Letters in Time

by Reiss Susan

  My jaw dropped. “You own Waterwood?”

  He checked his rearview mirror and seemed to concentrate on his driving as we made our way down the empty road. Quietly, he answered. “Yes, what’s left of it.”

  “What do you mean, what’s left of it?”

  “In its glory days,” he explained. “It was one of the largest plantations in the county, one of the largest on the Eastern Shore.”

  I stared out the windshield, trying to process this new information.

  “Don’t misunderstand,” he continued. “Land rich doesn’t mean wealthy. There are lots of expenses – taxes, upkeep. The thought of heating the house in the winter staggers the mind.”

  “You live in the main house?”

  He sighed. “Yes, but it isn’t as grand as it once was.” He gestured with a nod of his head. “Almost home.” And he clicked the turn signal for the road to the Cottage. I looked at the fields and thought about this man and his connection to Waterwood. And Daniel?

  He interrupted my thoughts with instructions. “Don’t forget to take your pain pill when you get inside. There’s no way you’re backing out of the meeting tomorrow night.”

  “What meeting?” I was hoping he’d forgotten.

  “The meeting of the writing group. Catherine said she’d pick you up at six. I’ll give you a ride home afterward. Take a nap before if you can.” Suddenly, he held up a hand in submission. “Look, it’s what you said you wanted. You want to write. Catherine says you need support. I don’t know anything about books, except how to read them. The only thing I can do is to get you with people who can help you. I only meant…”

  “I got it. But that’s tomorrow. I have a lot of reading to do today.” And I added in the quiet of my mind, the first thing I have to do is read about how to deal with a ghost.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Before the development of the fountain pen by Waterman & Co. after the Civil War, a person using a dip pen needed a traveler, a small, portable inkwell that kept the ink secure. The tiny traveler came in different shapes, such as an acorn, ladies hat box, or leather-covered case and was a source of personal expression.”

  – Member of the International Society of Inkwell Collectors

  At home, after a quick snack to put something in my stomach, I popped the pain pill and sat, waiting for it to kick in. The smart thing to do would be to take a nap, but the adrenaline was still pumping from the field fire. And Daniel was overdue for a response. It wouldn’t be smart to rile him.

  I made my way into the writing den, moving slowly to learn how to negotiate the Cottage with both legs and the crutches. It made things better, but it was still awkward. Relieved, I plopped into the chair at the desk. If I sat still and rested my leg, it was almost as good as taking a nap, right?

  I wanted to prepare to write an appropriate letter to Daniel. I pulled out the research pages about writing instruments used during the Civil War. I set aside the last letter from Daniel along with copies from the Maryland Room to use as an example of the handwriting from that period. Preparations to write the actual letter were cumbersome. I needed paper, pens, a bottle of ink and a rocker blotter for the wet ink. Fortunately, the desk had lots of cubbyholes and niches to organize things. It wasn't as convenient as using the internet and typing out an email, but it certainly got me in the mood.

  I opened the ink bottle without mishap and dipped the pen into it. It wasn’t as classy as using an antique inkwell, but it worked as long as the nib didn't go too deep into the bottle and drench the paper with wet ink blobs. It took some trial and error to get the pen and ink right.

  Then it was time to test my penmanship. I sent out a silent thank you to my elementary school teacher who had patiently drilled us in the art of cursive handwriting. The flowing style was rapidly becoming a lost art. Many schools didn't even bother teaching it to today's students. They even print their signatures. I’d read the reports in the news about the demise of cursive handwriting, but the ramifications didn’t hit home until I took on my first student teacher. I wrote a note and handed it to a student to give to her. Moments later, she was back asking me to decipher it. I thought she couldn't read my handwriting, but that wasn't it. She couldn't read the words at all. I'd written using cursive. From then on, I had to print every note for her.

  My normal handwriting wasn't fancy or flowery. During the Civil War, people took their time forming words on a piece of paper, especially capitalized letters. Some were ornate, even in a simple letter from a Union soldier to his wife.

