

Grave Injustice

by Paul Westwood

Copyright 2013 Paul Westwood

***~~~***

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Chapter 1

James Warren was stuck in crush of rush hour traffic. His Honda Accord limped along, the creak of the rubber against the cold pavement barely audible against the low hush of the blowing heater. It was November; the leaden skies threatening cold rain or perhaps even the first flakes of a Michigan winter. It was this time of year that James wanted to curse the fates that had brought him here to Grand Rapids, home of snowy months and gray, lifeless days. He longed for warmth, for sunshine, and the sound of the wind rustling through green leaves. Instead, for half the year, he was forced to live an artificial life – one spent indoors, breathing heated air and trying to stay entertained watching television. He wasn't the sort to have ever cultivated an interest in winter sports since his own childhood had been much further south.

The cellphone, tucked in the cubby under the radio, rang. With one eye on the car in front, James picked up the phone and looked at the screen. It was Beth, his wife. He let out a sigh of relief. The installation of a new computer server at work had been causing countless headaches. He had been expecting more bad news on that front, but a domestic issue, no matter how terrible, was a welcome distraction.

"Hey, honey," he said curtly.

"I forgot to pick up something for dinner tonight. Do you think you could stop and get something?"

"Sure."

"You're the best. I'm busy working on a paper for my legal writing class. I just don't think I can get away. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, no," he replied, trying to hide his irritation. Ever since Beth had decided to attend law school, their entire life had been thrown into chaos. She was always studying and seemed more concerned with the mountain of books than their relationship. James knew it was unfair to ask too much out of her, but he still felt some resentment for having to work a full-time job and pay all of the bills. God only knew what would happen when the massive monthly student loan payments became due. "What do you want to eat?" he added.

"I was thinking Mexican, unless you want something else."

James said, "No, a few tacos will do. I had a pretty busy day, so I'm in the mood to eat anything."

"Uh-huh," Beth replied, her interest was obviously being drawn to something else.

With a sigh of exasperation, he said, "I'll be home in a little while. I'll also pick up some of that beer you like. That will go well with the food."

"That sounds good," Beth said absentmindedly. And then the phone hung up.

Cursing underneath his breath, James continued to drive. He got off of the highway. Off the ramp, the traffic around their Forest Hills neighborhood was still thick and slow. After waiting through two traffic lights, he steered the car into a strip mall. At the liquor store he bought a six pack of beer. At the Mexican restaurant, he purchased half-dozen tacos that were wrapped to go in a brown paper bag. Hustling back to the car, he saw a light smattering of snow falling from the dark sky. This sight only worsened his mood.

There was something about the first snow that seemed to frighten even the seasoned winter drivers of Michigan. Everyone started to go even slower than before as if expecting every stop to be a skidding of tire and the crumple of a bumper. James let out a sigh of relief when he finally turned on the suburban road that led to his house. Here the leafless trees stood as silent sentries. The homes stood on modest lots and were more likely to be older Cape Cod construction than the latest multi-story McMansion. After parking on the driveway and getting out of the car, James momentarily stared up at the sky and wondered how much longer it would keep snowing. Early snowfalls were usually short in duration but such an early one was a portend for an extended winter, one that would become an icy imprisonment.

"Honey, I'm home!" he called out after shutting the side door. This entrance led to the kitchen, a cramped space with a black and white checkered floor, plain cabinets, and the usual assortment of domestic hardware: garbage disposal, dishwasher, sink, and refrigerator. The cupboards held a motley assortment of dishes and enough food to see them through the week. But the schedule of their hectic lives had made takeout food the easier route than cooking.

"I'm in here," Beth replied, her voice coming from another part of the house. In here meant the little office space she had cleared in the spare bedroom. It was now home to a crowded desk and rows of books stacked haphazardly inside rows of Ikea bookshelves.

"I've got the food here. Did we get any mail?"

"Nothing good. Just some junk mail that I threw out," was the quickly spoken reply.

James reached into the greasy paper sack and pulled out the food. Unwrapping the tacos, he then placed them on two white ceramic plates taken from the cupboards. After some beer had been poured out into a pair of pints glasses, he crumpled up the bag. Opening up the lid of the garbage bin, he saw two envelopes resting on top. The first one was a credit card offer. Curious, James moved that one aside, and saw a plain white envelope from the _Law Office of Maynard Flint_. The address was from Clairepoint, South Carolina. The name of that town brought back a flood of childhood memories, some good and some bad. With shaking hands, he grabbed the envelope, brushed off the smear of mustard, and opened it.

Dear Mr. Warren,

_This letter is in regards to William Warren's estate. Since his unexpected death on October 31_ st _, my office has been trying to contact you by phone to no avail. We have been forced to resort to this letter. There is an estate of some considerable size, including a house and land that must be dealt with. Since you are the sole living relative, the estate is completely yours to inherit. We only request your presence to sign the necessary papers._

Sincerely,

Maynard Flint, Esquire

After reading the letter several times, James excitedly called out, "Beth, get in here!"

Looking flustered, his wife came into the room. She was holding a large legal tome in the crook of her arm. "What are you going on about?" she demanded.

Before speaking, James studied his wife. Beth was a leggy brunette with a slim body, wide hips, and a fine neck. Her eyes, by some strange twist of genetics, were pale blue. She was good-looking, but not in such a way that drew breathless stares from strangers. Instead it was a slow burn charisma built on a strong personality, intelligence, and quick wits. James felt lucky to be married to her and knew he had beat out several previous boyfriends for the honor. Of course those days were rarely mentioned.

He said, "This letter that you threw away, it's from a law firm in South Carolina. It appears that they were trying to reach us through the old phone." That was a number that had been recently been ditched since they now both exclusively used their cellphones.

"Really? I'm sorry. I thought it was just some junk mail. We seem to get plenty of it." Putting down the book, she sat down at the kitchen table to listen.

He waved the paper about. "I'm glad I saw it! My uncle William died. It turns out that I'm going to inherit a house and some land. We just have to travel down there so I can sign some paperwork."

"Your uncle William? I don't remember meeting him before. In fact you've never even mentioned his name. Was he at our wedding?"

"No. He's my father's only brother. William was married once but his wife Ann died before the two of them had any children. I only met him once before, back when I was only nine years old. My parents took me to this house, this big old rambling mansion that looked like something from another era. I don't remember much from the trip except how big the land around the house was. And there was a stream that went through the grounds, an old apple orchard, and even a little graveyard that had some ancient relatives buried in it. My uncle Will seemed like a nice enough fellow, but not very talkative. But as I said, it was a long time ago."

"How much money do you think the house and land is worth?"

James could only give a shrug. "I don't know. It's an old house located in the middle of nowhere. I have no idea what the local real estate market conditions are. Why do you ask?"

"You weren't thinking of keeping it, where you?"

Her husband hesitated before answering. After a moment he said, "I don't know. After all, it is a sort of ancestral home. I mean my dad came from there along with a bunch of other past Warrens. I guess after that death of my mom and dad, I really would have a hard time letting it go of the place. I would at least like to go down there and take a look around. You know, a chance to say goodbye and all that. Once that is done, maybe we can find a good real estate agent and sell the place."

Beth's mouth twisted into an unfriendly grimace. "I still have another three weeks left in the semester, and then it is time for finals. I can't go down south for a vacation, even though, to tell you the truth, a little vacation is exactly what I need right now."

James took a step forward, leaned over, and kissed his wife on the cheek. "I know how busy you are, but I want you to be there with me. After all, you know more about this legal stuff than I do. I don't want to be caught flatfooted and sign away my inheritance. Just think of it: all of our money problems could go away! " He was speaking, of course, of the hefty student loan payments that were coming due once Beth graduated from law school. With no solid job offers that meant the monthly amount would quickly chew through their meager savings. James certainly didn't earn enough to pay for the payment, home loan, and various other bills that made up the bulk of their expenditures. Unless something came along, they would be broke within a year.

She replied, "Of course I would love to go down there. We can do it for Christmas break. Though once we get back, I'll have to start studying for the bar exam."

"That will work out. Anyway, it will be nice to go there and enjoy some warm weather. It's not even winter yet and I'm already sick of it. I'll go ahead and call this attorney and tell him that we'll be down there in a few weeks. I'm sure he won't mind a little delay."

*

The man was under an old oak that was half-dead. The bark looked used up, while the branches were heavy with age. The pale green leaves that remained only sprouted along the very top. It was as if the lifeblood of the wood had dried up long ago leaving only a memory of the vitality that the ancient tree once possessed. But he knew there wasn't much time left to find what he was looking for. The man spat on his hands. The calluses on his palms ached from work. With a painful grunt, he slid the blade of the shovel between two massive roots, scraping away at the thin soil.

A few minutes later he gave up. There was nothing here. He moved on to another spot and began to dig.
Chapter 2

The massive wheels of the 747 Boeing folded inside the fuselage and wings. The wintry ground of Grand Rapids gave way to a mass of gray clouds. As the plane gained altitude, it broke through to the blue sky above. The seatbelt light turned off. Beth released the grip of her husband's hand. James, she thought, always hated to fly. That was one reason that his career had stalled since he would rather stay behind a desk to work instead of traveling to do consulting.

"Are you doing okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said uncertainly. "But we should have taken the car. I don't like being up this high."

"You said yourself that statistics show that flying is the safest way to travel. Anyway if anything happens to you, I'll make sure to sue the airline within an inch of their lives." She gave him a reassuring pat on his shoulder.

James managed to crack a smile. "That's not very reassuring considering you're on the plane with me."

"Well there's no point in worrying now. We're thousands of feet up in the air. I suggest you take a nap. You've been awfully tired lately."

"Yeah," he replied, knowing that finding sleep up here would be nearly impossible. He was too keyed up to even consider the idea. He leaned back into the seat to give it a try. The problem with being over six feet high was that the world was made for smaller people. But that wasn't the only reason for his discomfort. The past week his sleep has been absolutely terrible. Not knowing the real reason, his wife just considered it nerves over the upcoming trip. But to James it was something more than that – he had been plagued with terrible recurring dreams. The images were always cloudy, the details indistinct. But there was a feeling of dread as if something terrible was about to happen and he had no power to stop it. Something about the nightmare seemed terribly familiar. It was almost like he was reliving some past experience that he had only a vague memory of. He chalked it up to the fear of flying coupled with the anxiety of his wife's future. There were some changes coming in their relationship: she was going to be more educated with a higher money-making potential. That idea somehow irked him but he dare not mention it to her.

The drink cart came by. James took a beer. Beth took nothing. Thankfully the plane wasn't too crowded, though a few unruly teenagers, obviously heading for a vacation, made the cabin volume higher than it should be. Nonetheless, James soon found his eyelids growing heavier and heavier. The lack of sleep was beginning to catch up to him. There was no chance that he could stay awake now. He placed his head against the wall and squinted through slits to watch the wing and sky outside the window. After a few moments, he managed to fall asleep.

The dream he had dreamt before was now more solid than ever. The room he was in was a dark and dirty. The ground was dirt and the walls were made of rough wood. The only door to this enclosed space was shut. A thin line of light underneath was the only source of illumination. He was pulling on the rusty handle to no avail. He was screaming, but his voice was that of a young child. That sudden realization brought back even more details. He was trapped in the fruit cellar at his uncle's house, unable to get out and unheard by the adults above.

Somehow the young James knew he was going to die. Why had he come exploring here? Why did he walk into this room and how had the door become mysteriously locked? He didn't know. But he was scared. More scared than he had ever been before. Where was his father? Where was his mother? He screamed for them until his voice became hoarse. With a sob, he fell to the floor, the pants of his legs becoming encrusted with dirt.

It was then that James heard the creak of hinges. His head turned. The door slowly swung open but no one was there.

With a shriek, he ran through the doorway, feeling more scared than ever before. The main part of the basement was a collection of junk, broken appliances, and a tangle of cobwebs. James went past all of this, heading straight towards the stairs. He heard a long piercing laugh coming from behind. It had the tone and measure of a small child, perhaps a girl. But James knew that he was the only child here. His uncle had no offspring and no visitors had stopped by. Who else could be down here with him?

Curiosity got the better of him. At the bottom of the steps, James stopped and swung around to look. Standing at the open doorway of the fruit cellar stood a small girl in a white gauzy dress. She had pure white skin, long white curls that dropped to the neck, black empty eyes that took up all of the sockets, and a mouth twisted into a horrible expression of terror. James stood spellbound, his heart racing. After just a moment, as if the girl wanted him to scare him even worse, she began to scream. The volume was louder than a siren and rose in an ear-rending crescendo. James covered his ears, turned and fled up the stairs. He too was screaming, fearing for his very life. The images in front of him faded away.

James felt his arm being tugged on. Snapping his eyes open, he saw it was his wife, trying to wake him up. He felt groggy. He then noticed that the other passengers were now quiet. They were watching him, their eyes guarded.

"Honey," Beth said with concern, "you were having some kind of nightmare."

He nodded. "I'm sorry," he managed to croak out.

Someone a few seats over let out a laugh. In a few seconds the passenger volume returned to a normal level. The fear of a possible terrorist attack had subsided.

"What's wrong with you?" Beth whispered in his ear, trying to keep her voice even. There had been enough embarrassment already that she didn't want to start an argument.

"I said I'm sorry," he breathed back.

"Look, I know you haven't been sleeping well. It isn't just this flight that's got you scared. It's something else. What is it? You can tell me anything, you know that."

James paused before answering. He was marshaling his answer using the correct words so his sanity wouldn't come into question. He said, "I told you that I've visited my uncle's house before. I was only ten. Well something happened back then. Something very strange. I guess it was so strange that I blocked it from my memory. But ever since I learned of the inheritance, I've been having dreams of that terrible day. The dreams weren't anything solid, at least not until now. That's why I started screaming."

His wife asked impatiently, "So what happened back then?"

"You have to promise that you won't laugh. I'm serious."

"Look, James, I can tell that this whole thing has really upset you. But don't forget that I'm your wife. Of course I won't laugh at you."

"I saw a ghost," he blurted out.

"A ghost?" she replied skeptically before even thinking.

"Yes, a ghost," James replied, his expression growing hot with anger. "I was a bored little kid. While my parents were busy talking to my uncle, I went exploring on my own. At least to my boyish eyes, the house was a huge ramshackle affair that had so many places that I just had to check out. I wasn't scared at all. I first went to the attic, and then poked my nose into all the rooms I could find. I eventually found the courage to go down into the basement. It was filled with junk, but still enough of it was interesting to keep me down there, even though it was dark and filled with cobwebs. That's when I heard a sound coming from behind the only door there. It sounded like marbles falling on the dirt floor or something like that."

"It sounds positively spooky," Beth said. She found herself getting swept up in her husband's story.

"It was," he replied. Now he could sense a change in his wife. She seemed genuinely interested now. "I went in there. It took a lot of courage, but I just had to know where that sound was coming from. Anyway, as soon as I stepped inside, the door to that little room shut. I tried and tried to get out but the door wouldn't budge. I screamed for my parents but it was like they couldn't hear me. Just when I was about to give up all hope, the door suddenly opened. I ran out of that hellish space and headed straight for the stairs. But that's when I heard the laughter. I turned around to see who had been pranking me. That's when I saw the ghost."

"Really? What did it look like?"

"It was a little girl dressed all in white. Now that I think about it, she was wearing a rather old-fashioned dress, the type with bows, buttons, and hoops."

"How did you know it was a ghost? I mean it could have been a real person playing a joke on you."

"You weren't there," James retorted. He felt the anger, which had been dwindling, come back like a hot wire. "When I mean she was in white, I'm not only talking about the clothing. I mean her skin was white and so was her hair. There was a strange translucent quality to the body as if she was floating above the ground. The eyes, however, were black as coal. This little girl, or ghost, then began to scream. It was an unearthly howl that made my ears ring. I ran up the stairs, crying with fear. I found my parents sitting with my uncle in the living room. I went flying into my mother's arms. It took her quite a while to get the whole story out of me. My dad went searching the basement for this intruder but didn't find anyone. In the end my parents just attributed the whole episode to my overactive imagination. The strangest part is they never heard me cry out. No one even heard the screams of the little girl."

"Did your uncle say anything?"

"I see that legal mind of yours is always at work. But to answer your question, that was the strange part. I don't remember him being very surprised at all. At least he didn't run around the house like my dad, or try to console me. Instead he seemed rather amused by the whole situation. I was so scared at the time that I really didn't think about it much,"

Beth said cautiously, "Well, I wasn't there, but perhaps your parents were right - it could have been caused by an overactive imagination. I mean you were so young and impressionable. Being in that unknown house would bound to make you think you saw and hear something that wasn't there."

He shook his head. He said with a firm voice, "Now that the memory has come back, I remember it as clearly as you and I talking right now. It happened. It was real."

"Look," Beth said cautiously, "I believe you. But there has to be some rational explanation for it. I mean maybe there really was a young girl there. Maybe your uncle was just playing a practical joke on you. It's the only thing that makes any kind of sense. You really don't believe in ghosts, do you?"

With a half-hearted smile, James replied, "I certainly did back then. Now that I'm older I'm supposed to know better."

"Well that's settled then."

"Yeah, I guess so."

Beth reached over and squeezed his hand. She said, "Don't sound so forlorn. We'll be landing in another hour so why don't you try to get some more rest."

"I'll try," he said. He didn't seem too sure of the idea.

*

Tyler West rolled the beer can back and forth in his hands, feeling the cool moisture. He was sitting on a worn sofa, trying to keep his wandering attention focused on the talker in front of him.

The man said, "Your job is simple enough. Do you think you can do it?"

West took a sip of the beer. It was already getting too warm. He put the can down. "No problem. It'll be a cinch."

"Good. Now remember what I told you and don't do anything foolish. I'll be paying you handsomely not to mess it up."

"I'll have them eating out of my hand," the young man replied. "Though it would help if you would tell me exactly what you are looking for."

The man frowned. "I can't. At least not yet. I don't want to get your hopes up. Mine have already been through the wringer. For now, just tell me what those two are up to. Okay?"

"You're the boss."
Chapter 3

The lowcountry of South Carolina was a collection of communities close to the sea. Hills were few while the forests here were deep in swamp-like water. No major highways penetrated the dense undergrowth; instead the cities were connected by small two-lane roads with shoulders that were choked by weeds. However, compared to the northern reaches of this country, the weather during December was decidedly clement, much like a spring day. It was this burst of warmth that buoyed the passengers of the small rental car.

As James piloted the Toyota, he said, "This all looks different than I remember."

"How is that?" Beth asked, looking up from the map she had bought at the airport.

"I don't know, just a lot wetter. Of course it was summer when I came here as a little kid."

"You'll want to turn right at the next intersection," she said. "That will lead us straight into Clairepoint."

"Right." He slowed to make the turn.

The road here was even narrower than the first. The vegetation crowded along the edge of the asphalt, making it feel as if they were driving through a long green tunnel. After a few hundred feet, it narrowed into a rough gravel road.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" James asked, obviously irritated. "It doesn't seem like much of a road."

"I think I know how to read a map," she replied icily.

"Can you check on your phone? This just doesn't seem to be right. I mean who ever heard of a town being this far off the beaten track?"

Beth reached into her purse and pulled out the smart phone. She turned it on. "Damn, no signal out here either."

"Welcome to the nineteenth century," James commented dryly.

The land finally opened up. On either side of the road were little dilapidated farmhouses, each with a dirt driveway inhabited by an old pickup truck. Some yards were tidier than others, but the whole effect was that this was an area riddled with poverty and decay. It was as if a curse had covered the land, choking out anything good and wholesome.

A farmer with torn overalls was ambling along on the side of the road. James slowed and stopped when the car drew level to the man.

"Excuse me," he said, "But we're looking for Clairepoint."

The man spat on the ground and then stopped his forward motion. He turned to look at the car. He was old, but so skinny that he looked as if all the vitality had been sucked dry from the flesh. His coarse black hair was speckled with white. The browned skin on his exposed arms and face looked to be paper thin. His dark eyes squinted against the sun above.

"You're not from around here, are you?" he asked suspiciously.

"No, not really," James admitted.

"Beautiful day," Beth added as she flashed the farmer a smile.

The man looked up at the sky as if checking to see if her words were true. "I reckon' so," he finally commented. His unblinking eyes finally settled back on the couple. "You're on the wrong road to get to Clairepoint, but this will still get you there, provided you follow my directions. Now if you go ahead a mile or so, there is a sign telling you that the town is to the left. It's an old sign so I wouldn't pay it any heed. Just keep on going straight. There's a bridge there that will go over the creek. Go over that and take the next left there. That will bring you right behind the graveyard. Keep on that road and you'll end up smack in the middle of town. It's hard to miss."

"Thanks," James said as he idled ahead.

"What an odd man," Beth commented once they were out of earshot.

"Yeah," James replied as he studied his rearview mirror. He could see the farmer watching them drive away. He would swear that the old man was laughing.

A turnoff came up. On the side of the road was a weathered wood sign with the name of Clairepoint written with faded yellow paint. An arrow underneath the ragged lettering pointed to the left.

James slowed the car down. "I have a feeling that I should turn."

"No, we're supposed to go straight. That's what the man said."

"I guess so." He pushed the gas pedal down and passed the sign and intersection.

The dirt road ahead became thicker with woods. Between the roots of the trees, it was wet with puddles of green-tinged water. In the air there was the smell of rotting vegetation. Soon this road gave away to ruts and washouts. James was forced to slow the car down to a crawl. Up ahead he saw an old wooden bridge that had seen better days. At the very edge of the span, he jammed on the brakes and stopped the car.

"Why are we stopping?" Beth asked.

As James clambered out, he said, "I just want to get a better look at this bridge, honey. It doesn't look very sturdy."

"Be careful," she cautioned her husband.

Standing at the front bumper, James could see the expanse of the bridge. It was made with wood planks with a rusty railing on each side. It was barely wide enough to let one car pass through. The water underneath was a muddy choked stream of brown water that threaded its way through the forest. He took a few cautious steps onto the bridge. The structure suddenly gave a shudder. James felt something underneath shift, which resulted in a horrendous groan. The wood underneath was rotten to the point where he could feel his feet sinking into the wet pulpiness.

James turned, ready to flee, but it was too late. His right foot went right through the rotted planks. His leg plunged downward, sending him off balance. He caught himself on the edges of the opening and widening hole, wet slivers breaking free in his hands. With a painful grunt, he tried to free himself, but the extra pressure was too much for the aged bridge. James screamed. His body burst through the wood. With a splash, he fell into the water below.

It felt as if the journey downward would never stop but in seconds his feet touched bottom. His mouth filled with water. James choked on the vile scum and dirt, making him cough. Pushing up with his legs, he broke free of the mud and his head cleared the water. He began sucking in as much air as his aching lungs could contain.

"James!" It was Beth, standing on the bank of the stream near the corner of the bridge. Her eyes and mouth were open in shock while the skin of her face was flaming red with panic. Without another word, she jumped in and swam toward him.

"I'm okay!" he managed to choke out.

She grabbed him by the arm. Together, hand in hand, they clambered back to the muddy shore.

"My god," Beth said after they had reached the road again. "I thought you were going to die."

James looked grim, his eyes blazing with anger. "I'm going to kill that bastard. If we had tried to drive the car over that bridge, we both could have drowned!"

"I'm sure he didn't want anything like that to happen. I mean who would do such a thing?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to go back and ask him. Right now."

"I would like some dry clothes first," Beth said quietly.

His anger temporarily broken, James smiled at his wife. "Of course, how stupid of me." In short order the trunk was opened and the suitcases located. They changed right there, feeling like blushing newlyweds.

"You're still looking good, Beth," he said with an uneasy smile.

"You're not half-bad either, Mister Warren," she said.

"I'm sorry I've been so cross. It's nothing to do with you, really."

"I know."

"Let's get back and see if we can find that fellow who gave us those lousy directions."

"Okay," she said uncertainly, "but don't go and try to start a fight. This isn't our town. We don't know anyone here and locals aim to protect themselves."

"Come on, get in the car."

When they were both safely settled inside, James put the car into reverse and backed down the dirt road. After a few dozen feet, he located a shallow turnaround. Once the nose of the car was pointing in the right direction, he gunned the engine and shot down the two-track. The suspension bottomed out a few times, jarring them. They quickly broke out of the forest and passed the sign. Within moments they were back near the stretch of farms where they had seen the stranger. There was no one there.

"Damn it, where did he go to?" James asked angrily as he slowed to a stop and the shoved the transmission into park.

"He could be anywhere by now," his wife replied testily. "Are you going to search door to door or are we going to drive on to Clairepoint?"

With evident exasperation, James momentarily studied the area around the car as if trying to find a hidden spot. He finally threw up his hands and said, "I give up. But if I ever see that bastard again, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind."

"Sure, honey," Beth said.

After turning the car around once again, they drove on. This time James followed the sign. The road twisted and turned. The evidence of civilization became more apparent with each passing minute for on the side of the road were small businesses and homes of a more suburban nature. There was even some traffic, though not of a busy sort. Instead it was mostly lumbering pickup trucks, being driven slowly as if there was all the time in the world.

The car rounded a turn and there was a traffic light. A wooden sign embellished with carved flowers indicated that they were finally in downtown Clairepoint, Home of the Blue Tigers, last year's Little League champions. The brick buildings, none that reached over three stories in height, were clustered around the main street which ended at a little courthouse with white columns. The majority of shops here were of a decidedly non-tourist sort: a hardware store, a restaurant titled Ma's Counter, a saloon with no windows, and a few plain offices. An antique store with the name of Century Collectibles was the only business that really stood out.

James pulled the car over to the first open parking space. There were only a few pedestrians on the sidewalk: a pair of old ladies walking with shopping bags, a trio of bar patrons talking outside, and a little kid riding his bicycle. It looked like a sleepy little town from days past.

"Let's go find that lawyer," he said.
Chapter 4

The office of Maynard Flint, Esquire, was a cluttered affair of papers, leather-bound legal tomes, aged wood paneling, and threadbare carpeting. The sun, which was beginning to drop closer to the horizon, shone brightly inside, exposing the accumulated dust and grime caking the storefront window. The proprietor of this establishment was sitting behind a large and ancient desk that was cluttered with coffee cups and manila envelopes stacked in haphazard piles. He was eying his clients in a reserved and practiced manner.

Flint was a man of slight build. His thin and long neck balanced a head on top that was nearly hairless. The skin was brown from years of sunshine. His eyebrows were snowy white and covered a set of dark eyes that rarely blinked. The face itself was rough: tanned, some patches of red, and prematurely wrinkled from years of hard use. The lips were thin and almost the same color of his skin. As for the nose, it hung like a beak with a set of nostrils that were like tunnels. He was dressed in a suit and tie of some years, but the shirt was starched white and clean. A set of gold cufflinks flashed from the streaming sun.

With an old-fashioned drawl, he carefully said, "So you are Mr. Warren and wife. I am pleased that you made it here. And I must apologize for the way that the will was handled. When old William got sick, no one thought it was anything serious. But since his wife and your father died, I thought it prudent to have him change the will. You are apparently the last man from this branch of the Warren family. You were the only choice left. There wasn't any time to notify you of the modification since your uncle slipped away the next day. It was quite the surprise, let me tell you. He wasn't a loved man here, if you can pardon my forthrightness, but he was respected."

James and Beth were sitting across from this lawyer. The chairs were rather low to the ground, making Flint looking taller than he really was.

"I'm glad you've been looking after my uncle's interest," James said. "Now what exactly did my uncle die of? He was older than my father, but not that much older."

Flint raised his eyebrows. He then cleared his throat and finally said, "You'll hear some strange things about the house that he lived at. It's been a source of rumors here in town for some time. Now I'm a man of reason and laws, so I put no truck in the sort of stories that get brandished around in some quarters, but I will say that your uncle William was a strange sort of fellow. He liked to live by himself. There is nothing wrong with that but it does get tongues wagging.

"He had perhaps only two friends in his life that I knew of, one, by the name of Tyler West, who sometimes did some work around the house. No one knows where this young man came from, but Tyler has been around town for the past couple of years. He works as a handyman, doing anything he can to make a buck. He currently lives in town, but could be just about anywhere if takes his fancy.

"The other fellow is Lucius Brown, who went to high school with your uncle. I believe they both served together in Vietnam. He's sixty now and doesn't do much except for fishing and a little poaching, but don't tell the sheriff that. Anyway, it was old Lucius that found your uncle down on the ground and called for help. If you want to hear about the heart attack, he's the man you want to jaw with."

"I see," James said. "So it was a heart attack. How long did he last after that?"

"Oh, it was two days. He was at the hospital down at Beaufort. There he had another heart attack, a massive one, at least that's what the doctor said. His death was quick. In accordance to the deceased's wishes, the body was cremated. For whatever reason, William decided he did not want to be buried in the family plot."

James nodded slowly, taking in the news.

His wife, however, had a further question. "This Lucius, what does he look like?"

"Why are you asking this?" Flint replied with surprise.

Beth explained, "On our way here, we get a little lost. Someone who was walking on the side of the road gave us directions that almost led to a serious accident. My husband I could have been killed. You mentioned that Lucius liked to fish. This man was carrying a bucket and a fishing pole. I'm just curious if it is the same person."

The lawyer said, "I'm sure he wouldn't do anything like that. But I can tell you that Lucius is a skinny man with black hair and dark brown eyes. He's going a little white on the temples, but not enough to notice unless you get close enough."

"That sounds like him," Beth said.

"What exactly did this man tell you to do?"

His eyes bright with renewed anger, James cut in, "He gave us directions that would have taken us behind the town graveyard. On the way there, we were to drive over this old wooden bridge. But I didn't like the way it looked, so I got out to examine the soundness of the structure. I took a few steps out onto the bridge and fell right through. If we had driven the car over, we could have drowned."

Flint nodded. "I'm sure he met no harm."

"How can you say that?" James angrily asked.

"You have to understand that Lucius doesn't drive all that often. That old pickup of his has seen better days. The bridge has been there for a long time but no one uses it anymore since the road is such a mess. I would guess the old man hasn't driven that way for years."

"What are you trying to say?" Beth asked.

He smiled at her. "I just mean any malice on his part would be hard to prove. I would just scratch it off as misfortune. After all, no one was seriously hurt."

"Now wait just a minute!" James exclaimed. "I'm not going to let something like that go so easily. We could have been killed."

"You can go ahead and complain to the sheriff," the lawyer explained, "but that's not my concern. I am only counseling you that such a pursuit may not be worth your time. You two are obviously more concerned with the sale of William's estate, not waiting around at the courthouse."

As her husband fumed, Beth said, "We shall take your advice under consideration, Mr. Flint. Now how much do you think we could get for the property?"

He rubbed his jaw with a liver-spotted hand. "I don't rightly know. We're talking just over a hundred acres of land, but the house is in some disrepair. This is a poor county with poor folk living here. No one is going to plop down a million dollars for it, if you know what I mean. If you're lucky, then perhaps some farmer would be interested in taking the land. Back when your husband's grandfather lived there, he grew some of the most beautiful roses. That means the soil is good."

"You still haven't given us a value," James said blandly.

"You must understand my position, Mr. Warren, I am just helping you understand what you will be receiving from the will. I cannot put a hard number on the value of the estate. I would hate for you to be disappointed."

"I'm not looking to make a fortune, but I would like to pay off my wife's considerable student loans. She is taking the bar in February and I would rather not have that large debt weighing us down."

Flint momentarily beamed at Beth. "Ah, you mean to enter this profession. I wish you all the luck in the world, for it is a noble pursuit. But as for the value of the land, Mr. Warren, I would hazard somewhere over a hundred thousand dollars."

"That's all?" Beth said with disappointment. She had been imagining a lot more than that.

"There are also some antiques in the house," Flint went on. "As to their value, I could not tell you. Perhaps they should be donated to the local museum. I'm sure they would like any of the period pieces, especially anything from the Civil War."

"The house is that old?" James asked.

The lawyer nodded. "It's even older than that. It will be a shame to see the heritage of such a long line of ancestors finally come to an end. Since you are the last living Warren, that is."

There was a moment of silence. James felt a sudden sickness inside as if he was failing someone. "I'm not about to move here," he said. "I don't think there is much need for computer programmers in this town and my wife has to start studying for the bar exam."

"I'm not trying to pressure you into anything," Flint said sadly. "I'm just saying it's a shame, that's all. Now if you could sign some papers, I'll get the house signed over to your name. That will take a few days, but we can drive out in the morning and take a look at the property. Do you have a place to stay for tonight? I can recommend you a hotel."

"No," James admitted. "We were hoping to sleep at the house."

The smile that was normally attached to Flint's mouth turned downward. "I don't think you want to go there. It's a little primitive, to say the least."

"I'm afraid we don't have much choice," Beth said with some mild embarrassment. "Money is a little tight right now."

"Okay, but there's no electricity out there. The power got shut off weeks ago. That will mean no heat for the night and no warm water."

"We've been camping before," Beth said. "We'll do alright."

"I'm sure it will be fine," James added.

"Okay then," the lawyer said resignedly. "I'll show you the way out there."
Chapter 5

Flint drove a vintage blue Cadillac that was still in perfect condition. Even the paint had a high-gloss. James could imagine the lawyer doing a thorough job waxing the beast every Sunday. They followed him closely, for he was a slow driver. However within minutes they were free of the confines of Clairepoint and out in the open countryside. Farms and forests dotted the paved road, which was cracked and gray from the years of relentless sun above.

After a few miles, Flint turned down a dirt road that had no sign indicating the name. The surface here was worn and the underbrush crowded the shoulder. There was a feeling of desolation here that made James feel uneasy. He looked over at his wife. Beth was biting her lip. The lawyer turned once again, this time taking it really easy as he drove the Cadillac onto an even untidier two-track. The branches of the low bushes brushed against the sides of the wide Cadillac. A few feet in, he stopped the big car. There was a high wall here made of gray slate. It stretched and disappeared into the tangle of the underbrush. On top of the wall was a series of iron spikes. A closed metal gate with a thick padlock was the only way through.

Flint got out of the car and went over to the padlock. After unlocking it, he swung the gates all the way open. After returning to his car, the lawyer waved a hand at the couple and then drove through.

James felt a chill running down his spine. He was looking at the wall, oblivious to the fact that he could go on.

"What is it?" Beth asked.

"I don't know," James replied, feeling uncertain. "I feel like I'm a young kid again. I'm afraid of going back to that house. I think we should get a hotel room like Flint suggested. I don't want to stay here. I can't."

"Come on, honey, there's nothing that can frighten a big guy like you. I don't believe in ghosts and neither should you." Beth truly believed what she was saying. It was strange to see her husband acting this way.

