Chapter 6
I made up my mind early the next day I needed to get out of the house and away from my Dad as soon as possible. He watched me anxiously and asked me a dozen times if I was feeling okay.
Of course I woke up with a splitting headache to go with the deep purple bruise on the right side of my head, but I didn’t tell him about the headache because I knew he would drag me back to the emergency room. So, to save us both the trouble, I lied and sneaked some Tylenol when my Dad wasn’t looking.
Despite my attempts to hide my discomfort, Dad still kept me home all day Sunday and then decided to keep me home from school Monday. My protests fell on deaf ears. He didn’t care about the talk my absence would cause. Finally I just gave in.
I spent the morning in my room at my laptop. I searched the internet for anything related to ghosts and hauntings. I found page after page of useless stories about headless ghosts in graveyards and old houses that just seemed creepy. At last I came across the actual definitions regarding hauntings and ghosts.
It seemed there were different types of hauntings and ghosts. There was the residual spirits that were just acting out part of their life or even their death over and over. These spirits will continue regardless if someone is there to witness the activity.
The more interesting idea was the intelligent haunting. That was a spirit that wanted to interact with the living for some reason. These spirits usually wanted something, even if it was nothing more than attention.
I settled on the idea the thing in my room was an intelligent ghost, but who was he? I needed some answers.
It was just before noon Monday before I was able to escape. I told Dad I had a History paper to research and that I needed to go to the library. He looked up from the newspaper, worry puckering his brow again.
“Why is it so urgent?” He asked, “After all, you’re supposed to be sick.”
“I know,” I replied. “That’s why I needed to go to school today so that I could use the school library. I have to turn in an outline tomorrow.”
Dad folded his newspaper and set it aside, “Okay, well let me drive you.”
“It’s only two blocks away,” I whined. “I could use the fresh air.”
He relented and I got out of there before he changed his mind. Once outside and down the walkway, I looked back to make sure he wasn’t following me.
The house loomed up behind me, but there was no sign of Dad at the door or peering out the windows. I breathed a sigh of relief and took off down the sidewalk.
There were only a few people tending to their lawns or sitting on their front porches. They stared at me and whispered to those near them about how I nearly died Saturday. I even heard a few of them mention Jonah Ericson.
I pretended not to hear them. I didn’t want to think about the entire town knowing about my stupid accident. I pulled my hair down over the bruise on my forehead and tried to focus on just getting to the library.
There were so many questions now. I had to get some answers. I didn’t know how to do it, but I had to see if Jonah’s story was true and if it could be the spirit haunting me.
The library sat at the corner of Chestnut and Capitol Avenue, the only building on the block after block of antiquated shops and law offices. It was an ancient building that crowded the sidewalk and gave no evidence to what was inside.
I expected a crude collection of books and old National Geographic magazines, instead, I saw a small, but modern library complete with computers for research. I thought I would spend the day searching through scrapbooks of old newspaper clippings, but with all of this perhaps my quest wouldn’t be as difficult as I thought.
I walked up to the large desk where a pretty woman was sorting books; she pushed her glasses up into her spikey blond hair as I approached. “Can I help you with something honey?”
“I’m needing to research some old newspapers from the Civil War years on up to this year. Where would I do that?” I asked with a nervous smile, wondering how odd of a request it might be.
I expected her to be annoyed I was interrupting her work, but instead she smiled and led me back to a computer station. She explained how things were filed by year, month, or I could enter keywords to search for.
“Just let me know if you need anything else.” She said with another friendly smile.
Why was everyone in this town always so happy? It just wasn’t normal.
My head was already starting to ache again as I sat there wondering where to start. I entered my address as a search term and chewed at my thumbnail while I waited for the results.
Despite the ancient appearance of the computer, the return was almost immediate. There were numerous pages, listed in reverse chronological order with the most recent first.
I began skimming the articles, not even sure what I was looking for. It was mostly boring things like variance hearings and real estate listings. I searched through about four pages and the only thing I learned was that the house was bought and sold many times.
After a few more pages, I narrowed my search to the obituaries and suddenly, there it was.
Alastor Sinclair, 20, died of a gunshot wound at his home in Corydon Saturday. He was laid to eternal rest at Cedar Hills Cemetery. He leaves behind a brother in Kentucky and a wife.
I read that piece over and over. Alastor Sinclair. At last the being had a name! It wasn’t some unknown ghoul. He had a name and at one time, a life.
Alastor Sinclair.
I typed in the name and waited. I expected a handful of results; instead there was page after page again.