  I spent some time practicing so I didn’t speckle the paper with ink droplets. Slowly, I moved the nib across the paper more evenly. Then I made a sample alphabet of the capital letters to use for reference. The other impressive thing about handwritten documents from that time was how straight each line was. They had an eye for keeping the words lined up evenly.

  The content of a letter was vital to people of that era. It was their primary source of news. But the presentation mattered, too. I made a note to find some lined paper to slip underneath the blank page to give myself a fighting chance of writing a respectable letter.

  Finally, I was ready to write to Daniel, but what was I going to say? It would be better to draft the contents, make any corrections, and copy it using the dip pen and ink. It was a natural point to take a break. And a perfect time to sit on the patio.

  I felt a bit guilty. The thought of writing a 19th-century letter had driven away any thoughts about the firefighters. I hadn't heard a boom, so they must have handled the situation successfully, just as TJ said they would. I picked up the stack of library materials and stopped in the kitchen for a cool drink before delving into the dos and don'ts of dealing with a ghost.

  It took some work and innovative thinking to get everything out to the patio, but it was worth it. The air was clear and the humidity was low, a rarity in August in this region. I felt like I was falling into a trance as I gazed at the water. The tide was coming in so all the mud that could get smelly in the summer heat was covered. The breeze tickled the green leaves that would soon be turning into a colorful show of reds and golds. It was there, across the creek, that a creepy old woman had once lived. A witch, it was declared. She was the target of the local people’s anger, grief and frustration when things happened that they couldn’t understand. In the 1700s, it must have been easier to blame the strange old woman for things like the appearance of disease, sudden loss of a child, or the destruction of a homestead. I thought it was curious that the landowner didn’t move Virtue Violl off his property. Why would he allow a witch to live so close to his family? I’d have to ask TJ if she was one of his ancestors.

  The Lone Oak now soared about eighty feet into the clear blue sky. It wasn't tall and skinny. It was full and well-shaped. Its branches beckoned to be climbed. I knew the view would be phenomenal. Not for me. I had work to do. I put my leg up in a comfortable position and began to make notes from the articles I'd printed at the library:

  When dealing with a ghost, relax!

  That's easy to say on a bright, sunny day, I thought. I wasn't proud of how I’d panicked when I'd found Daniel's first letter on the desk. It was a natural response for a woman used to living alone in a major city with more than one deadbolt lock on her door.

  A ghost feeds off fear. Daniel must have binged that first morning.

  I loved the next line: Remember the ghost is probably like you, only dead.

  It’s often best to leave a ghost alone. Think of it as a quirky house guest. That might work if the ghost wasn't writing you letters and waiting eagerly for a response.

  Ask the spirit to leave. Hmmm, too late for that one.

  Keep a record of everything, sightings, feelings, strange occurrences. Well, I’m trying to do that, but the content of the letters keeps disappearing. At least, my copies were holding up. I made a mental note to type everything into a document on the computer. Or would that allow Daniel to haunt my computer? The thought of Daniel fooling around wi
th all my lesson plans saved in memory made me uneasy. I made a mental note to keep Daniel and my computer separate.

  Bless your home. Use anything from a vial of holy water to special prayers by clergy to a full-blown exorcism. I decided it might be better to skip this option for now. Daniel seemed like a sensitive man. I didn't want to think how he would react if he was forcibly separated from the woman he thought was his Emma. Plus, I was not comfortable with the idea of telling anybody about the ghost, at least not yet. Maybe never.

  Invite a paranormal group to do an investigation. If I didn’t want to tell a priest or minister about the ghost, let alone TJ, why would I ask ghost hunters who lug around weird equipment in the glow of a green light to invade the Cottage? No, this wasn’t an option either.

  Another article had other recommendations:

  Ring a bell in each corner of each room to break up the negative energy. I didn't think Daniel was a source of negative energy, but I circled this suggestion. It would be easy to do, just in case.

