How did you wind up with them?”

  “The mill is a historic landmark. It can’t hurt business to feature a little local color in the office along with the maps.”

  “I see,” I answered dryly. I should have known. Around here, everything was secondary to the business.

  “Help me take off this glass,” Alice said, removing the cover from the display window. We carried the pane to the ground, and took down the photos of the listings, which it had protected.

  “I’ll set out these books,” Alice stated, “and you put up the pictures, okay? Try to make it look artistic.”

  “Come on, Alice. You’ve picked the wrong person for the job. I’ve never been the least bit artistic.”

  “Try, will you? And don’t take too long; we’ll need you at the phones.”

  That was obvious. They were ringing constantly. I sighed and picked up a stack of sepia photographs, trying to decide how many I would need to cover the available space.

  It wasn’t long before the display case was forgotten and I was sitting cross-legged on the rug, lost in the past. The images of a bygone era were fascinating. There were many pictures of the mill, and also of the old ferry, which used to run between Yardley and West Trenton. Men and women long dead, wearing outdated clothes and solemn expressions, stared at me from the creased and watermarked prints. These people had once lived where I lived, passed the same landmarks every day that I saw now. Perhaps some of them were woodpile relatives, or ancestors of my friends at school. The handlebar moustaches of the men, and the long skirts and high button shoes of the women, took me back to half forgotten history lectures heard in sterile rooms that smelled of chalk dust. Why hadn’t I paid more attention? The events the teachers spoke of were real, they had happened, affecting the lives of the people in the pictures as certainly as current events affected me now. I felt as if I were holding their diaries in my hands. I remembered something I’d read about an Eastern religion whose adherents refused to be photographed, fearing that their souls would be trapped on the celluloid film. It had seemed like nonsense when I first heard it, but I understood it now.

  I turned to another pile of photos, and the one on top caught my eye. It was a group portrait of some mill workers, taken outside on what was once the loading dock. The men were leaning on one another, arms draped casually over shoulders, some mugging, some staring seriously into the lens. They were all dressed in work clothes, overalls and boots, some wearing the sort of straw hat, called a “boater,” which was popular in the twenties. There was no date on the print, and it was hard to tell when it had been taken because work clothes really didn’t vary much from one era to another. The headgear and the bad condition of the picture, however, as well as the hairstyles and moustaches on the men, indicated that it might be fifty or sixty years old.

  I examined it more closely, unsure why it had captured my attention. And then I knew. There was a familiar face among the crew. Kneeling in the foreground, an elbow propped on his upraised knee, was Tom.

  I held the picture up to the light, peering at his face. Could I be wrong? No, it was Tom. He was only one of many, and his features were small and slightly blurred, but I would know that smile anywhere.

  I stared into space, the photo still in my hand. There must be some mistake. I didn’t realize how my hand was shaking until the print fell to the floor. I picked it up, looking around for Alice.

  She was filling the coffee pot with water, searching for the plug with her other hand. She glanced up at me.

  “All done?” she said.

  I ignored the question. “Alice,” I said carefully, “I think one of the pictures was put in the group by mistake. I don’t think this is an old photo.” I handed it to her.

  She put down the pot and examined it. “No, this is right,” she stated. “Look at those clothes, and the age of the print. See the yellowed edge? About 1925, I’d say. It was probably saved because of the Casement boy.”

  “The Casement boy?” I repeated faintly.

  “Yeah. I’m surprised you’ve never heard about him, considering that you work here. He was killed in an accident at the mill, must have been shortly after that picture was taken.”

  For the first time, I knew what it felt like to have my heart in my mouth. “Which is he?” I asked, striving for calm, but my voice sounded shaky.

  Alice’s manicured forefinger pointed to Tom’s face.

  “There he is,” she said. “Tom Casement. He was only nineteen when he died.”

  Chapter 5

  Cory? Cory, are you all right?”

  I realized that Alice was calling my name. “What?” I whispered.

  “Are you okay? You look . . . dazed or something. Do you feel faint?”

  I seized this opportunity. “Yes, yes, I do. I haven’t been feeling well all morning. Would it be all right if I went home?”

  “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t finish the display.”

  “Don’t worry about it; I’ll get to it later. Go on home now, and get some rest. You look terrible.”

  “I guess I’d better,” I said. “I really don’t feel so hot.” I waited until she had turned away, and then I slipped the picture into my pocket. I grabbed my jacket and purse and headed for the door.

  Once out in the crisp fall sunshine, I couldn’t believe what had just happened. Such things were the stuff of fairytales, of the yarns my grandmother had spun to inflame a child’s imagination. Such things did not occur in the real world of acne and toothaches and algebra tests.

