Abby awoke in the recliner, cranky and lethargic instead of energized. The desk lamp and computer screen remained dark. The gloom of the afternoon seemed intensified.
She went to the kitchen for a bottle of water and found a note on the refrigerator: Abby—went into town, didn’t want to disturb you. Back soon. Lisa (aka Mom)
“Thanks, Lisa aka Mom. I ask for a ride. You say no and then go without me.”
After digging under the sink, Abby pulled out the old coffee tin of emergency candles, inserting one into a slit in the plastic lid and lighting it. She looked out the window; the rain continued in torrents. In the barn a beam of light shone through the partially open door.
Jack’s silhouette wavered in the glow.
Abby shivered, not certain if from anticipation or a chill. A cool barn in the rain with Jack or an empty house in the rain alone? No contest. And it would be an opportunity to gather more information about the elusive Monsieur Charpentier.
Ignoring her misgivings, she took a yellow slicker from a peg in the mudroom and pulled it on. It had a musty odor and the plastic lining stuck to her bare arms. Before she could open the door, thunder boomed and lightning struck somewhere nearby, with a crash and sizzle.
Abby shivered, took the slicker off, and went back in the kitchen. Now what? No computer, no TV, nothing but books. She realized how little she had read since her dad died. Stormy days used to mean candlelight, her dad studying the Civil war, Abby deep in a mystery. But in a few short months everything had changed. The things she enjoyed no longer enjoyable; the people she loved no longer lovable.
She picked up the candle and walked upstairs, shielding the flame and carrying three more candles. Lisa had stored her father’s books in the attic. There were volumes of information on the Civil War, pages his hands had touched, covers he had used as coasters for his tea mug.
Abby stopped on the third-floor landing as the sound of moaning swept past the house. “Ghosts be gone.” She laughed, knowing it had to be the wind, and ignored the raised goose bumps on her arms.
Cobwebs hung from the rafters of the unfinished attic room, and Abby heard a distinct scurrying under the pounding of the rain. She held the candle aloft and peered into the dark corners. No visible mice.
Holding the candle away from her body, she peered under the eaves. A reflection came from an ancient, dust-covered lantern. The rusted top had a large iron ring attached. The middle, made of glass, sat in a metal framework. When she looked closer, the surface seemed to bubble and shift, as water boiling on the stove. The extra candles in her hand clattered to the floor and rolled away as a familiar face swam into her line of vision. She saw the same soldier—Silas?—unkempt dark hair, dimpled grin, his worried eyes a stark contrast.
She reached out to caress the pale cheek, longing to light up his eyes. The face disappeared. Her fingers connected with nothing more than cool glass. Disappointment crashed her yearning to make contact. For several minutes Abby stood still, clutching the sputtering candle in her hand. It would soon go out, leaving her in pitch dark. The extra candles were lying somewhere near the lantern, where she had dropped them.
A tree branch whispered against the side of the house, and with it a voice murmured, “Abigail …”
“Silas?” Abby peered through the murky gloom for the source of that odd, echoing tone. Rather than fear, anticipation coursed through her. “Are you here?” Taking a deep breath, she held her candle nub aloft. The attic space showed nothing more than cobwebs and old boxes.
Placing the coffee can on the floor, Abby reached into the shadows and pulled out the lantern. It sloshed when she moved it, full of oil. The plain glass held no face. She turned a dial on the side, exposing a nub of cotton wick. Using the matches in her pocket, Abby lit the lamp and set it on a crate in the middle of the room, illuminating the area in a soft glow as the candle sputtered out.
Abby tried to refocus to search through the boxes stacked around the perimeter of the area for her father’s belongings. A box in the far corner behind a red plastic tub of Christmas decorations caught her attention: Adam’s Civil War books: KEEP.
Dragging the heavy carton into the lantern’s light, she ran her hand over the name Adam and paused, startled to realize he had been more than just her father. Maybe other people missed him, too. Maybe even Lisa.
The dusty box smelled stale when Abby opened it. She shuddered when a silverfish scurried over the lid and disappeared into the floorboards. One book at a time she emptied the box, leafing through each to get an idea of the contents. Some looked interesting, about spies from Canada, the Underground Railroad, and slavery; others appeared more daunting, with titles appropriate to a reference library.
At the very bottom of the carton she found an old book that looked promising, A History of Civil War Regiments of Pennsylvania. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she pulled the volume onto her lap and searched through the musty pages. Checking the index in the back she found 103 PA Volunteers, the same group as on Silas’ tombstone. “Perfect.”
As she turned to the correct page, the flame in the lantern flickered and went out, leaving the attic blanketed in total darkness. A gust of air ruffled the book pages; the door to the third floor had been opened. Footsteps sounded, tentative but heavy, one step at a time coming closer. Abby closed the book and held her breath. The footsteps stopped, just out of her line of vision.
A whispery voice hissed under the drumbeat of rain, too soft to understand.
