Transgendering Heights             by: RJMcD

 

On the tenth of this past April I didn't believe in the Buddha, or YHVH, or Jesus, or Allah, or Deepak Chopra. Neither did I believe in spirits, golem or ghosts. Especially not spirits, golem and ghosts. I was a practical man, very tied to the realities of daily life.

I didn't believe in Murphy's Law, either, and still don't. When my subordinates joke about it I smile, but I don't believe. I'm not a cynic – I'd say I was an optimist, in fact – and I like a good laugh as well as the next person. But I believe in reality. Therefore, when I was driving back from a Toronto business trip and decided, on my own volition, to take some side roads into the rural mountainous regions of my home state and it started raining cats and dogs and I got lost and I found myself on a certain road and the car began acting funny, I did not ascribe it to anything like Murphy's Law or fate. The unfamiliar rural roads, the early darkness, the looming hills, the thunder storm, engine troubles with a new car – it was simply a series of poorly timed events, an inconvenient set of coincidences. I believed that because I am a practical man.

I babied the car along the narrow two-lane road, leaning forward with my head over the steering wheel, trying to see to see through the increasingly violent storm. I had never seen lightening or heard thunder quite like that lightening and thunder. It was slow – not a word I would have associated with either thunder or lightening – and powerful, shaking the car every time it crashed in my ears. The illumination produced was eerie. Hills in front and to the sides of me lit up slowly, and the area the light covered was far reaching. The light paused, as if to give me time to see everything, then went out slowly as the countryside returned to darkness. My headlights went back to reflecting the sheets of rain in front of my slow moving vehicle.

I drove this way for close to thirty minutes before I rounded the hip of a hill and a bolt of lightening revealed a pair of old three-story wooden buildings in the valley ahead. Shelter! I eased forward and eventually came upon a driveway. There was a large wood sign by the road and it was faded, but a fortuitous flash of lightening that occurred as I turned into the property made it possible to read the words "Heath Inn".

A short way down the drive and I could see through the rain that the buildings – separated from each other by one hundred yards – were an old commercial inn and a barn with paddock. I was within fifty yards of the inn's parking area and entrance when my engine died. Call that Murphy's Law if you will; I called it another coincidence.

I was almost tempted to sit in the car and wait the storm out, but I knew the smart thing to do was get to the building and try to arrange for a mechanic to come out and look at the car just as soon as the storm cleared. It bothered me that I hadn't seen any other vehicles in the inn's parking area, but I had seen light in two ground floor windows so I knew the building wasn't deserted. Besides, this was a monster Spring storm and it looked like it would go on for hours, so waiting in the car might mean I would be there into the late evening and overnight.

I gathered up my briefcase, the PowerBook case, and the smaller of my two overnight bags, took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Fortunately, at that moment lightening flashed behind me and I got a clear look at my intended path to the entrance of the inn. The wind and rain, too, seemed to take a sudden break and I was able to jog down the driveway and across the parking lot without fear of being swept off my feet or drenched. At the time I thought I was lucky. I would have to think about it again before I'd use that word today.

A veranda, bereft of furniture of any kind, stretched along the front of the building, offering protection from the storm. The double-doors at the entrance to the old inn were closed, but I could see a dim light in the crack between them. They opened smoothly and without the creaking sound I expected to hear from hinges both old and probably as poorly maintained as the rest of the building. The vestibule was dark. Ahead was an unmanned front desk, illuminated by a single desk lamp; to my left was an open double-doorway leading to a dark room, and a wide stairway leading to the dark second and third floors. Ahead and to my right, however, there was an open double-doorway from which light and sound emanated. That, of course, is where I headed.

"Hello?" a male voice enquired.

I answered, and before I could get to the doorway an elderly man appeared.

"Oh!" he said, as if he'd bumped into me, though he'd done nothing of the sort.

"What is it, Douglas?" a cranky female voice called.

"A visitor," he called back. "A soul seeking refuge from the storm, I would say."

This last was said with the tone of both a statement and a question, as he looked me up and down.

I smiled, "My car broke down," I explained. "It picked a great night. I guess I'll need a room, if you have one available."

"A room?" That seemed to surprise him.

"Isn't this an inn?"

"It was," he said. "The tax boys say it still is, so I suppose it is. We don't get many visitors, though."

Just then an elderly woman, quite round, though in a lumpy way, walked up and stood next to him.

"We don't have no rooms ready," she said.

"Now, Emily, we can't turn a visitor back out into that storm. That's a bad 'un."

"We don't have no rooms ready," she said again, this time with a firmness in her voice that wasn't there a moment ago.

"We can put him up in 201," the elderly man said. "Can fix it up in a jiffy. Clean sheets and it'll be ready to go. No need to dust."

"Douglas. . ." she said. There was a warning element to her tone that I didn't understand and I let my confusion show.

"Emily believes that the inn has visitors at night," the old man said.

"Mice?"

He guffawed, something I'd never in my life seen a person do before.

"Nope," he said when he'd gotten over whatever joke I'd apparently made. "Emily thinks they're people that used to stay here when the inn was new." He closed one eye and tilted his head to the side, "Meaning a hundred years ago, if you understand what I'm saying."

I laughed. "Ghosts, you mean. Well. And what do you think?"

"Me? Well, I think we live in a very old wooden building that expands and contracts with the humidity and makes noises in the wind. I think one day the whole damn thing's doing to fall down around our feet, real slow like, and I figure a lot of what we hear is the building working up to that day. That's what I think. Now Emily, being a woman and all, figures it's the ghosts of previous guests..."

"The owner's family," she corrected him sternly.

"Whatever," he said. "If there are ghosts, Mr.. . . I never got your name, Sir, and I don't believe I gave you mine. I'm Douglas Wooten, Proprietor of Heath Inn, and this here's my wife Emily."

"Lockwood," I said. "The name on my credit card is Miles but most people call me Mike."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Lockwood but we don't take credit cards. Cash or a check will do fine."

I never carry my checkbook, but I happened to have it with me on this trip. It didn't make any sense, but I had the thought that if I ran into trouble with my credit card in Canada I'd better have my checkbook along with me. I hadn't needed it in Toronto but, as luck would have it, I needed it in the foothills of the Appalachians not much more than a hundred miles from home.

We settled on a rate, Mr. Wooten reckoned I'd want to unpack and have something to eat, and he invited me to "sup" with he and his wife. The telephone was out, he explained, and the power had been out for a couple hours but just come back on in the last thirty minutes "so there should be hot water, not that I'm implying you need a shower or anything." I thanked him and asked if he knew of a good local mechanic. I said I had a cell phone in my briefcase.

