Last Ghost at Gettysburg

by Paul Ferrante

  “Well, Bortnicker,” she said, “my parents are fine with you bunking with T.J. in the guest room. They were worried that he was getting a little homesick, anyway.” She looked at her cousin who rolled his eyes in embarrassment.

  “Homesick?” cried Bortnicker. “Here? With all this going on? We’ve got a major mystery to solve, it seems to me. When T.J. gave me the basics on the phone, I was so jacked I couldn’t sit still! Even if my mom had said no, I would’ve bugged out anyway. No way I’m missing this. It’s the adventure of a lifetime!”

  “Easy, man,” cautioned T.J. “We’ve got to think things through before we decide on a plan of action.”

  “Don’t worry, Big Mon.” Bortnicker pulled a loose-leaf notebook from his duffel bag. “As The Dan said, ‘the true facts unravel the more one travels.’” He suddenly turned to LouAnne. “Name THAT one!”

  “ ‘Show Biz Kids,’ ” she said sweetly.

  “Ooh, you’re good,” he answered, handing the notebook to T.J. “I wrote down a lot of thoughts about this on the train. Check it out.”

  T.J. thumbed through the pages, which were mostly filled with Civil War-related minutiae and questions that must’ve come flying into Bortnicker’s mind a mile a minute. He had filled at least twenty pages! “Wow,” he mumbled, “you’re really on it, Bortnicker.”

  “Isn’t that why you called me?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Okay, then,” he said, the physical exertion of walking causing him to breathe raggedly. Bortnicker hardly ever exercised or gave an effort in phys ed. The one year he’d played little league on T.J.’s team he’d contented himself with instantaneously computing everyone’s batting averages and compiling the team’s highest on-base percentage by managing to get hit with the ball almost every time up.

  “As I see it, here is what we have to do. If this is a ghost we’re dealing with, because we’re still not sure, I think we should drop in on the foremost expert in town on hauntings. Now, LouAnne, you must know that if you surf the net you’ll find at least three different ghost tour outfits. They’ve got candlelight tours, sunset tours, walking tours, riding tours, in town and on the outskirts of the battlefield. But the one that’s always on the History Channel is run by this guy, Carlton Elway. Know him?”

  “We’ve crossed paths,” said LouAnne. “My dad runs into him a lot around town. Seems to me like kind of a know-it-all, but an okay guy.”

  “Well, he’s done a three-part TV series on all the hauntings around Gettysburg, and if anyone has info on our nocturnal cavalier, it’s this guy. Unless he’s just a big fake, of course. I say we go see him first thing tomorrow.”

  “You guys will have to go by yourselves,” said LouAnne, “I’m babysitting at ten.”

  “Okay then, Big Mon.” Bortnicker smiled, clapping his hand on T.J.’s shoulder. “It’s just you n’me. Hey, are we there yet?” They had been passing Bortnicker’s duffel bag around and it was getting heavier by the minute.

  Finally they reached Seminary Ridge and the Darcy residence. Their new lodger introduced himself all around with “Please just call me Bortnicker. Everyone else does,” and the ensuing dinner table conversation over Aunt Terri’s pot roast was lively. Bortnicker could be charming in his own quirky way, and he kept the Darcys laughing with his self-deprecating humor. At one point, LouAnne was laughing so hard she had to dab at her eyes with a napkin. T.J. felt himself doing a slow burn. He couldn’t believe his relatives were finding his friend so entertaining. Especially LouAnne. And then the thought occurred to him. Can I actually be jealous? Of Bortnicker?

  They lingered around the table till after 9:00 P.M., when Mike pronounced himself ready to hit the sack.

  “Me, too,” Bortnicker replied with a huge yawn. “I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.”

  LouAnne and T.J. made arrangements to run the following morning and the boys climbed the stairs to the guest room. Not one word about the real reason for Bortnicker’s presence had been spoken during the meal, as per T.J.’s orders. T.J closed the guest room door behind him, mentally prepared for an onslaught of questions about the mystery, although the three teens had gone over the whole thing on the walk home. Thus, he was unprepared for Bortnicker’s opening.

  “T.J., do you think there’s really such a thing as love at first sight?”

