The Mystery of the Morbid Moans (Eden Patterson: Ghost Whisperer Book Three 3)

by Constance Barker

  “And like last night, the women moving it back,” Syd said setting her end of the table down. “So have you guys spent all this time trying to move the table back?”

  “No,” Luke said. “Actually nothing happened until about 20 minutes ago. Like Goog said…yelling and chains rattling. Then the table moves and it all stops.”

  Matt brushed the dust from the knees of his pants. “Anything happen over at the art gallery?”

  “Actually yes,” I answered. “We heard moaning and several of the paintings fell from the wall in the art gallery.”

  “Doesn’t sound all that dramatic.” Matt, ever the skeptic. “Again the sounds can be piped in. Did you see the paintings drop?”

  Syd picked up an old railroad lantern and looked it over. “No, we were downstairs at the time, but we heard banging noises so we ran upstairs and they’d fallen to the floor.”

  “Kids could have snuck in and done that,” Goog said. Sheesh, now Goog. Matt was working overtime.

  “They were all by the same artist,” Syd said as she looked at the price tag hanging from the lantern. “If I could put a bulb in this it would look cool on my back porch.” It was difficult for Syd to keep her mind on one thing sometimes, especially if that something struck her fancy.

  “Then the paintings were probably all grouped together right?” Luke asked. I nodded. “Somebody could have run in and simply grabbed all of the ones in the same place and tossed them on the floor.”

  “Her paintings are near the back and other artist’s paintings are right by hers.” I was getting aggravated. It was one thing for Matt to be skeptical. He was always upfront about it. But now even Luke was questioning.

  I looked at Luke. “Remember last night when I felt tightness around my neck and I said it felt like metal?”

  Luke nodded.

  “Well I know now what it was.” That got the boys’ attention. “There are a few more paintings in the art gallery basement by the same artist whose paintings fell upstairs. They were covered up so Syd and I uncovered them.”

  “They were sad,” Syd stated.

  I nodded. “Not like the ones in the gallery. These were heart-wrenching. One was of an African-American woman set back probably during slavery in the south before the Civil War. She was picking cotton and her fingers were bleeding. But the other two paintings were of an African-American man. The first one showed his back with dozens of scars from a whip.”

  Goog cringed. “How terrible.”

  “But it was the last painting that got our attention.”

  “What did it show?” Luke asked.

  “I’m pretty sure it was supposed to be the same man only this time you could see the front of him. He was shackled with chains.”

  Everyone’s eyes widened. “And he had a metal cuff shackled around his neck. I knew right when I saw it that the metal cuff is what I felt last night.”

  “But wait,” Matt interjected. “Do we know if the man in the painting was an actual person? It could simply be a figment of the artist’s imagination.”

  I knew what Matt said was true. “Could be, but I have a feeling this is the restless spirit who wants to be heard.”

  Chapter Nine

  The next day Mrs. Dunkin arranged for us to meet with Jasmine Harris. But before that we gathered in the Hummel House private dining room for a breakfast of thick sliced bacon, scrambled eggs with chives, and buttermilk biscuits and sausage gravy.

  I poured a smidge of sweet cream into my hickory coffee. “Maybe we all shouldn’t go to the meeting with Jasmine. It may be intimidating with all of us there.”

  Syd took a bite of her bacon. “I think you’re right Eden. Why don’t Matt, Goog and I hit the town stores. See if we can rummage up anymore information from the towns folk. Plus I want to reserve us some spots for the ghost walk tomorrow night.”

  I’d wanted to go on the ghost walk ever since I’d heard about it. Especially since there would be a full moon tomorrow night. “Sounds good Syd. Luke and I can meet with Jasmine at the art gallery.”

  “What do you think you’ll find out from her Eden?” Matt asked as he broke his biscuit in two and slathered homemade raspberry jelly over the two sides.

  I took a small sip of my coffee and then answered. “Mrs. Dunkin said that Jasmine took inspiration from her heritage and applied it to her art. I want to find out if the people in her paintings are derived from her research into her ancestry.”

  “Like if the man in the paintings is her great-great-great and so on grand pappy?” Syd asked.

  “Right,” I answered as I lathered my own biscuit with garlic butter. “It could be that her paintings are simply derived from her own imagination, but Mrs. Dunkin said that Jasmine told her she’d studied her heritage on Ancestry.com, so there’s a chance she’s using her own ancestors in the paintings. I need to find out if that’s true and what she knows about the scarred and chained man in the paintings in the basement.”

  “So you think his spirit may be trying to reach her?” Goog asked.

  “I do. I need to find out when Jasmine started showing her paintings at the art gallery and if that coincides with these disturbances. If it does, we’ve got a connection.”

  Syd drained her glass of orange juice and then stood up and looked at Matt and Goog. “Let’s get a move on ladies. I have a feeling there’s even more to this story and we need to dig a little deeper.”

