The Road Home

by Michael Thomas Ford

  It occurred to him that he might be able to fix some of the images using photo-correction software. Along with the prints and developed negatives, the lab had sent him the pictures on a CD. He took this and put it into his computer. Opening the software, he selected the image of Will and imported it into the program. It appeared on the screen, much reduced in size. Burke focused on the cloudy areas and enlarged that area of the photo in order to better see what might be done. He didn’t like manipulating his work this way, but if he could salvage the pictures, it might be worth it.

  He increased the overall size of the image to twenty-four by twenty-four inches. On his laptop screen he was able to see only a small portion of the photo, so that the picture appeared as a mosaic of colored blocks. He wished he had the large monitor on his computer at home, which would have made things much easier. As it was, he had to move the image around until the cloudy areas were in the frame.

  When he found them, his fingers froze over the keyboard. There was Will’s shoulder, the freckles on his skin clearly visible in their magnified state. And behind his shoulder two faces looked directly into the camera. Indistinct, as if shot through water, they were nonetheless faces. Burke could make out eyes and mouths, although they were mostly shadow, and within the blur of gray the outlines of two bodies were visible.

  With a few more clicks, he called up the black-and-white images he had taken with the Yashica-Mat. He selected the one of Will looking into the pond and increased it to the same size as the newer photo, again focusing on the blurred area. Placing the two images side by side, he compared them. Although in many ways it was like comparing a cloud to a cloud, there was something about both photos that was undeniably similar. Looking at them, Burke couldn’t escape the feeling that the unidentified face in the pond was one of the same ones looking over Will’s shoulder in the more recent shot.

  A chill passed over him. Don’t be ridiculous, he immediately told himself. They’re just lens aberrations. But even as he thought it, he knew that he didn’t believe it. There was something too—he searched for the right word and could come up only with real—about the images.

  The box of research materials Lucy had brought over earlier in the week was sitting on the dining room table. Burke found himself pulling it toward him and looking through it for the smaller box of photographs. He found it and removed the picture of Amos Hague, Tess Beattie, and the unidentified man. Holding the photo beside the images on the computer screen, he compared them.

  Again, he felt a tingle of fear. The face in the photo taken at the pond bore an eerie resemblance to that of the unidentified man standing with Amos Hague and Tess Beattie. And it was there again in the second photograph. And the other face in the second photo looked remarkably like that of Amos Hague.

  Burke set the photograph down. He couldn’t help but think about what Freddie Redmond had said about the Hague farm being haunted. Had that story gotten into his head and made him see ghosts wherever he looked? But you thought something was strange even before you heard that, he reminded himself.

  Ever since he was a child, he’d loved haunted-house stories. But did he believe in ghosts? He found it difficult to say. He’d always said that he’d believe in them when he saw one for himself. Had that moment come?

  He opened another of the photographs he’d taken on the second visit to the farm, then applied a grid overlay to the photo to mark it off in equal sections. The same two blurs appeared there, but they were positioned slightly to the right of where they’d appeared in the first photo. As he opened the remaining files to compare them, he discovered that in each one the pair of figures appeared in a different place, all within a limited range, so that without looking at them using the grid overlay, it would be easy to overlook the fact that they traveled. But travel they did.

  He’d felt better when he’d thought the blurs were the fault of the lenses. But if that were true, the position of the blurs would remain constant. Now he had to accept that they likely weren’t caused by the camera. He could always test the cameras again with different film—and probably would just to satisfy his curiosity—but he suspected he would get the same results. And even if he got nothing, it was still impossible to ignore the faces within the distortions.

  Burke had seen numerous examples of photos that supposedly showed spectral bodies or faces. But he’d always assumed these photographs to be either fakes or defects that could be explained by shadows, light flares, or issues with the camera lenses. Now, faced with evidence of his own making, he wondered if anyone else would see what he saw.