  “Wh...what?” he replied, stunned.

  “Your cousin is the most enchanting creature I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he said, unashamedly dreamy-voiced. “Surely you’ve noticed that she’s drop-dead gorgeous.”

  “Bortnicker, man, of course not, she’s my cousin!” T.J. said, somewhat defensively, lying through his teeth.

  “Well, Big Mon, my new goal in life, besides of course getting to the bottom of this investigation, is to win the hand of yon fair maiden. That is, if you have no objections?” He brushed the hair from his eyes, which gleamed with expectation.

  “Of course not. Why would I?”

  “Okay, just checking. It’s just that at dinner tonight you seemed a little edgy, like maybe you weren’t enjoying yourself. Was it because of me? Do you think maybe it was a bad idea I came down here? Because when you called—”

  “I know, I know,” said T.J., raising his hand to stop Bortnicker before his best friend threw it all back in his face. “It’s just...” he paused, searching for the right words, “it’s just that sometimes you come on a bit too strong, like with that kneeling down routine with LouAnne.”

  “Well, SHE seemed to like it.”

  “Yeah, well, at first it’s okay, I suppose, but the novelty kind of wears off after a while.”

  Bortnicker made his way to a corner chair and absentmindedly went into perch mode, his chin resting on his knees. “I get what you’re saying,” he mumbled. “As you well know, I don’t have a ton of experience talking to girls.”

  “Like I do?”

  “Oh, c’mon, T.J., lots of girls at school like you. I wish I was a quarter as popular as you.”

  “You’re overestimating me. Listen, what I’m saying is, just tone it down, at least at first. It’s not like you’re leaving tomorrow or something.”

  “You mean you want me to stay?” Bortnicker queried, his eyebrows raised.

  “Yes, of course I do. We’ve got a mystery to solve, don’t we?”

  Bortnicker sprang from the chair. “Exactly! And it begins tomorrow. One more thing, though. What you saw the other night in the woods. Did it scare you?”

  T.J. thought, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, recalling that awful smell that had signaled the appearance of the soldier. “I’ve never been so scared in my life,” he said finally. Embarrassed over admitting his fear, T.J. excused himself to go brush his teeth. When he returned, the room was dark, his friend already tucked into the second guest bed. T.J. tiptoed to his bed and quietly slipped beneath the covers. There was a gentle breeze blowing, and crickets chirped outside the window.

  Bortnicker cleared his throat. “T.J.?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did I ever tell you I have a snoring problem?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The day dawned, gloomy and chilly, almost a relief from the oppressive heat of the past week. T.J. stealthily pulled on his running gear and tiptoed past a snoring Bortnicker to the staircase where LouAnne sat atop the bottom step, lacing on her Nikes. He was still a bit miffed about his friend’s grand entrance of the day before, and hoped his cousin wouldn’t mention it. He was wrong.

  “So, what’s going on with you and Bortnicker?” she asked as they jogged away from the house. “It looked like you had a bug up your butt the whole time during dinner.”

  “Nothing. Everything’s cool. He just gets on my nerves sometimes. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it, probably.”

  “He looks up to you, you know. Did you ever think of that?” she said in an admonishing tone.

  “What? Did he say something to you?”

  “He didn’t have to, T.J. I can see it in his eyes. Yo
u must be his best friend.”

  “Only friend,” muttered T.J.

  “Which is all the more reason to cut him some slack. And don’t be so quick to put him down when he tries to be whatever he interprets as ‘smooth.’ He needs you to look out for him, not rag on him.”

  “I do look out for him,” he cried plaintively. “Like at school this year. Bortnicker liked this girl, Kimberly LaFarge. So we have this eighth grade dance every year near Valentine’s Day, and he had this flower company deliver her a big bouquet of roses that came with candy, the whole nine yards, right in the middle of homeroom! With an invitation, of course, for her to go to the dance with him.”

  “And?”

  “And she blew him off! What did you expect? The whole day she and her popular girl clique were snickering and passing notes and laughing themselves silly. When he realized that he looked like a clown he just, like, hid out for a while in the book room. So anyway, we had Spanish together that afternoon and our teacher, Miss Simoes, sent me to look for him before she phoned the office.

