The Abandoned House on Henley Road

In its day it must have been a beautiful tribute to architecture. Henley Road was a semi wooded cul de sac on the edge of a rural town called  Lyndsey, after its first colonial settlers. 

At some point in time, the occupants must have also been fairly self sufficient. The now overgrown patch of garden that swirled around the house would easily have provided sustenance along with an small bower of fruit trees. A gazebo in need of painting stood silently as if waiting to be occupied on a warm summer day.

Abandonement is a state of emptiness that eats away at the mind first and then in the long term, the soul. 

The house on Henley Road was in an official sense abandoned. Or was it? 

Its gingerbread exterior belied the grandiose interior still appointed in the Victorian style of earlier days. 

Oddly, nothing seemed worn or emitted a moldy odor even though the house had been shuttered for decades. 

The double oak front doors seemed sealed shut forever as if intentionally to keep others out. 

Over the marble fireplace in the living room was a large photo of a beautiful woman with long chestnut hair that fell over her bosom. 

She wore a white gown with a scarlet velvet bodice and flowing lace from the Empire waist to the ankles. The gown hid her delicate ruby slippers. In her hair was a single diamond star. 

It wasn't possible to miss the far away look in her dark eyes or the lack of a hint of a smile on her painted lips. 

A highly polished piano forte and  carved harp rested in an alcove soundlessly. 

The staircase led to a second floor where there were four large bedrooms and an enormous bathroom at the end of the hall. 

All looked as if they were never used. 

Oh, but they were, as was evidenced by the all too pristine neatness within each room.

There was an unmistakable sadness about the house on Henley Road. 

Suddenly, the harp sounded ever so delicately in an angelic string of notes.

Just a draft? Even though the windows were all sealed shut? 

A rattling sound came from the kitchen. It was not a ghost, but Melanie Dorren, the woman in the portrait downstairs. 

Her husband, Daniel Dorren, a wealthy financier, was believed to have run off with one of his many paramours, leaving Melanie only their home and the furnishings. 

Most believed she long ago left the house and returned to her New England roots in Manchester. 

Melanie, like most wives of wealthy men, knew about her husband's numerous affairs, but kept silent rather than cause him scandal and ruination of his reputation. 

He'd left several times before; but, once his affairs bored him, he returned to the comfort of the house on Henley Road. 

No apologies to long suffering Melanie. Not even a tiny excuse for his absence. 

It couldn't be said he married Melanie because of her beauty. She had a cameo-like profile, but apppeared more a sedate lady of her times. 

Oh yes. She was heartbroken when Daniel had the first romantic affair with a girl a few years younger than she. 

She experienced all the usual feelings of anger, betrayal and disgust. She just assumed Daniel would regret his poor judgment and realize sooner than later people would talk and he was jeopardizing his reputation. 

But as Daniel's business grew, so too did his desire for personal satisfaction. It seemed to Melanie Daniel actually felt these affairs were an entitlement for all of the drudgery of labor.

As he began to age and the first signs of grey appeared at his temples, Melanie thought he would finally end his wild forays with women. 

Whenever she dared broach the subject, Daniel immediately reminded her of all the comfort his hard work had kept her in. 

"If you are expecting me to apologize to you for my personal decisions, my dear, you will be waiting na very long time. Why don't you find yourself a man who shares your interests?" he offered. 

"When I accepted your proposal of marriage and you took possession of my inheritance, which as you know helped your business, you never mentioned that you wanted a part-time wife." 

"You forget that I long ago repaid that debt several times over when I saw to it you wanted for nothing."

So that was it. A bizarre kind of indebtedness that somehow was paid by Daniel's "generosity." 

More and more frequently, Daniel was away for longer and longer periods of time. So long in fact that even the servants no longer asked if he would be home for dinner. 

It was true Melanie was quite introverted. She was the only child of Samson D. Lyndsey for whom the town was named and Margarethe Warborg. 

Samson or "Sam" as he was usually called was a teddy bear of a man. His wife was the typical "proper woman" for whom respectability was determined by how in frequently she bore a child. 

Melanie wasn't exactly wanted by her father or her mother. In fact, her parents referred to her as "the accident" and thus was raised by Mrs. McNorman, her nanny, 

Mrs. McNorman was stern and demanding. Melanie learned that obedience even when unreasonalbe was preferable to being totally invisible. 

As soon as Melanie was old enough, off she went to a boarding school for girls where all manner of mischief usually had her as the center of jokes. 

Though she felt deeply hurt, she stuffed it all down deep inside and play acted the "good sport." 

Margarethe was always absent from home and was involved in her civic duties to distraction. 

That was how she met Edna Dorren, a matriach of society and well placed in the roster of wealthy wives. 

Edna had two children, Daniel and Edwina, two years younger than Daniel. 

Daniel was a handsome, though somewhat swarthy young college graduate of Boston University. Melanie was sent to France to complete her education and hopefully, according to Margarethe lose her shyness and gawkyness, 

Melanie accommodated neither and in fact to her mother's dismay, had not lost her "baby fat."

The enticement that remained to get Melanie married off was a sizable dowry subtly mentioned during polite conversation with Edna Dorren. 

It was a kind of "trade" deal where a wealthy albeit not very attractive daughter could be exchanged for a husband. 

