by Brenda Hill
What a sweet man. Lindsay was touched by his concern. Even though his body caved in from age, he had a head full of silvery white hair and a twinkle in his eyes. She bet he’d been quite the ladies man in his time.
“I’ll be fine,” she told him. “I’m on my way to the library.”
“You tell Karen to get you some water,” the man said. “Tell her Harry said so. Karen Midthun. I got her that job, you know, thirty years ago. She was just a kid, but she was smart and wanted to work. My wife and I loved to read and we were on the library board …”
As he droned on, telling her about a past important to no one but himself, Lindsay nodded politely and began to feel better. When he wound up his reminiscing or ran out of breath, she assured him again that she was all right.
“You ever want to talk, you ask for me, Harry. Everyone knows me.” Tipping an imaginary hat to her, he shuffled to the next block.
It wasn’t until he was out of sight that she realized she should have asked him about the Peterson house and the old lady with the frizzy white hair. She could run after him, but she wasn’t sure her shaky legs would hold her.
But she should do something positive, something to make her feel as if she had some control over her fate, so the first thing, she’d make an appointment with a doctor for an examination. She would jot down the unusual things that had been happening and take it in, starting with her first experience in the attic … no, starting when she first saw the house and felt as if it were familiar. She’d list the conditions, time of day and anything else she could think of.
But what if, by any chance, she found a photo of the house with the gazebo, a gazebo that Eric was convinced had never existed. What would that mean?
It would mean she wasn’t crazy or that she probably didn’t have a brain tumor. But it would force her to admit that the strange things that had been happening to her were real. She didn’t understand them, couldn’t even comprehend what was happening, but ever since her first glimpse of that house, her world has been askew. Off center.
One explanation was that her wonderful new home was haunted. A haunting wouldn’t explain everything, but she could only face one strange occurrence at a time.
Even thinking it seemed ludicrous, and if the episodes weren’t happening to her, she’d laugh at the idea. She had never given any of the popular ghost stories any weight, passing them off as products of an overworked imagination or perhaps a lonely soul hoping for some kind of notoriety.
But how could she laugh off a kiss from someone who wasn’t there?
Brain tumor or a ghost?
She felt slightly ridiculous, but she finally acknowledged her suspicions and fears.
If it turned out to be a ghost, what would she do about it?
She wasn’t sure she could handle it. And even if the impossible proved to be possible, how did that explain the memories of a past she never had?
Deciding she could only handle one preposterous theory at a time, she rose and headed for the library door.
Everything depended on what she discovered.
Inside, Lindsay found the librarian, Karen Midthun. In her forties, she had short brownish hair and her eyes behind the glasses were friendly. Lindsay asked about local records from the early nineteen-hundreds, about the time she thought the house had been built.
“What records we have will be on microfilm.” Karen led Lindsay to the machine in the back corner and explained how to find the right microfilm for the years Lindsay wanted.
“Thank you,” Lindsay said. “You’re as helpful as Harry said you’d be.”
“You know Harry Halvorson?”
“I don’t know his last name, but I met an older gentleman with a cane outside, on his way to town. He said he knew just about everyone.”
Karen smiled. “That’s Harry Halvorson, all right. I babysat for them years ago. Nice gentleman and he’s been around since the year one. But be careful. He’ll talk your ears off.”
A harried aide approached her and mentioned something about pre-school children in the reading program trying to climb a table.
“Excuse me,” Karen said, then hurried off to help the aide.
Lindsay started with the oldest microfilm and for the next three hours scrolled through pages from the 1920s, 1930s and 1940s, finding the fashions so interesting that she spent more time on the society pages than she had planned.
As she scrolled through, she witnessed high-necked, long-sleeve blouses and ankle-length skirts give way to lower necklines, bell sleeves, and hemlines rising to mid-calf. In the latter twenties, while the department store advertised exquisite flapper dresses, most of the women in the photographs appeared to dress more conservatively, clinging to longer skirts and covered arms. Lindsay stopped to admire what appeared to be the store’s last attempt to sell the free-spirited flapper dress, a slim sheath style with scalloped jet and silver beading at the neck and knee-length hemline. She could just imagine a daring young woman dancing in that dress, all flash and sparkles, then how she’d be lectured on proper behavior by all the nice Lutheran ladies of the town.
Turning several more pages, she came to an ivory satin wedding dress with an empire waist and gathered skirt and train. Her breath caught. She couldn’t look away. Her eyes hungrily devoured the bodice and short sleeves made of delicate lace with a silk lining. For an instant, she could feel the softness of silk brushing her skin, so cool, yet so warm to the flesh. She could see herself twirling with happiness, watching to see how the satin train settled around her ankles, wishing it were hers, listening for voices from below to make sure her sister didn’t return unexpectedly and catch her wearing it.
Then sadness and grief overwhelmed her, so crushing that she could barely breathe. She wondered if she would survive. Lindsay touched the photo, caressing the gown with her finger.
“Are you all right?” Karen asked, standing next to Lindsay.
