Lost in the Mist

by Wanda C. Keesey

  With a twinge he thought of the uncanny way Connie found her way around the back streets of a city she claimed to have never visited before.

  With a smile Brian shook off the fanciful thoughts. There's an explanation for all of this. Connie was in touch with the Fraisers before coming on this trip. She could've learned many of these facts from them or by doing her own research. He was being ridiculous; of course she'd researched the area.

  As they approached their goal, Brian put his thoughts aside and began planning the church's place in his book.

  "This is great,” he said. “Just what I'm looking for. It's a simple structure, and well preserved. What does that sign say? Seventeen eighty-five? It sure doesn't look like it stood through two centuries of weather and a war too. But the sun's not right; I'll have to come back some morning for outside pictures."

  Connie smiled without comment as she neared the door.

  They passed into the cool interior. Brian was glad to see that it was as well preserved as the exterior.

  Connie stopped at the portal that gave way to the sanctuary. Brian stood beside her. “I can shoot some interior shots now.” Brian took his camera from the bag he carried. After making adjustments and turning on the flash, he looked through the viewer, focused and started clicking shoots, moving to get a variety of angles.

  His work was interrupted by a strange little man who appeared from nowhere. Silently, Brian listened to the exchange between Harvey and Connie as his eyes searched the room. Where had the sexton been? There were no apparent doorways or corners he could have stood in.

  He should have seen him in the camera viewfinder. The little man was right there next to the altar when Brian lowered his camera. He couldn't have appeared out of thin air. Brian searched for logical answers.

  There was something about his voice, it sounded strange, echoing as if he was talking in a vast emptiness. Sometimes you get a bad phone connection that sounds like that, but Harvey was standing right next to him.

  Brian felt a strong urge to protect Connie. From what? A little old man with a broom? So the old church made his voice echo, so what? He was harmless and helpful. Brian shrugged and followed Connie through the door to the anteroom.

  He found the Records Room depressing. He muffled a sneeze as their movements stirred small clouds of dust. The odors of rodent droppings and mildew threatened to overpower the more pleasant scents of leather and candle wax.

  "Can you feel it?” Connie's whisper caught him by surprise. “The people, they're all here, the people from the past."

  Is that what he felt? Brian often visited and studied historical buildings. To him they were structures put together by skilled craftsman. Places for people to live and work. Those people were gone. Their work recorded in history books. Many of the buildings survived, but they were just buildings. Yet, there was something, a feeling.

  A trickle of sweat traced a line from Brian's forehead to his chin. The room was warm and stuffy, yet he felt a chill crawl across the back of his neck.

  Brian watched Harvey climb onto the step stool. Going to the long worktable he realized that he still held his camera. Carefully replacing it in the padded confines of his bag, Brian found chairs for himself and Connie.

  When they opened the first book, Brian squinted at the faded ink. Dutifully searching the page for any clues to the Brentwell family, he knew that if the ink in all of the books was this badly deteriorated they would never find anything of use.

  Each of the record books looked much like the previous. Only a few scattered numbers and letters remained visible on the yellowed pages.

  By the time he stumbled onto the entry in the eighteen fifty-two volume, naming Maxmillian Brentwell as a church elder, Brian had a fair start on a headache and was more than willing to accept the offer of an ice cream treat.

  With both of them reading the same volume and having a definite date, the search should be a short one. He knew he had been right when he saw the pale letters that Connie pointed out. Brian was surprised to see her hand tremble.

  He watched, relieved that the tedious task was done, as Connie tried to make out the faded entry. Brian leaned back in the chair.

  "You've been a big help, Harvey,” Brian said, but the old man had disappeared. Strange, just like he appeared. Before he could begin to puzzle it out, next to him, Connie slumped over the open book, leaning heavily on the table.

