The next day, Corbin was working at his desk at the Charlestown View. His health was starting to show signs of improvement. He glanced at the next name on the list Veronica handed him no more than a few weeks ago, Phineas Harrison. He experienced a slight headache and reached for a glass of water on his desk.

After a few deep breaths, Corbin searched the name on the web.

Only fourteen hits. Huh? I guess I’m going to have to look at the primary sources.

The View had their own microfilm machine in the back of the newsroom near Mr. Richter’s office. The machine was probably a few decades old, but still functional. Corbin walked to the back room, hoping that Harrison had that remarkable story. Something noteworthy. He knew how to work the old machine with the help of Richter’s niece in his training a few months ago. He sat down and got started. The backlight flashed on and showed the first article on November 12, 1894. The format of the newspaper wasn’t different from what they were publishing in the 21st century. Maybe we need to change up the style, Richter.

Within the first few minutes of his research, Corbin discovered Harrison was an inventor that lived in the 1880s and 1890s, usually keeping quiet, but had incredible promise. Many local critics said that he was, “the next Da Vinci, but lacking the artistic talent,” and his professor of Engineering at Dartmouth College stated that Harrison was, “the right mind for the turn of the century.” One thing though made Corbin unhappy. He’s not credited with any inventions...Not a single one...what an incredible “what if”. Well at least there’s William Corbin, the paper towel man, and Joseph Glidden, Mr. Barbed wire. Corbin delved into some town spotlights on Harrison and discovered that Harrison became a science teacher at a schoolhouse in Springfield, Vermont about six miles away from his home in Charlestown. He had married Emily Peacor who was from a very wealthy local family. He found one article with a quote from Harrison stating, “I will create the tools of our unforeseen future and create a better world than the one we have today.” As the years seem to slip by with each issue of the Charlestown View, Harrison’s promise seemed to fade like an eroding rock.

Corbin grew discouraged to continue his research. I hope I don’t become him...Failing to keep a promise to the people...to just give up and teach and wither away unknown to the rest of the world. His fruitless research came up to the year 1896, he decided to just finish the year off and officially end his research. With each month, his motivation lessened as he lethargically rotated the knob that ran through the film. He scanned the headline to the issue for December 28, 1896. He drooled on the table by the microfilm reader and twitched backward. On the illuminated screen read the title, “HARRISON GOES MISSING!” He scanned the writing visible through the film and on the magnified screen. He found that the page detailed the events of a terrible night.

On the night of Christmas Eve, near the estate of Phineas Harrison and his wife, Emily, a fire took the worker’s shed and a few other buildings near the main home. Mrs. Harrison died in the blaze and her corpse was found on Christmas Day by a few family friends visiting for the holiday. Mrs. Harrison is survived by her late husband, Phineas Harrison who has recently gone missing and cannot be found near the estate grounds. The police have filed a report for the search and return of Mr. Harrison to be questioned on the topic of his late wife’s death. The Peacor family will be scheduling a funeral service for their daughter within the following Week.

Corbin continued his research for the next few hours to see if the inventor showed up in articles later that year. His eyes were straining under the lit microfilm screen. A mystery!...How did I not see this is online? I need to look at the hard copies.

Later that day, Corbin read through hard copies of the old newspapers at his desk. His eyes strained while looking at the frayed and delicate paper.

“Find anything good?” asked William, appearing like a ghost through the cubicle walls.

Corbin twitched and squinted his eyes. His eyelashes fluttered and his head wobbled from side to side. His movements were sloth-like as he tried to multi-task.

“Whoa … You look like you’ve been working too hard,” said William.

Corbin furrowed his brow. “Well, let’s see you look better after...you’ve been hit with a cold,” said Corbin, calming down.

“Oh yeah sure … that’s what’s wrong. You know you’ve been acting strangely this past week. What did Mr. Richter tell you when he called you into his office?” asked William.

“Nothing...he just thinks my talents could be used in writing other than photography,” said Corbin, lifting himself off his chair. He could feel the relieving stretch in his leg muscles as they extended and straightened. It started to get easier to lie to William. He paused less and came up with an excuse like it was waiting like an index card in his pocket.

“So what are you writing about?” William asked with a raised eyebrow. He pointed to the newspapers on his desk. “Those look old. Richter having you do historical research now?”

Corbin smirked as he stretched out his arms and yawned. “I’m making mountains out of molehills.”

“Alright, don’t tell me but ’hey’ whenever you need help with anything let me know and take care of yourself,” said William. He rubbed his gray temples and disappeared behind the high walls.

