The Bedford Tea Room

The sound of the mighty Atlantic Ocean roared past chattering cross-paned windows of the Bedford Tea Room. Wind gusts blustered violently for most of the morning. Soon, the first patrons would be dropping by for afternoon tea and freshly baked scones. Stormy days were always good for business and kept the staff busy. The Bedford Tea Room was a renovated three-story Victorian home that Robert and Sandra Marshall purchased when Wall Street tanked in 2008 and their savings were nearly wiped out. Both lost their jobs as financial consultants. They sold their lovely Cape Cod in the Hamptons, though not even close to the price they originally paid for it. Times were bad, but the Marshalls were determined to take their lemons and make lemonade. Or...more appropriately, slice them into wedges and open a tea room...Sandra's dream since childhood. Bedford House, as it was always known, was owned by a wealthy shipping magnate, Cyrus Bedford, of some industry renown during the late 1800s. As always, his money ran out due to some unscrupulous business transactions. He died, leaving Bedford House to his wife, Vanessa Morton Bedford. The poor woman never managed money in her life. From what little Joseph left behind, Coraline managed to scrape by until she realized she was losing the battle to keep Bedford Houe in the style her husband once had done. Bedford House was quite a beautiful place location-wise set high up on a coastal bluff with the ocean virtually in their backyard. It was graced by a wrap-around teak veranda and there were three bedrooms in curved turrets that overlooked a wide expanse of grassy lawn. At first glance, it could easily be mistaken for an Austrian castle with its distinguishing slate grey roof tiles with a widow's walk just beneath. The slatted grey cedar shingles and burgundy shutters completed the design of the exterior perfectly. That was what caught the Marshalls eyes. "It has such character!" Sandra told Robert. "It probably needs a lot of interior renovation. Probably more than we can comfortably afford is my guess," Robert said "Oh please! Robert! Can we find the real estate agent and find out if it is on the market?" Robert Marshal knew when his wife of ten years had a bee in her bonnet, it wasn't wise to get stung. They found Bedford Real Estate relatively quickly. It was three blocks from Bedford House. Talia DeSimone of Bedford Real Estate noticed a couple approaching her desk. Clearly they were not New Englanders.
"Can you tell us if Bedford House in on the market?" Sandra asked. "Actually, it's been on the market for quite some time. As you probably noticed, it needs a lot of renovation. Would you like to have a look at it?" Talia asked. Sandra shot Robert a pleading glance. He nodded silently in assent. "Yes, we would love that," Sandra said. The trio drove to Wyecliff Avenue which rambled from Barnstable Street, the town's main thoroughfare. Wyecliff Avenue began with several homes at the top of the avenue. Then,there was a marked decline in the number of homea as they neared Bedford House. "Many of the original property owners subdivided here. The last two homes are all that are left of Bedford's Golden Age," Talia said. She pointed to a large three-story Victorian in the Salt Box design so familiar in this part of New England.
"That's Deverough House. Thomas Deverough, great grandson of the original owner still lives in that home. It's about two hundred year old and has been listed as "historic," as most of the oldest Bedford homes are," Talia added. "Here we are...Bedford House," Talia announced. "Why is this one called "Bedford House?" Sandra asked. "According to historical documents, the original owner was Cyrus Bedford, a fifth generation relative of the town's earliest settlers to the new world colony. Although Bedford House was not built until 1851, the land upon which the house sits belonged to a Bedford. Old Cyrus was involved in major shipping and trade in those days. There was big money in Bedford shipping back then," Talia said. "So how did this beautiful place fall into disrepair," Robert asked. "When Cyrus died, everything in his estate including Bedford land was left to his wife Vanessa. Victorian ladies of that era had no experience managing money or even the household by themselves. Everything was done for them by servants. Vanessa Bedford had no resources to fall back on and no knowledge of finances. They had two sons, Charles, who relied solely on his inheritance for his support and Jeremiah, who built quite a reputation gambling away his inheritance. It was also said Vanessa coddled her sons into financial ruin," Talia said. "I've always wanted to own a tea room," Sandra said "Why...That's such a lovely idea. It's the one business Bedford is without," Talia responded. "If you are interested in Bedford House, come back to my office and we'll go over the details," Talia added. That was three years ago. The Marshalls sunk most of their remaining savings into renovations. The exterior, thakfully, needed little in the way of refurbishment, save a fresh coat of paint. Houses in Bedford were painted according to town code. But, Sandra wanted their Tea Room to stand out since it was to be a business as well as their home. This required a special town permit to paint the exterior salmon pink and the shutters, gables and gingerbread designs deep hunter green. Town locals were aghast at the idea. Thus, the Marshalls permit was rejected and salmon pink became the original dull, greyish-blue. A muted burgundy replaced the deep hunter green elsewhere. The interior required extensive plumbing, heating and electrical upgrading, not to mention complete renovation of the kitchen and an addition of two bathrooms. Robert and Sandra worried worried their money would run out as it had for Vanessa Bedford, before they even got their new tea room enterprise off the ground When spring came and new awnings were installed, the brand new sign out in front of the heavy, black wrought iron gate announced, "Open for Business. Sandra painstakingly prepared several interchangeable menus. Afternoon tea began at noon. High tea at four. She rifled through cookbooks in the library and online for recipes for biscuits, scones and classic English crumpets and clotted cream. She began haunting garage sales and estate sales for teapots and tea services. She amassed quite a collection over the past winter before opening day. Those she found that were more delicate and rare, she used for decoration on the quaint oak cupboard at the entrance, figuring if the tea room failed, those rare rare tea services were a good investment and could be auctioned. After one year, the "Bedford Tea Room" had regular patrons and was finally beginning to see a profit. Thomas Deverough was appalled that Bedford Planning and Zoning allowed a regular business to operate so near his estate. When first he heard Bedford House was sold, he assumed it was sold to upscale people with a Mayflower Pedigree. Deverough was as Mayflower as it could get. His family settled in Bedford and established the first iron works. His great uncle, Alfred Deverough, was a member of the Revolutionary War Brigade. Thomas stared out the first floor window and grizzled at the increased traffic of patrons of Bedford House. "I'm telling you. This is wrong! To put up a business right in my backyard? Disgraceful!" "Mina, call my solicitor. I will get rid of these interlopers!" he commanded his housekeeper. "Yes, Sir." Mina answered. She deposited an antique silver tray onto his lamp table for afternoon tea. "Why can't these people stay home and make their own tea?" Thomas asked.
Mina knew old Mr. Deverough was in a lather...again. If only that couple hadn't turned that beautiful old mansion into a tea room. Still, she admitted she loved the idea. I might even have a look around. I'll ask our cook, Frances, to take tea with me on our day off.he thought. Mina and Frances did in fact make plans to take tea at Bedford House the following Thursday which was their usual day off. It wasn't really a whole day off since they had to return in time for Old Mr. Deverough's supper at 7 P.M. When they arrived at Bedford House, they passed the familiar black wrought iron gate. Even with a quick glance, they noticed that quite a bit of work had been done to the place. "Two for tea," the hostess asked "Yes," Mina replied.

They were escorted to a table in what once had been the Grand Ballroom of Bedford House.
"I'll leave the menu with you," the young woman said. "My name is Sandra Marshall. I'm the proprietor of the Bedford Tea Room. I hope you enjoy our tea service," she said. While Mina smirked at the changes to the old place, Frances scanned the menu printed on delicate ecru parchment paper and written with a stylish Old English hand in sepia ink. They decided on high tea service, given it was so near four in the afternoon. They had to admit there was quite a selection of teas from which to choose. Frances favored the finger sandwich and pastry trays.
