The Haunting of Alcott Manor, page 22
part #1 of Alcott Manor Series
“All right, I’ll just help myself, then.” She strolled around the small front office and quickly figured out that the exhibits Tom had mentioned were in the middle part of the building.
She meandered through Charleston’s early history then advanced toward a gleaming black and white poster-sized picture of Alcott Manor. They posted two pictures: one from 1880 and another more recent one to show its dilapidation.
She read the placard aloud. “The community is debating between preserving its history with Alcott Manor and tearing it down to allow for new growth. Lamentably, the house is rumored to be haunted by Senator Benjamin Alcott, and restoration efforts to date have yielded very little progress.”
“Well,” Gemma said into the quiet. “We’ll see about that. Might want to make room for the next poster, my historical society friends. It’s going to look very much like the original over there.”
She examined the original photo and scrunched in close to see the family who gathered in front of the mansion they called home. Now that she had seen Anna and part of Benjamin Alcott with her own eyes, she wanted to see original photos of them from their time. Validation of sorts, she guessed. However, the photo had been blown up so large that the quality was too grainy.
The exhibit featured numerous pictures of the house and its early role in Charleston. Many of them she had already found on the internet. Some she hadn’t seen before. She examined one of the pictures taken of Alcott Manor in its heyday and noticed that it featured an exterior shot of the solarium during a July 4th picnic celebration.
She found another of the room itself, lush with wide-leafed green plants and the waterfall, just as Tom had described. With no one around to help her with copies, she took her phone from her pocket and snapped several photos, then emailed them to Tom.
She lingered over an original guest book from the manor that held signatures from dignitaries who had visited the house. Many of them presidents of the United States and their wives.
The next group in the exhibit—the Alcott Family Tree—made her heart jump. She loved genealogy and had spent months documenting her own family tree with her mother years before. It was always fascinating for her to see who her ancestors were.
Small oval pictures of the members of the Alcott family sat at each relevant position on the tree. Someone had painted an actual tree, and it was so beautiful.
A different artist had painted another family tree on a separate canvas. But that one was new-ish and held color photos of current-day people who were Alcott family members. She didn’t care much about that.
At the top of the original family tree, there was Benjamin Henry Andrews Alcott and his wife, Bertha Mae Alcott nee’ Roberts. Benjamin looked just like the picture she had seen of him on the internet. Gray hair, wide handlebar mustache, highly starched cravat, asymmetric horizontal bow, conservative black suit.
She noticed Henry as his middle name. Her Henry had told her that his name was a family name.
Her Henry.
She wondered about that connection and if that was a good idea for his parents to give him the same family name as a potential murderer.
Her mother told Gemma she gave her an original name so she could start fresh in life. She didn’t want the energy of another relative to be linked to her given name.
Gemma had always been an independent thinker and her own person. No one ever said, “Why, you’re just like your mother/brother/father/cousin.” Never. She often attributed that to her mother’s forethought.
She redirected her attention to the Alcott family tree. Benjamin and Bertha Mae had five children.
Wait.
Stop.
Bertha Mae? Benjamin was married to Anna. They had four children, not five.
Gemma’s eyes scanned the photos of the five children.
The first born was a daughter with long, curled pigtails, who had drowned at age seven.
Their second child, a son—Gemma’s breathing stopped.
“This can’t be right.”
She stared at the face in front of her, the one that looked at her with all the frank pleasantness, mystery, and charisma that had entranced her from the moment they’d met.
She read the details beneath the photo:
Benjamin Henry Alcott, son of Benjamin Henry Andrews Alcott and Bertha Mae Alcott nee’ Roberts, born July 5, 1850, died August 16, 1883, married Anna Frances nee’ Hall, born October 20, 1852, died August 13, 1883.
Her heart tap-danced against the wall of her chest and her head twitched involuntarily.
“That’s not possible.”
Her fingers felt fat and not quite her own when she snapped a photo of the face that was Henry’s doppelganger. She enlarged the photo on her screen. The photo was black and white, but his eyes were obviously light in color, his eyebrows were perfectly symmetrical, and his jawline was squared off at the edges. All perfectly explainable genetic details.
Except that he had a tiny scar just below his right eye. Just like her Henry.
Her Henry.
The phone slipped from her grasp and clattered on the tile floor. She noticed the next display case, which held several yellowed newspaper articles about Senator Benjamin Henry Alcott, Jr. and how he was convicted and hung for murdering his wife. She lifted the plastic cube that rested on top of the white base and set it on the floor.
Gemma leaned close to the yellowed newspaper article and stared at the photograph that held the clear, light-colored, wide-set eyes she’d looked at every day for the past few weeks. This was Henry. Henry Alcott. The same Henry Alcott who was paying her and her family’s business a significant amount of money to restore Alcott Manor.
The same one she'd fallen in love with.
The one she agreed to marry when he proposed to her just last night.
