The Apparition
By David Blackthorn
Copyright 2014/2015 David Blackthorn
Author’s Note
Every city, town and village has a tale of some sort which stems from a tragedy. These tails grow over time, becoming a local legend, passed down from generation to generation. This story was originally published in the anthology Tales of Mystery, Suspense and Terror and pays homage to these legends.
There are many things in this world which are far beyond simple explanation. These appear to be the things that intrigue us most, the more the danger or unexplained, the more we seek to let these mysteries consume us. Thus, it was this way with my dear friend, Oswald De’Augusta.
Oswald had long been a follower of the paranormal, a quaint little man with a desire to delve into the local stories of ghosts and occult. He wrote of such things and often took pen to paper to keep me informed of his progress throughout his investigations. Rarely was I concerned for the friend I had known from childhood. Recently, I have begun to feel a deep growing concern, due to the recent string of letters.
Let me begin by giving you a slight background regarding myself and Oswald. My name is Edward Aagaard. We were both the children of immigrants to a small village on the outskirts of the great city of New York. His family took up residence here from Italy. My family sailed over from Norway. This was still not uncommon in the late eighteen hundreds, when we both arrived.
We were instantly drawn as friends, being of the same age and interests. We would spend countless hours searching for abandoned houses, fable to be haunted. We would often add our own stories to the legends and pretend we saw apparitions. I, eventually, outgrew this stage in life. Oswald, though seeking truth, never did. He no longer pretended to observe ghosts hanging from rafters by centuries old nooses. He no longer added legends devised in his own mind. He sought to become a paranormal investigator, a trade only spoken of in short printed tales, sold for a penny in the general store.
I feel moments of fear for my dear friend each time I receive a letter from him but I keep this journal and attach his letters, as he requested of me. If he fails to return alive, I shall have record of his exploitation of a small farmhouse, further upstate.
His first letter was of little concern and is as follows:
My much respected friend Edward,
I have launched my quest for the truth of the Asgaard house as of this morning. As you know, there are some Norwegian families beginning to set up farms in this region of the state. I have stumbled upon a tale surrounding this particular homestead that I can scarcely shake from my thoughts.
The first thing I noted was that the last name is so very similar to yours. Are you familiar with the family? Perhaps they are of relation to you, were you to trace your lineage back far enough.
The young man who tends the farm, along with his pleasant wife, also tends to his father. He fears for the old man’s sanity, yet refuses to commit him to an asylum. The old man, Bjorn Asgaard, lost his wife two decades ago and has not recovered himself. Were it not for the boy and the hired hands, the farm would have been lost.
It is the death of this fair woman that begins my investigation. There are mutterings amongst the town folk surrounding this unfortunate demise. It is here that I shall cease my writing, for today. I have a meeting with the young man running the farm, though I confess I failed to inform him of my inquiring. Pray thee, my oldest friend, keep me in your thoughts as I set upon this task. I shall write you daily to keep record of my investigation. Keep these letters safe until my return.
Your friend,
Oswald De’Augusta
I was not required to wait long for is second letter, as it arrived only the next day. Keeping true to his word, he appeared to be recording his events to paper daily and sending them off to me. It was on this letter that I began to worry for his safety, not from some demonic apparition or hideous ghostly being but from the very people he interviewed.
I entertained the thought of writing him to come back to his home town but decided against this upon realizing the letter would unlikely reach him in time.
My most trusted confidant Edward,
My meeting with the old man’s son did not go as I had hoped. I found myself escorted off the property by two hired hands upon inquiring of his mother’s horrid end and the legend of her ghostly appearances. I shall tell you of these tales in this letter, as I have been informed of them by some of the local citizens.
Bjorn Asgaard’s wife was known by the name Katherine. She worked alongside her husband, along with their two sons and one daughter. As you know, Farm work requires the help of an entire family and each member has their assigned chores.
It seems that she was crossing the road with buckets of water for the cattle. The water was carried by hand in this fashion, gathered from a large river in the field alongside the road. There are no lamps beside these roads and it becomes difficult to see a person when it is dark. As she was crossing the road, she was struck by a horse drawn wagon and died almost immediately. A sad end to such a kindly soul, as I am told. The old man is said to still be mourning the loss of his beloved.
This is not the reason for my investigation, for as you know, I am not an officer. My reason revolves around a much more sinister part of this story. It is said that every year, after this horrible accident, she crosses the road on that same night. Were a person to ride their wagon along that road on that night, they would not only see her, but they would strike her down, having no time to react.
I know what you are thinking, my friend. This is too fantastic to be truth. In all actuality, I am not sure I believe it, myself, though there are many who claim it to be true and some who even claim to have seen her. They tell that those who have struck her see a terrifying ghost, an apparition so terrible that they are sure their very heart stopped for a brief moment. There is no sign of her after the accident but the driver and passengers disappear from existence only days after. The legend speaks of the belief that Katherine Asgaard’s ghost drags them to the very bowels of Hell.
I do not believe the latter part of the story, though I have been unsuccessful in tracking down a first-hand experience. It seems they barely have time to relate their story before they are no longer seen or heard from. It is my skepticism of this fact that drives me to my next step in this investigation. Tonight is the night she is to appear and I shall be driving along this road in hopes of solving the mystery. If I see her, you will be informed through my letters. If there is nothing, I shall relate the rest of my tale to you upon my arrival home.
Be well, my friend,
Oswald De’Augusta
I felt worry for my friend, thinking of him on the small, barely kept roads in the middle of the night, looking for a ghost. The roads we are accustomed to are regularly traveled. The wagons keeping them visible at all times, lit through the village by lamps upon posts and decks. He was far from his normal element.
Still, I had to trust he knew what he was involving himself in. It was the third letter that brought a deep seeded fear to me, unsure of the safety of my friend. I extracted the letter from the envelope in hopes of finding him writing to me of returning to his home. Instead, I read the words of a man determined to carry out his mission, no matter how detached it was from logic.
His lust for adventure had always far outweighed his common sense. Ever since childhood he would embark on journeys deep into the woods that I dared not accompany him on. I found myself dismayed that he seemed never to outgrow this strange obsession as I read his words.
My Dear friend Edward,
You would scarce believe the adventure I endured only last night. My God, I hardly know where to begin. It is like a blur, ye
t vivid in my memory, both at the same time. It is all too fantastic to believe unless you have actually SEEN it for yourself.
Forgive my handwriting, I am trembling as I write this. I have been unable to slow my heart rate. I have not slept a wink the entire night. The visions of my experience still haunt me every time I close my eyes.
Let me tell you of what I have seen. Then, you will understand. You know me, my friend. You know I speak no lies, in these cases. What I saw will sound like the ramblings of a madman. Let me assure you, I am quite sane. Though I doubted it for a moment, I am sure my sanity is stable.
As I wrote you last time, I decided to take a wagon along that road. It was dark but I had a lantern on either side of the wagon, enough light for me to see my way. There were few
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