The Awakening

by Marley Gibson

  The back-and-forth motion clearly says no.

  "Not at all," I say. "He's irritated. I can hear him growling in my ear."

  Becca returns from the balcony and holds the digital recorder up. "There's a disembodied voice on here, but the EVP isn't clear." She plays it for us several times. To the rest of the group, it probably sounds like gobbledygook. However, I hear Charles's comment plainly next to me.

  "You're meddling with my land."

  "No, Charles, I'm not meddling."

  Jason looks at me and then back at Taylor. "Who's she talking to?"

  Taylor smacks him on the arm. "The ghost, you moron."

  Then again. "You're meddling with my land."So clear, it's like someone's in my head. I place my hands over my ears and back away two steps. There's no one physically there, but I know what I heard.

  Celia knows something's going on. "Is he talking to you, Kendall?"

  "Yeah, he thinks I'm messing with his land. And he's making my head hurt like blue-blazing bullshit." I bite down on my bottom lip to stop from crying out. Charles won't relent, though, and the pressure in my brain keeps building and building until I collapse to my knees. Tears ooze out the corners of my eyes, and I don't know if I can go on like this.

  I reach a weak hand out to her and beg, "Celia..."

  Seeing my severe pain, she reacts on my behalf. "It's not your goddamned land anymore, Charles," Celia tells him. "So leave Kendall alone! You've been dead over one hundred and fifty years!"

  She did not just go there.

  Before we realize anything's happening, two large windows in the back of the room slam open. Celia seemingly loses her balance and falls backwards. She lands— bam!—flat on her ass on the hardwood floor.

  "Son of a bitch!" she screams out. "That hurt, Charles!"

  Jason and I help her up, and she rubs her backside for emphasis.

  "Well, that pisses me off," Becca says. "Sure you don't want me to sucker punch him?"

  "You guys. We can't antagonize him," I beg.

  Taylor pulls her camera away and has a heartbroken look on her face. "That's right. Sure, he's dead, but he can't move on, y'all. We have to help him."

  I toss her a sympathetic glance and then step forward to where I think Charles is standing. I can't see him, but I sense company. "Tell you what, Charles. I'm going to give it to you straight. Once you hear the whole story, if you want us to help you, we will. If you don't, then we'll pack up our equipment, say a prayer of blessing to protect this building, and leave you be. But if after I tell you everything, you understand we're just here to help, I want you to leave this place. Deal?"

  Becca holds her recorder out. Celia points the thermometer. Taylor clicks away on her camera. Jason stands behind me.

  In my ear, "Deal."

  "He's game." I take a deep breath and send a quick prayer to heaven. I'm ready to tell Charles everything that Celia and I discovered in our research. I must keep an even, assuaging tone if we're going to get him to pass into the light.

  "Charles Stogdon. We know all about you," I say. "You were a wealthy landowner in Radisson in the 1830s after you moved here from North Carolina. Following the War Between the States"—I say that, not the Civil War, out of respect for him—"you freed your slaves, which was the right and honorable thing to do. You also promised some of those freed slaves that you'd deed part of your land to them so they'd be able to set up their own farms and houses."

  "That's pretty righteous of him," Becca says.

  I continue. "Right, Becca. But in the early 1870s, some people here in the community weren't exactly happy with the outcome of the war, or with Mr. Stogdon's generosity to his former slaves." I pause for a minute and hear a creaking sound behind me. Celia moves around, and the EMF meter continues to flash impressively. "You know this story, Charles. You know it because it's real and it happened. You were there. You know all about the false deed to your property, trumped up by one of your neighbors, that said you didn't own the land. Because you were an outsider from North Carolina, there were enough townsfolk to side with your neighbor in calling you a thief. Your neighbors all insisted you were mad. Especially because of your wanting to give land to freed slaves. No one did that."

  Becca whispers, "I'm picking up all kinds of EVPs now. You're getting to him, Kendall."