"Yeah, I guess so." Against his better judgment, he gently squeezed the gas pedal and edged the Toyota through the gates. As James passed by the stone wall, he felt as if he was leaving the old world behind and entering a new one. The sun was already low against the horizon, making long shadows on the road, but now a cloud covered the streaming light, turning the landscape gray and making it look colder than the actual temperature.

"Did you feel that?" his wife asked, her voice so low that her husband almost didn't hear the words.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"Nothing," Beth replied back. She had felt an involuntary shudder pass down the length of her spine. A small part of her was afraid but she wasn't about to admit it to anyone.

The cloud passed as quickly as it came. The sun once again flooded the land. To James it felt as if an icy hand had released his heart. He let out a sigh, and the feeling of dread began to drop away. Instead he concentrated on the road, enjoying the sights of such a wild land that had been untouched by man for several years. There was an apple orchard on the right, the gnarled trees entangled with thick brush. To the left, a wide field, that probably once held crops, was now filled with wildflowers and long grass that waved with the wind. They scooted over a little stone bridge that crossed a stream of clear water. Ahead, on a rise, was the house.

"Oh," Beth breathed out, "it's so beautiful."

And it was at that. The home was a large rambling affair made from red and brown brick. It was two stories high. The roof had shingles so old that they had turned gray by the heat of the sun. A set of stone steps led to a massive front door flanked by two small slit-like windows. A wide porch ran the length of the house. The second story had four leaded windows that faced the front. The frames that enclosed the multi-paned glass were painted black, as were the shutters. There was an air of solidity to the structure, looking as if it had already weathered the worst in its long life. The grounds around the house were an overgrown collection of bramble, wildflowers, and even a few patches of rose bushes. It looked like a garden that had been left on its own for decades.

"Do you remember any of this?" Beth asked her husband.

He shook his head. "Barely. I remember that front door more than anything else. As a little kid, it seemed big enough to fit my dad's Oldsmobile."

James then followed the rough track that circled toward the back of the house. Lost in the tall grass were some weathered tombstones. Flint's car was parked near the rear. The lawyer was already out, leaning against the fender, his expression unfathomable. James pulled up next to him and parked. He got out to survey the back of the home. Whoever had designed this house in the years past had put all of their money into the impressive front. The back, in comparison, was rather dowdy, looking more like a farmer's house. The windows were small and lacked the decorative touch. The rear door was narrow and the angled back porch that covered the egress looked to be an afterthought. The row of windows above looked empty and dark.

"Care to go in and check it out?" Flint asked.

James nodded. "Lead the way."

The lawyer took the rough stairs up the back, searched through a jumble of keys on his key ring, and then unlocked the door. "Ladies first," he said.

Beth smiled politely at him and walked inside. James followed. They found themselves in a kitchen that looked to have been last updated fifty years ago. There was a white porcelain sink, stacked with dirty dishes that stunk to high heaven. An old harvest gold refrigerator was crammed in the corner. The oven was an ancient design that only looked one step forward from the days of burning wood. The metal grates over the gas burners were caked with blackened grease. The cupboards were originally white, but the years had turned them into a dirty gray. The shiny chrome handles looked out of place, like brand new cars in a lot of broken down jalopies.

Flint shut the door. He said, "As you can tell William was never much of a cook."

Beth made a face. "Or a housekeeper. Those dishes are overdue for a washing."

"No one has been here since he died. I should have sent someone over to clean the place up, but I guess I wasn't thinking."

"That's okay," she replied. "We'll do it a little later. But I want to see the rest of the house first."

"Sure, right this way," the lawyer intoned.

Before following Flint out of the kitchen, James stopped momentarily to look at the closed door that led to the basement. He shook his head as if trying to clear away the horrific memory of the past. He knew there were no such things as ghosts but a flicker of doubt remained inside.

They went through a small arched entryway that opened into a long and wide dining room. The sun leached lazily through the drawn curtains. There was a claw-footed table here of considerable length. The top was covered with a dusty white drop cloth. On top of this were numerous household items: an open dry paint bucket, a pile of junk mail, a candle, a few small tools, and some paperback novels. A few chairs were tucked under the eaves, their legs matching the curve of the table. The floor here was made of wide pine planks that must have once been beautiful. With the passage of time, the nicks and scars of past incidents were painfully obvious. Above a glass and beaded chandelier hung from the high ceiling. It had no sockets for light bulbs, but instead candles could be seen in the tangle of thick cobwebs.

"William apparently didn't use this room much," Flint commented.

"Or have much use for electricity," James added.

"It must have been beautiful back in the day," Beth said as she thought of the possibilities. It would only take a few thousand dollars to really make something out of this place.

"By all accounts it was," the lawyer agreed. "This house was built before the Civil War. Your ancestors were rich back then. Legend was they had some of the finest balls in the county. The best folk would come from miles around to enjoy the food and drink of the Warren house. There was dancing too. Of course the war changed all that. Colonel Warren died right after the war and the money had been frittered away."

"Yes," James agreed. "I've heard some of those stories growing up. I guess my great-something-grandfather chose the wrong side."

"Those old scars run deep around here," the lawyer quietly said. "The young generation doesn't seem to care to hear of those days, but some of the old folks around here are a little sensitive on the subject of the war. Keep that in mind when discussing it."

James looked at Flint, wondering how serious the lawyer was being. The Civil War happened well over a hundred years ago. Who alive could still be clinging to those ancient days? With a shrug, he finally said, "I will."

"Good, now let's move on while there is still some daylight."

The next room was a massive space that took up the entire front of the house. A passageway to the right led off into the gloom. A curving stairway of oak steps and banister led upward. On the left wall was a fireplace with a wide mantle made of carved wood. The design was intricate with oak leaves and vines, all stained dark with ages of soot. Ashes were inside the metal grate and a few thick logs were piled up against the wall. The grandeur of this room was diminished by the old tube television set, which sat on top of a milk crate and crammed into the corner.. Grouped around this was a decrepit brown sofa, one of the legs replaced by a telephone book. The coffee table here was littered with plates and glasses, along with an ashtray crammed with cigarette butts. These pieces of furniture only took up a small amount of the total space. Like the dining room, the floor was wood, but mostly covered by a piece of soiled carpeting that was once perhaps red in color.

Flint said, "Old William certainly didn't live big. But it wouldn't take much to make this old house grand again."

James asked, "Are you suggesting that we're the ones who should do this work?"

The old lawyer shrugged and gave the couple a mischievous smile. "I'm suggesting no such thing. But it would be a shame to sell your ancestral home. I mean think of the history. Think of the deceased buried back there in that cemetery plot. Would you want them looked after by a stranger?"

"Look, Mr. Flint," James replied, trying to hid his anger, "I'm no prodigal son returning home to make things right. My father left this state so he could make money and have a family. He never returned to claim his birthright or any such thing. He was just a damn good repairman who struggled to send his only son, me, through college. I don't have the money to keep this place, nor do I have the inkling for such an undertaking. Do I make myself clear?"

The lawyer nodded, the movement slow and sad. "I'm sorry that I even brought it up, Mr. Warren. It's just that the old ways are slipping away. I'm getting on in the years and remember when things are different. If this house and land is sold, it's just one more string from the past that is broken. But I'm the sentimental sort, so don't listen to me. Let's go look at the library and then the upstairs where the bedrooms are. After that, I will leave you to your own devices. After all, this place is now legally yours to do as you see fit."

"I'm sorry I spoke so angrily," James said, now feeling ashamed of his temper.

"And I'm sorry that we ever had cross words. It's not a lawyer's place to become so emotional. Here, come this way down the hallways to the library."

The hallway was short. To the left was a bathroom that looked out of place in this ancient home. The hallway ended at an open doorway. The lawyer led them inside to the wide room. There were two windows, each covered with heavy red drapes. It made the room dark, but rows and rows of books could be seen. They were resting inside bookcases that took up all the wall space from floor to ceiling. A single wooden desk and chair sat in the middle of a heavily carpeted floor. A lamp and a pile of papers sat on top of the old desk. There was a trace of dust on everything.

Flint stepped over to one of the windows and pulled the drape back. A weak beam from the declining sun shot into the room. The lawyer swept a hand at the lined-up books. He said, "Some of these are older than the house. Sir Thomas Warren, the man who originally bought this land and built this home, was a collector. He brought these books over from Scotland and had this space especially built so he would have a place to enjoy them."

Beth's eyes ran the length of the room, her eyes taking in the sight of so many books. With her legal studies, she had a newly-found respect for the written word. Here were ideas and rules for living, the imagination and the experience of generations all inscribed and told with earnestness. Steeped with so much history, this would be a wonderful place to study and learn the nuances of law. Beth could feel herself falling in love with this house, even though staying here was certainly impossible.

James, on the other hand, saw nothing but moldy tomes that held little interest to him. But perhaps these rows of books had some monetary value to a collector. If there wasn't much value in the land, then perhaps the contents of the house would help fill the gap. There had to be someway to get rid of those student loans.

"You'll find the history of the house and your ancestors here," Flint said. "Along with some old maps, and who knows what else. I know William never had much use for them, but I always thought this was a wonderful place."

"I can see that," James lied. "I know it's getting late though. I would like to thank you for showing us around, but I bet you have some better things to do with your time."

"But you haven't seen the upstairs yet," Flint protested.

"I'm sure we can sort it out ourselves."

The lawyer broke into a grin. "I can tell when someone is trying to get rid of me. I understand. It's been a long day and you're tired of hearing me prattle on. I apologize. Now let me find you the keys and I'll be on my way." He reached into his pocket and started going through the key ring.

"I didn't mean to offend." John said. "But as you said, it is getting late. We've been flying or driving all day. I won't speak for Beth, but I know I'm feeling tired. I was hoping to get started in cleaning that smell from the kitchen and then get some sleep."

Flint handed a pair of keys over. He said, "No apologies are needed. I must warn you that the beds upstairs may not be suitable for your use. They are rather decrepit and as your wife said, William wasn't much of a housekeeper. But you should be able to find some blankets up there."

"Food," Beth said. "I want to go into town and get a few days groceries. Where is the closest place?"

"There is only one supermarket in Clairepoint. You can follow me out and I'll show you where it is."

James nodded. "Why don't you go, Beth? I'll stay here and get started on the cleaning."

"Are you sure you'll be okay by yourself?" she asked.

"Sure, why wouldn't I? I'll get a fire started too. I can feel the temperature dropping outside already."
Chapter 6

Standing at the front window, James watched the taillights of the rental until they disappeared into the dark woods. Thinking of all the work that was coming, he let out a sigh. Even after the legalities were finished, there was still the matter of getting rid of all this junk. That would mean contacting antique and book dealers, and then the real estate agent to see what kind of money they could get out of this property. He did feel bad about selling the place but knew it would be impossible to keep. His finances were already tight enough that this trip had added to their considerable debt. There was no way they could add the additional upkeep of a second home – the maintenance and updating alone of such an old house would bankrupt even a rich man. Scratching his chin, he gave up on this line of thought. It could wait for another time. Now he had to concentrate on some immediate needs: starting a fire, washing the dishes, and finding a place to sleep.

The first task was easy enough. He went to the fireplace and placed some nearby logs into the grate. A pile of newspapers and a box of long matches were already on the side of the hearth. This was no surprise since the soot marks in the brickwork showed that this fireplace had been used countless times over the years. That thought gave him a jolt of guilt. He could now imagine how his ancestors had huddled around the warmth of the flames to ward off the cold night air. It would be a shame for a stranger to stand here and do the same.

A merry blaze started, the flames greedily consumed the dried wood. The light from the fire was a terrific spectacle of orange, blue and white that lit up the room. The shadows danced along the floor and dispelled some of the evening gloom that was beginning to pervade this massive room. The corners were becoming lost in shadows and the doorway leading to the dining room was turning dark and foreboding. But still, the cheery crackle of the wood pushed away these thoughts in his head. This was no time for childish thoughts of things that went bump in the night.

Going upstairs, he found three rooms, the two smallest were filled with furniture, plastic bags, and odd knick-knacks that would require further investigation the next day. William Warren must have been something of a packrat. The largest of the bedrooms had obviously been used for its intended purpose. The covers of the big bed were askew and there was a faint odor of sweat in the air. Another television was here, the dusty tube empty and gray. James made a face, knowing he wouldn't want to use these blankets or this bed. But another door along the cramped hallway saved the day. It was stuffed with linen, including some musty blankets. Gathering two quilts together in his arms, he carried them quickly downstairs and threw them on the sofa. The light from outside was now fading fast. Now it was time for the most difficult of the tasks.

James went toward the kitchen slowly. The unfamiliarity of the house made every step unsure. The comfort of the fireplace faded as he entered the darkened dining room. The kitchen was beyond. He stopped, thinking of the closed door that led to the basement below. He remembered that awful moment when that creature – or was it a ghost? - screamed at him. In the light of day, that past memory seemed unreal. But now that he was alone, the experience came back with a startling clarity. He was afraid to go any further. The darkness was now complete. The sun had slipped below the horizon and with it, any bravery that he had left.

His heart beating hard in his chest, James was about to retreat when he remembered the candle on the dining room table. He took a few steps in that direction, using whatever little light from the front room to guide his way. There was the candle. He grabbed it and, with a shiver running down his spine, he ran back to the fireplace. There he stood, gazing into the fire as if trying to gain some confidence from the flickering flames. When his heart returned to a normal rhythm, James lit the candle and then turned, ready to give the kitchen another try.

His eyes caught a glimpse of something white in the darkened dining room. It was just a flash, like a floating strand caught momentarily in the eye. In that brief second there was no chance to recognize a form or figure, but James could feel the grip on the candle tighten until he thought his fingers would squeeze through the wax. His breathing became labored. He stared hard into the darkness, waiting for some horror to emerge.

"This is stupid!" James finally said out loud.

His own voice almost made him jump. He then laughed at the silliness he had brought upon himself. Here he was, a grown man afraid of the dark. Gritting his teeth, he took a few tentative steps forward, holding the candle in front like a weapon ready to sweep away an enemy. He could feel his hands trembling as he entered the dining room and then into the kitchen beyond.

*

Beth smiled benignly at the cashier. She had found shopping at this little grocery store an interesting cultural clash. Not only were some of the product completely different, but the staff were exceedingly polite. This was an odd change from the rather rude behavior up in Michigan. But this politeness made her suspicious. It was almost like the natives were secretly taunting her. There has been no problem understanding the southern accent, but to Beth's mystification, her own flat Midwestern vowels caused confusion.

"No, I said I wanted paper bags," she said.

"Ma'am?" the cashier said as she stuffed the produce into some thin white bags.

"Oh, never mind," Beth trailed off.

Once the few bags of groceries had been loaded into the cart, she gave the cashier a little wave and then headed out toward the parking lot. It was dark outside, the clouds low and covering whatever sliver of the moon was there. The parking lot lights and the passing cars were the only source of illumination. She opened the trunk and stuffed the bags inside. She was about to get inside the car when the cellphone rang. Digging through her purse, she looked at the screen. It was her husband's number.

"Hello?" she said as she slid behind the wheel and shut the door.

"I can't..." the voice on the other side answered. It sounded strained and distant.

"James, is that you?"

"Come back. Hurry." And then the line went dead.

Beth hit the redial button. It rang and rang, eventually dropping into voice mail. She tried again, but still her husband didn't pick up. A feeling of panic rose in her throat. What could possibly be wrong? She felt uncertain and afraid. There wasn't anything to do but hurry back to that house and see what was going on.

Jamming the key into the ignition, she started the car, slammed the transmission into drive, and stepped on the gas. Ignoring the stop sign, the little Toyota burst onto the street, barely missing a lumbering pickup truck. Beth wasn't familiar with the steering or brakes, but soon found a rhythm to the controls. A few turns later and she found herself on the dirt road leading to the house. The branches whipped by. The car shot past the open gates. The suspension bounced over the ruts and potholes, jarring her teeth. The headlights pierced the darkness, throwing strange alien shadows deep into the underbrush.

Beth took her eyes off the road to look at the house. The front windows at the ground floor had a slight orange glow to them. Everything else was dark. The Toyota lurched up the hill and to the back. Leaving the headlights on so she could see, Beth rushed to the back door. It opened easily enough. She entered, using the dim light coming from the front room to guide her through the gloom.

"James!" she called out.

There was no answer.

"James!" she shouted, this time louder than before.

"I'm in here," he said in reply. His voice sounded cautious, perhaps not believing that his wife was really here.

When Beth entered the front room, she saw her husband huddled on the floor near the fireplace. His back was against the flames. He looked drained, but the way his eyes kept sweeping back and forth across the room was unnerving. It looked as if he didn't even recognize her.

"James, it's me," she said, almost pleading.

His roving eyes stopped and then focused on her. "Beth?" he said like a lost child.

"Yes, I'm here," she said in reply as she rushed over to him. Joining him on the ground, she wrapped her arms around him. "What happened?"

His body began to tremble. His voice low and monotone, he said, "After you left, I built a fire first. And then I decided it was time to clean up that kitchen. It was so dark in here though that I was afraid to go in there without some light. In the dining room I found a candle to use. I went to the kitchen and put the candle down on the counter. It wasn't a lot of light but enough to get some work done. I started with scraping the remains of the food into a plastic bag. There were maggots everywhere. I then started to wash the dishes in the sink.

"At first I thought it was my imagination, but I thought I heard someone talking. It was a hard thing to hear over the splash of the water running down the drain. It drove me nuts. After a few minutes it finally bothered me enough that I turned the water off so I could check." He stopped talking.

Beth could feel her husband's shoulders become tense. She said, "What did you hear?"

James let out a sigh. The reply came fast. "It was someone whispering. It sounded like a little girl's voice. It came from the door leading into the basement."

"Oh," was all the Beth could say. She didn't believe in ghosts and she couldn't imagine such a thing happening to herself. "You know," she started, "these old houses can make some funny noises. I remember when I was a little girl and lived at my parent's house. I was deathly afraid to go into the basement. It was just a normal suburban basement but down there I would imagine voices that were just too distant to properly hear the words. I would sometimes see people too – just flitting forms and figures. Every time I had to do laundry, I worked as quickly as I could, and then I would run back upstairs. I thought that if I stayed too long, they would get me."

"The words were distinct. I heard them." The tone of his voice was growing cross.

"What did she say?" Beth asked. She felt a shiver of apprehension prickling the back of her neck hairs.

"Come play with me, James," he barely managed to say. The words came out rough and unformed; almost incoherent. "She knows my name."

She didn't know what to say. The idea sounded preposterous. She finally managed to speak. "It's been a long day. Let's try to get some sleep."

He went on as if he hadn't heard her. "I ran into here. I called you. Thank god you came."

"Of course I would. But you gave me a big scare. I came hurtling out of the parking lot at the grocery store. There could have been an accident. The bags are still in the trunk. I'll go get them."

"Did you buy a flashlight like I asked?"

She nodded. "I'll go get the groceries and then we can figure out where the two of us are going to sleep. It's been a long night."

"Yeah, you're right," he said. He sounded stronger this time. Having someone else here had obviously tempered the fear that had so recently consumed him.

Beth gave him a smile. She said playfully, "But I hope you aren't too tired. I have an idea of how to keep you distracted."
Chapter 7

James woke with a start. It took him a moment to realize where he was. The sunlight was streaming through the windows, pushing away the fear he had felt last night. The ghostly whispering now seemed like the product of his fevered imagination, not the normal rational brain of an adult. But at the time of the event, like the memory of that childhood horror, seemed all too real. For now he pushed those thoughts away. Trying to turn over, he suddenly felt very aware of the naked legs pressed against this body. It came back to him. After they had made love, his wife had taken the other side of the sofa. The sex had been great and so exhausting that James had fallen immediately into a deep slumber. He hadn't even dreamed.

Cinching himself up so the back of his head could rest on the edge of the sofa, James looked at Beth. She was still sleeping, the blanket slowly rising and falling with each gentle breath. Her face looked softer than normal – free of the worries of school and life. He remembered why this was the woman he had married: she was smart, as pretty as any woman, and was more than a wife to him. She was also a best friend and a companion. James couldn't remember how many times Beth had pulled him off of the emotional cliff, listening and advising as he struggled at work or met some personal crisis with his parents. And once again she had come through, taking his mind off of the terrible fear that had threatened his sanity.

Her eyelids fluttered open. "Good morning," she said sleepily. "This sofa is awfully lumpy. Did you sleep well last night?"

"Yes I did. And thanks to you."

Beth gave him a mischievous grin. "And you weren't so bad either. Did you hear any more whisperings or see anything out of the ordinary?"

James shook his head. "No. I slept straight through. What time is it?"

She rooted through the remains of the clothing they had left behind last night. After checking the time on the cellphone, she said, "A little after nine. I suppose we should get up and join the world. We have a lot of work to do today."

"Yeah," James responded. He still felt tired and wrung out. An extra hour of sleep would do him a world of good, but he also knew that they only had a week and a few days to get everything accomplished. There was plenty to do and not enough time.

Slipping out of the covers, Beth stood up and stretched. She didn't have a stitch of clothing on and didn't seem to feel any shame at all.

James was about to say something when he heard a knock. He turned and saw a man's face at one of the large windows by the front door. Beth's eyes grew big. She quickly reached for a quilt and wrapped it around her body and then began gathering her clothes on the floor.

"I'll get it," James said sourly as he reached down for his boxers and t-shirt. When he was dressed, he stood up and sauntered over to the door. He jerked it open and found himself face to face with a man a few years younger than himself. This stranger had carefully combed black hair, a light olive-colored jacket that was open to reveal a black polo shirt. A pair of jeans and some worn work boots finished the ensemble. The eyes were dark and the olive complexion gave him a slightly mysterious look.

"Hello, I'm Tyler West," the man said as he threw out his hand. "You must be the new owners."

James shook hands with him. "That's us. This is my wife, Beth. My name is James Warren."

Tyler stepped inside and gave Beth a smile that could be taken as a leer. "I'm glad to meet you. I'm sorry to barge in like this but I heard that you two were here. I was friends with your uncle William."

"So we've heard. But we've only been here a little while," Beth said as she pulled the blanket tighter over her shoulders. "How did you know?" There was something about this young man that made here feel acutely uncomfortable. Of course she didn't really mind the way he was looking at her, like some kind of object of desire, but it seemed uncouth in the presence of her husband.

The man gave her an aw-shucks expression that was obviously supposed to be taken as comical. "This is a small town," he explained. "Not much goes around here without the ol' gossip spreading. The two of you were seen with that shyster lawyer and then following that pretty little Cadillac of his. And then later in the night, you were at the grocery store, where you left in a real hurry."

"I see," Beth said, wishing this Tyler West would go away so she could dress. It was like those eyes were staring right through the thick fabric of the quilt.

James said shortly, "Did you just come by to say hello?"

"No, not exactly," Tyler replied. He suddenly looked like a school boy asking to be excused for a late homework assignment. One foot ground nervously into the floor while his arms crossed defensively together. "I worked for your uncle off and on. He paid me for the chores I did. I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help out. You know if you're planning to move in, I'm real strong. An old house like this is also a little peculiar. I know the old girl quite well and can do any repairs that are needed."

"We're not moving in," James said. "In fact, we're going to sell what we can of the furnishings and books. After that, the land and the house will be put up on the market."

"Really?" the young man said as if not believing the words he had just heard. "That's a shame. I'm sure a man like you with such a pretty wife would be a nice addition to the town." He looked at Beth and gave her a friendly smile, the corners of his teeth just showing.

"I'm sure he would be welcomed," James said uncertainly, "but we have too many obligations back in Michigan."

"I have to study for the bar," Beth added.

"Ah, another lawyer or are you going to be a bartender?" Tyler said with a laugh. "Well I can help you with the second part, but not the first. If you two want any help moving some stuff out, I'm your man. I also have a truck – it isn't much – that can do some hauling. My rates are low too."

James didn't like this man but this offer to move the heavier objects was a godsend. It would save a lot of time. "Sure, I could do with a little help. I'm sure we can work something out."

"Well good! Where do you want to start?"

"I have some garbage in the kitchen that I bagged last night. That has to go. We can also start cleaning out the upstairs and get rid of anything that isn't valuable."

Tyler nodded. "I'm game."

"And I think I'll make us some coffee," Beth said. "But first I need to go take care of some business."

She stood up, acutely aware of the two men watching her. But she was careful not to let the blanket slip from her shoulders. It was difficult to pick up the suitcase that she had left by the doorway to the dining room, but she managed to juggle that delicate operation. Before slipping down the hallway, Beth looked over her shoulder. She saw Tyler staring at her exposed legs. This man was a rascal, and an impudent one at that.

When Beth was out of earshot, Tyler gave James a wink. "I gotta say that is one pretty little wife you have there. You must keep her busy."

"Yeah, thanks," James said roughly. "Let me throw on some pants and we can get to work."

They started in the kitchen, moving bags of garbage outside. After this was done, James started in on the cupboards, tossing out old food and the majority of the pans and dishes. Most of it looked like junk that wasn't worth selling. He made sure to keep his distance from the door to the basement though. Last night's memory was still too fresh. When he was finished, Tyler took this trash out to his truck.

Returning, he put his hand on the door leading to the basement. "There must be a whole bunch of stuff down there," Tyler said.

"Yes," James agreed as he nervously licked his lips. "But let's start upstairs first."

"You're the boss."

Beth came in. She was dressed in workout clothes, looking prepared to tackle the hard work of the day.

"Coffee?" she asked brightly. "I'm afraid it's just instant. We'll have to suffer until the electricity is turned on. I also have some doughnuts that I bought last night."

"Sounds good, ma'am," Tyler said. "Is there any way I can help out?"

"No," she said with a flash of a smile. "You two can do the heavy work while I sort things out here."

"Come on," James said as he grabbed the box of garbage bags.

Tyler followed him upstairs. After looking through the first room, James's eyes settled on a heavy old desk. It sat amid a jumble of paperbacks, stacks of magazines, and a pile of newspapers. On top were an old rotary phone and a handful of letters. The wood looked to be in rough shape with a scarred top and a foot that had was a different shape than the others, perhaps the result of a hasty repair. He went through the drawers which were stuffed with yellowing paper – mostly bills and gasoline station maps. Though the desk could be fixed by a skilled carpenter, it wouldn't be worth the trouble.

"Let's start with this," James said.

Tyler eyed the desk. "Looks heavy. And old. But we can give it a try if you think you're up to it. It will fit in my truck so I can drag it to the dump."

"I can handle my end," he replied testily.

"It's your funeral," the young man said with a laugh.

Kicking aside some books, James took one side of the desk while Tyler took the other. Together they lifted it up and out of the collected garbage. It was made of solid wood and seemed to weigh a ton. James felt his face growing red as they huffed it through the door. Out in the hallway, he signaled for the other man to stop.

"Let me catch my breath," he said.

"Sure," Tyler said with a smirk.

James set it down. "I just need to get a better grip," he lied. After wiping his brow, he found another set of handholds.

Once again the desk was lifted off the ground. James was leading the way. Even though the strain on his arms was considerable, he wasn't about to show any weakness in front of this man. Instead, he headed straight for the stairs as fast as he could go. When his foot hit the first step, he almost lost his balance.

"Careful there," Tyler warned him. "No reason to rush."

With a grimace, James got ready to take the next step down. He could feel the weight of this object pushing heavily against his chest. He felt as if he could barely breathe, but he couldn't give in now.

"Watch out!" he heard Beth say.

His head swung around to look at his wife, but it was too late. He could feel his foot hit something soft. And then he lost his balance and slid backward with the desk riding down with him. He caught a glimpse of a shocked Tyler trying to make an impossible grab for the leg. He tumbled back, clawing for the banister. His fingers missed one spindle but caught the next one. Pulling his body tight against the wooden posts, he felt the weight of the desk scraping against his back.

With a mighty crash, the desk slammed on top of the landing and into the wall. It splintered from the impact; the side and leg disconnecting from the heavy top.

"Shit," James said.

"Are you okay?" his wife asked. She was down in the front room, watching from the sides. It was a piece of good luck that she wasn't on the landing.

"Yeah, I think so. That was a close call."

"You're lucky to be alive," Tyler stated. His eyes were wide and his breathing hard.

"There was something on the stairs," Beth said excitedly. "I mean it looked like a doll or something. I tried to warn you but it was too late."

"A doll? I didn't see any doll when I went up the stairs." James said stupidly.

"Neither did I," Tyler added.

"It ought to be down here. Let me take a look." Beth then leaned over the mess at the bottom of the stairs. James merely watched, still too afraid to move. In seconds his wife held up an ancient looking rag doll with button eyes. She also held up a leather bound book that was faded with age.
Chapter 8

Safely ensconced in the kitchen, the trio stood around and drank coffee and ate from the box of doughnuts. The doll sat limply on the counter. It was dirty and smudged, the little dress torn and the hair matted with dirt. The black button eyes stared into space. James was busy paging through the leather-bound book. The pages felt fragile. The paper was yellow and filled with swirls of long-handed cursive writing that was beautifully formed.

Tyler was expounding on the broken desk. "I've heard that these older pieces of furniture often had hiding spots. Since people back then rarely had safes or banks they could trust, a secret drawer that could only be opened in a special way were used for valuable papers and money. It looks like we accidentally stumbled on such a document. What does it say?"

"It's a diary. The diary of Colonel Samuel T. Warren. The writing is hard to read since it's so faded."

"That would be the Colonel who fought in the Civil War," Tyler said. "At least that's what I heard from your uncle. He was always going on about his ancestors."

"How wonderful," Beth said, her eyes dancing with excitement. "Just think of the history."

"Speaking of history," James said. "I was meaning to get to an antique dealer and see if anything in this house is worth selling. I would hate to throw away something valuable, especially if we could get some money for it."

"I can go into town," Beth quickly suggested. "I saw a place near Flint's office." She knew if she was left in this house alone with Tyler that there would be trouble. That man could barely keep his eyes off of her.

"That would be the place owned by Bill Stephens," Tyler added. "He's a bit of a snob but he knows his stuff. At least that's what I've heard."

"That's a good to know," James said with relief, not wanting to leave his wife here. "Maybe the local museum could help us too. You know, maybe have a use for anything that we can't sell."

"James, I had no idea you were such a mercenary," Beth quipped as she grabbed her purse.

"I'm not, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I don't want to go through the rest of my life paying off your student loans."

Beth felt her face turning red. She said angrily, "What? Am I supposed to remain the good little housewife at your beck and call? I'm going to be working and making my own money soon enough. I don't think you know how much this means to me." And with those words, she brushed past the startled Tyler and headed out the back door which was slammed shut with a violent smack.

"You put your foot in it," Tyler said, his lips drawn back in glee.

Ignoring that barb, James ran after her, the diary in hand. By the time he got outside, Beth was already inside the Toyota. He reached the driver's side window just as she started the car. She ignored him while he rapped on the glass. The transmission was jerked into reverse and the car began to backup.

"Please, Beth," he begged. "Please stop!"

The car slowed to a stop and the window rolled down. "You're a bastard," she spat out.

"Look, what I said just came out wrong. Of course I'm happy that you're going to be a lawyer. And I know you're going to be one hell of a good one. I'm just worried about money. I mean really worried. You know as well as I do that things are going to be really tight for a while."

Her face softened. "I'm sorry too. You know I don't like fighting."

"Neither do I. By the way, I see you have a new member of the Mrs. Warren fan club. I hope I'm not looking at any competition from our southern neighbors."

She laughed. "Of course not. I don't go for those modern day pretty boys. I like men like you."

"You mean old and out of shape? I'll keep that in mind in case some another man comes around. I'll have to be on the lookout in case another couch potato wants a shot with you."

Beth gave him a wide smile. "You keep swinging that diary around. Shouldn't you be more careful with it? It is an antique after all."

James looked at the diary in his hand with surprise as if wondering how it got there. He handed it to her. "Here, why don't you take it in to the museum and have them take a look at it. I would like to know more about my esteemed ancestor. Just make sure to bring it back. I want to read it tonight when I have some more free time. For now I'm going to be busy hauling trash."

She placed the diary on the seat next to her. "Okay," she said. And then after a brief pause, she added, "I think I need a kiss."

"Coming right up." He leaned over and kissed her upturned mouth.

"I do love you, James, no matter how infuriating you can be," she breathed into his ear.

He took a step back. "Thanks, I think."

"Is there anything else we need in town?"

"Lots more trash bags and a few empty boxes would be nice."

"Okay, have fun with your new friend."

He shook his head. "Yeah, I will." With one final wave, James turned and went back inside the house.

Beth drove to Clairepoint. The route was now becoming familiar, but she still felt out of place in this little town. It was also the cultural clash of north versus south that was unsettling. There wasn't any overt prejudice on display, it was more of a fear that she could accidentally break some social more and suddenly find herself in a bit of local trouble.

There was the antique store that she had spotted yesterday. She pulled in to a parking spot out front and stopped the car. Getting out, she paused momentarily to study the building. It was a one-story brick structure that looked as if had been there for a very long time. The two display windows in front showcased a motley collection of vintage items: a miniature brass statue of a horse, Depression-era translucent glassware, worn tin signs, and a chrome kitchen table with matching chairs. The sign above read Century Collectibles and the door was slightly ajar.

Beth went inside. It was a dusty place with a faint odor of mildew. Except for the sun coming from the windows, it was unlit. The floor was crowded with furniture from the different eras of design. The walls too were thick with paintings, vintage signs, and knick-knacks. Several mismatched lighting fixtures hung from the ceiling above. Rows of metal shelves held an assortment of items including candle-holders, books, table radios, dishes, glasses, and miscellaneous junk that would be interesting to the less affluent shopper. In the rear there was a long wooden counter, cash register, and an open doorway. No one appeared to be here.

"Hello?" she called out.

"Hold on, miss," a voice called out from the very back of the story.

A stooped man with graying hair came out of the doorway to stand behind the counter. He was wearing a burgundy cardigan that was hanging open to reveal a buttoned-up shirt underneath. The face was lined from the ravages of time, but the blue eyes behind the black-framed glasses twinkled with delight.

"Now what can I do for you?" the man finally asked once he was settled in place behind the cash register. His voice was cultured with a flat, well-enunciated accent. It sounded British but diminished by time and space from his homeland.

Beth took a few steps forward, picking her way carefully through the chaotic collection of debris spread along the shop floor. When she got to the counter, she stopped and placed her hands on top. "My husband and I are looking to sell some antiques. You see we need to move some items out of the house he inherited. We were wondering if someone could come along and give us a price for the furniture, the books, or whatever else is of interest."

"You must mean the Warren home?"

"How ever did you know?" Beth asked with surprise.

He shrugged. "As you can tell, this is a small town. A death, especially with the hallowed name of Warren, does not go unnoticed around these parts. It's a shame that such a history must finally come to an end, though I'm sure any new owners would respect the history of such a magnificent place."