  "Connie!” Brian called in alarm, Harvey forgotten. His outstretched hand stopped in midair. Brian watched as she faded, leaving only a cloud of mist. “Where are you?” he whispered trying to keep the panic he felt out of his voice. What's happening? First Harvey and now Connie, am I going out of my mind? Am I dreaming?

  The room closed in. At the same time the cloud moved. He followed. It swirled and bent, but never thinned or dispelled.

  Is she in there? How? What is going on? Brian reached out. The mysterious cloud moved, reforming, bending to avoid his touch.

  Connie's hollow whisper came from the mist, muffled and impossible to understand.

  "Where are you?” He hoped but wasn't surprised when he didn't receive an answer. He followed the drifting form as he tried to control the conflicting urges to help Connie, or to rid himself of any further involvement.

  The cloud came to rest in the small vestibule.

  "I don't know what's going on, but I'm here.” Brian's voice quivered with desperation and fear. “I'm here.” he repeated, louder, having made his decision.

  He watched intently as the mist moved to the pedestal table. What are you seeing?

  The mist changed, growing denser with colors beginning to appear before Brian's eyes. Connie emerged, solidified, becoming a person. Where had she been?

  As her knees started to buckle, Brian caught her. His own legs were none too steady.

  "Are you all right?” Brian waited anxiously for her response.

  "I think so. Did I faint?” As she tried to disengage herself from his arms, Connie quickly gripped the pedestal table. “I'm just dizzy."

  "Can you walk to the pews? You should sit down. I'll get you some water.” Brian renewed his hold around her waist.

  "I'm okay.” Her hand shook as it rested on his arm. “I think we should just leave. Where are my things?"

  "I'll get them. My camera's...” As Brian turned toward the hall door, they both saw the canvas bag with the big orange letters “MY BAG” sitting on the floor at the end of the pew next to the black camera bag.

  Brian knew he had left them in the Records Room. Then how did it get here? “You're right. We need to get out into the sunshine.” To himself he added, and back to reality.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Eleven

  Connie went with Brian willingly though dreading the questions he must have. His presence kept her from being alone with the storm in her own mind. The warmth of his arm, holding her as they walked, stilled her trembling and comforted her body, but not her head.

  She tried to apply logic to the mysterious episodes that had invaded her life. It didn't work. There was no logical explanation. Was she crazy? Having hallucinations? No! I'm as sane as anyone that ... what? Travels in time? Okay, but why me?

  Looking up at Brian's somber face, she wondered what he could be thinking. Was he ready to run as far from her as he could get? Would she blame him? It crossed her mind that she didn't know what he saw. Maybe nothing, maybe he just thought she'd fainted.

  When he asked questions, would he believe her answers? When he heard her story, he'd be justified in writing her off as a nut.

  With a sigh, Connie knew she would tell him everything. She had no choice, and that'd be the end of that. He'll head for the nearest exit. Turning her attention to the serene water across the road, she tried to postpone the inevitable.

  Afraid to hear his questions, they walked in silence.

  * * * *

  Conscious of the light fabric under his arm and the warmth that came from the body beneath it, Brian looked a
t Connie's blonde curls. She's everything I've ever looked for in a woman. She's pretty, intelligent, funny and tall. Well the tall part's optional, Brian smiled, but a nice bonus.

  But do I want this package. I feel like I've dropped in on some sci-fi show. Is Connie in danger? From what? Some strange things have happened today. It's time for some answers. Might as well start with the easy stuff. “You seem to know your way around. I thought you said you'd never been here before."

  "First trip ever. I've been to Richmond, Williamsburg, Manassas, and Gettysburg among others, but never Fredericksburg.” Connie turned onto a street leading into town.

  He was silent long enough that the pause was noticed. “I don't understand. I mean, you knew the way to the Blackstone as well as the Handley's and you found the church without a wrong turn. I don't remember seeing it listed on any of the maps I have as a major site. Did the Fraisers tell you about it?"