"Yep, figured you would," he said. "Mechanic's gonna be a little harder but if Bill Ceznick hasn't closed up his shop because of the storm we might catch him. He's about your only choice up here, but he's not a bad one. He's honest, anyway, and he won't overcharge you, even with you being a stranger to these parts. If he can't fix it, he'll have to tow it into Williamsport. I'll talk to him if you like. We're old friends."

I gave him the cell phone and he made arrangements to have Ceznick come out to the inn first thing in the morning.

The room that Mr. Wooten led me to, Number 201, was up one flight and at the end of the dark hall. The old man apologized for the lack of lights. "Bulbs burned out and I only replaced a few. Don't get many visitors anymore. I'll put some in if you like."

"Don't bother for me," I said. "There's enough light to see where I'm going."

"Young eyes," Wooten said. There was some wistfulness in his voice.

The room, though very old-fashioned, was as dust-free as he had promised. He left to get sheets, after I won a brief etiquette debate about whether or not I could make my own bed, and I began to unpack. The furniture in the cozy room was the thick, sturdy, solid wood style of long ago and I couldn't help but think that if the other rooms of the inn were filled with the same kind of stuff that this would be an antique collector's paradise. Even the few lamps in the room were heavy metal art deco designs from the first part of the last century.

I opened the heavy brocade curtain and looked out of the window. The room was on the back side of the inn and there weren't any lights from my floor or the one below so I had to wait for a flash of lightening before I could really see anything. When the lightening came I looked down and saw a simple field – one that had, in more prosperous times, probably been a mowed and maintained yard for strolling and games. There were no trees close to the building but I could look down on the shrubs that crowded the building along the ground floor wall. Just before the light disappeared I made out a sparse forest some fifty yards beyond the field. The rain battered the window so I closed the drapes again to muffle it.

I tried to call my office, but the storm was now interfering with the cell connection and I had to give up.

There was nothing to really unpack, aside from toiletries and a change of clothing for the morning, and it only took me a second to finish. Wooten returned with the sheets and towels and, almost apologetically, told me that they ate about this time each evening and he hoped that wasn't too early for me. I said it wasn't, and followed him downstairs.

After five days of restaurant food Mrs. Wooten's country cooking was a real treat. During the meal I joked that marketing the ghosts of Heath Inn could be pretty lucrative, but I saw that Mrs. Wooten took it all a bit too seriously so I dropped the subject. I told them that I had purposely turned off of the well-traveled roads in search of some remote property, with the idea of having a combination weekend and summer house built, and the conversation became lively. We talked about city versus country life, what properties might be available in the area, which local farmer had had enough of the hard work and small returns of farming, and so on.

After the meal we went to the front room, where they had been when I had first come into the inn. It had obviously originally been a drawing room, but was now treated as their television/livingroom. The TV had been left on while we ate – I wondered if they ever turned it off – and I watched a few programs with them before begging off and saying I had to go over some work. Though not strictly true, I preferred to spend the evening re-reading some of the paperwork from the Toronto meetings rather than endure more hours of TV. I'm not a workaholic, but I was feeling a little guilty about taking time to search for country property when I should have gone straight back to my office. Besides, my clothes were slightly damp and I wanted to get out of them.

After my bath – there was no shower – I came back into the room with the intent of getting the papers out of my briefcase. Though I don't think I directly looked at the dresser my mind apparently sensed that something in the room was different. I'm sure I must have glanced that way without realizing it and the book had registered subconsciously. That small impression caused me to look back at the dresser and see that there was something there that hadn't been there before I went into the bathroom. My first reaction was not to pick up the book but to open the wardrobe and check under the bed. I checked the door and it was locked. I was glad for my city habit of automatically locking doors, though in a public place such as an inn – even a virtually deserted inn – that wasn't totally effective.

Obviously either Mr. or Mrs. Wooten had brought the book in while I was in the bath and had not wanted to interrupt me. I didn't like it, but I was willing to chalk it up to the sometimes overly friendly country way of looking at things. I picked up the book, along with my briefcase, and propped myself up in bed to take a look.

The book turned out not to be a published book but a very old leather bound journal – the male practical equivalent of a girl's diary, without the daily calendar of notations. When a thought struck a young man, or simply when he got a notion to write about something he would do so in a journal. Some men dated their entries, some made daily entries, others did not. The notations were just as private, however. In the case of the journal I held in my hands it had once had a flap and lock. But they had long ago parted company. I tried, but failed to get the worn metal pieces to join together.

I couldn't guess why one or both of the Wootens had placed the book on my dresser, other than to say they thought I might find it interesting. They couldn't have been more right.

 

Chapter Two

In the beginning the Journal entries were sporadic, but dated by month and day, though they didn't mention the years they covered. As I got into it, however, I was able to figure out that it began in the summer of 1917. There were other things that I was in the dark about until many pages into the journal. It wasn't until a third of the way in that I ran across the following passage, for example, and discovered the author's age.

"Cliff is eighteen, two years older than I, and it makes all the difference in the world. He is a man, fully grown to almost six feet and broad-shouldered. He looks magnificent when he rides, fully in control of the black beauty galloping between his muscular legs. Astride a horse, especially Jubilate, he looks like a Prince, ready to go out into the world and slay a dragon. With my skinny form I fear I'll never look like that. But do I even want to? I don't, I know, but I do know what I do want to look like. Enough of that."

But that's getting ahead of things. The early entries in the old journal were more general, as if the owner didn't fully trust the book – or perhaps didn't trust his own thoughts. He wrote of everyday things, and I found it fascinating to learn what life was like in the teen years of the 1900s. Horses were hugely important and the inn – for it was an inn from the beginning – and the rural road that now existed had been a popular horse and carriage trail. The boy journalist recorded the news that visitors brought. Though rural, there was no shortage of information and he was as up to date as any cosmopolitan kid.

After the first quarter of the book the tenor of the journal changed.

"When Mom told me that our neighbors, the Brontes, were having a nephew stay with them for the summer, and that he was a boy not much older than I, I was both pleased and frightened. It would be wonderful to have someone my own age with whom to play games in the hills. I could show him the outcropping that looked like the silhouette of a castle when the sun was setting. We could play King and. . . " and here there was a series of words that had been smothered in so much ink as to make them unintelligible.

"I do hope this boy isn't mean," the journal continued on the next line. "Mother said that she had arranged with Mrs. Bronte that I should have proper riding lessons and that their nephew would be happy to provide them."

The first meeting between the two went well, apparently, and the journalist (I did not learn his name until a tragic incident some forty pages later) was very impressed with the "thick black hair and pure white teeth" of his new neighbor, as well as with the "personality of a tremendously happy and vibrant person."

The journalist was equally impressed with his new neighbor's teaching abilities. "I'm doing things in the saddle that far exceed my previous, casual abilities. Cliff is a magnificent teacher. He goes to lengths to congratulate me on what he calls my 'natural ability'. He even says I'll soon be riding like the English toffs who pass through Philadelphia and with whom he's had occasion to socialize at his parents home. We share a love for horses, though I must admit he has a mysterious ability to both make friends with the animals and take charge of them in almost no time at all. I was quite astounded. When Mother and Father asked me how the lesson had gone I got so excited that Dad had to tell me to calm down."

