Haunted Heart

The Tracking Board’s 2016 Launch Pad Manuscript Competition

Haunted Heart / p. 1

PROLOGUE:

Sarah screamed and flailed her arms, as she tried to stay afloat in a sea of blood. Her

panic-stricken face dripped with the stuff and she spat frantically when any splashed into her

mouth. Around her, frothy bubbles formed as her arms beat at the sanguinary sea in a clumsy

attempt to keep from going under.

The red surface stretched out in all directions until it merged with dark clouds at the

horizon. Above her, bolts of lightning seared through the sky, followed by booming claps of

thunder.

Then, as they always did, dozens of bloody hands emerged from below and grabbed at

her – in desperation, or to attack her, she never knew. Whatever the reason, she batted them

away and continued to scream.

A row boat appeared in the distance. As the vessel neared, she could see the name

“Atlanta” painted on its bow. The boat was propelled by some unseen force, since its sole

occupant stood and stared at her. He was dark and clean-shaven. Handsome. He held a crystal

ball before him in his right hand.

Sarah was never sure if he would reach her in time. The bloody hands from the depths

took hold of her hair, her shoulders, her dress, and began to pull her down.

At the last moment, the man on the boat threw aside the crystal ball, reached down, and

took her by the hand. He pulled her free of the others and into the boat. The man smiled and said

the same thing every time: “Nigel Pickford, at your service.”

Haunted Heart / p. 2

CHAPTER 1:

Atlanta

When the fat medium slumped forward on her chair, rivulets of sweat ran down either

side of her flabby face, dripped from her nose, and formed a puddle on the polished oak floor.

No wonder: the crowded room was stifling.

The summer of 1883 was oppressively hot, and the evening’s thundershower only

increased the humidity. The draped windows and the backdrop of black curtains behind the

medium didn’t help things – no air circulated.

Seated men and women filled the room, anxious to see what would happen next. They

were overdressed for the heat, but as a society affair, one had to maintain certain pretensions.

Their shiny faces and drooping hairdos indicated they were sweating too.

In the front row sat Annabelle Douglas and Sarah Bradbury, two northerners, who fanned

themselves with their programs. Within the folds of their makeshift fans, the text promised “an

extraordinary exhibition of supernatural power by Madame Kerensky!”

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As limited as Sarah’s abilities were to foresee events, she nonetheless felt they were in

for a very different show that evening. That, and the sense that at last she would find the man

who had haunted a recurring vision – one she had only recently puzzled out – someone who

might be able to save her life – was enough to convince Professor James to pay for the trip and

allow Annabelle and Edgar to accompany her all the way from Boston. But all Sarah could

provide on this individual was his name, a vague description, and the sense that he would be here

tonight.

Annabelle, 28, the older of the two northerners, and the group’s leader in the field,

downplayed her good looks and avoided cosmetics. Her dark brunette hair was pulled back into

its usual bun, and her navy blue dress was without lace or ornamentation. Despite these efforts to

appear prim and businesslike, she was quite beautiful. The flush that often rose on her cheeks

(whenever she was angry, excited, or embarrassed – which was often) made rouge unnecessary.

Her full lips were a natural red, so again there was no need for paint.

On the other hand, Sarah liked to use cosmetics, a habit she picked up when she toured

with Dodgerton’s carnival, but in this she was tempered by Annabelle’s sensibilities. Sarah, who

turned 18 last March, was lithe with narrow fox-like features. These were complemented by her

auburn hair, which most often hung loose.

Sarah, Annabelle and Dr. Edgar Gilpin had arrived early. The two women were ushered

to the front row, but Edgar, a slender but powerful 26 year-old former slave, who had gone on to

get degrees in physics from Howard and Yale Universities, was forced to stand in the rear, in

spite a room full of empty chairs.

“So much for Southern hospitality,” Sarah said.

Annabelle hushed her.

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But Edgar knew this sort of thing was pervasive in the South, in spite of their losing the

war and the amendments to the U.S. Constitution. He knew he was fortunate to be let in at all.

In the ensuing half-hour, the room filled with patrons. Since Edgar was relegated to the

back of the room, he made the best of the circumstance by positioning himself by the double

doors that formed the only entry, and queried each man who entered. None answered to the name

Sarah had given him.

Well-dressed men and women now filled the dimly-lit room, watching. Those seated in

the back craned their necks to see. In spite of the sweltering heat, no one complained. It seemed

discomfort was a small price to pay in order to communicate with the beyond.

Behind the medium stood a tall mahogany cupboard. Sarah leaned over to Annabelle and

whispered, “That’s where she keeps her best china for when the ghosts come to tea.”

Sarah stopped her flippancy and sat back with a start when the medium’s rotund head

came up to stare at the audience. The woman’s eyes glowed green.

Several women in the audience gasped and even men were heard to make low utterances

of surprise.

The medium’s arms rose before her as electricity danced between the palms of her hands.

She stood and raised her charged hands above her head, then threw her arms wide.

The room erupted in a flash of light with a deafening boom.

The woman collapsed back onto the chair as a green spectral girl formed in the mist

floating above the medium’s head. The girl was crying.

“Momma!” she wailed. “Help me, momma. It hurts!”

A bejeweled woman in black, three chairs to Sarah’s right, jumped to her feet. Tears

streamed down her face. “It’s her,” she cried. “Oh, God, it’s Mary!”

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Her bald husband stood and put a protective arm around his sobbing wife. The man

looked up at the specter and then at the medium. His thick eyebrows knit together as he

squeezed his eyes shut, and fought back tears of his own. “We’ll pay whatever you ask. Just give

our daughter peace!”

A faint smile passed over the medium’s lips.

At that moment, the entry doors behind the audience burst open like the gates of Hell, and

a demonic figure in dark rags stormed into the room, screaming.

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CHAPTER 2

Nigel crawled out from his lean-to shelter behind the tobacco warehouse, retrieved his

bottle, and stumbled down Marietta Street. The rain from the thunderstorm had stopped, but the

heat and humidity caused water vapor to rise off everything in thin ethereal clouds. It was as

though the rapture were occurring and spirits were rising from the earth, leaving Nigel behind.

His long greasy black hair, beard and ragged clothing were matted with filth and sopping

wet, due to his leaky shelter. Grime so covered his skin, it was hard to tell he was a white man of

39. Moreover, he was drunk, but not drunk enough – he almost fell asleep in the lean-to. The

single way to avoid the dreams was to pass out, to fall into an oblivion from which he was never

quite sure he would emerge. No matter. There was nothing worse than the dreams.

He needed more whiskey than what remained in the quart bottle. Nigel shivered in spite

of the heat, and resolved to move. Down the dusky street he could see a thin man with a long

taper lighting the gas streetlights. Nigel gravitated to the light, but as he approached, the

lamplighter shook his head.

“Stay away!” he shouted and swung the taper at Nigel’s head, “Or I’ll give ya what for!”

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Nigel managed to avoid the blow and so continued on his way. At the intersection with

Peachtree Street, there milled a fair number of evening shoppers. A small boy pointed at him

lumbering down the street.

“Look, Momma,” said the boy, as he pulled on the woman’s dress with his other hand, “a

bear!”

The woman took one look at Nigel and hoisted the child up into her arms. “No, Honey,”

she said as she scurried away. Her shopping list fluttered to the wet brick walkway, forgotten.

Curious, Nigel bent down to retrieve it. He glanced at the list of sundries, then called out

to the woman as he held the scrap of paper out before him. The lady did not turn around; instead,

she and the child ducked into a store a half block away.

Nigel noticed the on-lookers, so he put the list and his empty bottle down on the bricks

and held out his cupped hands before him. “A veteran of the war,” he said. “A lieutenant under

Jubal Early, Gordon and Lee.” This yielded a few coins tossed at his feet.

A heavy man with a gold chain across the front of his checkered vest sneered, “Go back

to Virginia. We don’t want ya!”

Nigel nodded obsequiously as he gathered the coins. “That’s why I’m soliciting. Help me

with the train fare, sir?” But the man had already turned away.

Nigel continued down the street and evening shoppers backed away with revulsion.

Some threw a few coins his way out of pity or out of hope that this would satisfy him and keep

him from approaching further. After a while, Nigel had enough for a second bottle, and smiled.

He need not worry about dreams tonight.

