Chapter 8

A thousand questions swirled around inside Shae’s head. Could the captain residing at Starling possibly be the infamous Tristan Jordahl and not a member of the Starling family as she first supposed? Did he haunt the plantation because he betrayed his country and killed his best friend? If so, then why did all of the other spirits, including a Union soldier, like him so well? Wouldn’t they abhor him, not defend him, if he were in fact Captain Jordahl?

Would her recurring nightmare have something to do with these two men and that terrible event? She could see definite similarities between the two stories. One didn’t have to stretch the imagination to see Major Adlundsen in the role of Odin and the traitorous Captain Jordahl as Fenrir.

But wait. That didn’t make any sense either. Isaac said the church itself housed the evil entity, and her dream confirmed as much. If the entity haunting this church was in fact Tristan Jordahl, then he wouldn’t roam around at Starling. He would reside here at the church, wouldn’t he? Perhaps the captain living at the plantation wasn’t the man in the photograph, after all.

Still, she couldn’t shake the nagging doubt deep inside with reason alone. Something just didn’t feel right about this whole situation. She needed more answers and determination compelled her to find them.

“Shae, are you all right?” Isaac placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. His gaze, filled with kindness, probed into hers.

“Yes, I’m fine, really, I am,” she murmured.

“How are you…getting along at Starling?” He raised a brow in question.

Shae managed a shaky laugh and dipped her head. “Actually, I am doing quite well, considering. A lot better than what I first expected, anyway.”

Isaac nodded as he brushed a hand against his mouth. “Well, from the look on your face, I thought somewhere along the way, you might have encountered one of the men in the story I just told you.”

“For a moment, I thought maybe I had. But logic would say that since Captain Jordahl died at Starling, his ghost should dwell there, and not here where the evil resides.” She rubbed her arms against the icy chill that suddenly enveloped her and for a brief moment, she allowed her gaze to wander toward the church.

Isaac smiled then. He made her feel like the star pupil sent to the head of the class for her astute observations.

His gaze penetrated. “Puzzling, isn’t it?”

While she mulled the unexpected comment over in her mind, Isaac glanced at his watch and then abruptly excused himself. He cited an appointment he needed to keep. Once Isaac disappeared into the thick foliage, Shae turned toward the church and took a halting half-step forward. Suddenly, a stale, smothering heaviness permeated the air around her. A putrid stench followed. Her heart hammered a slow even beat as she gazed at the all-too-familiar door, which looked identical to the one in her nightmare.

Evil did dwell inside that church. She could feel it all the way out here. Nevertheless, somewhere deep down inside she possessed an overwhelming need to enter the building and explore it. At the same time, stark terror over the thought of doing such an insane thing prevented her from carrying out that need. Self-preservation kicked in, and she inched her way backward. She turned toward the path and the safety of her jeep.

Once inside her vehicle, Shae sat behind the wheel in indecision. She needed some answers. Beyond measure, it shocked her to discover the very church haunting her dreams actually existed. And, the edifice existed right here in Tennessee of all the unexpected places. Then to learn what transpired between Adlundsen and Jordahl, which in many ways paralleled the tale of Odin and Fenrir, stretched the limits of her imagination. What did their story have to do with her, anyway? She held no power to alter past events. Despite the conviction, she placed a call to Norman Lamont. Perhaps he could shed some light on this mess. He answered his phone right away. She could hear the apprehension in his tone.

“Hello, Shae. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine, really. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this call to alarm you. I just need, well—I want to ask you, is there a record of the deaths that occurred at Starling while it served as a hospital?” The lengthy silence on the other end of the phone gave her pause. “Norman, are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. To answer your question, there is such a record. The book is a journal of sorts, if I recall properly. However, I am not sure how complete it is. A great deal of time has passed since I last studied it. Nevertheless, I could make a copy of the pages that do exist and bring them out to you sometime next week. Would that be satisfactory?”

“Actually, if it’s not too much trouble, could you just fax them to me as soon as you can? I really need them right now, and I’m sure faxing the ledger would be much easier than having you drive all the way out here,” she replied.

“You are right, of course. I’ll try to get them out to you sometime today or early tomorrow, then.” A moment passed. Norman cleared his throat and said, “Shae, I hope this request doesn’t mean you are encountering problems too difficult to endure.”

“Not at all,” she replied in an even tone meant to nullify his fears. “I’m simply hoping the record will provide me with a bit of understanding, that’s all.”

“You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if things get too...unpleasant, shall we say?” he asked.

“I would, but you needn’t worry. Everything is fine, really.”

After ending her conversation with Norman, Shae turned the jeep toward the military park in Chickamauga. For whatever reason, she just needed to see the place and feel it for herself. By the time she arrived, very few visitors remained at the park. She didn’t mind. Having the battlefield empty of tourists gave her the opportunity to explore the trails and see the monuments with nothing more than her own thoughts for company.

As she traversed the grassy, wooded battlefields, now peaceful and serene, she tried to imagine the thousands of men who fought and died here during that terrible struggle in September of 1863.

