You’re Dead?

Story 18

Part 1 — What is Going On?

(You chose to continue from Story 17.)

You have been staring at Thomas Hale for what feels like an eternity.

He stands near the old garden wall, examining the stonework as though he hasn't a care in the world.

As though he wasn't just standing in an underground passage beneath Barnaby Estate.

He catches your eye again.

And smiles.

You don't smile back.

“Missy?”

Tito is looking at you.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

You look toward Thomas one more time.

“I need to get to the Historical Society.”

You start walking.

“Hey, Missy!”

Oh, for God's sake.

You turn.

Sal is waving at you from beside his truck.

“You hear about the tools?”

You stop.

“What tools?”

“Somebody took half my equipment and stacked it out in the woods.”

“Stacked it?”

“Yeah. Nice little pile. Like somebody was building a damn Christmas tree.”

“Sal, that's weird.”

“Kids.”

“You think kids carried your equipment into the woods?”

“Kids got arms, don't they?”

You stare at him.

“I thought you were going to put up cameras.”

Sal considers this.

“Smart girl.”

He turns toward the crew.

“TITO! WE NEED CAMERAS!”

Tito, who is standing practically beside you, looks up.

“What kind?”

“You know! Those trail ones!”

“For deer?”

“FOR WHATEVER KEEPS STEALING MY SHIT!”

A couple of workers laugh.

Sal shakes his head and turns back toward his truck.

You start walking again.

Tito follows you toward the parking area.

“Miss Holloway?”

“Yeah?”

“Sal didn't tell you everything.”

You glance at him.

“About the tools?”

He nods.

“What else?”

Tito looks back toward the woods.

“I was helping him look for some equipment yesterday. He was standing right next to me when I heard somebody calling my name.”

“Okay?”

“It sounded like Sal.”

You wait.

Tito looks at you.

“Miss Holloway. Sal was standing right next to me.”

You stop walking.

“Maybe one of the other guys?”

“That's what I thought.”

“And?”

“There wasn't anybody else out there.”

You look toward the tree line.

The woods seem perfectly ordinary in the afternoon light.

“So what did Sal say?”

Tito gives you a look.

“He told me to stop messing around and help him find his tools.”

Of course he did.

You glance toward the construction site.

“And you think somebody was imitating him?”

“I don't know what I heard.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then Tito looks at you.

“Whatever you saw under that house, Miss Holloway...”

He hesitates.

“I don't think that's the only strange thing happening around here.”

You look back toward the gardens.

Thomas is no longer standing by the wall.

Wonderful.

Just wonderful.

~~~

Forty minutes later, you're standing in the basement of the Historical Society.

Again.

You knock on the familiar office door.

“Come in.”

Ms. Whitcomb is seated behind her desk, surrounded by papers.

She looks up.

Then looks at the clock.

Then back at you.

“Oh, good. You again.”

“Nice to see you too.”

“Didn't I give you enough to keep you busy yesterday?”

“You have no idea.”

She studies your face.

Something about your expression seems to interest her.

“What happened?”

“I need to see that photograph again.”

“Which photograph?”

“The one from 1891. The people standing outside Barnaby.”

Ms. Whitcomb doesn't move.

For a moment, she simply looks at you.

Then she removes her glasses.

“Why?”

“Because I think I met one of the people in it.”

Silence.

Ms. Whitcomb puts her glasses back on.

“Well.”

She stands.

“I suppose that explains the look on your face.”

You follow her into the archive.

She finds the familiar box and carefully removes the photograph.

You lean forward before she even sets it on the table.

There it is.

Barnaby Estate.

1891.

Several people standing outside the house.

And toward the edge of the photograph, slightly apart from the others, a man.

You look closer.

The reddish hair.

The long, narrow face.

That slightly awkward expression.

Your stomach drops.

It's him.

Thomas Hale.

You take the photograph carefully.

“That's him.”

Ms. Whitcomb watches you.

“Who?”

“The groundskeeper.”

“Thomas?”

You look up sharply.

“You know his name?”

“I've lived in this town for eighty-three years, Miss Holloway. I know quite a few people.”

You stare at her.

“That's Thomas Hale.”

She looks at the photograph.

Then back at you.

“And?”

“And this photograph was taken in 1891!”

“Yes. I can read the date.”

You look at her.

She looks at you.

“Ms. Whitcomb.”

“Miss Holloway.”

“That's the same man.”

For once, she doesn't immediately have a clever response.

She sits down.

You look back at the photograph.

There is no resemblance to explain away.

No family similarity.

No question of whether you remember his face correctly.

You met this today.

And here he is.

Standing outside the same house.

More than a century ago.

“How is that possible?”

Ms. Whitcomb takes a moment before answering.

“I don't know.”

You look at her.

“You don't know?”

“No. And before you ask, I've spent a great deal of time trying to find out.”

You set the photograph on the table.

Your mind races.

The passage.

The electric lights.

The photographs beneath the house.

The unidentified third body.

Remarkably well preserved.

You look toward the shelves of records.

“Something happened at Barnaby in 1847.”

“Yes.”

“Something that nobody has been able to explain.”

“That would be a fair assessment.”

“And now I've got a man who looks exactly like someone in a photograph from 1891 walking around the property like he's been there his entire life.”

Ms. Whitcomb considers this.

“Well, perhaps he has.”

You stare at her.

She reaches for her glasses.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Miss Holloway, you're looking at me as though I've said something ridiculous.”

“You just suggested a man has been alive since 1891.”

“No. You did.”

You open your mouth.

Close it.

You hate that she's technically right.

Ms. Whitcomb begins returning some papers to their folders.

“You know, the exhumations weren't the only unusual things happening around Barnaby.”

You look up.

“What do you mean?”

“There were stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

She pauses.

“About the woods, mostly.”

You think about Sal.

His missing tools.

And Tito hearing a voice that shouldn't have been there.

“What stories?”

“Oh, all sorts of things.”

“Like what?”

She adjusts a stack of papers.

“People have always been rather imaginative when it comes to those woods.”

“Ms. Whitcomb.”

She glances at you.

“You said the exhumations weren't the only strange things happening.”

“They weren't.”

“Then what else happened?”

She looks toward the photograph.

“There are just some things it’s best not to talk about in this town.”

You glance at the clock.

For once, you're not particularly concerned about the time.

And you're beginning to suspect this town has been keeping more than one secret.

End of Part 1.