The journalist began in awe of his teacher and quickly grew to hold him in deep affection. They passed from teacher-student to friend-confidant in short time, despite their two year age difference. At thirty, and less at forty, and less still at fifty, two years makes little difference among companions. But in the upper teen years it is a huge gap and the two fell into a natural state where one led and the other willingly and eagerly followed.

Cliff, if the journal was to be believed, treated his younger friend with courtesy and affection, never taking advantage of his years to belittle or taunt the journalist, never picking on him for his slender build or lack of derring-do.. In fact the portrait of Cliff drawn in the words on the fragile old pages seemed almost idealized. He was dashing, he was charming, he was funny, and he was caring. Powerful horses succumbed to him in a flash. Even adults adored him! And he modestly took it all in stride, never showing a big head swollen by ego. I had certainly never met anyone in my teens who was so kind, so talented, so compassionate and so good-looking as the Cliff depicted by the journalist. I'd imagined a few girls in that rhapsodizing way, but that was simply the puppy love of youth, the objects of my desire seen through rose-colored glasses. Then again, 1917 was a very different time than today, and I had to assume that people were a bit different almost a century ago.

The two spent all their time together, beginning with the riding lessons. The journalist acted as guide as they rode and walked and climbed through the verdurous valley and surrounding hills. The journalist even showed his neighbor his secret castle, created as a silhouette before the setting sun, and they climbed the crags and explored the area on foot. To the journalist's delight Cliff took to the fantasy immediately, creating rooms from the boundaries of shrubs, trees and rocks. The Great Hall, The Royal Bedchambers, The Armory, The Royal Stables and more arose in the excited minds of both of them and the castle became more and more real.

When the sky was clear and the moon was full they climbed the hills at night, sure of the path and their footing because of their many visits, and the mysterious shadows of the sky's great reflector egged their imaginations on. An army of knights could be seen in the penumbra of the valley, their movement made clear by the moving shadows of the trees in the wind. Emissaries from distant and exotic lands would call on the castle, seeking treaties and giving news of far-off battles. They acted as equals, conferring before giving their answer – the older boy never attempted to dominate, yet there was always a sense of hero worship in the words of the journalist.

I learned that the boy's name was Cedric, but that he wasn't fond of it. He preferred to be called Rick and even his parents did so. The only person who refused was a housekeeper from one of the farms in the valley who worked at the inn every summer. She, herself, was stuck with the not very melodious name of Miss Hindley Niven, and that may have been one of the minor sources of her personal unhappiness. The journal painted her as something of an ogre, but I had no way of knowing how much of that description was the boy's bias.

He had good reason to be biased against her, as her actions caused him a great deal of personal anguish. "I did not tell you anything yesterday, dear Jane," he had written. (Just before this point he had decided to name his journal, as many do, presumably finding it easier to write to a person rather than a blank sheet of paper.) "I cried all afternoon and night and thought of running away in shame, never to return to this valley again. I still may. I woke this morning and snuck outside, avoiding breakfast and the guests and most of all my parents. I ran all the way to the south end of the valley and climbed the hill to my castle. In the harshness of sunlight it looks like nothing more than a barren rock formation protruding out of the tree covered hills. But I wish with all my might that it was a real castle and that I ruled this valley and could banish evil people from it. I wouldn't behead them, like they did in olden days, but I would banish them on pain of death should they return."

The journal entry – the longest so far – went on like that for some time. I was tempted to skim forward to find out what the hell had happened. That's how deeply involved in the journal's contents I had become. The rain was still beating steadily against my window, but the thick curtain muffled it enough so that it served as a thin blanket of background noise. The old inn creaked from time to time, as Innkeeper Wooten had said it would. But I was curled in the big old bed and was able to read without distractions. The writing may have been simple and straightforward, but I became lost in the story, transported back almost a hundred years. I could see the stone towers of the castle rising high above the tree line. I could see Rick and Cliff, riding together through the valley, Cliff's black mount leading the way as he laughed and encouraged the younger boy to follow in his path. I could see the worn out old inn in its heyday filled with people and activity. But most of all I could see the journalist because as he became more and more comfortable jotting down his thoughts, feelings and adventures, he unwittingly painted a very intense picture of himself.

"I shant avoid the subject any longer, Jane," I read. "But yesterday was so horrible a day I wish to erase it from my mind forever. I shall tell you, and only you, and maybe that will help it be gone. I know that my actions were wrong but I feel they were also out of my control. That is not said as an excuse, mind you. At least I don't think it is. I'm a bit jumbled up right now and am not sure of a great many things. Perhaps writing them down will help me sort it out.

"For the last few years I have had a secret desire that I shared with no one. It was troubling at first though I gradually became familiar with it. It grew, however, and last summer I succumbed. I was not caught and felt both better and worse about it. No harm had been done, so that was good. I enjoyed myself, and that was good. But I knew that my desires were not approved of simply because I had never heard them mentioned by anyone. I think I may be the only person who has ever had them, and that leads me to believe that it is an individual sickness."

I shifted in bed so as not to allow any body part to fall asleep. The journalist certainly had a way of saying things without saying anything at all, and once again I had the desire to skip ahead. Again, however, I allowed him to tell his story at his own speed and continued reading line by line.

"Susie Acton is working here at the inn for the first time this summer," I read. "A sweeter girl you will never find, and we get along famously. She is pretty in a simple way, gentle of spirit and as kind as you can imagine. We have become very close, in the sense of a sister and brother. Mother and Father have grown to like her as well as I, and she's often given free time so that we can play together and talk about all sorts of things. I think Hindley Nevins was envious of the special treatment. No, I'm sure she was. Yes, I'm very sure now that I think it.

"Last week Susie told me about a dress that a peddler had brought by the inn and how beautiful it was and how it was something she would never be able to afford. The beauty of the dress, and the imagining of wearing it, brought her more happiness than the inability to own it brought her sadness. That's the way Susie is and why I like her so much.

"Now don't be mad at me, Jane, but I didn't tell you all the things that have happened in the last week. They were confusing to me. But I shall tell you now.

"When Susie told me about the pretty dress and how she imagined wearing it I didn't picture her in it. I conjured a picture of me wearing it. And this, I confess to you now, Jane, is not the first time. I have seen many pretty girls here at the inn and sometimes I have pictured myself wearing the wonderful clothes they wear. It is something I have kept to myself, hidden deep inside, though I can not say why with any certainty. I have never heard other boys speak of such things. I have never heard anyone mention anything like that, so I know I must keep it secret without knowing why it must be secret.