  Burn sage and allow the smoke to waft through the house. I knew many cultures use sage as a purifying agent. This wasn’t an option right now. I’d had enough smoke for one day.

  I looked in the direction of the field that had caught fire. There was no smoke in sight. The firefighters were probably back at their station houses eating chili and Johnny was on the phone with his insurance company about a claim.

  Something, out of the corner of my eye, snagged my attention. When I turned my head to look, there was nothing there. It must have been the bushes moving in the breeze. Only the air was still. All this reading about ghosts must have set me on edge. I wondered if the painkiller was making me hallucinate. It might be time to cut it back. I scribbled a note to check with the doctor’s office.

  I shuffled my research papers and found a small book stuffed in there. It covered the folklore of the Eastern Shore. There was a statement from an issue of "McBride's Magazine" published in 1886. It said that Virtue Violl was not the only witch who had lived on the Point. I scanned the article. Another woman had settled on the same piece of land. Katie Cobin was lonely, deformed, ugly, and wretchedly poor. People claimed that she terrorized both adults and children. Many wore charms to protect themselves against her spells. After she disappeared, they reported that a gauzy specter lit by an eerie light wandered around the old Lone Oak.

  I was overdosing on the stories of the supernatural. There were a lot of suggested remedies, but not one for a lonely, lovesick ghost. I put the book aside and caught myself staring at the Point. Why had the Lone Oak drawn two women there to live out their wretched lives. Were they witches? Probably not, but still… What was it that drew them to that place?

  I took a long drink of lemonade to center myself in the here and now. Of course, an unexplained light in the middle of the night was upsetting. In today’s world, it was probably a flashlight. Centuries ago, women might have wanted privacy. But to do what? I trembled for a moment as the face of the detective flashed in my mind’s eye. The other night, someone had wanted privacy to bash a boy’s face in with a shovel.

  I leafed through some more articles about dealing with ghosts. Some of the self-proclaimed spiritual experts wrote about the constant battle between heaven and hell, dark angels and … the list of eerie entities was a long one.

  Okay, that’s enough. I was frightening myself. I didn’t need to do that. It would be best to finish looking at all this material and get on with things. All this talk about the supernatural was enough to make me think I was hearing things and seeing things that weren’t there. Some of the advice and recommendations made me laugh out loud.

  A rustling sound behind me made me jump.

  A woman asked, “What’s so funny?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “It is a great violation of propriety to send an awkward, careless, badly written letter, as it is to appear in a company of refined people, with swaggering gait, soiled linen, and unkempt hair.”

  —How to Write Letters

  by Professor J. Willis Westlake, 1883

  My breathing stopped. My stomach clenched. My hands curled into fists. PTSD, again. I didn’t begin to calm down until my brain registered the fact that I recognized the voice. it was Stephani from the library who had asked the question.

  She rushed to my chair. “I’m sorry. Are you all right? I scared you.” Her words of concern tumbled out like a waterfall.

  I took a sip of my lemonade and was embarrassed to see the glass shaking in my hand. I sucked in a deep breath and insisted in a thready voice, “Don’t be silly. I’m fine.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, as she sank into a patio chair and looked like a lost puppy. “But I did scare you,”

  “Well, maybe a little.” As casually as I could, I turned over the pages about dealing with ghosts so she wouldn’t see them. “I haven’t adapted to being in the country yet. Still on my guard as one must be in the big city.” My laugh sounded forced.

  She leaned forward in her chair and pushed her red-framed glasses up her nose. "I did knock on the door several times," she assured me. "Knowing that you can't drive, I thought I'd check out here." She cast her eyes over the water view and sighed. "If I lived here, this is where I'd be on a day like today."

  “And here you are.” I liked the girl and appreciated the company, but I would have preferred to be alone, to recover after such a fright.

  “Yes, here I am.” She reached into a huge purse, the kind that is so popular with everyone but me. I didn’t have enough stuff that I wanted to lug around with me all the time. Women I knew always claimed it was a fashion statement. I believed it was a conspiracy of orthopedists who specialized in back and shoulder ailments to drum up business.