When their teas service was through, Sandra returned with their check. "My. Quite reasonable," Mina noted, gazing at their bill. "Thank you. Are you are resident of Bedford?" Sandra asked. "Yes. We are employed by Mr. Deverough," Mina replied. "You know? The mansion just across the avenue, Frances added, nodding toward the Deverough estate. "Oh, yes. Such a lovely place," Sandra said. "You know this place is haunted, don't you?" Mina said. "Bedford House? Haunted?" Sandra replied. "Why no I didn't know that. We've not seen any signs of a haunting since we've been here," Sandra continued. "You will. Once the place settles down. It's the ghost of Vanessa Bedford you'll be seeing...when you do," Mina said. "Why would Vanessa Bedford want to haunt this place?" Sandra asked. "Well you know don't you, she went and flung herself off the widow's walk?" Frances asked. "No. I ...didn't know that. Why Would she do such a thing?" Sandra asked. "The town was about to evict her from the place. Poorer than a church mouse she was," Mina said. "Got so bad, she had no choice. Always said she would never leave Bedford House," Mina continued. Mina and Frances glanced slyly at each other, as Mina slipped cash between the leather-bound check book. The following morning before the tea room opened, Sandra impulsively stopped at the library. She asked the reference librarian if she would direct her to the archives about Bedford House. "You're the new owner of Bedford House, right?" the librarian asked. "Yes." Sandra was in a hurry to get on with her research on Bedford House. If Bedford House is haunted, why hasn't there been some sign of it? Sandra mused. She flipped through the Bedford Chronicle online archives as far back into the newspaper's two hundred year old history as she could find. She scanned obituaries and death notices that made headlines. There it was. The newspaper account of Vanessa Bedford's suicide: October 29, 1871, Vanessa Bedford, wife of shipping magnate, Cyrus Bedford, took her life from the widow's walk of Bedford House at nine in the evening. Police stated her body was found on the roof of the veranda the following morning by her 47 year old son, Charles Bedford, The fire brigade removed the body to the mortuary. Funeral arrangements are private according to her family's wishes. So, it was true. Vanessa Bedford committed suicide all those many years ago. Sandra felt a peculiar lump in her throat. Talia DeSimone never mentioned the Bedford House suicide. I suppose it doesn't really matter. Sandra thought. She had to admit the image of a woman standing at the railing of the widow's walk, desperate and suicidal was a chilling picture. Still, that was mor than a hundred years ago. She and her sons are in their graves now. Our Bedford Tea Room is doing well,Sandra thought. The Marshalls loved Bedford. In summer it bustled with tourists eager to take in colonial New England life. That wasn't hared to do in what Sandra called, "a typical New England town" like Bedford. When tourists arrived, Bedford Tea Room was all the better for the additional business it brought their way. The work was hard, but manageable. Sandra did all the baking herself. She woke every morning at 5 AM, put on her apron and a pot of coffee and began baking scones, biscuits, tea cakes and sweet pastries. Once they were in the oven, she started the croissants for her "early birds"...people who meandered into the Tea Room before noon hour when her finger sandwiches were offered. By High Tea at 4 PM, the traditional, elegant watercress and cucumber finger sanders were available from the menu as well buttery scones with lemon curd and clotted cream and an assortment of other traditional pastries like Victoria biscuits served from traditional tins. Upstairs in the third floor bedroom, Robert was awakened by the aroma of Sandra's baked treats. He looked out the large bay window at the sea beyond. He could almost smell the salt air. It was a fairly calm day on the seas. A few fishing boats were already dotting the horizon even as the sun had barely risen. He scratched his tousled chestnut hair, pulled on his favorite chenille robe and slipped his feet into his raggedy old, but comfortable, slippers. This bedroom will never feel warm enough for me, he thought. It was true. Even when the Marshalls upgraded the central heating system that cost a small fortune, for some reason, the third floor never seemed comfortably warm. Little wonder if the servants hurried downstairs to the jobs when the Bedfords owned the place. Too cold up here, he thought as he made he was down the stairs. "Sandra?" He called to his wife as he passed their newly remodeled business office on the second floor. They transformed two second-floor bedrooms into his and hers business offices with the large sitting room on the opposite side of the hall should they need it for special catered affairs. Robert was certain he heard Sandra rustling about in her office. He poked in his head in the doorway but the room was empty.
He continued down the curved staircase to the kitchen. She must have gone downstairs already, he thought. Upon entering the kitchen, he saw his wife prepping for luncheon service. "Sandra? You know something? I could swear I just heard you in your office upstairs." "Couldn't have been. I've been right here at the sandwich board for nearly an hour. Must be ghosts," she said with a grin. Her expression changed quickly. "What's wrong?" Robert asked. "Oh, just something Deverough House housekeeper and cook told me," Sandra answered. "Oh? And what was that?" "Well, it seems that Vanessa Bedford is supposed to be haunting this place. The Deverough housekeeper and cook insist she committed suicide and her dying words were that she would never leave Bedford House." "That's preposterous and probably some old wives tale. Talia DeSimone never mentioned that." Sandra didn't respond. She turned her attention to chopping shallot into finely diced pieces. "I'm afraid it is quite true about her committing suicide, Robert. She had money problems and flung herself over the widow's walk. So, Yes. It is very possible she is haunting this place." Sandra said. "How do you come to such certainty she committed suicide?" Robert asked. "I found an old newspaper obituary. Vanessa Bedford was the wife of shipping magnate, Cyrus Bedford..a descendant of Mayflower pilgrims. They had two sons, Charles and Jeremiah. According to the Bedford librarian, Vanessa overindulged them and the spent their and her fortunes." Robert's expression was predictably stolid and pessimistic. He walked over to a tray of freshly baked tea biscuits and pilfered one flaky and golden brown. "There's homemade raspberry jam in the fridge. I removed the seeds you don't like," Sandra said, eyeing her husband surreptitiously. When he reached for two more tea biscuits, Sandra quickly removed them from temptation's way. "Uh..We don't make a profit from empty trays," Sandra scolded gently. "Oooh Grumpy, this morning, are we?" he responding with a hearty laugh. Sandra threw a tea towel at him capriciously. "Okay...What do you want me to do today? I gotta earn my keep somehow, don't I?" he said. "Well, if you are looking for something to do, you can go out to the Tea Room and see to setting the tables." "I live to serve," he answered, giving her a swat on her fanny.
In his former position, Robert was a technical writer for a large firm in New York City. He honestly didn't miss the daily trip from the City to the Hamptons where they were relatively comfortable in their old home. But.once the Marshalls visited Bedford, he grew very attached to it in a very detached sort of way. The Bedford people still considered the Marshalls, "outsiders." He wondered how long it would take until they were considered part of the inside crowd. The phone jangled. Sandra wiped flour dust from her hands on a tea towel and answered the ringing phone. "Bedford Tea Room," she spoke into the phone. "Yes. This is Melvina Nevington. I am inquiring about your dining facility," the woman's voice said. Sandra tried to recall the woman's name inasmuch as the caller seemed to indicate it should be recognized. "Good morning, "Ms." Nevington, "It's Mrs.Nevington, even though I am a widow." "Yes. Mrs. Nevington, how can I help you?" "The Bedford Ladies Historical Society is planning our annual luncheon. We would like to know if you have a private room available for our event." "Yes. As a matter of fact, we do have a large catering room for luncheons. How many guests do you expect?" "There are thirty-five members of our society. Though not all all thirty-five may attend. I would say at least thirty." "Is there a special menu you have in mind?" Sandra asked. "I understand you offer a finger sandwich buffet and also a dessert menu. You see I have already visited your Tea Room and I really enjoyed the scones at high tea," Mrs. Nevington said. "Why don't you stop by at noon today and I can give you a tour of the room and you can select a menu of your preference. That way you can discuss it with your members and we can create a custom menu based on your and their choices," Sandra said. "That sounds like a very good idea. I shall see you at noon today then," Mrs. Nevington replied. Melvina Nevington was true to her word. She arrive precisely at noon dressed in a pale blue and muted rose flowered chiffon frock and a large, raspberry picture hat with a black velvet band. Sandra invited her to have tea and light refreshments on the house. The older woman seemed delighted as Sandra escorted her to a table where a fresh pot of tea and a small tray of baked cranberry and ginger scones awaited. She poured Earl Grey tea into delicate, hand painted English porcelain cups and offered Mrs. Nevinton scones and clotted cream. "We are planning our annual luncheon two weeks from today. Will that be sufficient time for you to make your preparations? Mrs. Nevington asked.

