Truthfully, Doran Frank Foster
Emma drew in her breath. What did this mean? Who wrote this new letter? It couldn’t have come from the past, yet whoever wrote it was pretending to be Doran Foster. Did someone else know about this graveyard, and the woman buried there? The thought suddenly dawned on Emma, that if the wife of Doran Foster was buried there, that perhaps he was buried there as well. It stood to reason that he was as dead as she was. She tossed the letter in the seat of her car, after closing the brass door and replacing the key. She then began to search the grave yard for the other tombstone. It didn’t take her long to find it, as it was beside the very grave she stood at, on the other side of the dogwood tree. The grass had grown up above the stone covering the name, but when she pulled it aside the name jumped out at her.
DORAN FRANK FOSTER
BORN June 3 1834
DIED November 10 1863
KILLED BY THE HANDS
OF CONFEDERATE RAIDERS.
DEVOTED HUSBAND OF
EMMA ANNE HARRISON FOSTER.
THE ANGELS HAVE JOINED THEM
TOGETHER TO REST IN PEACE
FOR ETERNITY.
Emma stared at the stone. Who had written this new letter? She vaguely remembered Cassandra saying there was a Doran Foster in the phone book, Doran F Foster, to be exact, but could he be connected to this, somehow? However, even if he was, and she called him, she reasoned, he probably would never admit to it if he was trying to teach her some kind of morbid lesson about tampering with graves. He must know about the grave because he is related to Emma somehow. The thought occurred to her, that she could have the paper tested, to see where it came from, or if it really was from 1859. Since the other letter looked like the same paper and ink, she decided to take that one with her too, and see if there was any connection between the two letters.
When she got home, she called Cassandra. “You will not believe what happened.”
“By now I can believe just about anything,” she admitted.
“I went back to look for my letter in the tombstone, and instead, I found another letter addressed to… whom it may concern. It was dated 1859, a day after the last letter had been written, but the paper looks new. The handwriting and paper is the same though, and the ink used, looks the same too, so it is really confusing. I can’t imagine who would have written it.”
“What did the letter say?”
Emma read the letter to Cassandra over the phone. “Can you believe he said that my perfume was the same his wife wore? How coincidental is that, unless this is all a big game? I am going to get the paper and ink tested, to see if they still make this kind of paper, and if both the paper and ink came from the same era, but was preserved somehow. Why would someone do that, though? Why wouldn’t they just write me a regular letter, and tell me to stop messing with the grave? For all I know, it could be on private property, and the owner just wants to scare me away, by making me think a ghost wrote the letter, or something, because I found his grave next to his wife’s. He died a few years after she did, during the Civil War.”
“This is really starting to sound creepy, but I am sure there is some believable explanation,” Cassandra insisted.
“I will get back to you and let you know what I find out.c I have to drive into St. Louis anyway, so I will just kill two birds with one stone.”
“You still trying to get a showing of your artwork there?”
“Yeah, fat chance, but I keep trying. This new batch is much better than the last I showed them, and they said there might be a chance to get a showing if my style improves. It seems every artist has their own sort of style that separates them from all other artists, and so far, I haven’t developed it yet, according to them, even if my art subject is much different than others.”
“Good luck, then. I think your work is much better than lots of artists I have seen, so I don’t know what they are fussing about.”
“That is because you are my friend and are not being objective,” Emma laughed.
Emma and Cassandra had known each other since grade school. She could not quite remember when she hadn’t known Cassandra, and so their relationship was almost like sisters, since neither of them had any brothers or sisters.
“Maybe you should ask your dad about the letters. He is into history and things like that.”
“Yeah, maybe I will, but he will think it is just a big prank. He’s mad that I didn’t go to college and just want to do artwork and spend all my time tramping through grave yards. If I was doing historical research at the graves, he might not mind as much. Mom would be sympathetic, but she would think I was having mental problems, or something, and suggest I get some counseling. She thinks I should get it anyway because I am so obsessed with dead people. Funny though, isn’t history just about a bunch of dead people? My dad seems obsessed with that!”
“Ahem… I won’t comment on that last part,” Cassandra giggled.
“I guess I had better not waste any more time. It will take a couple of hours to drive to St. Louis, and I am anxious to find out about this last letter. I almost thought about calling that Doran F. Foster, who you found in the phone book and ask him if he knew anything about that grave or the letters.”
“That might not be such a bad idea,” Cassandra offered.
“Except that he may think I am a nut job if he isn’t even related to that Doran Foster.”
“You have a point, but it would not harm anything to try.”
“That will be my last resort, if I can’t turn up anything else.”
“OK, good luck in all of this.”
“Thanks. Goodbye”
“Bye.”