  In my head, I ask the pendulum to point to where Charles is standing. It swings heavily to the right, so I follow. "The city court got involved in the ruckus about the deed in a very public, heated trial. Judge September presided over it. He may have enjoyed his spirits—and I mean of the alcoholic kind—but he was still a Confederate and no pushover for someone who wanted to do the right thing for freed slaves. It all happened. The mob. The judge. The hearing."

  "Here in this very courtroom," Celia adds.

  I close my eyes to the images flashing before me, just like the ones I'd read about on the microfiche. "You stood before them and begged for your land, Charles. I can see you. You stood tall against your opponents. You screamed and fought for your rights, but there were too many people trying to silence you. They pushed you to the brink of sanity, and then you did become mad." I wince at the scene in my mind's eye. My pulse accelerates to match what Charles must have been feeling at the time. What he's probably feeling now. "They drove you out of the courtroom and chased you through the building. You were screaming and waving your arms, telling them it was your land! But someone got too aggressive when you reached the top of the stairs, and you fell to your death."

  I gasp hard, trying to catch a lungful of air against the agony I'm feeling from the ghost. The broken neck, the shattered knees, the punctured lung. Death was instantaneous. Heaven was not. "Shit, Charles. This is horrible. No one to listen to you or stand up for you. Only to have things end the way they did." My breathing is ragged as I try to finish.

  Jason's hand is on my arm. "Kendall, are you okay? Your face is red and your voice sounds weird."

  I shake him off. I have to concentrate on what's going on.

  "You, you, you ... had no heirs, Charles. So the land reverted to the city's trust, where it's been ever since. So, legally, it's theirs to do with as they please." One more strong inhalation. "It's not your land anymore."

  With that, I collapse back against Jason, like I've just run the Chicago Marathon with cement in my sneakers. Jason holds me steady. However, nothing can prepare me for what happens next.

  In the blink of an eye, Charles Stogdon appears before me—only me—as clear as any living human being I've ever seen. He twitches his handlebar-mustached mouth and says in a booming voice, "Like hell it's not my land."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  IT'S AS IF CHUCK NORRIS has just roundhouse-kicked me in the chest.

  Charles Stogdon stands before me in a black frock coat made of fine wool, a little worse for the wear after these past hundred or so years of haunting. Underneath is a pinstriped suit with a smart cravat—I think that's what they called them way back then—at the neck. A gold watch chain hangs from one of the buttons of his vest and tucks neatly into a side pocket. He's holding a black hat in his clenched fists, and in his expression I read anger and defiance. His thick mustache frames his mouth with strands of black and gray, showing either his advanced age or his wear and tear from the horrendous times of the Civil War. Dark circles color the skin underneath his weary brown eyes. Eyes that must have known happiness at one point in his life. Eyes now icy over what I've said to him.

  I reach out toward him, not knowing what I'll feel if I make physical contact. "Charles? Is that you?"

  He worries his hands together, mashing up his hat. "Young lady, you have no right saying that land isn't mine."

  I look to the left at Celia, then to the right at Taylor. Then I turn to gaze at Becca. "You see him, right?"

  "See what?" Jason asks, his dimple showing—which means he's trying not to laugh.

  "I'm serious as a heart attack. Charles Stogdon is standing right here." I point to his booted feet i
n front of me.

  "Why are you here?" Charles asks. "You're disturbing me. Just like that man with the coffee."

  Coffee? Oh, right. Charles broke Dad's coffee mug. "That's my father," I say.

  "What's your father?" Taylor asks.

  "Don't y'all understand?" Celia says with excitement. "She sees him and they're communicating."

  "Get the hell out of town," Jason says.

  Celia pushes him out of the way and stands next to me. "There's a massive cold spot right here."

  "That's where Charles is," I confirm. Leaning in to whisper, I say to her, "Look, let me talk to him and I'll report what's going on. We have to stay calm."

  Her dark hair brushes my cheek. "Are you staying calm?"

  I murmur back, "I'm about to throw up."

  She hugs me. "You can do it, Kendall."

  Facing Charles again and ignoring Becca's recordings, Celia's readings, and Taylor's photos, I concentrate on only him. "Why are you hurting people, Charles? Why did you hurt my dad?"