This article said his father was the original owner of the home. Father and son were both South Carolina senators who fought hard for justice in the South. The son, however, was accused, convicted, and hung for killing his wife.
She took the ancient article in her hands and examined the date. It was printed one hundred and thirty-one years ago, almost to the day, in fact.
Tomorrow was the anniversary of Anna’s death and Henry’s arrest.
Chapter 28
The right side of the room tipped up and then up again, and Gemma leaned against the opened display. The article floated to the floor. She breathed in and out through her nose as slowly as she could. That's the way they taught her a long time ago when she was recovering from her first encounter with a ghost.
Her mind ran at top speed, reaching for some sort of logical understanding. If Henry and Benjamin were the same person…if Henry was a ghost…how was it possible that she could experience him as a real person? Someone who was solid enough to kiss and hug, hold hands and fall in love with?
No.
She laughed—actually laughed—though she felt more like running from the room screaming.
“This is a joke. That's what this is. A stupid joke.”
She grabbed the top of her head hard where the pounding culminated in a pain that hurt more than she thought she could stand.
“One, two, three.” Careful steps to the family tree exhibit.
She searched the updated family tree painting and traced the branches with her shaking finger until she found the most current-day Alcott family members. Henry's face would be there. She knew it. Then she would put her sanity back in its rightful home.
Obviously, she wasn’t managing her stress level as well as she thought she was.
Henry had had his freak out this morning. She was having hers now. That's all this was. She was overreacting to something that wasn't even possible. Stress could do that to you.
She scanned all the pictures of current descendants. Each person was positioned in front of a formal, gathered rose-colored curtain, the kind you might find in a church parlor. When she didn't find Henry, she decided she'd overlooked him.
She searched names this time and near the end of the line was Henry Alcott.
Who looked nothing like her Henry.
This man had straight brown hair with a side part, and he was pudgy.
On the other side of the cubed family tree exhibit was a larger photo of this same man with a brief typed summary beneath: Henry Alcott is a hotelier who spends most of his time in London, England. He has most recently donated the largest share of funds required for the current restoration of the Alcott Manor.
“No.” She backed away from the exhibit. “This is not happening.” This must be the house, she decided. The house manipulated the way she saw things last night. Maybe it had been doing that for longer than she realized.
And the house did have some kind of portal connection with the past. Maybe Henry—Benjamin? Maybe he was somehow able to interact with her because—
“No. This is ridiculous. I don't believe this.”
He was Henry. He was perfect. Almost perfect. Perfect for her.
She’d finally found the great love of her life.
And he was a ghost.
No.
Whatever he was, the bright future she’d had the courage to dream of was now a total impossibility. She pressed her hand to her forehead and noticed a clammy sweat there.
“You don't believe what? Or do I need to ask?” Henry leaned against the wide doorway of the room, hands in his pockets.
“Henry.” For a moment, she thought when she said his name that all would go back to normal. Back to when she knew that he was everything she’d ever dreamed of. Back to when she was happy.
The newspaper article on the floor between them caught her eye.
“How?” She picked up the article and waved it. “How is any of this possible?”
“You mean, how are we possible?” His voice was as deep and calm as she'd always known it to be.
“Among other things, yes.” Her engagement ring reflected the light and she clasped her hand to her chest. The paper floated to the floor.
Henry watched it land, picked it up, and walked to her.
“All I know is that you’re the first person to see me and to interact with me as a real person in over a hundred and thirty years. I didn’t want to question it too much in case the magic all went away. You’re the first good thing to happen to me in a long time.” He reached to caress her face and she moved away.
“You’re Benjamin.” She said it, though she didn't want to. “Benjamin. Alcott.”
A flicker of sadness softened his face for a flash of a moment, and she knew he didn't want to admit it. “I am.”
“Who lived and died in the 1800s and who killed his wife.”
“I did not kill my wife.”
She didn't believe him. She had never believed that Anna had committed suicide. Now it was clear to her why he had been so desperate to prove Benjamin’s innocence.
His innocence.
“Oh, God.” The dizziness flipped the room on its head again, and she lowered herself to the floor. The cool tile felt good to her open palms, and she tried to focus on that alone.
Henry squatted next to her and placed his hand on her back. “I’m sorry, Gemma. I know this is a shock.”
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth? You let me believe— God, I must have looked like an idiot this entire time. And you—you proposed to me! What the hell, Henry! How was that supposed to work? How—” The words were large in her mouth, and they lost their footing on her rapid breath.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. So many times. But if I had told you the truth, what would you have been able to do with that?”
“What do you mean?” Gemma placed her hands on her forehead.
“If I had told you the truth about me—who I was, who I am. You wouldn’t have believed me. Would you? One of the first things you said to me when we met was that you didn’t see ghosts.”
All she could think about was how she had lost the one she loved. She had lost Henry. Every inch of her body ached. “No. I wouldn’t have believed you.”
“You would have thought I was crazy. You would have written me off as some nutcase. You wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with me.” Henry dipped his head and raised his eyebrows. “Am I right?” He reached for her hand and held it in his.