  “Sheesh Syd, can’t I even digest my breakfast?” Matt had a delicate digestive system.

  “Pop an antacid and let’s go.” When Syd was on a mission she waited for no man.

  Matt took a bottle from his pocket, popped a pill into his mouth, and washed it down with a glass of water. “If my gut retaliates today, I’m blaming you.”

  Syd patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you an old home remedy that will make your stomach sing. Little ginger root and chamomile tea with honey. Guaranteed to fix what ails you.”

  After the gang left it gave Luke and me a chance to go over what we’d figured out so far.

  “What’s got me confused is the connection between the art gallery and the antique shop,” Luke said as he leaned back in his chair. I turned in my chair to face him.

  “I know, that has me stumped as well. The art gallery houses the paintings where the moans have emerged. But the antique shop is where the prominent disturbances occur. The rattling chains and yelling.”

  We both sat in silence, deep in thought, then something occurred to me. “Isn’t the antique shop one of the oldest buildings in the town?”

  “From what we uncovered at the library, most of the buildings are original, although many have been restored. Now the art gallery building is newer, it’s not one of the original buildings. So what are you thinking Eden?”

  “I think we need to delve deeper into the history of this town. I’m certain that the man crying out at the art gallery and the antique shop is the same person.”

  Luke scooted his chair away from the table. “I agree with you. Hopefully Jasmine can supply us with more information.”

  Chapter Ten

  Mrs. Dunkin had arranged for Luke and me to meet Jasmine Harris at the art gallery. As we walked in the front door I spotted Mrs. Dunkin in the rear of the store with an African-American young lady. She was quite beautiful with stunning dark eyes and short brown hair. She looked to be about 25.

  Mrs. Dunkin made the introductions and offered us her office to use so we wouldn’t be interrupted by customers. We all sat, with Luke and me facing Jasmine in the small office.

  “Jasmine, I was captivated by your paintings the first time I saw them,” I said. “You have extraordinary talent.”

  She smiled and it lit up the room. “Thank you. It’s very much a labor of love for me.”

  “I can tell that it is. Your paintings are so realistic, I swear I can almost see the people moving in them.”

  “I’ve had several customers tell me that as well.”

  “How di
d you get your inspiration for the paintings?” Luke asked. Although Mrs. Dunkin had already told us, we needed to hear it from Jasmine.

  “After my parents died in a car accident three years ago, I wanted to learn more about my heritage. Both sets of grandparents were dead and my Mom and Dad weren’t close with their siblings so I was left without any real direction. So a friend of mine suggested Ancestry.com. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try. But I wasn’t prepared for what I discovered.”

  Jasmine looked at the floor, her bright face now clouded by what she learned. “I was able to trace back pretty far…into the early 1800’s on my father’s side. I learned that our ancestors had been slaves on cotton plantations in northern Georgia. I was even able to find old photos. I could only copy them from the internet, but they provided me with a good vision of how their life was like.”

  Jasmine smiled as she thought about the photos. “I’ve depicted those images in my paintings. They were a proud people and they made the best out of a bad situation. I could tell that in the photos of them cooking over an open fire or playing with their children. There were diaries as well and they told about how they would sing in the fields or in the evenings. On Sunday morning they’d gather for church in a little meadow that was part of the property and listen to one of the elders preach the gospel. Then they’d raise their hands towards the heavens and praise God.”

  “The diaries also told how they suffered by the taskmaster, a man who worked for the plantation owner.” Jasmine looked at the floor again. “There are things I read that I don’t want to discuss.”

  I didn’t blame her and could only imagine the atrocities she read about in her ancestor’s diaries.

  Luke put his hands on his knees. “Jasmine…you’ve heard about the disturbances, both here and at Mr. Hoffman’s antique shop, right?”

  Jasmine nodded. “Yes. Although I haven’t heard them myself.”

  “Well, we think the two are connected,” Luke continued. “And we think these disturbances may also be connected to your paintings.”

  Jasmine looked confused. “How? I don’t understand.”

  I hated to reveal that I’d seen the covered paintings in the basement, but I knew I had no choice.

  “Jasmine, the other night my colleague and I were stationed in the basement while my husband and the rest of our team were at the antique shop.” I sighed. “Anyway, while we were waiting, I was drawn to look at the paintings underneath the covers in the basement.”

  Jasmine’s eyes grew wide.

  “I’m so sorry, but the pull was so strong and I felt like someone wanted me to look, so I did. And now I think I know who the spirit is that’s causing the disturbances…it’s the man in your paintings.”

  Jasmine appeared confused. “Why would you think that?” At least she wasn’t mad at me for peeking.