  “So I went around, checking out the locker room, the boy’s bathroom, the library. Finally I just poked my head in the book storage room and there he was, sitting on a crate of textbooks, hugging his knees under his chin, tears streaming down his face. So then I had to convince him that he wasn’t a jerk, that she was the one who was losing out, and that if we didn’t get back to Spanish class soon we’d both be in trouble. Finally, I got him to come with me. We caught like the last five minutes of the period. Miss Simoes was cool about it. She kinda knew what was going on, and I think she couldn’t stand Kimberly LaFarge anyway.

  “Now, that should’ve been my good deed for the day, but no, I took it upon myself to go ream LaFarge out in front of her witchy posse. That led to Kim’s Joe-Jock seventeen-year-old brother and his football buddies pushing me all over the playground the following afternoon, which led to me getting totally humiliated while Bortnicker was home running his model trains.”

  The last words were no sooner out of T.J.’s mouth that LouAnne stopped short. He followed suit. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “You might not believe this, T.J.,” she said, her eyes filmy, “but I’ve been in his position. Lots of times. And in all those times I never had a friend stick up for me the way you did for him.” She learned forward and kissed him on the cheek, as light as a butterfly’s wing. And then she was off like a shot. T.J. had to run double-time to make up the distance, a smile creasing his face.

  It wasn’t until they turned onto Seminary Ridge that he realized they’d done almost five miles. He was definitely improving. By the time they’d finished their post stretch in the front yard it was raining softly and the wind was picking up. Incredibly, Bortnicker was elbow-to-elbow with Aunt Terri at the kitchen counter, slicing bananas into a heaping bowls of cereal for the cousins and gossiping like old friends.

  “You’re up? At this hour? What gives, Bortnicker?” said T.J.

  Holding a serving spoon aloft his friend said, “Must be the country air. I felt inspired this morning. Guess I under slept by a few hours.”

  “He even helped me feed the chickens,” said Terri, pouring them some orange juice. “Now go shower so we can have some breakfast together.”

  Some minutes later, they sat around the breakfast nook table, Bortnicker grinning broadly as he sipped from his ice cold glass of milk. “T.J. and I have a big day ahead,” he quipped with a wink. “He’s gonna show me some of the museum stuff he’s been soaking up.”

  “Yeah, Aunt Terri, could you drop us in town?” asked T.J.

  “Sure, boys. I’ve got to head over to the hospital anyway. One thing’s for certain. We’ve got enough museums in this place to take up a week of rainy days.”

  T.J. shot Bortnicker a look over his cornflakes, and his friend smiled back. Though it was true they were going to log some museum time this morning, their ultimate goal today was to pay a visit to Gettysburg’s most famous ghost hunter.

  * * * *

  It was clear from the first moment that the Visitor Center and Bortnicker were made for each other. If T.J. had allowed it, they would have spent the entire morning, but Bortnicker grudgingly agreed to a preliminary walk-through with more in-depth excursions to come in subsequent days. Then, Uncle Mike wangled a couple seats on a VIP mini-bus tour for some national scholarship winners on the condition that Bortnicker stay as quiet as a mouse. The boys were treated to a first class tour of the battlefield that was far more detailed than T.J.’s tour bus trip.

  * * * *

  “Now listen,” cautioned T.J. as they walked up Baltimore Street toward South, “We’re visitors here. Try not to say anything insulting or outrageous, okay?”

  “Who, me?” said Bortnicker innocently, wiping a little mayo from his deli sandwich off his lip. “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  But when he started singing “Doctor Wu” under his breath, T.J. could sense he was in true Bortnicker mode, wondering aloud if Elway was crazy, high, or just an ordinary guy.

  The headquarters of Gettysburg Official Haunted Tours was a pale yellow clapboard house on the corner of South and Baltimore. It had a tidy front yard surrounded by a low white picket fence at whose base tiny pink flowers bloomed. If not for the understated Old English-style sign in the front yard that proclaimed “Gettysburg Official Haunted Tours, Carlton Elway, Proprietor” with a contact number, one would never know he’d found the paranormal nerve center of Gettysburg.

