The mob dragged the man toward the old oak, shouting
maledictions against him and the British.
"Please," the captive managed in a tenor voice sounding
thick and peculiar to his own ears. "Please, I am not what you
think." He futilely struggled against the rope binding his wrists,
feeling the warmth of blood for his efforts. His coat felt strange
on his shoulders, so stiff and heavy; even his words felt odd in
his mouth, a slightly different patois than he normally spoke.
"Traitor!" snarled a burly man dressed in a tri-cornered hat
and ragged vest that halted just above his knees. "You're nothin'
but a traitor!" He shook a flintlock rifle in morning air perfumed by
wood smoke. A Minute Man. The description leaped easily into
the prisoner's brain as the man continued his cursing. "Stinkin'
English pig!"
"I beg you, wait for the courier," the hostage panted,
pulling against the bruising grips of two strangers walking on
either side him. But they and the rest of the folks who made up
the mob weren't listening. They just shoved him forward
inexorably toward the tree and its stout limb hanging almost
parallel to the ground. "All will become clear when General
Washington. . . ."
"You sully our leader's great name!" A fist slammed into
his mouth, rocking his head backward. He spat blood and a
broken tooth. Crimson from a split lip dribbled down his clean-
shaven chin and dripped onto his once-white cravat. "You have
no right to speak of our General Washington, dirty lying loyalist!"
Beneath the tree's reach now the prisoner straightened,
trying to accept the fate he could no longer deny, praying that
somehow the courier might arrive in time. But there was no sign
of such a man riding into the howling throng.
"So be it," he stated in a voice full of doom, catching the
fevered eyes of the instigators. "But I will haunt each and every
one here who is responsible for my death."
"Loyalist!"
"King-lover!"
"Tory!"
"Hang `im!"
They hove him onto a restive horse and cinched the rope
around his neck. The crowd couldn't see the phenomenal
strength of the man through their hatred. He was steel inside,
willing to die for a cause he'd upheld for years behind the mask
of a mild-faced English merchant. He'd been a prime agent of
freedom for this new country, a proponent of Benjamin Franklin
and Thomas Jefferson--but only in his thoughts. He had no
regrets, except for the ignoble manner and suddenness of his
death at the hands of his own countrymen. They had no inkling
of the path to freedom he'd made more accessible for them.
Despite his threat, he felt sad for their incensed
misunderstanding.
He heard the slap, felt the horse jolt from beneath him.
The noose's knot slammed against his ear, but unfortunately not
hard enough to break his neck. He choked, fought the bite of the
hemp, and struggled for long minutes against the pain. Finally
succumbing to its shrinking clutch, the man sucked in a last
burning breath as darkness surged over his final whispered
thought:
"I will be remembered!"
* * *
Dr. Edward Kharman bolted upright in bed, gasping,
tangled in sweaty sheets. He'd never had dreams so vivid nor so
violent until he'd bought and move into this old Virginia house.
Disoriented and trembling, more fatigued than he'd been last
night when he went to bed, he fumbled for his glasses and
settled them against his nose before swinging his long legs over
the edge of the mattress and pulling on a pair of jeans.
Barefooted, he padded into the kitchen and made coffee.
The rich smell of Jamaica Blue Mountain soothed his twitching
nerves a little, but he required sunlight to dispel the clinging
flannel shreds of the dream.
He wrapped a hand around his favorite mug and slipped
through the back door and onto the small porch. Leaning one
shoulder against a wood-stained support warming in the sun
anchored him to the real world again.
"Mornin', Perfessor!"
Hot coffee sloshed onto Ed's hand as he jerked in
reaction to the sharp soprano. Grinning at his nerves, he
nodded to the person in the next yard.
"Good morning, Mrs. Sheridan. You're up early."
"Always. And call me Nettie. Everyone does." The feisty
octogenarian studied him with vulture-like intensity. Edward was
suddenly uncomfortably aware of his unshirted chest, bare feet,
and worn jeans smeared with paint. He was grateful his short
dark beard disguised much of his blush.
"How's she comin' inside?"
