On his way back to work, Corbin tried to flush out the conspiracy theories of a crazed old man and put his focus on Phineas Harrison.

William wasn’t there to greet him at his desk as he usually would when Corbin would return from his assignments, but Corbin assumed his friend was out to lunch and sat at his own desk, littered with newspaper clippings from his earlier stories. His eyes glanced over them with indifference. The stories of baseball Hall of Famer Carlton Fisk or the famous actor James Broderick left a stale taste in his mouth and a deeper desire to delve more into the Harrison case.

One newspaper was stacked on top of the pile in a different position than the others. It was placed haphazardly on the pile as if someone just dropped there as they walked by and its sepia toned paper appeared a bit lighter than the darker issues underneath. Corbin reached out for the clipping. I don’t remember putting this here.

The front page that read, “J. Thornton gunned down.” What is it with murder and this place? He decided to scan through it to see if it had any interesting information. Maybe Will’s trying to help me out. He saw the picture of Thornton and noticed that he was a young, clean-shaven man who appeared to be in good standing. A numbing pain entered behind his eyes. The article started mostly with the dull, intricate writings of a police report, but then he saw something that sent shivers down his spine.

“The body of J. Thornton was found on the floor outside his bathroom in his .... floor apartment on 68 Main Street, Sunday morning. There was a gun-shot wound in his chest possibly fired from a rifle at point blank range. Police found the kitchen window open and suspect the killer entered or exited Thornton’s apartment through it.”

68 Main Street? That’s my apartment building!

He rechecked the passage and was startled by something he overlooked. It was on the second floor... It could be in my apartment he was killed. Corbin started to picture the scene in his mind’s eye as if it all occurred at that very moment - the killer sneaking through the French windows in his kitchen late at night; J. Thornton unsuspectingly leaving his bedroom; the killer pouncing on his victim; and then shooting Thornton in the chest. How did this get here? … I don’t remember pulling this out … it is only a day from the death of Harrison’s wife. Hmm, two murder within a week of each other … and I thought I was going crazy. His mind remained in the dark hallway – focused on the tormented face of J. Thornton.

“Corbin,” resonated a voice in the apartment as J. Thornton’s lifeless face stared up at the ceiling. The dead man’s eyes were intently focused and his mouth began to open to produce words.

“Corbin,” came the words from Thornton’s mouth now with more intensity, resonating off the dark walls. A light emitted from the bathroom becoming a brilliant flare that flooded the hall, swallowing everything in a white glow. The blood, the smoke that escaped from the barrel of the rifle, all consumed by the white light.

Corbin began to recognize the voice and opened his eyes.

Through a bright fog that started to clear quickly, Corbin saw William standing beside his desk. A concerned look on his face. “You alright?” he asked, “I heard you went to the doctor.”

“Yeah,” said Corbin, awakening from his daydream, “just some bad allergies.”

William nodded his head then pointed to the headline Corbin held in his hand. “Interesting article, huh?” asked William, “see any ghosts yet?”

“Hmm?,” replied Corbin, still somewhat in a daze.

“The article, I took a moment to read it before I left, it’s about your apartment, isn’t it?,” said William

“You sure?” asked Corbin, “I didn’t notice.”

“It said 68 Main Street, I think,” assured William.

Corbin looked down at the aged print, reading the address displayed in the gothic newspaper font. “Do you know who left it here?”

William cleared his throat, noticing Corbin’s distracted state. “I’m not sure, but it’s someone that wants you to know that a murder happened at your place 100 years ago. Can’t be for anything good, I reckon.”

Corbin reacted by shaking his head awake. “Just when I thought this place couldn’t get any stranger,” he retorted.
“Yeah, well... I suggest you take it easy, today. Don’t bring on another headache. Take care of yourself first...The report will come later,” said William, returning to his desk.

Corbin nodded then placed the article pertaining to Thornton’s murder to the side. Yeah, you would like me to stop working, wouldn’t you, Will, old boy. Only to give yourself some time to surpass me. He rebelliously started to look up more information about the mysterious inventor, an obsession had started to come into fruition with each digital article and microfilm slide. The words would pull him deeper into the rabbit hole.

He only looked up once from his screen to see a frantic and anxious Owen Hemingsworth stumbling through the thin narrow hallways that connected all the small cubicles in the warehouse of the Charlestown View. He had a manila folder in his hand with a paper clip, apparently holding documents on the inside cover. Owen caught Corbin looking at him and gave him a very malicious glare and straightened up his stance and walked casually back to his seat.

Owen seems to be in a tizzy, thought Corbin.

He then returned his attention to his articles.

After going through months of mundane and useless information within a year after Harrison’s disappearance, he knew he wouldn’t find the information in the past, but possibly in the present. He looked through articles from the 1990s and closer to the present. Without an electronic database to help him, he spent hours sifting through records, searching for keywords like “Harrison” or “inventor” or “murder solved”. He sifted through the better part of a decade, cataloged on little index cards, with no news on the family or the murder until he saw the title for an ad to an exhibit at the New Hampshire Historical Society, dated only a few years ago.

“Phineas Harrison, inventor of Charlestown, NH, one of New Hampshire’s greatest minds. His journal has been graciously donated by the Orson Family and will be added to the expansive collection at the NH Historical Society located on 30 Park Street, Concord, NH.”

Harrison’s journal has got to be a clue! Corbin swiftly rose from his seat and hurried over to Mr. Richter’s office. He knew that he was already stretching out his time too far with this story, but he felt this was the one story to get him what he truly desired. Which seemed to consume his entire mind until soon nothing else would matter but the story itself.