The gleam in Daniel's eye was not for Melanie but her inheritance. His father, Matthew, reminded him that such a windfall would do very nicely to get Daniel's dreams of business ownership under way.

"A wife's looks matter little when a man's future financial security is at stake," Matthew warned his son.    

Daniel took his father's warning seriously. 

What matters most to a man isn't a wife. It's financial security. 

So, one by one, Daniel became a prolific womanizer while Melanie had but to become a non-entity. 

Her husband only needed her at his side for business events where respectability was called for. 

Otherwise, Daniel was willing to pay large sums for the kind of women who filled his every fantasy. 

Not so very unlike his philandering father, Matthew. However, at some point Matthew managed to be taken into an alliance with the Boston Irish mobster, Ian McDevlin. 

When McDevlin went to prison for his illegal "business," Matthew was secretly hoping it would erase their former alliance. 

Daniel secretly admired McDevlin's "business" deals and vowed that he wouldn't be so stupid as to get caught. 

Many Dorren Corporation subsidiaries were questionable. But, he knew passing palms with huge sums of money would pay for silence and even more so, loyalty. 

He indulged his "pleasures" as often as he pleased and with any woman gullible enough and money focused enough to fall for his honey-in-his-mouth charm. 

Melanie neither knew nor cared what he was up to. In every way, she lived in comfort and all she had to do was be blind and deaf to Daniel's machinations and affairs. 

His only complaint was that Melanie was childless owing to a childhood bout with scarlet fever that has become a minor plague. 

The truth was that the only lie she ever told in her life was that she was childless.

In fact, she was just "cautious" and owing to Daniel's disgust of unattractive women, she was glad when she reached the age when child bearing was no longer possible. 

By age 50, Melanie managed to attract only the postman and milkman who in reality felt sorry for such a reclusive woman. They were likely all the kindness of her lifetime. 

Daniel, on the other hand, had become boastful of his conquests. Until one of his envious business competitors discovered Daniel's lascivious fascination for sexually deviant women. 

Archibald Fornier knew the only way to be rid of his worst competitor was disclosure of Daniel Dorren's proclivities for harlots he had to pay for. 

Unfortunately for Daniel, laws in his state were quite strict regarding men who paid those kinds of women. 

So it was that in disclosing Daniel's assignations, it wasn't long before a barrage of bad fortune struck. 

First, one of the women he frequented blackmailed Daniel with a threat to describe graphically Daniel's appetite for perversion. 

Unaware that Fronier had planted rumors about him, he paid Marnette Aspen a hefty sum to keep her silence. 

Erring on the side of caution, Daniel reasoned that he ought to place all of his assets in his wife's name in the event of a lawsuit. 

But that bit of providence would make Melanie Dorren not only independently rich but also powerful. 

Still Daniel wasn't a gambling man though he might have other vices. 

Of course, he decided it was best not to tell Melanie about her newfound windfall. He could still make all the major business decisions and she needn't be involved. 

That was until, law enforcement got wind of not just his sexual vices but also several of his business decisions. 

At first, he claimed to investigators, that he knew nothing about these things and tha t all business decisions were made by his wife, Melanie, who owned the Dorren business and all its subsidiaries. 

Thomas K. Walter was chief detective on the Dorren investigation. He made a point of meeting Melanie Dorren when he knew Daniel wouldn't be present. 

"Mrs. Melanie Dorren? I'm chief detective Thomas Walter."

"Yes?" Melanie answered.

"Has something happened to my husband?" 

"Yes."

"Oh my heavens! Is he...?"

"Oh no. Nothing like that." 

Thomas Walters had been in law enforcement since his days as a cop on Morgan Street beat. He was somewhat taken aback that this woman seemed less than sad about the possibility of a spouse's in jury or death. He also didn't expect to see the wife of such a proiminent business man like Daniel Dorren looking like a wash rag. 

She wore a cotton flowered house dress, her hair was carelessly tied at the back with wisps of grey hair straggling over her face and neck. This woman owned a huge conglomerate? 

Something didn't add up and he knew why.

"Actually, Mrs. Dorren I'm investigating the business you own."

"Oh but I don't own any business, my husband does."

"Not according to papers filed and signed by you claiming ownership."

"Mr. Walter, I tell you I do not own any part of Daniel's business. In fact, he is so frequently away on business trips that I barely know what the business is." 

Thomas pulled a 3 page document out of his brief case. 

"Is this not your signature?" 

"No sir. It is not. Look I'll prove it. Every day I write my day's thoughts in my journal."

Melanie was shocked; but, yet not so shocked that she knew Daniel had gotten himself in trouble. 

"Is my husband in some kind of trouble?" 

"Don't you read the papers?" 

"Daniel canceled the paper a month ago. I only found that out when I called the paper to inquire why it wasn't delivered. All the person I spoke said was that it was canceled by Daniel Dorren."

"What about your TV? Don't you watch the nightly news?"

"We have never had a TV. Daniel said wealthy people never do." 

Daniel Dorren had effectively turned his wife into a recluse. 

He didn't bother to ask why she never ventured out of their house. He knew it would be more of "Daniel said..." and it was clear Dorren turned over his assets to a wife he never informed, hoping  she would end up in jail, not him. 

Daniel was a master of secrecy until one of his paramours decided to make their meetings more worthwhile. 

Daniel was 68 years old when Judge Desmond made an example of him. 

Melanie was hounded by the press to the extent, she hid herself away in her home and made it appear she abandoned it. 