"Fine, thanks." A yawn escaped him. "Excuse me," he
offered, yawning again. "I'm a bit tired this morning. Finished
painting the parlor last night, so I was up late. That Federal blue
you suggested for the upper walls looks great with the oak chair
rail and the wallpaper."
"Thought so." Her scrutiny didn't abate as she stabbed
her spade into the garden plot. "Those nightmares started too,
didn't they?"
His cup sloshed again as the memory of his dream
eclipsed the sunlight. Kharman shivered, and for the briefest of
moments he felt the burn of a thick rope around his neck. "How
did you know?"
"Somethin' about the look of you. Seen it in previous
owners of the place. None of `em lasted long." She cocked her
head, crow-like. Sunlight gold warred with the bright silver of her
cropped hair. "Mebbe you won't either."
"Why . . . why would anyone who owned this house get
nightmares?" Ed wondered, not meaning to say the words aloud
as he stared into his coffee.
"Somethin' about stones from the first foundation still
existin' in those walls. Tale deals with a British sympathizer in
the Revolutionary War. Heard he met a violent end. Owners of
that place say they had peculiar feelin's sometimes, and
nightmares." She shrugged an end to her interest in the subject,
aiming her attention at the new shoots by her feet.
"Hanged. He was hanged." Edward's curiosity, honed by a
boyhood fascination for personal stories associated with Old
World civilizations, piqued. "What kind of peculiar feelings?" he
asked, remembering an unusual sense of nervousness as if an
invisible Sword of Damocles hung over his head since he moved
in.
"Dunno," the old lady returned. "Didn't pry."
"I don't know much about that period. I teach Western
European history. Where'd you hear about it?"
"Just picked it up somewhere."
"Do you remember anything else about the story?"
"Young man," Nettie snapped, straightening, "I don't
clutter my mind with such trivia. If you're that interested, go to the
Recorder of Deeds and the Surveyor's Office. Also the library.
Check with my granddaughter Cassie at the latter--she's a
research librarian there. Cassie Bloodworth. Very pretty. You'd
like her." The old woman returned to her work with energy,
obviously terminating their conversation.
Ed considered his options. Since it was Sunday, neither
the Recorder of Deeds nor the Surveyor's Office were open. But
the local library certainly was. Feeling a bit less spooked, he
returned to the kitchen, fortified himself with another half-mug of
coffee, replaced his jeans with pressed slacks topped by a
sports shirt, slipped his feet into loafers, and headed for his worn
Honda parked in the driveway. Wallpapering the study could
wait. It was a fine day to do some research.
* * *
"Cassie Bloodworth?" Ed stopped at the Research desk.
The attractive copper and honey-haired young woman paging
through an oversized antique book looked up.
"I'm Cassandra Bloodworth." Her wide brown eyes were
as sharp as her grandmother's, owning a glint of smoky quartz in
their depths. Her voice claimed soprano register but possessed
an intriguing huskiness, making it easy on his ears. "May I help
you?"
"Yes, please." His baritone clouded, and he cleared the
tightness nervously. "I'm Dr. Edward Kharman, a professor at
the university. I live next door to Nettie Sheridan."
"Nettie told me she had a new neighbor." Her smile was
slight, but she held out her hand. Ed shook it, marveling at her
cool delicate fingers. "What may I do for you?"
"Well, uh . . . I'm looking for information on a . . ." He
couldn't force the word "haunting" past his teeth. It just didn't
sound right in full daylight. ". . . a subject beyond my expertise. I
teach Western European history, and what I need to know
concerns the American Revolutionary War. I've got a minimum
of facts and a great deal of curiosity."
"This library has an excellent collection of books and quite
a good database on that time period," Cassandra said, rising.
"Let me get you started. I've got a bit more information to look up
for another patron, then I'll be able to help with your search." She
led him past rows of dry-smelling tomes on wooden shelves to a
large alcove marked "American History."
"There's the computer." She pointed, the wisp of an
impish smile playing across her expressive mouth as she turned
to leave. "I'll be back shortly."