War Hero Found Dead in Corydon Home
Alastor Sinclair was found dead in his home on Capitol Avenue Saturday. When officials arrived at the home, they found Mr. Sinclair dead of a single gunshot wound to the chest.
Mr. Sinclair was a decorated war veteran. He served with the 13th Regiment Calvary of Indiana, Company B. He leaves behind a wife and a brother.
I clicked on the next headline, Lieutenant Sinclair Local Hero and Others Return Home. This one detailed his accomplishments in the War Between the States. He was honored for his bravery in the battle of Corydon for retrieving the bodies of many fallen comrades while under fire from the Confederates.
While I was sure this was an impressive military career, and I felt a strange surge of pride as I read his accomplishments, what I found most interesting was the photograph of Alastor Sinclair in his uniform that accompanied the story.
There he was, the ghost, in the flesh and bone of a faded black and white photograph. I looked down at his painfully handsome face, trying to wrap my mind around the idea that this man was dead.
He was stunning in the reality of one hundred years ago. His rumpled hair was tamed and combed back, looking deep brown in the sepia toned black and white. His sensual lips tilted in a slight smirk, so human compared to how I knew him. He was angular like a boy just turned into a man, looking too young to be a lieutenant.
Looking into the pale white of his eyes in the picture, my heart ached with the idea he was dead. He once was this noble man and now he was nothing more than a ghost haunting my home.
I went to the next headline, not even bothering to read it first. What I saw before me made me bolt upright in the chair, my knees banging the underside of the desk. The few people in the library turned to stare at me, but I didn’t care. I was trying to process what it was that I was seeing on the screen in front of me.
Rebecca McKinley Marries Alastor Sinclair: Miss Rebecca McKinley and Alastor Sinclair were married on the evening of June second at the home of the groom. The bride was beautifully gowned in white lace and satin, trimmed with beads. Several friends were present. The groom remained with his bride one week before returning to his regiment. Mrs. Sinclair is expected to make their home at Mr. Sinclair’s Capitol Avenue house.
It wasn’t just the sight of my first name in the announcement that sent a chill up my spine; it was the photograph that was above it. The
re, even though there was no way that it was possible, was me. I was looking back in time over one hundred years and gazing at my own face. How could that be?
There was no mistaking it. It was some nineteenth century version of me in that photograph wearing a long full skirt and sitting in front of Alastor. It looked as though the picture was taken in a studio with an oil sheet background.
It was so odd to see myself in a picture that was taken before even my grandparents were born. I could feel the panic building in my chest. This couldn’t be happening. Things like this just weren’t possible.
I tried to get past the initial shock and really look at the photograph. In some ways it was so like every other photograph that I had seen in books, the overly formal clothes and the unsmiling faces, but there was something also something very different about it. This couple, it was easier to pretend they were nameless people, weren’t in the usual stiff poses seen in old portraits, she was sitting in a chair and he stood behind her with his hand on her shoulder and she was covering his hand with her own, neither were looking at the camera. She was in the process of glancing back at him and he was looking down at her. There was something very intimate about it, like the photographer had caught them in a private stolen moment.
Looking down at the screen filled with that picture, I felt a tingling on my shoulder as if my body remembered the feeling of his touch. I brought my hand up, almost expecting to feel his hand there, but there was nothing. I wished for a moment there would have been something there.
I envied the pair in the photograph and I was jealous of that girl as if she had taken something that was mine. The resemblance between us didn’t matter. She knew this entity when he was a flesh and blood man, and I hated her for that.
Moving on, I came to a much more mundane article about the Battle of Corydon on July 9, 1863 and Morgan’s Raid on the town. The next article proved more interesting.
Cedar Glade Offers Shelter During Battle
During the battle with the rebel forces, many Corydon residents sought refuge from the ensuing cannon fire at the property known as Cedar Glade. Several cannon balls landed in the yard, but the inhabitants of the house remained safe.
The property is owned by Mr. Kintner as is the Kintner House Hotel where General John Hunt Morgan read the newspaper and learned of General Robert E. Lee’s defeat at the Battle of Gettysburg.
While interesting, it was completely unhelpful to my research. Printing copies of the photographs and articles I found thus far, I moved on to the next headline and again stopped short.
Rebecca Sinclair Arrested for Murder of Husband
Rebecca Sinclair was arrested Saturday evening for the murder of her husband Alastor Sinclair. Upon the discovery of the body, Mrs. Sinclair admitted to shooting her husband and then broke down. She has been incoherent since that night.
