“Nothing but a few scraps of cloth and pieces of bone.” Dad wolfed down another slice, but Mom picked up on Avery’s concerned tone of voice.
“There was nothing left that could be identified,” she explained kindly. “We’ve arranged for everything—the wood, the bones—to be cremated. Then we’ll bury a little bit of the ashes at each grave site. We’ll use urns and only bury them where the ground is most stable.”
Avery nodded, satisfied.
“What about the caskets that weren’t destroyed?” Noah asked. “Can you identify the people in those?”
Dad wiped a strand of melted mozzarella from his chin. “The coffins that were totally intact?” He smiled. “That’s where it got interesting.”
Chapter Seven
William was waiting for us at nine sharp the next morning. He waved from his front porch, a thermos of coffee gripped in one hand. Trisha pulled her car into the driveway, gathered her purse and laptop, and turned around in her seat.
“You two ready?”
“I think so,” Noah replied. With my parents and Shane busy at the morgue, Noah and Trisha were helping us out with the project. I was nervous about having Noah around. What if he decided my family was nuts?
Trisha checked her lipstick in the side mirror.
“He’s really nice,” I said. “You’ll do fine.” I opened the door and slid out, not wanting to make William wait any longer. Noah was right behind me, dressed in black rubber boots and an army green rain jacket. The sky above us threatened rain, even though the hyperactive weatherman had assured us a clear day.
We paused to let Trisha take the lead. I knew she was nervous and determined to make a positive first impression.
“Mr. Kitsman!” She stretched out her arm to shake his hand, stumbling a little on the steps. The old man reached down to steady her. “You okay?”
“Oh, yes.” She thrust out her hand again. “I’m Trisha Elliot. Karen Silver spoke with you last night about my being here today?”
“Of course, of course.” William ushered us inside. “I’m very eager to hear about the findings.”
We went into the kitchen and gathered around a small table. William offered us coffee cake, which Noah and I happily accepted. Trisha plugged in her laptop, then thrummed her fingers on the tabletop as the computer warmed up.
I wished she wasn’t so anxious. It was a minor assignment, little more than a favor to my parents, who wanted to spend another entire day at the morgue.
“Mom and Dad wanted to be here today,” I told William. “But there’s not much time to document their findings. They said they’d be here tomorrow, though.”
“That’s fine. Plenty of folks have been in and out the past couple days.”
“Like who?”
Mr. Kitsman sipped from his thermos. “Well, let’s see. There was the geological survey team, for one. And the county sent over some people to take note of the damage. A few reporters…and one real strange fellow.”
Noah glanced at me. I had told him about seeing someone near the cemetery, someone who obviously didn’t want to be noticed. “What did he look like?”
“Young. Wore a trench coat. He was hanging around near the back of the property.” Mr. Kitsman looked out the back windows, where there was a clear view of the crumbling stone steps that led up the hill and to the cemetery. “I think he’s the same young man who was driving by every so often. When I asked him who he was, he mumbled something and took off through the woods.” He shrugged. “He’s trespassin’ but I didn’t think I could chase after him. Doubt he’ll be back, though. Once you confront someone, they don’t want to be seen again.”
Noah and I shared a knowing glance. Trisha looked up, smiled, and turned her laptop towards Mr. Kitsman.
“Here’s what we’ve found.” She explained the situation and the plan to bury the ashes at the oldest grave markers.
“Sounds fine.” Mr. Kitsman set down his thermos. “It’s unfortunate they couldn’t be saved, but as long as we bury something, I think it should be enough.”
We nodded our agreement. It was the best we could do.
Mr. Kitsman addressed Trisha. “So what’s this big discovery?”
She opened a file on the computer. “This.”
He squinted at the screen. “Looks like regular coffins. Old, but nothing unusual.”
“They’re lead.”
“Lead?” He stared at the digital photos my parents had taken. “Well. Isn’t that something.”
From his reaction, I could tell Mr. Kitsman knew a little about the significance of lead coffins, but probably not much. Definitely not as much as Dad, who had prepared several lectures over the years about this very subject, talks I had heard dozens of times, including once last night, when Dad slipped into lecture mode in order to illuminate Noah, Trisha and Avery after dinner.
“Lead coffins are rare,” Trisha said, echoing Dad’s bullet points. “They’re usually found in Europe because royalty were buried in them. They preserve the body longer than wood.”
“Royalty,” Mr. Kitsman repeated.
“Not that we think these coffins hold royalty,” Trisha said quickly. “But we also don’t think the names on the tombstones represent the people inside the lead coffins.”
“Why’s that?”
This was the part that had confused me, as well. Lead coffins were rare, in part, because they were incredibly expensive. Even now. But over a hundred years ago? It would have been an impossible sum of money for the average family. Only people of great wealth and stature could have afforded them, the same kind of people who would have paid for burial in a prominent location with a huge, towering tombstone or elaborate family crypt. Having them in the humble little graveyard behind Mr. Kitsman’s house did not make sense, and the simple names carved into the stones did not indicate a family of prominence, despite the fact that they had owned so much land.