  "I went by the chapel on the cab ride into town, so that's not a big mystery,” she answered. “And Joe gave us general directions to the Blackstone last night at supper."

  "Joe only gave us the general part of town. As for the ride in, I took the main highways. I think a cab would do the same, unless you asked him to detour."

  "I did, but ... I don't think you'll believe me. It's too incredible,” she stalled.

  "Oh? Try me.” He turned, taking her shoulders in his strong hands and gazing into her eyes. “Listen. We don't really know each other. But I want you to trust me. I guess there's no good reason why you should, but please—if you're in some kind of danger, I want to help."

  "But..."

  "No buts. To put it mildly, some strange things have been happening. Stop me if I'm wrong. I've seen you leave, for lack of a better word. You fade out, just vanish. A bubble of smoke hangs in the air and moves, and it doesn't dispel until you come back.

  "At lunch today, when Joe and I were playing darts, I swear you were gone when I looked over at the table. While I watched, you reappeared out of a thin cloud of smoke. I thought it was a trick of light. When I saw Tracey walking back from the restrooms, I assumed that was where you had been, too. Then why were you so frightened, you held onto the table like someone was trying to take it away, your face was as white as a sheet. I tried to brush it off as over zealous imagination.

  "What about the church? You didn't just fall asleep and go for a little walk. I was there. You vanished, literally into a cloud of smoke. And,” he held up his hand to stop her interruption, “you're still trembling. Why wouldn't you be? When I could see you again, you were staring at the book on the little stand in the vestibule, and you saw something, something that wasn't there, not for me to see anyway. It scared you. It terrifies me. I feel powerless, helpless and I don't like that feeling.

  "I have only one very large question. What is going on?"

  * * * *

  Silence surrounded the couple as they studied each other. Wondering where to begin, Brian's words ringing in her ears, vanished, a cloud of smoke, reappeared, Connie knew she had no choice, she had to trust him. Maybe together, if he didn't bolt, they could find the answers.

  "Okay,” she finally said, resuming their walk. “You're right, I'm scared. I'm scared because I don't know what's happening or why. All I can do is tell you what I do know.

  "The day I buried my mother, a lawyer came to the house. He gave me a copy of Mother's will, a package, and a wood box. In the package was an envelope holding some pictures, many of them were very old, a packet of yellowed letters tied together with a piece of what was once pink ribbon, that had faded and was almost white. The last item was this ring.” Connie held up her hand to show Brian the heirloom she wore. “I spent the rest of the day reading as much as I could make out of the letters. There wasn't much. The dates go back to the eighteen seventies. I can't make out who they are from or to, but they have some things in them about family, a brother, father, babies, things like that.

  "It was the next day that the idea for the B&B series came to me. I couldn't wait to send the letters of inquiry to travel magazines, and even if I hadn't gotten an acceptance, I would have gone on with the research. I know that now. Was there something in the letters that gave me the idea? I don't know. I can't think of anything that stands out. Maybe it's just a way for me to escape the loss of my mother."

  Brian's camera bag hung from his shoulder on one side while his other arm encircled Connie's waist. She studied the uneven walk in front of them, her bag dangled from her forearms, crossed over her chest. They walked down streets that had a familiarity that Connie found at the same time frightening and comforting.

  Connie described places she'd never seen, holographic flashes of the past that overlaid the present, and strange journeys that carried her to a time she couldn't possibly know, except through books. She told him about Victoria's journal and her first frightening trip to the past. Her startling sojourn to nineteenth century Fredericksburg, the shops in the town, Victoria at the general store, the children coming out of the candy store, and wagon of slaves going to be sold.

  She filled in the blanks about the Blackstone. How she watched Victoria go through a wall that had been closed off long ago.

  A chill gave her goose bumps as she told him how she was the one who left the ink smudge on the edge of the page in the record book at the chapel. She rubbed her arms, as much to feel something real, as to ward off the icy fingers of fear.