Blinking, Lindsay glanced up at the woman, horribly embarrassed by what must have appeared to the librarian as strange behavior.
“Yes, thank you. I was just … thinking of my grandmother’s dress. I saw this one and it reminded me of hers.” The lie flowed easily but the librarian seemed to accept it.
When Karen moved briskly to attend to another matter, Lindsay sat back and thought about her reaction to the wedding dress. She had felt the silk? And listening to make sure her sister didn’t catch her wearing it? What sister? That made no sense at all since she was an only child.
It was happening again, those insane thoughts of another time, another woman. And that was twice in a short amount of time. What was wrong with her? Something was going on, but what?
With trembling hands, she jotted down what had happened, where she’d been and what she’d been doing. She described her feelings and the physical sensations she’d experienced remembering how the silk felt.
But how could she remember something that had never happened?
Chapter Fifteen
After she dated her entry, she rose on unsteady legs to find the ladies’ room and to get a drink of water. If she were going insane, she could only hope that it wouldn’t happen too quickly. She finally had the home she’d always wanted and a husband she adored. She didn’t want to lose it all now.
After bathing her face in cold water, Lindsay felt better. She couldn’t let one of those spells distract her from her research. No matter if she were teetering on the edge of insanity or if she had a restless spirit haunting her home, she needed to stick to some plan. Only then could she possibly find a way back to normalcy. With determination, she went back to the machine and her notes, this time bypassing the fashion photos.
She found several references to the Peterson family and about Mr. Peterson founding the town bank, building the house on Serpent Lake, constructing roads leading to Brainerd, the county seat about fifteen miles southwest, but there were no photos and no references to a gazebo.
Disappointed, and not sure why she felt that way, she read the soc
iety pages about the sisters, Frida and Berina, and their social schedules, and finally, about Frida Peterson’s engagement to a young bank clerk by the name of Galen Halidor.
Surprised, Lindsay sat back in her chair. Eric had mentioned that Frida had been engaged once, but both aunts wound up as spinsters.
Who had called off the wedding? And why? He’d been a clerk, the paper had said, so marriage to the president’s daughter would certainly have been to his advantage. And from what she understood of history, bank clerks in those days had to be young men of unquestionable morals, so what had happened?
Curious, Lindsay scrolled through the next issues, and there it was: a brief reference to an unfortunate hunting accident involving young Mr. Halidor. He’d been injured, but after recovering, took a position in Wisconsin.
He abandoned Frida? How terrible for her. No wonder there was such an air of sadness about the place.
But why? Did he blame her for the accident? Had she been involved? But why would Berina go into a decline?
Lindsay scrolled further, but found no other references to either sister except a short notation a few months later that they had been sent to a private school.
Intrigued, Lindsay made notes about the family history and printed out some pages to show Eric. She wondered how she could find out more about the family, why the sisters had been sent away and when they returned. She didn’t know why she was so interested, but she sensed a connection between the history of the house and the recent events that had plagued her.
The old lady from the diner! Maybe she could be persuaded to talk. And Harry, she felt, would gladly share what he knew, but the old lady might be a problem. Lindsay sensed she knew the most about the family—and the house. She hadn’t seen the woman since that first evening, but she’d stop in the diner and check with Shirley.
First, she needed a break. Stretching her cramped muscles, she realized she was hungry and decided to stroll the town and to get some exercise. She could stop in at Bertha’s for the lunch buffet and try to find out what Bertha knew about the family and the house. Then she’d check the diner where Shirley worked. Maybe the old lady would be there, and if not, Shirley might know how to reach her.
Gathering her notes and handbag, she stood. Before leaving, though, she’d check out some books on ghosts. Not that she truly believed it, but it wouldn’t hurt to do some reading on the subject.
Just in case.
Surprised by the number of books on ghosts and the occult that occupied two wide rows, Lindsay selected three thick volumes about hauntings in America.
“Find everything you need?” the young blonde clerk asked, taking the books to stamp.
“Actually, I was hoping to find more information on an old house in the area,” Lindsay told her. “Is there any other place, a historical society perhaps, that might have old photos?”
“There’s the Iron Range Historical Society, but it’s only open three days a week. You might check there.” The clerk jotted down the address and phone number and gave it to Lindsay. She asked for Lindsay’s library card.
“My husband and I are new in town, so I don’t have one yet.”
“No problem.” The clerk handed Lindsay a short form. After she entered the information into the computer, the clerk looked at the books. “You must like ghost stories. If you’re interested, we have our own haunted house here in Crosby.”
“A haunted house here?” Everything in Lindsay tightened, knowing, yet dreading what the aide would say.
“Right here. The old Peterson house by the lake—”
Lindsay felt as someone had struck her. She grabbed the edge of the counter for support.
“It’s in a reference book so I can’t let it leave the building, but I’ll get it so you can see.” The clerk left the counter and returned shortly with a large coffee-table-type book. She thumbed through to a certain page, then turned the book so Lindsay could see. She pointed to a photograph.