Even the servants left because of constant press turmoil. 

It wasn't long before the news moved on to other issues and crimes. 

Melanie was glad. She lived in relative comfort thanks to Daniel placing all his assets in her name. 

Still, she wanted no part of a world that had abandoned her. 

Her parents, her nanny, her schoolmates and husband. All had abandoned her. 

Now, for all time she would remain in an abandoned house. 

The Ghost of Malcolm Oldham

Disappearances always are deeply embedded with mystery. So it was true when Malcolm Oldham disappeared in 1895. Malcolm lived on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean on Block Island off Rhode Island's coast. 

To most visitors to Block Island, the paddle shaped island offers much interest for summer activities. But, as with any land mass barely 10 square miles, it is easy for year round residents to enjoy the respite from armies of tourists. 

 Historically, it was named for Adrean Bloc, a Dutch settler. Before European settlers arrived, Block Island was inhabited by the Niantic people. In order to settle Block Island, history tells that the Niantics killed Colonial traders to stave off invasions of settlers. 

Perhaps that's where Malcolm's tale begins. Malcolm was also a trader. Albeit of a less than orthodox sort. His particular infamy was inspired by the shipwreck in 1831 of the "Warrior" a two masted schooner. 

It was not unusual for locals to head down to the beach and scavenge for whatever wreckage they found useful or of value. One of the valuables found on the beach caught Malcolm's eye, a large tiger eye ring about 5 carats. 

His father, Jedidiah, dabbled in antiques in a tiny shoppe on Tourist Row, the avenue where tourists converged to buy seafaring knick knacks and old whaling scrimshaw and other bric-a-brac as souvenoirs.

Then, strangely, the ring was sold. Naturally, when a tourist walked into the shoppe Malcolm inherited from his father and the tourist asked if he was interested in buying an unsual ring, Malcolm demurred believing it was one more piece of scrimshaw. 

Until he saw the huge tiger eye gem. He was sure it was the ring he'd found on the beach. 

"Does this ring belong to you?" Malcolm asked.

"Yes. And I assure you, it isn't stolen. It has quite a history. Would you like to hear it?" 

 "Certainly. Historical jewelry is always of value to a buyer," Malcolm responded. 

 "My grandfather was a seaman on a two masted schooner in his younger days. He survived a nasty Atlantic storm and a shipwreck. Earlier in his travels, he found the ring in New Orleans and was told it was good fortune for sailors. He always believed it was the ring that made it possible for him to survive that shipwreck."

"Then why would he want to sell it?" 

"He believed the good fortune only applied to the sea and that his troubles, losses and woes now are due to his possession of this ring."

 "I do not hold to superstitions and the stone in this ring is quite large. Any woman would love to own such a gem," Malcolm replied. 

 The stranger sold the ring at such a desirable price that Malcolm was dubious about its earlier history. He needn't have been. The stranger disappearred as if he never existed, even as Malcolm tried in vain to locate him. 

 Still, Malcolm had no wish to be accused of buying stolen goods. He decided to find out the true origin of the ring. He scoured every possible shop and jewelry emporium in New Orleans. No one seemed to know anything about the ring. That made Malcolm suspicious that the gemstone was a fake. So he had it appraised by Jonathan Lempert, a well known jewelry appraiser in New York City. When Lempert saw the ring, he gasped!

 "Where did you find this ring?" he asked.

"I didn't find it as you say. I bought it from a tourist who walked into my shoppe on Block Island," Malcolm said.

 "Do you know his name?" "No. I never ask tourists names because there are thousands who visit the island every year."

 "When did this stranger sell it to you?" "Several months ago, in July." 

 "This ring belonged to a very, rich and very prominent woman. Her husband gave it to her for their 2nd anniversary. A few months later he died during that outbreak of influenza." She never wore the ring again and believed it was cursed."

 "That's strange. The man who sold it to me never said he was selling it because it was cursed," Malcolm said.

 "It wasn't just because her husband died she believed it was cursed. She was with child and miscarried. She herself died quite tragically after she donated the ring to a charity. It was believed that the horse startled and flung her into a large oak tree as she was heading back to their mansion."

"Where was the ring after she donated it to that charity?" Malcolm asked. 

 "The charity was through a church. St. Boniface, located in New Orleans. No one knew what happened to the ring after the fire."

"Fire?"

 "Yes. The charity store and church were completely destroyed by fire. But, the ring was gone as if it never existed...until you walked into my office."

 "Is this ring stolen?" Malcolm asked.

 "Since no one knew what happened to this ring after the fire, it could have been sold to raise funds for the charity. But you say the stranger's father claimed he found it after a shipwreck?"

 "Yes. There was a shipwreck for certain. That much I know." 

 "You might want to see if you can find the passenger list for that shipwreck. It might be a clue to the name of the stranger and the passenger who had the ring while aboard ship." 

 As Lempert suggested, Malcolm went back to a Block Island Historical Society to see if there was a record of a shipwreck. Malcolm had to estimate the date of the shipwreck was early 1800s. He made for the clerk's desk.

"Can I help you sir?" she asked. 

 Malcolm noted the clerk's unusual name from the nameplate on her desk, "Araminty Nelesco."

"Yes, I'm looking for history on a shipwreck. I believe it was early 1800s. I believe it might have been around 1831. The Warrior, a two masted schooner is the vessel information I'm looking for."