  Lucy was in the kitchen, making lunch. Burke was about to ask her to come look at the photos when he heard his father come in from outside. He’ll be less likely to see things, he told himself. He has no imagination.

  “Dad!” he called out. “Come in here a second. I want to show you something.”

  Ed entered the dining room, wiping his just-washed hands on a dish towel. “What’s the emergency?” he asked.

  “Just look at this photo,” said Burke, handing him the shot of Will against the stone wall.

  His father took the photograph and peered at it over his glasses, his eyebrows arched. “The Janks boy seems to have lost his shirt,” he remarked after a moment.

  “Do you notice anything else?” Burke asked him.

  “Looks like you smudged it right here,” said his father, indicating the cloudy areas. “Get your thumb on the negative, did you?”

  “I didn’t develop these,” Burke told him. “I sent them to a lab.”

  “Might want to ask for your money back, then,” said Ed.

  “Maybe I should, Dad,” Burke replied. “Thanks.”

  “They almost look like ghosts,” his father said as he handed Burke back the photo. “I suppose you could tell people you got yourself some dead folks on film. Probably make a lot of money with that.” He chuckled. “Some folks will believe anything if you tell them you’ve got a picture of it.”

  Burke said nothing. Got yourself some dead folks on film, he thought to himself.

  “I’m going over to Sandberg after lunch,” said Ed. “You’re welcome to come along, if you want to get out. No bother.”

  Burke could tell that his father wanted him to say no. They both continued to pretend that their awkward discussion the last time they’d ridden together hadn’t happened. Burke was only too happy to avoid the possibility of another confrontation, but he wanted to see Sam. He needed to discuss the photographs with someone who wouldn’t think he was crazy, or who at least might listen with an open mind.

  “That would be great,” Burke said, turning away so that he wouldn’t see any look of disappointment that might appear on his father’s face. “I’d like to go to the library, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “That’ll be just fine,” said his father. “I’ll drop you off and come back for you when I’m done with what I need to do.”

  Burke nodded. He didn’t ask what his father needed to do. Not inquiring about one another’s lives was a familiar approach to their relationship. It had worked well for many years, and after seeing his father’s reaction to the suggestion that they have an actual conversation, Burke wasn’t eager to try to change things.

  Lucy called them into the kitchen, where she fed them grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. “Firing up that toaster oven and opening that can of soup is as close to cooking as I’m getting,” she declared. “I don’t know what’s for dinner, but I’m not making it.”

  Burke and his father left as soon as they finished eating. They rode in silence, although this time Burke wasn’t thinking about their relationship. He was thinking about the pictures in the envelope he’d brought, and about the ones on his laptop, which sat on the seat beside him. And he thought about how to tell Sam what he thought was in them.

  His father dropped him at the library, pausing only long enough to help Burke down from the truck and hand him the laptop and envelope. Burke held these awkwardly with his one good
hand and made his way slowly up the steps to the front door. As he stood trying to figure out how to open it, he was nearly knocked down by Freddie Redmond, who ran out holding a book in his hands.

  Looking up, Freddie faced Burke and read in a slow but firm voice: “‘Weasels—and stoats—and foxes—and so on. They’re all right in a way—I’m very good friends with them—pass the time of day when we meet, and all that—but they break out sometimes, there’s no denying it, and then—well, you can’t really trust them, and that’s the fact.’”

  Beaming, Freddie raced down the steps, the copy of The Wind in the Willows flapping in his hands like an excited bird.

  Burke caught the door with his foot and went inside, again almost getting knocked down, this time by Tanya. She had been walking toward the door and had stopped to say something to Sam, who was standing behind the desk. When she’d turned around, she’d nearly smacked into Burke.

  “Shit!” she said, laughing. “Don’t sneak up on a girl like that. You’re lucky I don’t have my pistol on me.”

  “The Redmond family seems to be in a good mood this afternoon,” Burke remarked as he made his way to the desk and Tanya made her way outside.

