Karla’s voice interrupts faintly.
It was not! I felt a pull towards it.
Sure you did. Tomorrow morning, we are going to take Peter’s cross to his gravesite and bury it. This should free his spirit; hopefully, the event will provide some useful data. We’ll set up our equipment and Karla will do the videography.
March 21st, 2006 – Field research notes of Darren Porter. Peter’s gravesite was found easily enough. Burying the silver cross produced a sharp EMF spike on our equipment and several distortions were recorded on our cameras. For my part, I saw a great flash and then Peter began to fade from view. I suppose in my own selfishness, I forgot the most important point – that I should also be using this power of mine to help the ghosts pass on. The flash was enough to capture the attention of a second ghost; a Private from the 7th Wisconsin named Marcellus Chase. He has offered to introduce me to Colonel Vincent and General John Reynolds, in exchange for releasing him to whatever afterlife ghosts experience.
Private Chase denies that he has any anchor or focus – he says that he’s bound by an unperformed act, which he asks me to do on his behalf. His request is reasonable enough. He merely wishes a wreath of flowers left at his mother’s gravesite in Milwaukee, something that he promised to do, but never did before falling in battle himself. I can either contact some friends in Michigan or search the Internet for a paranormal investigator in that region to perform this task for us.
March 22nd, 2006 – Field research notes of Darren Porter. Private Chase came to my house in the morning. Colonel Vincent seems very interested in meeting me and extended an invitation for me to attend ‘evening muster’. Karla is slightly perturbed as the Colonel’s invite was only meant for me. She has contacted the church where Marcellus’ mother is buried and is having FTD deliver a wreath to the church, to be placed at her gravesite.
Needless to say Marcellus Chase is quite excited. He has also been much more forthcoming about his existence. The ghosts here at Gettysburg are engaged in various rituals, the purpose of which appears to be gathering some sort of energy that’s present on and around the battlefield. Just how they gather and store this energy is not clear at the moment, but the top ghost, a General Reynolds, is said to take this energy somewhere south of Gettysburg. There is an apparent hierarchy and Private Chase indicated that while the General is away, the Colonel and an artillery Lieutenant named Blume are in charge of the ‘brigade’. I expect that I’ll learn more this evening.
Notes continued – my EMF detector burnt itself out and failed completely at ‘muster’. I was able to snap three pictures before the camera batteries drained. All my equipment failed within two minutes of seeing all these ghosts. Whatever interference effect drains the electronic equipment, it seems to vary according to locale and with the density of the ghost population. It was a powerful moment in my life, meeting all these departed gentlemen.
I was greatly impressed meeting Colonel Vincent. He carried himself with a palpable dignity. There was a tingling sensation like those old joke hand buzzers when I touched him. We both could feel it and clearly both of us were surprised. When we were in physical contact, I was able to hear him, in a voice less faint than how I heard Private Peter Faust. Each ghost passed single file by Lieutenant Blume. As they did so, he seemed to draw energy from them. His appearance became sharper and more visible, while the others seemed to fade in contrast.
During our conversation, Private Chase faded from view. One moment he was there and then suddenly, he was gone. I explained to the Colonel how I arranged for Chase’s final wishes to be fulfilled and that allowed him to pass into the afterlife.
Neither of us had expected the chaos my statement would cause amongst the brigade. I was immediately surrounded and everyone seemed to want my attention, which was complicated by the fact that I couldn’t hear any of them speak. Colonel Vincent drew his sword and must have shouted for order. I watched the Colonel fling one of the enlisted men a dozen feet through the air. That seemed to quiet the men.
Leaving Lieutenant Blume in charge, he came back to my house where we spoke late into the night. Karla stayed with us for as long as she could hold out, but she’d come back from her vacation with a touch of the flu. Karla couldn’t hear him, but remarkably, Vincent was able to make a ballpoint pen move and he answered her questions that way. I’ve photographed these writings for posterity.