"Oh I am sure it will," Sandra affirmed glancing around the room.

The early birds have not yet begun to arrive and it was an opportune time to show Mrs. Nevington the catering hall.

"Mrs. Nevington, perhaps you would like to see our catering facilities?"

"Yes. I would."

"Let us away then."

Sandra decided not to take the stairwell to the second floor and instead escorted the older woman to the wrought iron lift the Marshalls installed for greater patron convenience.

"Oh my. This lift is so lovely and so elegant. It doesn't in any way destroy the integrity of the historic Bedford House either. I love the wrought iron," Mrs. Nevington said.

"Well, you know it wouldn't do to have a large group climb the stairs to the second floor. We want our patrons to have full dining convenience."

When the exited the lift, the broad, oak panel doors to the catering hall were just a few steps away.

Sandra flipped on the lightes to the large candelabra styled chandelier with hand painted glass hurricane shades. The lights picked up the ruby, gold and sapphire colors of the large Oriental carpet.
The room had ten tables arranged around the perimeter of the carpet. The wallpaper was a muted burgundy with flecks of gold separated by a wide wainscoting of white oak. A dumb waiter for dining service was carefully hidden in a wall panel and an extensive length of long Victorian windows gave the room plenty of light during the day. The furnishings in this room bore a distinctive sea-faring them. Round tables with four or six captains chairs, a small vase of fresh flowers with a single candle in the center was capped by antique leaded glass hurricane shades. Pure Irish linen napery complimented the Bedford Tea Room dining service. All of the tableware and cutlery was of polished pewter Sandrea had found on her trips to a Northern Massachusetts forge.
"Yes. I think this will do very nicely," Mrs. Nevington said. "That mirror over the fireplace. Is it an original with the House?" she asked. Sandra glanced toward the antique mirror with its gilt frame hung about the mantle of the fireplace. "Yes. I believe it is. It was one of the things we decided would remain with the room," Sandra answered. "Funny thing. For years this house was empty, people walking past said they thought they saw Vanessa Bedford brushing her hair while standing before that mirror. Of course, I don't believe in ghosts," Mrs. Nevington said. "People in Bedford do seem to believe there are a lot of ghosts from the past. I'm sure that's true of most town," Sandra said. Dowstairs, Sandra hoped patrons were filling the dining room for morning brunch service. For this, Sandra provided a few menu variations that catered to a mid morningn style repast complete with mini blueberry pancakes, Scotch eggs, small meat pasties and fresh orange juice or mimosas for the more discerning types. "Yes, Mrs. Marsahall, this room will do very nicely indeed," Mrs. Harington said. "Oh please do call me Sandra, Mrs. Harrignton. I wonder if this would be too forward of me, but are there still memvberships available? I would so love the opportunity to learn more about the history of Bedford," Sandra said. "Why certainly. In fact, we would love to have you as a new member. In fact, I'll sponsor you myself. You know? I'm wondering if we might hold our regular board meeting here. The Board meets twice a month." Mrs. Harrington said, Sandra was caught off guard at such a response but was already working out a mental plan to keep the catering room busy, "That would be wonderful! What type of refreshments would you wish?" "Well, we meet at 8 P.M. on the 15th and the 30th of each month. So, I would imagine a light menu of tea and biscuits would be morem suitable," Mrs. Harrington said, At the close of that business day, Sandra and Robert went to sleep feeling exhausted but jubliant that the catering room already had solid bookings. The Bedford Historical Society's Annual luncheon did not go unnoticed by Mr. Deverough. In fact, the very sight of those Bedford matrons entering the Tea Room raised his hackles and his temper to unparallelled levels and worsened by the growing success the Tea Room was enjoying. When the Bedford News did a full review of the place complete with photos, that only added to Mr. Deverough's ire. He had to do something. But he was not sure what that would be. Clearly there was no point in trying to reason with the owners of the Bedford Tea Room. But when he read that Sandra Marshall, owner of Bedford Tea Room was inducted into the Bedford Histrocial Society, Mr. Deverough realizd enough was enough. He dialed the number of an old friend, Charles Linkell, a fellow member of his Revolutionary War Brigade. "Linkell? Alfred Deverough here. I was wondering if you know of someone willing to pull a prank." "Alfred? You are going to pull a prank? You are such a conservative man." "Yes. yes. It's just a small prank. Totally harmless and by the law book," Deverough said. "Well, you know Edward Sampson is quite the prankster. Remember the time he put the cotton batting inside St. Andrew's steeple? The Vicar went wild when he tried to ring it and it was deadly silent," Charles said. "I want you, not I, to pull a prank on my neighbors. They own the Bedford Tea Room. It has ruined the historical value of the neighborhood." "What is it you want me to do? Mind, It has to be legal." "Oh it's all legal what I have planned. I assure you of that." Linkell waited as Deverough cleared his throat and coughed. "I want to raise the dead," Devrough said. "That's impossible," Linkell said. "Not really. You have those old Revolutionary War costumes in our musuem aross town. I want you to scare their customers away." "How?" "Remember that movie machine you had?" "Yes...You think that old device will scare anyone?" "No. Remember how the light in it didn't run film and all it did was cast a spooky light?" "Yes. A light wouldn't scare anyone." "It would if you placed a mirror image near it." Linkell wasn't sure what Deverough was thinking. "I want you to dummy a woman's costume to look like Vanessa Bedford." "But how will I get that inside their Tea Room?"bert "You can use the projection from the drawing room in my home. That will make the image even better coming from a distance." "Alfred, have you given any thought to what happens if your neighbors call the Constable." "It's even better a prank. We just turn off the projector and the Constable will think they are imagining they saw a ghost." "And if customers see it?" "The Constable might think the owners are trying to get publicity." Linkell realized his friend was likely a better prankster than he imagined. The very next day, they set up the gear. Sandra Marshall was knee deep in dough for her famous scones when she heard Robert's ghastly shriek. She grabbed a towel to wipe off flour and ran as fast as she could to the dining room. "Robert, what on earth.." Her voice trailed off as she saw the ghostly vision. "Robert that can't be real. It's just a trick of sunlight." "The drapes on the windows are all drawn," Robert said. The figure suddenly disappeared.Bedford House might be haunted but in truth, both were skeptical and felt that any ideas of the place actually haunted was mere historical suggestion and yet, there had been unusual things happening since they moved into Bedford House. Sarah and Robert decided to dismiss it as their having overactive imaginations. Even though each to the other secretly felt puzzled. As she set about prepping that day's menu, she got an idea how to dispel the ghost story about Bedford House and capitalize on it. Later that evening as their business duties were done, they retired to the sitting room to unwind. "What a day!" Robert said. "It looked as if everyone in town was here today," Sarah responded. "Not everyone. Not our dour neighbor next door," Robert said. "I doubt we will ever see that grumpy old man coming here for tea," Sarah replied. Robert laughed. "He'd probably find fault with our brand of imported teas," he added. "You know how the entire town thinks this place is haunted?" Sarah said. "I think that's always brought in business. Don't you?" Robert asked. "Well, thanks a lot! And here I thought it was my artistic culinary talents," she laughed. "But now that you mention it...I had an idea before as we were clearing away," she continued. "Oh? and what is this idea?" "Why not capitalize on that idea the place is haunted?" "How?" "I was thinking we could drop hints about some of the odd things that have happened since we moved here." "Such as?" "The catering room upstairs where Vanessa Bedford supposedly is seen brushing her hair. We could generate quite a bit of interest if we held a special event, like a seance in that room," Sarah said. "We already have more business than we can handle. We'd have to hire more staff. As it is now, we have only Justine Morgan and she's a part-timer," Robert said. "It would only be when business is slow," she said. "And who would the medium be? You need a medium for a seance." "I realize that, Robert. And I know just the person. She's quite unusual and claims to have second sight, given her great grandmother was a Gypsy tarot card reader. Daria claims all the women in her family are psychic. She'd a friend of my old college roommate Pat Lane and Pat swears Daria Vasta is psychic." "And by what does Pat Lane base that on?" "Years ago, Pat lost a family heirloom, a very unusual hand beaded coin purse handed 3 generations. Pat thought she misplaced it after she graduated high school and her mother packed it in her suitcase. Pat wanted to be an antique dealer after and get a degree in art history. I remember her describing it to me, It was only