Haunted Heart / p. 8

A few minutes later, his new purchase in hand, he stumbled up Decatur Street and

stopped now and then to sample the whiskey. The burning sensation was an antiseptic for his

soul.

He found himself on a street crowded with carriages, some with their tops still up from

the rain. A few coachmen dozed on the padded rear seats, others gathered in little groups,

smoking and passing a flask or bottle of their own. Hearty laughter rose from one group, and

Nigel turned to see if they were laughing at him. They weren’t.

Large brick homes butted up against each other and bordered both sides of the street.

Nigel stopped before one that featured a round white column on either side of a green door.

He saw another crumpled piece of paper at his feet and picked it up. Most of the other

vagrants he met were surprised he could read and write. In hobo camps, when someone saw him

looking at one of his scavenged newspapers, he was invariably asked to read aloud. He would

also write letters for the other men. As a result, they were glad to share what they had – beans,

alcohol, or even mulligan stew (sometimes known to contain an unfortunate dog or cat). But in

spite of this welcome, since the war, Nigel spent most of his time alone.

He opened the wadded paper and held it up to catch the lamplight. It was a handbill for

the séance within. Without his conscious awareness, he had been drawn here, as he had been

drawn to so many similar gatherings. Perhaps this time? He speculated for a moment then shook

his head with contempt. He knew better – experience was a harsh teacher.

Nigel climbed the damp stone steps to the front door. The brass knob felt cold in his

hand. The door was unlocked. He entered a wood-paneled foyer with many doors and a narrow

staircase going up along one wall to the second floor. The help – two mulatto maids and a very

Haunted Heart / p. 9

dark butler – hadn’t heard him come in. They were preoccupied, staring through a small opening

in a set of double doors.

Nigel crept toward them until the butler turned his head and reared up with self-

importance. “Look, here,” he said to Nigel, “You get the hell out before I throw you out!”

There was a flash of light through the crack in the door and a thunderous clap from the

room within. Nigel could hear a young girl cry: “Momma! Help me, Momma. It hurts!”

The maids held hands over their mouths in terror as they peered in, then turned to see the

filthy stranger standing behind them. One gave a frightened yelp and ran off, the other’s eyes

went wide with real terror as she backed into the door, closing it.

The butler grabbed Nigel’s arm, but Nigel threw him off and the man went flying

backwards to slide across the polished wooden floor and bang his head on a baseboard.

With a wild look in his eyes, Nigel charged straight at the door and the maid who blocked

it. He let out a scream, and at the last moment the woman jumped aside. He smashed into the

double doors and shattered the latch. The doors burst open and Nigel charged into the séance.

Once inside, he stopped short, weaved back and forth and belched. Nigel took a long

drink from his whiskey bottle and then snapped to attention. He squinted, got his bearings, then

resumed his charge.

He plowed through the crowded room, knocking some of Atlanta’s wealthiest denizens

from their chairs. As he charged, he screamed one word: “NOOOOOO!”

Nigel bumped into the medium as he passed, and she toppled over onto the floor.

He shoved the spectral girl aside. The girl screamed and she began to swing in an arc

across the front of the room, arms waving, and a shocked look on her green face.

Haunted Heart / p. 10

At the cupboard, Nigel thrust his right arm through the black scrim-covered opening and

yanked out a skinny young man who held a green-lensed lantern. The young man stumbled

toward the audience and dropped the lamp. The glass shattered.

Nigel tore down the backdrop and revealed more of the medium’s assistants. These two

were burly: A guy with huge biceps and a prominent jaw held a black rope to keep the not-so-

spectral girl aloft. The other had a round sweaty face, but looked just as strong. He pumped

bellows above a small stove that heated glycerin to create the mist.

Turning back toward the shocked audience, Nigel raised his whiskey bottle in triumph.

With is other hand he gestured at the hapless girl still suspended in air.

“There’s your ghost!” He said. “They’re all frauds! Charlatans! Cheats!”

#

A few moments later, Nigel staggered out the rear door of the séance house and knocked

over a metal trash can. It clattered across the cobblestone walkway and into a flowerbed,

strewing garbage along the way. Nigel lurched down the walk and out into a dark muddy alley

that ran along the back of the tightly-packed brick houses. There were no lamps in the alley, and

what light existed spilled out of the door Nigel had left open and from a few windows here and

there that didn’t have the curtains drawn. Everything was still wet and steamy. Nigel put a hand

on a damp brick wall to steady himself.

“There he is!” the skinny assistant shouted from the doorway.

The two burly assistants joined him. The one with a round face grinned, revealing black

and brown teeth, and several gaps where teeth had once resided. “Let’s get ‘im!” he shouted.

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The skinny assistant broke out in front, but as he neared him, Nigel whirled around and

smashed his whiskey bottle over the young man’s head. The kid’s eyes rolled upward as if to see

what hit him, and then he crumpled into the mud.

Nigel brandished the broken bottle at the other two. He began swinging the jagged glass

back and forth as the two attackers spread out to come at him from either side.

Haunted Heart / p. 12

CHAPTER 3

After Nigel’s revelations, almost everyone stood up, many knocking over chairs which

caused some people to trip and fall. Shouts of anger and disbelief filled the large room. Some

people made for the door, others pressed forward in anger toward the charlatan who had

deceived them. More chairs were knocked over. A thin man with a goatee raised a cane above

his head menacingly, but he lost his footing and was swallowed by the crowd.

The lamps around the room were turned up, which removed the last vestiges of the

deceit. The green spectral girl, who now looked pathetic in her makeup and gauzy gown, was

lowered to the floor with a thud. The crowd was in an uproar – many demanded their money

back.

“That was him!” shouted Sarah above the din.

“Are you sure?” Annabelle asked, incredulous.

“Yes! We must help him!” Sarah pushed her way through the throng of people who

crowded the front of the room to get a closer look at the props and devices used in the deception.

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The fat medium removed her green glass eyecaps and surveyed the pandemonium around

her. She raised her arms and began to yell for everyone to be seated. No one listened. Out of

desperation, she grabbed the bejeweled woman. “Don’t go!” she shouted.

The bald husband shoved the medium aside and the heavy woman fell back to the floor.

Her two burly assistants helped her up. One of them started after the bald man, but the medium,

shook her head and told them to go after the tramp. “Now!” she demanded.

The burly men were joined by the skinny assistant. They shoved people aside and ran

after Nigel.

Annabelle looked across the room and began to wave her arms until she caught Edgar’s

eye. He was trapped on the other side of the room by the swarming crowd. Annabelle motioned

for him to go out the front door, but he looked at her with a quizzical expression. She yelled at

the top of her lungs, to no effect. She waived her arms again as she tried to indicate that he

should go outside and then around to the rear of the building. Edgar gestured that he understood

and exited through the double doors.

Annabelle gathered her handbag and the one Sarah had forgotten beneath her seat. She

ran after Sarah, who was on the heels of the medium’s assistants.

She caught up to her in a large kitchen, standing by an open door. “They went this way!”

Sarah shouted and ran out. Annabelle followed.

Outside, Annabelle saw Nigel whirl around and smash his bottle onto the skinny

assistant’s head. The young man collapsed into the mud. Then the two burly thugs spread out to

trap Nigel between them.

Annabelle held her gloved hand aloft. “Stop!” she shouted with authority. “Right this

instant!”

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The thugs glanced at her for a moment and then looked at each other. They chuckled and

continued to press in on Nigel.

Rapid footfalls came down the alley and Annabelle saw Edgar approach. While he ran,

Edgar removed his jacket and threw it to Sarah, who caught it and folded it over her left arm.

Edgar rolled up his sleeves then tapped the round-faced thug with bad teeth on the shoulder.

“You heard the lady.”

The round-faced thug swung around and threw his left arm up to catch Edgar’s face. At

the same instant he made a vicious upper cut with his right fist. Edgar dodged the blows, then

stepped up and slammed a fist into the thug’s nose. Blood ran from the proboscis like ale from a

just-tapped keg.

The thug shook his head clear and rushed at Edgar, punching willy nilly. Edgar held his

bare fists up before him and crouched into a boxing stance. He blocked every punch, then

delivered a series of devastating blows of his own. Annabelle recalled that Edgar once told her

he had been on the Howard University boxing team; nevertheless, she loosened the drawstrings

on her handbag and reached for the heavy object within.