“Who’s there?” Abby’s voice cracked.
The door burst fully open. “Abs, I got so freaked just now.” Morton stomped in the attic and plopped down beside her. “I didn’t know where you were, so I looked all over the house and saw this eerie light coming from up here, and it kept storming, and I didn’t know what to do because my ghost meter’s at home, and then I heard your voice and thought, like wow, it’s gonna be okay.” He took a deep breath.
“Morton, chill,” Abby re-lit the lantern. “What’re you doing here? Don’t even tell me you rode your bike in the storm.” She didn’t mention the face she had seen moments earlier in the lantern glass, or the sound of someone calling her name. Or her belief that Silas might be reaching out to her … from beyond the grave.
“Your mom stopped at my house. She knew my mother had tests scheduled at the hospital all day. She brought me over in the car so I wouldn’t be alone.”
“Amazing,” Abby said. “Just when I think she’s a total bitch she does something decent. Go figure. Anyway, check this out. I found one of my dad’s books and Silas’s regiment is in it.” She consulted the index again and turned to page 152. “Listen to this. The soldiers in the 103rd were sent to Camp Orr in Kittanning, wherever that is.”
“It’s in Armstrong County. About an hour north by car.”
“I’m guessing Silas didn’t get there in a Jeep,” Abby said. “The guys from around here left in 1861, in December. I wonder if Silas left before Christmas. How sad for Leticia. She probably didn’t feel like celebrating with him away.”
Flashes of past Christmas’s played through Abby’s head. Chopping down a tree and decorating it with goofy ornaments, warm cider and crumb cake by the glow of colorful tree lights, two stockings hung on the mantel, embroidered Adam and Abby. With effort she tuned back into Morton.
“My family is my mother, and she can’t do much celebrating these days. Want an M&M?”
“No. Okay, focus. In February, that means it would be early 1862, the Regiment left Camp Orr by train and went to Harrisburg by way of Pittsburgh. After a stop in Baltimore, they stayed in Washington, D.C. Then in March they were in something called the Peninsula Campaign, near Alexandria, Virginia. I think the inscription said Silas died in March 1862. It must have been in that battle.”
“But what about the shame thing?” Morton frowned. “Didn’t Leticia’s letter say he died in shame? How could that be if he died in the line of duty? Maybe he deserted or shot another soldier or something. You know, friendly fire.”
“The letter also said he should have been considered a hero. Even his mother wouldn’t think of him as a hero if he ran away or shot a friend.”
“I’ve got it.” Morton nodded and stroked his chin. “It’s a government conspiracy. Has to be, right? Those guys on talk radio always find out about stuff the government does to cover things up.”
“We’re talking about 1862. All that conspiracy theory crap is ridiculous.” Abby looked at Morton, red-faced and ready to argue. “And even if it’s true now, which I doubt, it certainly isn’t Civil War-era true.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and a moment later Jack’s voice. “Abby? You up here?” The beam of a flashlight preceded him into the attic.
“Looks like a party, and I didn’t get my invitation.” Jack glanced around the room. “It’s M&M Boy and Biker Chick. Your mom asked me to see if you needed anything. What’s all this?”
“Abby found this cool Bi—”
Abby interrupted Morton. “It’s nothing. Just some books of my dad’s, Civil War stuff. We’re reading about the Underground Railroad and looking up info on the Dravo Cemetery. There’s nothing better to do.” She couldn’t figure out why, but she had changed her mind about sharing Leticia and Silas with Jack. It seemed like a good idea an hour ago, but now it didn’t. The more she thought about Jack, the less she wanted him to be involved in her life until she knew him better. He made her head hurt and her heart question everything.
“I rode to the cemetery the other day,” Jack said. “You were right; the graves are interesting. It looks like the foundation of an old building is there, too. I saw some stones that are the right shape; an archeology class I took last year described how to find evidence of ancient structures. I’ll show you sometime, free of charge.” He looked at Morton. “You can stay home.” He turned to go.
“Why did you go into Pittsburgh? And what were you doing out in the truck earlier?”
Jack tilted his head. “I could make something up, but want the real answer?”
Abby nodded.
“It’s none of your business. That’s the real answer.” Jack marched down the stairs, the sound of his boots on the wooden steps getting fainter.
Abby shook her head and looked at the floor. “He can be so mean.” She wondered why she even cared.
Morton put one hand on Abby’s arm. “Hey, he’s a loser. Don’t waste your time on him, ’cause we have work to do. I’ll check out one of these other books.”
They read until the words blurred, and Abby’s eyes ached from deciphering small print in the dim light. Morton left for home during a break in the rain, and Abby went to her room.
Long after evening shadows slid into murky night, she stared out her window at the light coming from the barn. She heard a car backfire, but otherwise everything except the crickets remained silent.
A profound, vague sense of unease kept her awake for a long time. And the face in the lantern glass swam through her mind. She longed to see it—him—again.