Ed settled down and sat flummoxed by the menu until he
found "Legends-Hauntings." Unfortunately, the few references
he came across dealt with soldiers killed during various battles
now tied to the field or grove where they fell, or sweethearts and
wives of soldiers who died of disease or in childbirth, their last
words cries for their loved ones. There were very few structures
on record listed as haunted, and none by a British sympathizer.
He had just called up the list of known loyalists in the colonies
and printed it out when the research librarian returned.
"Any luck?" She stopped behind his shoulder.
"Not much. I should have inquired at the real estate
records office before coming here. I just don't know enough
about my subject to look this up."
"Here, let me try."
Kharman gratefully relinquished his chair. He sucked in a
deep breath and commanded his courage not to desert him. "I'm
looking for the history of the spirit who's haunting my house."
"Oh."
"Yeah," Ed replied, letting his frustration and fatigue show.
"I don't even know his name. I shouldn't have bothered you with
this."
Dark brown eyes shiny as polished bayonets met his
reflected in the screen. "When I was younger and that house
was empty, a couple friends and I sneaked in and tried to talk to
that ghost. It wouldn't deign to communicate through an Ouija
board."
"It gets to me through dreams." Edward shuddered,
memory of his nightmare chilling sunlit reality. "He was hung."
"How do you know?"
The professor sighed. "At the risk of you thinking me
completely crazy, I was forced to experience that last night, from
his point of view. It happened the night before, too. The scenes
get worse each time, more graphic. And the nightmares have
been increasing in scope since I moved in. They started as just
garbled vignettes. Now I get a full march to the hanging tree, and
more." He smiled wanly, unable to keep his fingers from
searching his neck for the tingling rope burn. "If this keeps up, I
won't be getting any sleep at all soon."
Ed felt as though he'd passed some sort of rigorous
emotional test when Cassandra finally nodded acceptance after
several moments of silence. "He may be able to communicate
with you more easily because you're male. Or perhaps you have
something else in common. Let's see, Nettie always called that
place the Winthorp House. Don't let her fool you, she knows a lot
more than she admits. We'll start there." Her nimble fingers
tapped code words in fast sequence as the professor drew up a
chair and watched. Information flashed onscreen.
"The original house on that site believed built by the
owner in the late 1760s," Edward read the lines on the monitor
aloud in a low voice. "Partially torn down in the mid-1770s.
Rebuilt on the same foundation, incorporating the two
incomplete ground floor walls left standing. Owned by Paul
Winthorp, merchant and farmer, during the 1800s. House burned
in late 1800s, again leaving two walls and the foundation. Stood
abandoned for nearly 20 years, then was rebuilt. Finding the
remnants in surprisingly good condition, the current owner
ordered them worked into the construction. The original
limestone foundation was expanded and a small wing added
including a second guest room above the new kitchen."
"Here's a suggestion," murmured the librarian.
"What's that?"
"I'll bet if you sleep in that room above the kitchen, your
nightmare won't be as bad. It's not part of the original house."
She twisted to face him. "What's odd about this description is
that both times the place was torn down or burned, parts of two
walls and the foundation were left. They're probably the same
ones each time. You've still got stones and who knows what else
left in your house from the first residence. Your nightmare might
be associated with those. They sometimes form a spiritual
anchor for the tortured spirit. That's purely conjecture, you
understand."
"I'll try sleeping in the guest bedroom," Ed said, studying
the information. "There's no owner's name linked with the first
house."
"That's another odd thing," Cassandra replied, turning
back to the computer. "It's as though someone has intentionally
erased the record of the first owner. Reminds me of the female
Pharaoh Hatshepsut: her son tried to obscure her claim to the
afterlife by obliterating all the cartouches inscribed with her name
from steles and her tomb in Egypt.
"Most of the old houses in this area are very well
documented--we get documents all the time from people doing
research on their families or on old homesteads. Considering the
exhaustive details we have on other old places, this file should
have several pages in it, not just one."
She hit "Print," and they waited in companionable silence
until the machines communicated and the single sheet spat out.