  T.J. and Bortnicker stood at the gate under a golf umbrella Aunt Terri had lent them. They looked at each other. “You sure this is the guy we want to see?” asked T.J.

  “Are you kidding? Even if all this stuff wasn’t going on I’d want to meet this guy. I’ve watched his documentaries a hundred times. If his findings are true, your soldier isn’t the only spirit gallivanting around this place.”

  “Okay, but listen. Don’t tell him anything about what happened to me, or that guy Weinstein. Let’s see if our guy comes up in discussion.”

  “Leave it to me, Big Mon,” assured Bortnicker. “Just follow my lead.”

  They entered the house, a bell tinkling to signal their arrival. An overweight girl with teased hair in her mid-teens sat behind a counter reading a paperback, her gum rhythmically snapping. She looked up to see her reflection in Bortnicker’s oversized glasses.

  “First tour’s not till 6:00 P.M.,” she said dully.

  “But we’re not here for a tour, not yet, anyway. My friend and I are from the Bridgefield High School newspaper, and—”

  “The what?”

  “Oh, excuse me. We’re from Bridgefield High School in Connecticut, and we’ve come a long way to interview Mr. Carlton Elway for our school newspaper. You see, many students in our school are interested in the paranormal, and Mr. Elway’s TV specials are quite popular. So, it’s natural that we do a story on him.” He suddenly produced his tattered notebook and a pencil as T.J. wandered off to a far wall that was filled with cubby holes of travel brochures for the local attractions. “Now, I wouldn’t want to leave you out of the article, so would you be so kind as to give me your name?”

  In response, she pointed to the plastic tag pinned to her Gettysburg Official Haunted Tours golf shirt that read “Tiffany.” She never stopped snapping her gum.

  “Yes, Tiffany,” said Bortnicker, dutifully recording her name in the notebook. “That’s great. Now, is Mr. Elway available?”

  “You’ve found him,” said an elfin, bearded man with thinning brown hair and twinkling eyes as he casually leaned against the doorjamb of a background office.

  T.J. sidled up alongside Bortnicker, still playing the role of cub reporter, who said, “Mr. Elway, it’s truly an honor. We represent—”

  “I heard you from my office, son. You two can come on back. And Tiffany, a shipment of Part One DVDs just came in. Could you restock the shelves in the gift shop and please check the hoodie sweatshirts? I think we’re low on size small.”

  Sh
e slowly nodded, folded back a page corner in her paperback, and waddled off to the side room that served as the gift shop.

  The boys sat down across from Elway’s desk which was cluttered with books, ledgers and a personal computer. Elway settled into his well-worn office chair and rearranged some papers. “I’m sorry about Tiffany. She’s not the most, ah, ambitious member of my staff. Actually, the woman who handles the weekday early shift is home sick today. We have a small staff of ten guides who handle our tours. All are well-versed in the town’s history and the battle, and we pride ourselves on being the most authentic of the tours. We even wear period clothing, as uncomfortable as that might be, to help transport our customers back to the 1860s. Now, what can I do for you boys?”

  “Well, sir, I’m Bortnicker—”

  “Bortnicker?”

  “Yes, sir, with a B, and this is my friend T.J. He’s the nephew of Mike Darcy.”

  “The park ranger?”

  “Right. We’re visiting from Connecticut and would like to ask you some questions about your business. Would that be okay?”

  “Well,” the man smiled, displaying uneven, yellowing teeth, “as long as I don’t have to disclose any trade secrets. There is a lot of competition for the tourist dollar in this town, you know.”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” answered Bortnicker.

  “Our questions are paranormally related,” said T.J.

  “Well, I’ll answer what I can. Now, what made you come to me?”

  “Mostly your documentaries,” said Bortnicker. “I’ve watched them numerous times, and I know them pretty much by heart.”

  “You’re very kind. So what do you need me for?”

  “Well,” said Bortnicker, searching the ceiling for the right words, “what would lead the average TV viewer to believe that all the stories you tell are authentic, and not a lot of hooey?”

  The ghost hunter regarded the bespeckled boy, his eyes narrowing a bit. “That’s a fair enough question. Let me try to answer it without being too verbose.