Corbin nodded and grabbed his jacket. He rolled up the article on Harrison’s disappearance and placed it in his pocket. I’m sorry Will, but I can’t tell you. I’m sure Owen already knows about it, though.... I can’t leave anything at my desk anymore. My work must come home with me. No more breaks. I have a mystery to solve. Corbin took a deep breath. But right now, I need some fresh air.

He exited the Charlestown View and then walked down toward Main Street and breathed in the clean, wintry air. It cleared his lungs and mind. There was an old wooden bench outside the local hardware store, Ferguson and Sons. Corbin walked over and swiped off a pile of snow along the wooden seat and then sat down. The frozen wood moaned under his weight.

Corbin looked around at his surroundings, taking in the fullness of what Main Street appeared by midday. He saw the same sidewalk that he used every morning to get to work. He traced his morning route back to his apartment down the street. The window to his kitchen was visible from where he was sitting. The old panes of glass, glimmering in the noon sunlight. His head started to throb as the shimmer of the sun’s reflection entered his eyes. The pain was tremendous, causing him to pry his pupils away from his windowsill and onto a steaming sewer drain across the street from the newsroom, the effervescent mist relieved his pain. Once he felt well, he carefully pulled out the fragile article dated January 2, 1896. I must see someone about these headaches. The bold lettering of the title looked somewhat clearer outside in the crisp air. He skimmed over the first section until he found an intriguing passage:

At noon, Wednesday December 26 local police went to do a check in on a Professor Phineas Harrison at 54 Blake Street. The house was found empty with all of Harrison’s possessions left inside. Police reported no sign of breaking and entering. A concerned neighbor shared with the police that they saw Mr. Harrison outside on Christmas morning digging in his summer garden. Police are going to commence a search on the family home and grounds as per request of Mr. Peacor, the father of the late Mrs. Harrison.

Such a mystery, he thought. He scanned further into the article. His eyes bulged when he read what came next:

Mrs. Tabby Orson reported to police on December 27th that her husband had went missing the same night Mr. Phineas Harrison disappeared. She stated that her husband and Mr. Harrison were good friends. Police Chief Henderson has not released any possible suspects to the murder of Mrs. Harrison, but there is local speculation that MR. Harrison in involved in the death of Mrs. Harrison and the disappearance of Mr. Orson.

Double Homicide...Wow, now this is interesting...This is a story that makes the career of a journalist. He kept the address of the home in his head and returned to the Charlestown View. He walked back to his desk and refreshed his computer’s desktop. After loading a map program on his internet browser, he typed in the address from the hundred-year-old news article. The graphic of the Harrison home was displayed on the dusty LCD screen. The convenience of satellite imagery. He checked his watch.

The two tiny hands read, “7:30”

Corbin’s entire body stiffened. He quickly checked the digital clock at the lower right hand corner of his computer monitor.

It read, “1:30”

How did my watch jump ahead six hours?

Corbin swiftly used his fingers to pull out the hour dial on his watch and twisted it backwards so that the small hand was left at ’1’. He then returned his attention to his computer screen, a smile creeping upon his face.

This is it. This is my big story, he fantasized. He again searched to see who the current owners of the home were, through various real-estate websites, and found the name Peacor. He searched every database he knew, but couldn’t narrow it down to a specific Peacor individual, but to a real-estate company called Peacor Homes, that had bought the home shortly after the disappearance of Harrison in 1896 and didn’t resell the property. So Peacor bought the house after his daughter died? … but why? Why not sell it? Corbin sighed. I know Mr. Richter will love to hear an update and this one’s sure to land me praise even from him.

- - - - - - - -

The glass door to Mr. Richter’s office was covered in dust, obstructing Corbin’s vision of what lurked inside.

After he knocked twice on the crystal glass to no response, Corbin turned the brass knob then stopped. Maybe just once more. He held his hand up to knock again. He paused. Ahh, he’ll just get annoyed and shout at me to go away. He nervously rubbed his left wrist with his right hand. His knuckle was about to tap on the door once more until a soft grunt came from inside the office followed by a gruff, ”come in.” Corbin entered the room and saw an exhausted Mr. Richter sitting at his desk. His face was a soft crimson shade with a sullen expression, possibly just finishing another lay off.

“Hello ... Mr. Richter. I just wanted to let you know I’m going out to follow a case I found on one of the people you sent me.”

“A case?... Who are you now?... Sherlock Holmes?” mocked Mr. Richter in a crotchety tone, “Knowing Charlestown it’s probably only the theft of a cat.”