She pondered the blunder made by Rosecrans that cost a Union victory and wondered how many men died because of misinformation. Misinformation supplied by Captain Tristan Jordahl, a greedy man who betrayed his country in order to line his pockets. Did the men under his command ever suspect him of that betrayal? Did they respect him? Were they loyal and quick to respond to his every command, regardless of the danger he put them in? How many deaths could one lay directly at his feet?

Shivering against a sudden cold breeze that enveloped her, Shae looked around her environment. The sun had already dipped below the horizon. Along with the setting, the serene, peaceful feeling that kept her company evaporated. In place of the calm, an ethereal shroud of mist sprang up, looming over the battlefield. Having no desire to encounter the ghosts of the past, she turned toward the parking lot.

During the drive to Starling, the unanswered questions plagued her mind. Yet, each one of them returned to the same one. Were the captain who resided at Starling and Tristan Jordahl one in the same? Would or could a ghost actually haunt two places? If so, then why didn’t she feel the same evil she just experienced at the church at Starling? For nothing more than peace of mind, she needed to find the answer.

By the time she arrived home, darkness prevailed. None of the ghosts turned the lights on inside the house as they usually did in her absence. She opened the door with a bit of trepidation and turned the foyer lights on herself. An unfamiliar silence greeted her as she stepped all the way inside. The door to her office stood open, just as she’d left it. The shredded documents still lay scattered about the office. At least for the time being, Starling’s residents left her to her own devices.

Shae sighed as she entered the office and turned on the lights. After picking up the garbage can, she knelt down on the floor and began going through the remnants. She would need to find pieces of the document headings to know which ones needed reprinting.

Piece by piece she scoured through the scraps of paper, placing the torn headings on the table and throwing the rest of them away. The laborious, painstaking process moved along at a snail’s pace.

But then as she drew near to the end of her task, the tattered remains of the name Jordahl suddenly appeared in her hand. Her heart hammered inside her chest, a thing it did with increasing frequency. She had no idea which document the fragment originated from, but that information would present itself soon enough.

****

The captain worried over Shaelynn’s lengthy absence. He expected her to return shortly after she left the premises, if for nothing more than to pack her belongings and secure her precious papers. But she didn’t return. He spent the greater portion of the day pacing inside his room and gazing out the window for the familiar sight of the jeep, turning into the driveway.

The other residents of Starling left him in peace while he waited. Not even Amy came to berate him for his earlier actions, although he fully expected it. Perhaps they, too, now understood that Shaelynn needed to leave. But the prospect of that event left him feeling even more miserable. True, part of him wanted her gone.

Yet part of him wanted, even needed her to stay. Part of him actually hoped that if she learned what history recorded about him, she wouldn’t form an instant judgment. He even found himself hoping she would listen to his side of the story before forming an opinion. He hoped Amy was right.

Once again, he turned his gaze to the window. But this time, the headlights of her jeep captured his attention. Tristan waited at the window until she arrived at the door. He heard the jangling of the keys and the turning of the knob before she stepped through the doorway.

She turned on the light inside her office and walked toward her table. He listened for several minutes, as she rustled through the shreds of torn paper on the floor. Why would she do that? Curiosity finally got the better of him, and he made his way downstairs and entered her office.

He found her standing in front of her worktable, engrossed in her work. Tattered pieces from the documents lay atop the table as she sorted through the fragments.

A loud beeping noise startled her, and she jerked her head toward the sound of its origin. Papers spewed out one of the machines in rapid succession. She stared at the thing as if confused. Yet, an instant later, that confusion seemed to give way to clarity. She hurried toward it.

After taking the stack of papers from out of the catch tray, she made her way over to her desk. She sat down, scooted forward, and focused her attention on the first of the pages. Bewilderment compelled him to sidle around to the back of the chair. He leaned over her shoulder to look at what she held in her hands. She had received some kind of medical log, which detailed the injured soldiers here at Starling. He read the journal entries along with her.

The first recorded item, dated June seventh, in the year 1862, mentioned Chattanooga. On that day, the ambulance wagons transported fifteen men to Starling from off the battlefield, accompanied by the field surgeon who needed more than a small tent to tend the wounded. According to the records their injuries were from minor to severe, but none of them life threatening. However, the following day a private by the name of Edmond Revel became the first recorded fatality at the plantation.

While reading the subsequent pages of the journal, he noted that Amy began her nursing duties at Starling on the fourth day of March, in the year 1863. In fact, she personally began making most of the notations beside each patient’s name, taking great care as she did so. The names of other soldiers followed. He recognized many of them as friends and comrades.

September 19, of 1863, Beauregard Thomson arrived at the Plantation, suffering from the gaping chest wound he received at the battle of Chickamauga. One of the doctors noted they could do nothing but make his final moments as comfortable as possible. Beau lingered two hours before death claimed him

Page after page of documented casualties followed. They were all valiant men, who gave their lives for and in behalf of their country. Finally, they arrived at the recorded entries for October 23, 1863. His name almost shouted at him from the middle of the page as if awaiting discovery. Tristan fastened his gaze on the notes that accompanied his entry. He didn’t have many. Multiple wounds covered his body, many of them defensive in nature, the record stated. His doctor worked feverishly to save him and dear, sweet Amy, tended him around the clock. Yet, despite their best efforts, he died three days later. Yes, indeed, he could testify to all that.