  I leaned against the oak tree in the parking lot and closed my eyes. What did it mean? I couldn’t grasp it, I couldn’t deal with it. My brain reeled away into infinity, boggled by possibilities that defied logic and failed the tests of reality I tried to apply. Was I losing my mind? Had I seen a picture of Tom, implanted his image in my subconscious, and then called him up as a hallucination? But he had been so real, his touch so warm, his voice so reassuring. My Tom was not a specter from a nightmare, the product of a fevered imagination. I would not accept it.

  I didn’t realize that I was crying until I reached up to smooth a lock of windblown hair and felt the wetness on my cheek. I wiped my skin with the back of my hand and closed my eyes.

  The curious thing was that while I was shocked, I was not real
ly taken unaware. I had been prepared for, if not this, then something. I had known it, felt it, all along.

  I allowed myself to consider the possibility that presented itself most urgently to mind. If Tom was dead, and had come back for me, then so many things which had bothered me were explained. His abrupt arrivals and departures, his terror and avoidance of other people, his inability to leave the mill. He must be tied in some way to the place where he died. And the coldness others had noticed, but which I had never felt. But only I could see him. He had always visited me when I was alone at the agency, I now remembered. He didn’t want me to know that everyone else was unaware of him.

  I realized what I was thinking and decided that I was insane. Even to entertain such a train of thought was madness. If I told anyone about this I would be committed instantly. I would be seeing a doctor, but it wouldn’t be Curtis Mayfield, Family Practice.

  I took out the picture and looked at it again. Tom’s face stared back at me, as innocent as sunshine. It was not in him to hurt me, I knew that. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t designed to do me any harm.

  “Are you all right, miss?” a male voice asked.

  I looked up. A gray haired man in his fifties, a woman of the same age at his side, was peering at me anxiously.

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied. “I just had an upsetting experience, that’s all.”

  The man eyed his wife questioningly. She shook her head and took his arm. They walked away.

  I straightened and rubbed my eyes. This would never do. I had to get going.

  I had walked several steps before I stopped. Get going where? Where was I going?

  I decided to go home. I trudged through the parking lot and up the street, still clutching the photograph in my clenched fist.

  My mother was out shopping with Mrs. Lafferty and the house was silent. Even Stella was asleep. She came groggily to life as I entered, shaking her head, trying to wake up. She followed me slowly upstairs.

  In my room I took the list of phone numbers my father had given me from the drawer. I went to the phone and started to dial long distance to his office in Phoenix. Then I slammed the receiver down into its cradle.

  What was I going to say to him? Please help me, Daddy, I’m in love with a boy who’s been dead for fifty years? He’d be on the next plane back to put me in a padded cell.

  Who could I tell? Linda would never understand; she already thought I was acting weird. I could only imagine her reaction to this story. And I’d never been able to discuss much with my mother. I was alone.

  I pressed my fingertips to my temples. I had to think. All I had to go on now was suspicion and a faded photograph. I needed more. I needed confirmation.

  I picked up the phone again and got the number for the Yardley library. When the librarian answered I said, “Good afternoon. I was just admiring the display of vintage photos in the grist mill, and I was told that they came from your collection. I was wondering if I might be able to get some further information about them.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Well, there’s one picture in particular that interests me. It shows a group of mill workers assembled outside the building, on the dock. It looks as though it had been taken during the twenties. Would someone be able to tell me more about it?”

  “I doubt it, miss. We got those pictures from old Mrs. Morse, and she’s been dead for ten years.”

  My knuckles were turning white on the hand that held the phone. “What about newspaper articles of the period? Do you keep copies of old papers?”

  “Just the local papers, the Inquirer and the Trenton Times, for about a year. We have them on file. If you want to go back further than that, you’ll have to go to Trenton and go through their microfilm banks.”

  “Microfilm banks?” I said unhappily. It sounded like science fiction.

  “Yes. They have everything miniaturized and reproduced on spools. You use a machine to view them. They have the New York Times and quite a few magazines.”

  “Do you know if they would have the local Yardley paper from the mid-twenties?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. That’s going back pretty far, but they might. Let me give you the number of the reference librarian there and you can check.”

  I repeated the Jersey number she gave me to myself as I dialed it. If there was any hope at all, I was going to Trenton that afternoon.

  The lady there was more helpful. Yes, they had copied the papers onto film, dating back to the turn of the century. Anything prior to that would have to be retrieved by special request from the stacks at the Rutgers Historical Society or the Princeton Museum.