"But I trusted Susie and I almost told her. What I mean, Jane, is that I made it into a joke. It was a feeble covering because Susie just giggled and knew what I was talking about right away. She promised to keep it a secret just between the two of us. She said she always wanted a life-size doll that she could play dress-up with and I would be perfect because I could fit in her clothes. I protested but she saw right through me and before you know it she had all four of her dresses spread out on the bed.

"Even though Susie's wardrobe was meager and contained nothing that a fancy city girl would own, it still thrilled me. I can't say exactly why, Jane, because I don't know, but I do know that I couldn't wait to try on every one of the dresses!

"Susie let me choose one and I took it into her tiny bathroom. I stripped down to my underwear and dropped the dress over my head. Try as I might I couldn't get my fingers to work the buttons up the back so I had to hold it tightly against my sides. There was a small mirror on the counter, but it didn't let me see much. When I turned it so I viewed myself my boy's head sticking out of the top of the dress was a disappointment. I honestly don't know what I expected to find, but it was less than I had hoped for.

"Susie knocked on the bathroom door and asked how I was doing. I was embarrassed, but happy nonetheless. I told her I couldn't get the buttons done properly, and she said, 'Come out and I'll do them for you'. And I did. But she didn't even look at the dress. Instead she exclaimed, 'Look at those shoes, and those socks! We can't have that! Oh, Ricky. Wait!' She retrieved her spare pair of shoes from the other side of the bed and handed them to me. 'I think your feet are too big, but try these. Just don't push through the seams! I could give you a pair of my winter stockings, if you like?' I did like, but I didn't dare say so. I was still scared and not sure how far I should go. Instead I took the shoes back into the bathroom. I don't know why, but I didn't want to try them on in front of Susie. In any case, they didn't fit so I returned to the room barefoot.

"'I knew your feet were too big!' Susie joked. 'Turn around and I'll button you up.' I did as she asked and she pulled the dress tightly around my waist and carefully did up each button. 'Just the right size,' she said. 'Now turn around so I can see you.' What she saw when I faced her was certainly not what I saw in my mind when I pictured how I looked, but she seemed pleased.

"'We've made a good start,' she pronounced. ' Start?' I answered. 'Of course, silly. If you're going to be my dolly we'll have to do a lot more. I just wish I had some makeup and a wig for you. And some shoes that fit!'

"This was the moment when I entered a new stage in my life, Jane, for I knew something that few of our employees and none of our guests knew, and that was the contents of a certain section of the inn's infrequently used basement. Had I not told Susie it would have all stopped there, stifled as we were by the lack of variety in her feminine wares. But tell her I did, and that was my fatal step.

"'Have you ever seen the Lost & Found?' I asked, knowing that she had not. I myself had discovered the treasure trove only when my Father had taken some items there and I had tagged along. The minds of our guests became incomprehensible after I viewed the collection of items that were left in their rooms after they departed. How could one forget a finely painted miniature of a family member? A book with leather covers? A feathered ladies hat? Jewelry? All manner of men's clothing and toiletries? Even an almost new single man's boot (the left foot)? Mother took upon herself the job of writing letters to guests, inquiring if they wanted the forgotten item sent to them, and estimating the minimum cost of postage. She said it was a very rare occasion when anyone bothered to reply. The result was a half a dozen shelves stuffed with odds and ends, and a pile on floor with even odder ends (A bicycle tire! A flute! A suitcase filled with watch parts!). None of that, as interesting as it was, held my attention as did a few special items, however. My treasures were a forgotten ladies' makeup kit, a barrel dress, a hobble skirt, a shawl, two pieces of corsetry and – most treasured of all – a wig of long, blonde hair. True, the wig was in poor condition, but that almost didn't matter. When I put it on I felt like royalty.

"The makeup was equally tempting, and the fact of that temptation scared me more than anything. When I first discovered the case I tried some of it – on my hand, not sure if it came off (women who wore it were never without it and I feared it was permanent, like the paint on outside of the inn).

"All of this and more I told Susie, and she got as excited and giddy as I. The next day I took her to the cellar."

I jumped. I thought I heard footsteps and I snapped the book shut and listened. The building creaked. I had been so absorbed in the journal that I wasn't really sure what I'd heard, but I did have the impression that I had heard someone walk up to my door and stop. I checked my wristwatch and discovered I'd been reading for hours. It seemed odd that either of my hosts would be up so late, unless country folk were much different than their reputations. Could they have fallen asleep in front of their much-prized television and awakened in the wee hours and decided to check on their lone guest? Perhaps, but what was there to check on?

Was there some late-night strolling Wooten, husband or wife, stealthily moving about in the middle of the night? Was this the settling of the old building that innkeeper Wooten had spoken of – or the ghosts of Heath Inn his wife had fantasized? My money was on the old building, and I had been too involved in the journal to say that the noises really sounded like footsteps. Still, if it was someone creeping about I wanted to know who it was.

I carefully got out of bed and moved to the door without making a sound. I put one hand on the lock and the other on the doorknob. I tensed, and in one sudden motion flipped the lock and whipped open the door.

There was no one there. I stepped into the hall and quickly looked both ways. Down to my left was the wall that was the outside of the inn, and to my right was an empty corridor. It didn't look right somehow, and it took me a second to realize that a dim bulb had been put into one of the fixtures further down the hall. For some reason seeing the new bulb gave me the chills, and goose bumps ran up my back and down my arms.

Had it been the innkeeper after all? Adding a near useless light bulb in the middle of the night was pretty odd behavior, but I guessed it was possible. I was about to go back into my room when I decided that I could use something to drink. I didn't suppose the Wootens would mind if I did a post-midnight raid on their kitchen and brewed myself a cup of coffee or searched for a Coke. I got the journal, hesitant for some reason to leave it behind, and cautiously felt my way down the dark staircase and into the lobby. The single light still burned behind the rustic reception desk. There was no light or television noise from the converted TV room.

It struck me that I would like to see the cellar of the inn, and find out if the Lost & Found shelves still existed. The Wootens would surely be sound asleep and not notice the creaking of cellar stairs and other noises I might make. However, rather than rummaging around through other people's belongings I decided to pass on the temptation.

After some frustrating fumbling I finally found the light switch in the kitchen area where the three of us had shared dinner. Mrs. Wooten was not the best of housekeepers as there was still coffee in the glass pot of the coffee machine. Once again because I didn't want to paw through things that weren't mine, I decided to heat the pot rather than find fresh.

There was cream in the refrigerator, though precious little of anything else. I was soon seated in one of the wooden chairs, a hot cup of coffee close at hand, reading the journal.

