The Ghosts of Misty Hollow

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  They came across the old house within a few steps and encountered no spirits along the way. The house was set back from the small road in a clearing behind a patchy stand of birches. Leading up to it was a wide paved driveway. Brush and bushes had been cleared from around the house, making it look even more forlorn. On the edge of the clearing, trees in their fall glory rustled gently in the breeze. They might have missed it, except for Emma hearing the humming as they got closer.

  “See how the trees are much smaller and younger on this side?” Phil was pointing to the right. “I’ll bet at one time this was all cleared out over here, joining the property around the old barn with this patch.”

  They stood at the beginning of the drive, staring at the old house. As Gino had told them the night before, the farmhouse had been painted outside to match the big house where they were staying. At first glance, it looked like most old but well-maintained houses in New England. But unlike the other house, there was something sad and tragic about it. The windows, both upstairs and downstairs, were adorned with painted black shutters. They were the same shutters used at the big house, but these were shut tight, not open so that daylight could come through shiny clean glass and warm the inside. The front porch was meager and only a couple of steps above the ground. Emma recognized it from the photo in the album.

  “They’re here,” Emma said. “The ghosts are here waiting for us.”

  “Can you see them, Emma?” Phil asked.

  She shook her head. “No, but I can feel them.” She turned to Granny. “Can you see them, Granny?”

  “No,” Granny answered, “but their presence is very strong.”

  Emma let go of Phil’s hand and started slowly down the drive toward the house, pulled by the energy of the spirits. The humming stayed the same, low and foggy in the back of her brain like a fading memory, but definitely a constant. Phil and Granny followed as Emma continued down the drive past the birches. She came to a stop in front of the door and waited, hoping a spirit or two would make an appearance, but none showed.

  “Mr. Brown,” Emma called out in a firm but not too loud voice. “Blaine Brown. Are you here?” They waited. Emma turned to Granny and raised her brows at the ghost.

  “I got nothing,” Granny said to Emma’s unspoken question.

  Granny floated up the steps. “If you want our help, you’ll have to show yourself,” she said to the building and any spirits that might be lingering. “This here is Emma, my great-great-great granddaughter. She has the gift.” Granny pointed at Phil. “That’s Phil, her man. He can’t see or hear us, but he’s a friend to those on the other side just the same.”

  When there was no response, Emma stepped up on the porch and tried the door. It was locked. Phil had followed her up the short few steps and was trying the shutters. “They’re tight as a drum, too,” he reported. “Let me go around back and see if there is another entrance.” Phil hopped off the porch and went around the side of the farmhouse.

  Emma stepped back off the porch and studied the two-story structure. Holding her arms out, palms up, she said to the building, “Mr. Brown, you said you needed to speak with me. Here I am.”

  “There’s one,” said Granny in a loud whisper. She pointed off to the left of the porch where a hazy image hovered.

  Emma turned toward the image. “Mr. Brown? Is that you?”

  “No,” said a voice behind her. “I’m over here, Mrs. Whitecastle.”

  Both Granny and Emma turned and saw nothing, but Emma recognized the voice from the night before. “Mr. Brown,” she said to the empty air, “it’s very nice to meet you. Please call me Emma.” She pointed to Granny and made the formal introduction.

  “Folks call me Blaine,” the ghost said, starting to come into view.

  “Blaine,” Emma said, trying out the name. She smiled at the spirit. “And who is that over on the porch? I see one spirit, though there might be more.”

  “That’s my grandmother, Abigail Brown,” Blaine told them. “A lot of my kin are around, but we’re the only ones here right now.” He looked toward the fuzzy image on the porch. “It’s fine, Nana Abby. This is Emma Whitecastle and her kin Granny. They’re here to help us.” As he said the words, the image grew stronger, revealing the spirit of a woman of advanced age in a long, dark, simple dress with long sleeves. Her hair was white and worn smoothed back into a bun fastened at the back of her neck.