 "You've come to the right place, Mr....?"

 "Malcolm Oldham, I'm a trader and I've come across a very interesting item I need to know more about." 

"And what item is that, if I may be so bold?"

 "A tiger eye ring supposedly a remnant of the shipwreck. The seller brought it to me and I had it appraised. It's 5 carats and apparently an antique of some kind."

 "May I see it?" "Oh no. Sorry. But it is locked in my safe at my shoppe." 

 "Well, any information on such an item may be over on that shelf at the rear of the building." 

 Malcolm noted the abrupt change in the clerk's tone. He headed for the section of ships' logs and found the log that referenced "The Warrior" shipwreck. There was a short list of passengers, far less than he expected. There was also a drawing of the vessel and a sketch of the lighthouse at Sandy Point where the shipwreck occurred. 

He scanned the passenger list. He found it odd that the crew of the vessel was listed with the names of passengers. One name stood out above the rest, "Matthew Oldham."

 "Strange, my father never mentioned any family member named Matthew," he muttered to himself. 

 Next to each name was the word "dead." 

That tourist stranger claimed there was a survivor who found the ring. Was the list of passengers incorrect? 

Malcolm started for the door. Araminty Nelesco called to him.

"Sir, did you find what you were looking for?"

 "All of the passengers on that list...all are dead?"

 "Yes sir. You can visit the cemetery across town and you'll see there are 35 passengers and the crew are all buried there."

 "How many of the 35 were crew?" Malcolm asked.

 "I believe 10 crew members also perished with the 25 passengers."

 "Well thank you for your assistance," Malcolm said. 

Next, he located the old cemetery. There was a large sign in ironwork with the name "Isle of Angels Cemetery" at the large black gate with a fence around the perimeter of the area. The gate wasn't locked. 

Still Malcolm felt like a thief in the night entering and surreptitiously looked around to see if anyone was watching. He felt silly when the thought occurred to him that the only ones who could be watching were those buried inside the gate. 

Cemeteries always did make me feel eerie, he thought. 

He set about searching and counting the number of graves of those who perished aboard the "Warrior." He mused that the name of the cemetery should have been "Shipwreck Warriors" since the only graves were those who went down with the vessel. 

He mentally counted the number of graves all marked with the words Warrior Passenger. 

To his surprise, there were 2 children among those who perished. When he reached the last row of graves, he saw no headstone for someone named "Matthew Oldham." 

There was nothing in the log at the historical society to indicate if Matthew Oldham was an adult or a  child. None of the passengers ages were contained in that log. Malcolm assumed that was because the agent who booked the passengers aboard never recorded their ages given they were all Block Islanders.

Malcolm realized he had to know if Matthew Oldham was a member of his family. His mother, Sarah Hixon Oldham died when Malcolm was a child, His father said she died giving birth, a fact Malcolm never questioned since he had no siblings and men in his father's day never discussed details of "women's troubles." 

Now Malcolm realized how lttle he knew about his parents. He remembered the family Bible his mother had always kept on the mantle above the fireplace in their living space above the shoppe. 

After his father died, Malcolm took comfort leavng the living space as it had always been. Malcolm made only one change and that was to move his parents' bed and other effects into his bedroom so he could occupy his parents' room which was larger and less cramped. 

The parlor was toward the front of the building and kitchen toward the back. The privy was located outside orginally but Malcolm had remodeled the third bedroom into an indoor privy, complete with a sink and shower and tub. 

 All else he didn't need or want he sold at auction or stored in the crawl space in the attic. 

 Malcolm's curiosity got the better of him. First, he searched for the Family Bible. He knew having no siblngs meant there would not be much family history there. He thought perhaps the vicar at St. Boniface Chapel might have some other information. 

St. Boniface Chapel was not so much a vicaraege as an extension of the St. Boniface graveyard. Malcolm found it curious that he had lived so long on Block Island and knew so little about its history beyond what he'd learned in school. 

There was only one school on the island when he was a child and it was an old white clapboard building built by sailors for sailors children back in the late 1700s.

Malcolm's education was largely sporadic since it was difficult to retain teachers who would live year round on an island that could be storm tossed and deadly cold in winter.

His father insisted he attend church services but the minute his father was busy in the antique shoppe during the height of tourist season or when his father went on trips hunting more antiques young Malsolm beat a hasty retreat.

 Malcolm walked up the flagstone steps to the church. It looked abandoned. He opened the white doors with the black trim and called out, "Is anyone here?"

The inside of the church was as he remembered it. A small lectern near the center altar, seating under a row of stained glass windows for the choir and pews for church patrons. He called out again. 

This time a male voice answered. "Is someone calling?"

 "Yes sir, it's I, Malcom Oldham." 

"Oldham?" Now there's a family name I haven't heard in a very long time. How can I help you, Matthew Oldham?" 

The voice belonged to a man of the cloth who was quite old and walked with a slight limp. 

Malcolm struggled to recall the face but drew a blank. He surmised he should have been able to remember a small man of the cloth with a limp. 

"You remember the Oldham family name?" Malcolm asked.

 "Why yes. I should. My sister married an Oldham many years ago, Sarah Hixon."

 "Sarah Hixon? That was my mother's name. But that would make you my uncle?" 