“Actually...It’s about the murder of a woman and the disappearance of her husband and neighbor. I have the address to the woman’s home and wanted to check out the grounds. They are owned by a real-estate agency called Peacor Homes...they didn’t sell the property in over a hundred years....Have you heard of them?,” said Corbin.

Mr. Richter’s face went numb. “Really?...” he mumbled, “In over a hundred years... You know I grew up here and I have never heard of Peacor Homes, but I do remember when I was younger hearing something about the Peacor family moving out of Charlestown in like the ‘30s. If I remember correctly they were quite full of themselves like the rich typically are. Well if they haven’t been checking in on it, I guess it’s time that you act like a investigatory journalist and investigate.”

Corbin motioned toward the door, until Mr. Richter stopped him.

“Ah, James…one other thing... I want you back here by five for a last-minute staff meeting. I have some updates to give you and the rest of the staff.”

“Yes, sir,” said Corbin.

The eager reporter looked down to check his watch to make sure he had enough time. “4:30” it read How can that be? He went to fix the spin dial on the side of his watch confused, since it was at least midday, nowhere near “4:30”.

“Excuse me, sir what time is it?” he asked his boss.

“Around 2:00”

“Thanks,” said Corbin, befuddled as he fixed his malfunctioning watch.

- - - - - -

The old inventor’s home was in the outskirts of town within the surrounding forest. It took Corbin about a half an hour to reach it from the newsroom on foot, not granting him much time to explore before he had to return. An old green street sign was bent over at an eighty-degree angle leading to a dirt road – half covered in snow were the words Blake Street. Finally. The road ran uphill, making Corbin’s trip a tad more difficult. As he ascended, he saw a large wooden house, barely visible from behind many rows of pine trees. Corbin followed the street as it seemed to meander further into the woods past the house. The street was well plowed and bulldozers and other construction vehicles were parked on the side of the street. Oh that’s right there’s a new housing development off Main Street. It must be here. He stopped on Blake street outside the old house. This must be your old homestead, Harrison. He shook his head. I guess it must have looked better back in your day. Corbin sighed as he studied the three inches of untouched snow that covered the path to the house. Well… I guess it wouldn’t be a great story if there weren’t a few minor obstacles to cross over. Corbin shivered as the snow melted around his dress pants. He was about half way to the house when a cold, bitter wind bit at his face. G-g-gold at the end of the rainbow … gold at the end of the r-r-rainbow.

Pain throbbed through Corbin’s brain as he gazed upon the old Victorian home only about ten feet away. From his distance, the house was large even for the 1800s. The bitter chill of the wind, numbing his ears and mouth. The wiry remnants of vines and plant-life claimed the front porch, giving the appearance of an abandoned tree house. Most of the front windows were broken and tinted a shade of dark brown. Torn curtains, billowed in the soft breeze through shattered frames. Crumbled remains of a brick path by his feet were seen through empty patches in the snow, possibly created by snow drifts.

Once he stood at the base of the steps to the porch and looked at the front door, his head throbbed once more. It was incredible how much pain seared through Corbin’s brain, but his determination to complete the case was too important to him to give up. He attempted to relieve the pain with some aspirin tablets and a water bottle, hidden in his coat pocket. Overall, the headaches have started to get worse over the course of the week. Corbin thought it was dehydration or stress, but this type of pain was no regular headache. It was lingering and then intense and then back to lingering. At this point, he could tell when they would come, but couldn’t stop it like a tidal wave crashing on a ship.

Corbin walked along the broken path to the front door and noticed the siding on the house was weathered with nearly all of what looked like green paint washed away. The porch floor was riddled with many rotting holes. The house creaked along with the cold wind that reddened Corbin’s cheeks. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. What are you? Stupid?.... Of course no one is here. After shaking his head from his absent-mindedness, Corbin turned the knob to the front door and walked into the main foyer. The door opened with ease, but its hinges squeaked loudly, pricking his sensitive ears. Through the entryway, there was a large chandelier, resting on the floor underneath its original placing with small, untouched glass fragments littered around it. He looked up at the ceiling and saw a hand-sized hole where the chain and assembly would have been placed. Now how did you get there? The foyer was connected to a hallway and doors to the left and right.

Corbin knew he only had a few minutes to search the house and decided to explore the back. Unbelievable… over a hundred years and no one has come to clean up the chandelier. Why buy this place, if you’re not going to fix it up? The house was spacious with wide hallways and doorways, authentic to the materialistic and intellectual fervor of the Victorian Era. This place must be loaded with antiques to sell. Why not make a profit off of this? … Something’s not right.