He reached for the paper as she leaned from her chair and
grasped the edge. Their fingers collided.
"Sorry," Edward said awkwardly, his hand retreating as
she rose and offered him his house's sparse history. "Thank you
very much, Ms. Bloodworth. You found much more information
than I expected."
Her half-smile returned. "I can't resist mysteries. That's
why I'm good at this job." She cocked her head as a soft female
voice with a Southern accent called her name over the library's
paging system. "Someone else needs my help."
"Would you . . . uh, would you like to see what I'm doing
to the place? I'm refurbishing the interior myself. Since you've
been in it, I thought you might be interested..." His voice
floundered to a halt. The professor, normally a reticent person
with new acquaintances, couldn't believe the words that had just
marched from his mouth. He held his breath as Cassandra
studied him with a bird-bright expression twin to her
grandmother's.
"I'd love to." It was her turn to be shy. "I've got next
Sunday off."
"Sunday afternoon, then, around three. I'll ask Nettie to
come, too. We'll have tea. Bring your . . . your partner if you
wish."
Cassandra laughed, a frothy rich sound, as she
disappeared beyond a bookshelf on her way back toward the
main part of the library. "I don't think so. My cat doesn't travel
well."
Kharman whooshed out a breath. He'd gained less
information than he'd hoped about his house, but more than he'd
expected about the lovely research librarian. Clutching the
printout in one hand, the professor strode out of the library into a
day brimming with spring optimism.
* * *
He spent the rest of the week drowning in grading
research papers from his students. Cassandra had been correct-
-his visions of the hanging were less horrific in the kitchen and
the guest room above it, but still they persisted. Night by night,
Ed achieved less sleep. Night by night, the urgency and reality of
the dream grew no matter where he closed his eyes. He began
mainlining coffee from soup mugs to stay awake, and dreaded
the increasingly late hour of his bedtime. His head felt
consistently muzzy, and his burning eyes saw the world through
the thin gauze of fatigue.
He read at the paper-stacked kitchen table rather than in
his wing chair in the parlor or at his desk in the study just
because the strange feelings of panic that occasionally
overwhelmed him from nowhere and the peculiar whisperings he
couldn't quite hear seemed farther away. Over a particularly
boring composition, however, tiredness betrayed him and he
nodded off. Kharman jerked awake sweating and gagging as
soon as his body--the loyalist's body, he corrected himself--
dropped to the end of the rope.
Details. Details might help Cassandra locate the British
sympathizer. Beginning his own research, he started lists of the
things he saw in the dream: clothing, weapons, buckled shoes,
men's hair pulled back in short ponytails, trousers ending in cuffs
just below the knee, long hose, even the words he'd heard and
how they were spoken. Edward realized he'd became the
cultural anthropologist of his own nightmare.
He was very glad when Saturday afforded him the
opportunity to sleep late after staying up until 3 a.m.
wallpapering the study. The physical labor had been a welcome
respite from grading papers. A strange noise forced him out of
the dream during the loyalist's threat to haunt the mob hanging
him. Ed lay in the guest room bed trying to place the irregular
thudding, then rolled over and looked at the digital clock.
"Seven!" he groaned, groping for his jeans and a shirt.
"Who's knocking on the back door at seven?" Stumbling down
the wooden stairs he slipped, pitching headfirst toward the
braided throw rug at the bottom of the flight.
A gust of wind with the pressure of two strong hands
slammed against his chest, pushing him back with enough force
that he somehow managed to get his feet beneath him. Ed stood
shaking on the treads, trying to make something from the
nothingness his eyes beheld. He blinked furiously into ether
wobbling like the heat shimmer that resides on heating
highways. Trembling, he reached out and passed a hand
through the area. His skin prickled with sudden cold.
"Show yourself!" Kharman panted. "Please! I must know
your name! Why are you doing this? Why are you here?" The
pressure against his pectoral muscles dissipated. He felt air stir
around his ears, but whatever the phantom tried to say seemed
pushed away or garbled before it translated into sounds he could
understand.