This man sounded more like a professor than the owner of a shop. "It really is a wonderful home," Beth agreed. "But we are in no financial position to keep it."

The man waved a hand as if to dismiss the idea. "Of course times are tough right now. By the way, my name is Richard Stephens, but Bill will do."

"Elizabeth Warren," she stated. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Likewise. Now as to the value that I can place on your items, that will have to do solely with what the market will bear. Not many people understand that what is considered as a cherished family heirloom by one is person is a pile of unwanted rubbish by another. But I'm sure a place like the Warren house is filled a cornucopia of antiques. A house from that age must be bursting with treasures and even a few mysteries."

"It is at that," Beth said as she nodded her head. "Why just this very morning, a diary was accidentally discovered when an old desk broke while being moved."

"Such hiding spots were not uncommon for the time."

"So I've heard."

"Do you discover who wrote the diary? Perhaps the writing of some lovelorn young woman?"

"No, it wasn't that at all. According to the cover page, it was written by Samuel Warren who was some kind of colonel during the Civil War."

Bill's eyebrows rose with interest. "Now that is a different matter. I, along with any historian, would be most interested in seeing such an article. Would the diary in question be for sale along with the other items?"

"I don't know," Beth answered. She thought of the diary sitting on the front seat of the car and decided not to bring it in. For some reason she did not quite trust this man yet. "My husband James hasn't had a chance to go through it yet. I'm not sure if he wants to sell it or not. Is there much interest in such things in Clairepoint?"

The old man gave her a gracious smile. "The citizens of this fair village do not care for antiques. Sales here are rare since this town is not a normal destination for tourists. I'm sad to say that many of the items I buy end up in Charleston or Columbia. The smaller items are sometimes sold on the Internet."

"I take it that you are not from around here?"

"Oh heavens no. I initially came to Clairepoint in search of antiques. That was a few years ago. I found the area an untapped mine of old furniture, folk art, and historical artifacts that are of interest to some wealthy buyers. This was merely a good location to earn my living. When the market is tapped out here, I will be moving on to another location."

"I see. So you don't know much about the history of the Warren family."

"I know a little. I've done enough historical research of the town to know that they were, at one time, one of the more prominent families here. I've always had an interest in visiting the home just to see what remnants of that older age still existed. Sadly it took the death of Mr. Warren to make my wish come true. Now when would be the best time for me to visit?"

"My husband is busy right now, clearing out some of the trash. Would tomorrow after lunch for you? Some time after noon?"

Bill gave a little bow. "I will be at your service then."

"Thank you for your time," Beth said.

"No, thank you."

Beth left the store and returned to her car. As she got inside, took one last look at the store. Through the glass window and maze of jumble inside, she could see Bill Stephens standing behind the counter and staring at her. Beth gave him a friendly wave, but the man did not respond. Instead he stepped back and disappeared into the shadows.

*

James was carrying a box down the stairs, looking carefully at each step as he went. He felt more scared then he had let on to his wife. The accident with the desk had shaken him, and the cause of it, the little doll, brought home the horror of his situation. He felt trapped inside the home, a little prison from the larger world outside. But still, he reassured himself, there were only a few days left and then they could return to Michigan. Once back home he could forget these strange experiences. For now there was work to do which helped in keeping the creeping terror at bay.
Chapter 9

Following the sign located on the side of the street, Beth turned the corner and headed the little Toyota off toward a road that edged behind the courthouse. There was the town museum, a large two-story home made with slate-colored siding and a row of Doric columns out front. A black wrought-iron fence circled the building while a bricked driveway swung behind the back. The entire place looked well-trimmed without a single bush or blade of grass out of place.

Beth pulled the car up to the curb and parked. She grabbed the diary, got out of the car and went through the open gate leading to the short flight of stairs. Up she went and then through the front door. Inside was cool and well-lit. There was a small entryway with larger rooms to the left and right, both filled with glass shelves filled with relics. A metal desk was also here where a woman with closely trimmed hair sat. She had cocoa colored skin, dark eyes, a wide face with high cheekbones, and a mouth that broke into an easy grin.

"Hello and welcome to the Clairepoint museum," she said.

"I'm really not here for the museum," Beth started uncertainly. "I was trying to find out if you took donations."

"You must be Elizabeth Warren then."

Beth gave a start. "It seems that everyone in this town knows who I am."

The woman gave a self-depreciating laugh. "My name is Lucy Cole. I'm sorry for the rude introduction, but I'm good friends with Maynard, or Mr. Flint as you may know him. He doesn't like that first name much of all. He told me that you two were coming here to take over the Warren house. I take it you two aren't going to keep the old place?"

"No," Beth answered.

"I don't blame you. Everyone says they want to live in the country until they actually try it. There's not much to do around here unless you like bridge nights, a fish fry, or a nice round of gossip."

"You're the first person to agree with our decision to sell it."

"What can I say? Unlike some folks in this town, I know nothing lasts forever. This museum should teach anyone that. But we'll be happy to take whatever artifacts you wish to give us. Anything related to the Civil War is always popular with the few tourists that bother to come to Clairepoint."

"So I gather," Beth said as she put down the diary on the top of the desk. "That fellow at the antique store was most interested when I told him that we discovered this."

Cole made a face. "I hate to say this but I have a vendetta against Bill. He has the money to scoop up all the good stuff while this museum's budget can barely keep the doors open. I hope you aren't considering selling that diary to him."

"No, in fact I didn't even show it to him. He did, however, seem extremely interested in buying the diary."

"That's not surprising considering the history of the Warren family. Except for the real old-timers, I think it's pretty much forgotten by the town – it did, after all, happen over hundred and forty years ago. Even an unsolved mystery like this has to eventually die and fade away."

"What are you talking about?"

"You mean your husband doesn't know? I find that odd."

"If he does know any great mystery about the Warren family, he never told me about it."

"Well then, why don't you take a seat? I'll start the coffee up and tell you what I know."

Beth spotted an extra chair by the wall. She pulled it over to the side of the desk. In the meanwhile Cole began fiddling with the coffee maker. When it started gurgling away, she sat down and faced Beth.

She said, "Colonel Samuel Warren came back home after Lee surrendered at Appomattox. Like many soldiers, he returned to a different place than he remembered. Everyone was poor and food was in short supply. While busy fighting the war, his wife Louisa was trying to run their farm. With the slaves being freed, the whole structure of the labor force also changed. Nonetheless, Samuel proclaimed that he was going to take a stab at tobacco farming, hiring whoever would want to farm the land for good wages. But his plan never came to fruition. A week later he was found dead, shot in the head."

"Who did it?"

"No one knows. But it gets even worse. Two days later, his nine-year old daughter Abigail went missing. She was never found, even though the land around the house was thoroughly searched."

Beth could feel a sense of dread gripping her heart. Could this be the ghost that James was seeing? The idea was ludicrous. Perhaps this was just some old story that he had dimly remembered and an active imagination had done the rest. "They never found her body? I mean not even years later?" she asked.

Cole shook her head.

"But what happened after that? I mean to the house and Louisa?"

"Samuel was the oldest of the two brothers and, at the time, the natural inheritor of the estate. But with his death, the next in line took over. He was named James, just like your husband."

"I feel like I'm listening to some royal line of succession," Beth said.

"Many of the old southern families were like aristocracy, with complicated histories and tales of tragedy and deceit. But the story of Samuel and his daughter doesn't quite end there. It was some minor scandal when his wife married again to a man named Brown."

This name brought yet another shock to Beth. "Any relationship to Lucius Brown?"

Cole did not immediately answer. Instead she said, "I believe the coffee is ready. Do you like it with sugar and cream?"

"Just a little of both."

Cole went and poured the coffee into a pair of mismatched mugs. She returned to the desk, and handed one to Beth. She then said, "Yes, I believe so. His family, though never as rich as the Warrens, also has a storied past. There have been rumors of smuggling, stealing, and also working closely with the slave trade. I'm not saying that a son is guilty for a father's transgressions, but this is one family that has a history of staying in trouble."

"When James and I lost our way trying to get here, we asked for directions from a man who fits Lucius Brown's description. He suggested we go over a rotted bridge. Luckily my husband stopped the car before we drove over."

"That sounds like Brown's idea of a joke, alright. During your stay at Clairepoint, I would suggest staying as far away from that man as possible."

"I will. He doesn't seem to be a very pleasant character at all."

Cole nodded sagely. "Now regarding this diary here, let's see what's inside." She pulled the leather-bound book over and began to slowly turn the pages, carefully studying each one. After a few minutes of this, she pulled out a magnifying glass. "The writing is faded," she murmured. A couple moments later, she stopped and shook her head.

"What is it?" Beth asked.

"The words are barely legible. I'm assuming the age of the ink and the way the diary was stored has had an effect. It will take me some time to transcribe all of the words. However, what I've seen does look legitimate. It would make a great addition to the museum. Is it okay if I borrow this for a few days and look it over some more?"

Beth shook her head. "My husband says he want to read it over tonight. Perhaps when he is done?"

Cole looked disappointed. "Well, that makes sense. I'm sure he was as excited discovering this diary as I am looking at it. Will you let me know when I can borrow it?"

"You can ask my husband yourself when you come to look over what we want to donate. What day will work best for you?"

"I can go this afternoon or tomorrow, any time after the museum closes at four o'clock."

Beth thought for a moment, thinking that James would want to make the most money possible selling to the Bill the antique dealer. She felt sorry for Cole and her limited funds, having to depend on donated money and pieces to keep the museum going. But still, that was no fault of theirs. Beth was sure that plenty of choice items would be left, and perhaps even the diary. "Tomorrow, any time after four will do. Perhaps we could even have some dinner together."

"That would be nice. I'll be sure to bring a bottle of wine."

*

Tyler hoisted the last bag of trash into the bed of the Ford pickup. "That's it," he said, breathing hard.

"Do you need me to ride along with you?" James asked, hoping the man would say yes. It wasn't that he liked Tyler's company, but he felt the urge to leave this house, if only for an hour or two.

"Nah, I can get the help I need at the dump. Do you want me to come back again when I'm finished there?"

"Tomorrow afternoon will work better. Tonight my wife and I will sort through what remains upstairs. I have some business to attend to in the morning. After that, you and I can tackle the rest."

"Sure. I'll see you tomorrow after lunch then."

"Yep, have a good one."

Tyler gave a final wave before opening the door and hitching himself up into the truck. The engine fired, emitting a low rumble from the dual tailpipes. A few seconds later and it was on the road, lost in the jumble of trees.

Instead of returning to the house, James reached inside his pocket and pulled out his cellphone. As he dialed the operator, he began walking absentmindedly toward the graveyard.
Chapter 10

Beth drove up the dirt road leading to the house. She felt hungry and hoped that James was busy making lunch. As she pulled up to the back, she was glad to see that Tyler's truck was no longer here. Perhaps the two of them had gone off to dump a load of garbage. She didn't relish the idea of being in this old home by herself, but at least hadn't experience any ghostly visits – real or imagined – yet. Beth parked the car and got out, carrying her purse and that diary that so many wanted to have. She was about to go through the back door when a movement caught the corner of her eye.

Turning, she saw James standing a distance away. He was deep in the wild grass, standing among the stone markers of the family grave plot. He didn't even appear to notice the car driving up. Feeling unsettled, Beth took the overgrown path leading that direction. She stepped carefully over fallen branches and through the decaying debris of vegetation.

When she was within earshot, she called out, "James!"

Her husband slowly turned, looking at her like she was a stranger. As she stepped closer, the clouded expression turned to recognition. "Oh, hello," he said uncertainly.

"What are you doing?"

"I thought I would pay my respects. We've been here for almost a day and really haven't had a good look around the land."

Beth was now standing next to her husband. She looked at the row of five gravestones in front of them. Most of writing was faded and illegible, the result of over a hundred years of sun and rain eroding the chiseled work of man. She bent over to take a closer look at the largest of the stones, which was some three feet tall. Along the edges were columns covered ornate vines. Her hand reached out and began to trace the faded letters. The first part spelled Samuel Warren, followed by the date of April the seventeenth. Beth felt a shudder of grief, and burst of anger at the futility of life. Here was a man who had suffered through a war, only to come home and be murdered.

Next to this was a smaller gravestone, but this one was without ornament. Looking closer, Beth could just make out the name Abigail Warren. There was a date indicating the birth but nothing listed for the death. It was an empty grave for a missing child. The reality of everything Beth had just learned about the Warren family hit her in the heart.

As if reading her mind, James said, "It's sad. I mean life. My ancestors, like everyone else, had hopes and dreams that were dashed by time. I'll be interested in reading this gentleman's diary."

"What do you know about Samuel?" Beth asked.

"Not much. My father didn't talk about his family too often. I had a feeling he was happy to leave home. Now I'm beginning to understand why. This place is so thick with history it's stifling."

"Did you ever hear about how Samuel here was killed?"

"I know he was in the Civil War. Dad did say something about him being shot and how his brother James, who I'm named after, had to take over the property."

"I've talked with a woman named Lucy Cole at the museum. She said that Samuel Warren made it home from the war, but was killed just a week after. But that's not all. It turns out that he had a daughter by the name of Abigail." Beth pointed to the gravestone missing the date of death. "This is where she should be buried, but she went missing after her father's death. Her body was never discovered."

James went silent.

Beth looked over and saw that her husband's face was locked in a mask of shock - the lips were curled back and the eyes wide open as if hypnotized. Her hand found his and grasped it tightly.

"Honey, are you okay?" she asked with concern.

"So I was right. The place is haunted. It's haunted by Abigail Warren!"

"Don't be silly," his wife cautioned. "I don't believe in ghosts and neither should you."

"But don't you see?" he protested. "This explains everything. Why else would I see the spirit of a little girl?"

"I don't know," Beth answered.

The two fell into an uneasy silence. The sun disappeared behind a cloud and the wind picked up, bending the frail stalks of the yellow grass. Above the empty grave, where Abigail should be sleeping, a wildflower lost a petal. It was swept away.

"Come on, this place is depressing," James said quietly as he pulled his wife away from the graveyard.

From there they strolled back to the road and to the apple orchard. The birds were calling out to each other, oblivious to the human intruders. Soon James and Beth found themselves hidden behind a wall of green, safe from the world. The trees here were gnarled and the ground was littered with decaying brown apples from last year, but the tall wild grass and the incessant sound of nature brushed any unpleasantness aside. The smell of rain was in the air. James sat on the ground, pulling Beth down next to him. She put the diary next to her. Together they laid back and stared at the rolling clouds above.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" Beth asked, trying to pull them out of the dark spell that seemed to be cast over them.

"Yeah, sure," he replied sleepily.

"It was at my friend's party – Kathy, the redhead that you always lusted after."

"I did not!" James shot back, now suddenly more awake.

Beth let out a giggle. "I was there, don't forget that. I was an innocent sophomore while you were the all-knowing senior. You were sitting on the sofa with a beer in your hand. I swear you never kept your eyes off of Kathy all night. I really thought you had something serious for her. Even when I tried to talk to you, you kept looking past me. But being the fool I was, I gave you my phone number, hoping you would."

"And ended I called you. It just goes to show you how wrong you were for thinking I had the hots for ol' Kathy."

"I have it on good authority that the only reason you called me is because my friend shot you down."

"That's not true," James said as he rose so he could look at her. His face was blushing red. "Did she tell you that? It's a lie. I went out with you, not her."

"She told me all about you. But you know what, I didn't care at the time and I certainly don't care now. I love you."

"I love you too," he replied softly. He then leaned over and kissed her gently on the mouth.

Beth kissed him back and then pushed him away. Leaning on her side, she said, "Together we can figure out what is happening here." She picked up the diary and began leafing through the pages. "I want to know what happened to Abigail Warren. I need to know how she died and who did it. Cole told me that once the house and land was taken over by James, Abigail's mother – a woman named Louisa - moved out and eventually married a man named Horace Brown."

"Brown? Any relationship to that Lucius fellow who gave us the bad directions?"

"Yes, some sort of great-great-grandfather to the modern version."

"I imagine the family ties around here are a convoluted mess. But you aren't suggesting some link between Abigail's disappearance and this Horace Brown character?"

"I don't know what to think, but there could be a link. I do know that this diary here may hold the answer to the mystery of who shot Samuel Warren and could even explain the disappearance of his daughter."

"Then we should start reading it, preferably near the end."

Beth quickly paged through the last quarter of the diary, scanning the beginning of entry. Her eyes strained to decipher the faint writing. When she finally reached a suitable spot, she began to read out loud.

*

April 14, 1865:

I return home to find everything has changed. If I had known the results of this foolish war, I would never have agreed to command soldiers, and order men to do such foolhardy tasks. How many such souls died on my word alone? That is one sin that I can never atone for, but God help me, there are so many others that will haunt my very being until the day I die. But afterward I had to do that one deed so my family can live. I regret nothing. This is one secret that shall be taken to the grave.

I am, however, overtaken with emotion. I feel glad to be back but yet feel a deep sorrow for failing to win. Though I understand that the loss cannot be put on the shoulders of one man, there is a nagging suspicion that if I had just put one more ounce of determination into my past actions, then perhaps fate would have steered a different course. Perhaps time will heal this mental scar but I do not know if this feeling will truly ever be vanquished. Such things, I fear, will forever be part of me. Now that the past is over and the path has been set, I must admit that the future will be different. The way of life that so many had taken for granted has been torn asunder. Words cannot describe the uncertainty that we all feel, wondering why our actions to preserve our honor proved fruitless.

The fields around my house are now fallow, caused by the lack of men and slaves to till the land. Instead only a small garden had been kept alive by my wife and only child. This has been their only nourishment. How I missed these two. To come back and see them reduced to thin creatures hurts me deeply inside. Luckily I have brought the very thing that will save us – a chance to get the laborers we need and to buy the seed to start again. Once the family farm has been restored, the Warren name shall once again come to prominence.

April 15, 1865:

Louisa seems strangely distant. I ask what is troubling her but get no answer that can explain her dark mood. I can only imagine the hardship she has gone through trying to keep this household going. In the early days of the war, she had to be master: giving the orders and ensuring that the crops had been planted and harvested. Such an undertaking must have taxed her already frail constitution. The shock of the great coalition of rebel states losing has been too much for her, or any true patriot's, soul to bear. I hope that time will heal whatever wounds she bears, but for now I shall keep my secret away from her. I believe it will be for the best if she does not know the source of our income.

My daughter, thankfully, is still the joy of my life. I see that food and privation has not damaged her love for me. She is so carefree and innocent, that it breaks my heart thinking of the terrible world she has inherited.

April 16, 1865:

I am being watched. I caught a glimpse of someone in the apple orchard. I grabbed my shotgun to investigate, but by the time I got there, no one was to be seen. It must be my imagination playing tricks on me, but I would swear on the Bible that I recognized the man. But it cannot be. He is dead. I know because I killed him myself.

April 17, 1865:

I cannot sleep. Even writing this diary entry makes my eyes water and head nod with exhaustion. I have spent the night pacing back and forth, looking out the windows onto the ground. Louisa could not stand my nightly ramblings so took to sleeping downstairs. That is fine by me since I cannot understand her cold attitude toward me. Before the war, there was considerable warmth and kindness. Now there is nothing there but the ashes left from a once hot fire. If only she knew what I did for her and Abigail. The sins I had committed just for them! But instead I must keep this secret to myself.

But I feel that all will be revealed. For I am still being watched. Yes, I fear for my life. But I also fear for the scandal that will envelope my good family name. Such a dishonor I could never live down. I will instead go out this morning and comb the woods for my tormenter. And only then will the job finally be finished.
Chapter 11

A drop of rain splashed against a page of the diary. Beth looked up at the sky and saw that the clouds had turned dark and ominous. The sounds of the birds and the bees had disappeared, replaced by the wind rippling through the branches. Off in the distance, a sudden boom of thunder presaged a lightning bolt that raced across the sky, temporarily lighting the world with a flash.

"We had better get inside," James said as he grabbed his wife's hand.

Together they ran toward the house. A deluge of rain started just as they reached the front door. Once inside, the storm took a violent turn with a cacophony of rumbling thunder that seemed to grow louder with each approaching flash in the sky. Cradling the diary in her arms, Beth watched as the world outside disappeared behind a wall of water. But somehow she felt safe, thinking of all the year this house had been here, surviving year after year from the onslaught of the elements.

James reached over and flicked the light switch upward. He looked disappointed. He explained, "The man at the electric company said it would only be a few hours to turn the power on. I guess I'm being impatient."

"You could always go down in the basement to check the fuse box," she suggested.

He frowned. Trying to change the subject, he said, "Is that the end of the diary?"

Beth nodded as she continued to watch the rain. "That's it. Of course there are plenty more previous entries that I skipped, but they mostly had to do with a battle or some discipline problem with a soldier. It will take some further reading of all the pages to see if there are any more clues."

"We know my ancestor did something terrible that made him feel guilty as hell. It has to do with money, obviously."

Turning away from the window, Beth said, "But it still doesn't tell us what he did or who was out there watching him. It had to be someone."

"Or maybe not."

"What do you mean? He was found shot in the head out there in the woods."

"It could have been suicide," James replied. He then held up his hand to stem any further protest. "The diary shows a man who was tormented by his past. Perhaps he killed himself. Taking your own life is a terrible thing for any human to do, but back then it would have been unthinkable for a man of his position. It would have been dishonorable. There could easily have been a cover up so the family name would remain untarnished."

"But what about the little girl? Why did Abigail disappear?"

He had a loss of words. When he finally spoke, his words spilled out uncertainly. "Perhaps she ran away because she was so sad that her father died."

"Don't be silly. It isn't like she could catch a bus out of town."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right. But we're still no closer to finding out what happened to her."

The rain continued to patter on the roof, making a rushing noise that grew and decreased with random intensity. The thunder crashed and the gray somber light coming from outside was only broken by the flashes of lightning. The house felt like a ship at sea, remote from the outside world.

Beth spoke. "Before I forget, I went and saw that antique dealer. A man named Bill Stephens. He is going to be here some time tomorrow after lunch. When I mentioned the diary, he was most interested. It seems such things, especially from a high-ranking officer, are worth a considerable amount of money. A Lucy Cole from the museum is going to be stopping by for dinner tomorrow."

"After all the good items have been bought? I hope she isn't too disappointed."

"She seemed fairly resigned to that possibility. But she also showed considerable interest in this diary, wanting to keep it for the museum. I wish we could give it to her."

James shrugged. "We'll see what happens. Tyler and I got a lot of the upstairs cleaned out, removing most of the trash. But there are still quite a number of what I think are antiques. We'll have to get working before that antique dealer comes. Since I was planning on going to Flint's office tomorrow morning and signing all the papers, that doesn't give us much time."

The electric light above the door flickered on for a brief second and then went out.

They both looked up at it, as if willing the bulb to turn itself back on. Instead the gloom remained.

"It will be a lot easier to work upstairs if we had some light," Beth said. "Perhaps the fuse blew with the sudden surge of power."

"It's probably just the storm," James suggested, his voice barely a whisper. He felt an uneasy prickle run up from his hands to his shoulders. The feeling continued until his entire body was engulfed with a feeling of dread. Just the idea of going to that basement was enough to frighten him. He wondered what was wrong. Why did he have this reaction? There was nothing down there but a bunch of junk that would need to be cleaned out anyway. But his legs felt frozen to the spot. If he was going to walk, it was going to be straight to the sofa, not to some dark basement.

Beth stared at her husband and saw that the color of his cheeks had drained away. The poor man is breaking up, she thought to herself. "I'll go check," she said as brightly as she could. She too was scared, but wasn't about to admit it. Anyway, she hadn't experienced any ghostly visitations yet, so why would anything change now?

"I'll help you," he said, obviously agreeing to do so with much difficulty.

Beth picked up the flashlight from the coffee table. From there she went to the kitchen. James followed behind, his gait slow and uncertain. She reached the door down to the basement. She pulled on the handle. With a rattling squeak, the wooden door swung open. Rough wooden steps disappeared into the darkness below.

"Be careful," James said. He was standing at by the counter, at the furthest point away from the staircase.

"I will," she replied. Only a slight tremor could be heard in her voice. Turning the flashlight on, she moved the beam back and forth, trying to locate where the utility box was. There was nothing to see but the wall that ran with the stairs, a floor of dirty concrete, and streams of cobwebs. There was also a smell of permanent dankness, reminding her of the time, as a youth, when she visited Mammoth Cave.

The first step was the hardest for her to take. Her foot lifted and, from overzealous determination, landed hard on the first step. The stair squeaked and groaned as the ancient stairs rebelled against the sudden load. Beth gripped the warped handrail, and waited until the swaying motion stopped before proceeding. This time she took gentle steps, moving slowly and surely until she reached the landing. There she held the flashlight outward and swept the beam of light around. The windowless room was smaller than expected. Perhaps, she thought, the word basement was incorrect. It was more like a cellar: a place where food could be stored before the days of refrigeration.

The floor was covered with piles of junk: a rusted spring box, an old rocking horse with sagging springs, an antique electric fan, some cardboard boxes, and half-dozen plastic bags. Dust covered everything and the jumbled collection of items would make it difficult to get across to the other side of the room where she could see a hot water heater, an electric fuse box on the wall, and a narrow door set in the wall.

"Beth?" she heard James give a nervous stage whisper from the kitchen door.

"I'm okay," she said. "I've found the fuse box."

Stepping gingerly over the debris, she found herself near the door. Perhaps it was her imagination but she would swear there was someone on the other side; a person just waiting there. She shone the light on the handle and then shook her head. Resisting the urge to open the door, Beth instead turned her attention to the breaker box. It looked old. The lid, however, opened easily enough revealing a row of glass fuses. One of them looked smoked, perhaps tripped by the burst of power. Shining the light closer, she found a cardboard box of spares tucked inside. Juggling the flashlight, Beth extracted a fresh fuse, unscrewed the burnt one, and then installed the new one into the breaker box. A light came on from above - a rectangular shaft of the open doorway. But at that same moment there was also a faint tinkle of music.

Beth's heart leaped into her mouth. The muffled sound was coming from behind the door. Without thinking, she found her hand of the door knob. She twisted it open and barged into the room with the flashlight beam breaking the inky blackness. It was a small space, the walls taken up with rows of seemingly empty wooden shelves. And then the spot of light rested on a small wooden box perched on the topmost shelf. It had an open lid. A brass-colored key on the side spun slowly around as the unrecognizable tune continued to play.

It was chilly in here. Beth found herself shivering. She could see her breath in the air. She took a step toward the box, her hand held out to close the lid. As her hand brushed the wood, she felt a wind that seemed to pass right through her body, sending prickles shooting from her chest down to her feet. Determined to go on, she slammed the music box shut. The music stopped. Beth left out a sigh of relief. She began to rationalize what had just happened: It was her movement in the basement that caused the music box to start playing. And the cold wind was caused by the dampness of the basement and her imagination running rampant.

Turning, she was about to leave this room but found the door slowly closing with a slow nerve-grating screech. It shut with a click as the latch shut. She grabbed the handle, but no matter how she tried to turn it, the door would not open. The blackness of the room seemed to overwhelm the feeble beam of the flashlight until it was just a faint glow in the overwhelming darkness.

Above, James was bathed in light, relieved that Beth had apparently replaced the blown fuse. But this feeling was giving away to panic since she hadn't returned yet. He inched closer to the open door and shouted down into the darkness below. "Beth! Beth! Answer me!"

A few seconds went by. There was a clatter of something being moved. And then he heard her voice.

"I'm here," was the reply. She staggered up the stairs, her skin pale.

"Are you okay?"

"Just fine."

James studied her, not believing a word she said. "Something happened down there, didn't it?"

Beth shook her head. She replied coolly, "No, I just had a hard time getting past all the junk down there. I'll make us something to eat. Afterward I'll meet you upstairs and we get to work on figuring out what we want to offer to that antique dealer."

"Okay," he said uncertainly. He left the room.

Beth watched his retreating back for a moment before staring at the basement door. She wondered why she had lied to her husband. But she couldn't tell him what she had experienced. It seemed too impossible. With trembling hands she reached over and shut the door leading to the basement.
Chapter 12

From his hiding spot deep in the underbrush, Tyler waited impatiently for a certain car to drive by. His hand instinctively reached for the pack of cigarettes he used to carry in his breast pocket. And then he remembered that he had given up last week. It was too bad since a smoke was always a perfect way to pass the time. He chuckled at the thought since the only reason he had quit was because of the complaints from a certain woman named Deborah who he was interested in. After one date he had gone in for the first kiss, only to have her complain about his bad breath. That was enough to stop that habit. Anyway, a good piece of tail was better than any tobacco, drink, or drug he had ever consumed.

An approaching car made his ears perk up. It was a silver Toyota. He saw the recognizable figure of a man. It was James Warren, heading out on the errands he had mentioned yesterday. Tyler patiently waited another minute and then started his truck up.

*

James pulled the car to the curb and parked. He began the walking the half block to Flint's office, taking in the sights. This time of morning appeared quiet to his mid-sized city background, but there was a slightly noticeable increase in traffic as the local residents made their way to work. The sun blazed overhead and the remnants of yesterday's rain had all but disappeared, making the climate surprisingly muggy even though the winter temperatures here weren't boiling hot.

"Hey you!" he heard a voice from behind shout.

Turning, James recognized the man as the very same who had given him the bad directions. "What do you want?" he spat out, feeling his anger rising.

"You're James Warren, aren't you?"

"Yes I am. What's next? Are you going to get me to drive my car through a brick wall?"

"Look, I'm sorry about that," the man replied. This time he was wearing a horribly dated powder blue seersucker suit with white leather shoes. "I think you already know my name. I'm Lucius Brown. You see the whole situation was just a little joke on my part. I didn't expect anyone to really get hurt."

"A little joke!" James exploded. "We could have been killed!"

"I made my apologies. I had no idea that you were Warren's nephew. If I had known that, I would have treated you more kindly."

James wasn't buying any of this. He said, "I have some important business to take care of."

"Yes, you came to sign the papers to take ownership of that house. That's what I'm here to talk to you about."

"Go on," James said suspiciously.

Lucius cleared his throat. "Yesterday I had a brief chat with Flint. He told me that you were planning to sell the house. Before you go to a realtor, I would like to make you an offer."

"You want to buy the house?" James asked with disbelief.

"Sure. There is some good land there."

"How much money would you consider offering?"

"Well seeing that I was a good friend to your poor uncle, I was hoping for some kind of discount. I'm not exactly a rich man, so I was thinking maybe fifty-thousand dollars?"

"You must be joking," James replied after a moment of cynicism mixed with anger.

"I've never been more serious in my life. You won't get a better deal around these parts. You see, Mr. Warren, people here are poor. We don't have all the cash that you Yankees got."

James couldn't help but start laughing at this crazy old man. "I think you need to update your prejudices, Mr. Brown. We are not rich is why need to sell. But I will only consider your offer after I have talked to a real estate agent. Only then will I know what to ask for the property."

Lucius didn't look particularly fazed by these words. Instead he gave a half-grin that curled his mouth into a sneer. "You'll be crawling back to me, boy. And if you're lucky, I might still offer you the fifty-thousand." With a clumsy pivot, he turned and stalked off without giving a glance back.

Shaking his head with exasperation, James headed into Flint's office. There he found the lawyer sitting at his desk, doodling on a notepad.

He said, "I saw everything through the window. Brown's offer apparently didn't go over very well with you."

James pulled back the chair in front of the desk and threw himself into it. "That damn bastard," he said, betraying the anger that was simmering inside.

Flint took the pencil and tapped it against the side of his temple. After a moment of studying the young man, he said, "I'm sorry I told Lucius anything. He stopped by my office yesterday evening and we got to talking. Like so many others in town, he seemed a little curious about you and Beth. So I told him that you weren't planning to move into the area and that the house, in all likelihood, was going up for sale. Only then did he tell me of his interest in buying it. Though I will admit I do not know why he would have any desire to buy since his own holdings are fair in size. But this state has a fair history of those who are rich in property but poor in cash. I believe Lucius falls in that category."

"It's no problem," James said, dismissing the problem with the wave of a hand.

"How much did he offer you?"

"Fifty grand. He said I would be lucky to get more."

Flint shook his head. "Lucius is stuck in the past, thinking that property prices haven't gone up since he was a young man. I assure you that a historical home like that and the surrounding land is easily worth twice that. Though Clairepoint may be a backwater town, any number of outsiders would gladly buy it for a second home."

"If you say so," James said without much conviction.

"Trust me. Now let's get busy signing over some legal documents. After that, we'll head on down to the city hall to complete the transaction."

*

Beth was in the living room, sipping at a cup of coffee. She had a pounding headache. She felt hungover except she hadn't had a thing to drink last night. Instead her sleep had been interrupted with reoccurring nightmares of what had happened in that cramped cellar. But each dream became worse and worse, like a looped film that grew more frightening with each viewing. Now Beth felt pity for her husband. She had experienced only a small fraction of what he had, but the fear was there. Her husband wasn't going crazy, but instead was brave for holding on to his sanity.

But the sun shining through the windows began to dispel that terrible memory of being trapped down in that little room. She remembered pounding on the door and screaming for her husband to help. It seemed like hours had passed but she knew it was only seconds when the door gently swung open. She had rushed out, jumped over the pile of debris and had clambered up the rickety stairs. Beth still didn't know why she hadn't told James what had happened. Perhaps it was because she couldn't believe it herself. There had to be a rational explanation. So instead she feigned calmness. After lunch, they had gone upstairs and sorted through the remaining items, finding a few treasures and even more junk.

Now she was alone in the house while James went out to visit with that lawyer, Flint. Since power was restored, he had promised to come back with more groceries to fill the refrigerator. She was looking forward to something fresh since the supper of canned chili last night had upset her stomach. With a sigh, Beth put the coffee down on the table and thought of the chores that had to be accomplished today. She was getting sick of sleeping on this sofa and was looking to clean the bedroom out so it could be used. It would also give her an excuse to sleep a story up, further away from the cellar. She grabbed her suitcase. Going to the bathroom, she started the shower, and ran her hand under the water until it was hot. Beth then undressed and slipped under the spray, thankful to have a chance to be clean.

In just a few minutes she could feel the ancient water heater begin to give out. No matter how she twisted the cold and hot water taps. Quickly washing and rinsing her hair, Beth slipped out and toweled off. She was about to go outside when she heard a knocking sound. Her heart skipped a beat and then she realized the sound appeared to be coming from the front door.

Wrapping the towel around her chest, she poked her head and looked down the hallway. The knocking sound repeated. It was coming from the front door alright. Breathing a sigh of relief, Beth shouted, "Hold on!" Slipping back into the bathroom, she quickly dressed, picking a pair of blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and a thin sweatshirt that would undoubtedly be taken off once the heat of the afternoon rolled around.