about three inches wide by three inches long, had a silk lining and was hand beaded in pale green with a red beaded rose in the center on one side. It had only one coin in it that was never to be spent. Pat met Daria when her parents sent her to an art school in Vienna Austria According to Pat, they met in an art museum and became fast friends when one of the paintings in the art museum as a portrait of Daria's great grandmother. It was painted by a famous Austrian artist, Waldmuller, who loved to paint oil portraits in idyllic rustic settings. Daria told Pat that she thought Waldmuller painted her great grandmother because he thought she had unusual, deep set, mystical pale blue. Anyway, Pat convinced Daria Vasta that people back home would love to have tarot readings. Daria set up shop in a small storefront somewhere on a New Jersey boardwalk. "Is there a point to all this?" Robert asked. "Yes. It was Daria who found the priceless beaded purse Pat so treasured." "How did she do that?" "She told Pat she "saw" the purse in a vision she had. She told Pat to look inside a black silk lining. Pat thought that was crazy. Months later whn she and her mother were going through old clothing they planned to donate to the church charity for the needy, Pat noticed that there was somthing in the lining of her old high school windbreaker. The lining was black silk! "But how did the purse get there? And why?" "Pat said she put the purse in the pocket of that windbreaker when she, not her mother, packed it as the last item of clothing, so it wouldn't get stolen at the airport luggage check in." "How do you know where to find this Daria?" "Easy. We're going to attend that restaurant event in New York City next month. We can just drive to the Jersey Shore and ask her." "How do you know which Jersey boardwalk?" "I'll call Pat Lane. She's bound to know where to find Daria." Robert raised both eyebrows in disbelief. "Oh before I forget..."he started. "I have a juicy bit of gossip for you. Justine told me she overheard the Deverough housekeeper say that Thomas Deverough had "something up his sleeve" to shut down the Bedford Tea Room." "And just howdoes he plan to do that?" "The housekeeper said she didn't know the details but he's been meeting with Charles Linkell and Edward Sampson several times recently. Justine said the housekeeper overheard Linkell suggest Sampson "scare the customers away" and that Linkell should use the Revolutionary War costumes on the museaum." "What on earth is he up to now? How are old costumes going to scare away customers?" Sarah asked. Robert shrugged. No more was mentioned about Deverough's plan even as Sarah and Robert both saw the strange "apparitions" in the catering room, Robert's office and several times in the main dining room." Sarah began to cajole the so called ghost. "Vanessa dear, I'm sorry you an I can't have tea," Sarah would say whenever she noticed the light playing games in the main dining room. She even set up a small table by the alcove window in the catering room and placed a Victorian hair brush and set an empty painted china up and saucer with a silver tea set. "Now Vanessa, you can brush your hair for all to see and have a cup of tea," Sarah spoke into the empty room. Sarah engaged Daria Vasta for the first of several seances three weeks before Halloween. Robert entered this phase of business with intrepidation thinking Sarah's plan would fizzle after the first seance flopped. He was more shocked than his wife when the ultra staid people in this New England town inundated Sarah with pleas for more. Daria Vasta apparently had enhanced her reputation far beyond her imagination. Robert was quite surprised at her talents when she confirmed Bedford House was haunted. "Mr.Marshall, Bedford House is haunted by a very sad, lonely woman,"Daria said. Robert was skeptical. Daria could know the sad story of Vanessa Bedford from books or newspapers. "You don't believe me, do you?" Daria asked. "Just about everyone knows the Vanessa Bedford tale," he responded. "I realize that but I have not researched this home. I only know what my senses tell me. Remember when you first moved into this house? You were in your upstairs office and you turned off the light and it kept coming back on? You had the electic wiring checked all over the house and still the light switch in that room flipped on. You don't know why. I do. That was a bedroom occupied by the sad lady's son, Jeremiah. His mother kept the light on in that room because he was afraid of the dark. And your bedroom is always cold because the master who owned this place kept it cold to remind him of the sailors who slept in the cold aboard his ships." "But I tell you this. There are 2 ghosts, one real and a second not real but meant to be rid of you and your wife," Daria continued. "What do you mean? Someonne is trying to harm us." "I sense a cloud over Bwdford House. I see flames. Look for the sad lady to save your wife. That is all I can see. The sad lady will never let her home be destroyed." "You think there could be a fire in Bedford House? But, we have heat and smoke detectors all over this place," Robert replied. "I see flames but they may not be the kind of flames you imagine." After Daria's warning, Robert became very edgy about the possibility of danger to his wife. The change in her husband did nout go unnoticed. "Robert, is something bothering you?" "Things have been so hectic and chaotic lately. I worry about you becoming exhausted. That's when accidents happen." "I also am quite unnerved by Daria Vasta's presence here. What do you really know about her other than what Pat Lane told you a long time ago?" "I thought you were the ultimate skeptic about Daria's insight." "I was until she told me we have 2 ghosts, one real and the other not. She claims she sees a flames but not a fire." "I thought you didn't believe in ghosts. And let's for a moment assume Bedford House could be haunted, we know it's only the unrested soul of Vanessa Bedford. She is quite used to us by now. Anyway, let's have a private seance with Daria and see what she is referring to." "Sarah, it's all hocus pocus. But okay, let's see what she has to say. Just out of curiosity, mind you." Over at the Deverough mansion, Mina and the maids prepared to tackle spring cleaning a little early since Mr. Deverough decided to take the warmer weather in Virginia. Mina was told to omit cleaning the alcove room on the second floor. That was where the ghost camera was set up. So far, the ghostly projection into the catering room worked in the Marshalls favor. It infuriated Thomas Deverough that those two next door used "his" ghost sightings to increase business complete with a medium and seances. He warned his housekeeper not to clean the alcove room so his plot wouldn't be discovered. But he forgot Mina had keys to all the rooms in his mansion. So he decided to return 3 days sooner than his housekeeper expected. Mina had already dusted and tidied up the room. She saw the film projector but gave no particular interest in it. Until the night of the Marshalls private seance. Mr. Deverough always had a warm glass of milk and tea biscuits most nights before bed. Mina usually placed a tray in his room. On this night, he was not in his favorite chair in his room. Mina noticed the light under the door to the alcove room and nudged the door open with her elow while hoklding the silver tea tray. What she saw next made her drop the tray. Mr. Deverough was standing beside the film projector but instead of a film roll running on that machine, there was a floor length mirror with a woman's reflection bouncing off the mirror across toward Bedford House. Deverough heard the crash as the tea set hit the bare oak floor. "Stupid woman!" he shrieked. "I told you to stay out of this room!" "I'm sorry sir." she replied meekly. "Mina don't you mention what you saw to anyone if you want to keep your job!" But the sight of that woman's reflection had scared her enough to head for the kitchen, hoping Frances had not left for home yet. "Good grief! Mina you are as white as if ..as if you've seen a ghost." "Frances, I did. You must swear an oath you will never tell anyone what I am about to tell you." Frances was a God fearing woman who never swore in all her sixty-four years. She crossed her heart and pressed her hands together as if praying. "He's got a ghost making machine in the Alcove room." "Saints protect us. Mina are you sure?" "Sure as my name is Mina, I'm sure." France wanted to believe what Mina saw was a mirror reflection but for the fact Old Deverough had only one mirror stored in the attic. It was a large oval shape. The kind women used in the past to check their hemlines for a full view. But the one in the attic room had been stored when Mr. Deverough was a child. She remembered when he had his butler, Johnson, move it there the week after she was hired. The former cook, Mrs. Child's retired and France felt lucky to be chosen. By the time it was moved to the attic the glass had turned an amber shade and had speckles in the reflection. Maybe that's what Mina saw. "Frances, I tell you Deverough is up to no good! He got very angry when I walked into that room. He told me I was not to tell anyone what I saw." Nothing in a small town remains a secret. Frances was bursting to tell her sister who was in service at Nevington Manor. Before long, the secret was no longer a secret to anyone but old Deverough. When Sarah overheard two customers discussing the "secret," she wanted to know more. Deverough's housekeeper, Frances and his cook, Mina, would know best what everyone in town seemed to know. The two women always took high tea on ther day off. Sandra had to find