I hadn't made it through two full pages when I heard footsteps outside the kitchen door. And this time I was alert, and positive that they were footsteps. I looked up, expecting one of the Wootens to walk through the door, but no one appeared. I got up quickly, determined to find out what was gong on, and opened the door. There was no one there. I rushed out, looking left through the vestibule and right to the reception desk. Nothing. I ran to the doors of the television room. They were open and I ran my hand up and door the wall until it slid over a light switch and an overhead light and a table lamp came on. There was no one there.

Baffled, I slowly walked back toward the kitchen. It was only then that I saw that the door to the basement was slightly ajar. It sent shivers up my back and I stopped dead in my tracks. The journal! I ran to the kitchen and threw open the door. The journal and my coffee were exactly where I had left them.

Why would I think the journal might be missing? That question suddenly appeared in my mind and I had to admit that I had no idea but that my impulse had been real. I picked up the journal, took a quick sip of coffee, and walked out.

The door to the basement was still slightly ajar, of course, but now I was no longer one hundred percent sure that it hadn't been that way when I first came downstairs. Was I building a thought without walls? Mrs. Wooten had planted the silly ghost thing in my head and perhaps my imagination was having fun with it. Creaking that my subconscious was turning into footsteps, and an unnoticed door now noticed. They meant nothing. To clear the foolishness from my head I needed to dispel it. I walked briskly to cellar door and opened it. The dim bulb from the reception desk didn't light much of anything, but I could make out the beginning of a stairway leading down into the blackness. I searched the walls for a light switch and there was none.

Well, there was no logical reason to venture into a dank, dark cellar in the middle of the night. The only thing I'd find would be nothing. No ghosts, needless to say, but in the complete darkness I wouldn't be able to find anything else, either. Obviously neither of the Wootens had gone down there, leaving the door ajar; it wouldn't be pitch black if they had. So everything was nothing and that was that. I went back to my room.

 

Chapter Three

The journalist, whom I now knew was named Cedric and called Rick, lulled me back into his story as soon as I settled down into the soft bed in my room. I quickly forgot imaginary footsteps and old doors left unsecured.

He continued dressing in Susie Acton's clothes, with her help, and the two of them brought things from the Lost and Found shelves, and both of them experimented with the finery. For the inn's young maid it was a thrill to be able to use expensive makeup and dress in clothing to which she would never have otherwise had access. For young Rick it was a different story altogether.

"I belonged in it," he wrote in the journal, "and Susie soon came to the same conclusion. I don't know why this is so, but I now feel at odds with my regular apparel. More than anything I would love to wear a blouse and skirt and ride side-saddle with Cliff. It's a dangerous thought and, I admit, an odd one when I think about it, but that's the way I truly feel. Susie thought this was a game with me, but she has come to realize that it is me. When she helps me dress in the blouse and skirt from Lost and Found (alas, I'm still barefoot), and patiently puts on my makeup and wig I am as much a girl as she. Well, almost as much. After I am done we do her, of course. The result is a pair of, if I do say so myself, pretty girls who would catch the eye of any young man.

"It' sad to have to undo things after all the time we spent doing them. Susie has made a game out of it and that helps, but I never like returning to my dull, drab self. It's such a letdown, and so boring. Pants and a shirt. Yuck!"

The summer seemed to go smoothly for all involved, and as I read the journal it was plain that Rick's initial hesitations and conflicts had melted away. The Acton girl was a lucky find on his part. He seemed to realize that, and also have a genuine affection for her as she seems, in the journal at least, to be the nicest of people. Money that he had saved, comprised of birthday gifts, tips from guests, and a modest stipend from his father for his duties at the inn, was given to Susie so she could find, finally, a pair of girl's shoes that fit him. He gave her additional money to buy a very nice dress from one of the traveling peddlers who periodically stopped at the inn – one they both felt would keep her transaction confidential.

Rick's relationship with Cliff deepened over the summer, with a mixture of admiration, affection, and awe. The older boy loved the valley and surrounding hills and called it the best summer he had ever had, including his new friend as one of the highlights. That thrilled Rick and brought them closer than ever.

Even business at the inn was the best ever, so the journalist's father was in the best of moods all the time. Rick's mother, with more work on her hands, was busier but pleased, knowing that the harsh winter months would be financially cushioned.

Two events caused it all to come tumbling down.

Miss Hindley Niven, somehow (Rick wrote that he never found out how) discovered what he and Susie had been doing and told either his mother or father. The next morning Susie was gone, completely moved out without a trace, and all the items from Lost and Found were in the refuse bin outside, waiting to be burned.

Rick stood in front of his mother as she told him what Hindley Niven said and what she and his father had decided. He carefully noted the event in the journal.

"'You father is too upset to even be here, Cedric,' my mother said.

"She didn't call me by my given name very often. I was so embarrassed and humiliated I couldn't speak. My face was flushed and I stood immobile before her.

"What finally broke me out of my silence was when she said, "Hindley was quite right to tell us."

 

"That did it. " She's a witch!" I said. "I hate her!"

"'Yes, she is." Surprisingly, my mother agreed. 'If I didn't know she would ruin your reputation throughout the valley I would have fired her, too.'

"'Oh, Mother,' I cried, falling into her arms.

"There is nothing like a mother's arms to comfort one and as I sobbed against her breast she patted my head, assuring me that everything would be all right. It wouldn't be, of course. I had no illusions about that. Cliff would find out, one way or the other, and I feared I would lose him forever. The inn's staff, the farmers in the valley, and even some of our visitors I'm sure would be in on the scandal before long. Hindley was too evil to keep it to herself forever. I didn't know what I was going to do."

He pled with his mother to get Susie Acton reinstated, telling her that the girl had no choice but to help him because he was the owner's son and she was only a maid. His mother said that the decision had been his father's and he was very firm about it, but she would speak to friends and try and get the girl another job for the rest of the summer.

He spent the rest of night locked in his room and, as I've already related, the next day he snuck out of the inn and went to his castle in the hills to avoid seeing anyone. He may have taken the journal with him, or perhaps made an entry that evening, but in either case he poured out his feelings of distress onto the pages before me. Foremost in his mind was Cliff, and how he would react to the revelation of what had taken place on so regular a basis in the small room of Susie Acton. He feared the worst.

At dusk he saw a rider on a black stallion coming across the valley toward the hills and knew immediately who it was. His first impulse, he wrote, was to run into the surrounding forest and hide. It may have been something about the calm and relaxed demeanor of the rider, or his own feelings that he would have to face Cliff sooner or later and better to do so away from the inn. He wrote that he wasn't sure why he stayed put, but he did.

Cliff waved when he was close enough to see Rick at the outcropping, but the boy couldn't bring himself to wave back. When the horse and rider were almost upon him he saw that Cliff's expression was sad but friendly. The journal recorded the meeting in what I'm sure was an accurate description.

"' I thought I'd find you here,' Cliff said.

