by R L Wagner
Mom beat us to the front porch. I opened the front door. She was right there.
“Surprise!” we all screamed.
It was great and exciting to have Mom back home. It was. After hugs, Mom reached behind her and lifted a small traveling dog crate. “Now don’t get your hopes up, we’re just dog sitting for Sasha. Monster will be with us for a few days. Isn’t he cute? He’s cute, right? I think he’s adorable,” Mom said. Monster took one look at me and suddenly remembered to growl through his little doggy teeth!
Mom moved us into the entry almost to the stairs.
“So, what’s the b ig surprise kids?” Mom asked.
Our hearts were pounding hard. We froze. Everything was on the line, the Busters, the house’s secrets, and why we didn’t say
something sooner, about everything. Uncle Scott was wonderfully, unbelievably, amazingly back, and we had nothing. Mom saw it on our faces.
“Kids, what’s wrong, what’s happened?” She sounded worried. We were in an awkward moment.
I don’t know if Mom noticed but both Benny and I looked over our shoulders into the kitchen and back.
“What time is it Mom?” Benny stuttered.
It was a start. Thankfully Benny asked something that broke the silence.
“It’s seven, Ben,” Mom answered, calling Benny – Ben. That was serious!Rammie trotted in from the kitchen and up to Monster. He sniffed the dog crate and let out a deep, long yowl of utter disapproval. Monster growled again. Yeah cute like a mosquito, I thought!
Suddenly, the strong, delicious smell of vanilla wafted into the room and from behind me, Uncle Scott entered with, for sure, the very best apple pie ever. He strode right over and stood between Benny and me.
“Knock, knock, you have a room for rent, Jean?” Uncle Scott said, his smile bigger than the pie. Mom smiled back, fainted, and hit the floor.
It was nearly six hours later when Aida, Mom, and Monster finally turned in. Everyone was enormously happy to have Uncle Scott back home and living with us. Mom and Aida were totally content with his story that pretty much factual explained his elusive hunt for a lake monster, and his regrettable inability to
communicate with us over the many lost months. Benny, Uncle Scott, and I sat around the outdoor fire pit and watched the hypnotic dance of the crackling orange flames. Uncle Scott took a deep a breath and answered our questions quietly.
“First, Molly is home and confined to her bed back at the pub. I’ve arranged for Conan to be her attending physician. Unfortunately she is quite weak, and she’s getting weaker. We don’t know why yet. Conan believes a paranormal event may be at play,” he explained.
“Conan, Uncle Scott?” I asked. He heard my suspicious tone.
“Yes, Sally, Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle, and no, he has not written those books yet!” Uncle Scott smiled.
“You hired the guy who wrote the Sherlock Holmes mysteries to take care of Molly?” Benny asked, amazed but making sure his wasn’t talking too loud.
“Yes, I, ahh, hired him, but not with money. And Conan is part of a spirit club that is interested in scientifically proving or disproving the existence of the paranormal world. So, Dr. Doyle is very interested in Molly’s case,” Uncle Scott said.
“And so what did you pay Dr. Doyle with exactly, Uncle Scott?” I asked, having a hunch we were back on the elusive ‘changing the events of time’ topic.
“Wow! So there’s a new case, and there is a ghost?” Benny said excitedly.
Uncle Scott looked directly at me. “Well, Conan is, of course, writing, and he was looking for a precise word for his detective character. I paid Conan by supplying him with a word he could use. He liked the word, and he’s agreed to use it. In return he will trade his medical services attending to Molly,” Uncle Scott said watching my face pucker like I was sucking on lemons.
“So Sir Author Conan Doyle is using your word?” I knew I had Uncle Scott now.
“Actually it’s Doctor; Conan has not yet been knighted, Sally,” h e said.
Uncle Scott was trying to get off track, and I wanted him back on.
“And?” I pushed.
“And it’s just a simple word. I didn’t invent the word, I don’t own the word, I just offered a suggestion, it’s quite –
‘ELEMENTARY, my dear Sally,” Uncle Scott said, in such a charming way that I just had to laugh.
For a moment everyone got quiet again, watching the flames.
“And Orazzio Sforza?” I asked. I hated even saying his name.
“That’s fixed, for the moment, but I certainly haven’t had time to address him fully. I’m sure there are more chapters in that book, so to speak,” Uncle Scott said, looking concerned, but not too concerned.
“OK, then, Wow! So there’s a new case and there’s a ghost?” Benny repeated forcefully.
“I found Molly in Witcham Tor. The village lays just east of the Dartmoor Forest, where the land, owned by the Duke of Cornwall is an area renowned for its ancient frightening legends and ghost stories, numerous claims of encounters with packs of spectral hounds, and even tales of a headless horseman. Some say it’s the haunt of goblins, elves, and mischievous pixies. Molly was being attended to by the village physician there at the Blazen Inn. She laid in a coma for two days. Her photographic partner, Mr. Hundt, quickly brought her to Witcham Tor, the closest village at hand, after she fell unconscious at their photo shoot. Molly and Hundt photographed the abandoned Faye Tor Manor, presumably for just over two hours. I developed 15 of her 18 plates. In six of her photographs, there is an unexplained figure of a knight in the background who seems to be watching her. Sparkles, like stars, surround the figure, which is holding a lance, a shield, and a jeweled necklace. Molly has a nasty bruise just under her throat in the shape of a small piece of pie, or a third of a circle. It’s the same shape as the necklace.
“So how did Molly get the bruise?” Benny asked.
“We’re not entirely sure, but apparently, Molly’s last photograph, a time-lapse shot, captured an image of the ghost walking through her while it’s holding the necklace in front of itself. Now, Conan speculates that as a result from this encounter, progressive fatigue seems to be the sudden, debilitating symptom gripping Molly,” Uncle Scott said.
“ But you said you don’t believe in ghosts, Uncle Scott,” Benny said quietly.
“ Not yet Ben.” Uncle Scott smiled back. We sat quiet for a while. Uncle Scott threw another log onto the fire.
“Are there any markings to identify who the knight might be?” I asked.
“That’s a Busters question Sally,” Uncle Scott said, smiling. “There is. The tunic and shield that the alleged ghost wears bears the identifiable standard and colors attributed to a famous knight from Arthurian legend.
Benny and I snapped our heads up and stared at Uncle Scott.
The ghost is Sir Gawain!” Uncle Scott said, “Sir Gawain, Knight of the Round Table!”
R. L. Wagner resides in the San Francisco Bay Area with his son, Max. He is a third generation San Franciscan who got his early start writing scripts, working as an independent filmmaker, and writing for Children's television. He authored The Fortune’s Chance melodrama series, Volcano Flats comedies, and Broadcast Murders. He designs theater and studio spaces, and is an award-winning stage director, set designer, and lighting designer. He currently heads the Department of Theater Arts at the same school where he has taught and directed for more than thirty years.
Visit us on Facebook @ R. L. Wagner
Illustrator Briana Shawcroft [email protected]
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