  He scowls. "No one on my land."

  "It's not your land anymore. It belongs to the city, no matter how they got it."

  I listen to Charles as he explains to me, very passionately, the intention for the land, which we already know. "That land is for my freed slaves to start a new life. For them to plant vegetables and cotton and peanuts. Crops they can take to market and get a good price for. All of this reconstruction after the war. People need supplies, and that land will give the opportunities they deserve. They worked for it!"

  I pay attention as Charles reveals more details. I gulp down the lump in my throat and repeat what I've learned to everyone. "Charles promised the land to a man named Thomas, who was his foreman. It was going to be a whole new life for him and his family."

  "I want my land. For Thomas. Off my land!"

  Holding my hands out, I say, "It's okay, Charles. Just stay calm. Thomas isn't here. He's been gone for a long time. Just like you. Do you understand that?" I wait for his answer. He just stares at me. I tell my friends, "He won't acknowledge that he's dead. He wants to know what they're doing with the land."

  Celia nudges me with her elbow. "Tell him about the distribution center and all the jobs and stuff."

  I run my fingers through my hair and adjust my stance.

  Man, talking to a ghost can really wear you out. It's like my internal battery is wearing down to nothing. My skin is sticky, and every nerve end is electrified. "Okay, Charles, see, Celia's dad owns Mega-Mart—which you wouldn't really get since you didn't have, like, malls or big stores or what have you back in your time—but the city has donated the land to Mega-Mart and other developers to build this amazing distribution center."

  From the glassy look in his eyes, I assume he doesn't understand anything I'm saying. I have to put it in terms he'll comprehend. "Remember that paper model you destroyed in Dad's office?"

  "I do," he says, his voice quite authoritative. "It was a travesty of epic proportions. Building such a monstrosity on my land."

  "It's not a monstrosity, Charles. It's really quite innovative. The development will provide affordable housing and will bring many, many jobs to Radisson for all people. White, black, you name it, it's equal opportunity. That's how we do things now. Everyone—including the community—will benefit."

  "I don't believe you!" And with that, he turns and kicks one of the tables.

  "Shit!" Becca screams, and Jason jumps as the furniture goes flying.

  Taylor doesn't seem fazed, just continues videotaping.

  "That was fabulous," Celia says. "Get him to do it again."

  I glare at her. "I will not. He's not listening to me. He's pissed." I spin back to him, but he's not there. "Charles? Charles! Where are you?" To Celia, I say, "He's gone."

  "Gone? Where?"

  The five of us rush out of the courtroom and back to the foyer. The EMFs are going off and I'm completely unsettled, aggravated, and excited all in one hard rock candy that seems to be stuck in my throat. In my head, I ask my pendulum where Charles has gone. It begins moving to the left, taking me to the front staircase. Then the direction alters to point forward.

  "He's upstairs."

  Taylor's right next to me. "Is he reenacting his death or something?"

  "No clue."

  We take the steps two at a time, following the creaks and footsteps we all can now hear above us. I hear Charles's gruff, derisive laughter.

  Pointing, Becca says, "Look, the door to your dad's office is open. It was closed earlier."

  Leading the pack, I follow my senses down the hallway where Charles's presence is pulling me again. Only this time, it's like a weight is on my chest. Not like someone's suffocating me or anything. Rather, it's a melancholy heaviness. A deep, deep sadness that permeates the entire office. The laughter is gone, replaced with a somberness.

  "Charles? Why are you so sad now?"

  "I want my land."

  "I know. You can't have it, though. This is the twenty-first century. Time has passed. Things have changed. People have changed. The city is taking huge measures—and a lot of money—to turn your beautiful land into something beneficial for the greater good."

  Charles is sitting in Dad's chair, looking down at the blueprint plans of the development. "Thomas wants to use the land."

  Thinking quickly, I ask, "Did you give Thomas your last name when you freed him?"

  Taylor speaks up. "I remember that from history class."

  "No, he wouldn't take it," he says faintly. He's starting to fade.

  "What was it?" I nearly shout out.

