White tapped the piece gently with a coin that he had taken from his pocket, and immediately the metal, or whatever it was, reverberated like the soft echoes down an empty hallway. “Resonance,” he declared. “Whatever it is has distinct resonance.”
“Does that have some importance?” Ben asked curiously.
“Well, we know it’s not rock formation,” stated Adrian White authoritatively.
Kneeling beside White, Liz rubbed an index finger along the surface, and twice attempted to push in her fingernail. Looking at Adrian who was now sitting on the ground, she said, “Plastic maybe.”
“I don’t know. I never knew plastic to reverberate like that,” admitted White.
Matt kneeled beside Liz and ran his own fingers over the smooth surface. “It might be a combination of materials,” he suggested.
“You have a hammer in the truck?” Adrian asked Matt.
Matt nodded, and seconds later he returned with a hammer, which he immediately handed to White. “Here you go, Dr. White.”
“Let’s just see what we’ve got here,” Adrian replied evenly.
The small group gathered in a circle around the protrusion and watched Adrian strike the object softly. There was no reverberation, just a strange sound that reminded them of sonar pings. White gripped the hammer tighter and struck another blow. This time, there was no sound at all. Instead, the object took on a deep green color. “Now that is weird,” admitted White.
“It’s moving,” Jenna shouted. “Look.”
“Vibrations,” said Adrian. Placing his hand flat on the surface, he looked from one to the next. “This thing has a heartbeat.”
Chapter 11
The dig, as it was referred to, was scheduled for the following Wednesday. Professor Raymond returned to Bloomington to resolve University protocol that would free her up for a few days. Jenna Newland resumed her work at the law offices of Whitman, Whitman and Burke. Ben used the time to paint, attempting to complete the portrait of the woman he had started days ago. With the lifting of the veil came imagination, but not the truth he had expected. The impossible tore at his conscience, kept him awake at night, left him thinking and searching long after midnight for a face conceived, not from imagination, but one painted with authenticity and veracity.
Adrian White was in Newburgh to interview Larry Collins, a self-professed historian who, ten years ago, had published his extensive and comprehensive knowledge of the small town of Newburgh, Indiana. Paperback copies could be found in many of the local tourist attractions and antique malls across Southern Indiana. They met at a local Denny’s Restaurant on the western edge of Newburgh and sat facing each other in one corner of the restaurant. A pot of hot coffee in a white ceramic container was between them on the table.
Collins was a tall well-built man who looked much younger than his 58 years. His black hair was combed straight back, leaving a noticeable receding hairline. Hazel eyes regarded Adrian inquisitively. “You say you’re going to dig the yard at Atwood House?”
“Only an area southwest of the bridge,” White began. “An anomalous GPR signature has us curious about what’s there. Might not be anything significant, but we want a closer look.”
Collins leaned forward in his chair, his square jaw rigidly set, and his lips drawn tight. Eyes narrowed, head inclined to one side, his words were a declaration that White had certainly not expected. “You might be digging in the wrong place.”
“Well that’s certainly possible,” Adrian replied., waiting for Collins to explain.
“Several years ago, the Air Force had an unprecedented interest in property northeast of Atwood House. I remember my father talking about it several times. Not much got past my father. Anyway, the cover story had something to do with the discovery of a meteorite on the east side of the bridge. The area was roped off for several weeks. During that time, they dug the hell out of several square feet of land. They obviously expected to find something out there. But the meteorite cover became transparent after only a few days, when a sergeant from Grissom Air Force Base had a little too much to drink one night in town.”
“Probably nothing more than bar talk,” suggested White.
“According to accounts of those who were there that night, the man mentioned repeatedly the words ‘magnetic vortex.’ Of course, no one knew what he was talking about, until a reporter from the Indianapolis Star picked up the story and tried to authenticate it through military channels.”
“What happened?”
“Times were different in those days. The military was a hell of a lot less diplomatic than today. There was unwavering commitment to both military dictate and mission. The Air Force passed the incident off as nothing but rumor. When the reporter tried to locate the mouthy sergeant, the Air Force had no record of the man at all.”
He poured hot coffee into Adrian’s cup and then into his own. It was clear that the story had little effect on White who was staring out the window in the direction of the Ohio River. “It must have been a big event for such a small town.”
Collins nodded. “My father said the town had a campy atmosphere for several weeks, and even after the Air Force had packed out and returned to Grissom, people, many of them strangers, continued to visit the site. Pine trees had been planted where they dug, and there were only a few indications that the ground had been disturbed at all.” He took a couple sips of coffee before leveling a serious look at Adrian White. “What are you digging up out there?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Atwood House has an exciting history, especially if you’re into this paranormal stuff.”
“We’re investigating phenomena that have scientific explanations,” White said stiffly.
“It’s a small town, hard to keep a secret for long.”
“No secrets, just methodical fieldwork.”
“There’s always been talk of ghosts, apparitions that bump along through the night,” admitted Collins. “My father talked often about strange occurrences at Atwood House.”