  “I brought the materials as promised,” she said. “I was able to find a few things, but – well, you’ll see when you go through it.” She gave me a tentative smile.

  I took the papers and added them to the pile of reference materials. “Thank you so much for doing this work.”

  Her smile relaxed into a genuine one. “It’s my pleasure. I’m glad to help. Work like this gives me more experience and that’s what counts in my internship.”

  "I appreciate you bringing the papers all this way," I added.

  “I don’t live far from here. My family has owned land close by for hundreds of years. We don’t have what they once had, but my mom still has a house with a few acres.” She picked up her purse. “Speaking of my mom, I should be going. If there’s anything else I can do to help you, I hope you’ll let me know. Oh!” She put the purse back on the table and dug around inside for what seemed like several minutes.

  Proudly, she pulled something out and handed me the librarian’s business cards with her name and phone number written on the back. "If you need anything, you can contact me directly."

  “As a matter of fact, there is something. I don’t know what your schedule is, but if you’re running back and forth to Easton, you may be able to help me out.”

  “Sure, what do you need?”

  “I have regular appointments for physical therapy sessions and I need a driver. Do you think you might be interested?” I’d imposed enough on TJ's time. Plus, Stephani and I could spend the time in the car talking about local history.

  “Sure, I could do that if we can mesh our schedules,” she said.

  “I’ll pay you, of course.”

  She almost giggled. “If you can cover my gas, that would be great.”

  “I think I might be able to do better than that.” I held up the card she’d given me. “Why don’t I call you and we can compare notes? I might even be able to change my schedule of appointments to coincide with your schedule.”

  She had a dazzling smile. “That sounds great.” She swung the purse strap on her shoulder. The weight seemed to throw her off balance for a moment. “Is there anything else?”

  "As a matter of fact, there is.” I shuffled through the papers that had hidden the small book. “T
here’s an article in this book about a woman who once lived on the Point over there."

  “Oh, you mean Virtue Violl,” Stephani put her big purse down on the table again. “Everybody around here knows about her. They say that her ghost walks some nights when there is a full moon.” She held up her hands and shook them as she made scary noises. “I hope you don’t believe in that kind of thing.”

  “No, it’s not about Virtue. This woman lived over there almost a hundred years after Virtue.” I picked up the book and opened it to the bookmark. “Here it is. Her name was Katie Cobin." When I looked up, Stephani’s face had gone so pale that she looked like she was carved out of marble. “Stephani?”

  She took in a sudden breath. “Y-yes, why do you want to know about her? It’s only hocus-pocus.”

  "I know, but it's part of the history or folklore that touches the Cottage. Do you think you can find me more information about Katie? It says…" I checked the page again. “Yes, here it is. There's a brief mention that her ghost still walks ‘for a reason.’ Do you know what that reason is?"

  “No.” Her voice was thin enough to fit through a straw.

  “Well, maybe your research will tell us something,” I suggested. Stephani still stood like a statue. “It’s worth a try or maybe we could ask the reference librarian when he comes back from his conference.”

  A hitch of breath came out of her mouth. And I felt guilty. “Don’t worry, your reputation as a research intern is safe with me.” It was good to see a young person dedicated to her job.

  “Oh, okay. Thanks.” Stephani moved her head so her dark hair swung back and forth. “I’ll see what I can do.” she said as she left, taking the brightness of the day with her.

  I settled back in the chair and looked around. As a child, I’d loved watching the world from this spot. It gave me a wide view of the creek, the Lone Oak, and more. Nothing had really changed. The creek still ran with the tidal shifts. The Lone Oak was a bit taller, but today, the vista was flat. I only saw the brittle brown edges of the normally bright pink petals of the massive Crepe Myrtle bushes. The fiery red maple leaves looked rusty without the sun’s rays shining down on them. A gray-white cloud cover had sucked the sparkle out of everything. The scene fit my mood. Bored and boring. With nothing to really engage my mind, thoughts I had been pushing away overtook me.