 "Yes it would make me your Uncle Charles Hixon. Your mother died in childbirth. Your father Jedidiah and I never spoke again after her death. That's why you never met me. I was in seminary school when you were born and sent off to a vicarage in Pennsylvania. St. George Vicarage located in Havertown. When the vicar here on block Island died, do you recall Vicar Lymon Eaton?"

 "Yes. I do But I wasn't a regular attendant at services. I only remember he scolded me for my lack of attendance and disobedience to my father."

"I'm surrised your father had any religious interest."

 "Why is that?"

 "Because you see, he and my sister eloped against her parents' wishes" 

This was infomation Malcolm never heard before. So his father and mother eloped. He wondered what else he didn't know about his parents.

 "Did they have to marry/" Malcolm asked coyly questioning his legitimacy.

 "Yes. But, it was actually your father who insisted on marrriage. My sister was not so enthusiastic about marriage though she had many eligible suitors who would have her hand in marriage." 

 "My mother was a femme fatale?" 

 "Not as much as that. Your mother was not what most males would call a ravishing beauty."\\   "Then why...""

 "Our father Elizar Hixon was a very important man in government. He practically ruled the shipping, tourist and land development." 

 "So he had a lot of money?"

 "Well, I wouldn't say a lot. But more than most who live on an island." 

 "So my man, what brings you to the vicarage today?" 

 "I'm looking for some information about a shipwreck, The Warrior." 

Suddenly the vicar's face changed to a more dour expression.

 "Did you check at the library?" Charles hixon asked.

 "Yes. but I didn't find what I was looking for."

 "And what precisely was that?" "A man named Matthew Oldham. My father never mentioned him." 

 "I'm confused. Why do you want to know about Matthew Oldham?" 

Malcolm reiterated the story about the tourist, the tiger eye ring and the supposed curse it had brought so many who had it in their possession. 

 "You know where that ring is?" 

 "Yes, it's in my safe over at my shoppe." 

 "You must get rid of it. It will bring you no good fortune. Throw it in the sea if you must. Just get rid of it." 

Malcolm Oldham had no intentions of throwing such a valuable bauble into the sea. He was not a superstitious man and had no fear of curses. 

 "Did you know Matthew Oldham?" Malcolm asked.

 "Yes. He was Jedidiah's twin brother believed to have been aboard The Warrior when it sank."

 "What?????" "My father's twin?

 "Yes. But he is dead. It was that ring that brought him and the Warrior down."

 "How can that be?" Mlacolm asked.

 "Matthew Oldham and your father both had been sailors. Your father became ill with influenza and remained ashore where he set up that antique business. When he met your mother and was smitten by her, he knew she came from a well off family. His brother Matthew remained at sea amassing quite a small fortune by making trades of valuable items he'd "gotten "access to" on his many trips. One year Matthew came home from sea and saw my sister Sarah. The two fell instantly in love. But Jedidiah had already proposed marriage to her. In those days a woman who accepted a marriage proposal was bound to it or become a public disgrace. Matthew offered Jedidiah that tiger eye ring if he would release Sarah from her promise. Matthew knew the ring was quite valuable. Jedidiah took the ring and sold it almost instantly but refused to release Sarah from her promise. 

To make sure Matthew couldn't ever have Sarah, Jedidiah whisked her off and they eloped. My father was horrified but it was too late. Sarah was now the wife of a penniless antique dealer instead of the twin brother she loved so dearly. 

Matthew Oldham cursed that ring and anyone who had it in their possession. When Sarah died as you were born, Jedidiah was sure it was the ring that caused her death.

"But you say he sold the ring."

 "Yes he did. But when it caused so many deaths, buyers would return it terrified of its power. Now you say a tourist walked into your shoppe and wanted you to buy it?"

 "Yes" "What did this man look like?"

"It was hard to see his face. He wore a trench coat buckled at the front with an ivory buckle and a grey Fedora hat he kept pulled down over his eyes. He reminded me of an old photograph I saw in my mother's old photograph album."

"That man was Matthew Oldham. That's why he wanted you to have that ring. It was the only way he and my sister Sarah could marry. Matthew Oldham must have survived that shipwreck." 

"But how can it be Matthew Oldham"

 "It's why you found no gravestone out there in the graveyard. His death was always an assumption; but, there was no one who could certify it."

 "So my father forced my mother into marriage by making her in a family way?"

 "No."

 "No???? Then what are you saying?"

 "It was always suspected that the shipwreck wasn't just a result of a storm at sea but sabotage. There are ghosts you inherited that would be best not revealed, Malcolm Oldham." 

 "I have a right to know who these ghosts are."

 "Are you sure you want to know?"

 "Yes."

 "Here on the island the old story of the shipwreck was that Jedidiah feared Sarah's child wasn't his but Matthew's. So when the shipwreck occurred it was naturally blamed on the storm. Not on a vengeance to stop two people who loved each other from marriage. That tiger eye ring was more than just a release of your mother's freedom, it was to keep Matthew from knowing he had a son."

 "Me? I am that son? Then why try to sell me that ring?"

 "He wasn't selling you that ring. As you said, he seemed desperate for you to buy and offered it at a very low price." "I always wondered why my father and I were always so distant to each other. I thought perhaps he blamed me for my mother's death." 

 "The real curse of that ring was on your father. Now that it has surfaced again, Jedidiah can no longer keep its secret." 