The lantern-jawed thug had taken out a Bowie knife from a brown leather sheath on his

belt. He lunged at Nigel and thrust the huge knife before him. Nigel swung the broken bottle and

managed to deflect the blow.

A gun fired.

Annabelle leveled her Smith & Wesson revolver at the thug with the knife. “I suggest you

leave before you become a candidate for the next séance.” Annabelle smiled without humor,

prepared to follow-through on the threat.

Haunted Heart / p. 15

The thug held up his free hand as he backed away several paces. He whirled around and,

as he did so, fell face-first into the mud. He floundered in the muck, trying to retrieve his Bowie

knife, but then abandoned the search. He struggled up and ran .

Annabelle swung her pistol around to the other thug. “You too.”

The big man swiped his right sleeve over his eyes, wiping away some of the blood that

ran from a cut on his forehead. A stream of blood also ran from his crooked nose. He looked

grateful for the chance to escape. The battered thug bent down and helped the skinny guy to his

feet, then the two hobbled away.

Edgar took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. He retrieved his jacket from Sarah

and signaled his thanks.

Nigel stared at the three of them. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Annabelle Douglass,” she said as she approached Nigel. “This is Sarah

Bradbury and Dr. Edgar Gilpin.” Annabelle deposited her pistol back into her purse and removed

a business card. She offered it to Nigel who ignored it. “We are the Eidola Project,” she

continued, undaunted, “a group working for the Society for Psychical Research. We’d like you to

consider joining – ”

“Claptrap!” Nigel scoffed. He tossed the broken bottle aside and it shattered against a

brick wall. “You’re no better than those cretins I just vanquished.”

Nigel shuffled past Edgar and Sarah, but Edgar grabbed Nigel’s arm.

“Hey now,” said Edgar, “we just risked our lives—”

Nigel swung his arm free, grabbed Edgar’s arm and twisted it behind the black man’s

back all in one quick motion. Pain shot across Edgar’s face.

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“And for that I am grateful.” Nigel stuck his face up next to Edgar’s, and the black man

winced as much from the smell as from the pain in his arm. “But if you ever lay a hand on me

again, I’ll break it clean off.”

Nigel released his captive and turned to go, but now Edgar tapped him on the shoulder

from behind.

“Mr. Pickford?”

Nigel froze and growled, “How the hell does this nigger know my name?” He spun

around to face Edgar as he swung his fist in a roundhouse.

Edgar ducked, avoided the blow, and then delivered a powerful punch to Nigel’s chin.

Nigel stumbled back and hit his head against a brick wall. He slid down to collapse in the

mud, unconscious.

Annabelle turned to Sarah. “You said he would be difficult.”

“He’ll come around,” said Sarah as she looked at the unconscious derelict. “Sooner or

later.”

Annabelle sighed in resignation. “Well,” she said to the others, “let’s get him cleaned up.

I won’t travel to Boston with him smelling like an outhouse.”

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CHAPTER 4:

Nantucket Island

The Mahogany farm did not get many visitors, so two in one evening was something of a

record. The first was expected: Reverend Malcolm Davis, the Baptist minister for their colored

community on the island. The reverend, whose dark skin was weathered from a youth spent

aboard whaling vessels, would come by once or twice a month to harangue them good-naturedly

about the need to get to church more often. Clarence Mahogany often wondered out loud if the

reverend was just looking for a free meal.

His daughter, Maude, didn’t hear these remarks – she hadn’t heard anything her father

said since the age of two when the same fever that took her mother’s life left her deaf. On the

other hand, Maude could read lips. When she caught her father swearing or being rude, she

would slap his shoulder with a dish towel, a book, or if nothing else was handy, her open hand.

Her conditioning meant that her father turned his back whenever he felt like swearing.

While unable to hear, Maude had still learned her letters and read her Bible each day. Her

speech was not good though -- only her father could understand it, and not very well at that. As a

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result, Maude usually remained quiet. She had also learned to be a good cook, which was why

her father suspected the reverend was a regular guest.

Reverend Davis put the last forkful of ham into his mouth and made a wide smile. He

wiped his lips and set his blue cloth napkin down on the empty plate. He turned to Maude who

had entered from the kitchen with an apple pie. “I know that gluttony is a sin, so I saved some

room for a piece of one of your excellent pies.”

Maude smiled and set the pie before him. She cut the pie into quarters and started to dish

one out, but the minister’s hand stopped her.

The minister looked up at her. “Now that much would be a sin,” he said. “An eighth

would do me fine.”

Maude cut the quarter in half. The minister retrieved his napkin and Maude set the pie

piece on his plate.

A knock, that Maude could not hear, came at the door.

The Reverend looked toward the entry and then at Clarence. “A little late for visitors.”

Clarence leveled his eyes at the minister and directed his comment to him as well. “I

should say so.” He got up and walked across the pinewood floor to the door. He opened it, and at

first saw only darkness. “Hello?”

Out of the night came a timid woman’s voice. “Mr. Mahogany?”

On the road, some distance away, a buggy drove by. A lantern hung off its side. The faint

illumination outlined the form of a woman in the doorway wearing a large hat. There did not

appear to be a buggy in the drive.

“Yes? What can do for you?”

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“Sorry to be calling on you at such a late hour. I wonder if I might impose upon you for a

few moments?”

“Surely. Come on in and join the reverend.”

“No, no, I don’t want to burden you any more than I have already. I understand your

daughter is a good cook. I am looking for one to put my kitchen to rights and prepare some meals

for the next little while. I live in the old Hutchinson house out on Baxter Road. Do you know it?”

“I do. I’ve lived here twenty years, Miss –?”

“Lenore. Lenore Hutchinson.”

“Twenty years and I can’t say that I’ve ever met you.”

“I’m afraid I’ve become a bit of a recluse.”

“I heard that there used to be some disreputable parties out there.”

“That was long ago, before I changed my ways and found our lord, Jesus Christ. As I

said, I am putting my place back in order and I could use your daughter’s services. I would pay

handsomely.”

“There are rumors your place is haunted.”

“Rumors, only. I am a gospel woman, Mr. Mahogany.”

Clarence scratched the top of his balding head. “Well, I can’t see sparing her in the

evenings, when she is needed right here tending house for me, and rumors or not, I don’t want

her out and about in the dark. But we could sure use the cash.” Clarence ran a hand over his face

and looked back at the minister. “What do you think, Reverend?”

The minister put down his fork and dabbed his lips clean. He looked at Clarence standing

before the darkened doorway. “Sounds like she was lost but now found in the glory of Jesus.

‘Can’t ask for a better reference!” He grinned.

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Clarence scratched his head again and turned back to the doorway. “If she came mid-

morning and left mid-afternoon, would that work for you?”

“That would be adequate.”

“You know she’s deaf and dumb?”

“I do. But I also understand that she can read as well as write, and that she has won

several ribbons for her cooking at the Independence Day festivities in town.”

Clarence ushered his daughter to the doorway and turned so that she could read his lips.

He recounted the offer and put it to her if she wanted the job. Maude nodded with vigor.

“Could she start tomorrow?” said Lenore. “Guests will arrive soon and need to get things

in order as soon as possible.”

“Tell you what, Clarence,” said the reverend, “I’ll stop by whenever my circuit takes me

that way. Tomorrow, in fact.”

Clarence puffed out his cheeks as he let out a slow stream of air. At last he said, “Well,

alright. Tomorrow, then.” He stuck out his hand and a woman’s gloved hand emerged from the

darkness to lightly shake his.

“Thank you,” said Lenore, “and have a good evening.”

“You as well,” said Clarence, easing the door shut.

He walked with measured steps back to the table, then took another deep breath and sat

down to a piece of his daughter’s pie. “She’s an odd duck.”

“The Lord’s tent is mighty big,” said the Reverend. “She seems shy, that’s all. And as

you said, you could use the money.” The Reverend looked down at his clean plate then up at

Maude who just sat down. He grinned once more. “I do declare, there’s still a little room left in

my tummy!”

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CHAPTER 5:

Atlanta

Edgar dragged the unconscious Nigel out to the street, but when Annabelle flagged down

a cab, the driver took one look at the Nigel and wasn’t about to let him in. “Not on your life!” He

announced and lifted the reins, prepared to go.

Edgar yanked off Nigel’s filthy coat and threw it on top of a magnolia bush. “There,”

Annabelle announced to the driver. “The worst of it is off!”