Looking through the picture files, I studied their conversation. Vincent “deferred” answering questions about his focus, though my bet was that it was his riding crop – a gift from his wife. I’ll be the first to admit that I wasn’t likely to earn advanced degrees like Darren Porter, but an old grunt was quite capable of researching the enemy – my life might depend on it, after all.
Skimming through the conversation, Vincent posed questions of his own. First and foremost was how far Darren could trace back his genealogy and whether it could be traced to Edgar Allan Poe. Darren dabbled in genealogy and could trace his roots back to Sarah Royster Shelton, who was engaged to Poe. The next series of questions on the page disturbed me and I desperately wanted to hear Darren’s perspective.
I pressed play again.
One of the most fascinating things to come out of this is the fact that I may actually be a blood relation to Edgar Allan Poe. Colonel Vincent explained that older ghosts told him how Poe and his brother William Henry Poe both possessed the ability to communicate as I do, directly with the spirits. I searched the internet and told him that to the best of the world’s knowledge, neither Poe’s brother, nor their sister had any children.
He corrected that notion. According to him, David Poe, Junior (father to Edgar, William and Rosalie Poe) possessed this ability as well and apparently made a number of enemies in the ghost world. He left his family to deal with them. Supposedly, he abandoned his family in 1810 and died a year later, so whatever strategy he was using to deal with the ghosts, it hadn’t been very successful. William Poe stayed with his grandparents; Edgar was fostered by the Allans and Rosalie by the Mackenzies.
Ghosts monitored all three children to see if their father’s gifts were passed on to the new generation, but the three either showed no signs – or they were clever enough to hide it.
According to Vincent, William was a merchant sailor who traveled extensively. He may or may not have sired several illegitimate children in ports around the world. His adventures are mostly unknown by mortals, but William was reviled among the ghosts, though he lived only to his mid-twenties.
Edgar’s legacy must have overshadowed his brother’s. History paints a picture of a man who at times acted irrationally and it is widely stated that he drank excessively and died under mysterious circumstances years before Colonel Vincent died at Little Round Top. Poe took up his brother’s cause with a vengeance, leading to something referred to as The Great Cleansing.
Here is where the Colonel also became circumspect. I began to ask about the structure of ghostly life and where General Reynolds was taking the spectral energy gathered here in Gettysburg and what it could be used for. He told me that it is not a discussion for here and now.
The Colonel left around three in the morning and said he had to speak to his men. I suspected that those above the Colonel would object greatly to my releasing bound spirits into the afterlife.
This picture of the dignified dead hero didn’t match my own experience of the ghost Vincent who guarded Darren’s grave and ended up running the paranormal researcher through with the sword I now possessed. Darren’s words didn’t match up with the ghost who was trying to kill me.
March 23rd, 2006 – Darren Porter’s notes. My second visit with the Colonel leaves me more than a bit concerned. He states that General Reynolds will be back tomorrow. The Colonel and I have developed a theory that Poe fathered children secretly with Sarah Royster Shelton and possibly even the poet Sarah Helen Whitman. He cautioned me that the powers above him may react poorly to any contact with someone of the Poe bloodline and that Gettysburg m
ay not be safe for me.
Rapidly becoming an expert on Poe, I noted that when he was found in a distressed state shortly before his death in Baltimore, he was shouting something about a person named Reynolds. Colonel Vincent is unaware if the General and Poe knew each other. It is widely speculated that he was referring to another writer, but now I am starting to wonder. It also reminds me of the investigation The Eye of Horus conducted at the cemetery where Poe is buried. Who was that spirit? I fished out the tape and watched it again. Who is this Ross person and who did the spirit there want revenge on?
A look at my family tree shows a marriage between Beatrice Royster Shelton and Michael Edmund Ross in 1870. I have not tracked that branch of my family, but Beatrice was the older of two twin girls that were adopted by Mrs. Shelton around 1850. Were they actually adopted or were they the fruit of some tryst with Poe? If this power does run in the family, then perhaps the Ross branch has it too? Maybe I’m seeing circles within circles, but this is becoming slightly unnerving.