"I didn't know how to respond, not being sure of his feelings. He must know, but maybe not. Would he beat me up? Would he be disgusted with me? Or worse, would he laugh at me?

"He sat down next to me on the flat rock we called The Great Hall Dining Table.

"'Quite a day,' he said. ' For both of us,' he said.

"I didn't understand. ' For both of us?'

"He gave me a sad smile and turned away to look out over the lush valley. Crops were coming in, and the trees and grasses were in their full late Spring glory. The setting sun gave all the color a deep richness that made the valley look like an inviting bed of soft greenery.

"'Hindley Niven is a bitch,' he said. ' I'm really sorry she caused you problems. I don't know the other girl . . ."

"'Susie,' I supplied.

"'Susie,' he repeated. ' But she sounds like a good friend. Good friends are hard to come by. You miss them when they're gone.'

"I was so relieved I was speechless. He didn't hate me! He even seemed to understand.

"'I'm going to miss you," he said, turning to me. 'More than you know.'

"I'm not going anywhere,' I protested.

"'I am,' he said. ' I wish I could be with you, to help you through this bad period. The world interferes at the worst times.'

"'What are you talking about, Cliff?' I said, fear and dread in my voice.

"'I got a letter from my father today,' he said. ' You know we're in the war in Europe now?'

"'Of course,' I said. ' What does that have to do with us?' The war in Europe was the talk of the inn for the last year or two, and I knew that last month our country had joined it somehow. But it didn't mean anything; nothing had changed.

"'My father forwarded a draft notice,' Cliff said. ' It means I have to go report to the army and go to Europe.'

"'Europe! But that's so far away! Why do you have to go?'

"'They pick people,' he said. ' I'm not sure how it works but they pick some people and send them letters. I got one of the letters and so I have to go. It's for our country, Rick.'

"'Sure, but . . . When? When do you have to go?'

"'I'm going back to the city in the morning,' he said.

"'No! That's not fair! You can't go!'

"He smiled a sad smile. ' I have to,' he said simply.

"I was lost. My whole world was dissolving in front of my eyes. I didn't know what to do or where to turn. A humiliating scandal awaited me at home, and now I had learned Cliff was leaving. I sat on the rock, my brain and body numbed by the shock. The sun gently set behind the hills and the valley went dark before us."

I turned the page, only to find it blank. I quickly turned another, then another, then leafed through the remaining pages of the journal. All blank. Frustrated, I threw the journal on the bed. How could it stop there? Damn! It was ridiculous! What happened to the boy? And to Cliff and World War I? Damn the Wootens for putting this in my room!

A thunk sounded against my window, apparently some tree branch blow by the still raging storm, and I jumped. It was only when I got off the bed and was throwing open the thick curtains to see if there was any damage that I realized I had looked out the window earlier and that I was on the second floor and there were no trees anywhere near the building.

I screamed and lurched backward, falling onto the bed. Outside the window, mixed in the sheets of wind-blown rain was the semi-transparent figure of a young woman! I screamed again as I frantically scrambled across the bed, in such a panic that I couldn't get my feet under me and rolled off the other side, hitting the floor. I whipped around, throwing my hands out in defense, my heart racing. There was nothing there. I twisted around and knelt up, my hands still out in defense. I could see the window, see through it, and there was nothing but rain and darkness.

I was panting like a dog after a race and my entire body was shaking. I whipped around, looking at the room. Had it come inside? What the hell was it!? There was nothing. I forced myself to look at the window again. The light from the room lit the gusts of rain, turning the reflection on and off. An illusion. Bull! I had something! It! I had seen . . . what? A young woman. Not clearly. White dress. She had a sunbonnet in her hands! With a ribbon on it! I saw that, I was sure! Absolutely sure! And she was smiling! At me! Fresh tremors ran through my body like traveling icicles. I scurried back against the wall.

I looked around for a weapon of some kind. Man, what kind of weapon do I use against an almost transparent image floating two stories in the air in the middle of a rain story? It was insane. I was insane. Something was insane! I slid over to the corner on my butt, my eyes still on the window. The door! No, not the door! What was out in the hall? I didn't want to image that! Should I scream for the Wootens? Had they already heard me?

I didn't scream any more and the Wootens didn't come. I sat there for half an hour, eyes glued on the window, alert for any sound or movement outside or in the hall. My heart, which had felt like it was racing up my chest to fly out my mouth, finally settled down. I wanted to think about what I'd seen and what it could have really been, but I couldn't keep focused.

Eventually I stood up and gathered enough courage to approach the window. I looked out. When lightening flashed I saw the same overgrown rear lawn and the same sparse forest in the distance. The rain looked the same. There was nothing else there. I closed the curtains.

I put the journal, briefcase and computer on the dresser and stretched out on the bed, one eye on the curtains. I couldn't close my eyes without the sudden feeling that someone else was in the room, so I just lay there, on guard. It was already well past midnight, but sleep was something so remote I didn't think of trying. The wind gusted a few times against the window and my heart raced each time, but I stayed put and so did the curtains.

 

Chapter Four

I jumped up, panicked.

There was a tap on the door.

No!

"Mr. Lockwood? Are you up? Mr. Lockwood?"

It was the voice of the innkeeper and my heart settled down. I looked at the curtains and they were closed and still. I let out a breath.

"Mr. Lockwood? Are you okay?"

"Coming, Mr. Wooten," I called. He was standing outside the door, a look of concern on his face.

"Well I know you city folks sleep later than we do out here, but Mrs. Wooten and I were beginning to get worried. Hope I didn't disturb you."

"Not at all," I said. "I had . . . " I almost told him about my floating apparition. But what good would it do? He wouldn't believe it, though Mrs. Wooten would, and what would it gain me other than a reputation as a nut case? "I was up all night reading the journal you left, and I didn't get to sleep until early this morning." I actually had no idea when I'd finally fallen asleep, and barely remembered moving from the floor to the bed.

"What journal?" he asked.

"This one," I said, turning to the dresser. It was still there, which almost surprised me, and I brought it to him. He frowned and looked it over.

"Not mine," he said.

"But you brought it to my room last night, didn't you?"

He gave me a funny look. "Don't believe we talked after you came up here."

"No, we didn't, but . . ." It was clear he was going to deny leaving the journal and then get indignant if I insisted, so I let it drop. I did get a little dig in, though. "Then I'll take it with me when I leave," I said.

He didn't seem to get the point because he just frowned again. "Well, Mrs. Wooten can make breakfast for you, if you like. No trouble at all. Bill Ceznick come out and looked at your car this morning. Says he won't have to tow it in."

"Wonderful," I said. "Did he leave a bill?"

"Didn't fix it," the innkeeper said. "Called Williamsport but they didn't have the part. Said they'd have it by 10:30 in the morning, though."

"Tomorrow morning?"

"Yep. Sorry about that. You're welcome to stay another night, if you like."