The servants claim to have heard the two arguing and then a single gunshot. Finding Mrs. Sinclair standing over the body of her dying husband, the maid ran for help. Mr. Sinclair was dead when help arrived.
There is no word how soon the trial will be, but for now Corydon mourns the loss of a decorated war veteran and citizen in Alastor Sinclair.
I couldn’t believe it, but yet I could. There was a deep and primal part of me that even seemed to remember the feeling of that gun in my hand, the explosion of gunpowder, and the coppery smell of blood. I knew it was true, somewhere deep in my very core, I knew it.
Murder. That is what became of that love story.
Accused Murderess Rebecca Sinclair Dead
Rebecca Sinclair was found dead in her jail cell Friday, almost one week to the day of when her husband Alastor Sinclair was found dead in their home. It is believed Mrs. Sinclair committed suicide for she was found hanging by one of her own stockings that morning.
Mrs. Sinclair was arrested last Saturday for the murder and was awaiting trial. No word on where she will be laid to rest.
I skipped past the other stories, feeling sick to my stomach as these two people disappeared from history. There were headlines referring to the scandal briefly as the home went up for auction a few times and then a mention here and there in a real estate listing. Nothing of real importance until I came to a Halloween piece about Rebecca’s time in the Corydon jail, it put a tragic twist on an already sad story.
Sinclair Murder Still Haunts Corydon
Over fifty years ago, a murder took place in Corydon. The victim, Alastor Sinclair, was shot dead in his home, apparently by none other than his wife Rebecca. Despite the passage of time, this murder remains the topic of many fireside discussions and as Halloween approaches, one has to wonder if there isn’t a supernatural twist to this sad tale.
Albert Durham, the grandson of Wesley Durham a deputy at the time of Mrs. Sinclair’s arrest, recounts what took place at that time when we interviewed him in front of the Corydon Capitol Building where he shares his stories about this dark chapter in the town’s history.
“My granddaddy wasn’t convinced at first that she did it. He told me about how pretty she was and all proper-like, but he said she never denied it. She confessed and they locked her up, plain as that.”
Mrs. Sinclair was never questioned further after her initial arrest. Records show that she confessed the night her husband died and was awaiting trial when she was found dead in her jail cell.
“Granddaddy always wondered why she did it, but if anyone asked her, she never told them the answer. I guess she took her reasons with her to the grave. Now that was sad,” Durham said. “It all started a few days after they buried Mr. Sinclair. The lady, Mrs. Sinclair that is, begun talking to her dead husband she did. Granddaddy said that she done up and lost her mind.”
“He said it gave him the willies the way that she would just start screaming. My granddaddy was a brave man, fought with Mr. Sinclair in the war, but this was something entirely different. He said she’d yell into thin air ‘Go away Alastor’, ‘You’re too late’, and other such nonsense. The last night that my granddaddy saw her alive she was on the floor in the corner of her cell, she was turning her face away from her imagined tormentor, and all of a sudden she just yells out ‘Leave me alone. I will never forgive you’. Granddaddy found her dead they next morning.”
“Now, I’m not one to say that I believe in ghosts or any other nonsense, but don’t you find it strange that it’s always the ghost of Mr. Sinclair that people claim to see and never Mrs. Sinclair? I think he drove her to hang herself. That was his revenge. At least that’s what I would think if I believed in ghosts.”
I had seen enough. Instead of answers, I was only finding more questions without answers. I gathered the photos I printed, thanked the librarian, and left the library. I stood on the sidewalk looking around, unsure what to do next.
It was late afternoon, hot and miserably muggy. Blocks away, I could see the leafy tops of the oaks in my front yard, but I wasn’t ready to go home yet. I looked up the tree lined sidewalk, shady and welcoming, all the way up Capitol Avenue, past my house, to Oak Street where Cedar Hill Cemetery waited.
I held the photographs against my chest as I walked along. It was a little easier to believe I was being haunted by a hundred year old ghost when walking down the sidewalks of Corydon. Nothing much had changed along the streets in the last century. Corydon was a place where the past wasn’t forgotten, it was alive and well and part of daily life.
I tried to focus on the two most important questions that my research brought up, no matter how complicated the answers might be.
First, was I that Rebecca?
Logically the answer would be no. It was silly and childish to even consider such a possibility. But if not, then what other explanation could there be?
I looked down at the photographs as I walked along, arguing with the rational part of myself. This woman did look exactly like me, we had the same name, and we both lived in that house. And even more important—the images that would flash into my memory of that othe
r me in another time had to mean something. What was that if it wasn’t me as that other Rebecca? And then there was him, appearing to me of all people.