I will speak with Colonel Vincent and ask his opinion of the Ross connection. I want to know -- Karla is at her apartment and I’ve asked her to look into that branch of my family. I haven’t really clued her in that there may be a sinister aspect to all of this. She tends to be a worrier and I’d rather not burden her. After all, I’ve no intentions of declaring war on the spirit world. I’ve dedicated my life to paranormal research. Even so, I am going to make some arrangements for us to leave town in case things take a turn for the worse and leave Karla with emergency instructions, both to protect her and to safeguard my research.
His notes ended there. I knew that he was scheduled to give a tour the following day. Instead of leading that tour, much like a delirious Edgar Allan Poe, he stumbled around town and into an emergency room looking like he’d been through hell. He died pretty much the exact moment I was rolled off a military transport plane in Dover, Delaware.
For the next two days, I was exhausted, sleeping poorly, and quite possibly the most miserable holiday guest that Rusty’s family has ever endured. My brain was running in overdrive. I’m not ashamed to admit how this information spooked me. Yeah, bad pun, sue me. With Rusty’s windshield finally repaired, we were scheduled to leave in the morning and I could find Silas or even one of my “Caspers” to help me process all this. Either way, I was certain that no answers were forthcoming, so I might as well try and get some rest.
As before, my sleep was troubled that night. Still, unless I consciously drool, I must have gotten some rest. All I know was that there was a time when I was drifting in and out and suddenly I was very awake. There was someone else in the room, a suspicion that was confirmed as my eyes settled on a female standing at the foot of my bed. I thought I was dreaming – the first clue being that the girl was naked. Now I’ve had my fair share of dreams involving naked girls, but usually they’re girls that I know; this one was a stranger.
From the bright aura, she was also a ghost. Obviously the saying, “No rest for the weary” applied here.
I could see her lips moving, but the only things I heard were the sounds that a house makes when the wind is blowing outside, at night. My brain wasn’t functioning on many high levels, but the lower levels of Mike Ross were appreciating the view. The young woman, maybe in her early twenties, moved around the foot of the bed, and shimmered a bit, which helped my muzzy brain confirm that this wasn’t the usual naked-girl dream, and I might actually be awake, looking at a ghost. The dream ones just didn’t glow like that.
That was a sobering thought. I leaned over the side of the bed and snatched my sword. “I can’t hear you unless we are in physical contact and I’m not letting you near me until I’m certain we’re alone. Let’s do this nice and easy and not wake the rest of the house. Are you here alone?”
The unclothed woman visibly sighed and nodded her head. She honestly looked a bit on the irritated side.
I held my injured arm out to her and lowered the sword to my side. “Just touch my hand. It stings a little, so lightly if you please.”
“Would you like me to fix that for you?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Try not to scream. This will likely hurt.” She stuck her finger into her mouth, licked it in a rather disturbing fashion, and then stuck her finger into my non-functional ear.
The last thing I’d heard out of that ear was the IED blast in Iraq. Right then I heard another pop and a squishy sound like water being poured, but all of that paled in comparison to the pain I was experiencing – it was like the usual ghost electric shock, amplified to Taser levels. I opened my mouth to scream, but the woman placed her other hand over my mouth.
“Are you quite finished, Ferryman?” She commented, shaking the hand where I bit her. My teeth felt like I’d gone through some deep scaling. Her voice had that I’m-not-going-to-take-any-crap-from-you-tone used by my most frightening teachers from elementary school. It was almost enough to distract me from the fact that she was standing in my bedroom, wearing nothing more than her dignity and self-confidence, which, like the rest of her, was quite impressive.
“I’m sorry for the pain, Ferryman, most of the living cannot sense the almost departed. You are obviously the most sensitive person I have met,” she said. She studied my face, and then noticed that my eyes were flicking down from her face to the rest of her. Grabbing my blanket with her hand, there was a ripping sound, only the blanket remained in my hands. She busily wrapped a ghostly blanket around herself, fashioning it quickly into an under-the-arms wrap, like a bath towel.