Emma hung up the phone and headed back out to her car with her new portfolio of artwork. Two hours later, she pulled up in front of the Artistic Expressions Studio in St. Louis. Sal Hunter met her as she entered.
“So what have you got to show me today?” he asked, eyeing the portfolio, his curly hair and Greek-God appearance attracting her as usual.
Emma opened the folder, and right on top was her unfinished painting of Emma’s grave. “This isn’t finished yet, but I thought I would add it to let you see what I was working on for the future,” she explained.
Sal stroked his chin as he gazed at the unfinished painting. “The angel’s face is especially fascinating,” he murmured. “It has a striking resemblance to you,” he smiled, looking up into her blue eyes with his green ones.
“I know. I didn’t do it on purpose, but it just seemed to come out that way.”
Then Sal took in his breath. “My word, girl, the gravestone has your name on it! Is this a painting of your own grave?”
“No. That is what is so amazing. I found this grave-marker, and the person who died, not only had my name, but my birthday as well. She died on her 20th birthday, and I found the stone on my 20th birthday. It kind of shook me up, but maybe that is why the angel keeps coming out looking like me.”
Sal clicked his tongue. “This is pretty spooky. It must mean something. I tell you what. You finish this painting, and if I like it, I will do a showing of the rest of your work as well.”
Emma squealed. “Really, that is fantastic!”
“Hurry back then.” Sal encouraged.
“I will!” Emma promised as she turned to the door and departed.
Her heart was pounding in excitement, and she almost forgot her other reason for coming to St. Louis. She jumped back out of the car, and poked her head in the door of the studio. “Hey, Sal,” she called. He turned. “Do you know anyone who knows anything about antique paper, who could test it? I have some old letters I want to have looked at to find out if they are authentic.”
“Hmmm, yeah, I think about a block down there is a place that deals with old letters and post cards and stuff like that. If he can’t tell you anything, he could point you to someone who can.”
“Thanks, Sal,” and she was back out to her car again.
It wasn’t hard to find the shop, and trying to
still her excitement, she approached with her letters. The man behind the counter was involved with something, so she waited until he looked up and saw her standing there.
“Is there something I can do for you, young lady?” he asked. He was an older gentleman, with a rounding belly. His hair had grown thin, but his eyebrows were bushy and full, shading his watery blue eyes, behind the silver rimmed glasses he wore.
Emma came forward. “Do you know anything about old paper, and if it is authentic or not?” she asked.
“Pretty much… What is it you have that you want me to look at?”
“I have a couple of old letters, each dated a day apart in 1859, only one letter looks very old and yellowed, and the other one looks almost brand new. I just wondered if old paper can be replicated, or if they still make it the same way today.”
“It depends. Let me have a look.”
Emma handed him the aged, yellow letter first. He took it and examined it. “You see this water mark?” He pointed to a very faint design at the lower corner of the paper. Emma nodded. “Well this mark was used in the 1800s by a certain company that was popular back then. However, after the Civil War, the company went out of business, so there was no more new stock of this particular kind of paper made, with that water mark, I mean. There may have been paper left over from the previous stock, but no new stuff made.”
“I see, so what do you think about this letter?” she asked handing him the second letter, that showed no age whatsoever.
“Hmmm, this is very strange. It has the same water mark, but seems too new to have come from that era. How was this letter preserved?”
“I have no idea. I found them both in the same place on two different days. The older letter I found the day before I found the newer letter. The handwriting looks the same, but one is new and the other is old. I thought someone was playing a trick on me, trying to make me think the second letter had been written back in 1859, and that is why I wanted you to check them.”
“If this was not written back then, it would almost be impossible to preserve the paper this long without any show of aging. Depending on how the paper is made, will affect the aging process. Old paper made with too much acid in it would fall apart and crumble much sooner than paper made a little sturdier. This is expensive paper. It was top of the line back in its day… the kind of paper that wealthy people used back then. It seems to have held up fairly well, in spite of its age, but the one that looks new, is either a very convincing copy, or is of the same age, but managed to be kept in mint condition. Something very difficult to do unless you have air tight, dehumidified, temperature controlled facilities on hand. The ink looks authentic, but it would have to be tested to make sure. If you look closely at the first letter,” he brought his magnify glass out, “you will see very small cracks in the ink that happens over time as the ink dries and dampens over many years of existence. However, this other letter, appears to have been written only a few days ago, and has not had time to crack. We would have to put the ink through certain tests to see if it cracks or not and also test it to see what the makeup of the Ink is.”
“What about the hand writing, and the pen used?” Emma wanted to know. “Do you know anything about handwriting, and whether it is the same?”