The driver surveyed the potential customers a second time.

“We’re going the Piedmont Hotel.” Annabelle waved a dollar at the driver, far more than

the fare. “He’ll be on the floor. I guarantee your cab will not be damaged.”

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The driver rolled his eyes, reached down for the money, and then waved them aboard.

They shoved the unconscious Nigel inside and laid him across the planking. Annabelle

and Sarah kept their feet as far away as possible, but Edgar rested his shoes on Nigel, ostensibly

to keep him from rolling.

At the hotel they faced similar resistance, once the clerk woke up and became cognizant

of the man on the floor in front of his desk. Edgar had hauled Nigel from the cab, one hand under

each shoulder, and dragged him into the building. To protect the carpet, Sarah and Annabelle

rolled up the rug in front of the reception desk so that Edgar could set Nigel on the bare wood

floor.

The desk clerk was about 4’ 10” and combed his thin brown hair over the top of his

otherwise bare head. He had some shiny spittle in the corner of his mouth from sleep, and it was

hard for Annabelle not to stare at this when he spoke.

“We don’t take in riffraff,” the clerk told her. “I made an exception for your colored

servant, but this is too much. For pity’s sake, he stinks! Get him out!” He made little shooing

motions with his hands.

Annabelle took out a lacey handkerchief and wiped the corner of the clerk’s mouth. The

man was nonplussed. “What are you doing?” he stammered.

“You were drooling on the guest registry. I’m sure the proprietor of the hotel would be

happy to know that he pays you to sleep.”

“What? I never –”

“Moreover, this is not riffraff. Surely you’ve heard of Edgar Allan Poe. Yes, he has fallen

on hard times, but we are rescuing him, just as I will rescue you by not reporting what I saw and

Haunted Heart / p. 23

causing you to lose your job. I see by the keys on the wall behind you that the room next to mine,

number 401, is unoccupied. Now it is. You will also draw a bath and rouse the hotel barber.”

“What? At this hour? He’s probably drunk.”

“Fine. They’ll get along famously. We shall pay him for his troubles. Now go!”

The little man scurried about as ordered. He placed the key to 401 on the counter and

went into the bathhouse, a room off the lobby. A few minutes later he emerged and went

upstairs, presumably to get the barber.

Edgar looked at Annabelle and smirked. “Were Poe still alive, I believe he’d be in his

seventies.”

Annabelle smiled and shrugged. “It was the first name with notoriety that came into my

head.”

When the barber descended the stairs, he carried a black leather bag, of the type favored

by many physicians. He did smell of gin. The white shirt that covered his large belly was

untucked and one of his suspenders hung limp at his side. Annabelle stated that she wanted Nigel

clean-shaven and with a respectable haircut. She volunteered Edgar’s help, and then gave the

man two dollars.

The barber and Edgar carted Nigel into the bathroom and shut the door. It wasn’t long

before the door opened and Edgar dropped Nigel’s rags onto the floor. He withdrew back into

the room and banged the door shut.

Annabelle removed her gloves, snatched a pen from the registry, and used the writing

implement to gingerly pick up the fetid pile of clothing. She caught Sarah’s eyes and grimaced

with disgust. Annabelle set the rags on the desk in front of the clerk, who sat back, aghast.

“Please incinerate these,” she said.

Haunted Heart / p. 24

The man picked up the clothes, held them at arm’s length, and went out a rear door

marked “Employees Only.”

“Well, you got him clean,” said Sarah, “but what about new clothes? Edgar is taller. No

shops are open at this hour.”

“I’ve got an idea.”

When the little clerk came scuttling back, Annabelle asked if there were any suitcases left

by former patrons, perhaps those who had skipped out on bills? She offered to buy anything that

would fit Nigel.

The man returned, red-faced and puffing with exertion. He carried a small trunk, two

suitcases and a carpetbag. He set them on the floor. “As I recall,” he said, wiping his face with a

handkerchief, and then gesturing theatrically at the pile before him, “these were from people of a

similar build.

“People leave without paying that often?” Annabelle asked with surprise.

“The basement is half-full of this sort of thing.” He stopped and eyed her. “– Don’t get

any ideas,” he warned, trying, but failing, to look intimidating.

Annabelle shook her head. “We’ll settle our entire bill now, if it makes you feel any

better.”

Annabelle paid the clerk and then she and Sarah began to go through the luggage. They

opened the trunk first and got a laugh when Sarah held up a pair of pants for an obviously obese

man. The other luggage proved more fruitful and they were able to assemble a suitcase full of

clothes and a couple shoes they thought would fit. Annabelle took a nightshirt and knocked on

the bathroom door. Edgar opened it a crack and took the garment.

Haunted Heart / p. 25

“The barber deserves a large tip,” he said. “He helped me bathe the guy. My God, what

filth!” Edgar shut the door.

A few minutes later the men emerged. The barber and Edgar held up either side of Nigel,

who had undergone a remarkable transformation.

“Well, I had my doubts, but it seems there was a man under all that grime,” said

Annabelle. “My compliments, gentlemen.”

Sarah smiled. “He’s actually handsome.”

Nigel was starting to become aware. He staggered between the other two men as they

brought him up the stairs and took him to his room on the fourth floor. But as they set him on the

bed, Nigel came to and became agitated. “No, no!” he cried, and fought to get off. The barber

threw his hands up in frustration and backed away. Edgar turned to the barber and said, “Please

excuse any appearance of impropriety.” Edgar then turned back to Nigel and punched him hard

on the temple. Nigel collapsed back on to the bed unconscious.

“Quite understandable,” said the barber.

Annabelle came into the room and set the suitcase and two pairs of shoes on the floor.

Then Sarah set an extra suit across the top of a dresser. They filed out. As they did so, Annabelle

removed the key from the inside lock, pulled the door shut and used the key on the outside to

lock Nigel in.

Annabelle gave the barber a Morgan silver dollar as a tip. “Thank you for your trouble.”

The man looked at the coin, then looked up at Annabelle and smiled at her generosity.

“No trouble at all. Well, that is until he woke up. Good luck in the morning.” The man ambled

down the hall to his room, flipping the coin up and catching it as he walked.

Haunted Heart / p. 26

Edgar leaned back against the bright floral-papered wall of the hallway and breathed a

sigh of relief. “We should take turns here by the door.”

“I agree,” said Annabelle. “I was going to suggest as much. I’ll take the first shift. Sarah,

would you spell me in two hours?”

“I’ll take the first,” said Sarah. “It was by my insistence that we got into this.”

“Alright. If I’m not here in two hours’ time, please wake me.”

Edgar went into his room and returned with a wooden chair, which he set before Nigel’s

door. He gestured to it. “It’s not especially comfortable,” he told Sarah, “but that may help to

keep you awake. You can call on me instead for the second shift.”

Edgar went off into his room and shut the door.

Sarah settled onto her chair.

As time passed, her mind began to wander. Sarah wondered if later, when lying abed, she

would be subjected to the vision that brought her here, and that convinced the others to join her.

Now that they had Nigel, would her sleep be untroubled? The vision had haunted her off and on

her whole life – caused any time she touched the color red. Lately, it had also invaded her

dreams, but she hadn’t known how to interpret it until a few days ago.

Lost in her reverie, Sarah stared ahead without seeing. Now she realized that the

wallpaper before her was covered with small red roses. Sarah stood and took several deep

breaths. Might I be free? She wondered.

Sarah shot out her right index finger and touched the image of a rose.

Nothing. She couldn’t believe it. Nothing. She felt a huge weight lift as tears of joy

sprang to her eyes. She began to laugh and ran her hands over the red flowers on the wall.

Nothing! It was miraculous.

Haunted Heart / p. 27

After a while, Sarah settled down onto the chair. She wanted to go to sleep, now that the

curse seemed to be gone, but she promised to do the first watch. Sarah needed to occupy her

mind, and so she eventually began to reflect on events of her life.

Without doubt, a turning point occurred with the murder of Molly Guyer....

Haunted Heart / p. 28

CHAPTER 6:

Sarah’s Story

Nine-year-old Sarah Bradbury found a penny that morning and put it to good use: She

now sat on an upturned crate outside Larr’s General Store, drawing her tongue along the length

of a yellow sucker. Color was important. Whatever it was, she avoided red like the plague.