Was that the connection between me and this spirit?
Well, there was something between us. There was some sort of bond between us that crossed the sea of death. Maybe I was that Rebecca, and Alastor was back—
Why was he back?
And that brought me to the most important question of all. What did it mean if it all was true?
If I was that Rebecca—an idea that still seemed ridiculous—was Alastor back because of me like he said? And what did he mean by that?
As I stepped through the gate of Cedar Hill Cemetery, I knew none of this changed anything. I couldn’t tell anyone about this. I could scarcely accept the idea myself; anyone that I told about this would have me in a straitjacket by dinnertime.
I couldn’t do anything, not really. Besides, if this spirit was here to harm me in some way, he had done nothing evil or sinister yet. Actually, he seemed to be trying to save me at the quarry. If he wanted to harm me, why wouldn’t he have just let me drown?
I didn’t know what I was doing. One minute I’m walking across grassy paths and the next I was staring down at a headstone.
ALASTOR SINCLAIR
1848-1869
The stone was really there, gray and mossy, sticking up out of the ground like a bony knuckle. I read the name aloud, noticing the way the afternoon became silent as if even the birds above were waiting to see what I would do.
I was trying to comprehend the fact that right under my feet was the physical body of the ghost. He wasn’t part of my imagination. I could read his name. If I dug down in the earth, I could touch his bones.
That other Rebecca was not buried next to him and I didn’t seek her out. Me or not, I had no desire to see her grave.
Reading his name again, I knew that none of it mattered. If I was that Rebecca, I obviously couldn’t escape him. Because when I thought of the spirit, of his handsome face, his luminous eyes, the very feeling of his presence, I wanted nothing more than to contact him again. I reached my hand out and touched the name with my fingertip.
I turned and walked out of the cemetery with my mind made up. I wouldn’t be afraid of him anymore. After all, he wasn’t a nameless spirit anymore. He had a history and for whatever reason I was now part of it.
The house was squatting behind the oaks when I walked up. The afternoon was fading a twilight was creeping in from the shadows of the yard. I heard the chirping of crickets welcoming me home as I stepped up on the front porch and went through the front door.
Inside, the house was dim in the fading day. The only light came from the living room and poured out into the hall. I stepped through the doorway and there was Dad asleep on the couch as the television echoed the day’s events across the world.
I left him sleeping there with a peaceful half smile on his face, perhaps he was even dreaming of my mother. It seemed cruel to wake him.
As I was walking out of the living room, my hand touched the door casing and I stopped. I looked at the carved frame, coated in many layers of paint. Was this something Alastor touched at one time?
It was suddenly very crucial I touch something he had touched. I had to know if I would be able to feel it when it happened. I wanted to feel some sort of connection to him, but all I felt was the carved moldings under my fingertips.
I left the living room then crossed to the other side of the house, running my fingers along the walls as I walked. I got to the end of the hall and stepped inside the office. It was dark and quiet in there with unpacked boxes still stacked about. I shut the door behind me and turned on the lamps on either side of the desk.
There it was, the spot on the floor that gave me that electrical jolt of visions that first day I came here. I knelt beside it, knowing now that the white boards were from where his blood had stained the floor and people had tried to scrub it away over the years.
I reached a tentative finger toward that spot. I vowed that I would not pull away, no matter how terrifying the images were.
Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes, and placed my hand flat on the faded floor.
There was a sickening tilt and spin to the world. I was falling and then I was spinning again. I felt the weight of long skirts around my legs even as I knew I was kneeling on the wood floor. Voices came from everywhere, crowding around me. These voices spoke too slow at first and then so quickly that I couldn’t understand what was being said. Surrounding all of this was a prism-like light that blotted out everything.
I was falling down again and the prism became the crystal wine glass some version of me was holding as my new husband toasted me and over the rim of the glass, Alastor’s blue eyes held me captive. How could I deny the truth in this?
Again there was that nauseating spinning and Alastor became nothing more than a puff of smoke. I was then standing at my bedroom window; I felt his lips on my neck as his fingers pushed my long hair aside.
“I love you my darling.”
I was falling again, spinning until I stood at the door to the office; I could almost see that other me there in a long white nightgown with my hair flowing down my back. Alastor was at the desk, his clothes were rumpled and his hair was mussed as if he had just run his hands through it. His beautiful blue eyes were foggy and bloodshot as he looked up at me.