“I know a little.” He took the magnify glass and examined the two letters. “This is strange. Very unusual indeed! The strokes not only look the same, but it appears to be written with the same pen. The pen tends to blotch, which is caused by some malfunction in the tip, and both letters have that same sort of blotch in them as pressure is placed on the pen at the down stroke.”
“So there is no way this could be a copy, of the first writing, unless someone had the same pen that was used back in 1859?”
“The only other explanation would be that whoever wrote the second letter, had written the first, managed to age the paper, happened to have paper from that era and preserved it, and passed them both off as being written by someone back in 1859.…which is highly unlikely. What would be the purpose of it? People only go to that much trouble if they are trying to make a profit off of ancient documents that are really not ancient documents in the first place.”
“Yeah, and besides, when I found the first letter, it was behind a corroded door, which I couldn’t even open. So the letter had to have been put in there a long time ago. And the whole thing was covered with ivy before I even found the door.” Emma took the letters back from the man.
“So what are you going to do with them?” he asked
“The old one belongs in a tombstone I found, which I will return… respect for the dead, you know. The other one was actually written to me, in response to something I had written earlier. I don’t know if someone is trying to fool me for some reason, but I will just have to deal with it and find out what happens.”
“Let me know what you discover. I find this all very intriguing.”
Emma shrugged. She was not sure she wanted anyone else to know about her mysterious letter writer, not until she could get to the bottom of the whole mystery herself. “Thanks for your help,” she responded, and left the shop, no more informed of who wrote the second letter than when she came in.
Only it had been interesting to learn both letters were written with the same pen, and that alone made Emma feel nervous. It was impossible that the second letter could have been written by the person who wrote the first. After all, he was dead! How ironic could it be that someone had his pen and was using it to make Emma believe it came from the past? It was almost as impossible to believe, as thinking the second letter came from the past.
First someone would have to know that Emma found the letter. They had to know what was in that letter, and considering how corroded the door was when she found it, they would have had to of read the letter many years in the past. And then know she read the letter. On top of that, they would have had to of have the pen the original letter was written with, and then suddenly decided to pull a prank on her, into believing that she was writing to someone in the past. Not to mention having paper that was over 100 years-old, and looked brand-new. The explanation of a prank was as unbelievable as thinking that her letter managed to get through time and space, into the hands of the husband of Emma Foster, back in 1859.
CHAPTER FIVE
1859
Doran had fallen asleep on the grass. The early morning sun filtered down at him through the leaves of the tree he had been under. If anyone came to the grave yard in the night, he had not seen them. He went to the tombstone and opened the door. Not only was the letter he had placed in the cubby hole the night before, gone, but his first letter to his wife was missing as well. Nothing was in its place. He swore out loud, but there was nothing he could do. Next time he would sleep with his back against the tombstone, until he found the culprit who was tampering with his wife’s grave. He was too tired to think right then though, so he returned to the house and fell on the bed exhausted.
His mother had not been up when he entered the house, but later on that morning she tapped on the door, looking in to see him fully dressed, sprawled on the bed in a deep sleep. This made her all the more worried about her son. She wondered if he found out who had written the strange letter he had found in Emma’s headstone. She closed the door lightly, so as not to disturb him.
When Doran finally awoke, he was confused and disoriented. It was late afternoon and he was aware of how hungry he was. Usually he had no appetite, but he had not eaten since the morning before, and he found he was famished. He went to the kitchen and requested a large dinner be prepared for him. His mother was just coming into the kitchen when she heard him instructing the cook to fix him something.
“Are you feeling better? You slept the day out, and I did not hear you come in last night.”
“I slept in the grave yard, and whoever wrote that letter, has now removed my letter demanding answers, and my other letter to Emma. This is a damnable situation! I must have fallen asleep, but tonight I plan to catch the culpri
t!” Doran grumbled, as he ran his hand through his tousled hair. He realized suddenly that he needed a shave as he rubbed his chin in frustration. “I’m going up to bathe, and shave, and then I will eat. Later I will spend the night in the grave yard again.”
Later, after he felt full, and more rested, he was able to think a little straighter, but he still could not figure out why anyone would want to plague him in this way. What enemies had he made here on the plantation? Certainly no one would be creeping in at night just to put letters in his wife’s headstone. He wrapped some food up in a napkin and put it in a small basket to take with him, in case he got hungry again, and grabbed a quilt that was on the foot stool in his study. When he reached the grave yard, he checked the tombstone, but the letters were still missing. It almost made him feel like crying to know that someone had read his inner most thoughts, written to his dead wife, which should have only been between him, her, and God.
Doran wearily leaned up against the headstone, with his back to the little brass door. The cold stone soaked through his jacket, causing a chill to shiver through him. Or maybe it was something else making him shiver… he wasn’t sure. However, if someone came, they would not be able to get to the door without disturbing him.
Letters From The Grave Page 4