  “Turns out Freddie isn’t as dumb as some people seem to think,” Sam said.

  “Hey,” Burke objected, “I never—”

  “I meant his teachers,” Sam interrupted.

  “Right,” Burke said, trying to salvage his dignity. “So, I have something to show you.”

  “Great,” Sam said. “Because I have something to show you. Well, to tell you, anyway.”

  “You go first,” Burke told him. Now that he was there, he felt foolish about the whole ghost thing, and suddenly he didn’t want to say anything about it to Sam.

  “Okay,” said Sam. “Well, I did some digging around, and I found out some interesting stuff about our friend Amos Hague.”

  “How interesting?” Burke asked.

  Sam seemed to think about this for a moment. “I’d rate it a firm B plus,” he said. “Do you remember Tanya mentioning that her grandmother said the Wrathmore place was stolen from their family?”

  Burke nodded.

  “Turns out she was right,” Sam said. “Well, I don’t know that it was stolen, but it certainly was taken. I found a couple of old newspaper articles about it.”

  “What are they written on, parchment?” Burke joked.

  “Close,” said Sam. “Fortunately, the Sandberg Crier was one of half a dozen newspapers in the state selected for preservation by the Vermont Historical Society. The fellow who printed it kept several copies of each issue and stored them in his cellar. It apparently was a remarkably well-built cellar, as it provided the perfect levels of temperature and humidity for keeping the papers from deteriorating.”

  “Thank goodness for that Yankee know-how,” Burke said.

  “Indeed,” Sam agreed, smiling. “At any rate, the papers were found in remarkably good condition, which made them perfect for digital transfer. You can look up the daily news for any date from September 17, 1902 to December 31, 1936.”

  “Exciting reading, is it?”

  “If you want to write a history of the Sandberg Ladies’ Society annual cakewalk, it’s riveting,” Sam said. “Also, if you want to find out a couple of things about Amos Hague and his farm.”

  “Which we do,” said Burke.

  “First things first,” Sam said. “Tess Woode—formerly Hague—died on February 2, 1903. Cause of death unknown. A year later, on June 21, 1904, her daughter, Grace Woode, married a Mr. John Blackburne.”

  “Just like Caroline Ayres wrote on the tree,” said Burke.

  “It should be noted that the bride was given away by her father, Mr. Peter Woode,” Sam added. “We’ll get back to that. For now skip ahead to 1911, when the same Mr. Peter Woode dies on December

  23. Again, no cause given.” “Christmas was a grim affair that year,” said Burke.

  Sam nodded. “It gets worse,” he said. “On December 24, a Mr. Calvin Wrathmore presented a claim of property ownership for the Hague farm to the town clerk, a Mr. Jackson Paltry. I found that little tidbit buried in the legal notices section.”

  “Did it say on what grounds he claimed ownership?”

  Sam shook his head. “No. But apparently he was successful.”

  “How do you know?” asked Burke. “Because of Grandma McCready’s spirited condemnation of the Wrathmore clan?”

  “That and the fact that in 1920 the place burned down, killing Calvin Wrathmore and his wife, Edna. And guess who was fingered for starting the fire?”

  “Freddie Redmond?” Burke joked.

  “Peter Blackburne,” said Sam. “Son of Grace Woode and John Blackburne.”

  “He was, what, all of twelve years old?” Burke said, surprised.

  “Sixteen,” said Sam. “Apparently, the trial was the talk of the town for the week that it lasted.”

  “And then they hanged him from the oak tree in the town square,” Burke said.

  “They found him innocent,” said Sam. “He’s Tanya Redmond’s great-great-grandfather.”

  “So he got the farm back, then.”

  “No,” Sam said. “The farm passed to Olivia Wrathmore, Calvin and Edna’s seven-year-old daughter. She survived the fire. It was Olivia who first accused Peter Blackburne of starting the fire. She said she saw him running away from the house.”

  “The little liar,” Burke remarked.