Corbin peeked his head into the open doorways that were connected to the foyer. One door led to a large dining room, at its center was a lone wooden table. A white hutch stood along the far wall, its empty cabinets and drawers left open – a trace of what used to be. He then moved over to the west side of the house and opened the other door that revealed a study. Curtains were shredded and coated the scuffed-up floor. There was a book shelf sparsely filled with books. Looters, vagabonds, and the desperate must have been here years ago. I hope they left me with something.

Corbin hoped the back of the house was much more fruitful. He left the empty rooms to their lonely existence. The back of the house had two smaller rooms. The shrill howl of wind granted the entire place an eerie and creepy presence. The main hall was lined with stripped wallpaper and scuffed floorboards. The cold air seeped into the hall through broken windows leaving a slight hint of frost on empty picture frames. The entryway along the left well to a narrow stairwell was left open. Could they have had servants?

Corbin walked into the room onto the right, which was long and narrow and reached all the way to the eastern edge of the house. It was filled with a drafting table and a few wooden desks. Huh? These look like they could be from the 1800s, why wouldn’t anyone take these and sell them? Hundreds of papers littered the floor as well as many animal droppings and dead leaves, giving the room an increasingly repulsive odor. He looked through one of the windows that was fully intact and saw hundreds of trees fill the semi-translucent glass. He could make out a pine tree here and there, creating a landscape of green, brown and white. The forest appeared welcoming, but yet vacant and lonely – something Corbin knew all too well.

Corbin returned his attention to the room and noticed candy wrappers and other trash were strewn all over the floor along with light colored remains of cigarette butts that had mostly disintegrated into ash. The murder must not have scared everyone from this place....possibly a small refuge in the summer months for the homeless or drifters. A few books that were piled on top of the worn wooden surface of one of the desks, drew his attention. He examined their worn, dusty covers the famous tittles of science-fiction novels. His eyes were amazed to see first editions from H.G. Wells, Edwin Abbot, L. Frank Baum, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The bindings were thin and flimsy and the pages were rough and hard due to exposure to the elements. He knew these books must have been inspiration for the late inventor. What is there to inspire science but science-fiction, he thought, but maybe someone brought them here and forgot them... or possibly they’re from the study.

Corbin carefully returned the books to their resting places and then pulled open the bottom drawers to one of the desks, hoping to find any clue as to where Harrison went, but they were empty.

“Of course,” he sighed.

Corbin pulled on the handle to the top drawer, revealing a few pens and some paper that rolled on the wooden base. Upset and defeated, he tried forcing it shut with a quick slam, but it got caught on something on the inside.

Corbin slid his hand inside the drawer and put nearly his entire forearm inside to release whatever had stopped its movement. He felt a pocket of some kind on the roof of the drawer with a frill of paper like hay sticking out of a bale, blocking the back of the drawer from reaching the rear of the desk. He grasped onto the rough edges of the paper. He gently pulled on the pages until they freed themselves.

Corbin yanked his hand back. The edges of the paper felt fragile and some frayed edges broke apart like shedding skin. He found an old wooden chair by one of the desks and carefully sat down to analyze the papers. The old fibers that made up the seat creaked and Corbin heard a distinct snap in the wood as if the chair was familiarizing itself with his body after having been left lonely over the years. He looked down at the artistic sketches and mathematical formulas that filled the antique pages. He couldn’t understand the variables and components to the equations that were written haphazardly across the parchment, neither could he decipher what the illustrations entirely were trying to represent. It was all foreign to him as if he was trying to read a Spanish newspaper.

Droplets of water began to leak from the rotted ceiling and splashed on the desk. He protected the papers by quickly placing them inside his coat and then checked his watch. It read ’3:30’. The staff meeting! He slid the papers into his chest pocket, rushed down the main hall and out the door, taking himself and his evidence with him.

- - - - - - - - -

“Alright, so we have a few weeks until the big two hundredth anniversary deadline!” shouted Mr. Richter in an earnest tone from the doorway of his office toward an earnest crowd of employees.

The mob surrounding the crimson faced old man were incredibly quiet. A pin drop could have been heard amongst the over fifty employees.

Mr. Richter then gave off a grim expression and the entire horde of journalists, photographers, and aspiring interns fell silent.

Luckily, Corbin crept into the crowd unnoticed and found William standing near the back, his silver temples sticking out like a white sheep in a black herd. He inched closer to him until there were only a few people in between them.

“Okay, so each of you has been assigned a story to follow in Charlestown. Your jobs are listed on the sheet by my door. I am willing to give a prize to which article is found and used in the New Hampshire Gazette. They are looking for a top-notch story to entice more people to live in the Granite State,” said Mr. Richter, “So work hard and find something interesting in this small forsaken town.”

