Stalking Shadows (6 page)

Tentatively, he raised his calloused hand and waited patiently for the judge to call him up to the front of the courtroom. As he stood up, he grabbed the back of the seat in front of him for balance, and slowly shuffled his arthritic body toward the front of the room, relying heavily on his cane for support.

A young man jumped up and helped Mr. Walters get settled in a chair in front of the panel, for which he was very grateful.

“I believe the baby belongs to Sarah Christenson, better known as the Screaming Lady,” Mr. Walters said, his voice raspy from years of smoking. “As I recall, Mrs. Christenson was pregnant when she was murdered, but no baby was found at the time of her death. How the baby got into the hearth of the fireplace I haven’t a clue.”

The room instantly became abuzz at this prospect. Most people forgot about the Screaming Lady until October, when her unearthly scream filled the darkest of nights.

“Quiet!” the judge roared as he banged his gavel. The crowd immediately fell silent. “Mr. Walters, I accept your premise, as there seems no other likely scenario. The question is; what do we do with this poor baby?”

Much discussion ensued on the topic, and it was finally decided, thanks to a charitable contribution by the local funeral director, that the casket of Sarah Christenson be exhumed and the baby placed in her arms. Albeit a gruesome prospect, the townspeople agreed unanimously; they were ready to be finished with this tragedy that blemished the town’s good reputation in the county.

On a dreary, rainy Saturday morning, Sarah Christenson’s body was exhumed. The fragile skeleton of the baby, tenderly wrapped in a soft blanket, was carefully placed in the young woman’s arms. The casket was then resealed and returned to its final resting place.

That October, and every year since the baby was returned to the young mother, the Screaming Lady has been silent. She can no longer be seen running through the barren corn field, nor do her heart-breaking screams punch through the darkness.

It’s speculated that all Sarah Christenson ever wanted was for someone to find her baby and reunite them. As an earthbound spirit, she was using the anniversary of her death in an attempt to send a message to anyone who would listen that her baby was missing.

This young mother’s love for her unborn child transcended death, and now that they are reunited, there is no longer a reason for her to run screaming through the fields. She and her child are together and at peace for all eternity.

[contents]

Chapter 5

Franklin’s Story

Sometimes as a psychic medium, a ghost wanders into your life that is unforgettable and will stay with you all the days of your life, and perhaps even remain with you after death. Franklin’s story is haunting—a bit tragic, but in many ways endearing.

Franklin taught me that the personality you carried with you throughout your life doesn’t change much after death. In Franklin’s case, anyway, any changes that happened after his death were subtle. He had an extremely long time to reflect on his life, and the lives of those around him, and in some ways I think he made peace with himself—something he didn’t do before he died. However, his strongest character traits—stubbornness, arrogance, and his sense of entitlement—stayed with him long after his body rotted in the ground. He exists in this plane in spirit form only.

Franklin is an earthbound spirit by choice. He knows he can cross over to the other side any time he chooses; the point is he doesn’t choose to. Is he right in his decision? You can be the judge after you read his story.

I met Franklin’s ghost in a decaying, pre–Civil War mansion that had been undergoing renovation by the current owners. However, due to divorce, all the renovations had stopped and the mansion, a mere shell of its former self, was once again up for sale.

A friend of mine was close friends with the owners, and I was granted access anytime I wanted to be there—which was almost all the time.

At first, Franklin tried to scare me away by attempting to push me down a staircase, but I’d been warned by a friend who’d been almost shoved down the stairs in that house some months earlier, when she was helping the owners attempt to remodel the house.

I remember creeping up the well-worn stairs, varnished a deep mahogany, and feeling two unseen hands grab my shoulders.

Before the ghost could act any further, I told it to “Back off.” The ghost immediately scurried into a dark corner of the third floor of the house.

With time, and a lot of encouragement on my part, I got the ghost of Franklin to trust me, and we became what I would call “friends.”

I knew from my research on the property that Franklin was the ghost of the son of the original owner, Robert. I knew that Franklin died in 1887 and assumed, rightly so, that he’d been wandering the halls of the mansion since that time.

The third floor of the mammoth estate, like almost all the other floors, had been demolished down to the studs, and the original wide-planked wood floors, which once were varnished to a high-gloss mahogany shine, now were worn and covered with dirt.

The brick outside walls were barren, and a hole in one of the brick walls revealed the spot where an old fireplace once sat. The long-dead radiators were still set against the walls, and three bleak light bulbs dangled from their wires in the ceiling.

Daylight made a vain attempt at illuminating the rooms through dirty narrow windows, but even on the brightest of days, the third floor seemed dark and foreboding. No matter how warm it was outside, the third floor of the house always held a distinct chill, due to Franklin’s presence, and whenever I planned to be there for an extended period of time, I always took a blanket with me.

One rainy morning, I packed up a blanket and thermos of coffee and headed over to the mansion to spend time with Franklin. I could sense he often felt lonely in the place, and obviously, there weren’t many people he could talk to since the house was completely empty. The current owners, Jake and Sandy, were living in their own home a few miles away. Knowing the house was haunted, and because of my love of the paranormal, they’d graciously given me a key, so I was free to come and go as I please.

I let myself into the house and climbed two flights of stairs up to the third floor. I settled in by the only remaining inside wall, which butted up against the extremely narrow staircase up to the cupola.

“Franklin, are you here?”

Within a few seconds, the ghost of Franklin appeared next to me. His energy felt excited, so I knew he was happy to see me.

“Tell me your story, Franklin.”

He nodded in assent.