Running barefoot, Beth rushed to the front door and pulled it open. Standing there was Tyler, a wry grin plastered on his handsome face.

"Good morning," he said as if today was the best day in the world. "Is your husband around? I'm here to get started again."

"Didn't he tell you? He went into town to sign some papers."

The smile split his face, revealing a row of white teeth. "Maybe he did say something about that. It must have slipped my mind. Now that I'm here, is there anything I can do for you?" The way he said the last sentence sounded full of crude possibilities.

Beth could feel herself blushing and feeling silly for it. But she also wished that she had applied some makeup and brushed her hair. Tyler made her feel so self-conscious, but yet again she chastised herself for caring what this man thought of her. Without thinking, she blurted out, "I must look a mess."

"Damn, a woman like you will look good no matter what she's wearing. May I come in?"

Even though Beth felt flattered by his comment, she also felt uncomfortable about allowing Tyler in. "I guess so," she replied uncertainly, opening the door wide enough to let him slide through.

Tyler looked around the front room as if this was the first time he had ever seen the place. He said, "You two are already making this place look a lot better. Old William treated this place like a sty. He only had me work on the house when things got so bad that something had to be done, like fixing the roof so it wouldn't leak, or the old fuse box started popping fuses for no reason."

"We had the power turned on yesterday. The main fuse went and I had to replace it."

"That's no surprise. A place like this will have its fair share of gremlins. You know, spirits just having their bit of fun."

"You mean ghosts?" she asked. She felt an icy hand of fear clutching her heart.

"Sure, if you want to call them that." And then he stopped short when he saw the expression on her face. "You don't believe in stuff like that, do you?"

Beth shook her head. "Of course not."

"Then why are you acting so scared? You aren't afraid of your husband coming home early, are you?"

She gave him an uneasy smile. "Are you always on the make?"

"Of course I am," he laughed. "But with a woman like you, it's only natural. But really, you can tell me what happened."

Beth bit her lip and then let out a sigh. It would be good to tell someone, even if was just this modern day Romeo. "When the fuse went out, I volunteered to go change it. That required a trip down to the basement."

"A place that I noticed you're husband isn't particularly fond of."

"That's not the point. Anyway, this happened during the storm. When I got down there and replaced the fuse, I heard some music coming from behind the door. I opened the door and found a little storage space there, perhaps something that was used to store canned food. There was a music box playing an eerie tune. I shut the lid. The music stopped, but the door behind me shut. I couldn't get out! I hammered and called for James to come help me, but it was like he never heard me." She heard the words spilling out get fast and panicky.

"So he really is a coward?"

Beth ignored this jibe. She continued, "And then the door suddenly swung open. I was free. I ran up the stairs as fast as I could. Now I can't get that memory out of my mind."

Tyler shrugged.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"I believe something happened," he replied. "It's just as I said, houses as old as this have gremlins. Strange things happen, but it's not ghosts. But I'll tell you one thing, I've been down in that creepy cellar more than a few times and nothing has ever happened to me."

"Lucky you," she said sarcastically.

"Come on," Tyler said as he grabbed her hand. His fingers intertwined tightly around hers. "I bet that door is just sticky and that old music box went off because you bumped something. Let's go take a look."

"No, I can't!" she protested.

"You know as well as I do that nothing is going to happen. There are no ghosts and nothing is haunting this house. Anyway, this will be easier to do with the sun out."

Shoulders dropping, Beth decided to give in. Perhaps he was right. With the storm and darkness, it was easy enough for one's imagination to get carried away. There was only one way to find out, even though the thought of going down those stairs again made her body quake with fear.

Tyler half-dragged Beth to the kitchen. Grabbing the flashlight on the countertop, he turned it on. He then went to the door leading to the cellar and flung it open.

"Is anyone down there?" he asked with mock concern. "See?" he said, glancing at Beth, "There's no one down there." His eyes were dancing with humor.

The steps, however, were as rickety as before. With their combined weight Beth was surprised that they managed to reach the bottom of the stairs without falling through. It was dim down here but the light coming from the doorway above helped.

Tyler was talking. "It's one thing about the wiring in houses that originally didn't have electricity; no one puts lights where they should be. This breaker fuse box should have been scrapped years ago, along with all the cloth wires. But old man Warren was too cheap to even think of getting the job done right."

The door leading to the fruit cellar was shut. Tyler let go of her hand to give it a playful knock. "Hello? Hello? Anyone home?"

Beth rubbed her hand as if trying to remove the guilty pleasure she had of holding Tyler's hand. It had felt strong and reassuring.

"Nobody there," he said as he reached for the door handle. The door swung open. There on the shelf was the music box. After handing the flashlight over to Beth, he reached for the wooden box, blew off a film of dust on top, and then opened the top. Music began to play. After a few seconds of listening, he said, "Can't say I recognize the tune."

Beth stood there, slowly blinking. The horror of last night began to recede from her mind. Was it possible that the whole experience had a perfectly rational explanation? It certainly looked that way. She found herself smiling as the great weight of anxiety was lifted from her shoulders. But that moment didn't last very long.

"Hey, what's that?" Tyler asked, pointing off to the corner of the closet.

Swinging the flashlight in that direction, Beth couldn't see anything.

The door slammed shut. "Help!" Tyler cried from inside. "It's coming to get me!"

Letting out an involuntary whimper, she grabbed the door handle and began to pull. It wouldn't budge. Dropping the flashlight on the ground, the glass broke as did the bulb inside. The room fell into a gray gloom. She grabbed the handle again, this time using both hands. She pulled until it felt like the bones of inside her arms would crack, but still the entry remained close. She could hear a gurgling noise behind the thin wood. It sounded as if Tyler was dying.

And then the door burst open. Beth, who was hanging on to the door handle, almost lost her footing from the sudden violent motion. Standing there was Tyler. He was doubled over with laughter.

Gasping for breath, he managed to say, "My goodness, little lady, you fell for it!"

Realizing she had been duped, Beth felt her cheeks turn red hot with anger. "You idiot!" she shouted, rushing toward him. She put her hands up, ready to slap him in the face.

Tyler was quick. Before she could strike, he grabbed her by the wrists, twisting her against the frame of the door. His mouth tried to meet hers but Beth turned her face away.

"Please, let me go," she pleaded, trying to get away from him. His body was pressed tightly against her. She felt trapped.

"Come on, just one kiss. It won't hurt."

"No," Beth said, her voice cold and unyielding.

He frowned and let go of her. "I'll clear out the junk down here," he said, his voice thick with hurt.

Beth did not reply. Instead she edged away from him and quickly climbed the stairs. Once she was in the kitchen, she thought of slamming the door shut. Instead she headed upstairs to the bedroom so she could start cleaning and change the sheets on the bed. Even though Beth had no reason to feel guilty, she could help feeling as if she had cheated on her husband.
Chapter 13

Feeling tired, James drove up to the house. Next to him on the passenger seat was a folder crammed with paperwork. He was now the new owner of the house. Any feeling of accomplishment gave away to puzzlement since the first thing he noticed in back was Tyler's parked truck. It was loaded with junk that he hadn't remembered seeing before. The man in question stepped out of the back door carrying the rocking horse with broken springs, nestling it between two garbage bags before turning his attention to the oncoming car.

"Hey," Tyler said as James got out.

James was suspicious of this man's intentions, especially toward Beth. "I told you that I didn't need your help until later today."

"I had nothing going on so I came over and cleaned out the basement."

Nodding, James said, "I see. Where's my wife?"

"After she let me in, she went upstairs to work on the bedroom. I haven't seen her since."

"I've got some beer here along with some sandwiches." He went to the back of the car, opened the trunk and grabbed two bags of groceries.

Tyler shut the trunk for him and the two went inside.

After putting the groceries away, James left Tyler and headed upstairs. There he found his wife sitting on the edge of the bed. When he entered the room, he saw that her eyes were initially wide before settling into a more natural state. Beth certainly looked nervous.

"Oh, it's you," she said with an artificial brightness.

"Yes. I'm now the proud owner of a house that I don't want and some land that I have no use for. The realtor that Flint suggested is going to stop by tomorrow. I also ran into Mr. Lucius Brown who made an offer to buy my new holdings."

"What did you say to him?"

"I said no since I would rather keep this place than give it to the bastard for fifty-thousand dollars."

Beth shook her head. "Fifty-thousand? Surely he must be joking!"

"I don't think he is. And the offer was more of a warning. According to him, no one else would make an offer on the place since he was the best, and perhaps the only, deal in town."

"Implying that no one else would want to buy the house since they knew he had an interest in it? That's impossible."

James's lips momentarily pinched together. "Flint agrees with you, thinking we could easily make double that. But a small town like Clairepoint suffers from the old-boy network. Outsiders aren't trusted here. Lucius could easily spread rumors about the deal, hinting that there is something wrong with the house or even the land. That means we would be stuck waiting for an outsider to come along and buy the place."

"If that's what we have to do, then that's what we will do," she said firmly. "We will not be blackmailed."

Smiling, James said, "I knew I could count on you. Did you have any problem with Tyler? He's in the kitchen now, probably drinking that six-pack of beer as fast as he can."

"He was no problem," she said coolly.

James picked up that something was wrong, but let the matter drop. He never had a reason to mistrust Beth before and this wasn't the time to start. He said, "That antique dealer will be here soon. We should probably get something to eat before that. Let's go to the kitchen."

As predicted, they found Tyler drinking a beer. An empty bottle was already on the counter top along with an open bag of potato chips.

He said, "Sorry if I started without you, but I was getting hungry."

"And perhaps a little thirsty," Beth said, eying the man carefully.

James noticed that the two went to great pains not to make eye contact with each other. Something had obviously passed between these two and it hadn't ended well. A burst of jealousy coursed through his veins and for a split-second he wanted to strike Tyler and scream at Beth. But the moment passed when he realized that it wasn't embarrassment on their part, but distrust. Perhaps this young man had made a pass at his wife only to be shot down. That would explain his sullen attitude. So without a further word, he got out the bread and the fixings from the refrigerator to make some sandwiches.

Later, while eating in the kitchen, Tyler said, "Your wife said you had some electrical problems last night. It won't be the last time, not until a new breaker box is installed and new wiring is run through the walls."

James nodded. "That will be a problem for the new owner."

"Yeah, I guess so. I did clean out all the junk down there. There's nothing left."

Checking the time on his cellphone, James said, "Good. That's one less thing to worry about. Now if you could stick around and wait until Stephens the antique dealer comes over, it would be much appreciated. We'll probably need some help moving some items. I'll pay you extra for that."

The young man glanced momentarily at Beth. "I suppose I can hang out for a little longer."

"Good."

They finished lunch. It was only a few minutes longer when the sound of a powerful engine could be heard coming up the driveway. James went out the front door and saw a Suburban pulling a long closed trailer. This rig parked along the side of the house. A painted sign on the door indicated that the vehicle was from Century Collectibles. The door opened and out popped an older man with graying hair who was wearing a corduroy jacket, a light blue shirt, and dark blue jeans. He reminded James of a college professor out on vacation.

The man said, "You must be James Warren. I'm Bill Stephens from Century Collectibles." He offered a hand.

James leaned over to shake it. "Yes, my wife told me all about you. I'm glad you could make it over."

"It's my pleasure." And one could tell by the expression on his face that he meant it. His eyes were shining with excitement.

"Then let me show you around."

After a hurried hello to Beth and a reserved nod towards Tyler, the antique dealer went upstairs, going from room to room, taking stock of the furnishings and other items that remained. He had a fine practiced eye for detail, zeroing in on pair of fine porcelain miniature birds while ignoring a curio cabinet filled with stuffed birds resting on branches. His interest in furniture kept him away from the heavy tables and sideboard, instead selecting a side table and a pair of matching spindle chairs. His method was slow and sure. It was some hours later when he was finished and the very best of the collection was gathered near the front door, each selected by Stephens and placed there by Tyler. Beth and James stood nearby, looking at the items and trying to mentally calculate their value.

The antique dealer nodded his head as he took in the sight. "I can tell this is going to cost me more than I bargained for. I hate to even ask, but is there anything else that I should look at?"

James answered, "There's the dining room table and a few old pieces of kitchenware, including some silverware."

With a wave of his hand, Stephens dismissed that idea. "I've heard that the original Warren who built this house was very much interested in books. I would like to look at the library if I could. Your wife also mentioned a diary that was recently discovered. Any written history of the Civil War always fetches a good price."

Beth was more interested in the business at hand. She said, "I imagine such a diary would, but before we go any further, what exactly do you intend to offer us for this lot here?"

His eyes scanned the collected items and he made a face as if mentally adding up the value. After a pause, he spoke. "You must understand that I run my business to make a profit. Each one of these antiques will be marked up well beyond what I paid for them. Keep in mind there aren't many dealers who would explain this to you, and would instead feed you a line about market conditions or true value."

"You're trying to soften the blow, aren't you?" she asked.

Stephens gave her a disarming smile. "No, it's just that your average person thinks that they're sitting on a treasure of antiques and are often disappointed by the results. I can offer you seven-thousand dollars."

The room became quiet. James and Beth looked at each other, communicating in that way that only couples can.

James spoke for the both of them. "It's not quite what we expected, but considering the circumstances, it will have to do."

"Good," Stephens said as he reached into the inner breast pocket of his coat. He took out a thick leather wallet, took out a wad of bills and counted them out. "This should add up to seven-thousand."

James took the offered cash and stuffed it into his front pocket. And then he shook hands with the antique dealer. He felt a bit ripped off but the feeling of money salved some of the damage. At least there was enough here to pay for the entire trip, including their return back to Michigan.

"Well then," Stephens asked, "what about those books?"

"It's back here," James replied.

Together they went to the library. There the antique dealer gave an appreciative whistle. "I'm no bibliographer, but this collection of books here are probably worth more than any of the antiques in your house. Now where is that diary?"

"It's here on the desk."

Stephens sat down, turned on the desk light and began to turn the pages. Squinting at the faint text, his eyes quickly scanned the words as if trying to take in everything possible within the shortest amount of time. After a few minutes of this, he shut the leather-bound book.

"Well?" James asked.

"It seems that this Colonel Warren of yours fought in some major battles. He describes that tactics, the terrain, the morale of his men, and even gives his opinion on what went right and what went wrong. Any serious historian would love to get his hands on this material. How much would you asking for this?"

"I'm not sure. I have no idea of its value."

"Too tell you the truth, neither do I, but I would like to make some phone calls and find out. If you're willing, I can offer you a thousand dollars right here and now. I can come back with a friend of mine and buy the rest of the collection here."

James considered the offer for only a moment. He then said, "I haven't read the diary yet. There's some family history in there that I'm really interested in. Maybe I will consider your offer once I'm done and have made some notes."

The antique dealer frowned in disappointment. "Are you sure you won't reconsider?"

James could only shake his head. Selling the diary would be a nice bonus, but it somehow seemed improper to dispose of such an important family document at such short notice.

Stephens frowned resignedly. "No? I respect your decision. But please call me when you are ready to sell, okay? And I will stop by as soon as I can with someone else and go over the rest of the books here."

"Tyler and I will help you move the things out to your truck," James said.

It took another hour of careful packing and moving before they were done. After the truck and trailer had been stuffed full with his newly bought treasures, Stephens gave a friendly wave and drove away. The sound of the engine quickly died away in the dense woods.

"Well," Tyler started, "I should get going myself. Unless there is something else that needs to be done."

"I don't think so," James replied.

"Would it be possible to get paid today? I mean I've done plenty of work for you."

James reached into his pocket, pulled out the wad of cash he had received from the antique dollar and peeled two one hundred dollar bills out. He handed these over to the young man, who was greedily looking at the rest of the money.

"Thanks," Tyler said.

"After the museum is done going through the rest of the stuff, I'll be needing your help to haul what remains. I'm sure some of it is valuable, but I don't have the time to do anything with it."

"Whatever you don't want, I'll gladly take off your hands."

"What would you do with it?"

The young man shrugged. "Have a garage sale. Anything that doesn't sell, I'll give away."

After some thought, James nodded. "I think that will work out. Stop by tomorrow afternoon."

The two shook hands.

*

Tyler started the truck and momentarily listened to the burbling of the engine before jamming the transmission into drive. As he pulled away from the Warren place, he thought of what a pair of dupes that couple was. The antiques left would easily be worth a few thousand dollars if the right dealer could be found. That would be more than the lousy two hundred dollars he had received so far.

After pulling out on the main road, his hand snaked under the seat. There he felt the music box he had taken from the basement. He was the only one who had gotten a close look at it. He recognized that the top was inlaid with silver and the inside had an ivory insert to separate different types of jewelry. The thing must be worth a fortune. Neither that bitch Beth nor that fool James seemed to care for it. All he had to do, if they asked, was to claim the music box had been thrown away along with all the other garbage.

Tyler returned his thoughts to Beth, wondering how a fully-grown woman could be afraid of the dark. It was too bad that she turned down his advances, but he knew that her armor could be slowly chipped away. All women eventually gave in to him. And if this one didn't, well, there would be hell to pay. But for now, Tyler decided, a drink at the bar would have to do. Perhaps there would be an old flame to take advantage of.

He was going at a good clip, almost forty-five mile an hour, when a small figure bolted from the bushes and ran right across the road. Tyler got a momentary vision of pale girl in a dress, eyes wide open. He spun the steering wheel hard and the rear-end broke free of the gravel, turning the truck into an uncontrolled missile. The front dipped into the week choked ditch. The loaded bed, however, kept on moving forward with enough forced to flip the truck over with a crash of glass and twisted steel.

When Tyler woke, he found himself dangling upside down. It took him a moment to realize what happened and only then did he begin to feel the pain. His tongue traced the inside of his mouth where several teeth were missing. His head was cut open from where it smacked the side window, the shards lying on what used to be the roof of the cab. His eyes looked down and saw a small pool of blood that had collected there. Swearing, he unbuckled his seatbelt and fell headfirst into the tangled remains of the interior. He somehow managed to crawl out, cutting his hands and knees in the process. There was the smell of coolant and oil in the air. Leaning his body against the broken remains of the truck, he dug into his pocket and found his cellphone. He dialed his friend Merle, who ran a tow truck service. As the line on the other side rang, he thought of the little girl. He knew he had missed hitting her, but where had she gone?

*

"It's good to see you again, Cole," Beth said, letting the guest through the front door.

The museum curator looked at the room with professional interest, taking in the grand staircase, the large fireplace, the wooden floor, and the detailed trim work. She nodded her head in approval. "This is hardly some grand plantation, but the builder was definitely a gentleman of means."

"I do wish we could hang on to it," Beth admitted as she led her to the dining room. "But with everything that's been going on in our life, it just isn't possible."

"I'm sure the next owners will understand that this is a special place and take care of it."

The dining table had been cleared and moved to the center of the room. In the center of the ceiling was the candelabra, the wicks burning with a pleasant orange glow. Vintage dishes, wine glasses, and silverware were placed for three diners. James came in carrying an open bottle of red wine.

"Cole, this is James, my husband."

"Hello," he said. I hope you like steaks, because that's the only thing I'm good at cooking."

Cole gave him a broad smile. "That will do just fine. I must say this place looks quite elegant."

"You should have seen it before we started cleaning," Beth admitted. "You only have to pick the items you want for the museum and the rest will be given away."

"And the diary?"

James replied, "I've decided to keep it for now. I still haven't had a chance to read it all the way through. Beth did skip to the end though. We were both curious to see if there was some clue of who murdered him. Instead there were some paranoid rants about being watched and being punished for some unspoken deed. It seems that the man was off his rocker."

"That still doesn't explain why he was murdered or what happened to his daughter," Cole commented dryly.

Beth said, "You're right, of course. But let's talk about less morose subjects. It's almost time to eat. We can look at the diary afterward."

The steaks were perfect, along with the homemade sauce and green beans with black pepper. After a second bottle of red wine, tongues began to loosen.

"So," James started, "how long have you been the curator of the Clairepoint Museum?"

"More years than I can honestly remember," she said with a laugh. "Though it took some convincing of the older members of the board that I was up to the task."

"And why is that?"

"Just look at me. I'm black and I'm a woman. It's not exactly most people's idea of a historian. And this being the South and all, there were some biases - gender and race - to overcome, but I went to college at the University of South Carolina. That's more than most of the citizens of Clairepoint can say. I'm also from the area and know all the old stories about the families here. Sure, I could have gone somewhere else and made some more money, but I was happy to come back and do what I could to preserve the history here."

"A lot of Civil War buffs in town?" James asked, thinking of the antique dealer's interest in the diary.

"There is more to the South than the Civil War," Cole replied. "Slavery before the war was, of course, an abomination, but there is much to learn there about the oppression and tactics used by the oppressors. And most importantly the story of the fugitives and their escapes through the Underground Railroad. After the war, there was Reconstruction and the rise of the Klan, all which eventually lead to the Civil Rights Movement. I personally find these subjects more interesting than anything that happened in the northern states. But yes, the majority of the museum visitors are interested in the Civil War and the great Lost Cause." She said those last words with sarcasm.

"So what would your interest be in this diary that we discovered?" Beth asked.

"I like a good mystery like anyone else. But the diary itself is a gentleman's point of view of the war, along with gender and race relations, and the morale of the Confederacy. I would very much like to examine it further."

James suggested, "Beth, why don't you take her to the library. I'll do the cleaning up and join you as soon as I'm done."

As her husband began collecting the dirty dishes, Beth led Cole to the library. There the museum curator fell into a silence as she viewed the rows of books.

"I could spend a long time here," she said.

"The diary is on the desk," Beth said.

Cole sat down and began to pore through the diary, reading quickly from the beginning. The pages turned and the clock on the wall ticked by. Beth, realizing this was going to take a while, turned her attention to the other books on the shelves. She found a history of Rome, two family bibles, several Dickens books, what looked to be an original Twain, and a number of massive tomes that ended up being colorized plates of local birds.

After an hour of this, Beth grew impatient. She was about to say something when James came in.

"Well?" he said.

Cole looked up from the diary and gave him a dirty look. "I'm almost done. Hold on for a minute." She resumed reading.

James looked at his wife and rolled his eyes. He then bowed close to her ear and whispered in her ear, "Have you seen that doll? The one that made me slip off the stairs?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Perhaps Tyler threw it away," he suggested.

Cole finally spoke. She said, "This is a wonderful piece of history. The details of the battles are good, but I must admit that the ending offers more questions than answers. I'm also curious why two pages near the end are missing."

"Where?" James asked as he and Beth crowded around to see.

Cole opened the diary near the end, thumbed through a few pages and the pointed at a small torn spot near the binding. Only a scrap of the original paper was there, showing just a few of the faint letters.
Chapter 14

Tyler was at the crowded bar, nursing a cold beer. He felt someone bump into him. Eyes blazing with fury, he turned his head to see what yokel had done it. But once he saw who it was, he relaxed. This was someone who he knew very well.

Brown said, "My friend, it looks like you met someone who didn't take a liking to you."

Reaching up with his hand, Tyler rubbed his sore cheek, feeling the deep pain of the bruise and the encrusted blood. On top of that, his left eye was half-closed from swelling. "You could say that."

"What happened?" his new guest asked. "I noticed your truck isn't parked outside."

"It's over at Merle's place. I was driving along on Mason Road when some crazy girl ran in front of me. I swerved out of the way and went straight into the ditch. The truck flipped over. It's completely totaled. I'm lucky to be alive."

"What about the girl?"

Making a face, the young man said, "It's the damnedest thing. I must have blacked out for a few seconds, but when I crawled out, she wasn't anywhere to be seen. After I made the phone call for the wrecker, I even tried to look for her. No luck."

Brown appeared to give this some thought. "This here is a small town we live in. You must recognize her from somewhere."

Tyler shook his head and then took a sip of beer.

"What did she look like?"

"I only saw her for a brief second. I was too busy fighting with the steering wheel to take any detailed notes of her features. But she was blond and wearing a frumpy white dress and had pigtails with black ribbons. She looked as pale as a ghost."

"That doesn't sound like anybody on Mason Road that I know."

"That's too bad. I would like to find her parents and ask for some money. How can I get work if I don't have a truck?"

Brown slapped Tyler on the back. "Don't worry about that. I have an errand to run. Stop on over tonight and you can help me with it." And with those words, he walked out of the bar.

Tyler still felt the pain from the man's blow travel down his back. That damn fool, he thought to himself. He turned and watched him leave. Tyler then returned to drinking beer. His mind kept coming back to the accident. It wasn't the destruction of his truck that was the focus of his attention, but the disappearance of the music box. After calling for the wrecker, he had returned to the inside of cab to retrieve that stolen object. But no matter where he looked, he couldn't find it. Perhaps it had been thrown clear but even a cursory search of the ground came up empty. It was a damn shame since he knew the music box must be worth a few hundred dollars.

With a sigh, he finished the last swallow of beer and put the glass down. He slipped off the stool and pushed his way through the crowded bar. Outside the moon was a glowing sliver half-hidden by a pile of dark clouds.

*

James knew he had to be dreaming since he felt numb and disconnected from what he was experiencing. He could feel his body seemingly floating over the wood floors, his feet scraping loosely along the surface. It was so terribly dark, but the dim gleam of the moon feebly pierced the windows, casting a gray light over the walls. His shadow was lost in the darkness between the glass panes, a netherworld of cold emptiness. Down the hallway James went until he reached the stairway. He descended the stairs in a fluid motion. He was in the front room now, heading toward the kitchen. There was nothing to hear but the sound of air moving through his lungs and the thump of his heart. Even the sound of nature outside was gone as if the insects and animals had decided to hold their collective breath.

With a growing sense of dread, James knew now that he was heading toward the basement. The thudding of his heart became loud and fast with panic, the quickening pulse filling his eardrum until he wanted to scream from the pressure. But his jaw was clamped shut. A low moan came from deep in his throat. It sounded like a child whimpering in pain. There was no stopping this journey now.

He was in the kitchen. He was at the door. The knob in his hand turned. The entry swung open, revealing the total black emptiness below. It was cold; not the iciness of winter, but a chill that enveloped the body and destroyed whatever warmth and humanity that resided inside. James felt helpless as his foot hit the first step. He began his agonizing descent into the unknown.

Enveloped in the embrace of the complete darkness, James felt lost. He found himself stopping and waiting. His eyes were open but there was nothing to see but the random flecks and colored floaters that traveled across his eyes. And then there was a glimmer of something behind the closed door of the fruit cellar. The door slowly swung open with a long wretched creak. There was the little girl; the same one he remembered from his childhood. She was wearing a white dress that, like her skin, was almost translucent.

With unblinking eyes, her hand rose into the air and began to make motions for him to walk closer. She whispered with a voice that could barely be heard. "Come play with me, James."

He wanted to run away but he couldn't. Instead he took an unsteady step toward her. And then another. And another. She was so close now. The sockets were empty black pools. Against his will, his right hand reached out to touch to her.

And then there was the crash of broken glass. The door swung shut and the darkness came back. He screamed.

*

Sleeping in the bed upstairs, Beth found herself jolted awake. She couldn't understand why until she heard a scream coming from below, muted by the layers of flooring. Reaching over, she tried to find her husband but he wasn't there. Beth got out of bed and threw on a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. She ran out of the room and down the stairs. There in the front room the overheard light was on. She saw James. He was dressed only in boxers, his face a frozen mask of fear. Walking like an old man, he didn't even appear to notice her. Instead he went over to the sofa, slumped down, and put his head between his hands.

"James?"

He did not respond.

"James?" she asked again as she went to sit down next to him.

He looked at her momentarily and then began to sob. When he tried to speak, the words couldn't come out.

Beth wrapped her arms around his body and cradled him like a child. She still didn't have any idea of what had happened. "It's okay," she intoned over and over.

When he finally could talk, the words spilled out fast. "I thought I was dreaming. I was drawn to the basement. It was pitch black down there. But then there was a light. The door to the fruit cellar opened. It was the girl. She was there. I couldn't run. I couldn't even scream. And then there was a crashing sound as if someone had broken some glass. It wasn't nearby but it was loud enough to stop whatever spell was gripping me. The door shut and the light disappeared. I could finally move again. That's when I screamed. I somehow found the stairs in the darkness."

Beth still hadn't let go of him. She purred into his ear, "It's okay now. You're with me."

James raised his head to look at her. His eyes were puffy and red. "You believe me, don't you?"

Without any hesitation, she nodded. "When you first started talking about this ghost, I didn't believe you. In fact I couldn't believe you. I told myself that such things don't exist. But the night I went to replace the fuse, I had my own experience. I was too afraid to tell you. I thought it would just make you feel even worse. And perhaps I didn't trust myself enough to believe it really happened."

"Tell me what happened."

She recounted her experience, including the fear that she had kept hidden.

He hugged her tight. He said, "I've been so afraid. At least you understand what I've been going through." He paused. "So what are we going to do about this haunted house that I just inherited?"

"If this was a movie, I would suggest we get a priest to perform an exorcism. But I don't think this ghost of Abigail is a malignant spirit."

"She scares the hell out of me," James protested. "And do you really think it is Abigail?"

"Of course, who else could it be? She is the little girl who got lost. She's out there somewhere, her body unclaimed. Perhaps if we could find her, the haunting would stop."

"Where do we start?"

"She has to be in the house somewhere. We can start in the basement. We will have to search it from top to bottom tomorrow. If we don't find her here, then we'll have to expand the search to the outside."

James looked unconvinced. "It's been a long, long time. Do you still think we could find any evidence?"

"I don't know, but it's worth a try. I have a feeling that even if we leave this place, that little girl will continue to haunt our memories. But now that you're feeling better, we have to try and figure something else out."

"And what's that?"

"Before I heard you scream, something else woke me up. I didn't know what it was. But you mentioned the sound of breaking glass. We have to look around and try to figure out where that noise came from."

James stood up. His jaw was set with determination. "I'll search the kitchen and dining room. You take the hallway and library. If you see anything, don't hesitate to give a shout."

Beth headed down the hallway, turning on the lights as she went. The windows looked intact here, but there was a small breeze coming from the open library door. Walking on tiptoes, she carefully approached the room. There wasn't a sound. She slowly poked her head inside and saw that no one was inside. But as soon as she hit the light switch, she saw that the back window had been smashed open, leaving shards of glass on the floor.

"James!" she shouted.

He came running but was stopped by short by Beth's hand.

"Careful," she said. "There's glass everywhere and you're not wearing any shoes."

Taking a few steps inside, he looked around. There didn't seem to be anything missing. And then he saw the desk. The diary was gone.

He said, "We had better call the police."

*

Sheriff Pete Hanson was leaning back in his car seat, staring at the clock. He was always glad when the bar shutdown and all the drunks had gone home. This was the quiet part of Friday night when there was nothing to do but listen to the chirp of the crickets. The police radio was set low and the only sound coming out of the speaker was the rare update of his deputies, who were off in another corner of the county.

When Hanson was younger, he hated the graveyard shift. But now that he was married and had two young boys raising hell at home, he cherished these quiet moments. Of course being sheriff meant he could have skipped working at nights, but it was now a matter of routine. And anyway, it helped the other officers spend some time with their own families, especially with the tight budget the department was supposed to operate under.

The radio crackled. It took him a few seconds to realize that the message was meant for him. "This is Hanson," he said into the microphone.

It was Debbie from Dispatch. "Sheriff, we have a ten-twenty-five reported at the old Warren house."

"A break-in?"

"Affirmative."

"I'm on it. Tell Tom and Robert to keep on patrolling. I'll call backup if I need them."

Hanson started up the Crown Victoria and drove off. This particular car was getting up in the miles. He missed the previous fleet cars, the Chevrolet Caprice, which at least had some power. The tiny engines of these Fords left a lot to be desired, especially when lugging all this weight around or chasing down a suspect in a hotrod. But at least they were dependable and could take some hard abuse. He wondered how the new Dodge Charger would fare.

He turned the car on to the dirt road leading to the Warren place. He slowed, hitting the spotlight mounted to the front door pillar. There was nothing to see but a tangle of trees and bramble. He had been hoping to see the perpetrator hoofing it away from the crime of the scene. Disappointed, he drove on to the house where he parked in front. He got out of the car and went to the door and gave it a firm knock.

"This is the police," he called out. It was, in his experience, always good to announce yourself as an officer of the law in case a frightened homeowner decided to open fire on what was perceived to be a returning criminal.

The door slowly opened. It was a pretty woman who answered the door. She looked tired and only a little scared. "Come in," she said.

"I'm Sheriff Hanson. Someone called concerning a break-in?"

She nodded. "That would be me."

"And your name?"

"Beth Warren." She opened the door wider to let him pass.

He went inside and found himself in a large front home. The furnishings here were sparse but the interior still had the charm from an older age with dark wood floors, ornate woodwork, and high ceilings. There was a man dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants sitting on the sofa.

"And your name, sir?" the sheriff asked.

The man stood. "I'm James Warren."

Hanson walked further into the room. He watched as Beth went to over to sit next to her husband. They held hands. The two of them made a handsome couple.

He asked, "When did the break-in occur?"

"Maybe twenty or thirty minutes ago," Beth answered. "I'm not completely sure of the time. But I heard a crash of broken glass. I came downstairs. We searched the house and found the library window had been broken and a diary had been stolen."

"A diary? That's it?" the sheriff said with disbelief. There was something odd about these two. From their body language, he could pick up some underlying tension that seemed to go beyond the break-in. And then he caught the word that was out of place from her testimony. "Did you come downstairs with your husband or by yourself?"

Both of them visibly stiffened from the last question.

Beth was about to speak but her husband cut her off. He said nervously, "I was already down here. I couldn't sleep at night." He couldn't meet the hard gaze of the sheriff.

"So you must have been the first on the scene. Did you hear anything out of the ordinary?"

Mr. Warren shook his head. "It startled me. I was feeling pretty groggy when it happened. But I was certainly awake afterward. It took me a while to figure out what had happened."

Something about their story seemed odd to the sheriff but he couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't that these two were lying but it seemed as if something else was being covered up. Hanson put that thought aside and said, "If you would show me where the break-in occurred."

"Right this way, officer," Beth said.

Hanson followed her down a hallway that ended at a library. He noticed that her husband stayed behind. The sheriff went inside, stepped over the shattered glass, and examined the broken window. It was obvious that it has been smashed from the outside. He peered outside and saw a thick branch lying nearby. Turning his attention to the room, he looked over the many books, most which looked old.

"So the only thing missing was a diary?" he asked. "Are you sure?"

"There could be more things missing here," she admitted. "However the diary, at the moment, is the only thing that I know of. We don't exactly have a list of all the books. At the moment we're more interested in selling what we can before the house is sold."

"Yes, I've heard that the nephew of old Warren now had the place. It's a shame you have to sell it," he said politely. "Now about this diary, do you know why anyone would break in here to steal it?"