Mr. Kitsman frowned. “I know that most of the folks buried here are family. Of course the names are right.”
“How do you know for sure that these are your ancestors?” Trisha asked.
She was treading on delicate ground. You didn’t walk into someone’s house and announce that things they believed to be true were not. I felt a stab of anxiety and hoped we hadn’t offended William. When he stood and pushed his chair back, I wasn’t sure what to do, what words I could offer that would smooth things over.
“I’ll be back in a minute.” He walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway.
Trisha was upset. “I blew it, didn’t I? You dad said to be careful about how I approached this and I ruined everything.”
“We can fix this,” Noah assured her. He looked at me. “Right?”
“Yes.” I had no idea how, but there had to be a way to assure William that everything was fine. Otherwise, we faced the real possibility of being kicked out of his house—and the restoration project.
Down the hallway, drawers opened and papers were shuffled. When William returned to the kitchen, he was holding a massive photo album. “Found it.” He set the album onto the table gingerly and opened it, then slowly turned the thick pages. Noah and I scooted closer so we could see the book. It held not only black-and-white pictures, but newspaper clippings, as well. Images of serious-looking people dressed in formal clothing shared pages with wedding announcements and obituaries.
“Here’s one.” William pointed to an obituary. “This was for my great-great-grandfather. See here, at the bottom. Says he was buried on the family property.”
Trisha nodded. “That’s one confirmed, then. What about the others?”
William smiled. “Looks like we need to do a little research.” He patted the book. “And this is the best place to start.”
It was fascinating to pore through the album with William. This was his personal history, organized with meticulous care. He explained that his grandmother had started the book and passed the duty down to his mother. “And now it’s mine, but I haven’t had much to a
dd. Military records, a few pictures of my grandchildren.”
The pictures were amazing. A woman dressed in a black, knee-length bathing dress stood on a beach. “Reminds me of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir,” I murmured.
William smiled. “I like that movie, too.”
A young man waved from the driver’s side of a car I had seen only in museums. Small children sat in their mothers’ laps. Couples posed in front of churches on their wedding day. I could have spent hours examining the photographs, but it was the obituaries that contained the most useful information. They were much more detailed accounts of an individual’s life than the obits I’d read in recent newspapers. And they confirmed what William believed: his family was buried in the cemetery on his property.
I read aloud from an obituary dated June 24, 1929. “He will be laid to rest next to his beloved wife on the family plot, where he will join his father, mother, sister, and grandparents.”
“The names match the graves,” William said, satisfied. “I didn’t know they were buried in lead coffins, but it’s them.”
I believed him. “So the real question is, why?”
“Don’t know,” William admitted. “They weren’t rich, I can tell you that. Weren’t royal, either.”
“Does it matter?” Noah asked. “I mean, it’s unusual, but it’s not crazy. The important thing is that we rebury this family and make sure we do it right.”
Trisha beamed at her son. “Absolutely.”
I agreed, but not completely. Yes, we needed to see our job through to completion, but Noah and Trisha really had no idea how strange this was. It wasn’t simply unusual—it was so rare that it could be considered an archeological discovery. Something didn’t add up.
We thanked William for his time and hospitality, then asked his permission to visit the cemetery again. Dad wanted footage taken in better light, and the weather was cooperating. I wanted to inspect the area for myself. Would there be traces of the mysterious presence I had glimpsed earlier?
The geological team had been busy. The chunk of hill that had washed away during the worst of the storm had been bulldozed into a heap, and the sections considered dangerous were carefully marked with stakes and red plastic strips. Recently recovered gravestones had been relocated to safer spots of land.
“We should zoom in on those,” I said, pointing to the stones on the far side of the cemetery.” I don’t think I got footage of them on our first visit.”
“I’m on it,” Noah said.
While he took one camera, I grabbed another. I wanted to get some nice, slow shots of the entire area.
“Can I help?” Trisha smiled. “After almost ruining everything, I want to feel useful.”
“Sure.” I handed her the camera. “But you didn’t almost ruin anything. You did great.” I gave her instructions about what Dad wanted. It was perfect—while Trisha and Noah were busy, I would be able to scour the ground for signs of someone. Although, I soon realized that would be nearly impossible. So many people had been through the area. How was I supposed to know if the shoe prints embedded in the mud belonged to a member of the survey team or a potential weirdo?
I gave up after a few minutes and decided to join Noah. I was interested in seeing the recovered gravestones. How old were they? What names were inscribed on them? Now that I’d seen some of William’s photographs, I could picture the faces of his family.
Noah turned off his camera as I approached. “I got a good minute of each one,” he told me. “Might be overkill.” He looked around. “Lead coffins are heavy, right?”
“Yes. Very.” I squatted down to look at the stones. A few were the tall, thin kind, but most were chunky squares.
“So how could they wash away? I understand the wooden ones were light and fragile, but lead? How is that possible?”
I showed him where the hill had broken off. “The coffins fell away. They didn’t float as far as the wooden ones--in fact, most were found right at the bottom of all that mud.”
Noah nodded. “Got it. Something about this whole thing is weird, though, right?”