  “Maybe,” said Sam. “Maybe not. At any rate, she got the farm.”

  “But apparently let it sit there,” Burke said. “I wonder what happened to her?”

  “I can tell you what happened to her,” said Sam. “She left town, got married, and had a baby. His name is Gaither Lucas.”

  “Is?” Burke asked. “You mean he’s still alive? He must be a hundred.”

  “He’s seventy-seven,” said Sam. “And he lives less than an hour from here.”

  Burke whistled. “Good detective work,” he said.

  Sam gave a little bow. “Thank you. Now, what is it you have to share?”

  Burke, who had forgotten about the photos, suddenly felt very self-conscious. Sam had unearthed actual information, while all he had was a wild idea based on some blurry pictures. But Sam was expecting him to say something, so Burke took a deep breath. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he began.

  CHAPTER 19

  The cemetery was remarkably well maintained. The grass was mowed, the headstones were mostly free of moss, and best of all, there were none of the tacky plastic flowers that so often litter such places. Even the oldest graves—the ones farthest from the front—were neat and orderly. The markers, worn from years of rain and bitter Vermont winters, nonetheless retained an air of dignity, which Burke found comforting. He tried not to think about the bodies that lay beneath their feet.

  “Somebody sure takes care of this place,” he remarked as he and Sam wound their way through the rows, looking at the names on the gravestones.

  “Remember the Ladies’ Society that liked to throw those cakewalks?” Sam said. “They’re still around, only now they tend the garden of the dead.”

  “Cheery,” said Burke.

  Sam smiled. “You like that? It’s from a poem by Ruth Downing, Vermont’s own Emily Dickinson. ‘Through hidden doors the darklings pass the living slumb’ring in our beds. They come at night the faceless ones who tend the gardens of the dead.’”

  “Sounds more like Vermont’s Stephen King,” Burke said.

  “She supposedly held séances in her house,” said Sam.

  “Can we not talk about ghosts right now?” Burke said.

  “You’re the one who brought them up,” Sam reminded him. “That’s why we’re here.”

  Burke didn’t reply. Sam was right. It was because he had told Sam about the ghost images in his photos that Sam had suggested making a visit to the cemetery.

  “You still haven’t said whether or not you believe in them,” Burke said.


  Sam was quiet as they walked deeper into the area of the older graves. “I don’t not believe in them,” he said.

  Burke snorted. “Fence-sitter,” he accused.

  “So you do believe in them?” Sam countered.

  Before Burke could answer, the end of his crutch sank into soft ground and he stumbled. Sam reached out and grabbed him, but not before Burke had lost his grip on the crutch, which now lay on the ground while he balanced flamingo-like on one leg. Sam made sure Burke was steady before he knelt down to retrieve the fallen crutch.

  “Well, this is spooky,” Burke said. “Look who we have here.”

  Burke peered at the gravestone in front of which Sam was kneeling. He couldn’t quite read the faded lettering. “Who is it?”

  “Amos Hague,” Sam replied. “Born October 3, 1843 and died August 9, 1883.”

  “He was almost forty,” Burke observed. “The same age I am.”

  Sam was looking at the gravestone to the right of Amos’s. “This is odd,” he said. “Thomas Beattie. Born March 11, 1850 and died August 9, 1882.”

  “Beattie,” Burke said. “As in Tess Beattie?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sam. “Could be. And how weird is it that he and Amos died on the same day a year apart?”

  “Is Tess here, too?”

  Sam searched the headstones in the surrounding area. “Not that I can tell,” he said. “No Peter Woode, either.”

  Burke was examining the headstones more carefully. Amos’s was decorated at the top with a carving of a grinning skull that had wings on either side. Thomas’s was marked with a simple row of three Xs.

  “Could you get the camera from my backpack?” Burke asked Sam. “I want to get some shots of these.”

  Sam stood and unzipped the backpack Burke had slung over his shoulders. “Which one?” he asked.