  "I don't know what's going to happen next, where, or when, and for that matter, why. I only know it's not over. Somehow, I'm connected to the past and this has to play itself out."

  "Why? I mean, why don't you leave? Put an end to the whole thing.” Brian watched for her reaction. The dawning of reason that would bring all of this to finality.

  She shook her head before he finished the statement. “I had no choice about coming here. I thought I made the decision, but I didn't. My brilliant idea for a series of articles is just an excuse, a reason to be here. I don't know what brought me and I don't know where all this is going to lead but I'm not free to leave, not just yet. It's hard to explain, but I feel tied to this town.” Connie stopped walking. She faced Brian, reading the doubt in his eyes. “You don't believe me, do you? I know it's incredible and I guess I don't blame you."

  She felt like a fool for having trusted a virtual stranger with her problem. Fighting tears of frustration that threatened to embarrass her, Connie turned away.

  "Of course, I believe you. I've seen it for myself. Remember? The question is what do we do about it?” Moving to be near her, Brian took her hand and squeezed it gently.

  "I'm open for suggestions."

  "Good. It's a lot to digest but we can both work on it. You're not alone, Connie. I'll help you."

  Brian changed the subject. “Right now the only suggestion I have is that we go get that ice cream sundae, as promised.” His eyes scanned the area. “Which way?"

  With a smile of relief, Connie knew she had a confidant. Maybe there was hope. She pointed. “I don't remember any ice cream parlors from the nineteenth century, but I think I saw a modern version on the walk up Princess Anne."

  * * * *

  "Brian, are you up for a little sightseeing?” Connie put the last bit of ice cream cone in her mouth, and wiped her fingers on her paper napkin. She and Brian were standing across Princess Anne Street from the Visitor's Center where a new group of tourists where gathering to go on the trolley tour.

  "Sure, come on.” Putting his free hand on Connie's elbow they quickly crossed the busy street before the traffic light could change. “I'll get the tickets, you wait here.” Before she could object Brian had put his paper bowl, still containing remnants of ice cream and chocolate syrup, in her hand and disappeared into the red brick building.

  Connie glanced at the melting mess and smiled, the spoon wasn't in the dish.

  She looked up when the door opened; a man and woman came down the steps with Brian right behind them, holding two orange tickets in his left hand, as h
e fumbled to put his change in his wallet. The missing plastic spoon was in his mouth, with the bottom up so that the handle went down his chin.

  Putting his wallet in his pocket, he took the spoon out of his mouth. “Trade you the tickets for my ice cream."

  Connie took the tickets and handed him the bowl. “I hope you don't think I would want to eat this ... this ... slop."

  "Slop! It's just getting good.” Brian quickly downed the rest of the ice cream and walked to the trash container, one of the many wood barrels that lined Princess Anne Street. “Let's get on the trolley. It leaves at three-thirty, that's only five minutes."

  With a nod, Connie followed Brian across the intersection to the waiting bus.

  A teenager stood near the open trolley door. Connie showed him their tickets.

  "Thank you, have a good tour,” he said with a smile. “Take this sticker, the tour guide will explain.” He gave them each a large, round, florescent orange sticker backed with wax paper.

  The front half of the bus was lined with a varnished wood-slate bench seat on each side. Looking into the back, Connie could see that the seats all faced front. The bus was narrow and the seat didn't provide much room, so she elected to sit on a side bench seat giving Brian room to put his camera bag under the seat. The entire bus was lined with windows that reached from the top of the bus to the edge of the seat backs. There was no air conditioning but the windows opened to allow a flow of air.

  "Welcome and thank you for taking the Trolley Tours of Fredericksburg. My name's Greg and I'll be your guide."

  Greg was a short, stocky man on the up side of fifty. His graying beard and mustache were full and neatly trimmed making up for the receding hairline. Heavy eyebrows sprinkled with gray highlighted his merry eyes. He wore a head microphone that looked like the headset an operator might wear.