Knocking came again, more urgent. Ed stepped carefully
down the rest of the stairs, snapped on the light in the kitchen,
and threw open the wooden portal, ready to whip the intruder
with stinging words. They died on his tongue.
"Nettie!"
"Looks like you just been through somethin' awful. You're
white as a bleached sheet." She thrust out a china plate.
"Anyway, figgered you could use some good food with all those
nightowl hours you're keepin.' Muffins for breakfast." She peered
at him with all-too-knowing eyes, lowering the fragrant bread and
hefting another heaping plate covered with a paper doily. "And
you probably don't have time to bake in that fancy computerized
oven of yours, so I'm providing cake for tomorrow's soiree.
Heaven forbid my Cassie havin' to eat those wretched store-
bought things."
"Thank you. Will you come in?" Edward suddenly realized
how much his hands were shaking, also how overwhelmed with
research papers his kitchen table was. "I'm making coffee . . ."
He relieved her of the plates and stood back for the spry old lady
to pass.
She sniffed in disgust. "Never touch the disgustin' stuff.
Just burned beans. I suppose I'll have to bring some decent tea
tomorrow, too."
"No, ma'am," he announced, smiling at her acerbic
retorts. "I have tea, Darjeeling to be exact, and I know how to
prepare it in the finest British tradition."
"Welllll," she replied, lifting one eyebrow in surprise.
"Perhaps he'll do after all." She whirled, raising one hand in
farewell, and strode across his yard to the gate in the wooden
fence separating their properties, let herself through, and
returned to her garden.
Kharman shut the door with a toe. He crowned the pile of
graded papers with the muffins while wrapping the cake with foil
and slipping it into the refrigerator. The warm, homey smells of
bread and cake made his empty stomach complain loudly. He
brewed coffee, fetched butter and a clean plate, and sat down to
breakfast while he considered his options.
The Recorder of Deeds and the Surveyor's Office might
be open Saturday mornings. It would be good to meet
Cassandra and her grandmother tomorrow with information
instead of offering them only hospitality. He'd also ask their
opinions about the list of details he'd built regarding his
nightmare, as well as his near-tragic tumble down the stairs.
But first he'd have another muffin and more coffee. His
hands quit quaking as the dark liquid and fresh bread comforted
him. Licking the last crumb from his fingers like a schoolboy, Ed
washed his dirty dishes in the sink, set them in the wooden
drainer, and went to his bedroom to change clothes.
* * *
The knock on the front door shouldn't have startled him,
but it did. He'd been dozing at his desk. Edward stole a moment
to take off his glasses and swipe a hand across his aching eyes
before repositioning the silver frames on his nose and answering
the summons. His guests stood on the doorstep, both dressed in
spring-weight skirts and pretty frilled blouses.
"Thank you for coming, Nettie. Ms. Bloodworth."
"Cassandra, please."
The old woman assessed his condition in one glance.
"You look terrible, Perfessor."
"And you both are Spring personified," he replied gallantly
as they stepped past him. "The parlor's on your left."
The librarian glanced around. "You've done a lovely job
with the hallway. I really like the flagstone floor."
"I appreciate that," Edward returned. "It took a lot of work."
He led them on a tour of his house, then settled the ladies in the
parlor like roses amid the grouped candles with tea, coffee, and
thin slices of Nettie's rich cake. Detailed descriptions of what
Kharman planned for the rest of the house and backyard
dominated the conversation for half an hour.
"So what happened yesterday?" the elder woman finally
asked, appreciatively sipping the amber liquid from her china
cup. "See the ghost?"
Ed sighed, reluctant to approach the chilling memory in
such a warm, friendly atmosphere. "Almost," he answered
slowly. He related the tale of nearly falling down the stairs and
the invisible hands that had likely kept him from breaking his
neck. He finished and waited for their reaction. Surprisingly,
Nettie was silent, studying him shrewdly.
"I think it's trying to tell you something," stated Cassandra
suddenly, setting down her cup. "Maybe when you know its
name, it can communicate with you more easily." She looked at
the ceiling, the walls. "I wonder which ones were left after the
demolishing and the fire. I also hope the ghost is listening."