(Fortunately, her auburn-colored hair wasn’t a problem.) She never told anyone of the

nightmarish vision, but suffered in silence. Now, however, that seemed of little concern, as her

mouth was filled with lemony sweetness.

As she enjoyed the rare treat, Sarah studied Molly, a pretty teenaged girl perched on the

wooden seat of her father’s buckboard wagon while a half dozen boys clustered around. Molly

was like a flower, and the boys were bees, Sarah concluded with unusual acumen for her age.

#

Boys swarmed around Molly whenever she came into Hoeksburg, their small town in

Vermont. Bertrand Scott, Molly’s father would emerge from Larr’s General Store with a sack of

Haunted Heart / p. 29

seed, or other items, and see them buzzing around her as she sat, smiling, on the wagon. He’d

yell and they’d scatter, but as soon as he went back in, they’d return. If he brought his daughter

inside, boys would follow them in and make such a nuisance he couldn’t shop. If he left Molly at

home, he was worried they’d descend on the house as soon as he’d driven away.

It was an annoyance when she was twelve, thirteen and fourteen, but once she turned

sixteen, boys wanted to court her. And it wasn’t just boys, but grown men: Kemp Vandeveer, the

43 years old tanner, approached Bertrand last month, as did William Knutsen, who lost an arm in

the War. Bertrand would hear none of it. She’s too young, he told himself. With Beth gone, she

was needed to tend to the house, the laundry and the cooking. He wasn’t sure he’d ever let her

go.

Despite all this, it came as a shock to Bertrand on a Sunday morning, three weeks later,

when he arose as usual and went into the kitchen to find the wood stove cold and nothing

prepared. He checked Molly’s bed and found it empty. Her window was unlatched but none of

her belongings gone.

When he could wait no longer, Bertrand rode into town and later all over the county. He

asked everyone he knew and everyone he had ever seen make eyes at his daughter. No one

claimed to have been with her, or knew her whereabouts.

Older women in town clucked their tongues like hens, and many of the men in town (of

all ages) were ruing the fact that Molly hadn’t run off with them.

#

Twenty-eight days after Molly’s disappearance, Sarah was forced awake a little after 2

AM by a full bladder. She turned over and tried to ignore it, but it was not to be put off. Sarah

Haunted Heart / p. 30

could no longer deny the inevitable, she sighed, pushed off the ratty quilt, and sat up. It was

utterly dark in her room, so she fumbled around on the small table next to her for a match.

Sarah located one and struck it on the rough surface of the unpainted tabletop. Sulfur

filled her nostrils and she sneezed, almost dropping the burning matchstick. After lighting the

wick in the old metal lamp on the bedside table, she shook the match to extinguish its flame, then

raised the little metal arm on the kerosene lamp which caused a small glass globe to lower over

the burning wick. The lamp provided a faint light, but it was enough for her to find her way. She

wished her father would allow her a chamber pot. She’d spilled one once when she was five and

that was the end of that.

She eased open her bedroom door and made her way down the hall, past her parents’

room. She hoped beyond all measure she hadn’t woken them. She tiptoed into the wider area of

the house that served as both the kitchen, eating area, living room, and entryway. She lifted the

metal latch on the door with the greatest of care and crept outside. The boards of the front porch

felt damp from the dew, as did the dirt and grass on the well-worn trail around the building to the

outhouse. The sky above her was a mix of clouds and stars. The full moon had scuttled behind a

cloud, causing its outer edge to glow.

Sarah pulled open the wooden door of the outhouse and held the lamp before her, peering

within. Empy. One night a raccoon had found its way in there, and they both had a fright until

the critter had scampered out. Sarah was not anxious to renew the acquaintance.

She climbed inside, pulled the door shut and twisted the peg on the door that held it

closed. Sarah put the lamp on the floor, hiked up her night shirt and sat on the seat – a plank with

a hole in it. A pile of newspapers sat next to her and she tore off a piece of one sheet and wiped

herself dry.

Haunted Heart / p. 31

Sarah retrieved the lamp and twisted the peg. The door swung open on its own, and Sarah

gasped. A figure stood outside the outhouse door.

“Momma?” Sarah asked as she held out her lantern.

No. It was Molly, or what was left of her. Her pretty blue eyes had been pecked out by

birds and her skin was alive with maggots. Molly’s head hung at an odd angle to the right. What

Sarah could see of her skin looked mottled with patches of gray, blue and black. A beetle

crawled out of Molly’s half-opened mouth and darted back in.

Sarah’s heart jumped to her throat and she stepped back. She lost her footing and fell

onto the outhouse seat and dropped the lantern to the floor. She bent to retrieved it, thankful that

the glass globe hadn’t broken. Sarah looked up and saw that Molly was gone.

You’re imagining things, she told herself. Impossible. ‘Must’ve dozed off, had a

nightmare, and woke up when I dropped the lamp.

Her heart still pounded in her chest and Sarah took a deep breath to calm herself.

Holding the lamp out before her once more, Sarah crept out. Nothing unusual. She made

her way around the side of the house, but as she turned the corner to the front, there once again

stood Molly.

Sarah, turned and ran back where she came. Over by the outhouse, she looked over her

shoulder and saw that she wasn’t being followed. She stopped.

She realized that if Molly were some sort of spirit, there was nothing to stop her from

appearing somewhere else. It was a warm night, but she shivered. Sarah rubbed her arms and

looked back toward the house.

What does she want? Sarah wondered. Soon, curiosity began to overpower her and she

crept back toward the front of the house and peered around the corner. Molly was still there,

Haunted Heart / p. 32

facing Sarah, but neither said anything. The supernatural figure turned and shuffled across the

matted grass that was Sarah’s front yard and went out onto the road that led from the farmhouse.

Sarah ran around to the front of the house and dashed up onto the porch to where her

father left his boots under the awning. She put them on over her bare feet, and did not bother to

lace them. She clomped after Molly. The moon emerged from the cloud, and now Sarah could

clearly see Molly walking ahead. Later, after about a mile, Sarah stumbled on a pothole and fell.

This time Molly waited for her.

They began to head down Old Mill Road until Sarah saw Molly stop and point. Sarah

came up and looked where indicated. She held the lantern before her, but the kerosene was

almost gone, and the flame had become a thin line of blue and was guttering out. A canopy of

trees blocked the moonlight and there was nothing she could make out ahead of her in the

darkness. When Sarah looked back, Molly had disappeared.

Sarah used the heel of her right boot to carve a line across the dirt road, and found

enough rocks by the side of the road to make an arrow of them on the road’s shoulder. She hoped

these markers would be visible in the daytime.

When she got home, her father was already up and had the switch in his hand. He slapped

it against his palm a few times for effect. “You fixin’ to run off like Molly?” he asked, despite

her age. “You got a boy you’re seein’, same as her?”

He commenced to beat her backside raw. Between tears and shouts of pain, Sarah tried

to tell him what had happened and he beat her all the harder for lying.

Edith, Sarah’s mom, got up to watch. She was heavy-set like her husband, with a sheen to

her face. Her hair was a wild rat’s nest, as it was each morning when she rose, and often stayed

Haunted Heart / p. 33

that way throughout the day. She regarded the beating with mild interest, then complained that

Sarah had tracked dirt into the house upon her return.

Whatever Sarah said didn’t matter, so she quit saying anything.

When her father had spent his fury, he was sweaty and red-faced. Edith put a hand on his

damp back. “Come and sit down at the table. Looks like you worked up a bit of an appetite this

morning.”

#

Later, when Sarah left the house to go to school, she did nothing of the sort. Her backside

was so sore, she wasn’t sure she could sit through a day at school. It hurt to walk, but she did it

anyway, compelled to retrace the steps she had gone that night.

The farms and homes along the way looked as they always had, and were mundane by

their familiarity. Fields were green with the early summer growth: Corn, rye, barley, and

pumpkins, all popular local crops, were flourishing in the morning sunshine.

Eventually, Sarah turned down Old Mill Road and left the farms behind. Instead, the road

led into a wooded area – thick with second growth that had come back once the mill, which had

rotted away long ago, had closed.

Will I be able to find the spot? She wondered. What will I find?

After about a half mile, Sarah spotted the line she had scraped across the dirt road and the

rough arrow made of stones. She surveyed the gooseberry bush that blocked her way and

weighed her options: brave the thorny bush, or find some way around it. She chose the latter and

managed to find some poison ivy instead. After rubbing some soil and spit on the rash, Sarah

pressed on until she stood where she figured her markers lay on the other side of the brush.