Everyone laughed, filling the room with a light thunderous rumble.

Corbin saw a light grin emerge between the granite lips of his boss as if a sculptor had accidentally misguided his chisel and formed it upon his face.

“Hey Richter, what’s the number one prize?” asked Owen Hemingsworth with his signature sly sneer.

A wave of gossiping and commotion fell upon the newsroom until Mr. Richter cleared his throat. At that moment, all eyes were on Mr. Richter whose light smirk quickly transformed into a low scowl. His face turned into a darker shade of red that Corbin could not identify and then with a deep breath his pallor returned to a healthy hue.

He calmly straightened his back and faced the annoying young man.

“One paid day off,” he replied.

Owen’s face resorted to a frown, possibly hoping to hear, “your ticket out of here and into the big city.... or a job at the New Hampshire Gazette.”

The rest of the newsroom started to laugh. No one was willingly given a day off at the Charlestown View, especially Mr. Richter himself.

“All right, get back to work,” growled Mr. Richter, disappearing into his office.

Everyone returned to their desks as Corbin remained the final person standing, staring into nothing. This could be it...This story is surely going to be in the Gazette.

A few moved out of the way between William and Corbin. William walked next to his friend.

“There you are. Any good leads?” asked William.

“Yeah actually,” replied Corbin.

“Damn.. I was given landmarks,” grunted William, “can you believe that? Landmarks.. So far I found the oak tree down Orbson Lane that James Broderick used to hang out near with his high school friends...Yep the eighth wonder of the world.”

“Well, good luck,” said Corbin patting Will on the back with a light grin, “I think I have enough to fill my whole day so I think I’m going to try to leave early.”

“Not feeling well?”

“Yeah, some bad headaches plus I’ve walked over an hour out in the cold snow, which can’t be good,” replied Corbin.

William appeared worried for his friend. “It’s probably all that lack of sleep you’ve been getting... take a nap.”

Corbin nodded and packed up his things; told Mr. Richter he was going home sick; and with a surprising ’okay’ from his boss, left for home. He returned to his bedroom and lied down exhausted from the day.

- - - - - - - - -

After a quick nap, Corbin felt lightheaded and groggy. He stood up in his bed and scratched his scar on his head. He stood up, but his left leg gave way and he leaned onto the wall. His shoulder slammed hard and left a dull pain. He used his hand to balance his disorientated body and walked over to his desk that was only a few steps away. He sat down and turned on his desk light with a twisting switch and then took out the four sheets of paper that he had found in the desk drawer at Phineas Harrison’s old home. He placed them side by side on his desk and then focused the desk light, angling its telescopic neck downward toward the old parchment and noticed something in the corner of one of the sheets.

A red stain.

He put the old page up to his nose to sniff, but there was no significant odor or hint of anything. The many years it was trapped in the vacant office had stolen the tracing scent from its fibers. A blood stain...or ink stain perhaps? Within the next fifteen minutes, each sheet was then carefully examined by Corbin. The writing on the pages described some sort of device, but the plans and a title were missing for him to describe what it was or what it did. He was about to give up for the night, but decided to take one last glance at the pages and noticed that on the red stained paper was a message not in the same handwriting as the rest of the pages. He placed the light closer to the paper to read the faded note:

Darling, please don’t let these trinkets have you forget our anniversary dinner. The time we have together is in the present. The future can wait for now.

Ton amour

The inventor’s wife? Ton amour? … Your love? Corbin’s high school level knowledge of French could translate “ton” and “amour”, but it didn’t go much deeper than that. Her handwriting on the page ran along the edge of the mysterious red stain. Could the stain be her blood? Could these scientific notes actually be from Harrison? The thoughts burned within his mind as he received another headache this time more serious than before. The pain was numbing, making him fumble around his nightstand for his aspirin. Tears exited from his eyes and his throat constricted shut. He took a few tablets and then grabbed a glass of water. After he hastily swallowed the pain relievers, a pair of ocean colored beacons danced across his vision like two searchlights in a dark harbor. Sandy waves flowed around the azure circles until it took on the shape of two eyes. The swirling particles created a face. A jawline. A nose and soft lips. He shook his head, trying to ride himself of the hallucination and within seconds it was gone.

He breathed deeply and ran his fingers through his hair.

He stood in shock, but not because he was hallucinating. He scratched the scar on his head.

His headache.

It was gone.

Next Chapter: 5 - Connection