Nettie tapped her wrinkled fingers on the armchair.
"Cassie told me about your visit to the library. Mebbe it's not the
spirit of the person who died who's been feedin' you those
nightmares, Perfessor. Mebbe there was so much hate he had to
live with for so long that it's in the walls. Perhaps your ghost is
battlin' against it, just as he tried to do `fore he was hung.
Somethin' definitely on your side saved you yesterday. But the
hate blocks him whenever he tries to communicate directly."
Ed returned her stare. Nettie definitely knew more than
she let on. "My nightmares aren't direct communication?" he
asked, his mind trying to encompass the bizarre details.
"I think what Nettie's trying to say is perhaps the only way
the ghost can talk to you right now is by messages mixed with
plenty of hate," said Cassandra. "Those get through, others
don't. I'd say since the spirit helped you on the stairs, that's a
strong indication it means you no harm."
Edward nodded. "I've been writing down observations I
make during the nightmares." He passed half the list to each
woman to peruse. "The strange panic attacks that start for no
reason and whisperings I can't quite make out words to are less
in the kitchen, so I've been doing most of my grading in there.
And I did have some luck yesterday at the Recorder of Deeds
Office."
"Don't leave us sitting here in suspense, young man!"
Nettie snapped.
The professor smiled and poured her more tea. "Paul, one
of my students, works there, so he was willing to donate more
time than usual looking things up for me. He's also been doing
some research on his own because he's fascinated by the spies
General Washington employed before and during the
Revolutionary War. Intends to do his Master's thesis on the
subject. He went `way back in the files, put two and two together,
compared his facts with my story, and came up with a possible
name for my ghost."
"Who?" his guests chorused.
"He thinks it's likely a man named William Daniel Deaver,
who was often called Danny."
"Different from the Danny Deever in Rudyard Kipling's
poem," mused Cassandra.
"Definitely. That was more than a hundred years later.
William Daniel Deaver lived somewhere in this immediate area,
but there's no existing record of precisely where. Like you
suggested last week, Cassandra, any papers relating to him
were probably burned or otherwise destroyed. The nightmare
leads me to believe he was a merchant or businessman, and
was apparently a staunch loyalist. At least on the surface. Paul
found some interesting passages in Washington's papers
regarding an unnamed man the general referred to as `my most
daring spy.'"
"Go on," Nettie urged when Kharman paused for breath
and a sip of coffee.
"The references are necessarily vague, but Paul is pretty
well convinced it was Deaver." Ed looked at them both. "He was
a double agent, a very good one."
"Hanged by his own side," Nettie stated, shaking her
head. Her short silver hair burnished in the candlelight. "Poor
man."
"How horrible," murmured Cassandra. "That would
certainly account for all the hate left, and possibly for the first
destruction of the house. The mob may have pulled most of it
down after his hanging. Time and motivation both fit."
"Paul said Washington was worried about his agent
during the time when feelings against the British flared most
hotly among the colonials. Many loyalists abandoned their
houses and businesses, fleeing to Canada. The general may
even have tried to save Deaver's life with a letter sent by courier,
but the message never got here. In my dream, the victim urges
his captors to wait for the courier, but they're so driven to rid their
land of loyalists they won't listen. That's why Danny was hanged.
The loss was unnecessary. Washington did what he could, but it
wasn't enough. The general mourned the loss of his best source
of information about the British for the rest of the war, and for the
rest of his life."
"No wonder Danny became a ghost." Nettie punctuated
her statement by setting the china cup in her saucer with a
musical chink. "Now what?"
"I think," Cassandra said slowly, "that this ghost wants
something." She looked at Edward. "When you figure that out
and do what it requires, the nightmares will probably stop."
"I look forward to that. I'm about at the end of what I can
take and still remain functional. But how do I learn what this spirit
wants?"