Sarah started walking away from the road and began to notice a terrible smell. It was a heavy and

Haunted Heart / p. 34

rancid scent that pervaded the air. Sarah placed a hand over her mouth and nose, trying to use it

as a filter. A few feet beyond, she found Molly’s corpse lying face up on some green leafy

foliage. The remains of the girl looked exactly as Sarah had seen her last night, including the

beetle in Molly’s open mouth.

Sarah vomited.

After a while there was nothing left to come up, yet still she gagged until she realized she

needed to move away from the site and the terrible scent. Now what? Go to the police or tell

Molly’s father?

Sarah decided Mr. Scott, Molly’s father, deserved to know first. She retraced her steps

back to the road, careful to avoid the poison ivy when she spotted it.

It was a long walk to Scott’s farm. When she got there, the property, like many New

England farms, was lined with stone fences -- people had to do something with all the rocks they

dug up. Molly’s father had given much of the farm over to pasture instead of crops, but the

animals she saw as she approached the house looked poorly. A horse and a mule were thin and

shabby. They looked as if they had not received much care over the last month. Four Holstein

cows were lowing in pain, imploring her to milk them as they stood at the gate to the fence,

staring at her.

Sarah knocked and looked through the window beside the door. She could see Bertrand

Scott asleep at the kitchen table, next to a bottle of gin. After many knocks, she was able to rouse

him. Bleary eyed, the man struggled to his feet and staggered to the door, unlocked it, and swung

it wide.

Haunted Heart / p. 35

When he saw it was her, he snarled, “What do you want?” His breath stunk of gin, and

his lips were chapped. A filmy line of dried saliva ran along their inner edge. He grimaced in the

morning sunshine and held his right hand to his head in evident pain. “Go away!”

The man teetered back to the chair at the kitchen table and plopped down. He began

massaging the sides of his skull.

“I saw Molly last night,” Sarah told him.

Mr. Scott sat up, suddenly alert.

“She’s dead.” Sarah added.

Mr. Scott came at her, and Sarah flinched, afraid he was going to hit her. Instead he

grabbed her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “My girl – dead?” he asked.

Sarah gulped. “Yes, sir.”

“How do you know?”

“Her ghost visited me last night.”

Molly’s father let go and turned away in disgust. “Go away!”

“I know where to look. I marked it last night where she showed me, out on Old Mill

Road. I went there this mornin’ to check – makin’ sure it weren’t a nightmare. She’s there all

right.”

Mr. Scott turned back and looked at her. “What was she doing way out there?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps she’ll tell me next time.”

“You’re crazy!”

“No sir, I thought maybe so, but I just come from where she’s layin’. I was going to go to

the Sheriff, but I thought you should know first.”

Haunted Heart / p. 36

The man’s eyes bore into her, but she held up under the scrutiny. At last, he said, “Let’s

go.”

Outside, Mr. Scott retrieved his horse and hitched him to the buckboard wagon. He

climbed up and sat on the plank seat and motioned for her to do the same. When she had climbed

up next to him, he stared straight ahead and said in a voice that was nearly a growl, “If this is

some sort of sport, our next stop will be the sheriff’s.”

Molly’s father shook the reins and they rode off.

It was an uncomfortable ride. Every bump and pitch to the wagon awakened fresh pains

in Sarah’s raw backside. By the time they reached Old Mill Road, she was fighting back tears.

Sarah studied the roadbed ahead. The shadows cast by leafy trees above made it difficult

to see details in the road as they went along.

“Slow down, will you?” She said.

At last, she found the spot, more by gut instinct than anything else. She yelled for him to

stop. The two climbed off the wagon and went around the gooseberry bushes as she had done

before.

When they found Molly’s body, Mr. Scott let out a wail and dropped to his knees. He

picked up one of her rotting hands and held it to his chest.

#

They did go to the sheriff, but it was to present him with Molly’s remains. The sheriff

came out of the jail, followed by Mr. Scott and Sarah, and drew back the canvas draped over

Molly’s remains. It was all he could do not to gag.

Haunted Heart / p. 37

The sheriff threw the tarp back over Molly and retreated a few steps. He looked up at the

sky for several long moments then leveled his gaze at Molly’s father. He put a hand to his

holstered gun. “Bertrand, I have to ask you to step into a cell.”

Bertrand Scott, who was already ashen, turned whiter still. “What?”

“You heard me. I’ve had my suspicions about you from the start, out there in the boonies

with your daughter. You and Molly had a fight, no doubt, and you did something you probably

now regret. Finally, you couldn’t live with yourself after what you’d done, cooked up this crazy

story, and got this girl here to buy into it.”

Bertrand Scott struggled to speak. His mouth worked up and down like a fish out of

water. Tears ran down his cheeks. At last he found his voice, as he clenched both his eyes and his

fists, but only one sound came out, a wracking heartfelt moan.

The sheriff glanced at Sarah and back at Bertrand Scott. He became suddenly

conciliatory. “Step inside, Bertrand, and we’ll sort this thing out. Don’t make me have to pull my

sidearm or cuff you.”

Bertrand let out a deep breath and sagged as though deflated. He lowered his head and

shambled into the jail. The sheriff ushered him through the door in the rear of the office that led

to the cells.

When the sheriff came out of the back room, Sarah tried her best to protest, but the man

cut her off and growled, “Get on out of here before I stick you in the lodge too!”

Sarah felt somehow guilty. She turned, walked outside, and saw the wagon and the

bedraggled horse. When the Sheriff emerged she said, “I don’t think I can manage the wagon,

but I’d be willing to walk the horse back to Mr. Scott’s farm.”

“I’ll put him up in the livery. You get yourself on back to school where you belong.”

Haunted Heart / p. 38

“Yes, sir,” said Sarah and walked away, but instead of school, she returned to Mr. Scott’s

farm and tended to the animals. She took care of them twice each day until after the inquest.

#

At the court hearing the following week, Sarah was called as a witness. Her parents had

been informed, so all three were in attendance. When the bailiff called her name Sarah squeezed

past her folks and the other people on the bench until she got to the center aisle. She was led to

the witness box and there the bailiff told her to raise her right hand and put the other on the Bible

he held before her. The man recited the pledge to tell the truth. Sarah nodded.

“Say: I do,” Judge Phineus Newbold said with a smile from his seat above her.

Sarah recited the two words with all the solemnity she could muster. When asked, she

told the court about the apparition of Molly – to the titters and guffaws of many.

“And how did Miss Scott’s body get into the woods?” asked Albert Schmidt, the

pompous county prosecutor. The man had greasy gray hair and a waistline as big as his ego.

“I don’t know,” said Sarah “but you can ask Molly yourself. I’ve had the feeling all week

she wants to speak.”

This time Albert led the guffaws until the judge gaveled the room back to order.

“Well,” the prosecutor said with a snide grin, “let’s hear from her.”

Sarah closed her eyes and took in deep breaths for several moments. Her breathing

became labored and she sat back on the chair and moaned.

The judge pounded his gavel several times. “I think we’ve had about enough of this,” he

proclaimed.

Hugh Marsten, the defense attorney, stood up. “Begging the court’s indulgence, sir. If the

story is true, it could exonerate my client.”

Haunted Heart / p. 39

Judge Newbold looked over at Schmidt, who was chuckling. “No objections, your

honor,” said Schmidt. “I enjoy a good performance as much as anyone.”

“I’ll let this go on for a minute or two, provided it doesn’t turn into a sideshow,”

grumbled the judge.

Sarah opened her eyes with a start. She looked at Bertrand Scott. “Father,” she said in

Molly’s voice, “what are you doing here?” She looked around with panic. “What? Where am I?”

“You’re in a court of law,” said Judge Newbold, “and may I remind you, Sarah Bradbury,

that you are under oath. Are we to believe that you are now Molly Scott?”

Sarah looked at the judge with shock. “What are you talking about? Wait – I

remember...” Sarah turned to face the people in the gallery. “I had snuck out of my house for a

buggy ride with John Hyler. I’d never done anything like that before, but I thought with the

sheriff’s son, there would be nothing to fear.”

John Hyler bounded up from where he had been sitting in the rear of the courtroom.

“This is crazy!” shouted the young man. “The girl’s a lunatic!”