After an enthused and swift approval from Mr. Richter, he set off immediately for Concord. He called a taxi to pick him up outside the Charlestown View and started his two-hour long trip. The ride started to soothe his nerves from the encounter with the crazed elderly man. Did the inventor kill his own wife?... Why would his friend, the artist, run off with him leaving his wife and child?... Or was he killed as well? It didn’t seem to add up in his mind. There was no apparent motive, not at least yet. He had to figure out if Harrison truly killed his wife and if the journal may shine some light upon the dark, murky chapter this started to present.

The taxi rolled up to the address marked in the newspaper clipping. Corbin looked upon the building, a look of intrigue stretched across his face. The historical society was gigantic compared to the buildings of Charlestown. Its large stone frame and gray facade blended in with the wintry, storm clouds that blanketed the skies of Concord. Corbin entered through two wooden doors that stood between two large Ionic columns. He walked into the lobby, an open chamber that was lined with arches and fireplaces. Corbin idolized the hundred-year-old architecture, until he was greeted by an old, twiggy man who stood by the receptionist’s desk. He wore thin-rimmed glasses and had a slim, wiry mustache that coated his upper lip. His elderly hair was dyed black, easily distinguishable compared to his wrinkled features, and was parted down the middle of his head. His eyes looked attentively at the eager journalist who just entered his library.

“Hello there, I’m Donald Benton, the Director of Collections, can I help you with anything?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m Corbin James, journalist for the Charlestown View over in Charlestown, New Hampshire. I’m working on a story on a Phineas Harrison and I was wondering if I could look at his journal that’s housed here?” asked Corbin, taking out the newspaper clipping that displayed the ad for the Harrison journal exhibit.

Donald quickly studied the paper in Corbin’s right hand and then nodded, running his aged fingers through his oiled hair. “Please sign in on our register and I’ll escort you over to our collections.”

After Corbin signed his name, Mr. Benton led him down a narrow hall that ended toward the back of the library. He disappeared through a doorway on the left. Corbin followed him inside a small room lined with bookshelves, each one coated in a thin layer of dust. A small wooden table and a chair stood right in the middle of the tiny space with just enough room to maneuver around it.

“This is our private collections room. If you wouldn’t mind waiting here until I retrieve the journal,” said Donald.

Corbin nodded and sat on the old wooden chair, resting his hands on the coarse, rough surface of the table. A lingering cloud of dust loitered around the worn leather covers. Corbin cleared his anxious and dust covered throat with a light cough. It seems as if this room hasn’t been used in years…there must be only a few major researchers that come to this library, surprisingly. Corbin continued to sit in silence in the small collections room almost gaining a sense of claustrophobia due to the worn, dusty books that seemed to close in on him. His anxiety started to rise as he nervously started to rub his wrist, a common tic.

After a few minutes, Mr. Benton returned with a small leather-bound journal clenched tightly to his chest. Butterflies entered Corbin’s stomach with the anticipation of understanding the mind of Phineas Harrison. He calmed his nervous twitches and looked up at Mr. Benton with determined eyes. After a few routine precautions given to him by Mr. Benton, mostly to just be careful with the pages, he was left in the room to peruse through the journal.

Corbin went through the notes, studying each page, but he couldn’t seem to understand anything. There were formulas and illustrations that he couldn’t make out – it didn’t seem to matter since he didn’t possess a scientific mind, but something seemed to match. The handwriting on the page seemed awfully familiar and Corbin instantly associated it with the four pages that were left in his bedroom. He continued toward the back of the journal and noticed the date ’Sept. 12, 1896’ on the lower right-hand corner of the page and knew he was getting close to the date in question Dec. 26, 1896. He speedily flipped through the aged papers, apparently ignoring all the precautions laid out to him by Mr. Benton, feverishly looking for the date.

The day that the inventor disappeared.

His eyes came upon ’Dec. 22, 1896’ in the lower right-hand corner of a page that was stained with a speckling of red. He eagerly flipped it over.

Nothing.

The page was blank. He flipped through the rest of the pages of the journal, but they were all left blank. He hurriedly flipped back to where the entry for ’Dec. 23, 1896’ should have been and noticed something particular. Near where the paper came into contact with the binding, there were four stubby and rough remnants like stumps to missing trees. The pages at my apartment must be from the journal. That red stain is on the previous page and must have soaked into the others. He recounted the number of torn edges just to make sure.

There were five missing pages.

Five! There’s another page missing, but where is it? He took out a camera from his bag and snapped photos of a few entries dated before the missing section of the journal. His eyes spotted a word, through the viewfinder displayed on the small LCD screen, that was repeated on the pages over and over again.

Oculus.

Oculus? The word rolled off his tongue with a familiar motion like someone getting back on a bike, a year after they first used it. Corbin looked at his watch and saw it read ‘6:30’.

“Hang on that can’t be right,” he said to himself, “I left around one o’clock and got here around three. Three and a half hours couldn’t have gone by already.”

Corbin started to ignore his malfunctioning watch as he realized no matter what time it was he had a long car ride home and an expensive taxi fare. He packed up his gear, returned the journal to Mr. Benton, but before he exited through the wooden doors he turned toward the tall, thin man.

“Excuse me,…but I was wondering if you had any photographs of Phineas Harrison?”

Mr. Benton’s face quickly went from kind to sour. “Not that long ago someone in our archive department misplaced the images of Mr. Harrison and we still can’t seem to find them.”

That’s odd...first I saw distorted and ruined ones in our archives at the Charlestown View...there’s no images of him online…and now the state library lost his photos...is there someone who doesn’t want me to find out what happened?... someone who knows the advancements I’m making in the story?… but who?

Next Chapter: 7 - Comparison