  I crossed my fingers. “Do you have copies of the Yardley, Pennsylvania, daily from the twenties?”

  There was a long pause. “I’ll have to check that.”

  I prayed silently during the interval of silence that ensued. She came back on the line.

  “We have something called the Yardley Dispatch, and also an evening edition called the Delaware Valley Republican. Is that what you’re looking for?”

  I had no idea. “I hope so. Look, could you put those reference materials aside for me? My name is Cory Simpson, and I’ll be there in half an hour. What’s your name, please?”

  “Mrs. Drury. I’ll save the catalogs for you, Miss Simpson.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.” I hung up hastily, already debating the next phase of my plan.

  My mother’s car was in the driveway. She and Mrs. Lafferty had gone off in the Laffertys’ station wagon. I picked up my keys, knowing that I was going to catch it for taking the car without permission. But this was an emergency. I would just have to think up some plausible story to tell my mother by the time I got home.

  As I walked out of the room I caught sight of the medallion my grandmother had given me when I was twelve. It hung from the mirror above my vanity. She had brought it with her from Wales. Made of some base metal, it depicted a Druid harvest symbol: a sheaf of wheat, bound with a thong, being split in two by an ax. My father disliked it, and referred to it as a “pagan trinket.” I tried not to wear it around him, and I had taken it off when I met him for lunch. But right now I felt as if I needed Grandma’s magic. I grabbed it up and dropped it around my neck.

  I put out fresh water and biscuits for Stella, and left a note for my mother, telling her that I had taken the car to go to the library, which was true enough. I locked the door behind me as I left.

  The drive to Trenton was quick and without traffic. I got on Route 1 in Morrisville and crossed the river, getting off at the State Street exit. The main branch of the library was just across the road from Mercer County Community College, and I parked in their lot, which was almost empty on a Saturday afternoon.

  The reference desk was on the second floor. Mrs. Drury sat in a chair behind it, a placard displaying her name on the ink blotter before her.

  “I’m Cory Simpson,” I said breathlessly.

  She nodded. “How do you do? Those books are for you.”

  I eyed the stack in dismay. It would take me forever to go through those.

  She correctly interpreted my glance. “Perhaps if you told me what you needed?” she suggested.

  “I need information about someone who was killed in an accident at the Yardley grist mill in the twenties. I thought there might be a newspaper story about it.”

  “Do you know the date of death?”

  I shook my head.

  “Have you checked the town registry? All death certificates would be recorded there.”

  “No I haven’t, but it’s closed on Saturday.”

  “And you need this information today?”

  I nodded.

  Mrs. Drury sighed. Clearly she had hoped to be rid of this wild eyed teenager who was disrupting her afternoon siesta.

  “Well, I suggest you go through the index of obituaries. There is an alphabetical listing for each year, by month and day. You’ll just have to read them all. You do know the party’s n
ame?”

  “Yes.”

  She went to the pile of books and handed me three of them. “You start with these. I’ll take the others. What are we looking for?”

  I shot her a grateful smile. She was going to help me. “Thomas Casement.” I spelled the last name for her.

  She pulled over a chair from one of the nearby tables and I dropped into it. We set to work.

  It was a tedious and boring job. An hour passed while we went through all the C’s in each year from 1920 on. I didn’t even want to think that I might have the date wrong. It was too horrible to contemplate.

  Mrs. Drury found a Casement in 1922, but it was a woman. Eloise. Tom’s mother or sister? The library was closing at five, and I didn’t want to stop and look it up. We forged onward.

  “Here it is,” Mrs. Drury said triumphantly. “Thomas Casement, August 12, 1926. That has to be it.”

  My heart began to pound. “Could you get me the film for that, please?”

  “Okay,” she said musingly to herself. “You’ll need the Yardley Dispatch for that date. I don’t see any reference for the Republican.”

  “The Dispatch will be fine.” Just get it, please. Now.

  Mrs. Drury disappeared into a back room and returned a few minutes later with a small cardboard box containing a spool of film. It was labeled with the dates “Aug. 10-17, ‘26.”

  “The whole week is on this roll,” she explained. “You put it in the viewer and stop every so often to check the date. Slow down when you get to the twelfth and go page by page. The obituary is on page eight of the third section.”

  I nodded. “Thanks. Would you show me how to work the machine?”

  She did, loading it for me and illustrating how to control the speed with which the film would flow through the eyepiece. I got used to it pretty quickly; it wasn’t difficult. My palms were so wet I had to keep wiping them on my jeans. My fingers were sticking to the lever.