  Emma studied the woman with curiosity. There was something very familiar about her face. She turned to Blaine. He also looked familiar. She thought about the photos back at the big house. Was Abigail one of the seated old women in the photos? Was Blaine one of the young boys? “I’ve seen a photograph of the Brown family taken in front of the big newer house,” she told them. “You were both in it, weren’t you?”

  “I’ve seen that old photograph,” Blaine said. “Nana Abby is in it, but she was much younger. I wasn’t born yet.”

  “Then there is a striking resemblance between you and one of the boys in the picture,” Emma told him. “He’s seated on the steps next to a girl of about the same age.”

  “That would be Chester,” Abigail explained in the slow, warbled voice of an old woman. “Blaine’s uncle. My son. There is an uncanny likeness between them. Everyone said so from the moment Blaine was born. Blaine’s father was just a babe in arms when that photo was taken.”

  Immediately, Emma’s memory flashed to the young women holding babies in the photo. One of them must have been Abigail.

  “The girl seated next to Chester is Clarissa, his twin,” Abigail Brown continued. “That was taken on their eighth birthday. The entire family got together to celebrate.” She sighed and her imaged faded in and out. “It was right before,” she began, but didn’t finish.

  Blaine was about to add something when the front door to the house was yanked open with a groaning of wood. Phil stood on the threshold, dusty and pleased with himself. “I found a way in through the back,” he announced. Abigail and Blaine faded as quickly as it took to snap your fingers.

  “Don’t go,” Emma said to the air around her, both arms extended in a plea. “Blaine. Abigail. Please come back.”

  “It’s just Phil,” Granny called out to the retreating spirits, “Emma’s man. He can’t see or hear you, but we love him anyway.”

  “Oh oh,” Phil said, looking about. “Did you finally make contact and I scared them off?”

  “Yeah,” Granny snapped, although Phil couldn’t hear her, “and just when they were gettin’ to the good stuff.”

  • CHAPTER FIVE •

  ONCE again Emma sent out her plea. “Please come back, Blaine. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.” Her voice was carried on the breeze and echoed by the trees. She stood still and Phil and Granny did the same. The three of them remained in place, Phil and Emma barely breathing as they waited for any sign that the Browns had returned.

  “Over there,” Granny finally whispered. She pointed over toward the end of the porch where a hazy apparition was pulsating with the regularity of a heartbeat but without any definition.

  “Blaine?” Emma asked as she took a couple of slow steps forward. “Is that you?” The spirit lingered but didn’t become any clearer or identify itself; then it disappeared.

  “Whoever that was, he’s gone.” Emma took a deep breath and looked around the clearing in case any other spirits were present. She saw none. “I don’t think they’re going to return right away.”

  “I think you’re right,” Granny noted.

  “I’m sorry,” Phil told Emma. “I didn’t know you’d made contact.”

  Emma walked up the short set of front steps to the narrow porch and the front door. “It’s okay, Phil.” She patted his cheek with affection. “If they want our help bad enough, they’ll be back.” She looked behind him into the dark old house. “Now show us what you found.”

  Ph
il, Emma, and Granny entered the shut-up old farmhouse. Overhead burned a small industrial light fixture that lit the center of the room but didn’t do much to illuminate the corners.

  “There is electricity in here, but it’s not very bright. I found a switch by the back door when I entered, and another here.” He indicated a small switch by the front door.

  Emma turned to Granny. “Granny, why don’t you see if you can locate Blaine or Abigail while we look around?”

  “Gotcha,” Granny said, then was gone.

  Outside the old farmhouse might have looked like a smaller version of the larger and grander house, but inside they were nothing alike. The floors here were made of thick wooden planks, rough in texture and with almost no stain and polish. The walls were also simple and unadorned except for faded and peeling wallpaper. There was a big stone fireplace along one outside wall that was boarded up. Heavy discarded furniture had been pushed against it. Labeled boxes and other furniture were neatly stacked along the other walls spreading into the large room like fingers. Phil and Emma negotiated the small paths around them while dust and mustiness tickled their noses.