“I’ll stick to facts and leave ghost hunting to the paranormal people,” replied White.
“People like Dr. Raymond?” suggested Collins.
“That’s right.” White appeared surprised at the mention of Dr. Raymond and realized Collins knew much more about their research at Atwood House than he had disclosed.
“Be that as it may,” he smiled. “I’ll give you the name of a woman who has, as crazy as it might sound, firsthand experience with Atwood House. She worked for many years as a housekeeper for the Young family. Still lives in Newburgh not far from Atwood House. If anyone can speak to strange phenomena, it’s Millie Stewart.”
White took a small notebook from his jacket pocket and wrote the woman’s name on a blank page. “I’ll contact her.”
“Address and phone number are in the Newburgh directory.” Then after a pause, Collins added, “On a more scientific note, Professor Jeffery Trafford, I think he’s still teaching at the University of Evansville, has spent months mapping what he refers to as ley lines—based on something Plato wrote about.”
“The dodecahedron, the fifth Platonic solid that Plato used to describe the cosmos?”
“Yeah, that sounds right. Don’t have any idea what it is, but it sounds right.”
“It’s extremely complicated. Essentially it deals with global geometry, and the possibility that the universe is not just flat and infinite, but instead finite, and in the shape of a polygon with twelve flat faces.” Instantly, Dr. White realized this was getting way too technical and drew back.
“I see . . . well, not really. Trafford wrote of magnetic energies, which increase proportionately in areas where ley lines intersect.”
“I’m familiar with Dr. Trafford’s work,” admitted White. “In fact, these lines have been mapped before by researchers. It’s widely known by the scientific community that a
round the world we find this convergence of powerful magnetic lines, especially at sacred sites in England and France.”
“Trafford said there is a crossing of these lines on Atwood House property,” revealed Collins.
“That might explain the Air Force presence to some extent.”
Collins nodded, “Yes, it certainly could.” Then he added, “Let me just say this before you leave, Dr. White.” Again, he leveled a serious look at Adrian. “It was my father who first told me about the sightings.”
“Sightings?”
“Isn’t that the reason you’re there, to investigate the sightings?”
“There have been strange occurrences at Atwood House. I don’t deny that.”
“I’m assuming you have seen the apparition on the stairway?”
“Yes,” White admitted.
“And the activity in the great room, the dancing, and heard the music?”
“Yes, all of that. You seem very informed, Mr. Collins.”
“Let’s just say that Millie Stewart has often mentioned the strange events that have happened in Atwood House.”
“You mentioned your father?” prompted Adrian.
“He spoke of a room on the first floor of the house. Told my mother and me that once a man had entered that room and never came out. He just disappeared into thin air, so it seemed.”
Recalling the room off the great room, the one with a bricked doorway, White wanted Collins to continue. With his arms folded on the table, Adrian drew a deep breath, exhaled it, and waited anxiously for what he thought he might already know.
“In fact, my father was the man who closed the gateway.”
“Gateway?” asked Adrian cautiously.
Collins nodded. “Said the room gave off peculiar odors. That didn’t seem unusual, since many different odors would linger in a musty old house like that one, so I didn’t think much about it. But according to him, these were not the kinds of odors frequently associated with old houses.”
“I don’t understand,” Adrian admitted. “Are you suggesting that these odors were coming in from outside the house?”
“That’s what he thought at first. The scent of flowers was heavy. So was the smell of rain. Other smells seemed to be more prevalent in this one particular room where he was working.”
“What kind of smells?”
“Thermal, thick in the nostrils, and sustained in the air for minutes at a time, not the smell of burning wood, but something much more intense—like an engine overheating, or wires shorting out. Mechanical is the word my dad used.”
“That’s all very interesting, but smells not entirely uncommon in a house. There might have been a short in the electricity, or it could have been radiator heat.”
“It was summer, and the house was not occupied during the time he did the work. There was one smell my father knew well.” Again, he leaned across the table closer to Adrian. “The smell of jasmine.”
“Jasmine?” repeated White.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s no jasmine growing anywhere on the property.”
Still unclear why this was so seemingly important, White looked at the man with narrowed eyes and repeated, “Jasmine?”
“That’s right, Dr. White, its sweet floral aroma is powerful and has a kind of narcotic effect.”
“I’m sorry but I wouldn’t know the smell of jasmine, not even in a room filled with its aroma.”
“My mother and father planted several jasmine shrubs around our house. Most are still there. The smell is pungent. I remember it well. But to find it filling interiors of an empty house is a bit strange, don’t you think?”
“What if your father had the smell of jasmine on his clothes when he worked at Atwood House? Wouldn’t that explain it?”
“That’s precisely what he thought. But the smell seemed to be especially strong in the great room. He was convinced that it was a processed aroma—the kind of fragrance used in the production of high-grade perfumes, particularly popular with women during the late 19th century.”