 "I thought I recognized it when the tourist brought it into the shoppe. But I'd found it so long ago I wasn't sure it was the same ring."

 "You didn't just "find" it. You were meant to find it." "It was Matthew Oldham's only way of reminding your father of what he wanted to forget."

 "Then who was that tourist?" 

 "Perhaps just a wandering ghost who needed to finish unfinished business."

Malcolm Realized he had only two choices: Dispose of the tiger eye ring as the Vicar suggested or disclose a wrong that jad been kept hidden for over a half century. 

As he left the vicarage, he felt a sense  nof foreboding. He would return to his shop and see if someone would buy the ring. 

On the afternoon of his return, a storm was brewing. He hurried to buy a few things he thought he would need if the storm worsened. 

It did. In fact, the wind howled like an evil demon hungry for destruction. Malcolm battened down the hatches and secured the shop. He knew the power would go out because it always did when a storm of this magnitude visited the Island. 

He made certain he had a full supply of candles, dry firewood for the small fireplace in the anteroom behind the shop and enough canned goods and fresh water. 

He settled down after a warm meal of salt cod and biscuits and a cup of hot cider. The sound of the howling wind created a hypnotic effect. 

He removed the small velvet box with the ring inside it and tucked it in his sweater pocket. he patted it as if he wanted to make sure it was safe. 

The next morning, Malcom's shoppe was gone. The raging sea had carried it and Malcolm out into the grasping waves. It disappeared aq sif it never exited. 

Some say they see Malcolm's ghost searching for something on the beach. 

The Ghosts of Harlingen Library

Fate is a hunter or so we are told. Often we set out on an ordinary day to escape a problem only to find an unexpected, more perplexing situation that is the onset of feelings of total powerlessness. 

Such was the event that occurred for Richard MacDermott. Things at his job had become intolerable. He was a design engineer for the Waterton Ship Yard. His job was to design expansions for docks, slips and breakwaters. He long ago realized his job was already like a worn out shoe and felt as if both feet had blisters. 

 He looked forward to any scrap of free time to get as far away from his drawing board as humanly possible. So when he prevailed upon his employer, Jim Wilkins to let him borrow his sail boat for a long weekend sail, Richard wasted no time setting off with all of his provisions and sailing gear carefully loaded on board. 

 The day he set sail was no less than glorious, a bright blue canopy of sky with fluffy, billowy clouds and nothing ahead but miles and miles of North Sea as far as the eye could see. He mustn't have realized how the stressfulness of his job exhausted him. He began to feel drowsy and even though he ignored Jim Wilkins' warning to take an experienced sailing partner along, Richard craved solace.

He felt he was a good enough sailor since his ancestors in his mother and father's families had sailors back several generations, to manage alone. His feeling of drowsiness made it difficult for him to stay alert. 

At some point, his drowsy hazel eyes missed the heavy gray clouds just ahead over the open sea. By the time he noticed and was awakened by a wet mist on his face, a wild wind whipped the sails. Richard quickly grabbed the rudder. But cold, hard wind made the boom spin out of control. He tried to secure it. Instead, a covetous gust sent it directly for his head, toppling him on the slippery wet deck knocking him unconscious 

He didn't know how long he was unconscious or how far off course the boat sailed. He counted himself lucky that it beached rather than sank, his fear of drowning notwithstanding. He wondered where he was. He heard the lapping of sea water againt the boat's bottom and figured he was in a shallow.

He climbed out and pulled the tow line so the boat was less likely to be carried out to sea and there being only sandy beach, he hurried to find driftwood to pile enough to secure the anchor. Instead of small pieces of driftwood, he found just what he was after, a large tree trunk that washed ashore.

Richard glanced back at the roiling sea and up at the dark, billowing clouds moving inland. He knew he needed to take shelter. He only wished he knew where he was. He didn't bother to take a compass reading since when he set saiol he planned to let the sea calm his nerves. 

Now, he realized why a sailor should never ignore compass readings. He rested a while on the beach until the dark clouds burst forth with rain drops the size of sour apples. He ran as fast as he could up the incline of the beachhead, when he spotted a grove of large trees and a seemingly forgotten path. To the left of the narrowing path, he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a large house.

"Good. Maybe I can ask for help," he muttered to himself. He bounded up several stone steps to a small landing that led to another set of stairs and a front door that looked as old and weather worn as the house.

 He thought about how such close proximity to the sea always took their toll on shingles and roof tops. He shrugged for a moment and politely pulled on the lion's head door knocker. The loud bang it made as the upper brass ring struck the plate attached to the door startled him.

"Well the occupants surely will hear that." He laughed to humself. He waited a full minute. No one answered his knock. He tried again, assuming the people may be asleep. It was, after all, still early morning. By the time he tried knocking for the third time, he began to feel exasperated. He tried the door knob. It had begun to rust.

 "Strange. If the door knob is beginning to rust, maybe the house is abandoned." 

Very cautiously, he turned the knob. The door creaked as it slowly swung open. Richard noticed the odor of mold old houses always seem to emit.

 "Is anyone here?" he called. 

No response. He walked from the flagstone foyer into the great room at his right. The furnishings were covered in sheets. The fireplace mantel had not be dusted and the photo of a family was so dusty he had to brush it away to see the faces. 