  “Gino was right,” noted Emma. “The owners are using this for storage. It doesn’t look like any of this has been touched in years.” She ran a finger along the top of an old table, cutting a path through the thick dust blanketing the heavy wood.

  They moved forward. Besides the living room, the downstairs of the house was made up of a collection of smaller rooms, all neatly filed with boxes and furniture. Some were covered with dustcovers, but most were not. There was a roomy kitchen in the back with a large stone cooking hearth. In the kitchen, drop cloths covered most of the items stacked against the walls. Emma lifted one of the cloths to discover modern folding tables in both rounds and rectangles, and folding chairs in white wood.

  “I’ll bet these are what they use for weddings and other on-site parties,” Emma said. “They’re not as dusty as the other items.”

  Phil poked around some of the boxes. “None of it looks very old.” He indicated the large back door, which he’d left open. “They must enter the place from the back where it’s wider and almost level with the ground. The door was locked, but the lock wasn’t fully engaged. A bit of jiggling and it popped open easily.”

  Off the kitchen was a narrow staircase leading to the second floor. “I wonder if they use the top floor for storage, too?” Emma stood at the bottom and peered up into the darkness. “I don’t see any lights or light switches for the stairs or upper floor, though I’m sure there is one somewhere.”

  “It’s a shame they don’t fix this up and use it for a residence or even a rental,” Phil said, rapping his knuckles on a wall. “It seems pretty sturdy.”

  “I don’t see any indoor plumbing,” Emma noted. “It would cost a pretty penny to put that in and rewire the place for proper lighting.”

  “We were very happy here,” came a voice by the hearth. Emma turned toward it and saw Abigail. “A simple life, but a happy one.”

  Next to her was Granny. “Delivered as asked. She wasn’t too far away. Now if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to go back to the other house. I have a gut feeling Vanessa’s about to bolt the barn.”

  Emma nodded to Granny, who disappeared. She then caught Phil’s eyes and indicated with a slight tilt of her head the whereabouts of the other spirit. “How many of you lived here, Abigail?”

  The ghost smiled. “That depends on what time you’re asking after.” She floated over to the door and looked out at the woods behind the house. “This house was built by my husband’s father, Caleb Brown, shortly after he was married. The Brown family owned considerable property throughout the Commonwealth. My husband’s grandfather wasn’t rich, but better off than most. When my husband’s parents married, they were given quite a bit of land in this area and named it Misty Hollow because sometimes a low fog covers the lake early in the morning. My father-in-law, Caleb, loved the land and settled here to farm and raise a family. My husband, Warren, had a brother and sister. As we all married, we all lived here, but as more children began arriving it became crowded and Caleb decided we needed a bigger house. He had the big house yonder built.”

  “It’s a beautiful home,” Emma told her. “I saw photos of it before the renovation.”

  “Aye, it is,” Abigail agreed, “but Warren and I loved this one. Everyone moved into the big house but us. Our family stayed here but there was a lot of coming and going between the two.” She smiled as she remembered. “The children often slept at one place or the other, not always in their own bed. Aunties, mothers, uncles, fathers—made no difference. We viewed the young’uns all as our own.” She drifted back to the hearth. “A lot of meals were cooked here and enjoyed in this very kitchen.”

  Emma noted that Abigail was starting to fade. She glanced over at Phil, who was patiently leaning against the doorjamb waiting for her to update him. She turned back to the spirit, who was little more now than a collection of dust motes. “Abigail, what can I do to help you?”

  “Blaine will explain. He’s a good boy. Died too young in an accident and I lived too long.” Even though her voice was getting weaker, there was no mistaking the sadness in it. “People should never outlive their children or grandchildren.”