  “The first night we were in town we staked out the antique shop. We heard the rattling chains and the yelling. And then, I felt something around my neck. It felt heavy and binding and I had trouble breathing.” I looked straight at Jasmine. “At the time I didn’t know what it was…but after seeing your painting in the basement with the man in chains…well, then I knew.”

  Jasmine stared at me and then said, “It was the metal cuff around his neck.”

  I nodded. “I was feeling what he felt. Actually I was only feeling a small part of what he felt since he was cuffed around the ankles and wrists as well.”

  I leaned forward. “Now at the time we weren’t sure if the man in your painting was based on one of your ancestors or simply someone you thought up, but we need to know for sure.”

  Jasmine nodded and her eyes filled with tears. “He is based on my great, great, great…well you know…grandfather, Gabriel Harris. I have a copy of a photo taken of him on the Easton plantation.”

  She leaned down and grabbed a large leather tote from the floor and placed it on her lap. She removed several pages and handed them to Luke and me. There, in black and white aged photos were African-American families. Some were sitting on the porches of very small cabins, while others were taken of them working in the fields or cooking over the open fire. Much like the paintings on display in the gallery.

  “I see where you get your inspiration for your paintings,” Luke said. He held up a photo of a middle-aged man with muscular arms. “Is this Gabriel?”

  Jasmine nodded. “Yes, that’s him. He and my grandmother had two children, two boys. Here are their pictures.”

  The little boys in their tattered suspenders were seen frozen in time jumping and playing.

  “From what I learned, the family escaped from Easton Plantation and made their way north.”

  Now we were getting somewhere.

  “Is there any record of what happened to them after they escaped?” I asked.

  Jasmine took the copies back and placed them into the tote. “Just snippets here and there of their journey. Mostly it is assumed they worked with the Underground Railroad with conductors.”

  “Conductors?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s what they called many of the people who led the slaves out of the south to the north or the Free states. They were known as abolitionists. Both white and black people risking their own lives to help slaves. Many of the African-Americans who helped had previously been slaves themselves.”

  “Tell us more about the Underground Railroad.” Luke was very interested in history…almost as much as I was. I had heard about the Underground Railroad, but certain aspects I didn’t know, like the term for the conductors.

  “From what I’ve learned in my own research, the Underground Railroad was formed by the Quakers. In fact, Levi Coffin is known as the father of the Underground Railroad. It is believed he and his wife helped over 3000 slaves escape. There were many people who believed the same as they did, that slavery should be abolished. And many of those people lived in states that upheld slavery. In their mission, these people set up what they called stations. These stations where safe houses where slaves could hide out until they could move to the next safe haven. The stations might be barns or secret rooms and passageways hidden inside homes.”

  “Some estimate that 100,000 slaves were able to escape to freedom through the Underground Railroad. However, there were also many that were captured and brought back to the plantations, even if they made it to non-slavery states.”

  I was confused. “How could they take them back if they were in Free states?”

  “Slaves were considered property back then. So if an owner found out where his slave was, he could bring his papers and the sheriff and lay claim to him. There was no law stopping him.”

  “Jasmine, why did you paint the man in chains and his scarred back? Is that Gabriel?” I asked.

  Jasmine pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Yes it’s Gabriel. I learned that he was captured up north and his owner reclaimed him. Fortunately the rest of his family got away, or it could be he sacrificed himself so they could escape. Anyway, the records I read said the taskmaster laid claim to him in Ohio, lashed his back 30 times and put him in chains to take back to Georgia. And that’s the last record they have about him.”

  “As far as the paintings….I just felt compelled to paint them. I knew I would never sell them. I guess it was just something I needed to get out of my system. I had brought them to the gallery to fit them with frames, but I never got around to it. Now I don’t know what to do with them.”

  “When did you bring them here Jasmine?” Luke asked. I held my breath for her answer.

  “About a month or so ago.” That was it! The disturbances were connected to the paintings. Then I remembered something Matt said about Willet’s Pike. The town had been founded by Quakers…the very people who had formed the Underground Railroad. Could it be? There were too many connecting dots for all of this to be a coincidence.

  I looked at Luke. “We need to find the secret room or passageway in Mr. Hoffman’s antique store.”

  Chapter Eleven

&nbs
p; Luke called Matt and told them to meet us at Mr. Hoffman’s antique store. When we arrived Syd, Matt and Goog were already there. Mr. Hoffman was just closing up when we arrived. “Are you going to give it a try again?” He asked.

  “We think we may have gotten a hold of some information that may help,” Luke explained. “But I need to ask you a few questions about this building.”

  Mr. Hoffman sat down on the bench outside his store and Luke sat beside him while I stood over to the side. “Fire away,” Mr. Hoffman said.

  “Are you aware of any secret rooms or passageways in the building? It’s come to our attention that the town of Willet’s Pike was perhaps a station in the Underground Railroad.”