"What does anyone want, young man?" Nettie's voice was
soft and atypical. She stared at the hardwood floor. "To be
remembered, of course. Our own tiny gleam of immortality. This
man's was taken away, and his spirit wants it back. Mebbe that
will give his ghost the power to fight the hatred still flowing
around here and hold it at bay. Recognition may make him
stronger."
Cassandra patted her grandmother's wrinkled hand.
"Nettie, you're brilliant."
"I know," the old lady returned in her normal brittle tone. "I
just can't understand why no one but you knows that."
"Any suggestions on how to remember him?" asked Ed.
"Hold a posthumous wake? Put up a monument or a brass
plaque?"
The librarian smiled. "Publish his story. You've had
research papers printed. Get this student of yours to do one on
Deaver. Better yet, work on it together. That way he can take
advantage of your name and get a print credit that will look great
on his scholastic record. And you can pick his brain for
knowledge of the time period and more details about Danny."
"Deaver's story would make a great book," the professor
admitted. "I hope Paul's got that in his plans." He sat in silence
watching Cassandra, openly admiring the graceful movements of
her hands and her delicate face. He finally remembered his
manners. "Well, we've found out quite a bit, but I don't intend to
let this rest. There has to be more. I'll keep poking around until I
can say most of the puzzle pieces are fitting together. We'll
probably never know all the details."
Cassie stood, smiling. "Thanks for the coffee and the tour.
I hope you'll let me know how things here are coming, especially
what happens with your nightmares."
The invitation stood open. "You'll be the second person to
know," Edward promised, with a smile for the librarian alone. He
escorted his guests to the door. "May I see you home, Nettie?"
"I'm very capable of seeing myself home, young man!"
"Then allow me the pleasure of escorting you to the gate
in return for those excellent muffins. It's the least I can do for
such kindness."
The old woman considered briefly. "In that case, of
course."
Kharman held out his arm. Nettie took it. As they moved
into the yard, he traded amused, understanding looks with
Cassandra above her grandmother's head.
* * *
Ed felt unusually restless that evening. The feeling grew
worse as the night added hours. He finally went into his study
and flipped the "On" switch of the laptop computer sitting on his
desk. Making himself comfortable in front of the blank screen
after the word processing program booted up, he understood
what he needed to do to appease the ghost.
"Remembering Danny," he typed the title, then paused to
order his thoughts. The house seemed to sigh and settle a bit
more firmly around him, as if finally accepting him as a partner.
As if the ghost was finally achieving rest.
Edward typed on, setting down the bones of his
experience. He'd add the details later. He felt good, his mood
becoming so buoyant that he determined to conquer his nerves
and ask Cassandra out to dinner. Nettie too, if the crafty old bird
acquiesced. It was the least he could do for their help and moral
support. And he'd catch his student Paul after class tomorrow
and suggest writing the paper together. He'd also call his friend
Nathan who directed the university's press and propose the idea
of printing the story to him over lunch.
A wholesome tiredness swept over Ed as he saved the
file and shut the lid of the laptop. Turning out the lights in his
study, he ascended the stairs to the master bedroom, shucked
off his clothes, and dropped into bed. Despite his fatigue, ideas
kept buzzing around in his mind and whispering past his ears.
Or was that something else going on, like a war between Danny
Deaver's spirit and the hate of the colonists which had grown so
great it became an entity in itself?
He didn't know, and didn't have time to find out before the
first restful sleep he'd had since moving into his house claimed
him.
* * *
Ed stretched, the cool cotton of the pillowcase feeling
good beneath his bare shoulders and back as one of the first
crisp breezes of fall fluttered the lace curtains at the window. It
had been quite a day, six months since his moving into the
Virginia house and the episodes of nightmare which followed.
His occasional visits with the pretty librarian had bloomed
into nightly phone conversations, highlighted by occasional
dinners, a picnic, and a movie or two. Things were going well--
comfortably slow, allowing a deep and appreciative regard to
grow in his soul as the woman's delightful personality and talents
unfolded their petals. Edward fervently hoped she felt the same
way toward him; he couldn't be absolutely certain, but he
suspected she did. Even her crusty grandmother seemed
pleased by the relationship, a minor miracle.