  When Abigail was gone, Emma continued to stare at the place by the hearth, thinking about the ghost’s words. Abigail had hit on a sensitive topic for any parent, but her words hit Emma in her heart firsthand. When she was little, her older brother, Paulie, had been struck by a car and killed. Emma had been nine at the time, her brother just eleven. It had been a tragic accident. Paulie had dashed into the street after a ball and the driver of the vehicle could not stop in time. Losing Paulie had nearly killed Elizabeth Miller, Emma’s mother. The woman had been thrown into a depression that had taken years for her to climb out of, but even then the pallor of loss had hung over the entire family like a sticky film.

  Taking a deep breath, Emma turned to Phil and quickly brought him up to date.

  “Do you think they want you to look into Blaine’s death?” he asked.

  Emma went to the back door and stood next to Phil, but didn’t look at him. Instead, she looked out at the woods behind the house, just as Abigail had. The wide-packed dirt driveway circled the house. Beyond that was a clearing of wild grass that had been recently mowed. At the edge of the clearing began the woods. It was full morning now and the earlier dampness was burning off.

  “I don’t think so,” she answered. “Abigail said Blaine’s death was an accident.” She dug back through her recent conversation with Blaine and Abigail. “Just before you came out the door, they vaguely referenced something that happened shortly after the photo of the family in front of the big house was taken.” She turned to look at him. “That’s about all they’ve told me so far.”

  “Should we stick around and wait for Blaine?” Phil asked.

  Emma shook her head. “No. Let’s go back to the house. I want to look at those photos some more.” She smiled at him. “And I’m hungry.”

  She turned back to look at the trees, some evergreen, some in the midst of turning colors. “This is really a beautiful place, Phil, but it has a feeling of tragedy hanging over it.”

  He stroked her arm. “Even I can feel that, darling. Melancholy hangs over this house like a second roof, in spite of what Abigail told you about them being one big happy family.”

  “I think they were happy here, Phil. Very happy. At least until something happened, and I’m almost positive it had nothing to do with Blaine’s early death.”

  Phil went through the house to the front, relocked the front door, and turned out the lights. Back in the kitchen, he turned off those lights. As soon as they were both outside, Phil secured the back door.

  “Something tells me we’re not leaving Misty Hollow any time soon,” he said to Emma as he jiggled the back door to confirm
the lock was fully engaged.

  Emma gave him a small smile of guilt, knowing he wanted to get away from the Costellos’ domestic problems. “I feel like we need to make sure the Brown family is at peace about whatever is bothering them. Do you mind terribly?”

  “Not really. It will probably only be a few days, and if we stay out of the drama between Vanessa and Gino, we should be safe enough. And the girls will be here soon. That will help.”

  • CHAPTER SIX •

  THEY headed back to the big house. Walking hand in hand, they took the same path back instead of making the full circle, saving it for another day. Overhead, a few scattered dark clouds moved across the sky as if in slow traffic.

  “It’s going to rain soon,” Phil said. “I read on my phone this morning that they’re expecting a storm to blow through. You can also feel it in the air.” When they reached the clearing where the old barn once stood, they stopped and waited, hoping a spirit or two would show.

  “They’re here,” Emma said to Phil in a whisper. “I can feel them.”

  “Here,” he asked, indicating the clearing, “or following us?”

  Emma stood still and closed her eyes for a minute. When she opened them, she said, still whispering, “Maybe a bit of both. And it might not be Blaine and Abigail. I’m thinking many of the deceased Brown clan are keeping watch. Maybe many of the people in that very photo.”

  “This is new for you, isn’t it?” Phil asked.

  “New?”

  “Dealing with a family of ghosts?”

  Emma nodded, not sure how she felt about it. “Yes, if that’s the case. I’ll have to e-mail Milo and ask him if that’s ever happened to him, but he’s never mentioned it and it’s not in any of his books.”

  “There you go again, darling, trailblazing.” Phil squeezed her hand.

  “Milo’s said a lot of things have happened to me that have never happened to him.”