Given a list of the things I even remotely liked, staying another night in that bedroom would not have been on it.

"No offense," I said, "but if I can find a way into Williamsport myself I need a room with a modem hookup, fax and a few other things."

"No offense taken," he said, though I could tell he was a bit hurt. "That's gonna be a problem though. Everybody around here is farm folk and they can't just take up and leave during daylight, not this time of year. Especially with another storm coming in this afternoon."

"Another storm?"

"Every afternoon, this time of year. I'd be glad to drive you but our car's in Bill's shop now. Got a new water pump on order. Should be in tomorrow, but that doesn't help you."

"No farmer's son or wife or something that can drive me?"

"All working the crops. It's the season," he said. "I just don't know what to tell you. I'll give you the room for free, for that matter. Doesn't really make any difference to us, as few visitors as we get. We've got a little caretaker salary and Social Security and the Medicare. Room money won't go to us, anyway."

"It's not the money," I said. But I really didn't want to sound like a wimpy city guy so I didn't tell him that I'd been scared out of my wits by a combination of my imagination and reflections off some sheets of rain outside my window when I was half asleep. "That's fine. I'll just stay here another night, and thank you for your hospitality."

"Our pleasure," he said. "You'll be coming down for something to eat? We're fixin' to have lunch, but Mrs. Wooten will whip you up some eggs and toast if you like."

"Don't go to any trouble," I said. "Lunch is fine. I want to grab a quick shower, though. I did a lot of tossing and turning last night."

"The storm," he said. "Kept me awake for a while, too."

He turned to leave but I stopped him, holding out my hand. "Thanks," I said.

He took my hand and shook it. "Sure thing, Mr. Lockwood."

Okay, it was a silly thing to do, but I just wanted to reassure myself that the old man was flesh and bone.

I showered quickly, wrapped a towel around myself and stepped back into the bedroom. I stopped dead in my tracks and I'm sure the blood drained from my face. There was a boy standing there, the journal in his hands. He was dressed in high top sneakers, baggies and a T-shirt with "Smashmouth" printed across the front. He had no expression on his face and didn't say anything. We looked at each other for a moment before I realized that I had nothing on but a towel and that I was sure I had locked the door when Wooten left.

"Who are you," I said, "and what are you doing in my room?"

"I left this in here last Friday and just remembered it," he said. "I'm sorry, I didn't know the room was occupied. They don't usually have guests here. Hey, no problem."

He turned to leave. "Wait a minute! That's yours?"

"Yeah, kinda. I found it in the cellar last summer and the old people didn't want it. I thought it was kinda cool and they said I could have it," the kid said. "I don't have to answer to you." He turned away again.

"Yes you do," I said. "How'd you get in this room? The door was locked."

"No it wasn't," he said, and walked out the door.

I almost ran after him, and probably would have if I had been dressed in anything more than a towel. Who was he? What had he been doing in the basement? The Wootens may have been old and all that, but why hadn't Mr. Wooten remembered letting the boy keep a journal last summer? And I damn well know I locked the door.

********************

I figured it out while walking around the valley after lunch.

It had to be one of two things. Possibility Number One, which is the one I liked, was a real estate scam. The Wootens were trying to unload the inn, were having trouble finding a buyer, and hit on the ghost thing to create interest. The girl floating outside my window was a projection of some type. That kind of image had to be easy to create; they did it in the movies all the time. The footsteps outside my door were just as easy to produce.

Possibility Two was the kid. He and his friends were doing a little Blair Witch prank on the occasional visitor to the inn. I was supposed to think that he was the kid in the journal, coming back as a ghost or reincarnated person or something like that. Fool the city guy time.

Which meant they had something in store for me for the second night. I wondered now if Mr. Wooten had actually ever called mechanic Ceznick. I'd never talked to the man, and only had Wooten's word that he even existed.

I wasn't thrilled about the idea of a second night of pranks, but once I'd figured it all out I found myself enjoying the idea a little. There was nothing dangerous or malevolent in their intentions, no matter which Possibility turned out to be true. The "ghost" they had produced had been a pretty, if fairly indistinct image of a young lady in a white dress who smiled at me. Hard to find a nicer ghost than that. There might be an opportunity to turn the thing around on them. Even if there wasn't, having the object of the prank sleep soundly through the whole thing would put the joke on them.

I made contact with my office on the cell phone, telling them about the delay and picking up some information about the early results of the Toronto trip. Everything appeared to be running smoothly. I considered forcing a showdown with Wooten, making him give me the mechanics number and calling myself, but decided that that could have been set up, too, so it would be pointless.

If they were trying to jack up some interest in the inn on the real estate market I figured I could do worse. I might have to raze the place to build my summerhouse – hundred-year-old buildings are expensive to live in – but the location was good. The valley was a beautiful place. I wasn't sure how it would look in the dead of winter but it's summer facade was breath-taking. I would have walked around into the night if ominous dark clouds hadn't started gathering in the west, heading our way.

That evening followed the pattern of the night before: dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Wooten, television until I couldn't stand it anymore, and then cheerful "Good night, sleep good" exchanges as I went to my room.

I did a little paperwork, and then got ready for bed. The storm, almost on cue, was howling outside and the building was producing its mixture of creaking and groaning noises. I would have liked to have taken another bath, but I figured they were waiting for that. The journal showed up while I was in the bath, and the next morning the kid showed up while I was in the bath. I did have to take a quick trip to the bathroom, however, and they must have been Johnny on the spot because I wasn't gone more than a couple minutes and when I returned there was another journal on the dresser.

A pencil-cam. I couldn't figure any other way that they'd know I left the bedroom for the bathroom. So I was being watched. Maybe recorded, too. I didn't like that and spent a good half hour going over every inch of the walls, ceiling, fixtures and furniture looking for either a pencil-sized camera or a closed latch where one could be concealed. I didn't find anything, so they'd done it some other way. They were probably simply next-door, waiting for noise in my bathroom. I decided not to worry about it.

I picked up the journal and took it to the bed where I made myself comfortable before perusing its pages. Though just as old, this second journal was different in every other way. The handwriting was the rounded cursive penmanship typically written by females, and far neater than the first book. The first page had a preprinted "This is the Private Property of_____________" line, and a place for the date. The first was filled with the name "Cathy" and the second with the year 1919, two years after the timeframe of the first journal.

I had been hoping it was a volume two of Cedric/Rick's journal so I would find out how that story ended, and was disappointed to discover I was now expected to start fresh with a girl's diary. I had to figure that there was no volume two, or the Wootens or the kids – whichever was responsible for the "ghost" pranks – would have left it. I had no doubt that the journals themselves were authentic; it was the use to which they were being put that was the sham.