I poured myself a cup of hot coffee, and nestled it between my hands to warm them. Franklin’s tall, thin frame rose up in ghostly form, and began to pace the hallway leading down the entire length of the third floor. His long, ghostly fingers touched at the tips, forming a pyramid, and he bowed his head for a moment to gather his thoughts.

I could make out his dark Victorian suit, vest, and even the chain on his pocket watch. His hard-soled shoes made no noise as he wafted back and forth in the hallway in front of me.

What follows is Franklin’s story, in his own words.

“I’ve walked among the living for over a hundred years now, although it only seems like yesterday when I was a living, vibrant man.

“I’ve watched from the shadows as people live out their foolish little lives. Little do they know what comes after death —an eternity of torment and suffering? I’ve seen my empire crumble into decay around me, knowing I’m powerless to stop it. This must be hell, because no God would allow a soul to suffer as mine has.” Franklin’s voice turned bitter as he spoke.

“So, have you always lived in Michigan?” I sipped my coffee and snuggled farther under my blanket.

“No.” Franklin shook his head. “It all started with my father, the saint, who moved us to this insufferable place.”

“Your father was Robert, right?” I interrupted.

“Yes. He built this mansion that has now become my prison. Everybody sang his praises during his life and long after his death. Such a benevolent man, a savior to this small hamlet, they said. ‘Remember after the great fire how he rebuilt the town?’ they cooed. ‘Wasn’t it nice of him to leave money in his will to build a school for our children?’ This town adored him.

“Bah! I spit on his grave!” Franklin’s ghoulish face contorted into an angry mass. “Yes, the great saint gets to go to heaven, and I, the clever and ruthless man in business, am now destined to walk the halls of this house I hated so much for all eternity. Ironic, isn’t it? It was I who more than doubled the fortune! It was I who suffered so much in life, and yet in death am I allowed no peace?”

“I’ve always found that peace is subjective.” I shrugged. “Where did you move here from?”

“We moved here from Massachusetts in the late 1850s, because my father saw opportunity. I too saw the opportunities, however they differed greatly from my father’s. In retrospect, maybe they were not that much different; we just went about obtaining our goals in different ways.

“My father amassed a fortune and gave back to the people whose backs he broke while climbing the industrial ladder. I simply followed in his footsteps, but I kept the fortune I worked so hard to obtain.

“I went to law school and studied hard. I knew how important understanding the law was, especially if you intend to shape it to achieve your desires. I spent years working side-by-side with my father. Observing carefully all the deals he made, learning from them, learning how to do them better.”

“I understand,” I nodded. “You must have found some happiness—you got married.”

“Happiness?” Franklin’s ghostly laugh echoed off the walls. “There is no such thing as lasting happiness. In a small town people talk, and a man of my standing in the community should be married. I thought to myself one day, it would be good for business.

“A wife is a necessary evil to handle the entertainment for business associates and to exchange gossip with other women of her standing. You never know what you’ll learn from gossip if you listen hard enough. So I found an agreeable woman and married her. By this time, my father was becoming ill with arthritis. It became necessary for me to assist him in the various businesses we owned throughout the area. It was a comfort to know that my wife was overseeing the household. One less thing I had to worry about. Over the years she became a valuable asset to me.”

“She was a person, Franklin! She had feelings, dreams, and needs,” I protested. “She wasn’t your property. How sad a life she must have led.”

“She lived a good life.” Franklin’s ghost wheeled around to face me, crouching down so that his ghostly face was inches from mine. “How dare you judge me!” he roared.

“Perhaps you need to be judged! But that’s your biggest fear, isn’t it, Franklin? To have someone judge you for the actions you took when you walked among the living is your worst nightmare. From all the newspaper accounts I’ve read, you were quite the bastard in life and no one really mourned your passing. I see that you haven’t mellowed much in death.” I jumped to my feet and began to gather my things.

“Please don’t go,” Franklin pleaded. “I’m sorry, it was wrong of me to treat you so rudely in my home. I get so lonely. Please stay.”

I resettled myself on the floor and poured myself another cup of coffee. “So tell me about your daughter. Tell me about Betsy.” I already knew most of Franklin’s family history from doing research at the Historical Society and at the library, but I wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.

Franklin’s face softened, and for a moment I thought I saw a spark of life come back into his cold, dead eyes.

“In 1861, my wife bore me a daughter. I’d been hoping for a son, but the girl child was so beautiful and sweet, and in time I forgot the desire for a male heir. When she got older, I saw to it that she attended a finishing school back East. A young woman of her social standing required only the best education and instruction in the social graces.

“I hoped she’d marry well, and I would have a son-in-law who was worthy to take the reins to the empire I’d amassed. But alas, she fell in love with a man ten years her senior, and a schoolteacher no less! My God, he lived in a boarding house! I was mortified! How could this have happened? I was so careful to see that she met only the right type of gentlemen—men who were worthy of her and capable of running the family business when I retired. Yet, despite my attempts to discourage this unholy union, they married in December of 1880. My daughter could be headstrong at times, and I, being too overindulgent with her, finally acquiesced, although privately I seethed.”

“Why? Being a schoolteacher is a noble profession,” I interjected.

“Maybe now.” Franklin shrugged his shoulders. “But at that time, it wasn’t looked upon as being a noteworthy profession.”

I nodded in understanding. “Go on.”

“In 1870, my father got elected to the state Senate. In 1871, he died. My mother insisted on a funeral fit for a king and a monument to match. It cost a small fortune, but after all, it was my father.

“In his will, he left a large sum of money to the town to build a school. I fought it tooth and nail for two years. The family fortune belongs in the family, dammit! Eventually I lost and ended up giving this godforsaken place even more money.