a way to confirm the rumor. It didn't help that Daria Vasta's prediction had preoccupied Sarah's mind hard as she tried to ratonalize it out of her mind. She had a plan. She would invite the two women to have a private high tea service in the catering room for free. She would tell them the tea room downstairs waw overbooked and would be crowded. It was a tiny white lie but Sandra had to know what old Deverough was planning and hopefully end the rumor the Bedford Tea Room was haunted by Vanessa Bedford. She'd come to the conclusion that their business needed more than to be a ghostly attraction. As soon as Frances and Mina entered the tea room, Sandra made a beeline to attend them. "Ladies, as you can see,the tea room is quite crowded due to the summer tourists. How would you feel about having high tea upstairs in the catering room?" "Well..." Frances hesitated glancing toward Mina" "I will provide your tea service free of charge. I'm sorry we are so crowded." "Can we order anything we like without charge?" Frances asked. "Of course! Compliments of Bedford Tea Room," Sandra said, handing the two women menus. "I'll give you time to order. Meanwhile, I'll bring up a pot of tea while you decide what to order." "Are you sure we won't be in Vanessa Bedford's way?" Mina joked. "I'm sure not,"Sandra answered as she hurried off. She was actually glad Mina mentioned Vanessa's ghost. It was a good way to ask about the town "secret." Sandra reappeared with a tea pot, two china cups, a tea infuser and two small boxes of tea, one the house favorite and the other a strawberry herbal tea which was a favorite of customers. "Are you ladies ready to order?" "Yes. We wll both have today's special, The Vanessa Bedford scones with strawberry cream." Sandra saw her chance to inquire as to what old Deverough was up to. "That's a very good choice considering the rumor going around town," Sarah said. "Rumor? You mean about Vanessa Bedford haunting Bedford Tea Room?" Frances replied. "No. That one is quite old. It's the one about Mr. Deverough and some kind of ghost making machine," Sandra said. Frances and Mina gulped and looked horrified. "How did you hear about that?" Frances asked. "Right here in the Tea Room. You overhear a lot of gossip when you serve tea and cones. "I'll be right back with the Special of the day." Sandra said. She headed to the kitchen wondering how she could find out what Old Deverough was up to. When she returned to their table, she could see Frances and Mina with their heads together. "Ladies, enjoy your Vanessa Bedford scones and strawberry cream. Now can get you amything else?" "Mrs.Marshall..About that town rumor, you don't believe it, do you?" Mina asked. "It occurred to me that it was a joke at first. But, may I be frank with you? The Bedford Tea Room has been a thorn in Mr. Deverough's side since we opened. So it occurred to me he just might play a prank on us to scare off our patrons and shut down our business. He knows well the stories about Vanessa Bedford's ghost. I confess we have had few odd things happen since we moved in. But those events could not possibly be a prank." "Mr. Deverough would fire both of us if we mentioned that contraption he has in the alcove room..." Mina started. "Mina! Hush up!" Frances snapped. "So Mr. Deverough really has a ghost making machine?" "Nooo. I ddn't...He doean't..Oh please Mrs. Marshall. It's just a mirror and a film projector he uses to make it look like a ghost" France said pleadingly. "That's all it is?" Sandra asked. She began to laugh and the two ladies hesitated at first and then laughed meekly. "Well that certainly won't hurt business. It may even help add a special nuance to the place always assuming the real ghost of Vanessa Bedford doesn't consider the Deverough ghost too much competition," Sandra joked. Sandra left Frances and Mina feeling relieved that Sandra was not angry. "The worst is over" Frances said. "Not quite. What will Mr. Deverough do when he finds out he's the joke of the town?" Mina asked. "He's an old man and he won't care. He'll just think he accomplished his revenge. Let's finish our tea and get back. It's getting near twilight and this room is making me nervous with all this talk about ghosts, real or created by a machine," Frances said. "Mr. Deverough is probably eating dinner by now" Mina said. "Still, you heard what Mrs. Marshall said about competition. Vanessa Bedford is an unrested soul and she could be angered by the Deverough ghost, real or not, Frances said. The next morning, Sandra couldn't shake the conversation she'd had with Old Deverough's prank. When she mentioned it to Robert, he had an all too mschevious expression Sandra knew all too well. "Robert, what are you up to?" "What makes you think I am up to something?" "Well for one thng, our 20th annniversary is months away and for another, you've been in this kitchen foraging for foil, poultry string and you're holding the wind chime you removed from the kitchen window." "One good prank deserves another," he said with a wink.. "And if your prank causes Old Deverough to be scared to death?" "Trust me. I'll make sure it doesn't. We've been operating this tea room a long time and I have to admit, it's been a pretty great adventure, ghosts and all." "What are you planning to do?" "I just want our ghost, Vanessa Bedford, to feel right at home." Sandra didn't like the sound of that. But her morning duties were getting behind and the employees would soon be arriving to set up for the day. The cleaning man was almost finished shampooing the carpets in the main dining room. He'd be heading upstairs to the catering room to do the same. "The catering room! Oh my gosh! Robert!" she murmured aloud. She ran up the stairs to head off what might be an embarrassing disaster. Before she could stop him, the poor cleaning man let out a loud scream, "Ggggghhhhost! Ghost!" "Mr. Angellini! It's not a ghost!" she said. Robert came out of his study just down the hall. "What's going on? I heard a scream." "Robert, your prank scared poor Mr. Angellini," Sandra said. "Sandra, I didn't...I wasn't..I wasn't in that room!" Sandra's face went white. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I mean I haven't put it together. I decided not to and besides I don't have all the parts I need," he answered sheepishly. "Mr. Angellini, what exactly do you think you saw?" "I don't "think" it. The room was dark. So I walked over to open the drapes. When I turned to start the machine, I saw a lady in a robe and nightgown brushing her hair. When she saw me opening the drapes, she shook her hair brush at me. This place is haunted. I'm getting out of here. Get yourself another service to do your rugs!" he said angrily. "Robert, he probably just imagine what he saw. It's well known about the ghost of Vanessa Bedford and this place." For the first time in a very long time she could remember, Robert looked skeptical. "What if.." he started. "It was just Old Deverough playing his tricks," she said. "With the drapes closed?" Robert was right. Mr. Angellini said he saw it before he opened the drapes. So it couldn't have been Mr. Deverough. Sandra walked over to the window that faced the Deverough mansion. The drapes there were closed. Robert was right.Vanessa Bedford wasn't just old Deverough's joke. "Robert, what do we do now? If Mr. Angellini spreads it around Bedford Tea Room really is haunted, we'd lose customers and our business." "Or,maybe customers would think we paid Angellini to keep the ghost and haunting tales alive." "But what do we do about Vanessa?" "If she's come back to haunt this place, there must be something she left behind that she's come back for." "Whst could it be?" "Leave her a note and see if she responds." Sandra felt foolish writing a note to a ghost. She laughed at the thought a ghost would not only read what she wrote but would actually respond. She placed the note on the fireplace mantel. Neither she nor Robert slept that night and listened for any tiny creaking. When they awoke, both cautiously walked to the catering room. The note on the mantel was gone! Robert checked the fireplace while Sandra scoured the rest of the room. "Robert come here quick!" "What is it?" "Did you drop this envelope when you were here yesterdAY?" "No. Maybe Angellini did." She handed the envelope to Robert. "Open it." Robert carefully opened the flap. "This envelope is yellowed. It's old. Maybe it was taped to the bottom of that low boy dresser." The low boy dresser was used as a serving table now but came with the house when they bought it. Robert couldn't believe his eyes. "Robert! What is it?" "Sandra read it for yourself." Her eyes widened as she grabbed for the table to steady herself. "Sandra Vanessa Bedford is your great aunt! You never told me that!" "I never knew. My parents always claimed they were New Yorkers." "So that's why Vanessa Bedford haunts this place," Robert said. "What do you mean?" "She wanted to tell you she was family." "Well Auntie Dear, I hope you are proud of your niece." "So I'm the husband of a genuine Bedford?" Vanessa Bedford had much more to tell her niece. As months passed, Sandra found several other bits of information. A letter tucked into a cookbook was the most shocking. Aunt Vanessa and a much younger Mr. Deverough were lovers. There was gossip that one or both Bedford sons were Deveroughs. Aunt Vanessa never go over that scandal and to compensate, over indulged her sons. "So now we know why Old Deverough wanted us gone," Robert said. "Seems like Mr. Deverough was quite the lover," Sandra replied. Just as she spoke those words, the cannister of flour fell in a cloud of dust onto the floor. "Sorry Aunt Vanessa," Sandra said grinning.