The first entry contained the writer's reason for buying the diary (as she called it): to record her summer at Heath Inn. The rest was about the preparations for the train trip out of the city, and the final portion by carriage. The second entry only briefly mentioned the trip itself and concerned itself primarily with arriving at the inn and settling into her room. What caused me to suddenly pay closer attention was a single word – unchanged. Cathy had written that Health Inn "was unchanged, though it did look slightly smaller."

She must have been shy because she kept to her room all the next day. She recounted that the inn's original owners had been killed the year before when their boat had apparently capsized on a nearby lake. From the phrasing she had known them and was still saddened that they had passed on. The new owners, the Bronte's, were also previous acquaintances. Bronte was a name I recognized from the first journal; they were the couple who owned the farm and riding stables down the road from the inn.

"It's time for dinner," Cathy had written in the diary, "and I think I'm ready. I'm nervous, but I know I can do it. It's the most important thing in the world to me and I have to do it – and do it right! Everything must be just right. No, not simply right. It must be perfect. It has to be!"

That was the end of the entry for the day.

 

Chapter Five

The first two entries had been written in the style of a light-hearted, sophisticated young lady. A city girl. The next entry was brief and somber.

"After dinner last night I managed to get Cecilia Bronte off to one side. I introduced myself by first name only. 'I stayed at the inn two years ago with my family,' I told her, 'and ran into a young man that I believe was your . . .son?' I said.

"'We don't have a . . .oh, you must meant Cliff. Our nephew,' Mrs. Bronte said.

"'Yes, Cliff was his name,' I said as casually as I could, though my heart was beating so hard it was a wonder my dress didn't bounce on my chest. ' I wondered if he was still around here during the summers?'"

"'Cliff was the in the Great War, dear. I'm afraid he didn't come back,' she said."

"'You mean he stayed in France?' I asked, astonished."

"'Cliff was killed overseas,' she said. ' I'm sorry, dear. Did you know him well. . . ."

"She may have said more before she screamed as I fainted at her feet. If so, I never heard it."

I put the book down. Images and things that had been said in the first diary danced in my head and I focused to lock on to them. I knew something; I just didn't know what it was. In a minute, of course, I had it and the story became clear. There was a volume two to Rick's story, and I was reading it right now. Rick had run away that day when Cliff had gone off to war and he had returned to Heath Inn two years later. He had returned, but now he was Cathy.

What a tragic shock it must have been for her. I couldn't imagine what those two missing years had been like, especially in those times. She must have struggled mightily, and deprived herself of all manner of things to reach her goal. All of it for him. Then to find out he had died. . .

The overwhelming sadness took my breath away. They were people I didn't know, people who had lived almost a hundred years ago, and yet I felt an intimacy with them that was hard to explain.

I picked up the diary and leafed through it to see how much more I had yet to learn. The pages were blank. There was just one remaining entry unread, and it was the shortest yet.

"I am alone now. Kindly Mrs. Bronte had me carried to my room and stayed with me until I regained consciousness. She apologized for delivering the news about Cliff so abruptly, having no idea it would affect me so deeply. I, in turn, apologized for fainting and suggested I needed some rest. She asked if there was anything she could get me, then left me alone.

"It's very clear to me now what I must do. A storm has started but it won't stop me. I'll leave the inn after everyone is asleep and go to our castle. I know he'll be waiting for me."

There was no more.

I put the diary on the bed. The end of the story was obvious, as much as it disturbed me. I came close to crying for Cathy and Cliff and the life they never had.

I was too upset to try and sleep, but there was no chance I could have concentrated on work, either. I stood up, thinking at first of going downstairs and making coffee as I'd done the previous night. But that had no appeal. I stretched. It was such a tragedy. I couldn't shake the story from my mind. I started toward the curtains, thinking I'd open them and watch the storm for a while, but the apparition from the night before came to mind and I chickened out. There's no other word for it. I was no longer at all sure that the image I'd seen was phony, put there by either the Wootens or the kid. I was a long way from classifying it as a ghost, but it was all up in the air at the moment.

The rooms at the inn had no televisions, of course, and no radios either, so there wasn't much to do in the room. More out of a need to do something, anything, I went to the bathroom, rinsed off my face, and drank a glass of crisp country water. It helped me wake up and I was fully alert when I walked back into the bedroom. A beautiful young woman was reaching for the doorknob, the journal under her arm. I somehow knew she would be there, but it was still something of a shock.

"Cathy?"

She smiled at me, and I recognized the smile of the girl with the sunbonnet. "We're together now," the girl said. "Tell our story." She opened the door and was gone.

I leaped after her, not sure why, and whipped open the door, only to be greeted by a dimly lit hall as empty as an upside down glass. I was a second behind and there was absolutely no way she could have gotten two steps from the door. A chill ran down my arms and neck.

Friendly or not, a ghost was a ghost and I was gone. I rapidly tossed everything I had into the right bags and went back into the hall. I walked quickly, and yes I looked back over my shoulder. I took the stairs down one at a time, but my feet were flying. In the vestibule I saw that the light at the reception desk was off. I passed the open doors to the Wooten's television room and glanced in. There was no television set. All the furniture was covered with old muslin sheets, and the sheets were covered in years of dust. I walked straight for the front entrance.

A large plaque that I hadn't noticed before stopped me as I unconsciously caught some familiar words. I wanted to get out of there badly, but I couldn't help myself. I paused at the door to read these words:

Heath Inn Founders

Douglas Scott Wooten

1874 - 1918

Emily Robson Wooten

1882 - 1918

Katherine Earnshaw Wooten

1901 - 1919

 

"Oh, jeez," I groaned. I'd eaten dinner and watched television with people who had been dead for eighty years!

I flew out the front door and down the steps into the rain. Lightening flashed and past the lit parking lot I saw my car. I sprinted to it, unlocked it and threw the bags in the back seat. At that moment I didn't know what was a prank and what wasn't. Did Bill Ceznick, the mechanic, exist? Had my original car trouble been supernatural? Most important, would the damn car start!

I jammed the key into the ignition and twisted. The engine caught immediately and revved up. I threw the car in reverse, swung it around, and spun out of the parking area. In the rear view mirror I glanced back at Heath Inn. Every window was dark.

I turned on to the road a little too fast and fishtailed for a minute before getting the car back under control. The rain was blinding, much like it had been the evening I was forced to pull into the inn's driveway seeking shelter. Lightening flashed behind me and I instinctively looked in the rear view mirror again. Cathy looked back at me from the rear seat. "Tell our story," she said. I screamed and swerved off the road, scampering out of the car before it had even stopped.

I stood in the rain, hands on my knees, looking at the car. The lights were on, the engine running, the door open, and the back seat was empty. I whipped around but, of course, there was no one standing in the road but me. I stood there panting, getting my heart under control. "I will," I said. I straightened up. "I will!" I shouted.

 

THE END

 

 

 

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