  I hold my hand up to stop Taylor from saying more because I have to concentrate on what Charles is relaying to me. His voice has weakened a bit. However, he's showing me an image.

  "Egg?"

  Becca looks at me like I've finally gone off the deep end. "Huh?"

  I try and explain. "Loreen said sometimes a spirit will show you an item or object when they're unable to manifest themselves further to you. I see ... an egg. What kind of name comes from that? Eggbert? Eglington? Eg—"

  Celia lowers her EMF meter and has a spark of knowledge in her eyes. "Ask him if it's Edgars."

  I don't have to. "Yes. Thomas Edgars," Charles mutters.

  "Your former slave was Thomas Edgars," I say. "Where did the name come from?"

  I hear what seems to be a long sigh from Charles. "It was my dearly departed Ella's maiden name. Ella Edgars Stogdon. She was so good to Thomas."

  "That's it," I say exuberantly. "Someone have a BlackBerry we can look that up on?"

  "I do," Jason says without playing Doubting Thomas for once.

  What a guy!

  "We don't have to look it up," Celia says. "Dawson Edgars is the vice president for distribution at Mega-Mart. It was his original idea to build this development. He and my dad went to RHS and played basketball together. Daw's a cool guy. His daughter, Melanie, is a cheerleader."

  "Oh, I know her," Taylor says. "She's a sweetheart. She helped with the Valentine's dance last year. Do you think she may be a descendant of Thomas?"

  "It ain't impossible," Becca says.

  Before I can repeat all of this, Charles sits up and takes notice. Obviously, he can hear my friends. "Children of my Thomas?"

  "Right, Charles. Thomas has got to be their ancestor. We can Google it or something and find out, but sure."

  As much as a ghost can glower, Charles does so over the word Google.

  "Umm, I just mean we can research it and make sure."

  "So, my Thomas will be involved in the land after all?" he asks.

  "It looks that way. Well, not Thomas directly, but his great-great-great-great-grandson, possibly." I'm quite sure in my heart that Dawson Edgars is from Thomas's lineage.

  Celia speaks out in the direction of Charles. "Your original intentions are technically going to be met—only in a more modern way, Mr. Stogdon."

  "It seems so," he tells me.

  "He understands that," I share.


  Becca says, "Maybe they could, like, name a street in the development after Charles or something, you know?"

  "What a fab idea!" Taylor says. "Maybe even a monument or statue of him?"

  Charles straightens. "The city would do that for me?"

  "We can ask them to, Charles," I say with my best and brightest smile. "I mean, with my and Celia's dads both involved, we've sort of got strings to pull."

  Next to my ear, I hear him whisper, "What an honor."

  The air around Charles shifts, changes, and I'm picking up his acceptance to the situation now. I step around the desk, leaving my fellow ghost hunters, and squat in front of him where he's sitting. If I thought I could take his hand, I would. But I don't dare try.

  "So, did I live up to my end of the deal?"

  There's a disorientation in his eyes, but how could there not be, under the circumstances? "We had a deal," he says, relenting.

  "It's time for you to find some peace now, Charles. No more haunting. Go find your way."

  He just looks at me with those large brown eyes of his. He seems so real. So alive. He's not, though. He's a ghost. A lost spirit who needs to find his way home. To his eternal resting place and God's loving arms. I've seen enough movies and TV shows to know there's supposedly a white light that he needs to go into. Can he see it?

  "You can rest now, Charles."

  "I know, child."

  "You've got to go into the light now."

  A smile dances out underneath his heavy mustache. "It's glorious. God's own hand reaching down and inviting me to join my loved ones. Is that Ella I see?"

  I suck in a good breath. "Go to her, Charles."

  There's the soft, feathery sensation of a kiss on my cheek. And then, Charles Stogdon just ... disappears.

  "Is he gone?" Celia asks.

  Before I can answer, all of the energy I've been operating off of—perhaps what Charles had been using from me to manifest himself—completely drains out of me. My legs are rubbery and my toes sting something fierce. The connection with him has sucked every ounce of oomph from me. The shock of the total and complete exhaustion catches me full force. I collapse to the floor.