The Phantom of Harlingen Library

It was a dreary December day when Annie MacClendon walked the few blocks from her home on Baynter Street to return a book, "The Cry of the Wolf" she borrowed from Harlingen Library. Harligen Library was a gift to the town of Minister from George Harlingen, a wealthy industrialist of the early 1800s. But Harlingen Library was like no other. It was a three story white brick building with a promiment portico supported by 3 gleaming, white marble columns. The exterior was nothing, if not imposing, as it rested high above all other homes and buildings in Minister. Minister was one of those off the beaten towns that had only a sufficient number of businesses to keep the 100 or so residents satisfied to keep their shopping, not to mention their basic needs locally sated. The interior of Harlingen Library was full of all of the books George Harlingen had collected over his 82-year lifetime. Wherever he traveled, he found at least a half dozen books. It had 3 winding staircases that had platforms where a patron could step off the platform and access books on the 2 upper levels. The Harlingen Mansion on Doridge Lane had been empty until a nephew, Donald Harlingen, inherited it in 1888. The Harlingen Mansion was no less elegant than the library that bore his family name. George Harlingen was obsessed with neatness and order. So just as in his mansion, library floors gleamed with polished wood and the wood paneled walls and book shelves never saw as much as a speck of dust. Even the two large heavy oak doors were highly polished and the brass lions' head door knobs gleamed. The library's first and second floors each had 200 books, a small alcove on the first and second floors where someone could be seated as they perused a book they wished to borrow. The building also had stained glass windows in a fleur-de-lis design in red, blue and green hues that cast a lovely shadow on each floor. Each floor had reading desks with 2 long benches for those wishing to make notes. There was a large, ornate oak reference desk but no reference librarian. George felt it was the responsibility of the book borrower to locate whatever references were needed and to be honorable and return the books. Suprisingly, no book was ever missing from the collections. Given the small number of residents and the fact that a book removed from a shelf left a trail to the borrower caused by a gaping vacancy, there was no need for a librarian either. George felt it would be best for borrowers to log in and log out in a journal that rested comfortably on the podium at the etrance. His expectations of honesty from borrowers in such a small town did not go unrewarded. Donald Harlingen saw to the upkeep through the trust George had left the library. Annie loved the library and as the only daughter of John and Anne MacClendon, she was almost as obsessed with reading as George Harlingen was with books. From winter to winter and spring to spring, Annie could be found walking from one floor to another, her long, tapered fingers lightly brushing over the books on the shelves until she found one she thought she might borrow. The third floor of the library had nearly as many as the other two floors with one exception, most of the books on the shelves on the third floor were either George's personal diaries or chronicles of his numeropus travels. Annie's parents never needed to worry about their daughter's safety. Most days, The library was empty except for an occasional patron or student. "Annie be sure to come home before dark. It looks as if we may have snow tonight," Anne MacClendon warned. "Yes Mother," Annie responded as she headed for the library. That was the last time Anne MacClendon would ever see her daughter again. At the library, Annie climbed a set of spiral stairs with a hand rail of carved wood heather branches until she reached the third floor. There were fewer book shelves but all were neatly lined with books of the same size. She passed the personal diaries and decided to read about one of George Harlingen's travels. It being early afternoon, Annie decided she might choose one of these books to borrow. She settled down on the polished wooden floor with a book George wrote as a young business man starting out. He first sought a business in Wales and Scotland. Annie read about his meetings with local officials and his overnight stays at local inns. She felt as if she was traveling with George Harlingen and was transported back to that place in time. She lost track of time and reading often made her drowsy. She slumped over and fell asleep. She dreamed she was in Scotland and was a servant girl at the inn were George Harlingen was a guest. "Annie take Mr. Harlingen's things to his room. It's the last on the right of the hall." Thomas Leister the inn's manager said. Annie dutifully guided the tall, thin man with the thick reddish mustache to his room. "Thank you, Miss," George said. He handed her a coin. "For your assistance," he added. Annie woke, shook herself and thought it was a dream. But the library was gone and only the hall of the inn remained. She was on the verge of tears. Somehow her dream was no longer a dream but real. She remembered the inn's manager downstairs and rushed down to speak to him. She flew s down the wooden stairs to the first floor. There was an eerie draft and yet a fire in the stone fireplace. She shuddered as she drew near to the flames. "Hello?" She called out. She heard her hollow voice echo as if in a chamber. Suddenly, the inn's Manager appeared seemngly out of nowhere. "What are you yammerng about?" he asked. , "I want to go back to the library from whence I came!" Annie said, "Library Missy? What are you talking about? This is the "Tartan Inn at Cavendish Moor." "No. No. The Harlingen Lbrary." "But Mr. Harlingen has no library. Are you unwell? You just took Mr. Harlingen to his room. Have you forgotten?" "What happened to the library?" Annie demanded, fear growing in her voice. She shook her head to waken from this dream. But, she was still in the reception area of the inn. "Lassie, we have no library in our village." Annie felt dizzy and nauseated. She had no idea what had happened between time she left home for the library and fell asleep. "I'll go back to the third floor and maybe will wake up. "Lassie where are you going?" the inn manager asked. "Back to the third floor where I had this dream!" Annie said. "We have only two floors, not three. And it's near closing time. Your father will be here soon to take you back home in the wagon." "My father has no wagon!" She began to cry. What had happened to her? She was in an inn she never saw before and speaking to an inn keeper with a thick accent. She'd had dreams before but always woke up. Now, she was terrified. She decided to climb the stairs to find the book she was reading before this dream. The inn keeper was right. There was no third floor but the book she was reading rested on a small table in the second floor hall. She hurried to fetch it. She felt if she could turn the page she bookmarked she'd be back in the library. Instead, the page she bookmarked now had a small, hand drawn sketch of her own face. The caption beneath read: "Annie MacClendon, daughter of Sean and Annabelle MacClendon. What followed scared her the most: "Born 1879. Died 1894." This just couldn't be! I'm alive! George Harlingen peered out of the door of his room. "Something I can help you with Lassie?" "I want to go home! My mother will be worried." "She knows you work here to help out with the family's finances." "I don't work here. I found a book about your travels and seem to have gotten lost." "I have been a guest here for several years. You were here for the past two years." "My dear lass, I think you are mistaken. Perhaps you have spent too much time reading fiction novels as young people do>" The inn manager said her "father" would be by to collect her in his wagon. She hastened down the stairs to the reception area to wait. Maybe her father would shake her from this nightmare. She sat down on a small wooden bench near the two heavy wooden oak doors at the entrance. Slowly the brass door knob turned just as Annie began to fall asleep.She slumped over slightly on the bench. John MacClendon and his wife walked through the door of Harlingen Library in search of their daughter, Anne MacClendon was in tears fearing the worst. "Anne, she has to be here. She probably fell asleep and lost track of time," John MacClendon said. "We'll search the second floor. That's where her favorite books are," he said. "Why not the third floor?" Anne asked. "She wouldn't have gone up there. It's only the history of the Harlingens." Harlingen Library on a sunny day always seemed cavernous and spooky. On a dark, snowy night, it was certifiably eerie. John and Anne climbed the spiral stairs to the second floor. Half way up, Anne paused. "What's the matter dear?" John asked. "Nothing. Just a little dizzy spell from the sharp curve of the stairs." "The second floor platform is just a few more steps. Can you make it there?" "Yes. It's odd though. I've never felt dizziness before." "As you say, it may be the sharp curve of the stairs. Let's go." When they reached the second floor, it was much colder than the first floor