“Yep.” I returned to examining the tombstones.
“I thought this one was interesting.” Noah pointed to a stone in the middle. It read, simply, Daughter. Beneath it was a year: 1888.
“A baby,” I murmured. “William didn’t mention a baby was buried here.”
It always made me a little sad to see the gravestones of children. I wondered at the weight of the grief those stones represented. If the living could leave a piece of themselves behind through intense emotions, every single grave of a child was loaded with residual energy.
Across the yard, Trisha’s cell phone rang. A moment later, she was at our sides. “That was Shane,” she said. “I guess they’ve made another amazing discovery. We need to go.”
Noah and I began following her across the muddy land. “So we’re going home?” I asked.
“No.” She stepped around a large puddle. “They need us at the morgue.”
Chapter Eight
Most people can count on one hand the number of times they’ve visited a morgue. I can’t, not even with both hands and both feet and whatever else people use to count things. I stopped keeping track after I hit the double digits.
To be fair, the majority of those morgues had long been empty. They were usually located in the bowels of a deserted hospital and the room held few reminders of what its purpose once was. This would be different. This was an actual working morgue, occupied by coroners and the recently deceased.
And also the not-so-recently deceased.
“I really don’t want to be here,” I muttered to Noah. We were walking down the long white corridor that led to the morgue. Shane had met us at the entrance, and now he and Trisha were absorbed in conversation in front of us.
“I’m not too thrilled, either,” Noah said. “Why couldn’t we have been dropped off at your house?”
“Because my parents found something and they want me to see it. I think it’s their way of trying to include me in the family business.”
As we got closer to the double doors at the end of the corridor, I could hear the distinctively horrifying sound of a saw. I stopped. “No way. I’m not walking in on an autopsy.”
Shane turned around. “It’s not what you think,” he said. “Trust me. None of this is what you think.”
I wouldn’t budge. “Cryptic messages will not get me to move from this spot.”
“It’s okay, Charlotte.” Shane motioned towards the doors. “This is the area they’re letting us use. There’s no bodies there.”
“Really?”
“There are some bones, of course.”
I could handle bones. I’d seen those before. “Okay. I’ll go. Noah?”
“Yeah. I’m in.”
Shane pushed open the doors. The smell was the first thing I noticed. It hit me hard, a hurricane-force wind of the sour odor of embalming fluid. I knew it would be stuck in my nose for weeks. Mom and Dad were standing over a table. A slender lead coffin sat on it. They both wore white lab coats and little white nose masks. Dad held a saw in his hands. Before he could start cutting, Shane announced that we had arrived.
“Good!” Dad pulled the mask from his face and set down the saw.
“What are you doing?” I asked, unwilling to move from the door. I recognized the silver doors of walk-in refrigerators used to store bodies, and the rolling exam tables which were slightly tilted so that fluids could be drained. Against one was a row of white cabinets and counters that looked like they belonged inside a modest kitchen. But the countertops were covered with dozens of pairs of scissors, rolls of gauze, and shallow plastic trays. It was a working morgue, and I doubted Shane’s assurance that it was not currently in use.
“We are discovering the truth,” Dad proclaimed. He seemed genuinely excited. Mom read the apprehension on my face.
“We’re the only ones using this room,” she said. “They have another room next door they’re using f
or bodies. We can have this space for one more day.”
“I think we’ll need more time than that.” Shane was slipping his arms into a lab coat. So was Trisha. Noah and I hung back.
“Why are you cutting into that coffin?” I asked. It was smaller than I had envisioned, and was the same color as cement.
Shane was positioning a camera over the box. Dad beamed. “This is better than a museum. It’s a hands-on learning experience! Come on over.”
I glanced at Noah, hoping he would give me a signal to stay next to him. But he walked forward, ready to see the great new discovery. I followed and wished that we could just get it over with and go home. This entire project was not turning out the way I wanted. If I had been searching for some kind of closure to my experiences in Charleston, I was fairly certain I wasn’t going to find it on the morgue’s exam table. I would have to call Annalise later and complain. She was the one who had convinced me I needed to do this.
I stood around the exam table with the others and peered into the coffin. To my relief, it was empty.
“We placed the remains over there,” Mom said. I looked over to a table, where white towels had been bundled around the bodies. From the size of the towels, there hadn’t been much.
“These aren’t lead coffins,” Dad said. “I mean, they are, but they are also much more than that.”
I was done with the drama. “Can you just tell us what’s going on?”
“Of course.” Dad positioned the surgical lights so that they shone on the side of the coffin. “I thought it was strange that a lead coffin could be washed away. Granted, the hill broke apart, but still, we found some of the coffins much farther than I would have thought possible. That’s when I realized they weren’t made entirely of lead.”
He nodded at Shane, who directed the camera at the side of the coffin. Dad started up the saw and sliced through a piece of the bottom side of the casket. It shouldn’t have been so easy for him to saw through, I thought, but he was cutting through, creating a chalky dust. I pulled the top of my shirt up to my nose so I wouldn’t breathe it in.
Raising the Dead Page 5