Beth shrugged. "We were told by an antique dealer, Bill Stephens, that it is potentially worth a few thousand dollars. You see it's old, from the time of the Civil War. It was written by one of my husband's ancestors, a man named Samuel Warren, who was a colonel in the Confederate Army."

Hanson gave this some thought. He said, "You're obviously new in town. How many people know about this diary?"

"Other than my husband and I," she replied, "There is the Bill Stephens, who I already mentioned, and Lucy Cole, who runs your town's museum."

"I know the both of them," he replied. "They aren't the types to go stealing."

She added, "And a man named Tyler West, who has been helping us out around the house."

The sheriff made a face. He already had several encounters with that young man. He was the sort who was already getting into trouble with fighting, public drunkenness, and problems with the women of the town, some who were married. He was the obviously the first choice to investigate.

"Of course those three could have told any number of people about the diary," she said.

"That's true, ma'am," Hanson agreed. "But you gave me some leads to follow up on. For now, I want the both of you to stay clear of this room. In the morning I'll send over someone to check for fingerprints or any evidence I may have missed. We'll see what crops up."

"Those three I mentioned have all been in this room at one time or another."

"That will make the job a little more difficult, but I'm sure something will turn up."
Chapter 15

James yawned. The eggs and bacon on the stove was cooking nicely but he felt so tired that he feared falling asleep and burning them. Even with two cups of coffee inside his sour stomach, he knew this was going to be a wretched day. Sure he had slept in until ten in the morning, but it still wasn't enough. The excitement from last night had been too much. And now with that diary missing, there was another piece to the strange puzzle. He shook his head, feeling too fuzzy to even contemplate what to do next.

Beth walked in with a towel and was busy drying her hair. "Hey, sweetie," she said. Today she was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a light sweater. The skin around her eyes was smudged with sleepiness.

"Good morning."

"What time is that real estate agent supposed to come by?"

"Eleven," he replied. "That will give us enough time to scarf down some breakfast."

"I'll set the table," she said.

"Thanks, honey."

James flipped the eggs and bacon over while Beth hung the towel over a kitchen chair and busied herself with pulling dishes from the cupboards. Soon they sitting at the dining room table and eating.

"I was thinking about last night," James started. "I mean who took the diary."

"I have some ideas on that too, but go ahead."

Before speaking, he cleared his throat. "I feel like we're detectives on television. But I'm thinking it has to be the antique dealer, Bill. He's the only one who knows the true value of the book. I bet he's sandbagging us, not telling us how valuable it really is. After lunch, I was planning on driving into town to see him."

Beth shook her head. "You're wrong. It has to be Tyler. He was there when Bill told us the value of the book. I'm sure he's the sort of man who would be willing to sell the diary for a quick profit."

"You really don't like that man."

"My likes have nothing to do with it. But you could tell that the sheriff was most interested when I mentioned his name. I bet Tyler has a rap sheet that's longer than my arm."

"So Lucy Cole is out of the running?"

Beth raised an eyebrow. "You don't really suspect her, do you?"

"Not really, but Cole has a reason to steal it too. The museum doesn't have the money to buy it, and she seemed very interested in the contents. At this point I'm not willing to discount anyone."

"She seemed like a good person to me," she commented dryly.

"You're just not cynical enough," he joked. "Any good lawyer should cultivate a healthy dose of skepticism when dealing with the general public."

With a laugh, she shot back, "I'm sure I'll get to that point soon enough, darling, but for now I'll stay the guileless virgin."

"I think I've already taken part of the latter condition," he said with a wolfish grin.

"Oh have you?" she said, her voice low and filled with promise.

James was about to suggest the go upstairs and back to bed, when there was a knock at the front door. He got up and said, "I guess we'll have to play our game some other time. That has to be our visitor."

His previous contact with the real estate agent had been by phone, a number given to him by Flint. She had a sweet southern drawl that sounded, at least to his ears, like it should belong to a lovely woman. When he opened the door, he was only slightly disappointed. She was of medium height with short but styled blond hair, clear skin, a small delicate mouth, large blue eyes, and a nose that was too long for the face. She was wearing a light-weight dark blue suit and skirt combination with a burgundy shirt underneath. A leather briefcase in her hand, black pumps, and stockings made up the rest of the ensemble. Though not extremely beautiful, he noticed an immediate magnetic attraction. This woman was sexy as hell and would be a draw to many men. He knew he would have to be careful around her.

"You must be the realtor," he said. "I'm James Warren."

"Kim Jacobi," she said offering her hand.

They shook. James could feel her fingers linger against his.

She stated, "The Warren home. I'm must say that I'm looking forward to selling this place. It has so much history that it the house seems to be alive."

Thinking of the ghost below, he smiled wanly. "I suppose you could say that. Why don't you come in and meet my wife. And then we can look around. I'm most interested in hearing what kind of price you suggest we try to sell the home and land for." He took a step back to let her pass through the door.

Unlike other visitors, Jacobi did not appear to be impressed by the interior. Instead she went over to the coffee table, opened her briefcase, and set it on the table. She took out a pad of paper and with a pen began to write. Without saying a word to James, she began to pace through the room, taking notes as she went. In a moment, she was finished and was down the hallway. He rushed to catch up to her.

"My wife is in the dining room," he said, trying to remain polite.

She gave him a curt smile and continued to walk. "I like to look over the house without the seller looking over my shoulder. I'll meet you in the kitchen in a few minutes."

Feeling flustered, James stopped and watched as she walked into the bathroom. He noticed that she had a nice pair of calves. With a shake of his head, he returned to the dining room where his wife was finishing with breakfast.

"Was that the realtor?" she asked as she put her coffee cup down.

James nodded. "Her name is Kim. She's a fireball of energy. I told her that we would wait for her here."

"Another cup of coffee?" Beth suggested.

"Yeah, sure."

It was a few minutes later when Jacobi came into the dining room. She gave them a polite nod before heading off into the kitchen. They could hear her rummage around and then open the door to the basement. The sound of her footsteps down the stairs could be faintly heard. James got up and rushed to the kitchen door, expecting the worst. But it was only a few seconds until Jacobi returned.

She said, "The house is structurally sound. I couldn't tell you how many times I've seen some lovely old farmhouse with a bad foundation or termite problems."

"That's good to know," James said.

"I'll send someone over to fix that broken window in the library. I would, however, like to look at the other structures on the property."

"What other structures? I haven't seen any other buildings."

"There is a tax assessment in my briefcase. It's dated from forty years ago, but it listed a barn and two outbuildings that were once used to house slaves. They have to be somewhere out there in the woods."

"I had no idea," James admitted. "We never really searched the grounds since they are so overgrown. Is it important?"

"Well then, let me get a different pair of shoes from the car and let's go take a look. Anything historical can only increase the value of the listing."

"I'll get my wife and meet you outside."

*

Tyler was sleeping when he heard someone pounding on the front door. With a blurry eye, he stared at the clock. It was just after noon. The knocking on the door grew louder. He pushed the girl sleeping next to him away, pulled his legs out from under the covers, and found a pair of underwear to slip on. He staggered over to the door, mumbling as he went.

"This is the sheriff," the voice on the other side said.

"Damn," Tyler said as he cracked the door open. It was Sheriff Hanson alright. He had a few run-ins with this bastard before and it had never turned out right.

Hanson's voice was formal. "Hello there, Tyler. Sleeping in?"

"What do you want?"

"I need to talk to you. We can do this out here standing or you can invite me in for a social call. Whatever you want."

Tyler didn't really care what his neighbors thought. They were trailer trash just like him. He said, "You see, sir, I've got a girl inside. We had one hell of a night. She's still sleeping it off."

"I'm here to ask you about a break-in last night over at the Warren house. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Of course not," the young man replied. "You can ask Amy inside. I was out with her all night. And with my truck all busted up, I'm stuck on foot." He could feel himself become flustered with nervousness, but his long dealings with authority figures had taught him how to remain composed even under heavy questioning. This sheriff hadn't gotten to that point yet.

"Anyone else who can vouch for your whereabouts?"

"Well, I was at the bar along with a bunch of the regulars. I'm sure they can tell you that I was there with them."

"What about after closing time? Say around three in the morning?"

"You'll have to ask Amy. We got in around that time. That's after we stopped at the liquor store."

The sheriff sounded annoyed when he said, "Do you mind if I come in then to question her? I want to take a look around."

"I suppose I could be a jerk and ask for a warrant."

"You could, but I would make your life a living hell. This is my county and I don't take any shit from little turds like you."

Tyler backed away from the door. "Now there's no reason for us to argue like that. Come on in, sheriff."

Hanson entered, looking warily around the room. To the right was a small kitchen and off to his left was a living room where a sleeper sofa was open. There was a women there with long black hair busy snoring away. She had a chubby face, a stubby nose, and tanned skin. A bare breast peeked out from under the covers. There was also a television set up on a cheap wood bookcase, which was flanked by a cheap stereo. The coffee table had several open beer cans. Clothes were scattered on the floor. There was no sign of any diary, but that didn't mean it wasn't here somewhere.

"Hey, Amy!" Tyler shouted. "We've got company."

The woman opened her eyes, blinked a few times and then sat up. The blanket rolled off. She looked dumbly at the two men in the room and then, once she realized that a police officer was standing there, scrambled to cover herself up.

"Damn you, Tyler," she spat out.

The young man laughed at her obvious embarrassment.

Hanson felt himself blushing. He said, "I just have a few questions regarding last night. May I have your full name?"

"Amy Klein," was the reply. "What is this all about?"

The sheriff took out a little notebook from his breast pocket and made a note of her name. "This is about Mr. West here. Were you here with him at, say, three in the morning?"

"I think so," she replied uncertainly. Her face was scrunched up with thought.

"Do you know what time you got here?"

"It was after the bar closed. I came back with Tyler to sleep it off."

"So you got here some time after two?"

"I guess so."

"What about after that?"

Tyler shifted from foot to foot, watching Amy carefully.

She giggled. "Oh, this and that. I admit I don't remember too much. I swear that's the last time I'll drink whiskey."

"I see," Hanson said, his voice flat. He closed up the notebook and placed it back inside his pocket. He turned his attention back to Tyler and said, "I have to go ask a few more people some questions. If I have to, I'll be back to see you."

"Any time, Sheriff," Tyler said with a friendly grin.

Hanson swiveled around and walked out of the trailer.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Tyler went and locked the door. He just hoped that would be the end of it. He hated pig bastards like that, poking their noses in where they didn't belong. At least Amy didn't have the chance to give the game away. Of course it helped that she had been passed out during the time in question. That thought reminded him that he still hadn't had a chance to make love to her. Well there was no time like the present.

Turning on his heel, he saw Amy searching through piles of clothes. She wasn't wearing anything.

"Hey, honey," Tyler started. "There's no reason for you to go home yet. We can party a little bit more if you want."

She gave him a sloppy smile. "What do you want to do?"

"I can think of something."

*

Beth slowed to push a branch out of the way. Ahead of her was Jacobi and her husband, the two of them happily chattering away as they scrambled through the thick underbrush. There was a trail of sorts here but it was so overgrown that any progress took patience. She thought that the realtor cut a tomboyish figure, but James didn't seem to mind. In fact he seemed quiet taken by Jacobi. Beth felt a flare of jealousy that quickly subsided. She was hardly in the position to criticize, considering she hadn't shot down Tyler more quickly. But did her husband have to be so obvious?

Any further thought along those lines was arrested by the sight of a decrepit barn nestled by a number of young trees. The red paint on the sides had long been weathered away, leaving a silvery gray wood. The roof, made of metal, was the color of rust. A yawning opening where the massive sliding door would normally stand led to the darkened interior. Both Jacobi and James had stopped to stare at the structure. Beth caught up to them.

"At least it's still standing," the realtor said. "Though based on that lean, it won't be for much longer. Come on, let's take a closer look."

The realtor then pushed back some of the smaller trees that were in the way. She stepped past these and went through the opening.

"Come on," James said. He reached for Beth's hand.

She took it. With a feeling of dread, she followed her husband her inside. It was quiet here. The sounds of the outside world were muted. Through the chinks of the wooden outside, beams of light penetrated the gloomy interior. Above was a loft filled with decaying hay. There were pens for animals, hooks on the walls which held rusty tools, including an ancient-looking scythe. The posts that held the interior of the barn together were thick with cobwebs that were draped everywhere. Beth dare not think what animals lived in here. The floor was dirt covered with a thin layer of leaves, and fallen grass from the hay stored above. It was here that Beth noticed that a section of the ground was freshly churned up. A shovel was planted in the earth, the handle sticking out.

"What in the hell?" James said.

"It looks like someone else has already been here," Jacobi commented. "I thought you said you didn't know about the barn."

James said, "I didn't. We've been so busy working on the house that I didn't even think there was anything out here. Except for the old orchard, we haven't visited any other part of the property."

"The question is," Beth asked, "was something buried here or was something dug up?" She was thinking of the missing girl.

"That's a horrid idea," James said as he took a few steps closer to the dirt. And then his back stiffened. His hand darted out, pointing further into the dark recesses of the barn. "This doesn't look like the only place that was dug up. I see several more spots."

"So somebody was looking for something," Beth suggested.

Jacobi looked confused by this turn of events. She asked, "Can we press on to the other buildings?"

"Sure," James said. His voice was distracted making it sound as if he was deep in thought.

The trio left the barn and took back to the trail. Jacobi and James took the lead. This time there was no happy chatter. Beth fell back, deep in though. If somebody was searching the grounds, what were they looking for? It had to be related to some information in that diary, but the question of what it was remained a mystery. But it had to do with the disappearance of Abigail and the murder of Colonel Warren all those years ago. It had to be someone who knew of the Warren family history and the secret of that diary with the missing pages. But whoever it was, still didn't know the exact location, but was instead making a guess. She immediately thought of Tyler. He had the local knowledge and the greed to try and pull something off like this.

The trail ended at a mass of bricks and rotted wood intertwined with bramble and brush. This was the remains of the old slave quarters, now long destroyed like the evil institution that so many had died to defend and destroy. Together they looked at it with silence. It was some time before Jacobi spoke.

She said quietly, "I think you will get a good price for your house. I will see to that."
Chapter 16

James stretched out on the sofa and watched out the windows. It was late. The sun was beginning to set. Beth was busy in the kitchen, taking her turn at cooking. He thought of the events of the day: the visit by the lovely Kim Jacobi and the discovery of the barn. Of course what were even stranger were the dirt pilings indicating that someone had been digging, presumably looking for something buried. After the realtor had left, promising to return to take some photographs, he and Beth spent the rest of the afternoon searching through the tangle of woods. They had found several spots, often by old trees or the tumbled remains of an aged shed, where the ground had been overturned. At a few of these locations, James had even dug down a few feet only to find nothing. Some, however, were fresher than others, evidence that this was not a recent phenomenon and probably the work of only one or two people. Whoever had been doing this had been busy for weeks.

The question that plagued his mind was why. The later entries of the diary hinted at some great riches, but the missing pages must have had the location and the nature of the money involved. Perhaps the mystery digger knew nothing about the diary, but instead was acting on some rumor. It wouldn't be hard to believe that an old skinflint like William Warren was actually a miser with a hidden cache of wealth. Especially since the property was so large and the man who once owned it had few friends. But still, the idea that someone was out there, watching, sent chills down his spine.

On the bright side, the selling price that the realtor had suggested was a godsend. A cool quarter of a million dollars was way beyond what that Lucius Brown character had offered, and even better than the price that lawyer Flint had suggested. Jacobi said that many wealthy buyers were looking for a historical home to buy. One with a long history and the extra land was especially important. It was mostly the latter that mattered since these wealthy buyers wanted all the privacy they could afford. A place like the old Warren home certainly provided that. Even if they get slightly lower than the asking price, that would still be enough money to pay off the student loans and even make a sizable dent on the mortgage at their home back in Grand Rapids.

This was good news all around, though James was beginning to feel some regret. This was, after all, his ancestral home. The land around it had been farmed by generations of people who bore his name. They had been born here, lived their lives, and had even been buried out in the graveyard in the back. And now all of that was going to end. He knew there was really nothing he could do about it, but still, it felt like he had let someone down.

He heard Beth calling his name from the kitchen. "James, supper is ready."

*

Sheriff Hanson was outside Century Collectibles looking through his notes and comparing the testimony of the patrons of the only bar in the town to Tyler's alibi. According to several people he interviewed, the young man was there at the bar and left at closing time. And yes it was true that his truck was out of commission. Of course with his trailer only a mile away, it was only a few minutes walk to the bar. But there was something that just didn't ring true with Tyler's story. He was a practiced liar, and was still the obvious suspect. But still, he had two more suspects to question.

He got out of the car and went into the antique store. Though the sheriff didn't know Bill Stephens very well, he immediately recognized the man in question, who was busy at the counter, poring over a notebook. Once the antique dealer saw who it was, he raised a single eyebrow in surprise.

"Hello, Sheriff," he said politely.

"Good evening, Bill. Sorry to bother you like this before closing time. I know you're looking forward to dinner but I have a few questions to ask you."

"Anything to help. What's going on?"

"Last night, I received a call concerning a break-in."

"Oh dear me, a burglary? I fear that is the dark side of living out in the country, too many lonely homes are such a temptation for the unscrupulous. But you should know that I run an honest business here. I only buy antiques with a proven provenance, since the origin is of great importance to the type of clients I sell to. I am certainly not a fence for criminals."

"Now I'm not saying that you are," Hanson cautioned the old man. "You were at the Warren house yesterday, weren't you?"

"The Warren residence? Yes I was. I take it they were the victims of a theft? What did they have stolen?"

"Only one item."

"The diary?"

"How did you ever guess that?" the sheriff asked suspiciously.

"It's obvious, my dear man. Since I already bought all the other valuable items, that was the only thing left to steal. Of course not everyone has my ability to sort out the wheat from the chaff, but that's what I would have taken."

"So this diary really is valuable?"

"Oh, there's no question about that. Perhaps a few thousand dollars if the right buyer could be found. The Civil War has its amateur and professional historians who would love to get their hands on some fresh material to research. Why the diary has first-hand accounts of several battles that could resolve some minor historical arguments."

"According to Mr. Warren, you made an offer to buy it and seemed disappointed when it was refused."

"That is true, but he also said I would be first in line to make another offer when he was finished reading it. Look, Sheriff, I am no criminal. Anyway, look at me, I'm an old man. I certainly don't have the stamina to go sneaking around in the middle of night with a black ski mask on."

"I guess not," Hanson admitted. "But I still have to ask where you were last night, let's say at three in the morning."

"If I wasn't making one of my many nightly trips to the bathroom, then I was sleeping."

"Can anyone collaborate this?"

"Of course not. I live alone in the apartment upstairs. After I closed the store, I stayed in. I made dinner, watched some television and went to bed at ten. No one saw me because no one had the chance to do so."

Hanson, feeling frustrated, frowned. This old man seemed to be telling the truth. Of course some information could come to light that would put a hole in this story, but for now Stephens was on the bottom of his list of suspects.

"I hope I haven't disappointed you, sheriff. I mean, you really weren't expecting that I would be capable of doing something like that."

"I'm just making routine inquiries. I will let you go and have that supper of yours."

*

Beth was fast asleep and deep in the world of dark slumber. To her mind, there was nothing but the void of rest. But then a white glimmer slowly started in the corner of her flickering consciousness. It grew and grew until it enveloped her like a thin sheet. She wanted to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. She began to feel constricted as if a great weight had been placed on her chest. Oh how she wanted to scream and fight, but she was immobile. A sense of panic lifted her up from the slumber, but Beth could not fully rouse herself. Instead, she fell into a dream that felt terrifyingly real.

She was standing at the front door of a house. It was a place that she somehow knew very well even though the grounds were not immediately recognizable. There were long stretches of fields that only contained weeds, a few tall trees, a distant red barn off to the left, and further on, a low brick building where the slaves slept. With a start, Beth realized she was seeing the Warren farm as it once was before it became overgrown and wild.

"Abigail!" she heard. Turning, she saw a women standing at the open door. This newcomer had an old-fashioned dress that was worn and threadbare, a pretty face only marred by the passage of time, china blue eyes, and long brown hair.

"Yes, mother?" Beth found herself answering. Why did she call this stranger that?

"I told you a thousand times that your daddy is safe. He'll be home any day now, but having you standing there waiting for him isn't going to hurry his coming any."

"I know," the girl named Abigail meekly replied.

Beth now knew she had no control over what was going on. She was only an impartial watcher. She knew that woman had to be Louisa Warren, the mother of Abigail."

"If I catch you out here again, I'll be giving you another swat."

The little girl touched her cheek where she could still feel the place where, last night, her mother had hit her. There had only been a slight bruise there this morning, but Abigail knew it could get worse. A lot worse. "I'll be good, mommy," she said quietly as her eyes dropped to the ground.

Louisa froze, her eye catching the movement of something faraway. She grabbed Abigail roughly by the arm. "That's your father coming down the path. If he asks you about your face, you tell him you fell, okay?"

"Yes, mommy," the little girl replied. She then pulled herself free of the vice-like grasp of her mother and ran down the path toward her father.

She could see him. Her father was wearing his uniform but it hung loosely on his shoulders. He led a horse with heavy packs. He looked so haggard, the normally bright eyes darkened with sorrow. But once he caught sight of his little girl, that familiar smile crept on his face.

"My darling Abigail!" he exclaimed with arms wide open.

They embraced. He picked her up and swung her around, all while keeping his gaze locked on her. The gloomy cloud that had enveloped him seemed to recede away, making the sun brighter. But then she saw him catch sight of the bruise on her cheek. Samuel put her down.

"Whatever happened to you?"

"I tripped and fell," she lied. That lie hurt as bad as the slap that she had received from her mother. But she knew it was still better than telling the truth. Who knew what would happen if father found out the real story. He would have to leave and Abigail knew she would never see him again.

"You'll have to be more careful in the future," he said sternly, but with a hint of concern. "Come now, let's go see your mother."

"I guess we can do that," she said uncertainly.

Hand in hand, they walked back to the house where her mother was standing. Louisa did not rush into Samuel's arms. Instead she stayed on the little porch, a sour look pasted on her face.

"You're back," she said as if it was the most uninteresting thing in the world.

"Yes, I made it back. I wish I had never left, but I'm alive. And the farm is still in one piece. That's more than you can say for many of my comrades."

Louisa nodded. "I'll make you something to eat."

Samuel let go of his daughter's hand and patted the horse's neck. "I've got to take care of this old fellow. I'll bring him to the barn and then be right back."

Without a further word, Louisa turned and went inside the house. Samuel, in the meanwhile, began rummaging through the packs. He pulled out a wrapped package and opened it. It was little wooden box with a shiny metal top. With great solemnity, he presented it to his daughter.

"I brought you something special," he said. "Open it."

Abigail slowly opened the top, wondering what would happen. There was a click and then a jangly sound. It took her a second to realize that music was playing. "Oh, it's lovely," she said, her eyes wide with wonderment.

"It's very fragile, so be very careful. But it's yours to keep."

"I will be very careful, father."

The scene began to fade into a shimmering light. Beth was transfixed at what she had seen. She recognized the music box and the haunting melody that it played. And her heart was heavy with sorrow at what Abigail had to live through. Louisa was a terrible mother for hurting a child. And the way the woman had treated her husband with obvious contempt. But why? Any further exploration in that direction was cut off by what happened next. The light that Beth saw grew and grew until it was impossibly bright. And then like a switch, she was plunged into darkness. She could hear someone crying. Beth then realized it was herself through Abigail, who was lying on something soft. The gentle tune from the music box was playing.

Abigail was in her bed, tears flowing unchecked. Through the crack of the door, she could hear the voice of Dr. Arnold, who spoke loudly because he was half-deaf.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Warren," he said. "I truly am. But a wound of that magnitude was beyond my simple skills. Only the miracle of an angel could have saved him. But he passed quickly with no pain."

At this distance her mother's voice was just a whisper. "Thank you, doctor, for doing what you could."

"May I offer you my condolences? It is unfortunate that a man who survived that terrible war had to die in such a violent fashion near his own home. A true tragedy."

Abigail buried her head under a pillow, trying to stifle the sobs that wracked her puny body. It wasn't fair that her father was dead. It wasn't fair! Life was never going to be the same.

Life before, the scene faded away, the image and emotions blurring and retreating in the face of the ever-increasing light. Beth felt the little girl's sorrow like it was her own. She, however, didn't have time to examine these emotions since the scene switched yet again.

The sun was out. Abigail was dangling her feet off the edge of a bridge, watching the creek below trickle by. In the corner of her eye, she could see her house in the distance. No one was around, but the little girl felt comforted by the doll resting in the crook of her arm. She loved Magnolia almost as much as she loved her father. Abigail was thinking of her father and the funeral. The pastor had said some pretty words and the neighbors were all kind, but none of that seemed to matter. She was afraid of her mother and, most of all, the man who was now always around.

This man had no name and had never even spoken to Abigail. But he was one of the secrets that her mother said must never be mentioned. He had visited Louisa several times while Samuel had been off to fight. He had even spent the night only to sneak off in the morning. Abigail thought that her mother and this man thought they were being clever and that no one else knew. But she did.

A shadow fell across the sun. Abigail looked up. It was him. Like her father, he was dressed in a uniform but this one looked simpler and rougher. He gave her a smile which may have looked pleasant on his handsome face if it wasn't for the veiled malice underneath.

"What are you doing here all by yourself?" he asked.

"Nothing," she replied sullenly.

The man sat down next to Abigail, making her feel acutely uncomfortable. He said, "I'm sorry what happened to your daddy."

Abigail didn't say anything in reply. She didn't even look at him. Instead she studied a leaf that was floating on top of the water underneath her feet.

He continued on. "Before he died, did he talk to you about anything special? I mean a secret that only the two of you knew?"

She shook her head, wishing this man would just go away.

He spoke with a whisper as if they were fellow conspirators. "You can tell me, you know."

Abigail was afraid to speak, knowing that he would be disappointed with her answer. There was no secret to tell since her father had told her nothing special. There wasn't anything to say. She continued to stare at the creek. She prayed that the man would just go away.

"You have to tell me." This time his voice was pleading.

"No!" she responded as she got up to run.

But the man was too quick for her. His strong hand shot out and grasped her by the neck. Now he was shouting with a ragged edge, rising in volume as his anger became a raging uncontrollable force. Abigail found herself being dragged along the ground. She screamed but no one could hear her.

"You're going to tell me!" the man shouted. "By God, you're going to open that mouth of yours and tell me!"

The moment froze and then faded away into darkness. Beth had felt every moment of suffering and every moment of pain. She felt wretched, the despair and terror filling her soul. But whatever power that had controlled her was now gone. The gentle wash of sleep took over and carried Beth away.
Chapter 17

James opened his eyes and saw the glimmer of the dawn coming through the curtains of the bedroom window. He yawned, stretched, and ambled off to the bathroom. When he returned, he saw that Beth was awake. She did not, however, seem to notice that he was in the room. Instead she was busy staring off in space, her eyes wide as if staring at a terrible vision. She was pale, the skin taut with tension.

"What is it?" he asked.

It took her a moment to respond. She spoke as if in shock. "I had a dream. A terrible dream. I saw what happened to Abigail through her eyes."

James began to pace the floor. "Go on," he said. "I want to hear this."

Beth recalled what she could – the cruelty of Louisa, the death of Samuel, and the second man who had dragged Abigail away to be questioned. She finished by saying, "She came to me, James. She let me see what happened through her eyes. Why?"

He gave a little shrug. "The night before I think Abigail was trying to show me something too. But the sound of the intruder stopped her. This time she went to you."

"The music box. I just realized that music box she received from her father is the same one as in the basement."

James nodded excitedly. "That makes sense. That's why she tried to bring me down there! She wanted to show me the music box, the one that you heard when you went down to change the fuse. There has to be something special about it." He was gesticulating in a wild manner, throwing his arms out as he spoke. Near the window, James suddenly stopped. From this vantage point he could see the little family graveyard, the stones looking like teeth lost in the wild grass. He recognized the site of Samuel Warren's burial spot. There was a pile of dirt next to it and a hole in front of the gravestone. Last night someone had been busy digging.

"Come here," he said to his wife, excitedly waving her over.

"What's wrong?"

"Look for yourself."

Beth slipped out of the covers and ran over to the window to look. She said angrily, "Let's go."

All thoughts of the music box were gone as they quickly threw on some clothes, found their shoes, clambered down the stairs, and then ran out to the back of the house. Running, they stumbled over the rough ground and only stopped short when they reached the open grave. James got there first. He took a step back when he saw what inside. There was a headless man in a dark suit. He was lying on flat on his stomach with his arms and legs sprawled out. The smell of putrid decay was in the air.

"My God," he heard Beth finally breathe out.

James felt a rush of confusion. Who was this man and why had he been decapitated? "I'll go call the sheriff," he finally said when he could finally speak.

"Stay here," Beth said. "I'll make the call."

"Okay," he heard himself saying as she ran back to the house to get her cellphone. His eyes were locked on where the head should have been. It was a few moments later when James could see other details that had initially escaped his attention. Below the man was the closed casket that was mostly covered with dirt. The top wasn't made of wood, but appeared to be metal. A square hole covered a dirty glass inset where the face normally would be. Though he had never seen such a strange design before. There was nothing to see inside. He returned his attention to the body. The lack of gore was surprising. Part of the vertebrae could be seen sticking out from the neck where fragments of the brain rested, but there was very little blood. He saw the material of the clothing was dirty as if they had been dragged through the dirt. On the man's feet was a pair of black boots with leather soles.

Beth returned. She stayed a few feet away from the open grave. She said, "I called the police. The sheriff is coming as fast as he can. They told us not to touch anything."

"Why in the hell would I want to touch anything?" James asked sarcastically.

Beth was shaking her head. "This really is too much. I mean at first we had a ghost on our hands and now a corpse. It just doesn't make any sense."

"I know, honey," he said. "Do you recognize who it is?"

"Of course not," she said in reply. "I mean there isn't a face."

"I guess I was talking about the clothing."

"I'm not going to take another look. Let's just wait until the sheriff comes."

Their wait wasn't too long. In a few minutes the big Crown Victoria came roaring up the driveway with the lights and siren going. Behind the car was an older Chevy Suburban with the county logo painted on the door. The little caravan slid to a stop, sending pebbles skittering along the rough dusty road.

*

Marvin Perch, the county coroner, came ambling over to the grave. He was wearing the same threadbare blue suit that he always wore, but the shirt and garish tie looked new. He had gray hair, a paunch, and a worn face that made him look older than his years. Perhaps being close to death on a daily basis had aged him prematurely. But still, he was considered one of the best in the business of the dead. He began to look over the scene with a professional eye.

Sheriff Hanson caught his attention and said, "Good morning."

"If you say so." Perch wasn't exactly known for his manners either.

"Any first impressions?"

The old man let out a yawn. "I can tell you more when I have this body on the slab. But without a head, fingerprinting will have to be used for identification. If there's nothing on record, we'll have to go with DNA sampling, provided there is a missing case filed for this individual."

Hanson pointed toward the tombstone. "No chance of this body coming from the grave here? I mean I don't see anything inside that strange coffin."

Perch snorted. "This is a fresh one. Based on the color of the skin, I would estimate that the corpse in question is four to six weeks old. It hasn't been in the ground long at all."

"How can you tell?"

"Simple enough, Sheriff. Due to the age, any of the deceased buried here in the graveyard will be just bones at best and only grave wax at worst."

"Grave wax?" Hanson asked, wishing he didn't have to ask the macabre question.

"Fat deposits," the coroner answered as if explaining something to a simpleton. "The technical term is called adipocere. It is more likely to happen in a closed and wet environment like this. As you know, the soil here is particularly moist, which easily leads to the formation of grave wax. I've never found a body lying out in the open that creates it."

"You said four to six weeks but the skin is still pink in places."

"Presumably the body was stored somewhere where the flies couldn't get to it – a basement or refrigerator is a possibility."

The sheriff felt sick to his stomach. Dealing with the dead was part of the job he hated the most. "Okay, Marvin, go ahead and get him out of there."

With the help of his assistant, Perch pulled on the legs of headless body and soon had it lying on the grass, chest up. In this position, Hanson could see the fine cut of the clothes, which looked out of place in this wild area. It looked as if this man was going to some sort of fancy get-together. The sheriff wracked his brains, thinking of any recent social event that would have such a dress code. Short of a wedding, nothing came to mind. And the more important conundrum, how could someone from the area disappear but no missing persons report was filed with the police? That pointed to the victim here being someone who wasn't local.

"Any ideas, Sheriff?" Perch asked.

Hanson shook his head. "Not a one. You can take the body away now."

A black body bag was produced and the corpse soon zipped safely inside. The coroner and his assistant carried the man off to the waiting doors of the Suburban.

The sheriff watched all of this, thinking how nice it was to have the corpse far enough away that he no longer had the smell of decay filling his nostrils. Girding himself for the next part of the investigation, he then turned and studied gravesite. This wasn't going to be pleasant but he had to check. Lowering himself down into the hole, he stood over the casket and peered inside the dirty window. There was nothing to be seen. Using his hands, he wiped the glass clean. With the use of a flashlight taken from his belt, he shone the beam inside. There was nothing there but a black mass of some unrecognizable matter.

"Anything in there?" Perch asked from above.

Hanson gave a start. He had been so intent on the search that he hadn't noticed the coroner's approach. "Nothings in there," he replied once he had control of his mouth again.

Perch looked down at him, squinting. "Hardly surprising, Sheriff. Any person who's been buried that long will be long gone. I told you that."

"I just needed to check."

"Well you're done checking. Let me give you a hand."

With the help of the coroner, Hanson was soon on level ground. He said, "Give me a call at the office when you know a little more about our dead friend here."

"It'll be easy enough to lift some prints. I'll get a DNA sample too, just in case."

"Thanks, Marvin,"

The coroner gave a self-depreciating wave of the hand. "It's no problem, Sheriff. Anyway, it's been a long time since I've gotten out to do some field work." He then pottered off to the Suburban.

Thinking of what a character he had on his hands, Hanson shook his head, and headed toward the back of the house. There he found John Warren waiting with the door already open.

"Why don't you come in, Sheriff? If you want some, we have some coffee."

"That would be much appreciated," Hanson said, appreciating the hospitality. Except for a doughnut he had scarfed down back at the station, he hadn't had any breakfast yet.

Once inside the kitchen, Hanson saw Mrs. Warren sitting at the kitchen table. She was absentmindedly playing with a spoon, rotating it slowly inside of an empty cup. She was staring off into space, apparently so deep in though that she didn't notice his entrance. He wondered what was on her mind.

"Good morning, ma'am," he said.

She snapped out of her reverie and looked at him coolly.