even though the first floor fireplace had already burned down to a few glowing embers. Anne shivered. "It is colder up here. Here, take my jacket." John removed his tweed jacket and placed it around Anne's shoukders. Anne stayed close by his side. She had an eerie feeling she couldn't explain. She didn't believe in ghosts. But somehow this empty library seemed strangely frightening. She felt the chestnut brown hairs on her neck stand up. As they turned toward the stained glass window, Anne shrieked in horror at what she saw. "Anne what on earth is the matter?" "Look over there on that bench. It's a phantom." "I don't see it." "Stand here where I am standing. Now do you see it?" "I see a shadow. That's all." "Look again. It's a phantom I tell you. Not a shadow." John squinted to see what his wife thought she saw. He saw it too. But it was not a shadow or a phantom. It was a just a silvery wisp that seemed to float toward the oak bench in the alcove under the stained glass window. Anne felt an odd chill as she and John tried to focus their eyes in the dim light. The library was never fully wired with electricity on the upper floors since lighting on the first floor provided the second floor with enough illumination and the library was never occupied after dark. Also the large windows during daylight hours flooded sunlight into all three floors. The library's east wing had large, arched crossed windows that were unusually wide and long, almost ceiling to floor. It was George Harlingen's eccentricty that his library should provide a full view for passersby in town. He had grown quite proud of his book collections. Whenever there was an opportunity, he would attend book sales whenever he traveled. "Anne there's no sign of our daughter on this floor." "But she must be here...John! Look! That phantom is gone. Did we let our imaginations get away do you think?" "Maybe Annie fell asleep and when she woke started for home." John said. "You kmow that's not possible. Not with that snow coming down."There's only the third floor. But she wouldn't likely go up there. She'd have no interest in George Harlingen's diaries," John said. "All the same, it can't hurt to search up there before we alert the town constable," Anne said. "I agree.I never realized how spooky this place was at night. That's why I think Annie tried to make it back home. I know this is frightening you terribly, Anne. But we will find her if we have to look all over town." "This library has not real closets for storage. Just the bookcases with the storage bins beneath them." "I hadn't noticed. That means there isn't a place where Annie wouldn't be seen clearly." The two climbed to the third floor. It was arranged pretty similarly to the other two floors with the exception that the book shelves had a small space in the center where large volumes were placed on special book stands. John walked over to the first one he saw and lifted it from its stand. "My heavens but this sure is heavy. Don't try to lift one. It has to weigh at least 20 pounds. What could George Harlingen possibly have to write so much in a diary about that it takes..(John looked around the room and counted) five large volumes." "Open the one in your hands and see what he wrote about," Anne said. "This one has old sepia photos and some drawings. Looks like designs. Oh wait, it's the design plans for this library. Here's something odd..." Jon's voice trailed off as Anne walked over to see what John thought was "odd." "It looks as if old George believed in hocus pocus. See? he built this third floor expressly as a place where he believed these books would keep him forever alive. It looks as if for a time this building was only two floors and was some kind of an inn. See where the third floor design was added?" "I remember something about there being an inn for wayfarers as a stop over on their way to Glasgow." Anne said. "George must have bought the inn in the early 1880s. That would mean he must have made some major renovations to the inn to turn it into a library. It explains the wide open spaces on the second floor. They were probably guest rooms." Anne shuddered. "I think we better speak with the Constable. It's clear our daughter is not here. She would have heard our voices by now." Annie did hear her parents' voices but she felt a if she had been swallowed up into one of those Harlingen volumes her Father found. Was it even possible she couldn't be seen by her own parents and if not, why not? She didn't understand why the innkeeper or the guest, George Harlingen thought she worked at an inn when she knew she was in the Harlingen library. John and Anne walked the quarter block to the Constable's office. It was in a building about three quarters smaller than the library. As they walked in the office, the room felt as cold as the library had. Anne shuddered. John put his arm around his wife protectively. They noticed a short, squatty man with a thick white mustache wearing a heavy winter coat sitting behind a large counter. John nudged Anne and they proceeded toward him. "We are looking to speak with the Constable. Are you he?" John asked. "Yessir I am Constable James Crocker. How can I help you?" "It's our daughter, Annie. She's missing." "Missing in such a snow storm?" "Yes. She left just after noon today to return a book to the library. We haven't seen her since," Anne said, on the verge of tears. "Have you checked the library?" "Of course! We went through all three floors and there was no sign of her," John said, stifling his annoyance. "Perhaps she is already back home. It could be she was late because of the storm," Constable Crocker said. "That's not possible. We would have seen her. There are only a few roads into town and besides Baynter Street is not far from the library. She'd have no reason to take a detour," John said. "It's almost white out conditions. She may have lost her sense of direction," Crocker said. John sensed the Constable didn't want to search in a snow storm. "You say she was in the library?" Crocker asked. "Yes." "Did you see the book she returned or the date and time she signed in the book register?" "No. But that could be because she was looking for another book and planned to sign the register when she left," John said. "Mr...."Crocker struggled for a name for the man and his wife. "MacClendon, John and Anne. We live on 113 Baynter Street. Our daughter is missing." "Mr. MacClendon, I always check all the buildings at 6 PM. The library is never locked. No need for locks. The library was empty. I checked it thoroughly." "All 3 floors?" John asked. "No need to check that 3rd floor. Nothing up there but Old George's diaries," Crocker said. "We checked the 3rd floor. Have you ever read any of those diaries?" John asked. "No. Besides, Old George always believed he would never really die if he could live in his books." Anne and John looked at each other knowing what their next question woukd be. "Anne and I both thought we saw something phantom-like sitting on a bench under the window." "Was it that large 2 story stained glass window?" Crocker asked, stifling a knowing smirk. "Yes. Does it make a difference which window?" John responded. "Sure'n it does. The stained glass window has bedeviled more'n a few of us." "What do you mean?" Anne asked. "Old George put that window in as a kind of joke. Ya'see with the dim light in that place, it natcherly makes odd looking shadows. Ya arn't the first to think you saw ghosts. But if ever you should hear the howling sound through the eaves, make haste and be gone." "Now what does that mean?" John asked. "That library has an old curse on it long before old George turned that Inn into a library. Some of the old town folks tell that there was a hanging in that Inn." John and Anne waited to hear more about the hanging. "Ya, the oddest tale I ever heard. Seems a young lassie who worked at the Inn waited for her Mama and Papa to fetch her at the end of her work day but there was an accident along the way and their horse was spooked suddenly and the buggy overturned on Cairn Street and both were killed when they were crushed beneath the buggy. When the lassie heard the news she ran up to the second floor room at the end of the hall and hung herself. It was George Harlingen who found her that very night. He always asked to stay in that room whenever he was in town. Some thought he cursed that room and was blamed for her death. That was why he had the third floor added when he bought it and some say he kept his diaries there to prove he was innocent of blame." John listened intently, even as questions popped into his head. He and Anne purchased their home over a decade ago. Cairn Street was just one block from their home on Baynter Street. Still there was much history he had not known. "What did you mean before when you said to flee if we heard a howling?" Anne asked. "Seems like it could just be wind drafts," John added. "Not wind of any kind I've ever heard. Folks say it's the lassie screaming." "This is all very well but our daughter is missing," John said. "With this snow coming down, it's likely your lass has found shelter. Try the church. The curate holds eventide services no matter what the weather is, She may have sought refuge in the church. Have you looked there?" "No. But