She slowly licked her dry lips and looked away. “You’re right.”
A loud truck engine rumbled past the building.
“You’re Benjamin. Not Henry.” Betrayal and hurt widened the distance between them.
“I’m Benjamin, yes.”
“The same Benjamin who killed several others over the years at the manor.”
“I’ve never killed anyone.” He pulled his hand away, and a fiery defensiveness lit behind his eyes. She wondered if half of his face would disappear into rotting flesh and if a rope would appear around his neck.
She squinted to focus hard while details from their time together played through her mind. Henry’s insistence about the note. Benjamin’s searching. The destruction. “You don’t know if you killed Anna or not, do you? That’s why you want that suicide note so badly. You’re trying to prove to yourself that you didn’t do this awful thing. That’s why you’re still here.”
"Honestly?"
"Yes. Honestly—for a change."
The pace of his breathing quickened and his nostrils flared. “I don’t know.”
“You don't know what?”
His body was still, his eyes focused on her. “I don’t know if I killed Anna or not.”
She sat down all the way now.
He did the same.
They stared at one another.
She kept looking for a loophole in this experience—a way to hit the rewind button and to go back to the Henry she fell in love with. She wanted a way to erase everything else. “How is it that you don't know?”
He looked around the room with his fists flexed. Probably searching for something to hit, she figured.
“I don't remember entirely. It was a long time ago. I have always had a strong conviction that she killed herself, even when I was alive. I can't have been wrong for all this time."
"Ghosts are often wrong," she said flatly. “Over time, a ghost's memory is boiled down to a few moments that may or may not be accurate, and they sure as hell don't allow any room for insight.” She thought it especially cruel that he was only an arm’s length away, and yet the man she loved wasn’t anywhere anymore.
“I’ve had the benefit of quite a bit of insight over the last few weeks. Thanks to you.” He reached for her hand and she moved it just out of his reach.
“What happens when you—when you’re Benjamin?” She hoped he didn't show her. She hoped he wouldn't turn into the half-faced man she never wanted to see again.
“I don’t intentionally change. It just happens. The memories of the house play: the injustice of my trial, the way I was murdered, Anna’s death, the missing suicide note. The change happens, and I’m just searching for that damned note. The next morning the house is wrecked, but I don’t remember destroying anything. That hasn't happened for a while, though.”
Henry rubbed his hands against one another. He was real to her. Not a ghost, but real.
“Wait.” Something he said hit her funny. “What did you say?”
“I don’t remember anything when I turn—”
“No. You said ‘the missing suicide note.’ Why do you say that?”
“Because I think I remember seeing it. Before I died.”
“You saw Anna’s suicide note?”
“Maybe in her room. On her secretary desk.”
Unexpected hope deflated in her chest. “I searched that desk on the night I saw the memory of her. It's not there. Are you sure you’re not lying?”
He ran his hand over his face, though seemingly more in disappointment than frustration. “I’m not lying.”
She couldn't decide whether she wanted to throw herself into his arms or beat him senseless.
“Why did you go to such lengths to have a relationship with me? Were you bored, or did you just want to see how far this would go?”
He leaned forward and took both of her hands in his. His hazel eyes narrowed and focused. “Gemma. I did not tell you the truth about who I was. That was selfish, and I’m sorry. But I never played any games with you. These last few weeks with you have been the happiest times of my”—he let out a sigh—“my very, long, very tortured life.”
He wiped the tears from her cheeks and paused as if he searched within for the right thing to say.
“I don’t think I’d ever get over losing you.” Henry took Gemma’s face in his hands and kissed her lips.
She closed her eyes to the warmth and the softness of his kiss until she cringed and dropped her head.
“Oh, Gemma.” Henry pulled her close, and the betrayal in her heart hurt beyond her ability to bear it.
“I can't do this. I have a life back in San Francisco. A career. I don't have room for people who can't be honest with me.” Ghosts.
“I didn't tell you because I didn't want to scare you. I didn't expect you to see me, much less something to develop between us. From the first day we met, I knew how afraid you were of ghosts. I also knew how important it was for you to finish the restoration so your father's company would get paid.
"I haven't been able to leave the manor for any real length of time in over a hundred years, and I couldn't just leave while you did your work. I thought that maybe I could help you. That we could help each other. You needed to know more about the manor's history so you could clear the imprints of the past. I'm the only one who has that information."
"You could have sent me here." She waved to the exhibit. "I would have done all the right research."
"I lied to you about where this information was. I admit that. But even if I had sent you here, you wouldn't have known where Anna died or what happened in that guest room. You wouldn't have known what to do with the memories that flash through the house throughout the night. Hell, you could have been sucked into that world!”
She glanced down and then away. Her line of sight landed on the large photo of the house. Henry was probably one of those grainy, shadowy figures in front. This was a living nightmare. “You're right. I thank you for that.”