“Right here.”
Still clinging to the counter, Lindsay managed to glance at the book.
The photo of the house was perfect for a book about hauntings, and if she hadn’t been so personally affected, she would have admired the photographer’s skill. He’d snapped his picture from the front of house, capturing the sagging porch, the warped steps, and he’d taken it after the moon had risen above the dilapidated house. He’d faded whatever color there was, so the shadows had an even more eerie effect.
Her poor house …
The caption read:
“The vacant Peterson home on Serpent Lake, Crosby, MN, has been the site of several strange occurrences during the years following the owner’s move to an undisclosed nursing home. Crosby Police investigated reports of lights flickering throughout the abandoned house and heavy banging noises that echoed across the lake. Reports of vagrants were investigated when boaters spotted the silhouette of a man outlined in the attic window. Nothing was ever found.”
Lindsay’s throat constricted and her pulse pounded in her ears. She could see the clerk’s lips move so she knew she was speaking, but Lindsay could hear nothing.
The clerk looked at Lindsay as if she were waiting for her to say something. “Are you all right? Maybe you’d better sit down.” She rushed around the counter to help Lindsay to a chair. Then she paled as she obviously realized. “Lindsay Peterson, new account. Oh my gosh, you’re … please forgive me, I should’ve made the connection.”
“That’s okay. I’m fine now.” Grabbing her books, Lindsay dashed out the building and sank down on the bench to catch her breath.
Haunted …
Somehow she knew it, had known it from the first, but she hadn’t wanted to face it. She still didn’t know if she believed it, yet it would explain the strange things that had been happening at the house and in town. She thought of all the odd looks she and Eric had received.
It was all starting to make sense.
Was it possible? Was their house haunted? If it were true, then her theory about a brain tumor was probably false, so she could be relieved about that. But still. Haunted. How could that be possible? And why wasn’t there any mention of it in the back newspaper issues?
Her breathing settling down, she picked up one book and thumbed through, pausing on pages with photographs of cemeteries with small round spots floating in the air. Orbs, they explained, balls of light believed to be spirits of the deceased.
She hadn’t seen any balls of light in her house, but she had certainly felt the shifting of air. And of course there was the spicy scent. Now that she thought of it, it reminded her of an old-time shaving lotion she’d smelled at an antique store years ago.
Antique store! Crosby was full of them. She wondered if any of them would know of the scent.
She thought of Mathews. Why hadn’t he mentioned it? Even if he didn’t believe it, he should have told them. How could he expect Eric to make an important decision about ownership if he didn’t know all the facts? And while rumors of a haunting may not be factual, it would still be something an heir should know.
She hoped the old woman would be in Shirley’s diner today. If not, Lindsay had a feeling the waitress knew the old woman and could help Lindsay get in touch with her.
Just please be working today. Lindsay didn’t think she could stand waiting another day.
She stood, and when she felt more steady, she headed for downtown.
She was going to find someone to talk to her and give her some answers.
Chapter Sixteen
She passed Bertha’s first, and decided something hot and nourishing would give her some strength before facing Shirley. From the way the waitress had clammed up the first night, Lindsay had a feeling it would be a battle of wills to get her to talk.
She hoped she could handle it.
When she opened the door to Bertha’s, she was pleasantly surprised to see the owner, but the woman immediately ducked into the kitchen. Strange, Lindsay thought, and it only got more strange.
&
nbsp; Lindsay told the cashier, “When Bertha has a moment, I need to speak with her.”
“I’m sorry, she’s out for the day and can’t be reached.”
“But I just saw her.”
The cashier, a young woman in her late teens, early twenties, shrugged. Her cheeks reddened, and she looked as if she wanted to run too, but she said nothing more.
In the silence, customers at the counter turned and gazed at Lindsay. She couldn’t get out of there quick enough.
Why did everyone in town act so strangely? Eric might have inherited a house that was supposedly haunted, but she still wasn’t sure. She needed answers, not the silent treatment from everyone she met.
Wasn’t there anyone who could, would, help her?
The diner where Shirley worked was doing a brisk business. The noisy buzz of conversation almost drowned out the country music twanging on the radio. Silverware clanked, and the sound of cups scraping saucers could be heard in the lull between the high-pitched squeals of children and the music.
All the booths and tables were full, so Lindsay stood in the doorway. As usual, heads turned to look at her, then everyone quickly lost interest.
Lindsay didn’t mind waiting; it gave her a chance to look for the white-haired woman without being too obvious, but to her disappointment, she wasn't there.
With a sinking heart, Lindsay didn’t see Shirley either. She waited a few more moments, hoping the woman would magically appear from the kitchen. But she didn’t. Instead, two younger waitresses bustled between the kitchen and tables with plates of food.
Was Shirley off today? If so, maybe someone tell her where she lived. While that wasn’t customary in any business, maybe, since Crosby was a small town, someone would tell her. She simply had to talk to her, had to find out how to reach the old woman.