“Who are you?” I asked, “And why are you calling me ‘ferryman?’”
“We have not been properly introduced and you are still waving that useless blade.”
“What do you mean useless?”
The woman held the palm of her hand out and touched the flat side of my sword. A look of intense concentration crossed her face and a jolt of what felt like electricity surged through my arm forcing me to yelp and drop it.
She smiled and then primly sat down on my bed.
“As I said, the blade is useless. Against a lesser spirit, I am certain it is quite formidable, but I recommend that you stick to forged iron. As for the name, Charon the ferryman would carry the spirits of the dead across the river Styx,” she explained. “The ghosts from the war between the states have been murmuring about a new ferryman, so I decided that there must be some truth to the rumors. As to whom I am, names are not terribly important, but when I was alive, I was Miss Eva Kutz.”
“Mike Ross. You talked to a ghost from the Civil War?” I asked.
“Yes, he was looking for you and your friend,” Eva replied.
“Then I’ve got to get out of here,” I said, trying to stuff down my panic.
“You are quite safe here,” Eva said authoritatively. “The valley here is a bit of a wonder – no ghosts can get in, no ghosts can get out.”
“How’s that?”
“Again, the answer is iron,” Eva explained. “This was an old mining town – mostly coal, but a bit of iron as well. Every time the Susquehanna floods, it leaves a high-water mark -- a band of mud – rich red-brown mud surrounding the area. That mud contains enough iron to make a ghost barrier that effectively seals the valley.”
“But iron won’t do it, something needs to charge it,” I protested.
“Oh?” she replied, a look of amusement on her face.
“I’ve done experiments.”
“Yes, as I have done those experiments too – it’s something about the river that charges the iron – you see the Susquehanna as a slow red-brown river – I see it as a ribbon of fire,” Eva said.
And so we began a discussion of everything we both knew about how iron effects ghosts – rather much like a few conversations I’ve had with Brother Silas and later with Chuck Candelmas, except Eva was a lot easier to look at.
“Every ghost I’ve met wears clothes – how is it that you didn’t have any when you showed up here?” I asked.
&
nbsp; She smiled again. “I take it you are not in the habit of entertaining naked women in your bedroom, whether living or dead? I know a lot about the Susquehanna for a reason; I died in a flood when the Susquehanna breached its banks in the year 1901. I was asleep at the time, and hadn’t the time to dress before dying.”
I tried very hard at the moment to not think of her sleeping – unclothed, apparently, as I’ve tried very hard to limit my lecherous thoughts to the living.
“What about your family?” I asked, trying to get fully awake.
“I had no family in Kingston,” she said. “I was a schoolteacher, I lived alone. My little cottage in the valley was the best I could afford.”
What followed after that was one of the stranger conversations I’ve ever had in my short life, Eva sitting on the foot of my bed, me sitting up, a pillow cushioning my back as I leaned against the wall.
Miss Kutz, was quite the conversationalist, and soon I found myself telling her most of my life story – which is rather depressing when you compress it into a few sentences – being raised by Mom after Dad left us, graduating, barely, from high school, joining the Army and having a so-so stint as an enlisted grunt until I got blown up by a roadside bomb.
She found my tale about going back to school particularly interesting, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the appropriate times as I told her about my new-found discoveries. Eva, it seems, was the black sheep of her well-to-do Philadelphia family. She went to college in an age when few women went to college, refused several marriages that had been suggested by her mother, opting instead to support herself as a school teacher in a poor mining town in Pennsylvania, namely the town of Kingston, which was not far from where I was that day in Wilkes-Barre.
Like many well-intentioned rich girls, she’d found out that living with the poor was not quite as romantic as it might have seemed when you were living on the proper side of town, but she made the best of her situation. She knew about Poe, but only as a promising American writer of short stories and poems, several of which she’d included in her short teaching career. The Great Cleansing was something that she’d heard about in passing, but predated her by over fifty years. As for my “friends” in Gettysburg, she agreed they were up to something, but she never left the valley.
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