I saw the gun then, a bulky black thing in my pale white hand. I was raising it up; there was a flash of light, a cloud of smoke, and then Alastor’s face contorted in pain. He fell then, the blood from his chest spilling out over the floor.
“My Becca,” he grimaced as he lay dying. “Forgive me.”
I fell backwards, immediately back in the here and now. I could feel the wetness on my cheeks and my vision was blurry with unshed tears.
Dear God, what have I done?
Dad was calling me for dinner, his voice echoing down the hall. I didn’t want him to find me like this. Wiping my tears away, I went out to join him.
He met me in the hall with a cheery, but sleepy smile. “Where have you been hiding?”
“I just got back.”
“Oh,” Dad said with a stretch and a yawn. “Did you get your outline done?”
“Yep,” I said and turned him back toward the kitchen. “I got it all done.”
We ate in silence. I kept going over the articles in my head. Was I that Rebecca? If so, I killed Alastor. Why would I do that? The two people in the photograph seemed so happy, what happened?
I had barely eaten more than two bites when I excused myself claiming I was tired and wanted to lie down. Of course, such a logical explanation sent Dad into an immediate panic.
“You okay?” Dad asked with anxiety all over his face again.
“I’m just tired,” I lied, smiling to reassure him just like my mother used to.
“Okay, get some rest.” Dad agreed with a smile, “By the way, Billie and Ally both called for you earlier. You may want to give them a call.”
“I’m so tired. I think I’ll just wait and talk to them tomorrow, I don’t want to be on the phone all night.”
He smiled, “Okay, see you in the morning.”
Once I was safe in my room, I closed the door and locked it behind me. Within just a few minutes, I heard the television in the living room again and I knew that Dad believed my flimsy excuse. I was glad he was so easy to deceive. I hated to make him worry.
I turned back to my empty room and stared up at the plaster ceiling. I didn’t know how this was supposed to work exactly.
“Are you there?” I called into the emptiness, “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
I stepped away from the door and listened, straining to hear anything that meant he was near. As I stood there, I felt a change in the air as it became slightly heavy, like the air just before a storm.
He was there. I could feel him swirling and gathering overhead even though I couldn’t see him. I closed my e
yes, trying to hone in and make him materialize by my own sheer will.
“Alastor,” I called him by name. “I know you’re here.”
From within my room came a gentle wind from above, stretching out wide as it came down from walls. It moved across the floor to my feet and then circled around me as it rose, caressing my face and lifting my hair.
“So now you know,” said the voice on the wind.
“Yes,” I whispered, breathless as what seemed like particles of dust gathered together and began to take shape. I fought the urge to run away as I felt him growing stronger. “Why are you here?”
He became more solid, but flickered like a candle. “I am here because of you.”
I wanted to ask what he meant by that, but in a fraction of a second I decided it didn’t matter. That question was better left unanswered, and what would it matter what the answer was. It wouldn’t change anything.
“How long have you been here?” I asked, motioning wide with my hands.
“Since I first knew of you,” He replied without hesitation and turned those luminous eyes on me.
“When was that?”
He held me with his unwavering gaze, a smirk playing across his full lips. “I don’t know.”
This was getting me nowhere. I wanted to ask him so many questions, but I kept losing my train of thought. His face was so wistful and his eyes wouldn’t release me.
“Are there other ghosts here?” I finally stammered, trying to take him in without getting distracted by his handsome face. “Other spirits watching me?”
“No,” He answered simply, shifting and flickering as he moved closer.
“What’s it like to be dead?” I asked, feeling so guilty.
“It is nothing.”
I watched his face, the way that the illusions of him was made up of life, my heart ached at the beautiful man he must have been.
“Am I that Rebecca?”
“You will always be my Becca.”
“Were we happy?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“For a while,” he whispered with a smile. “I made many mistakes.”
Of course he would regret marrying Rebecca. How could he not?
“Did you love me?”
He moved even closer, only inches away now, and becoming even more solid. His eyes were practically glowing as they looked into mine with such intensity I squirmed from foot to foot. His voice came from nothing and caressed my ears, “I have loved you in life and beyond.”
My heart ached with those words. He moved around me, slowly and deliberately, as if he were really walking.
“May I ask a favor of you?” He asked as he stepped behind me.
How could I refuse him anything? I agreed immediately. “Of course.”
“Close your eyes.”
I did as he commanded. I felt the room growing colder as if he were inhaling a great intake of air. I held my breath as I felt him gathering and growing stronger behind me. I told myself again that I wasn’t afraid of him.