Authors: Loni Lynne
***
April tried to settle in to read the hardback book she'd purchased. The excavation of Kings Mill should be fascinating. But twenty minutes of mind numbing legal crap on procuring excavation rights led to her thumbing through the black and white photos in the middle pages that were mostly group photos of the digging team and volunteer archeologists. A picture of a silver chatelaine unearthed in the manor house cellar popped up as she rifled through the pages. April sat up and examined the photo.
A chatelaine was a very important implement to a lady of the house, much like a smart phone with all of its apps. It contained everything a woman needed to run a household. Each chain was attached to items such as door keys, keys to china hutches and secretary desks. Dainty scissors, needle holders, and writing tools were also favorite items to be found on one.
This one was a silver brooch in a fleur-de-lis design. Three chains still hung from it containing two skeleton keys, one larger than the other. What could the priceless artifact reveal to her if she could ever get her hands on it? Something as intimate and personal as a woman’s chatelaine would still contain the owner’s memories and emotional details. Just thinking about it made her fingers itch.
She spied a picture of her aunt’s house as it had been in 1987. Underneath the photo, the caption explained it had been Henry Samuels’s residence before his death in December 1774. Some historians believed Henry was the owner of the mill instead of James Addison, but no formal deed had ever been found. Besides, this didn’t help her. April needed proof of James Addison owning the mill, not Henry Samuel. A small portrait of the stout, middle aged man with great jowls wearing a small periwig was on the following page. The picture depicted what she thought a colonial land commissioner would look like. Even his beady little eyes screamed of political power.
She turned the page. The last glossy insert stopped her heart cold. James Edward Addison, second son of the Earl of Sunderbury, stared back at her, the image a copy of a painting from a personal collection from England. He’d been twenty-one at the time of the sitting, just shy of taking leave for the Maryland colony. The man had a high brow, firm jaw line, and an aristocratic bearing for one so youthful. The picture portrayed only his torso but he had nice broad shoulders and his dark hair wasn’t covered with a powdered wig like Henry. His white linen shirt contrasted with his dark, scruffy jaw line.
Enthralled by it, she peered closer at the picture. Those eyes! They mesmerized her. Even from the pages of the book, the look in his eyes spoke volumes as if he were trying to communicate with her. The black and white picture didn’t reveal their color, but James’s passion resonated, sending chills up her spine.
But the most amazing thing was, for all intense purposes, James Addison bore a striking resemblance to her guide.
No. It couldn’t be.
No…no!
April slammed shut the book and shook her head, refusing to believe for one minute—
“May I borrow this seat?”
A clutch of women settled around the table next to hers. While she’d immersed herself in research, the cafe had become more crowded and seating was at a premium. She noted the time on her watch. The twenty minutes had moved into forty-five while she’d obsessed over the middle of the book.
“Of course, I’m finished anyway.” She tried to smile at the group. Once she gathered her wits and her belongings, she stood and threw her bag over her shoulder.
Afternoon sunshine hit her as she emerged from the coffee house. But even the bright rays didn’t stop her from shivering at the realization she had possibly seen a ghost. April found herself right back in her dilemma. Doggedly determined not to believe such bull, she crossed the street with a no nonsense gait, as if trying to outrun her over active imagination. No way in hell was she going to believe her guide was a ghost, and definitely not the ghost of James Addison!
Upon crossing the street she stopped mid stride. But what if it was true? She was a member of the Wilton clan and a woman. She was born into the trait. It was a very real possibility. She didn’t need to experience the family curse. Not now when she was about to prove herself in her field.
She did not see ghosts, she told herself. She had her gift of psychometry. That was enough. April needed to focus on her research and get a handle on the past because the present was too confusing. She had no desire to go back to Aunt Vickie’s and have her try to reason with her about her ghostly heritage. She needed to do something to keep her mind focused on her task. She was a historian. She needed to research her subject. The book in her hands called her name. That settled it! She would drive out to the old mill site and see what she could find.
***
The drive was further than April anticipated. The outskirts of Kings Mill gave way to large, stately mansions littered along the rolling hillsides below the Appalachian mountain ridge. She passed a few subdivisions, the little villages filled with cookie-cutter single-family homes. The parcel of land for which the town was named was outside the actual city limits, far from the downtown area.
Pulling off the road, April got out and locked the doors. Tucking a stray piece of hair under her cap, she walked around the car, looking out onto the field in front of her. A roadside, historical plaque caught her attention.
Kings Mill
One of the early gristmills in the area operated by James Addison, until his death in 1774. The nearby town of Kings Mill was named in honor of the famous mill which produced most of the grain flour for the area for many years until a fire in December 1774 destroyed both the mill and manor house.
April shivered. Even though she’d bundled in her woolen pea coat, hat and scarf, she was still chilled. Reading the commemorative inscription again, she noted the sign said, ‘operated’ not ‘owned.’ There was the source of her angst. Had James Addison only operated the mill? Was the mill owned by Henry Samuel, instead of James as some of the local history proclaimed?
Psychic energy dominated this place. She didn’t need artifacts to get a reading of the history throbbing around her. Her psychometry picked up on it, feeding off of the historical essence still living within the site. Something as simple as closing her eyes and inhaling the air around her brought on a sense of déjà vu. History haunted her, not ghosts, as Aunt Vickie always hoped.
Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not there.
The quote seemed to float on the sudden burst of a breeze, as if whispered to her by an ethereal presence—or her Aunt Vickie. April sighed and rolled her eyes. Parting the weeds and brambles, she crossed the shallow ditch and stepped forward into a large, barren field. Naked trees stood in the foreground against a back drop of the grey Appalachian mountain range.
She stooped to pick up a field rock and held it in her hand, looking around at the peaceful scene. The wind picked up a bit again, rustling the tall grasses against her legs. April closed her eyes and inhaled the late autumn air.
Suddenly, the air turned heavy and pungent. Thick smoke strangled her airways, burning and seizing her chest as she fought to take a breath. Coughing and gasping, the scent became stronger the more she tried to breath. Her eyes flew open and she looked around—nothing. She dropped the rock back to the ground. Tears blurred her vision.
Damn! Were her allergies flaring up again? Of course, all the pollen and dry weeds around here were enough to make anyone’s sinuses irritated. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
The wind stopped. Nothing moved. Not even the grass. Apprehension prickled her spine. A sane woman would have left. Not April, she was used to this sensation. It was history beckoning to her. She walked further away from the safety of her car and headed towards the barren fields beyond the slight ridge.
She stopped at a partial stone foundation buried into the ground a couple of feet deep. Weeds, bramble bushes, and saplings laid down their homestead within the rocky structure, but she could still see the outline of the old building. April assumed it was the remains of the manor house. It had to be the house because there were no indications of a creek or damned up pond to show this was the remains of the water powered mill.
Lowering herself down into what was left of the foundation, she hoped to get a sense of time and place to help her distinguish the truth behind the object of her interest. Scorch marks were evident on some of the stones where the elements hadn’t touched them, but moss and lichen had taken over much of the remainder. Black soot smudged the base of the far wall and drew her toward the anomaly. Time and elements should have worn away any markings by now. Why were they still here? Frowning, April brushed the stone to see if she could remove the black ash.
Fire scorched her hand. She tried to pull back from the stone wall but her hand was locked onto it as if magnetized. No matter how much she tried to dislodge herself, April couldn’t release her palm. Panic set in as she desperately pulled at her arm.
A strong smell of burning wood filled her nostrils. Muffled screams startled her and she turned abruptly to see the manor house burning around her. Licks of flame fanned her body. Terrified, April screamed only to realize the scene was images from the past. She stood in the middle of the flames, and yet nothing around her was real. There was no heat, no real fire.
April heard a muffled noise and saw movement just beyond her vision of flames. She had to squint to see through the shimmering heat waves. A woman struggled, bound and gagged, and next to her was the unconscious body of a young man.
She watched in horror as the flames caught on the hem of the girl’s dress and inched up in slow motion. April couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Standing encased in time and space, she could only watch helplessly as the woman pleaded, looking at her with large round eyes above the gag. The woman’s voice squealed, muffled against the cloth, as the fire engulfed her.
The sound of splintering wood overhead caused April to crouch low against her captive wall. She cried out, knowing she could very well be taking her last breath. The creaking and snapping of the timbers holding the house in place caved in on them in an orange-red, hellish inferno.
***
Moments passed as she sat crouched low against the wall to protect herself from the ceiling coming down on her. When she dared to look, April removed her free arm from over her head. Everything she’d witnessed was a hallucination.
The stone wall released her from its captive grip. Her hand fell to her side, limp and trembling. Her throat was raw from screaming. Had she screamed? She must have. Maybe it was her own voice she’d heard in her head, not the young woman she thought she’d seen. Dazed, she scanned the space where she’d seen the girl tied up. On trembling legs she inched towards the spot. Dropping to her knees she inspected the ground. Nothing was there, not even a sense of time.
What had just happened to her? She blamed it on her psychometry, but her gift had never been this intense. She’d felt as if she’d actually been transported back in time. Had she witnessed the mill fire back in 1774? If so, who were the two people she’d seen burn to death?
April studied the stone wall which had held her captive. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it. It was only a wall. Her fingers tingled. She rubbed her hands together to try to dispel the effect. Dear God, her hand itched to touch the wall again! The one touch had changed her reality. Part of her wanted to test the theory but fear took hold. She couldn’t—she didn’t want to go back there and view the scene again. She needed to get out of here.
Rising from the ruins, she struggled to pull herself together. She was in shock. Her numb body tingled. Her jaw ached from clenching it to keep her teeth from rattling. It popped painfully when a sneezing fit took hold. Her throat burned and the canals along her Eustachian tubes itched annoyingly. Her seasonal allergies had grabbed her with a vengeance!
She ran back towards her car, up the ridge past the fields of wheat and workers. She stopped. Workers? People were out in the fields who hadn’t been there before! The lands were no longer barren. Field hands worked the crop. Stumbling under the weight of her disbelief, she tried to get her brain to deny what it was seeing.
She turned around looking behind her towards the ruins. There stood a large, colonial manor house in its glory, no longer on fire. How could that be when only moments before she’d been held hostage to its unique historical powers, as if she’d been part of its history as it burned to ash in another dimension of time.