James came over with a poured out a cup of coffee and handed it to the sheriff. He then went to stand behind his wife. His hands reached up and fell lightly on her shoulders.

Hanson looked at the couple for a few seconds, trying to read their expressions. Not finding anything there, he took a tentative sip of the coffee. It was too hot, so he blew on the surface and felt the steam against his lips. He then took a step forward and put the cup on the table. He said, "Okay, let's start at the beginning. When did you first notice that a grave had been dug up?"

"We were upstairs in the bedroom," James explained. "I happened to look out the window when I noticed the pile of dirt in the graveyard. My first thought was that the grave had been robbed."

"Why would you think that?" the sheriff asked.

The man looked flabbergasted by the question. But Beth quickly took up her husband's train of thought. "Why would we think otherwise? We ran out to investigate. A dead body is found at an open grave. Who else could it be but the late Samuel Warren?"

"Now, ma'am, you know as well as I do that a body that has been buried well over a hundred years ago isn't going to be around today. The lowcountry is especially damp and the conditions of the soil will only speed the rate of decomposition. At least that's what the coroner says."

"Oh," was all that she could say.

James found his voice again. "Then who is it?"

"That is the question, isn't it? And here I was hoping that one of you would have an answer. It is, after all, your property. You have no idea who would drag a body out here and try to hide it inside of a grave?"

"Of course not," the husband replied, trying to hide his anger rather unsuccessfully.

The sheriff went on, "I have to admit it is quite clever. I mean who would suspect a body to be disposed of in such a manner? Who would go looking for a fresh corpse inside of an old grave?"

"It doesn't seem very clever to let us find the body lying out in the open," Beth said.

"I could only surmise that the murderer was scared off before he could complete the job. We won't know until we identify the victim. Of course the lack of a head will make it that much harder, but I have faith in the coroner."

Beth asked, "Is the coffin intact?"

"It looks to be."

"Someone has been digging on our property," James admitted. "Out by the barn. We think they're looking for something. When I first saw the pile of dirt in the graveyard that was my first thought; they had moved on to a new place to search."

"Now what in the world could they be looking for?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," he answered.

Hanson reached for the coffee and took a sip. This time it was too cool. But he drank it down nonetheless, all while studying these two out-of-towners very carefully. Like last time, he felt as if they were hiding something. It was their uneasy glances and their stilted language that made him suspicious. His long years of law enforcement had taught him when suspects were being evasive. He didn't, however, think they were covering up about the body in their backyard. Instead, there seemed to be something that the Warrens knew that was possibly related, but weren't telling. But it was his experience that an investigation had a way of getting to the truth, whether those involved wanted it to or not.

He asked, "Is there anything else you want to tell me before I leave? Anything that will help with the investigation?"

Beth quickly shook her head.

James just said, "No." And left it at that.

"Okay then, I'll be on my way."

"Just one more thing, Sheriff," Beth said. "We're supposed to be out of here by the end of the week. James's vacation ends then and I have to prepare for the bar exam. Is that going to be a problem?"

"I don't think so," Hanson replied. "If we need your testimony for any sort of trial, I'm sure the county can pay for the airfare."

"So we are not considered suspects?"

"I can see that you are going to be a good lawyer, Mrs. Warren. No, at this point you and your husbands are not suspects. No one is. But I hope to have one soon."

"Thank you, Sheriff," she said, graciously.

"Well if that's it, I'll be on my way."

*

Tyler was sitting on the sofa, using the remote to try and find something to watch on television. He was about to give up when there was a knock at the door. He got up, bumped his knee on the littered coffee table and limped off to answer it. He opened it to find the man he was expecting.

Brown asked, "So there was nothing there?"

"No, sir," Tyler answered. "I went to the right spot though."

"No troubles?"

"No, why do you ask?"

Brown frowned. "A few minutes ago I saw the sheriff driving away with Perch, the county coroner, following close behind. It was all flashing lights and sirens like they were headed somewhere right quick."

Tyler swallowed something hard at the back of his throat. He knew he had messed things up, but it wasn't his fault that he had run out of daylight. It had been hard work. Anyway, he wasn't used to handling dead bodies. He had been lucky to get out of there without being seen. And now he had to hear a lecture by someone who hadn't even been there to help.

"I made a little mistake. Look, there's nothing that can tie us to it," he finally said.

"You had better be right."
Chapter 18

Beth listened as the police car went down the driveway. It was a few moments until the engine completely died away. Now the two of them were completely alone in this house. Even though the sun was shining and the sounds of nature were only slightly muted by the panes of glass, she felt afraid for her life. Before the discovery of the corpse at the grave, the mystery of Abigail, though frightening, had never seemed life-threatening. Her legally trained mind went through all the possibilities, but she could not see even a glimmer of a solution. Who would bury a stranger's body, minus the head, in their graveyard? And why had the head been removed? Trying to shake off the cobwebs of confusion, Beth shifted her attention to her husband.

He was also lost in a trance, his eyes staring off into the corner of the kitchen.

"How are you holding out?" she asked.

It took a moment for James to break out of his self-induced spell. "A little shook up, I guess." He gave her a lopsided grin. "It seems that we picked one hell of a time to go on vacation - we have both seen a ghost, got a valuable diary stolen, and now a headless man, who has been killed by some unknown assailant, is found in the backyard. I'm afraid I can't tie any of it together."

"I think I can."

"Really?" he asked in surprise.

"Now just listen to me for a moment. It's obvious that someone is looking for something valuable that's on the land. What it is, I don't know. But the last diary entries of Samuel Warren mentioned never having to worry about money again. Perhaps there is a treasure, or something valuable that he got in the last days of the war. He brought it home, but never had a chance to spend his newly found wealth. That means it has been hidden."

"And the diary was stolen because it has a clue to the location of this treasure?"

"It was Abigail who let us find the diary."

James shook his head. "No that was an accident. I slipped on that doll and..." His jaw went slack. "You're right, that doll was placed on the stairs to make me slip and lose my hold on the desk. She meant for us to find the diary. But it's one hell of a nasty trick to play. I could have been killed!"

"She's just a little girl," Beth responded. "Or perhaps I should say that she was a little girl. And now she's a spirit who is trying to tell us something in her own way. We just need to figure out what it is."

"Before I saw the body in the graveyard, you were going on about the music box. We still have to find that."

"I almost forgot about that."

"That means a trip down to the basement. Are you ready for that?" James nervously eyed the closed door that lead to the stairs.

Beth rose from the table. "I'm not frightened of her anymore. I don't think she means us any harm."

"I hope you're right, because I'm scared as hell."

James took the flashlight from the countertop and then opened the door, letting his wife take the lead. He flicked on the beam and let it play along the steps. When they reached the bottom, it was obvious that Tyler had done a thorough job cleaning out the basement. All the junk had been cleared out, leaving only the dusty floor, the tangle of electric wiring and maze of plumbing. The hot water heater cycled on with a whoosh that made him jump. Except for that, it was quiet. Of course the house creaked and squeaked, making the ever present sounds of ancient wood expanding and contracting.

"Abigail?" Beth said with a stage whisper.

After a few uncertain steps, her hand reached for the doorknob of the fruit cellar. Once she touched the cold metal, it felt as if a minute electric shock began to course through her body. Summoning the last vestige of courage that remained, she twisted the doorknob and pulled the door open. The blackness of the room beyond oozed through the doorway, engulfing the room until the beam of the flashlight was swallowed until only a faint glow remained. It was cold. Even the natural sounds of the house ceased to exist. It felt like the world above had collapsed, leaving them alone in this nightmare of darkness.

Above the hard beating of her heart, Beth could hear her husband take a step back as if preparing to run for it. Her own fear gripped her like a vice; relentlessly pressing against her chest until she thought that the last molecule of oxygen would disappear from her lungs. And then from the infinite darkness of the fruit cellar came the faintest glimmer of naked white light. Like a sliver, it pierced the blackness. The light grew and grew, almost imperceptible at first, and then it radiated out with a blinding intensity.

"Abigail?" Beth said, her tongue thick and dry. Her own voice sounded faraway.

The light flashed even brighter and then began to retract into a single form. And then there was a young girl standing there. Except for the coal black empty eyes, she was a translucent white as if made from shimmering strands of spider webs. She was wearing an old-fashioned style of dress. Her hair was white and dense with curls. A hand rose jerkily and pointed straight at Beth.

With a voice that was ragged with hate, Abigail said, "I want my music box."

*

Tyler was at the back lot of the repair shop, looking over the crumpled remains of his pick up truck.

Merle Thurston, who owned the establishment, was standing nearby, occasionally letting out a stream of spit. He was wearing a coverall that was stained with grime and oil.

"Are you sure it can't be fixed?" Tyler asked, almost pleading for some impossible miracle.

The mechanic shook his head. "It would cost more than the old girl is worth. I mean every body panel would have to be replaced, the frame would have to be straightened, and the door posts are bent to hell. I couldn't rob a friend like you. Anyway, even if I did the work, the truck will never be the same again. No, you would be better off buying something else."

"But Merle, I don't have that kind of money. You know that. And I can't go fixing people's houses without a truck. What am I going to do?"

"Well the engine and transmission in your truck are still good. I've got an old truck out in the back of the lot. It has a blown motor and the interior smells like a diaper, but I could make it run with parts from your truck here."

"What will it cost me?"

John put a grimy finger on his chin and furrowed his eyebrows together in thought. "Let me see, an even thousand for my truck and then another thousand for the engine swap. After that, another few hundred to get everything working together. Let's call it an even twenty-five hundred."

"In all my life I've never had that much money at once. Can we work out some kind of payment plan?" Tyler gave his friend an easy grin.

"I suppose so," Thurston replied uneasily, "but I'll need a thousand bucks just to get started. After that, maybe a hundred a month. And I don't want any backsliding. I know you're a friend and all, but I won't have anyone rip me off, okay?"

"I'll see what I can do."

"By the way, there was bunch of stuff inside the cab of your truck. I put it in a paper bag on desk back in the office. I never thought of you as collector of silly little trifles." The mechanic let out a suspicious laugh.

"What are you talking about?"

"Under the dash, I found a music box wedged inside. It must have got stuck up there when your truck flipped over."

"The music box! Show it to me."

Thurston lead the way back to the office inside the garage. It was a dirty little place that had a metal desk with piles of yellowed paper, a paper sack, and a filled ashtray. Beyond the rows of dusty window were two bays, one with a car on a hoist, the other empty. In the corner of the room was an old easy chair that had several cigarette burns. The stale smell of tobacco was thick in the air.

"Ah, here it is," the mechanic said. He took the bag off the desk and handed it to the young man.

Tyler could barely contain his excitement as he plunged his hands inside. There it was, the music box. He pulled it out an examined the outside for damage. It still looked good. Opening the lid, the key on the side began to turn, causing the unfamiliar but haunting melody to play."

"Going to give that to a sweetheart?" Thurston guessed.

"No, but maybe it will get me a down payment for that truck of yours. I'll be right back."

Holding the music box gingerly in his hands, Tyler left the auto repair shop and headed on foot toward Main Street. After giving a friendly wave to the familiar patrons standing outside the saloon, he headed straight the antique store. He pushed the door open and found himself standing in a pile of old clutter. His eyes momentarily roamed the collection when his eyes rested on Bill Stephens, who was standing behind the counter. The man was pecking at a bag of chips.

"Sir?" Tyler started.

"May I help you?" the antique dealer replied. And then a flash of recognition passed over the old man's face. "You're Mr. West, aren't you? I don't think there is anything here that would interest a man of your limited tastes."

"I'll be selling, not buying."

"I see the wooden box in your hand. Come here and let me see it."

Tyler carefully stepped past a frail looking sofa and wound his way toward the back. He saw that the antique dealer was studying him carefully, the eyes revealing nothing. Once he got to the counter, Tyler placed the music box down.

Brushing his hand free of crumbs, Stephens carefully picked up the box and turned it gently around until he had seen all the sides. And then with a hesitant hand, he opened the lid. The key turned and the music played. He said, "Oh, that's the song Rose of Alabamy. It was quite the popular tune back during the Civil War." He then looked inside and saw it was empty except for an ivory separator and the lining, which was faded with age.

"How much would you give me for it?" Tyler asked hopefully.

"The question is," Stephens asked coldly, "is it yours to give?"

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" he angrily spat back. He felt an instant distaste for this man with his haughty airs.

"It means, my good friend, that you did not come by this antique legally. You took it from the Warren house, didn't you? It means that you are a thief."

"I am not," Tyler spat back.

"Easy enough to say and equally enough for me to prove. I just have to call the Warrens and ask them if they know that this music box is missing. Should I pick up the phone?"

The young man shook his head. "No, don't do that." He turned to leave but was stopped by the voice of Stephens.

The antique dealer said, "Music boxes like this only have a little demand. Would you take, say, one hundred dollars?"

"I was hoping for more than that. I need a new truck."

"As I said, it's stolen. Without documentation, proving any authenticity to the Civil War era will be more difficult. But I understand your predicament. After all, the world is such an expensive place. I can give you two hundred dollars, provided you let me know if you come across any more items of this nature."

Tyler felt as if he was being blackmailed, but still, two hundred dollars now was still better than taking the time and trying somewhere else. "I guess it will have to do."

"Okay then, let me get the cash for you."

*

James watched, his urge to run barely kept in check, as the ghostly form of Abigail stepped out of the fruit cellar. The outstretched arms reached out for his wife, who didn't seem to be frightened at all. But instead of stopping, the spiritual remains of the little girl continued on, passing right through Beth, and heading straight toward him. Her face was twisted in a silent scream. This was too much for his nerves which were already on the edge of breaking apart. With a word, the poor man dropped the flashlight, turned, and fled up the stairs. Behind him came the sound of childish laughter.

Pushing the back door violently aside, James ran outside and only stopped when he realized that he was near the open grave. There he fell to his knees. Tears of relief welled up in his eyes. He was glad to be out of that house and away from that spirit. And then he felt a sense of shame; cowardice for running away and leaving his wife behind. He would have to return.

A touch on his shoulder made him jump. It was Beth.

She said, "Abigail is gone now."

"Good," he replied, trying to sound strong.

Her hand ran through his hair. "It will be over soon enough," she said.

"You don't know that. This nightmare could go on and on. I don't know how much more I can handle." He could hear his voice began to crack with emotion. To cover it up, he gave a little cough and pretended to clear his throat.

"She needs to be in her proper grave," Beth said. "She needs to be here next to her father. Once that happens, we'll get some peace. We have to find that music box."

"Why? What could it possibly mean?"

"I don't know. All I do know is that Abigail wants it back. There has to be a reason why."

A plan began to form in James's mind. "It has to be Tyler. He was the only one other than Jacobi, the real estate agent, who was down there. He was busy throwing away garbage. It would have been easy enough for him to take it."

"What should we do?"

"Find Tyler and demand that he gives the music box back. If he doesn't, then we'll go to the police. That ought to scare him enough so that he coughs it up."

"I don't know," Beth said hesitantly, obviously considering the legal ramifications. "Perhaps we should go straight to the sheriff and tell him that we suspect Tyler of stealing from us."

"We'll have to fill out reports and wait around. Meanwhile the sheriff is busy with that dead body he found in our backyard. It will be days before he gets to the missing music box and we have a plane to catch at the end of this week. There just isn't enough time for that."

Beth hesitated before finally giving in. "I'll go in the house, get my purse, and look up the address in the phone book."

James felt relieved. He couldn't face going back inside quite yet. "I'll meet you at the car."

His wife nodded and then left him alone to contemplate the grave. He looked down at the coffin inside and thought of the futility of life. This poor ancestor of his had been cut down early in life and then, only days later, the man's daughter had gone missing. And after that tragedy, the wife had left the farm to be with another man. It was the end of the line for that branch of the family. After returning from town, James decided, it would be time to rebury the coffin of Colonel Warren.

Pulling himself off the ground, James pulled his keys out of the hip pocket and headed toward the little Toyota. He got inside, started the engine, and waited the few minutes listening to the radio until Beth came out. She hurriedly entered and the car took off, heading toward town.

After they reached the main street, Beth began to give out directions that she received via her cellphone. The older homes, with their brick or wooden construction, soon gave away to new buildings. And then a few short turns later, they entered a mobile home park. The sign at the entrance read _Long Tree Farm_ , a name that did not fit the dilapidated trailers, the trucks being slowly consumed by the weed choked earth, and the worn-looking playground equipment in the center of this community. The residents here, the few that weren't inside busy watching television, carefully eyed the new car passing through as if it had descended from another planet.

After carefully scanning the address numbers displayed on the mailboxes, Beth pointed her husband to a dirty trailer with an unkempt lawn. James pulled over and parked. He noticed that Tyler's truck wasn't anywhere to be seen. Perhaps the man in question wasn't home.

"Stay here," he grunted to his wife as he got out of the car.

"James, don't do anything rash," she warned him.

"Don't worry," he lied.

Throwing his shoulders back, James marched to the front door and knocked on it, using more force than he expected. He could feel his breathing quicken. After a moment, he heard a familiar voice from within.

"Come in!"

James jerked the door open and entered. Inside he was met with the smell of stale cigarette smoke and sour beer. The rooms were small and the litter of beer cans did nothing to help relieve the feeling of constriction. Tyler was sitting on a sofa in the living room, his face lit up by the television resting on a rickety entertainment system made out of particleboard. The volume of the wrestling match was at a blaring level. Next to him was a chubby girl who was busy smoking a cigarette. Her gaze lingered momentarily on the unexpected guest before her attention returned to the screen.

"Oh, it's you," Tyler said as he rose. "What do you want?"

James angrily replied, "I'm looking for something that you stole from us. A music box. You had better give it back before I go to the police."

The young man blinked a few times, obviously nonplussed by the emotional words. He said calmly, "I didn't steal nothing. You can even search my place if you want. But I admit that did take that music box out of your house. It got thrown away with the rest of the garbage I took."

James was so taken aback by this information that it took him a moment to reply. He finally said, "You threw it away? Why would you do that?"

"That wife of yours was frightened by the damn thing. She was talking about ghosts and some other bullshit. I thought I was helping by getting rid of the music box."

"So it's gone?"

"Yes. I had a little accident with my truck when I was driving back from your place. But my friend John over at the garage took all that stuff to the dump. If you don't believe me, you can go ask him."

Feeling deflated, James said, "That won't be necessary. Sorry to come barging in."

"No problem. You can stop by anytime you want."
Chapter 19

Bill Stephens was sleeping. His dreams started off pleasant enough with aimless driving down sunny country roads in an old MGB roadster, a car he had once owned for a short time in his youth. The top was open and the wind was blowing through his hair. But each mile brought more and more clouds until the sky above was a dark bowl of gray. It started to lightly rain. He pulled over to put the top up. There was a gravel road here leading into the woods. Something was familiar about this area. Curious, he found himself walking through the forest, passing by a stone wall.

Here it opened up into a field with an apple orchard to the side and an imposing house in front. Even though the landscape was different, Stephens immediately recognized the Warren home. Perhaps this was how it used to look back in the day when the family name meant something. Spurred on by an unexplained urgency, he found himself continuing onward. There was someone at the back of the house – too far to make out any detail. It was a figure in black who was dragging a little girl in a white dress. She was on the ground, kicking and screaming. They disappeared behind the home. There was a feeling dread that permeated the very air.

Stephens hurried, turning around the corner of the house. There was no one there. The clatter of a shutting door gave him a start. He headed inside. It was a primitive kitchen with a wood stove and a hand pump. The door leading to the basement creaked to a close. Grabbing the knob, he found himself clattering down the stairs into the gloom below. He had to hurry. He knew he had to save the girl before it was too late.

There was already an oil lamp burning. It was sitting on the dirt floor, lighting the scene of violence. There was the man in black, his hand held high as if he was about to strike the little girl at his feet. They were frozen like statues, even the shadows were locked in position as was the flame of the lamp.

"Stop!" Stephen shouted. The word started loud but then dwindled away into a bottomless pit of silence.

When he tried to speak again, he found that he couldn't. His mouth was closed shut. The images in front of him faded away into darkness. He was lost. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. Instead he could only wander in the pitch blackness like a lost child. And then, right in front of him, there was a distant white light. It grew into a blinding flash that was blinding. It faded away only to be replaced by the little girl. She was close. She was no longer crying or disheveled. Instead her features were cold and lifeless. The eyelids opened, revealing dead, soulless eyes. The white lips parted.

"My music box," she said, her voice just a whisper, revealing a tortured pain.

Stephens woke up screaming.

*

Sheriff Hanson was picking at his sack lunch of a turkey and rye sandwich, a small bag of pretzels, and a cup of coffee that he had bought from the vending machine. Every lunch was the same, day in and day out, and packed by his wife, a once beautiful woman named Evelyn. The years had coarsened her features and the raising of two sons had left her insensitive to his needs. But he did not begrudge her any of this. It was tough being a cop's wife, and being married to a sheriff was even worse. Even in a small town, it meant long nights and days without having a husband around. The fact that Evelyn had stayed with him was a miracle in itself.

The phone on his desk rang. After wiping away an errant crumb from his mouth, the sheriff picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Sheriff? This is Marvin Perch, the coroner."

"Look, Marv, I remember who you are. We work in the same building, remember?"

"Of course." There was an uncertain pause on the other side of the line. "Sheriff, I made a big mistake out at the Warren home."

Hanson laughed. "You made a mistake? I didn't think it was possible."

The coroner hemmed and hawed. "It's been known to happen. You see the dead I deal with haven't been embalmed. This one had, slowing the decomposition. A blood draw gave me formaldehyde and methanol."

"What exactly are you saying?"

"We'll have to go back to that graveyard behind the Warren house and look inside the coffin. I fear the body we found was pulled out from there."

"You told me yourself that the only thing we would find would be that so-called grave wax or a few bone fragments. Now you're telling me that this could be the very corpse of Colonel Samuel Warren? I don't believe it. We're talking about a body that's over a hundred and forty years old?"

"Believe it or not, it is completely possible that the body is that of the esteemed Colonel Warren. Embalming in the nineteenth century was comparatively rare, a process only done to the rich or well-connected. It makes sense that a Colonel would be embalmed, considering his war record and the number of visitors that would want to view the body. I also examined the clothing. There were no tags or signs of machinery being used in construction. There were also no zippers, just buttons. This fits with my suspicion that this body is older than I initially expected."

"If you're right, then old Colonel Warren will need to be properly reburied. That will mean the Sons of the South will want to be involved." This was a local group, the descendents of Confederate soldiers, who made sure the graves of the veterans of the Civil War were kept up.

"That's your call, Sheriff. I just deal with the dead, not what happens with them afterward."

"I'll stop by the Warren house and investigate the casket. What should I be looking for inside? The head?"

"Exactly. If I remember my local history correctly, the colonel was killed by a gunshot wound to the head. The bullets of the time were of a rather large caliber. The chance for a massive skull fracture would be immense. Presumably the undertaker had to do a lot of work to repair the damage enough to make the corpse presentable."

"Okay, Marv. Thanks for your help."

"Next time bring me a fresh dead body, okay?"

*

The workman who had repaired the library window had come and gone. Beth was busy sweeping the front room. The sunlight beamed through the front windows making it comfortably warm and drowsy inside the house. The bristles of the broom lightly scraped the wooden floor, sending dust high into the air. Overcome by the particles, she went to the nearest window and pulled it open. It smelled nice outside. Last night had been a relief for the both of them. Their sleep hadn't been interrupted by any ghostly visitations.

It was then that Beth saw a Suburban coming up the driveway. She immediately recognized it as belonging to the antique dealer, Bill Stephens. This time he wasn't hauling the trailer. The truck swung past, heading toward the back of the house. She could see Stephens hunched over the wheel. In that brief glimpse she could see him his face. It looked dark and ominous. Dropping the broom, she went to the kitchen and out the back door.

There she could see her husband look up from his work. He was busy filling in the grave. The pile of dirt was almost gone now. Upon seeing Stephens park, James slammed the shovel into the dirt and strode out of the weeds.

"What's going on?" he asked his wife as he came up.

"I don't know. He just tore down the driveway. What is he doing inside the car? I mean why won't he come out? Wait, here he comes."

The door of the vehicle opened and the antique dealer stepped out. He looked shaken. A small package wrapped in brown paper was clutched in his hand.

"I had a hard time coming here," Stephens he started out mumbling. "I mean I'm not the sort to believe in the supernatural, but I can't hold on to this any longer." And then he shoved the package into James's hands.

"What is this?"

"Open it," the antique dealer grunted.

James tore at the paper. It was the music box.

"Where did you get this?" Beth angrily demanded.

"It must have been accidentally included with all the other items I bought from you," he said, his eyes not meeting theirs.

"That ridiculous," Beth said.

"Now, honey," her husband said, "It doesn't matter. We've got the music box back now."

"Of course it matters. It was stolen from us."

The antique dealer merely shook his head. "Yes it was stolen and I bought it from a thief. But I'm returning it now. It doesn't belong anywhere else but here."

"We know it was Tyler," Beth said. But before she could question the man any further, the rumbling of an approaching car could be heard. They all turned and watched as the sheriff drove up and parked. He got out, giving the collected group a suspicious stare.

"I'm sorry I didn't call ahead to announce my visit," Hanson started, "but curiosity has got the better of me."

"I'm not sure if I understand," James said, stating what his wife and the antique dealer were revealing through their confused expressions.

"It's the dead man we discovered yesterday. Perch, the coroner, thinks the body belongs to the Colonel Samuel Warren, the man who lies underneath the gravestone that bears his name."

"That's impossible!" Beth stated.

"That's what I said, but the coroner did some testing. First of all the clothing was fashioned from an earlier time, back before zippers and factory sewing. And there was no blood in the veins, just embalming fluid. He says embalming during that era was very rare, so the coffin itself must have been constructed to keep out air and moisture. I would like to have another look inside and see if we can find the remains of a skull to match up with the body."

Stephens looked pale as he spoke. "What is all this talk about a dead body? How did Colonel Warren get unburied?"

The sheriff managed to crack a smile. "I'm glad to see that my deputies and the coroner have managed to keep their mouths shut. I'm sure the Warrens wouldn't want a circus here at there house, especially when they are trying to sell it. But yes, we have a little mystery on our hands. It seems that someone dug up Colonel Warren's body. I can only assume that they were grave robbers who thought the new tenants wouldn't notice."

James added, "There is just one problem, Sheriff, I just covered the casket with dirt."

"Well then, we'll just have to dig it back up again. I hope you won't mind."

"Not at all," he replied sourly, wishing he had postponed this task. It would have saved his callused hands.

"If you don't mind, I would like to watch," the antique dealer said. "I mean just for historical reasons. I would like to see a casket from the nineteenth century."

"Sure, come on," James said. He then handed the music box to Beth who covered it protectively with her hands.

The men gathered around the grave. After the sheriff had stripped off his jacket, he pulled the shovel out of the earth and began to dig. After a few minutes, he was sweating profusely.

"I guess I'm out of shape," he grunted.

"I can take over," James suggested.

"In a second. It's a point of pride."

Hanson pulled up a few more scoops of dirt and then gratefully handled the shovel over to James, who started in. It took longer than expected, but the lid of the casket was soon revealed. When the tip of the shovel blade struck the coffin, it made a metal grating noise.

"Very interesting," Stephens commented. "That must have cost a small fortune."

"Would you care to explain?" the sheriff asked.

James, now standing in the hole he had made, paused to listen to the answer.

"If you've ever seen the old photos when outlaws were shot and readied for burial, the coffins were always made out of pine, the cheapest wood around. There was good reason for that, considering the cost of the funeral would eat into a normal family's yearly budget. A casket made of iron and a little window to view the deceased would cost quite a bit of money back then. That's all."

"I thought the family was poor at the time," James said. "I mean the diary entry made it seem like they were living in poverty after the war. Why the expense for an iron coffin?"

Stephens answered, "You have to understand that back then, and I mean everyone, had a different view of death than you and me. There were no miracle drugs, prenatal care, and surgery was a dicey affair, to say the least. Death wasn't feared in the same way it was today; instead it was associated very closely as a natural part of life. It was expected that the Grim Reaper could come at any moment. Over the years I've seen many creepy keepsakes from this era, including portraits of the deceased and mourning jewelry that actually used human hair. It would not surprise me if this coffin was bought years ahead, even before the war. The same with the graves here, the location and the future resident was selected before the person even died."

Beth asked, "So Abigail would know that she would be buried here next to her father?"

The antique dealer nodded. "Undoubtedly. This unused space here is obviously for her mother, who, because she married someone else, never used it."

"That's enough jawing," Hanson said impatiently. "Mr. Warren, if you would help me open the lid of this coffin, then we could put an end to this little mystery."

"If only," James breathed through his teeth.

After the sheriff lowered himself down into the grave, the both of them scrambled to find the space to place their feet. When that was done, they both pulled and pried the heavy lid. It slid away, revealing an almost empty interior. Except for the once white silk lining, there was a clump of black hair located at the foot of the coffin. Hanson plucked at this and recoiled when he saw the shriveled skin, the empty eye sockets, and shards of bone. It was the destroyed skull of Colonel Warren.

*

With surprise, Tyler stared at Brown, who was busy whittling a rather pointed stick. They were sitting together on the front porch of the latter's dilapidated home. The sagging roof above them looked as if it was about to collapse if jostled by a sudden movement.

"Why tonight?" the young man asked.

"Why not?" Brown replied as he removed the last bit of bark with his knife. The blade cut easily through the wood.

"The sheriff is prowling around there. Ever since the break-in and the mishap with that body, the Warren house is on his radar. If we go there tonight, we might run into him."

"Don't worry about it," Brown growled back. "I've been waiting my entire life to get my hand on that treasure. I'm not about to let a policeman stop me. That Yankee and his bitch wife will tell me what I need to know."

Tyler hesitated before continuing. He felt scared. It was one thing to steal and another to break into someone's house, but what Brown had planned was beyond anything he had ever done before. This could mean serious prison time.

"I'm not sure if I can help you," he finally managed to say.

"Scared, eh? I would hate to do this by myself. You're coming with me, or I'll make sure that you pay." The knife stopped, glinting off of the sun.

Tyler really wasn't afraid of this old man. It was the idea of the payoff that finally made him give in. After all, he had to come up with the money so he could buy that pickup truck and have the engine installed. "Okay, I'll do it, but I want a bigger cut of the loot."

"My boy, there will be so much there that I think I can spare you another ten percent. How does that sound?"

With a nod, the young man agreed.
Chapter 20

James watched as his wife gently put the music box down on the kitchen countertop. The sheriff was gone now, carrying the remains of the head inside of a cardboard box. Stephens had also left with solemn promises not to tell anyone in town about the dug up body of Colonel Warren. No one believed him, but the news was bound to get out soon enough.

Beth said, "How about some lunch?"

"I'm hungry enough, but I'm also curious. Now that we have the music box, what do you plan to do with it?"

"Return it to the basement where it belongs," she replied.

"Only to have it removed by the next owner? Or taken again by someone like Tyler? No, that isn't the answer."

Beth furrowed her eyebrows together before replying. "Of course, Abigail wanted us to find this music box because it is a clue to her disappearance. This was the last thing she had received from her father. There must be something important about it, that is to say, something more important beyond the sentimental value."

Together, they began to examine the music box. James opened the lid. The music began to momentarily play and then stopped as the mechanical spring finished the end of its winding. They saw nothing but the aged lining, empty of jewelry or whatever token was once kept inside. Gently pulling, James tugged on the inner layer. It gave away easily, revealing the clockwork and small cylinder that made the music. There was nothing that looked out of the ordinary.

"So much for the easy solution," James said, disheartened.

"Don't you remember the desk? It had a hidden compartment. Maybe the music box does too. Look how thick the bottom is."

"I suppose it's worth a shot." He then began to clumsily fiddle with the base, trying to twist and turn the wood to reveal some secret opening. Nothing happened.

"Let me give it a try," his wife suggested. This time she closed the lid and began to feel along the edges with her fingernails. She felt a miniscule metal tab pressed tightly against the wood. It took plenty of pressure, but there was the tiniest of clicks and then the bottom popped free of the body, clattering on the countertop. There were two pieces of yellowed folded paper.

"My goodness," James said.

With shaking hands, Beth put down the music box and unfolded the paper. The handwriting was that of Samuel Warren. "These are the missing pages of the diary," she said solemnly. And then she began to read them out loud.

*

April 1, 1865:

The Great Cause is lost. The blood and the pain was all for naught. The men, women, and children are fleeing Atlanta, fearing what those blue-bellied Yankees will do. This Grant is no gentleman; a drunken lout, who, in tandem with that scoundrel Sherman, will be the death of us all. It is difficult to think of the days when victory was just on the cusp. General Lee could have lead us to Washington, if only we hadn't failed him. Such words would have been considered treasonous only a few weeks ago, but now the mutterings of the men, and daresay even the officers, only speak of the inevitable. My company is only at quarter strength, the result of disease, horrific wounds, and the soldiers under my command voting with their feet. With morale so low, I can hardly blame them. May God be merciful.

April 2, 1865:

I have received new orders. They came from the renowned master spy, Ethan Davis, who reports directly to Jefferson Davis. I am to transport a large amount of gold that will be given to various guerrilla leaders who will continue to fight even if Richmond is lost. If the plan is completed, then the Cause will never die. The South will still have a chance to win. Our mission is secret and only a few know of its intentions. I only can pray that I have the strength to carry it out.

I have been told to take ten men with me. I have decided that Sergeant Brown would be indispensable. I do not like the man, even though he is from my hometown, but I have grown up with him and understand that he is not completely trustworthy. The men, however, seem to like him and follow his orders implicitly. For a mission of this magnitude, I fear I cannot live without him. The rest of my men will be handpicked by myself, only using the ones who are unswerving loyal to the cause. I fear the temptation of gold will be too much for many, for there are many examples in the Bible that show this weakness. I can only pray that we can overcome the weakness of greed.

April 3, 1865:

After changing into civilian clothing, we took two wagons, each pulled by a pair of horses, to the supply depot. In the back we loaded up the gold, barrels of flour, grain, salt pork, gunpowder, shot, and caskets of water. The gold itself was hidden under the flour. The metal bars weighed some fifty pounds in total, hardly anything at all, but enough riches to keep a man happy for a lifetime. The only person in our retinue who knows of the treasure we carry, other than me, was Horace Brown. I trust he can keep his mouth closed, though I saw the look of unbridled greed pass over those dark eyes of his. He will need to be watched.

Our flight out of Richmond was chaos. We were in a throng of refugees; wagons stacked with furniture, food, carpets, and anything else that would fit. Slave and master sat together, finding whatever space they could find on the buckboard. I was glad for my armed men. Our numbers and guns were enough to keep away the lawless criminals that preyed on the weak. Soon we were considered protectors; followed by women without husbands and children without parents. It was a sad sight to see the cream of high society reduced to pitiful beggars.