“I see where you’re going with this, but it’s just too implausible. You’re telling me your father suspected inclusion—some sort of outside interference?”
“If I say what I really thought happened, you would call me crazy.”
“We all take risks of one kind or another, Mr. Collins. Besides, I’m not making judgments so much as trying to get an understanding of what is going on at Atwood House.”
“Entities from another time are coming and going through another open gateway. They are using Atwood House the way it was used since the house was constructed.” He looked at White, expecting the man to shake his head and walk away. But that didn’t happen.
“That is a huge statement.”
“Not to be denied, Dr. White. Just as sure as the sun rises in the morning sky, people continue to come and go, seemingly at will, and they’re not neighbors from across the way—if you get my meaning.”
“We’re excavating near the bridge. Do you know of anything at all that might have been near there, a collapsed building or an old foundation perhaps?”
“When the Air Force excavated a large plot of ground on the east side of the bridge near the woods, they certainly uncovered something, and according to my father who probably saw much more than he expected or even wanted to see, it was not a meteorite, which was the initial story floated in the local papers.” During a short pause, maybe to emphasize the gravity of his next statement, Larry Collins fixed his eyes on White’s and lowered his voice to a whisper. “There is still something in the ground somewhere on the Atwood property, something that shouldn’t be there, and no matter how deep the Air Force dug in 1947, there remains some speculation among some of the old-timers in town, that the military left something behind, something they never intended to find. Maybe that’s what you’ve located.”
Chapter 12
Wednesday morning early, a little too early for Ben, who was just coming downstairs, the Bobcat arrived on a construction trailer. Herb and Matt Jennings were talking to Adrian White on the grass near where the dig was to take place. Liz Raymond had called to say she was on her way and “only minutes away.” Jenna, taking an early lunch and possibly an afternoon off, was just now driving the last mile or so to Atwood House.
A specific area had been designated, and as the group assembled under a large yard canopy, they watched Herb sink the steel teeth of the backhoe into the soil. The first two feet were not so much clay, as expected, but a large layer of sand, which seemed to extend all the way to the creek. Digging was easier than anticipated and in less than 30 minutes there was a sizable hole more than six feet deep. After shutting down the Bobcat, both Herb and Matt eased down into the hole on an aluminum extension ladder. Matt ran a handheld GPS over the ground and got a series of strong beeps, which indicated a solid hit.
Climbing up the ladder, he shouted at those standing around the hole. “It’s time to bring in the hand tools. We’re just inches away from whatever’s down there.”
Since White had done several digs in his early career, he volunteered to supervise the excavation from this point forward. After Matt had shoveled off a foot of dirt, White climbed down into the hole, and using a hand trowel, dug away an inch or more of soil. Something white came into view. He carefully brushed away loose dirt to get a better look at what they had uncovered. Yet, there was not enough of the piece exposed to make an identification, so the digging, slowly, carefully, continued.
An hour later, the first piece unearthed lay on the grass, glistening with sunlight. Liz examined peculiar markings with a magnifying glass and began making copious notes on a pad of yellow legal paper. She also made several scans of the symbols to be studied later. Precise and crisp like laser incisions, seven symbols, which Liz continued to refer to as iconography, were clearl
y discernible and arranged in a horizontal row about five inches apart. Each symbol was six inches tall and different sizes in width, with the middle symbol two inches wide, and the others about half that width. Dirt embedded deep inside the cuts and creases had to be dug out and brushed away. Pouring water across the block of symbols helped revive them, and slowly the ancient dirt disappeared.
Neither Liz nor Adrian had any idea what the symbols or icons meant. They looked alien, and that was the presumption each had. Although they assumed the icons had specific meanings, conjecture at this point was not possible. The first symbol created the most interest. White was convinced it represented a symbol in an equation he had seen, but he couldn’t be sure where that was, or when.
Even more curious than the row of seven icons was an octagonal depression seven inches below the center symbol, and three inches deep. It was evident that something was missing. This space was designed to hold something . . . but what? At least, that was Liz Raymond’s assumption.
As the day wore on, several more pieces were uncovered. The smaller ones were arranged on tables that had been set up under the canopy. The larger pieces, some nearly six feet in length, were placed on the grass near the canopy.
Jenna was running her finger across the smooth surface of a smaller piece when she noticed something strange. “It feels warm,” she said.
Ben had also noticed that pieces he touched were not exactly hot but had become increasingly warm. “They seem to absorb sunlight.”
Dr. White, who suspected there might be low levels of radiation, passed a Geiger counter over the artifacts. “Nothing to worry about,” he informed them. “Readings are extremely low. No danger at all. We get more radiation from X-rays, even from the sun.”
Jenna finally asked the questions that they all wanted answered. “What is it? What have we dug up? Is it dangerous?”
Liz shook her head slowly. “I don’t know,” she admitted.
“I have some ideas,” White told them, “but that’s all they are, nothing stronger than suspicions.”
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