The judge pounded his gavel. “Bailiff, please help the junior Mr. Hyler find his seat? I’m

starting to take some interest in this testimony after all.”

The sheriff, John’s father, moved down the center aisle in the courtroom, adding his

protests to his son’s. “You can’t be serious, Phineas. The girl is clearly disturbed.”

The judge held his gavel out toward the sheriff. “Quiet, Charley, and be seated before I

have you arrested for contempt.

He turned back to Sarah. “Please continue.”

“It was a warm May night and I wore my favorite blue gingham dress and my late

mother’s broach. I crawled out my window and met John in his surrey. We drove off, not saying

Haunted Heart / p. 40

much, but enjoying the beautiful night. After a while, John stopped the carriage. We were on Old

Mill Road. He grabbed me and started kissing me, putting his hands all over.”

Sarah became more distressed as she relived the event. Her arms began to bat the air

before her, in an attempt to drive the man away.

“He said everyone knew I was loose, and he wanted his turn. I fought him off as best I

could. In the process, mother’s broach got torn off and rolled beneath the seat. I screamed and

cried as he had his way. When he finished, he climbed off me and turned the carriage around.

We headed back, but I couldn’t stop crying. He hit me while he drove the horse on faster and

faster. Finally, I said I was going to tell his father and he went berserk. He swore and threw me

from the racing carriage. My head struck the ground first, breaking my neck.

“John stopped and went back to where I lay on the road. He dragged me out of sight,

through some bushes, and left me there to rot.”

Sarah stood up and pointed to the sheriff’s son. “John Hyler, you’re a rapist, a murderer

and a coward. My mother’s broach is still beneath the carriage seat where it fell.”

Sarah collapsed to the floor in a faint, and the courtroom erupted in pandemonium. John

Hyler tried to push his way past the other people in his row of benches, but they stood up and

blocked his way. Several men grabbed him from behind.

“It isn’t true!” he shouted. He wrenched himself around to face the judge. “It isn’t true!”

Sheriff Hyler stood up, crimson-faced and teeth clenched, and began to charge toward the

exit.

The judge sprang up from his bench and shouted over the crowd. “Charley, I can’t let you

go! Deputies, bar his way!

Haunted Heart / p. 41

Two deputies stood before the door. The sheriff turned sideways and drew his arm back

for a punch, but the younger of the two deputies put a hand on the sheriff’s chest to stop him.

“Don’t do it, boss,” he said.

The sheriff froze then lowered his fist. He turned around and faced the judge, an

imploring look on his face.

“You can go with them, Charley,” the judge said soberly, as he stared down the sheriff,

“but the deputies will check the carriage.”

After a few moments, the sheriff agreed.

Judge Newbold breathed a sigh of relief and set down his gavel. The two deputies turned

and pushed open the double doors at the rear of the courtroom. They held them open for the

sheriff, who exited with his eyes downcast.

The judge looked at the young girl, who still lay on the floor of the witness box. “My

God!” he exclaimed and moved to assist her. In the witness box, he pushed the chair aside and

bent down to scoop up the young girl. He felt moisture beneath his left hand and realized that

the girl had wet herself. The judge stood and looked across the room at the girl’s parents: The

two chatted amongst themselves, but had made no move to help their daughter.

Shaking his head in disbelief, the judge took the young girl into his chambers. He did not

have a sofa, but he did have an adjustable parlor chair. He set the girl on the black leather

upholstery and reclined the back as far as it would go. He took his light summer suit jacket off

the hook by the door and draped it over the unconscious girl.

The judge marched out of his chambers and crossed the courtroom to the gallery, which

was still abuzz. John Hyler continued his protests to anyone who would listen, but every time he

Haunted Heart / p. 42

attempted to stand, several men shoved him back down. It didn’t appear that anyone else was

anxious to leave.

The judge yelled and pointed at the girl’s parents, until he got their attention. He

demanded they approach him. Both parents were shabbily dressed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the judge continued to yell. “Your daughter is

unconscious and you two are standing there with the rest, yammering away.”

The mother spoke first. “Oh, she’s always doing this sort of thing to avoid doing some

chore. We find it best to ignore her until a switch can be found.”

“She’ll come around,” chimed in the father.

“I don’t know what to make of her accusations,” said the judge, “but the girl is not faking

unconsciousness. I recommend you get her to Doc Twining.”

“And who’s gonna pay for that?” asked the mother.

“I will,” said Judge Newbold without a second thought.

The father eyed the judge. “Give us the money. We’ll see she gets the treatment she

deserves.” He grinned.

The judge balked. “I’ll fetch the doctor myself.”

#

By this time, the two deputies and Sheriff Hyler were a block away, heading for the

sheriff’s house. It was a warm June day and all three had removed their coats, but they were still

sweating, creating large wet spots on their shirtbacks and beneath their arms.

When they arrived, the sheriff led them around the well-kept home to the carriage house

in back. The sheriff threw the bolt on the wide door and swung it open. Sunlight shone in upon

Haunted Heart / p. 43

the black surrey. Sheriff Hyler stepped toward the carriage, but Deputy Harris grabbed his

shoulder.

“The judge said for us to do the lookin’.”

The sheriff took a moment to consider his options and moved away. Deputies Harris and

McCann climbed up on either side of the surrey and searched every nook and cranny.

“Hold on,” McCann announced, “I’ve got something.” He held it up in the light to

examine it. The cameo broach was carved ivory depicting the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus.

“Christ almighty,” said Harris. ‘What the girl said was true.”

“That belonged to Gertie,” said the sheriff. His wife had been dead for 3 years.

“You willing to swear to that in court?” asked McCann.

The sheriff took a deep breath and kicked at a rock that protruded from the soil. “No,” he

said, almost inaudibly.

When the three of them entered the courtroom, the sheriff glared at his son and shook his

head. “You little shit,” he said under his breath.

#

Charlie Hyler came to the jail the next day. He still wore his uniform and side arm, in

spite of the suspension he had been put on after his son’s arrest. When he walked in, he saw that

Harris had his feet up on the sheriff’s desk, reading Harper’s Weekly. The deputy awkwardly

sprang up and apologized.

“Sorry, boss. I didn’t have my feet on anything important.”

The sheriff grunted a response and moved around the desk. He headed for the cells.

Harris ducked in front of him and stammered. “Mayor said you’re on leave until further notice. I

can’t let you in there.”

Haunted Heart / p. 44

Sheriff Hyler raised his head and glared at Harris. Hyler’s face was unshaven and his

eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, not alcohol.

“I’ll thank you to get the hell out of my way, Harris. There ain’t no power on earth going

to stop me seeing my boy.”

Harris studied his boss’s face for a few moments, then yielded. Harris stepped to the side

and the sheriff opened the door that led to the jail. Hyler slammed the door shut behind him.

The sheriff walked past the first two empty cells, each separated by a brick wall, and

stopped at the third, where his son sat on the side of his cot with his head in his hands. The

younger Hyler’s head came up and saw it was his father.

“Get me out of here!”

Charlie shook his head and scowled. “You’re where you belong.”

“I didn’t do it!” John Hyler came up and grabbed the bars. He put his face to the iron rods

and spoke with increasing desperation. “Th-that girl is crazy. I never touched Betsy, the whore.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sorry she’d dead, but half the town could tell you she got what was

coming to her. I don’t know who did it. I’d tell you if I did!”

“You protest too much,” Charley said in a grave voice. “I think you should’ve had a look

at the body you left lying in the bushes. Then you could tell me if she got what she deserved. I

wouldn’t be surprised if they leave you on the rope they hang you from for a month, to give you

a taste of your own medicine.”

John Hyler’s left arm shot out between the bars and snatched his father’s pistol from the

holster. John sprang back from the bars and pointed the gun at his father. “You get me out of

here. Now!”

Haunted Heart / p. 45

The sheriff shook his head. “I have sworn an oath to uphold the law, even at the expense

of my own son.” He turned and walked from the room.

“Stop!” shouted his son, to no effect.

Sheriff Hyler went back into the office and slowly shut the door behind him.

The deputy moved across the room. “What the hell was that all about?”

Now it was the sheriff who put his hand on his deputy’s chest.

“Don’t go in there, Harris. It ain’t safe. He stole my gun.”

The deputy jerked his own gun from his holster and tried to step around the sheriff, who

continued to block his way.