The day passed quickly. But that night I sensed the first sign of trouble. We were settling down for the night, using a fallow field to build a campfire and pitch our tents. I was making my rounds, looking over my men and also conversing with some of the civilians who had decided to bed down near us. I saw Brown in deep conversation with two other soldiers. They were talking in a most animated fashion and casting half-hidden glances towards the stores in the wagon. As soon as they saw me coming, the little party broke apart, leaving only Sergeant Brown. When I asked him about the nature of his discussion, I only received the most evasive of answers. I knew I would have to keep my guard up.

Later that night, as we were gathered around the campfire, a cavalryman came tearing down the road. Once he saw our camp, he stopped to join us. He was a young lieutenant who was named Charles Cooke. He was in a most excited state. It took some time before we could figure out what he was saying. The news was not good – Richmond had been taken and General Lee was massing the last of his forces near Amelia Springs. It would only be a matter of time before the war would be over. After we gave him dinner, the young man continued his ride. I did not sleep well that night.

April 4, 1865:

The next day was much like the other, but as the time went on, the number our fellow travelers declined. It was some time after lunch when our wagons left the main road, taking a rutted path that headed deep into the forest. At my commands, I stopped our band of followers from taking the same route.

It was slow going in the forest. The trees seemed to press against us and the condition of the path left much to be desired. My mind was in such a state that I had forgotten about Brown and his confederates. I was riding in the second wagon when it happened. The man next to me was shot in the head. I was splattered with his blood. I turned to find the attacker and then felt my head explode with pain. The world went black.

When I woke, I felt as if I was in a dream. My head hurt something terrible. I was lying face up. Something was covering my eyes. I tried to lift my hand to pull the obstruction away but found that I was trapped. The stench of humanity was overpowering. Struggling, I managed to slowly tunnel my way through. I rolled clear and saw I had been covered by the bodies of my men. I touched the side of my head and felt blood. I had been shot in the head, the bullet grazing my skull. Through the pain, I could hear talking and laughing.

From my vantage point hidden behind the pile of corpses I could see that I was off to the side of the path. There was Brown, talking to his partners in crime. One of the men was Private Wilson, I man I had always trusted. His eyes were gleaming with excitement as Private Schiller was dumping out the flour barrel from the bed of the wagon. Even at the distance I was at, I could hear the clunk of metal sliding against the wood. The gold bars spilled on the ground.

As the two privates reached down to scoop up their ill-found gains, I saw Brown pull out his pistol. He kept on firing until the two men were dead. They slumped on the dirt, splashing blood onto the gold. After reloading, Brown gave a little laugh and began rummaging through the wagon. He found a common soldier's backpack, dumped out the contents, and began to fill it with the gold.

My own heart was beating hard. I admit I was scared. I reached down for my pistol but found that the holster was empty. My gun had been taken. Now Brown was busy unhitching a brown mare from the wagon. He was going to ride off. I had to stop him before it was too late. I was angry and hurting. He pulled a saddle from the back of the wagon and went to the horse. When his back was turned, I got up and charged.

It was a stupid thing to do. Brown heard me coming. Dropping the saddle, he spun around, trying to tug the Colt from his holster. The pistol swung free just as I reached him. Brown tried to shoot me, but I pushed his arm up. The gun fired into the air. He then used his free hand and struck a blow on the side of my head where I had been wounded. There was a blaze of hot pain that made the world spin crazily around. But I clung to him, knowing once that arm of his was freed, I would die.

But Brown wouldn't be stopped. I was weak. He pushed against me and took a step back, throwing me off balance. The pistol came up. I lunged forward and grabbed it. We fell together on the ground. The gun went off. Brown let out a horrible groan, coughed, and then closed his eyes. Reaching the end of my limits, I passed out.

When I awoke, I saw that Brown had disappeared. A trail of blood headed off into the bushes. I was too sick to pursue. Anyway, if he wasn't dead now, he would be dead soon enough. Feeling feverish, I grabbed my own personal items, the backpack filled with gold, and saddled the horse before clambering on. I rode down the trail, hoping to find some help before I passed out again.

April 10, 1865:

I awoke to find myself inside of a bedroom. The walls were rough wood and the bedstead was made of brass that was dull. I let out a groan. In came an old woman who warned me not to get up. When I asked where I was, she answered that I had been found by her husband. When I asked her for the latest news on the war, she began to cry. I was informed that General Lee had surrendered to Grant. The war was over. There was to be no continued rebellion. I had a choice to make: return the gold to a government that no longer existed, or to use it for myself. My God grant me his mercy for the decision I have made.

Once I was feeling better, I gave the old man and his wife a single bar of gold. I then mounted my horse and began my journey home. It is my hope that I shall take this treasure and help not only my family, but the community of Clairepoint. We shall use this money to rebuild what has been lost.

*

James let out a whistle. "Fifty pounds of gold! At over a thousands dollars an ounce and sixteen ounces per pound, that is one hell of a lot of money!"

"That explains everything," his wife commented. "The digging and the theft of the diary. They were looking for the gold which has never been found."

"The question is, where do we start looking?"

"The money would be nice," Beth said dryly. "But I'm more concerned for our safety. Remember in the diary, when Colonel Warren mentioned seeing someone in the orchard. It had to be Horace Brown, they very same man who turned up to marry the Colonel's widow. He would kill for that gold, even going so far as torturing Abigail for the location."

"It fits. But Brown is a common name. It could have been some relation."

"We'll have to go into town and ask Lucy Cole. She'll know."

Grabbing the papers, Beth followed James out to the car. With her husband driving, they went to town, parking in front of the museum. Inside they found Cole at her desk, handing a pamphlet to aged couple, the pale skin revealing their northern origins. The tourists toddled off to the main gallery, talking with hushed tones.

"Hello," Cole said, her voice guarded. "I've already talked to Sheriff Hanson. I told him that I did not steal the diary. I hope you believe that I had nothing to do with its theft."

"Of course we do," Beth said. "We've come by to ask for your help."

Cole's eyes fell on the yellowed papers in Beth hands. "What have you got there?"

"The diary - these are the missing pages." Beth put them down in front of the museum curator.

Cole quickly read the dated entries, her eyebrows arched with interest. When she finished, she looked back and forth between James and Beth. She said, "This is most interesting. Mind you, there have always been rumors about some lost Warren wealth, but I thought it was just talk."

"The Sergeant Brown mentioned, the one who massacred the soldiers, I would like to know what happened to him. Is he the one who came back and married Louisa Warren? Is he really related to Lucius Brown?"

"I don't know, but I can find out."

"We would appreciate that," James said.

"I'll dig through the records. They're not always complete, especially because of the confusion after the war, but I'll see what I can find."

"Thanks," Beth said. "I'm sorry that the sheriff had to question you. Why don't you stop by for dinner again? We'll be leaving this weekend. I don't want us to become enemies because of a misunderstanding."

"I can bring over another bottle of wine. I'll call you when I have something on Brown."
Chapter 21

The shovel in Tyler's hand felt slippery with sweat. He was nervous. Next to him stood Lucius Brown, who had a shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm. In his free hand, he held a flashlight which was turned off. They were hiding in the woods near the graves, watching the back of the Warren house. The bedroom light was on and been for some time. Tyler checked the time on his cellphone and saw it was nearly midnight. Compared to the gloom of night, the light from the screen was brilliant.

"Shut the damn thing off," Brown growled.

"They can't see it," Tyler snapped back.

"Maybe they can, and maybe they can't. But there are no reasons to take any chances. Now keep your voice low and be patient."

"Okay," the young man sulkily replied. He closed the cellphone.

The wind began to pick up, churning the patchy but dark clouds above. Every once in a while, the sliver of the moon would shine through, lighting up the grounds with ghastly shadows. Except for the random noises of the forest, it was deathly quiet. The minutes crawled by. Tyler wanted to check his phone again but feared being called on it.

Brown spat on the ground and pointed. "The light went off. They have finally gone to bed. Now we just have to wait a few more minutes."

Tyler, who was already keyed-up, felt his blood pressure began to rise. "How did I get myself in this situation," he mumbled to himself.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

It was a few minutes more before the older man was satisfied. He said, "Okay, now we go into the house. This time try not break anything. I don't want to wake them, at least not right away."

"Yeah, I'll be careful," Tyler grumbled as he followed Brown.

There, at the back of the house, was the window to the library. The glass had been repaired, but the old, original window casing was still in place. Putting the shovel down, he began pulling on the bottom of the frame. The wood groaned but did not budge. Without a word, Brown added his hands to the effort. There was a snap as the lock between the frames broke free from the aged wood. It clattered to the ground as the window opened.

"I'll go first," Brown said, his voice a mere whisper. "Hold the shotgun while I climb in."

In a few moments, Brown was inside. His flashlight went on, sweeping the room. He then reached out and pulled the shotgun and shovel into the room. Swearing under his breath, Tyler clambered in. There was the desk where he had found the diary that he had stolen.

"Where to next?" he asked self-consciously.

"We could check out that basement, the one that you mentioned they are so afraid of."

"There's nothing there. I cleaned it all out."

"Why do you think I asked you to bring the shovel? I've been all over this house and found nothing. The gold has to be buried there."

"We're going to have a hell of a time breaking through that concrete floor."

The older man grunted in response. "It should be a thin layer."

"But it's going to make one hell of a racket."

"Then we had better wake up our hosts. I'm sure they would like to help us out."

"You didn't say anything about that," Tyler spat out. He took a step back toward the window.

"You're not very bright, are you? How did you think we would get our hands on that gold, by asking nicely? Don't be a fool."

"But they'll know it was us. The police will be after us." Tyler's voice was growing louder and louder, betraying the fear he felt inside.

"Keep your voice down! Now don't you worry, Tyler, we won't hurt them at all. But once we have that much money on our hands, we won't be sticking around in this town for too much longer. I've always had a hankering to retire down in Brazil. Just think of it, beaches and broads. It will be like living in paradise. Now are you coming with me, or what?" The barrel of the shotgun rose minutely.

"Okay, okay, just don't shoot me."

"I won't. Come on, this way."

Brown used the flashlight to show the way. From the library they proceeded down the hall to the front room. Then it was up the stairs. Each step creaked and groaned. Tyler was afraid that they would be heard but no cry or any other sign of discovery was evident. A short trip down the hallway and they were at the bedroom door. It was closed.

"Open it," breathed Brown, his voice seemingly calm.

His hand right hand trembling, Tyler twisted the door handle. With a squeak that seemed to rattle his nerves, the door swung open.

"Welcome to the show!" Brown announced as he stepped into the room.

From his position in the hallway, Tyler could see that light playing on the bed. Beth was sitting upright, blinking at the unexpected light. She looked scared. She was wearing a white t-shirt and her hair was tousled. But she still looked pretty. Her husband was groggily trying to fight his way out of the covers, obviously confused.

Brown continued on, "Now I don't want to hurt anyone, but I will use this shotgun if I have to. Now throw on some clothes so you don't go blushing with embarrassment. After that, we can go downstairs and have a talk. But keep away from those portable phones of yours. I don't want you calling for help."

Beth, as expected, said, "This is highly illegal. You're looking at a long time in prison. I suggest you leave before you get into deeper trouble."

"Yes, you should do that," James added. This time he was wide awake, standing by the side of the side of the bed. He was only wearing a pair of boxers, his face flushed with anger.

"Get some clothes," Brown growled, waving the shotgun at the couple.

The Warrens began to dress. Tyler kept his eyes on Beth, enjoying the view as she slipped into a pair of sweatpants and threw on a long-sleeved shirt. When they finished, Brown motioned for them to head out the door. Tyler stood aside to let the pass, feeling like a fool as he brandished the shovel. He would have felt better if had a pistol in his hand. But still, it felt good to see these two uppity northerners brought down a peg.

Brown barked out a command. "Down the stairs."

When everyone was down in the front room, Brown had the Warrens sit on the sofa. Tyler remained near the front door in case the couple tried to make a break for it.

"Now that we're all comfortable," Brown started as he paced the floor, "let's get straight down to business. I want to know where that gold is."

"The gold?" James started stupidly.

"We have no idea what you are talking about," Beth added.

The older man looked back and forth between the couple as if weighing their words. He finally gave a snort. "You had the diary. You tore out the pages that dealt with the gold and how it was stolen from my ancestor. Don't look surprised, I know all about it. It's a bit of family lore that has been passed down from generation to generation."

From his post at the door, Tyler could see the facial expressions of the Warrens. He did not see any surprise, but just icy coldness.

Brown angrily continued, "It was your ancestor, Colonel Warren, who stole from my family all those years ago. We've cursed the Warren name ever since. Now you sit there like you don't even care what I have to say. But trust my words when I say that I will not die in poverty while you live in some far off mansion in Michigan. Now tell me where you've hidden that gold!"

This was too much for James. Rising to the bait, he stood up before Beth could stop him. His face was flushed. As he spoke, the words got faster and louder. "Your old great grandfather, or whatever he is, was a murderer. He tried to steal. It was Samuel Warren who stopped him from doing so. And it was Horace Brown who came back and murdered the colonel in cold blood."

With a laugh, Brown spat on the wooden floor. He said, "You know I don't really care right now who killed who. But you are going to tell me where the missing diary pages are."

Beth pulled on her husband's hand, forcing him to sit back down.

She said, "They didn't say anything beyond the tale of how the gold was taken. We don't know where it is."

Brown nodded toward Tyler. "I've already searched this house and the grounds, including Colonel Warren's body. He mentioned taking a secret to his grave. I thought the gold could have been buried there. But there is still one place I haven't looked. I suggest we all go to the basement and start digging."

To his surprise, Tyler could see a strange look passing over Beth's face.

She stood up and smiled. "I think we should listen to him," she said to her husband.

"You do?" he asked stupidly, his eyebrows raised in shock.

"Let's show him that we have nothing to hide."

"If you say," James said hesitantly.

"Enough jawing," Brown spat out. "Get moving." He waved the shotgun toward the hallway leading to the back of the house.

"They're up to something," Tyler announced.

"I don't care," his friend shot back. "I've got the gun."

James and Beth took the lead while the other two crowded close behind. The lights in the kitchen were turned on, but Brown's flashlight provided the illumination for their journey down the stairs. It was dank down there with the smell of countless years gone by.

"Start breaking up the concrete," Brown demanded.

"The entire floor?" Tyler asked. "Why that could take hours. I think we should start in the fruit cellar there."

"Why is that?"

The young man looked at the couple. Their faces were hidden in shadows. "I found the music box in there. And I know they are frightened of going inside. You should have seen how scared the woman was when I opened the door there."

"Open it now. And get those two working to help you."

Tyler took a few steps and jerked on the door handle. With a ghastly creak, the cellar door opened. There was a sudden burst of cold coming from the space within. With a gust that came as quickly as it went, he felt chilled to the bone. He let out a laugh, hiding the sudden nervousness he felt.

"Come on," he said to the Warrens, waving them over to join him.

It was cramped inside the fruit cellar. While Brown shone the light inside, the others began to work. Tyler found a crack that ran the length of the concrete. He began to pry, forcing the breach to widen as chunks broke free. Whoever laid the concrete down in the days past did not do a very good job. It was thin and easily separated from the dirt below. James collected these cement rocks and pushed them over to his wife, who dumped them on the basement floor outside the door.

When the hole was wide enough, Tyler began to dig. He scooped up shovels of dry dirt what was flung out the door. There the Warrens kicked the growing dirt pile off to the side. It was grueling work. Tyler, however, found it strange that every inch that was dug up, the colder he felt. He should have been sweating, but instead he found himself shivering. It sure was damn cold here.

Every time he stopped to catch his breath, Tyler looked over his shoulder. He could see Brown standing back from the door, the light trained on the excavation. The expression on the old man's face was a queer one: eyes shiny with expectation, but the jaw set with determination. The gun remained in place, ready to fire at the Warrens if they tried to make a break for it. But the couple did not protest. Instead they were working hard as if they had some personal interest in the outcome and were not the ones being held hostage.

Only a foot down and the metal of the shovel blade grated against something hard and unyielding. Another strike of the spade and the result was the same. Tyler looked down and saw something dark.

He said, "Bring the flashlight here. I think I found something."

Brown said, "You two, get in the cellar with Tyler there. I don't want you trying something behind my back."

"We won't do anything," Beth said.

Brown didn't listen, but instead shoved the couple into the fruit cellar using the barrel of the shotgun. When everyone was inside, he shone the flashlight beam into the hole. There was a layer of bricks half-buried in the dirt.

The greed in Brown's voice was palpable. "It has to be buried here. After all these years, I'm going to find the gold." This moment was too much. He set aside the shotgun, leaning the barrel against the doorway, and handed the flashlight over to Tyler. Then the old man began to dig with his hands, uprooting the bricks one by one. When they were cleared, he plunged his hand into the soil underneath. And then he stopped, his jaw slack.

Tyler could feel the hesitation in Brown. Something had gone wrong. "What is it?" he whispered.

Brown pulled his hands out of the dirt. Enclosed in the fingers was a ragged and dirty doll. The same one that had tripped James on the stairs. He flung this to the side and then fished out another object. It was a skull.

"Jesus Christ!" Tyler blurted out.

Resting on his haunches, Brown turned the skull over in his hands, looking at the artifact carefully. He looked lost in his thoughts.

"It's true then," Beth said. "Horace Brown killed this little girl while questioning her. He was so greedy that he murdered a child!"

Brown shook his head. "No, it can't be true." His voice was cracked with emotion.

"But it is. The evidence is right there in your hands. It was your ancestor who was so blinded by his greed that he didn't care what the consequences of his actions were. And now you're doing the same thing."

Scrambling up to his feet, the old man let the skull drop. It clattered to the cement floor. He reached over and plucked the shotgun up, pointing it at Beth. He said, "Hold your tongue, woman!"

Tyler shook his head. He felt sick and tired. He said, "Look, Lucius, it is over. There is nothing here for us."

"I didn't ask you," Brown shot back. The shotgun swung toward Tyler. "Now shut up so I can do some thinking. I know the gold has got to be here somewhere. I've searched everywhere but I still can't find it. Now where could it be?"

"Forget it," Tyler said. "I'm out of here. I'm not going to be party to this anymore."

And then with those words the young man took a step forward and tried to grab the barrel of the gun. Brown let out a cry and stumbled backward. With an ear-shattering explosion, the shotgun went off. Tyler let out a cry of pain and dropped the flashlight. The room was plunged into darkness.

*

Beth watched this scene with horror. Her ears were ringing but she thought of her husband, taking his hand and pulling him to the ground. They nearly fell into the hole and together had to kick and scramble to stay out. She could hear Tyler whimpering and the fainter sounds of Brown scrambling to get up. In the darkness, she felt afraid, uncertain what would happen. There was nothing to stop Brown from shooting them next.

Before Beth could do anything else, a strange whitish glow grew by her feet. The temperature dropped even more, forcing her to hug James closely. She could feel his arms wrapped tightly around her body. The sound of a girl screaming grew and grew in volume, starting faint and then becoming a torrent of volume that threatened Beth's very sanity. With a brilliant flash, Abigail appeared, shimmering in an ethereal white that was almost blinding. She rose straight up from the ground and pointed a finger at Brown, who was on his knees, frozen to the spot. His eyes bulged out and his mouth opened and closed but no sound came out. The screaming of Abigail suddenly stopped, leaving a silence that was almost as uncomfortable.

"You killed me," she whispered.

Even though Beth knew the accusation wasn't true, the words still had the strength of a young girl who had been done wrong.

"I didn't kill you," Brown protested. "I didn't!"

He swung the shotgun up toward the ghostly body and pulled the trigger. The buckshot went through the ethereal image and the burst of buckshot slammed into the wall beyond, just above Tyler's head. Fragments of lead and stone went flying through the air. Beth felt a scathing line of white hot pain streak across her temple. She blinked a few times, trying to take in the scene in front of her.

Brown, in a panic, scrambled to his feet, and dropped the gun. He turned and began to run toward the stairs, screaming as he went. His feet hit the stairs and he climbed upward, his arms extended as if trying to reach for the door above. The ghost of Abigail began to laugh, and then faded away. The room turned dark again.

Beth could hear Brown fumbling to find the door knob. Pulling her husband's hand, she began to crawl out of the fruit cellar. She could see when Brown finally opened the door, but gave a gasp. From her position on the floor, Beth could see a brilliant light coming from the doorway above. It was Abigail. She was reaching out toward the old man, a silent scream pasted on those lifeless lips. With a cry, Brown took a step back and slipped. Fighting to find his balance, the old man failed and began to fall. He rolled and tumbled, the hands grasping to find the banister. By the time he hit the floor, he was no longer moving. His neck was bent at an impossible angle. The eyes stared into nothingness.

In a blink, Abigail disappeared.
Chapter 22

With the front door open, James watched as the two horse-drawn hearses rolled slowly down the driveway. Behind them was a caravan of cars that edged along, presumably carrying members of Sons of the South, and some curious onlookers from town. The suit he was wearing felt uncomfortable. It was cut to the style of the nineteenth century which meant a tight, high collar and buttoned waistcoat that bulged over his stomach. But Beth, who was next to him, looked simply marvelous in her black dress of layered hoops and a tight corset. A simple black ribbon kept her hair in order.

The drivers pulled on their reins. The hearses stopped. The other cars followed suit, leaving a snaking procession running the length of the road. As the passengers disembarked, the once empty land was now thick with mourners. A few were dressed as Confederate soldiers, some in styles befitting the occasion, while the majority were dressed in their Sunday finest. A respectful quiet was thick in the air. He saw Lucy Cole, wearing a fine dress and holding a black parasol. And there was the lawyer Flint, who was wearing a modern suit.

From this crowd broke the sheriff, who was wearing his normal uniform. He came up with a somber expression.

"Good afternoon," he started. "Funerals are such a sad occasion, though this one does have a happy ending."

Beth nodded. "Abigail will finally be with her father."

"Yes, ma'am. And that means a lot to this town. Though she was murdered such a long time ago, it still is a stain that only now will be erased."

"I wanted to thank you for organizing all of this. I mean the costumes, and the funeral procession."

"I wasn't the only one who helped," Hanson said. "The undertaker donated the coffins and the men to dig the graves. Emma, the town florist, donated the flowers, and the Sons of the South did the rest. They are proud to rebury the Colonel and his daughter."

"Well," James said, "I guess we should join the others. The service is about to begin." They started to walk around the house, heading toward the large tent that had been set up near the graveyard. "But tell me, how is Tyler doing?"

The sheriff answered, "That boy has never been good, but this experience really seemed to have shaken him up. I guess getting shot and then seeing someone else die will do that to a man. After he gets out of the hospital, he'll be spending some time in jail. Maybe after that experience he will finally fly straight."

Beth grasped the sheriff's arm. "James and I have given this a lot of thought, but I would prefer not to press charges. He's been through enough. Anyway, I believe in second chances."

Hanson clasped her hand. "I'm happy to hear you say that. I'll see that he comes to no harm. Now here we are. Let's get seated."

The tent was white and large enough to hold over a hundred people. But even then the number of mourners was such that quite a few had to stand outside and crane their necks over the gathering throng to watch. In the back, resting on sawhorses, were two brand new coffins, one large and one small. Both were covered in a sea of fresh flowers. A preacher in black stood nearby, waiting patiently as the guests found seats.

Holding on to his wife's hand, James worked his way through the crowd until they reached a trio of seats that had been set up front near the coffins. When Beth sat in her chair, a hush fell over the assembled mourners. James turned and looked across the sea of faces. Before sitting down, he nodded in their direction, a silent thanks for those who had come. The sheriff squeezed in next to him.

The preacher began to speak. There was an audible rustle as every head turned in his direction. He said, "On behalf of the Warren family, I would like to thank everyone. We are all part of something special here, the reburial of a brave veteran who had his grave wrongfully desecrated, and the internment of an innocent girl who was wrongfully murdered so many years ago. We, as a community, have never forgotten her loss. Not only can she rest in peace, but now so can we. She is finally resting with her father, the both of them safe in the hands of God.

"A great wrong has been righted and, thanks to their ancestors – the Warren family here - an ancient mystery has been solved. But the sins of the past should not consume us. For we shall all die some future day, which is why we must keep in mind the important things: faith and family. The first gives us laughter, tears, and a sense of who we are in the world. The second gives us consolation in our darkest hours and the promise of an eternal life. I can only pray that Abigail Warren, in those final moments of her life, knew that her family loved her and that God would be there to soothe the pain. Like all of us will eventually do, she went to a better place."

James was so lost in the preacher's words, that he almost didn't feel the tap on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw the face of one of the gravediggers, who had come earlier that morning. The man leaned over and whispered in his ear.

"Could you come with me? We found something strange."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. The preacher stopped talking, obviously annoyed by the interruption. Hesitantly rising, James ducked down and followed the worker out through a flap of the tent. As he left, he could hear the sermon continue.

After blinking a few times at the sun, James asked, "What is it?"

The workman, who wore dirt-streaked overalls, had eyes that danced with excitement. He answered, "We dug the grave for the colonel. But when we got to Abigail's spot, we found an old box."

"Have you opened it?"

"Perhaps I should have been clearer. You see we found the remains of a box. The moisture in the soil had long destroyed the wood. But you can see for yourself."

By this time Beth and the sheriff had joined in on the conversation.

"What's going on?" his wife asked.

"I don't know, but there is only one way to find out. Come on."

By the time they reached the open graves, James's heart was beating. With the help of the workman, he lowered himself into the grave. He could feel the eyes of the small knot of people who had gathered around the rectangular hole to watch. The soil was damp here and the enclosed space made him feel claustrophobic. At his feet were scraps of rusted metal and a grimy cloth, the edges poking through the dirt.

With shaking hands, James pulled on the fabric. It easily tore away. Even here, six feet down, the glow of gold was unmistakable. A rush of giddiness passed down his back. He felt so overcome with emotion that the excited murmurs above became muted. The last piece of the puzzle had been solved. This treasure, which had caused so much trouble, had been here, inside this unused grave, all along. He recalled a snippet of the diary.

This is one secret that shall be taken to the grave.

Samuel Warren had buried the gold in the plot of land that had already been marked as his daughter's future grave. Lucius Brown had tortured the poor girl for information that she did not have. This happened such a long time ago, but how could he, James Warren, take this tainted blood money? He didn't know the answer. He looked up to his wife, hoping for some guidance.

A moment of understanding passed between the two.

Her eyes brimming with tears, Beth said, "I want to stay here. I want to stay in Clairepoint. We belong here."

James could only agree.

###

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The Works of Paul Westwood:

**The Color of Sin:** Las Vegas. Devon Pierce lives a life of his own choosing, surviving by his wits and violent actions. For those in desperate need, he is the judge and executioner of last resort - above the law and incorruptible. Cleora Kinney, an exotic dancer, has been wronged and the Afghanistan treasure of her deceased father has been stolen. Only Devon can set things right. But first he must follow the clues found hidden deep in the shadowy underworld of the city of sin.

**Grave Injustice:** It had been in the Warren family for years: the ancestral home deep in the South. After the death of James's reclusive uncle, the house is now his to sell. But James is haunted by a childhood memory of a ghostly horror of a deceased young girl. With the help of his wife Beth, who is a law student, the young couple must solve a murder from the Civil War and lay to rest the spirit that still haunts the grounds. But the danger is not only in the past, but will come crashing into the present. Their lives and fortunes will be forever changed.

**Nano Zombie** : Not all zombies are undead. Brent is a man who lives in the near future, a crumbling civilization where man feeds upon man. Escaping from the chaos of the city, he is suddenly thrust into an unspeakable nightmare of sickness and war. In a world of apocalyptic horror, he battles for those he loves, an orphan girl and a woman with a mysterious past. In the desolated countryside, Brent fights to stay alive and find a cure to the most terrible disease that humanity has ever seen.

**Nano Zombie Redemption** : This exciting sequel to Nano Zombie has Emily battling to stay alive in a dying world. Now that her adopted father, Brent, is gone she must learn how to survive on her own. Food has run out and the Infecteds rule the dust-filled wasteland. With danger at every turn, she, along with her companions, try to find a way to finally defeat the zombie hordes. The horrific journey will test their bonds of friendship and even love.

**Horror America** : Move over Sherlock Holmes! When the supernatural game's afoot, helpless people call on the good Dr. Townsend to save them. Ghosts, the undead, werewolves, and more horrors that man was not meant to see are loose in 1870s America, so it's up to Captain Parker, a gunslinger for hire, and Dr. Townsend to stop the horror. Yet when Townsend's beautiful daughter falls under the spell of a mysterious suitor, their fortitude will be tested in a battle like no other. Written in a series of connected short stories narrated by Parker, this novel will keep you turning pages late into the night.

**Lonely Are The Dead** : 1977. A ruthless serial-killer is stalking Bay City. His purpose is unknown, but the dismembered victims are always young and beautiful. In order to find the perpetrator, Police Detective Markus has to set aside his personal troubles, and pull the evidence together before panic sweeps the city. His only ally is Karen Dekker, a reporter with a tortured past and the chance to break the biggest story of her career.

**The Cursed Sun** : Two centuries after the Final War, civilization struggles to rise from the radioactive ashes of the new Dark Ages. An innocent man turned outlaw is forced on a journey across a desolated landscape, risking his life to deliver a warning to the growing rebellion. The message he carries will change the balance of power, and with it, the hopes of humanity.

**Murder at Zero Hour:** William Grant, an American, joins the British Army during the Great War. He is posted to France, where he witnesses the horrors of war on the front line. During a dangerous night patrol, a captain is murdered, leading to a series of unanswered questions. With only his wits, Grant must solve the mystery while keeping his own skin intact. Will he be a victim of war or just another victim?

**At Harper's Ferry** : The book that started it all. Jack Blackwood is a lonely drunk who starts a detective agency in the heart of Washington DC. As Fort Sumter is attacked, he and his partner Ezra are embroiled in a case that could change the very course of the war: the son of a retired congressman has gone missing, along with military papers outlining the Union's Anaconda Plan. At the heart of the matter is a beautiful prostitute, a trail of dead men, and a spy who will stop at nothing to deliver the plans to the Confederacy.

**At Bull Run** : The second book in the Blackwood Series. A wealthy man hires Jack Blackwood to find the murderer of his only son, who had recently joined a newly-formed Union cavalry regiment. In a city crowded with temptation, the investigation uncovers a killer who is targeting prostitutes and soldiers alike, causing panic in the ranks. Only Jack's wits and the power of the Colt can put a stop to the killings.

**At Shiloh** : The third book in the Blackwood series. As Grant's Army marches through Tennessee, it is beset by guerilla fighters led by the traitorous Major Gardner. An invaluable shipment of gold is stolen from the Union and must be retrieved at all costs. Posing as a guntrader, Jack must not only complete this impossible mission, but survive the perils of battle and the amorous advances of a widow trapped in an unfriendly town.

**The Blackwood Trilogy** : Jack Blackwood is a widower and a drunk. Ezra Miller is an ex-slave in a white man's world. Together, they run a detective agency in Washington DC. As the Civil War rages, they are involved in a series of cases that will change the very course of the war. This anthology collects all three adventures – At Harper's Ferry, At Bull Run, and At Shiloh - at one low price.

Free Bonus Chapter of The Color of Sin:

It was supposed to have been a nice and quiet evening at home. My current home being the an old warehouse that I had personally converted into apartments. I, of course, had kept the entire top floor and left the space underneath empty so I wouldn't be bothered by the worst impulses of humanity: noise. The other units brought in a tidy income though I purposefully kept the rents low enough to keep out the neuvo-rich. Instead, the building was populated with artists, workers, and a mish-mash of hustlers and conmen. They were the type of people who kept to themselves and weren't always asking questions about the landlord above. Instead they were quite happy to get entrance to such a secure building at an affordable price. And considering the area we lived in, D Street Avenue in Las Vegas, a little safety went a long way.

I was sitting on the sofa with my legs up on the footrest and half a Gimlet at my elbow. On my lap was a tablet. I was scrolling through a map app, trying to find the best way to drive out of this town. July was coming, which meant the hottest part of the year. A vacation was due, and I was entertaining the thought of taking my car on an extended tour of Oregon. I really didn't want to leave - I liked this town - but I was overcome with a feeling of restlessness. I had been bored as of late, which often happens in my line of work.

In the corner of my eye, I saw the graceful movement of Melodie Glass, who was working on some new dance moves. She had come over for the privacy and the fact that I had a large space to practice in. The massive JE Labs speakers and Mark Levinson electronics were an additional bonus. The high-reved pop music sounded dismal to my ears, but she seemed to enjoy the fidelity as she stretched and contorted her dancer's body into moves that only can be done by top-level gymnasts or professional strippers. She was the latter sort.

Melodie was pale with long black hair, smooth skin, and a face that revealed an Asian ancestor. She was skinny but well-endowed on top – work done by a good plastic surgeon – and had the well-muscled legs of someone who moved all day for a living. She was wearing a faded black leotard with red legwarmers. Her hair was pulled back and kept in place with a hair clip. Though taller than your average woman, she was still a few inches shorter than myself.

She was working her body hard. If I had installed a stripper pole, I'm sure she would have been sweating even harder. But instead, she was practicing her floor routine, the gyrations meant to keep the dollar bills coming. With the stiff competition in Vegas, the men and women who made their living at exotic dancing, Melodie made sure to stay in shape and keep her dances fresh. Even with the air conditioning running at full blast, there was a slight odor of perspiration. From the track lighting above I could see a gleam of sweat on her exposed skin.

I put the tablet down and took a sip of my drink. Lime juice mixed with gin had a wonderful way of sharpening the senses. As I drank, I saw Melodie stop. She went over to the CD player and turned off the power, sending a momentary thump through the speakers. I frowned, knowing that something serious was on her mind.

"Devon?"

"Yes?" I replied as I set my drink back down.

She took a step closer. "Is it true what people say about you?"

"What do people say?"

"That you help people in need."

"I don't think I've ever been called charitable."

"You know what I mean."

I gave her a half of a smile. "Yes, it's true that I help those who can't help themselves. Of course there has to be some profit in it." I vaguely pointed at the luxury furnishings and the expensive rug at our feet. "This sort of stuff doesn't come cheap. I am, after not, not running a charity here. But there are some rules to the game. The first, of course, is that I won't go killing for money. The second is that I won't harm the innocent, though the latter is questionable since I have never met anyone who is truly innocent."

"You're the most cynical man I've ever met," she purred.

"I prefer the word experienced. But I did not earn my money by doing anything that is unethical – within the confines of what I consider ethical, that is."