There was a tall, dark haired man, a woman who was probably his wife and a youhg girl all arm in arm in front of the massive, dominating fireplace. He surmised the photo was probably taken at least two decades ago judging from the style of their clothes. 

Richard realized the house was abandoned and it gave him a chill.

 What if that family was murdered? The house was located within walking distance of the beach. Just as he was beached in a storm other unsavory characters could have washed ashore and found this house.

 "Then, why cover the furniture in sheets?" he laughed to himself, realzing another more practical reason made more sense.

The wild wind lashed furiously against the house and created an odd, icy draft. He wondered if he dared light the fireplace. There was enough wood in the wood pantry next to the fireplace. He figured if someone saw the smoke curling from the chimney, it might bring him inquisitive visitors.

He purposefully stacked a small pile of kindling and lit a fire under it. As soon as that took flame, he added wood. The wood and kindling were so dry, they burned quickly. Richard had to pile more wood on. 

He went into the large kitchen to look for a glass of water to wet the wood a little so it wouldn't burn so quickly. He was surprised that the table had been set for three; but, the dishes were unused. There was a large stew pot on the stove that was also unused.

This made Richard wonder even more about the 3 people who once lived there.They must have been in a hurry to leave. He considered the possibility they left due to a storm surge that brought the sea inland and they chose to evacuate.

He would later discover he was right about a storm, just not why they left. Richard found there was still a few tinned goods in the pantry and a cannister of tea.

"Oh boy could I use a hot cup of tea? It's so cold in here." He put the kettle on after having to let the faucet run free of brown water, The stove still had enough gas to make a pot of tea.

He filled the pot, placed it on the tea tray with a china cup and saucer he found in a cabinet and headed back to the living room. He glanced around the room trying to imagine who had occupied the house and why it was abandoned. 

He didn't realize how exhausted he was. He curled up in front of the fireplace and slept so soundly and didn't wake up until he heard a clap of thunder and saw lightening blazing across the large bay window of the great room. 

 The fire burned down to glowing embers. He rose, stretched and yawned. 

WEhen he was still half asleep, he saw it must still daylight because the sky had begun to lighten somewhat.

He felt hungry and wondered if there was anything edible in the kitchen pantry. He found only tinned fish which was not what he had in mind for his first meal since sun up when he set sail. 

Any of the provisions aboard the sailboat would likely be water logged from the storm and winds. 

 "Oh well. I guess I'll wash up and head into town." 

The town was as abandoned as the house and any hope of finding a small cafe or coffee shop was not likely. The town was really only a small village. He poked his head into various shops. 

Where was everyone? 

With the storm gradually receding, Richard was ravenous. All he found for sustenance was an empty shop that had a few shelves of tinned goods. He grabbed a tin of coffee, some powedered milk, a box of groats and sugar.

He felt guilty about leaving without paying; but, he lost his wallet when the sailboat beached. 

He reminded himself to search for it later in the day. He never got around to it. 

He found an empty mansion at the edge of town he hoped would at least have a caretaker. It was quite elegant and imposing. All he wanted was access to the kitchen to make himself a light meal.

He opened the large entry doors cautiously. He called out. There was no response. He wandered around until he found the huge kitchen. It too looked as if it had not been in use for a long time.

Still, his hunger worsened. He reached for a small saucepan to make himself porridge with the groats. He guessed at how much water was needed. At least, the tap water here wasn't brown. He found the larder pretty empty except for several boxes of rice, tinned beans and sausage links.

"Better help myself to those goods. It may be all there is for supper." 

 Richard finished his meager meal and decided to have a look around. Who would abandon such a lavish place he wondered. 

By late afternoon, he tired of the mansion's musty odor and figured the place at some point in time had become a museum.

He wandered around the small village until he came to what was obviously a library. He peered inside. It too was empty.He hoped he might learn something about this empty little village the storm had brought him to. 

There had to be a reason for an entire village to be abandoned. It couldn't have been some kind of chemical or gas attack because there were no bodies lying about. 

He walked inside the building.

"It surely is a library," he muttered to himself. 

He was awed by the fact that every wall from floor to ceiling was lined with book shelves.

"There must be several hundred books in here." He noted he'd begun to speak aloud more frequently given the absence of others. 

He saw there were several levels, three to be exact and that each level was accessed by three separate spiral staircases.

It didn't miss his notice that one of the three was relatively older than its two counterparts. He surmised two newer staircases may have been added in the past decade or two.

The wood embellishments were still highly polished and had not dulled with age.

He looked around the book shelves on the ground floor. Many appeared to be biographies of village families. He wondered aloud how an abandoned village could have had so many residents as to even fill up the three book shelves. 

Where did they all go? Who were they and why did they leave?

The odd thing about the library was that it was so well kept. Not a speck of dust anywhere in sight. The wood floor, though old, looked as if there had never been any foot traffic. Whoever built the library spared no expense to install heavy oak planks for flooring. He could still smell the oak scent, even with the stuffiness of the indoor air. 

Actually, there was another odor pervading the library coming from the books. It smelled like a bale of wet paper. Yet, there was no sign of mold or mildew from dampness or damage from water.

The inside of the library was almost a if it was hermetically sealed. Outside of a few odd cold spots, the temperature inside was mostly ambient by comparison to the weather outside.

He glanced at the large window that had a window seat with book shelves beneath it. As if a visitor could sit for a time and read at their pleasure.