“What happened?” Harris demanded.

“He reached through the bars and took it. Don’t add yourself you his tally. Let him be.”

“Are you nuts?”

“Who’s he gonna harm in there?” said the sheriff in a low voice.

Harris shoved the sheriff aside so hard, the older man fell to the floor. Harris grabbed the

door knob as a shot sounded from within. He flung open the door and ran inside.

#

Prudence took hold of Harris and he stopped short. The deputy drew his gun and held it

out before him. He crept past the two cells to the third.

John Hyler sat on the floor of his cell with wide eyes, the top half of his head now

sprayed all over the wall behind him. Blood ran from the gaping hole in rivulets down his face.

but it gushed from the open mouth and spilled off his chin onto what had been a white shirt. His

right hand lay on the floor with the pistol, the index finger still stuck in the trigger guard.

The sheriff came up to Harris and surveyed the scene. The older man choked off a sob.

Haunted Heart / p. 46

Harris turned to his boss. “You gave him your pistol, you son of a –”

“No,” the sheriff cut him off, squeezing his eyes tight to staunch the flow of tears, “but I

had hoped he’d be man enough to take it.”

#

As news accounts of what had happened in court circulated, people began to converge on

the Bradbury farm, asking for, or in some cases demanding Sarah’s help. “What happened to my

husband?” “Please find my wedding ring.” “My baby died last summer. – Is she in heaven?”

Her father drove them all away. But when Dodgerton’s Carnival and Traveling Freak Show

performed in Hoeksburg the subsequent week, the tall Morris Dodgerton paid a call on the

Bradbury farm, and talked his way inside. The fifth of Old Crow he brought with him certainly

helped.

Dodgerton was dark and well groomed. He removed his top hat and set it and his cane on

the dining table. His black hair was slicked back and the mustache that stood above his beard

was waxed so that the ends made fanciful curls on either end. His black silk suit, threadbare at

the elbows, was tailored to fit his long body, and the red vest he wore over his white shirt

featured a long chain and watch fob of what appeared to be gold, but wasn’t.

“I can tell the future too,” he announced to Sarah’s parents as he poured the whiskey. “I

foresee, you making far more money than you have ever dreamed.”

At the end of an evening of drinking, laughing and haggling, Sarah’s parents agreed to

Dodgerton’s offer to make their daughter a part of the carnival. They were to receive five

hundred dollars now and another five hundred each year she remained in his employ. (Sarah’s

parents never saw another dime from him – Dodgerton foresaw that too.)

Haunted Heart / p. 47

Dodgerton, counted out the money he had brought with him on the kitchen table, Mr. and

Mrs. Bradbury’s eyes wide with greed.

Mr. Bradbury snatched up the money and stuffed it into a pocket. As he and Dodgerton

shook hands, Bradbury said, “No refunds,” and smiled, showing his mouthful of bad teeth.

Dodgerton withdrew his hand and wiped it on his coat. “I understand.”

#

When Dodgerton came into her room, Sarah was half way out her bedroom window.

Given the thin walls and the volume of the negotiations, Sarah had caught wind of what was to

become of her. Whimpering, she had dressed and packed a small burlap bag with her belongings.

Dodgerton sprinted across the room and yanked her back inside. Sarah kicked, screamed

and flailed her arms. Dodgerton put a hand over her mouth. “Quiet!” He commanded.

Sarah bit him.

Dodgerton yelped with pain and let go.

Sarah fell to the floor. She scrambled for the door, but it was blocked by her parents who

grinned. Dodgerton picked her up by the scruff of the neck and backhanded her.

Stunned silence.

“Oh, you two will get along nicely,” said Mrs. Bradbury.

#

On the way to the fairgrounds Sarah rode with her hands bound together and a rope

around her waist that anchored her to the seat. They rode in silence. Every so often Dodgerton

would lick the blood from his left hand where Sarah had bit him.

Good, she thought. I hope he bleeds to death.

Haunted Heart / p. 48

When they arrived, the carnival was closed up, as it was well after midnight, but there

were lanterns set out before a number of tents on the periphery where the performers and

carnival roustabouts stayed.

Dodgerton freed her from the rope tied her to the seat, but left her hands bound tight. He

pulled her off the wagon and grabbed her bag with his injured hand. He dragged her along a

straw-covered path to a tent that glowed from a lantern within. Dodgerton lifted the tent flap and

threw Sarah inside.

An old woman, who had a pipe in one hand and a book in the other, looked up in surprise

at Dodgerton. She shifted her gaze to the hapless girl on the straw-strewn ground before her.

“Add her to the act, Tsuritsa,” said Dodgerton. “She’s the real deal.” He threw Sarah’s

bag down next to her. “And keep a top eye open. If she runs it’ll cost you.”

The old woman puffed on her pipe and regarded Sarah for several long moments. She

smiled, causing a myriad of wrinkles to migrate around on her face. She had kind eyes and spoke

with a Hungarian accent.

“Pleased to meet you. My name is Madame Tsuritsa Vodoma, Come here, child, and let

me untie you.”

Skittish, Sarah hung back for long minute. Shall I run? She wondered. Where? Back at

her house her attempt at escape was born of blind panic. Now that she considered it, where could

she go? She crept forward and held out her hands.

The old woman continued to smile while she reached out and held Sarah’s bound hands

for several moments. She looked into the girl’s eyes and Sarah began to relax.

“I don’t think you’ll run.”

Haunted Heart / p. 49

Synopsis

Novel’s Title: Haunted Heart (genre: Horror) 70,500 words

Logline: A former Confederate officer is recruited by a group of paranormal investigators and taken deep into a supernatural world threatening the life of the woman he loves.

Setup: Haunted Heart is a dark edgy The Shining meets Sherlock Holmes. Set in the late 19th Century, it follows the Eidola Project (a group of paranormal researchers) as they delve into a world of ghosts, monsters, and supernatural beings. It also shows the characters confronting the real monsters of the day -- racism, sexism, substance abuse and bigotry (issues that still haunt us today).

Plot: A medium in 1883 Atlanta holds a roomful of wealthy spectators spellbound as she calls forth the spirit of a dead girl. The ghost cries out in pain to her mother, seated in the front row. The husband comforts his distraught wife and tells the medium, “We’ll pay whatever you want, just give our daughter peace!” At that moment a demonic figure bursts into the room, screaming.

The intruder is Nigel Pickford, in filthy rags and utterly drunk. Nigel breaks up the séance and reveals the medium to be a fraud. As he tries to leave, Nigel is attacked by the medium’s assistants. Annabelle, Sarah and Edgar, who have been in the audience, come to Nigel’s rescue and drive off the assailants -- with the help of Annabelle’s gun. They offer Nigel an opportunity to join their organization, the Eidola Project.

Nigel refuses and demonstrates that he is a racist by his behavior toward Edgar, an African- American physicist on the team. In part as pay-back, Edgar knocks Nigel out and the group takes Nigel away. They clean him up and take the train north to Boston.to the psychology lab of William James at Harvard. (Along the way, we learn the back story of group members.) Professor James convinces Nigel to join the Eidola Project on a trial basis, claiming it will help Nigel understand and control his own paranormal gifts.

The group heads to Nantucket Island to investigate a haunted house. There, Nigel falls in love with Lenore, the exotically attractive albino owner of the house. The investigators work to learn the secret of the haunting and free the house of spirits, while supernatural forces seem hell-bent on killing them all. During this time, Nigel rescues Sarah from a ghost-filled parallel dimension, thereby fulfilling Sarah’s precognitive vision that had prompted the recruitment of Nigel.

One of Edgar’s inventions rids the house of ghosts; thereupon, Lenore reveals that she is a vampire – the ghosts were victims returning to haunt her. She attacks Nigel, who has become her lover. Edgar disrupts the attack, but now he is set upon by the vampire.

Nigel comes to the rescue by driving a spear of wood through Lenore’s back, killing Lenore, the woman he loves, in order to save Edgar, the black man he hates.

The novel concludes with Nigel and Edgar forming a grudging alliance, and Nigel agreeing to stay with the group.

Potential Series: While Haunted Heart can be a stand-alone novel, I have outlined nine further plots and have ideas for many more. Ghosts, witches, ghouls, voodoo -- all the things that go bump in the night – would play a part in this series. In addition to the haunts, the arc of the series traces the evolution of Nigel into a relatively decent individual.