Today he'd invited Cassie and Nettie to Colonial
Williamsburg. The trio wandered among the displays in the old
wooden buildings and listened intently to the costumed docents
explaining and demonstrating how things were done three
hundred years ago. He wondered to himself if General
Washington's daring double-agent had ever traveled to
Williamsburg to do business.
Since the "Danny incident", a term Nettie had coined for
the unrestful period when they were trying to discover his ghost's
name, the professor found his attention captivated by the era
and had made it a hobby. It was amazing how his nightmare had
begun a sequence of events which brought him into contact with
first Nettie, then Cassie. It also started his intense research for
the paper he'd published with Paul a few months later in a
historical magazine, followed by their book proposal to the
University Press.
Kharman's appreciation for the hardy, determined
colonists of the mid-1700s burgeoned during that time. His
interest in Danny Deaver turned into admiration as he and his
student sleuthed facts and traced the agent's occult movements.
After treating the ladies to a lingering dinner at an
excellent restaurant on the way home, he'd dropped Cassie off
at her apartment. Her thanks and farewell had felt
extraordinarily tender. Perhaps the time was finally right to
suggest their engagement, or barring that, at least openly
declare their steady dating. Kharman endured Nettie's pointed
regard and did his best to turn her intuitive questions away from
that subject as he drove to the house he now called "Danny's
Rest". After seeing the old lady securely behind her locked door,
he entered his own portal, scooped up the mail scattered on the
flagstones beneath the brass flap, and headed upstairs to his
bedroom.
"Hi, Danny," Ed addressed the air in a quiet salutation that
had become habit. Since that night when he'd begin writing
Deaver's history, the house seemed to welcome him with an
atmosphere Kharman could only categorize as friendship. There
had been no discomforting intrusions into his dreams, no
peculiar itchy whisperings, no panic which he couldn't tie to a
solid reason. He intended to do what he could to keep it that
way as long as he owned the place.
Switching on the table lamp next to his bed, Edward hung
up his shirt and slipped off his shoes. He tossed back the star
pattern hand-made quilt, then fluffed a pillow against the iron
and wooden headboard. Settling down, he thumbed through his
mail, feeling pleasantly tired and extremely contented.
An envelope of thick linen-weave paper bearing the
university press's return address caught on his fingers. Dropping
the rest of the pile on the sheet beside him, he thumbed open
the seal.
It was from his publisher friend Nathan Allyn. "Dear Dr.
Kharman," he read the formal phrase half-aloud. "Thank you for
sending me the proposal for the book THE LOST HISTORY OF
DANNY DEAVER by you and Paul Harrington. I'm pleased to
inform you that the editors of the University Press and I are
accepting it for publication on next year's list. A contract will
follow soon under separate cover.
"We agree with you and your co-author that this story
needs to see the light of day. It's intriguing, unusual, well-
researched, and well-written, which is the type of work we look
for. Thank you for your submission. Congratulations. I'll be in
contact by phone in the next few days." The letter was signed,
"Best, Nathan Allyn, Director of Publishing."
Edward couldn't help laughing with delight, holding the
paper out as if inviting the ghost to read the wonderful news.
"Did you hear that, Danny? Paul and I are going to write your
story, and this time it's going to be a book. No one will ever
forget you again!"
He scooped the unread mail onto the table beside the
lamp, got ready for bed, and slipped between the sheets. With
the light out he listened to the breeze, grateful that its
sussurations held no disturbing near-words. Despite his
excitement, sleep sent him sliding down its dark corridor almost
immediately. His last thought was hope that Danny's spirit had
heard the good news.
A man dressed in mid-1700s attire with a rope burn
partially hidden by his white lace-edged cravat waited at the
edge of the professor's dream. His wrists were scarred but
unbound. A soul-deep smile lighted his features, replacing the
pain that had become all too familiar during Edward's
nightmares. William Daniel Deaver held arms forward as if he
wished to embrace a brother or cherished friend.
"Thank you," he intoned with feeling. "Thank you."
©Janet Pack 2001
Return to main page