He saw the three spiral staircases, the two more recently added had a dizzying effect when looking upward from the ground floor. 

 "Why add new stairs to an abandoned building in an abandoned town?" 

He could see from his vantage point the library's three levels, each with hundreds of books lining shelves, seemed to reach the ornately colored, mosaic ceiling. 

The three spiral staircases gave access to the two upper levels of the building. He climbed the oldest, probably original, spiral staircase. It began to wobble violently as he reached the first curve of the stairs. He hurried back down in case the entire older staircase sent him plunging to the first level.

He was determined to see what lay above on the two upper levels. He tried the spiral staircase nearest the large window. It seemed sturdier than the first one. He reached the second level and it was like an optical illusion, as if he stepped into one of those distortion mirrors. 

He gripped the railing tightly, feeling somewhat dizzy and disoriented. This next level was unexpectedly sparse except for hundreds more books. 

He saw that many of the books were family histories. He pulled one off the shelf and felt as if his hand was stuck in an electric outlet. 

He quickly put the book back. and hurried down the stairs. His hand was reddened and felt sharp spasms. He refused to let that stop him from exploring. 

He decided to try the last set of spiral stairs that led to the third level. However, the library light inside became almost as foggy as a sea mist. Just not damp as sea mist is. 

 Like a fierce warrior, hw hurried up the third set of stairs. Oddly enough, unlike the other two stairs, the access to the third level was less dizzing.

It had fewer books than the other two levels. Dare he risk getting another static electric shock? Given the dim light inside the library, he soon was aware there was no electricity of any kind.

Who lives without electricity in this day and age? He wondered. The other thing he noticed was that this level had no seating unlike the other two where one reading desk and several curved benches were attached to the walls.

He reached cautiously for a book. No static shock. The book appeared to be some kind of adventure novel by a lone author. In fact, it was non-fiction and chronicled the town's founder and his fanaticism for books. 

Richard mused to himself that it explained the derth of books. 

He settled down on the highly polished "dust free" floor and read on. 

He learned George Harligen owned the abandoned mansion and built this also abandoned library. The pages of the book were curiously new when he thought such old books would have yellowed pages.

Richard found his eyes slowly getting heavier and heavier. Perhaps becuase of the deadly silence of the interior of the library, the overpowering mustiness, or simply due to his own lack of sleep. 

When he awoke, he felt as if he was still asleep and dreamed he heard voices. He rose as the book on his lap fell to the floor with a loud echo he could hear throughtout the library. Then, he thought he heard movement coming from around the book shelf.

"Who's there?" he called. The response was dead silence.

"I think I must leave this building. It has a peculiar effect on me." 

He replaced the book only to notice several books looked as if they had been moved slightly from their resting place on the shelf. 

As he glanced at each one briefly, he saw all of these books were family biographies. But the names of each family were clearly not of any notoriety. 

He opened one, then another, and another. All of the books has one link: they were all Harlingen families who lived in this strange, secluded village. 

When he glnced through the last one, he saw that the family name was listed with the same address as the house he visited after being washed ashore. 

His facial epression changed when he read that the chronological time when that family lived in that home was fairly recent. He guessed not more than a decade or 2. Forgetting his former desire to flee and try to find some way to communicate with someone who would rescue him, he continued to read about this family. 

A mother, father, daughter and son. It mentioned a terrible snow storm and the daughter being lost. He read that the parents searched everywhere including the library. 

There, the biogrography ended as if a door slammed shut. 

"How odd?" he muttered to himself. 

Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a young girl looking at him. Richard was thrilled. Now he would finally be rescued.

"Can you help me? he asked. 

 The figure remained silent. He rubbed his eyes. "I must be imaging things."

 "No. you are not imagining me," the yung gilr said, pointing to the book shelves. 

"We are all here you see."

"We?"Richard asked.

\

"We, the people of this village. It's the library, you see. It became our refuge from storms. We ggathered here just as George Harlingen planned. You weren't tossed ashore by the storm. You were led to find a place among us."

"That's not possible." 

 "In this world, anything is possible"

"What do you mean this world?" Richard asked.

"Why the place we all go when we are lost and never found." she answered. "We found you just as you found all of us."

"In books?" Richard asked. 

 "Quite. Have you never read a book and the characters in it seemed all too real? Well? We are real. "

 "But I made it ashore. I found that house. I saw photos." 

 "And you did all that after you left the other world for this one. Just as I did and my parents and brother did when we were lost in the snow. We all came into this library for safety but we found the library was another world we had ventured into."

"So you're saying I'm dead? I imagined I was tossed ashore by the shore?" 

"Many who live in these books felt as you do. Not really ready to be immortalized in literature."

 "I'm just having a bad dream. I'll wake up and I'll be rescued."

\

"By whom?" she asked. 

 Richard panicked for the first time in his life. What if she was right? What if he was dead? What if he wasn't ever really dreaming? 

\

It was true there were no inhabitants in this village that is so very secluded in a rocky inlet. Richard McDermott suddenly felt as if his mind was swirkling like the angry sea. 

Yet, he felt a strange sense of tranquility. Fate hunted him when things had become intolerable and brought him to an end where his story would be told in a book of his very own making. He followed the young girl whose image seemed to fade as if she passed through a magic mirror.

 "May the next restless soul find Harlingen Library" Richard thought.

 "She will and she will find your book as you found ours." a chorus of voices said. "