The sound of Shaelynn’s deep sigh ended his silent musing. He fixed his gaze to her troubled features and wondered where her thoughts had taken her.

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean you are the only one,” she murmured aloud as she leaned back in her chair and placed the pages on her lap.

The only one? What did she mean by that comment? He didn’t have time to wonder long. For a scant moment later, she took hold of her pages, leaned forward, straightened the large stack atop her desk, and continued reading.

Another breath escaped her lips as they passed over the name of Chauncey Dillon. The record stated that he died in November of 1863. A few pages later, her fingers gently traced over the entry recording Timothy’s death in December of that same year. She closed her eyes and shook her head ever so slightly. Several minutes later they happened upon the name of Amy Grimes Stoddard, this time listed as a patient. According to the journal, she contracted typhoid from the patients she so tenderly ministered to and died from the disease herself the last day of January in the year 1868.

At last, she turned the final page over on the desk. Her expression grew thoughtful as she turned her gaze to the torn fragments she had gathered. Then, with a look of grim determination, she pushed away from the desk, rose from her chair, and retrieved those fragments. She plopped them atop her desk and turned to her computer.

“All right,” she said as she separated the remnants, “let’s see what we have here.”

The hum of the printer gained his attention and his bafflement steadily increased as several pages dropped into the tray. She gathered them up and began reading. One page in particular seemed to grab her attention more so than the others did, for she dropped all but the one, and with two hands, lifted the page closer to her face. He peered over her shoulder and read the missive for himself.

Hdqtrs. Fourth Military Dist.

Dept. Tennessee, Georgia

October 19, 1863

To Colonel Moore:

Colonel: Your letters of yesterday have been received and the warrant has been approved. Enclosed, I hand you an order addressed to Major Nils Adlundsen, directing him to report at these headquarters with a small number of his company and the prisoner, after his arrest, with the least practicable delay.

The brigadier-general commanding directs that you call Captain Jordahl and his company out in line, read the order of arrest to him in their presence and hearing, and ask him whether he will obey it without condition. If he refuses or hesitates, arrest him at once and send him here under heavy guard; use force, if necessary, and be prepared for any emergency.

W. A. Goudson,

Assistant Adjutant-General

Tristan scowled as he read the order for his arrest. The letter made him wonder what lies Adlundsen fabricated for Colonel Moore that would necessitate the need for a “heavy guard.” Would they have used those lies to keep him silent?

He caught sight of Shaelynn’s trembling hand as she finished reading the message given to Colonel Moore over a century earlier.

“If he had only followed the order as given, he need not have died in such a cruel manner,” she whispered. Then just as she picked up one of the fragments to toss it away, she gave it a second look. She placed the fragment beneath his name on the letter she had just read and gasped. “The handwriting is different.”

She stared straight ahead for a moment and turned at once to her computer with a look of sudden resolve. Comprehension dawned. She already knew.

Somehow, somewhere she learned the story of his death, the circumstances surrounding it, and connected it to him. Unquestionably, she now looked for the document matching the fragment. Above all, he did not want her reading that damning report. At least, not if he could help it. Not yet. Not until he had a chance to explain it to her first. He just needed a moment.

Despite his wishes, Shaelynn selected the next batch of documents and sent them to the printer. He hastened to interfere with its function. The machine responded with grinding sounds, clicks, and whirrs. The first of the papers rolled out smeared and unreadable. She turned toward the printer, brows furrowed.

Then, before she could assess the problem, he caused blank paper to spew out of the printer. He sent the sheets hurtling across the room in every possible direction. She gaped at the torrent in total dismay.

He whirled around to face her. Before he could form the words for his defense, she rose from her seat, stomped to the center of the room and spun around.

“Stop it!” she demanded angrily. “Just stop it. Exactly what are you trying to accomplish with all of this? Is this your pathetic way of trying to erase your contemptible deeds from history? Do you think I don’t know who you are and what you did?”

At that moment in her tirade, the room grew increasingly colder. Shae could feel the rising anger of the spirit with each frosty breath she took, and she braced herself to face it head on.

“Why don’t you enlighten me with your newfound knowledge, Miss Montgomery?”

The hard, steely voice sounded directly behind her. Without question, the moment she turned around, there would be no more than a foot between them, and he would be completely visible.

Nevertheless, she refused to budge from her rigid stance. “For starters, you betrayed your country as well as the trust of those who served under your command. In all likelihood, you are directly responsible for the Union defeat at Chickamauga and heaven only knows how many of the deaths that took place there. And last, but certainly not least, you killed your best friend in cold blood. You sir, are none other than Captain Tristan Jordahl!”

Having said her piece, she whipped around ready to face him. She gasped in shock as he leaned down, bringing his face close to hers.

To say he was not at all what she expected would have been a gross understatement. The sight he presented diffused all further comment and all further thought as she stared up into his mesmerizing, deep blue eyes.

The smile he gave her was at once terrible and frightening. “Ever at your service, Miss Montgomery.”