you may be sure we shall," John said. John motioned to Anne that they should leave Crocker's office. "He never intended to look for our Annie," Ann said. "Well maybe Crocker is correct. We've got nothing to lose lookng for her in church." St. Andrew's Vicarage was a half block from the Constable's office and two buildings from Harlingen Library. The snow fall had gotten much heavier and John held Anne tightly as powdery snow fell on their faces and made it difficult to see more than a foot ahead of themselves. The door to St. Andrew's was unlocked just as the library had been. There was a register inside the church vestibule. They shook the snow from their outerwear and John opened the register and started to sign. "Anne, look at this. The names in the register go back almost to the founding of the town. Should we sign in? Not being congregants and all." "No, John. Let's just go inside and see if we can find Annie first." The church was simply designed. Like the library, it had pews that were highly polished wood and a center aisle that led to a slightly elevated altar. To the right was a statue of St. Andrew on a large pedestal and to the left, attached to the wall was a pulpit that was about 8 feet off the ground. The stairs leading to the pulpit curved sharply upward almost identical to the stairs in the library. Anne began her search from the last pew on the right side of the church while John searched pews on the left side. "John, it looks as if no one attended services here for a very long time." "Why do you think that?" "Look at the hymnals. They look almost new." "They may be replacements of the worn ones." Anne agreed that was a possibility. Still when she removed one, there was a smattering of dust. As she drew closer to the altar, she saw he same thing. They startled when the sacristy door opened and for a few brief seconds hoped their Annie would appear in the doorway. Instead, a wizened old man with a full head of white hair, dressed in clerical clothes started toward them. "No. Our daughter is missing, We thought she might have sought refuge here," John said. "No one has been here for many years. After the Vicar passed on, folks just stopped attending services, such folks, that is, as were still living in town." John and Anne were puzzled. There seemed to be quite a few folks still living in Minister. "We live on Baynter Street and have several neighbors,"Anne said, "Baynter Street? That's near Cairn Street where that terrible accident occured. You remember? It was a night like this, snowy but with a heavy fog. That's why the buggy overturned and the man and woman were killed. Folks say Cairn Street is bedeviled and ices over faster than other roads. A double tragedy it was.They were about picking up their young lassie. She worked half a day three days a week at Tartan Inn at Cavendish Moor. It's just half a block down the main road." John and Anne thought the curate's memory was faded. "It's Harlingen Library, you mean, don't you?" John asked. "Library? There wouldn't be much need. Folks don't attend church services. No need for a library. But George did say one day he would settle in Minister and build a proper library for his many travel books. Some folks thought he had his eye on that property over on Doridge Lane. After the Inn tragedy, he disappeared from Minister. Some say he felt the lassie's suicide was his fault. He was staying at the Inn that very night when the accident happened and the lassie killed herself." "How so?" John asked. "He asked her to help him and she was a bit late finishing up. He felt if he had not asked for her help, she would not have done herself in. She would have started for home and her Mom and Dad would still be alive." "Still? How would she "still" be alive after all these years? That happened a half a century ago!" Anne said. The curate was puzzled. A man and woman walk in out of the snow and claim their daughter is missing. Missing? Or, disappeared? "Did you folks sign the register in the vestibule?" he asked. "No. We wanted to see if our daughter was here," John said. "Well as you see, the church is empty. Before you leave, please sign the register." The curate disappeared almost as quickly as he appeared. They headed for the vestibule and John started to read the register just in case Annie signed in. He flipped the pages back to the last page. "Anne! Look! Annie's name is not here." "Does that mean she never came here? It started to snow about a half hour after she left. It only takes about ten minutes to get here. Perhaps she was so engrossed in something she was reading that she dozed off and when she woke, she saw the snow had gotten worse." "But she wasn't anywhere in that library. We looked everywhere. Let's go back to the library. We will never get back in this," John said. He diverted his attention to a page in the register. He flipped past several pages. "Oh John, let's go. Or we'll be stuck where we stand in the snow." "Anne look at this" "What is it?" "The two names in the register on the second page...at the top." "Sean and Annabelle MacClendon? How can that be? Did you have a long lost relative who lived in this town?" "Not to my knowledge. Most of my ancestors lived in Glasgow. Let's hurry back to the library. Maybe our Annie will be there now." Back at Harlingen Library, John had to move a foot of show the wind had piled against the door. Once inside, he lit the fireplace and the wood stove to keep his wife warm. "We're lucky someone thought to keep the wood box loaded. There's enough wood to get us through to morning," he said. Anne found a wooden bench near the fireplace and sat down shivering. She began to cry. "Anne we will find our daughter. I promise." John wanted to reassure his wife but sitting there in that room with the oppressive odor of wood and wood polish, he felt nauseated. Where could Annie be? He decided to venture to the third floor. She had to be there. It was the only room that had no windows in the alcove nor a small blustrade for a landing that overlooked the second floor. "John where are you going?" Anne called. "I'm going up to that third level. There may be a hidden room or closet Annie somehow got locked into. You know how eccentric people were back then. They were always creating secret rooms behnd hidden walls." "John I want to go wth you. Please don't leave me alone down here. This place is eerie." "Well come along." There was a reason Harlingen Library was always empty. For many decades the town rumor was that it was haunted. The rumor went around that somethng strange happened to anyone who ventured up to the third floor. The claim was that there were books on those shelves that had the power to make patrons sleepy and fall into peculiar dreams. Shortly after George Harlingen died, people went missing. The logical conclusion was that Minister was not a flourishing town and the missing just packed up and left without a word of farewell. The first to disappear was James Bowman, a former blacksmith who never married and fellow townspeople believed was a loner who was all to aloof and distant. Thus, few got to know him outside of his business. Though a voracious reader of travel books, he rarely left Minister. It was rumored he tired of living in a small town and just got wanderlust. That seemed a satisfactory explanation until Delia Mallen disappeared a few years later and was last seen entering Harlingen Library. Delia was a spinster who spent her life under the control of her somewhat mad mother, Catherine. When Catherine died of the complications of old age, Delia entertained the companinship of Wallace Smythe. As usual, Wallace and Delia managed a mild town scandal when she allowed him to move into the homeshe inherited from her mother, along with a tidy financial sum. There was no surprise when Wallace disappeared. He had an affinity for betting on horses and townspeople assumed he took off with Delia's money. But when Delia disappeared, at first it was believed she joined Wallace. Still, she was last seen entering the library. The natural conclusion was that she was researching for her travel plans to join Wallace. Then there was the final straw that linked all the other disappearances. After the suicide at the Inn and the accident on Cairn Street, it was just possible that the rumor about the phantom of Harlingen Library became town history. "John, what are you doing?" "John? Why don't you answer me? You're scaring me." Anne had the oddest feeling as if John had been swallowed up in a hidden niche. She moved about the third floor on tiptoe until she came to a book on the floor. "John? Where are you?" She bent over to pick up the book. It was quite old and appeared to be a diary of some kind. She carefully fingered the cover to see the title of the book. Her face went white when she read the title, "The Cry of the Wolf." That was the book Annie had returned. She was here! Anne felt a sudden chill. Had John found Annie? "John, John! Please answer me!" Anne's voice echoed throughout the library chamber. The answer never came. Terrified, Anne fell into a faint with the book in hand and the rhythmic sound of the howling winds outside. "Annabelle! There you are!" Sean MacClendon called. "Annalee is here. See? She is finished her shift. Let's go home."