She leered at me. "That leaves a wide range of possibilities, honey." She instantly turned serious again. "Maybe you really could help a friend of mine. Her name is Cleora Kinney. She's a co-worker of mine at the Pussycat Lounge. She's only been there a few days and anyone can tell that she isn't cut out for the life. But I do know that she needs help and I can't think of anyone but you."

I scratched my chin in thought. After a few moments of this, I said, "I wasn't exactly planning to be in town for very much longer. Anyway, I'm not hurting for money right now."

"This is something interesting."

"What is it?" I asked, taking the bait.

"Last night, after our shift was done, we got to drinking and talking. After a few beers she opened up and told me everything. We're talking a lot of money here."

"A few thousand dollars? A hundred thousand?"

"Maybe it would be better if you would talk to her yourself. I would hate to tell you the wrong thing and have you turn down the job. She can explain it better than I can."

"Now you've got me interested."

She closed the space between us with a few sultry steps – all hips and doe-like eyes. It was a good performance that got my heart racing, even though I knew the act was as false as a street bought Rolex.

She said, "That's the point, honey. She'll be here in a few minutes."

"What?"

She reached over and ran a hand through my hair. "Don't worry, you'll like her. Everyone does." She then sauntered off, showing her backside to good effect. She went back to the stereo, turned the CD back on, and began to dance to the rhythm of the music.

I returned my attention to the Gimlet. I took a drink and tasted nothing. I was too busy being angry with Melodie to notice the flavor. I put the glass down and tried to return my attention to the map on the tablet. But the route I had chosen instead blurred and disappeared from my vision. Instead I busily thought of the possibilities: a changed will that left the poor girl out of a sizable estate, a drug dealing boyfriend, or some stolen merchandise that she knew about. Dancers like that were always making friends with rich men who wanted to share their wealth. What could be different with this woman?

The door buzzer went off. It was just barely audible over the thump of the music. I got up off the sofa, threw Melodie a nasty smile, and went to unlock the steel reinforced door. After that, it was a walk to the elevator that I had specially modified so that it took a code to access my two floors. As an extra precaution, the door leading to the staircase was locked with thick doors at the floor levels. With the wired alarm system I had installed myself, no one could get inside without me knowing. In case I was out of the building, I had a computer setup to send an email to my cellphone. This may all sound rather paranoid, but when you do my type of work, a little caution goes a long way.

The door to the elevator opened. I got inside, selected the ground floor, and waited impatiently as I was taken slowly down. In the entryway, I saw a young blonde waiting behind the door. The glass of this entryway was reinforced with chicken wire. The wood was thick and old, an original part of the warehouse. With a flourish, I opened the door and let her in.

"I'm Cleora," she said as she offered her hand.

"Devon Pierce," I replied. We shook. "Come right this way."

In silence, we rode up in the elevator. There I studied her. In profile she looked good. With small features, she looked more like a teenager than a woman who works the stage for a living. Her nose was straight and the color of her eyebrows matched the color of her blonde hair. She had honest to goodness freckles, blue eyes, and a page boy haircut. She was wearing a shapeless top and a black skirt that went down to the knees. Long white socks and tennis shoes added to the school girl effect. The calves had the muscled tone of a dancer. I could see why men would like her, but there was also a coldness there that would be hard to penetrate.

"Come right this way," I said as I opened the door to my apartment.

She went in and let out a gasp. It's a common enough reaction when new visitors see the wood floors, plush rugs, the paintings on the brick wall, the gleaming stereo, and the Herman Miller furniture. The entire effect was that of stylish modernity and was a far cry from the ghetto streets a few stories below us. This was my hideaway from the world and only trusted souls were allowed into the inner sanctum. Part of my annoyance with Melodie was giving access to her friend iwithout my permission. But if you can't trust your friends, than who can you trust?

"Are you a drug dealer?" Cleora asked.

Seeing the arrival of her friend, Melodie stopped the CD player. I noticed that this time she had done it correctly by using the buttons. She said, "No, and he's not part of the mob either. He's just a rich bastard."

I could see that this answer did nothing to clear up the confusion. I added, "I'm not that rich. But I do like to live comfortably. As for my income, I consider myself as a sort of an investor. This building, for example, used to be a warehouse. I provided apartments for the people of this neighborhood and in the process built a place for myself that I found comfortable. I also have other interests that meet my financial needs."

"But why this neighborhood? You could be living big in Summerlin." That was a more swank part of town.

Melodie answered, "Devon here isn't like other people. He likes to associate with conmen, junkies, and strippers. He thinks normal people are boring."

I nodded. "And their lives are rather boring without the sort of problems I find interesting. Perhaps I could help you."

Melodie said, "Cleora, why don't you tell Devon here all about your problem. I'll go shower and change." With those words, she went down the hallway and went into the bathroom. The sound of running water was immediately heard.

It was obvious that Cleora was feeling uncertain, so I went over to the bar and fixed her a drink. While I was pouring out the vodka, she sat down at the stool and waited until I was done. She gratefully accepted the screwdriver, taking a tentative sip.

She said, "I don't feel right being here. I mean what can anyone do for me?"

"I don't know anything about your situation so I can't possibly answer your question. But we could start at the beginning."

Cleora gave me a shy look, an honest to goodness inside view at the real woman underneath the veneer of the armor she must have developed in her line of work. I could see why Melodie said that this girl was not cut out for the job as an exotic dancer.

She finally said, "Okay, but this is going to sound a little crazy."

"Try me."

"My real name is Amy. Cleora is my professional name – everyone uses it except my sister. You see I was an army brat. That meant I never had a real home. Instead my family traveled from base to base. Five years ago, when I was eighteen, I got pregnant. This happened over in Henderson."

This was a suburb that southwest of Las Vegas.

"We were living in a little ranch home in a neighborhood Luckily my old man was off on his first tour in Afghanistan when I found out I was going to have a child or else there would have been hell to pay. The father of the baby was a boy named Timothy King who was an awkward kid I went to school with. There was nothing ever serious about us, instead we were just friends who liked to fool around. I don't know where he is now. I really don't care. So I had a little girl. She's named Madison. She's the only reason I came to you. I want her to go to college. I want her to have the things that I never had."

I nodded and didn't say anything. Now that she was on a roll there was no stopping her now.

"My father Bill Kinney was a captain in the Special Forces, doing some type of work for the government. It was all hush-hush, you know, top secret. We were never rich, that's for sure. But somehow when he was sent over to Afghanistan, he must have discovered some way to make money. I don't know what it was or how he got it back to the States, but that's not important. I know it had to be illegal, whatever he did. I mean they don't hand out free cash to soldiers, do they? But he was a hard man who thought he was the toughest thing on the planet. The older he got, the more he had to prove himself. A week after he returned from his final combat tour, he went out to the bar. He got into a fight with a younger man - some tough college football player. It must have been a lucky punch, because apparently my father just folded up like a house of cards when he got hit in the side of the head. He never regained consciousness. He died two days later."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She gave a shrug. "That was two years ago. I wasn't that sad at the time. And I'm not exactly grieving now."

"How did you find out about the money?"

"When Bill came back, he couldn't keep it a secret. He told my mother and my sister Kim and I that we were going to be rich soon. He also told us that we couldn't tell a soul. He made us promise."

I pursed my lips together. "Did your father tell you the source of this new found wealth?"

She shook her head and took another sip of her drink. "I thought he was making it up. Not that he was the sort of person to lie, but he came back from the war a changed man. He was a drunk.. He was abusive toward my mother. He threatened my little girl. I thought he was telling us lies about the money to keep us happy."

I was skeptical now. "What made you change your mind? I mean one day you don't believe him and the next you're suddenly sure that there is a fortune just waiting for you."

"I'm getting there. Eight months ago a man named Keith Miller came to the door. He ended up staying with us. He claimed to have known my father over in Afghanistan; that they had served together in the Green Berets. He was just out of the army and looking for a job. My mother let him stay with us until he could get back on his feet. I wish she had thrown the bum out on his ass."

The sudden venom caught me by surprise. But before I could say anything, she continued on, her jaw tight and unyielding.

"Keith said he knew my father well. He said they had spent two tours together. He had no family and nowhere to go. At first he seemed so kind. He was good with his hands and really helped around the house. After a few weeks, he even got a job as a bouncer at the club I worked at in Henderson. He isn't a big guy but he's got muscle. I've seen him fight and toss out some real tough guys. I admit that it felt good to have someone strong around. He seemed to like me and my daughter quite a lot. And with my mother sick with lung cancer, my sister and I really needed him.

"In the end I fell in love with Keith. We might as well have been married, that's how close he was to me. He seemed to be a good man. And when mother died, Kim quit job as receptionist so she could take care of her two sons from a former marriage and my daughter. It was up to Keith and I to bring in the money. Things were tight and I was glad for all the help I could get from him. But there was some strange quirk about Keith that became quite bothersome. You see he loved to talk about my father. I thought he was just waxing nostalgic about an old comrade, wanting to know Bill's habits: where he liked to visit, or where my dad hunted, or what kind of work he had done around the house. Keith also took a real keen interest in gardening and found some excuse to dig up most of the yard. I didn't pay any attention to this until the day that he left."

"It sounds like he was looking for something," I commented dryly.

She took the final sip from her glass. The ice cubes were all melted. I also noticed that the water in the bathroom was off and Melodie hadn't come out yet.

"Whatever it was, he found it," she said. "One day I awoke and Keith was gone. He only took his personal stuff and never showed up at work. This two months ago. To be honest, I wasn't all that surprised. I knew that he wasn't that good for me. But there was one strange thing that really got me shook up. In the back of that house was a patio that wasn't much larger than one of your rugs. It was made with old flagstones. One of them had been removed. Underneath was a hole that contained a scrap of canvas that was olive green. I can tell you that it didn't take too many leaps of the imagination to put the pieces together. Something, perhaps that money my father talked so much about, had been hidden there.

"I was angry as hell. I thought I would never see Keith again. I had to quit my job at Henderson and come to Vegas to get a better paying job. But just last week, after I had gotten out my shift at my new job at the Pussycat Lounge, I was driving home. I saw him outside of the Sands casino, pulling some breezy redhead out of a new Lexus with temporary tags. She looked high maintenance and much too rich for a man like him. Before I could find a parking spot, the two of them disappeared inside. I searched around the casino but didn't see them. I ended up camping in the lobby. It was an hour later when he came out with that woman. Like a fool, I ran after him, demanding all sorts of explanations. He practically ran away, dragging that bitch with him. They hopped into that car and took off. I ran to my car and started following them. Two blocks later, he dropped her off at the entrance of a ritzy condo called Eastgate. After that, I lost him in the traffic. I think he knew that I was following him."

"And you think he found the money that your father hid? Perhaps he just shacked up with a new woman."

Cleora actually blushed. "I can tell you that Keith isn't the type who can a snooty woman fall for him. He's different – uneducated and good with his hands. He's no gigolo."

I let out a small sigh of exasperation. "It's a general observation of mine that woman of all classes aren't particular when it comes to a man's background. If they like what they see, then they'll try and get him."

"You don't know Keith. He's a brute. And I'm not just saying that out of hatred. He can be tender and even sweet, but there's an anger inside of him that is downright scary. I have the scars to prove it. No woman in her right mind would be with him long. As I said, I was glad when he was gone. I also got scared that he would come after me, once there weren't any witnesses around. He can be cruel if he think he's been wronged. I'm glad that I left Henderson."

"You no longer live with your sister?"

"No, I share an apartment with one of the girls from the Pussycat. It's easier that way. I send my extra money back to my sister, who is busy taking care of my daughter, and visit them on the weekends."

"Would you like another drink?"

She shook her head. "No thanks. So will you take on my case?"

"I'm not a private detective. Let me give it some thought and I'll get back to you."

Cleora dragged a cellphone out from the heavy purse that was still slung over her shoulder. "Would you like my number?"

"That won't be necessary at this time. I'll contact you through Melodie."

After that, I walked her down to the front entrance. I waited until she got into her car – a beat up Kia – and drove away. Deep in thought, I went back to the apartment. Once the door shut, I could hear the Melodie humming some unknown song. The sound was coming from the bedroom. I went there, walking gently on the sides of my feet.

"Hey," I said through the half-open door.

"Why don't you come in?" Her voice was low and filled with desire.

I took a few steps inside. With the gauze curtains across the windows, the room was dim. I could just see the Stickley bed and matching side tables with their Tiffany lamps. Lying on top of the bed was Melodie. She wasn't wearing anything at all except for a smirk. The look suited her quite well. She was propped up on a pair of pillows, her long black and wet hair leaving a dark stain on the cotton. There was no extra fat on this specimen, only toned but shapely muscles that only accentuated her natural curves. She wasn't shy about me looking either, but we had our fling in the past so there was nothing new that Melodie could share with me.

"So what do you think of my new friend?" she asked. She said the words casually as if we were talking on a street corner.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. "I like her. It appears that Cleora has led a tough life. But she still managed to find her way through. That proves she's got her head on right."

"I like her too. So will you help her out?"

"I've got to think about it. There is a lot I need to know before I can even began to find out what was stolen from her."

"So do think really think that this Keith character did find something that her father buried in the backyard?"

"It seems plausible. Bill Kinney served in Afghanistan. To me that means poppies, opium, and heroin. With all the supplies being ferried back and forth, it wouldn't be that hard to smuggle some drugs into the country. You know as well as I do that it is a quick and dirty way to make some money."

Before I could react, Melodie grabbed my arm. I did not resist as he pulled me closer, guiding my hand to one of her perfectly formed breasts. That plastic surgeon really was a genius. But before my fingers touched the ruby hardness of her nipple, pulled back, easily breaking her grip.

"Damn it, Devon," she said sourly.

I rubbed my chin and stared into her dark eyes. "You know as well as I do, Melodie, that the game is over between you and I. Anyway, I thought you had a new boyfriend."

"I do," she said nastily as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up.

"Hold on, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"It's too damn late," Melodie spat out. She ran out of the bedroom and into the bathroom where she slammed the door with enough force to make the internal walls shake. She was a strong girl.

I went back to the living room. There I began to paw through some records that were tucked inside a bookcase. I found a Handel record. I went over to the Goldmund turntable, turned it on and, after turning a few knobs, had some glorious baroque music pouring elegantly out of the speakers. I stood in front of the stereo and listened intently, trying not to think of what could have happened in that bedroom. Don't get me wrong, I liked Melodie quite a bit and felt like a fool for turning her down, but I also did not want to rekindle that old flame. Before we had broken up, things had gotten complicated. I was happy to be friends with her and didn't want anything more than that – or so I told myself.

When she finally came out of the bathroom, Melodie was dressed in her street clothes: a miniskirt, a red sleeveless top, and a pair of high heels. Her damp hair was twisted into two long braids. A plastic grocery bag containing her workout clothes were in hand. She looked shyly at me, unable to meet my eyes. This was so unlike her that I felt a moment of pity.

"A fight with Angelo?" This was Melodie's boyfriend, a small-time hustler who I personally disliked. Of course I generally didn't cotton to anyone who sold cocaine.

She nodded. "It was a bad one. I was just trying to prove something to myself. I'm sorry."

"It's no problem."

"I wish things had worked out between us. If they did, I wouldn't be stuck with Angelo. He can be such a bastard sometimes."

I raised an eyebrow. "So can I. Things weren't always smooth sailing between the two of us."

She frowned, her eyes misted with tears. "Angelo is my Keith. They both take advantage of women who are in need. But I can't help myself. That's why I feel so strongly about Cleora. You have to do something for her."

"I'll have to think about it," I said. "Come on, let's get you home."

I escorted her down to her car, a new Mini Cooper. A chaste kiss on the cheek and I sent her on her way. I watched the taillights recede into the maze of traffic. I could already feel the heat of the day slowly start to give away to the chill of the desert night. It would take hours of time but it was inevitable. Around me were the sounds of civilization: people talking, the thud of a car door shutting, and the low rumble of an airplane flying overhead. But I was far away from all of that. Instead I was thinking that I needed some time and space to forget. And only then could I make a decision.

###

Connect with Paul Westwood Online:

Blog: http://ofghostsandgunpowder.blogspot.com

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The Other Works of Paul Westwood:

**Nano Zombie** : Not all zombies are undead. Brent is a man who lives in the near future, a crumbling civilization where man feeds upon man. Escaping from the chaos of the city, he is suddenly thrust into an unspeakable nightmare of sickness and war. In a world of apocalyptic horror, he battles for those he loves, an orphan girl and a woman with a mysterious past. In the desolated countryside, Brent fights to stay alive and find a cure to the most terrible disease that humanity has ever seen.

**Horror America** : Move over Sherlock Holmes! When the supernatural game's afoot, helpless people call on the good Dr. Townsend to save them. Ghosts, the undead, werewolves, and more horrors that man was not meant to see are loose in 1870s America, so it's up to Captain Parker, a gunslinger for hire, and Dr. Townsend to stop the horror. Yet when Townsend's beautiful daughter falls under the spell of a mysterious suitor, their fortitude will be tested in a battle like no other. Written in a series of connected short stories narrated by Parker, this novel will keep you turning pages late into the night.

**Lonely Are The Dead** : 1977. A ruthless serial-killer is stalking Bay City. His purpose is unknown, but the dismembered victims are always young and beautiful. In order to find the perpetrator, Police Detective Markus has to set aside his personal troubles, and pull the evidence together before panic sweeps the city. His only ally is Karen Dekker, a reporter with a tortured past and the chance to break the biggest story of her career.

**Malediction** : Two centuries after the Final War, civilization struggles to rise from the ashes of the new Dark Ages. An innocent man turned outlaw is forced on a journey across a desolated landscape, risking his life to deliver a warning to the growing rebellion. The message he carries will change the balance of power, and with it, the hopes of humanity.

**Murder at Zero Hour:** William Grant, an American, joins the British Army during the Great War. He is posted to France, where he witnesses the horrors of war on the front line. During a dangerous night patrol, a captain is murdered, leading to a series of unanswered questions. With only his wits, Grant must solve the mystery while keeping his own skin intact. Will he be a victim of war or just another victim?

**At Harper's Ferry** : The book that started it all. Jack Blackwood is a lonely drunk who starts a detective agency in the heart of Washington DC. As Fort Sumter is attacked, he and his partner Ezra are embroiled in a case that could change the very course of the war: the son of a retired congressman has gone missing, along with military papers outlining the Union's Anaconda Plan. At the heart of the matter is a beautiful prostitute, a trail of dead men, and a spy who will stop at nothing to deliver the plans to the Confederacy.

**At Bull Run** : The second book in the Blackwood Series. A wealthy man hires Jack Blackwood to find the murderer of his only son, who had recently joined a newly-formed Union cavalry regiment. In a city crowded with temptation, the investigation uncovers a killer who is targeting prostitutes and soldiers alike, causing panic in the ranks. Only Jack's wits and the power of the Colt can put a stop to the killings.

**At Shiloh** : The third book in the Blackwood series. As Grant's Army marches through Tennessee, it is beset by guerilla fighters led by the traitorous Major Gardner. An invaluable shipment of gold is stolen from the Union and must be retrieved at all costs. Posing as a guntrader, Jack must not only complete this impossible mission, but survive the perils of battle and the amorous advances of a widow trapped in an unfriendly town.

**The Blackwood Trilogy** : Jack Blackwood is a widower and a drunk. Ezra Miller is an ex-slave in a white man's world. Together, they run a detective agency in Washington DC. As the Civil War rages, they are involved in a series of cases that will change the very course of the war. This anthology collects all three adventures – At Harper's Ferry, At Bull Run, and At Shiloh - at one low price.

Free Bonus Chapter of Nano Zombie:

When the world came to an end, it was with more of a whimper than a bang. There were no comets, earthquakes, nuclear wars, or any other apocalyptic ending suitable for some Hollywood blockbuster. Instead events sort of crept up on humanity in a most underhanded fashion. No one expected it except for the usual scaremongers who were always braying about the coming end of the world. This time, for a change, they were right...

Chapter 1

It was early September, that time of year when summer was still strong in the bones of the land. I left for work that Monday morning, taking my old black pickup truck. Sure, there are faster and flashier vehicles out there, but they draw attention to the hijackers and thieves looking for a well-heeled victim. But nobody pays attention to an old Toyota with rust and a few dents. I also liked the off-road capabilities and the high stance which gave me an extra layer of safety from any would-be attackers. Not that I expected such a thing to happen to me, but in those days it was better to be safe than sorry.

As I pulled out of my driveway, I looked fondly at my old bungalow built during the Depression. What the little house lacked in size was made up for by comfort. I had added built-in bookshelves, converted the basement to a home theater, and refurbished the kitchen with new cabinets. It would have been a cramped place for a family, but there was no reason why a man made recently single needed anything larger. So far the neighborhood had been free of any looting and much of that had to do with the block watch. I'm sure the men enjoyed playing soldier - toting rifles over their shoulders and stopping any visitor by the blockade of cars at each end of the street.

In the past this time of year was normally for apples and farm markets, but yet again the harvest had been bad with the usual predictable rise in food prices. It was the lack of rain and the oppressive heat that was the real problem. It left the trees looking sallow and lifeless, the leaves small and undernourished. It had been like this all summer, leaving the yards brown and lifeless since no one dared to use water for something as silly as grass. Even for this time of year the heat during the day was still unbearable. I missed autumn, the smell of decaying plants and the snap of brisk morning frost. I wondered if anyone should ever see such days again.

I slowed as I reached the checkpoint. Stopping, I rolled down the window. Out from the corner house came Bill Hayward, who was a chunky man with bald head and all the manners of a longshoreman. He was wearing a pair of worn jeans, brown boots, and a camouflaged jacket that looked to have been bought at the local army surplus store. He gave me a friendly wave with his left hand since the other arm was cradling a new-looking Remington shotgun. Since I left for work every morning, I was hardly an unfamiliar sight, but he still liked to jaw for a few minutes. Like so many others on the block he was unemployed and in need of a little social outlet.

"Hey, Brent," he said with a half-hidden yawn. "Did you see the news this morning?"

I shook my head and took a sip from the coffee cup I had brought. Personally I had little interest in the news since most of it was bad. There was only so much a sane person could take before you just decided to stop watching. Too much of that kind of information could drive one mad, spending the nights awake with worry, tossing and turning.

He said excitedly, "The police force went on strike – complaining they haven't been paid for weeks. And me still paying property taxes and all, and they're worried about money." He gave a little laugh. "Not that anyone can afford anything these days. What I wouldn't do for a nice steak, but it's been nothing but bologna at my house. I'm sure you know as much as anyone the price of groceries."

I knew since I was paying over half my income on keeping food in the cupboards. For a single man that was a lot of money. I couldn't imagine what it was like trying to feed a family. "With the police on strike there's going to be trouble," I said as I shook my head in disbelief.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too. You may want to stay home today, considering every two-bit criminal is going to be out looking for easy pickings. They might take a chance and give a try against us. All of the neighbors will have to stick together if we want to survive."

I let out an uneasy laugh. "These days we're all criminals in form or another. But I think I'll go out anyway. Someone has to go to work, even if it's for peanuts."

"Sure, sure," he said rapidly before pulling out a set of keys. "But still, be careful out there." He then climbed into a late-model sedan that was parked across the road. The car pulled forward just enough for me to nose my way through.

The streets this time of the morning were eerily quiet. It was only a year ago that I had to fight the daily battle of rush hour traffic. Now I had the entire stretch of blacktop to myself. As I slowly drove along, I kept my eyes busy wandering across the boarded houses and shuttered small businesses that packed the suburban roadside. I was looking for anything unfamiliar – such as a car poised in a driveway – something that could be used to ram or block my movement forward. There was nothing to see but the decay of weed-choked yellowing lawns, stripped cars, and with a majority of the buildings, open doors where the looters had already been.

I drove without incident to the industrial park that was the location of my current job at Rapid Engineering. I was immediately struck by the silence and lack of busy movement. The normal day-to-day activity beyond the high chain-link fence that protected the building was non-existent. Instead of the trucks, cars, and employees there was nothing but an empty lot. I hesitantly drove up the guard shack that protected the entrance to the plant. Impatiently honking my horn, I waited with a sinking feeling in my stomach.

From out of the guard shack came someone I did not recognize. He was a short man wearing black-colored police riot gear with the helmet visor flipped open. An AR-15 was slung on his side. "What do you want?" he barked with a voice that was more of a croak.

"I'm Brent Cohen. I work here," I replied as I eyed his finger which was resting over the trigger guard.

"Not anymore," the man spat out. "The whole plant has been closed for now. Everyone has been laid off."

"But what about my paycheck?" I asked impatiently. This hadn't been the first time I had been locked out of a job, but I still expected to get paid.

He shook his head from side to side. "I don't know about that. I'm sure you'll be contacted by someone."

"Thanks," I said sarcastically as I put the truck into gear and slowly backed out.

I was turning around the cul de sac to head back home when I saw another car approaching. It was an old Chevrolet Caprice. From the dent in the front bumper, I could tell it was April VanDyke, who was the plant supervisor. She recognized me and slowed down to a stop. I pulled up. From the height of my truck I could see a silver automatic pistol – a Colt - resting on the passenger seat. These days no one traveled unarmed.

April rolled down her window. She was a middle-aged woman with medium-length brown hair and a prominent nose. Her eyes were stuck in a permanent stare that some found unnerving. However, she was well-liked by everyone at the company since she had an easy manner and was always ready with a good joke.

"Hey, Brent," she said, "I'm sorry you had to make the trip in."

"What happened?" I asked. "When I was here on Friday I hadn't heard a word about the plant closing. Won't anyone let me in on the big secret?"

She gave a little shrug. "You know how it goes these days: the owner of the company decided he had enough trying to make ends meet. I just found out myself while I was driving in. The vice-presidents have been busy calling all the managers. You were just unlucky to get here before anyone else. I'm sure Bill will call you soon enough."

Bill Myers was the IT director I reported to. "I'm sure he will," I said glumly.

"Don't take it too hard, Brent. I'm supposed to go and wait outside and greet anyone who wasn't reached. I'm sorry. I really am. Take it easy."

"You too," I said. Rolling my window up, I pulled away. I was hardly surprised by this turn of events since it hadn't been the first time I had been laid off. The fact was that this was now a very common occurrence as company after company folded under the weight of increased expenses, disrupted supply lines, and decreased demand. But still, the idea of trying to find yet another place to work at seemed daunting because each new job was taking longer and longer to find. Perhaps this was the last one for me.

These thoughts were keeping my mind occupied as I drove home, once again taking it slow and easy. I kept my eyes busy scanning the roadside but the motion was mechanical. It took me a moment to realize that a column of smoke was ahead, billowing high against the jagged line of buildings and trees on the horizon. It was coming from the direction of my neighborhood. I stepped harder on the gas, this time ignoring my usual precautions.

I was lucky that the looters were so sure of themselves that they did not notice my approach. As I came within sight of my street, I saw the blockade of cars had been pushed through by a black semi, the diesel smoke still gurgling from the chrome exhaust stacks. The corner house belonging to Bill and Eileen Hayward was burning with high orange flames greedily consuming the wooden exterior. Even with the truck windows rolled up, I could hear a few gunfire shots. All along the shoulder of the road was a fleet of unguarded pickup trucks and vans to be used to haul away whatever the raiding rabble found. I slowed to a stop and parked, hoping my truck would fit in with the motley assortment of vehicles.

Last year the neighborhood had built a wall of sorts to protect the rear of the houses. It was cobbled together with wooden posts, barbed-wire, chain-link fence, and bits of board and corrugated metal. It wasn't much of a barrier but it was enough to slow trespassers until the block watch could respond. There had been a few intrusions now and then, but nothing of the magnitude that I was seeing now. But I needed to get to my house and take a closer look to see what was going on. If it was bad as it looked, I was also hoping to retrieve my Remington shotgun and Winchester rifle since they would be needed if I planned to make my way out of the city.

Before exiting the truck, I took out the loaded Browning forty-caliber pistol from the door pocket. I reflexively checked the clip and racked a round by pulling on the slide mechanism. I had ten shots which should be enough to see myself out of any quick trouble but certainly wasn't enough for the long haul. Keeping low and darting behind the assorted vehicles parked along the road, I edged my way towards the street that ran parallel to my own. This area had seen the inhabitants flee, the houses already looted long ago, leaving nothing but the usual broken windows, open doors, and weed-choked lawns. I had little worry of being heard since the screams and shouts coming from my neighborhood would easily cover my movement. I soon reached the home that sat to the back of mine.

The backyard here had a pool, the shallow dreams of suburbia long turned into an empty dry basin that now collected nothing but dead leaves. The grass around the cracked concrete was long and dry and moved easily with the wind. I stood with my back to the wall of house, and through the six-foot tall barbed-wire fence, I could see my own one-story brick home. There wasn't anyone guarding the back yard, so I stole across until I reached the fence. I had previously made a small crawlspace through the wire, just in case if I needed to leave in a hurry. I'm sure my neighbors also had their own hidden escape hatches and I could only pray that some of them had a chance to use them.

I sat on my haunches and pulled out two loose nails from the other side of the fence. A section on the bottom fell forward. I pulled it off to the side. With the barbed-wire scraping against my coat, I managed to just barely fit as I slowly wriggled through. Raising my head, I saw that I had gotten this far undetected. From my new vantage point, the sound of fighting was now louder than before. There were more screams, a few sporadic gunfire shots – though diminished compared to earlier - and a roaring of triumphant shouts from the assembled mob of looters. I could tell they were many in number and easily overwhelming what little resistance was left.

It was a quick dash and I was at the back door, fumbling with my keys. My hands were shaking as I entered. I was in the kitchen, the cabinet doors were open, the shelves now bare. Anything not food was left on the floor – papers, an old antique rotary telephone that had been ripped from the wall, and broken dishes and glasses. It was quiet here, but from my vantage point, I could look into the living room and see that the front door had been ripped from the hinges and now rested on the front lawn. The carpet was dirty from an army of feet. Through the open doorway, I could see groups of ill-dressed men and women moving in a chaotic fashion. Many were loading cars and trucks with whatever foodstuffs had been found, while others were laughing and passing bottles of booze back and forth. They seemed oblivious to everything, only stopping their manic activity when gunfire would erupt from somewhere nearby. I could only shake my head, thinking what fools they were. Sure, they could feed themselves today, but what about tomorrow? At this rate all the food in the city would soon be gone and these robbers would turn on each other, stealing and killing, until there was nobody left.

I quickly went to the front bedroom which served as a small office. My computer was there along with a collection of books. Standing in the corner, so far unopened, was my gun safe. It was a heavy thing and from the fresh scratches and marks on the green paint, apparently it had lived up to the advertisement and had withstood easy theft. I ran through the combination lock with practiced ease, inserted the key, and then pulled back the heavy doors. Inside were my rifle, shotgun, and a few boxes of ammunition. Slipping the Browning pistol into my coat pocket, I loaded up the shotgun with double-O. A little buckshot does wonders when facing a crowd.

It was time to get back to the truck. However, before I could leave, I heard a great rolling laughter come from outside. Going to the window, I lifted a corner of the curtain up. I saw the crowd outside part for some of my neighbors who were being led down the middle of the street. There was Steve Grant and his wife Terri, Joan Verrick, who lived next door, and Tyler Darby, a teenager of some ill-repute. Each was being guarded by a man on either side. They were marched to the front of the semi that had crashed through the barricade. The captives were forced down to their knees.

Standing on the hood of the semi-truck was a muscular man with short-cropped black hair. The distance was long enough where I couldn't make out his face but I saw that he was wearing a quasi-military uniform of tightly fitting black pants, shirt, and highly polished boots. With a bullhorn in his hands, he began to speak to the now quiet crowd.

His rough voice said, "As you all know, times have been tough. It has been especially tough on the poor, those who cannot afford to buy their way out of misery. Why do we have to suffer at the expense of the rich? There is no good answer to that question, is there, my friends? Many of us have lost brothers, sisters, parents, and children to the ills of starvation. We know what it is like to feel hungry, but see others thrive. But there is a way out. There is a way to survive. I have given you, my people, food. I have given you weapons. Now that the police are gone, nothing can stop us from taking over the city and taking what is rightfully ours!"

The mob roared with excitement.

He paused and looked smugly over them, his head slowly bobbing up and down like a modern day Mussolini. The man then held up his hands to quiet down the crowd. They readily complied. He continued. "The world is changing and we are going to be the vanguard of a new society. We are going to be the leaders that shape the next world. It is people like these," he said as he pointed at my neighbors, "with their petty values of working for themselves that are holding us back. We need to work together to survive. Why should we be starving in the streets when we have the power to take what is rightfully ours? I say we kill them as a lesson to others." He then jerked his hand across his throat in a cutting motion.

To my horror, I watched as Steve Grant was shot in the back of the head, execution style. The crowd laughed and jeered. There was nothing I could do unless I wanted to die myself. I quickly weighed the idea of rushing out, guns blazing, but there were just too many of them out there to do my own version of Custer's Last Stand. The gun cracked again and Terri joined her husband. Feeling helpless, I turned to leave. I was so wrapped in my own miserable thoughts that I didn't see anything until I ran straight into someone.

He was a tall man with a black beard and a red handkerchief tied over his long, lank hair. His thick arms poked out of a leather motorcycle vest.

"Hey! Who are you?" he asked suspiciously, raising his fist to strike me.

I didn't even answer but instead brought the butt of the shotgun up and tried to club him in the ear.

He was an obviously an experienced street fighter and easily dodged my clumsy blow. A quick jerk of his hand and the man drew a wicked-looking knife from belt. He then tried to plunge it straight into my stomach.

Luckily I turned aside just in time, the blade cutting through the jacket and into the shirt. The cold steel slid against my flesh, leaving a thin line of fiery pain. The realization that I was hurt sent a wave of hot anger flooding through my veins. I hadn't been in a fight since high school, but now my life was on the line. I didn't want to kill, but I didn't want to die either. There was only one thing left to do.

Stumbling backwards, I tried to bring the shotgun up to fire. It could have alerted those outside to my presence, but that was a chance I was willing to take. My assailant was too quick and stepped inside the arc of the swinging barrel, trying to bat the gun out of my hands. My finger was already on the trigger. In the confines of the room, the sound of the discharging shell was a sonic shock that momentarily stunned the both of us. I had missed but had managed to blow a hole into the drywall behind the man's head.

I don't know if it was my experience with guns or just fear, but I was quicker to react. Dropping my left hand off of the stock of the gun, I swung my fist into the man's throat. It wasn't a hard blow, but it was enough to send him reeling away, choking. I took the opportunity to give him a hard kick in the rear. He tumbled forward, hitting his forehead on the wall. I brought the butt of the shotgun down on the back of his neck. Unconscious, he crumpled to the floor. I fought the urge to shoot him, but instead ran over and kicked the knife away. I then stared at my handiwork, feeling surprised by my violent actions.

It was time to leave the city.

