Chapter 1

 

August 27th 2004

 

"Hello. My name is Sophie. I'll be your tour guide today."

I hate people.

I grasped restlessly at the side seams of my 1870's reproduction skirt and smoothed the bodice. Although the navy blue calico had been pressed earlier that morning, I couldn't help the nervous straightening.

"If you have any questions, please feel free to ask."

I was used to unnecessary anxiety before I gave a tour. But at that moment the fidgeting wasn't so much, "Oh my, everyone’s looking at me," rather, "Oh dear, I haven’t even gotten through the introduction and they’ve begun to walk away."

It was close to the end of the day and my tour group had started out as a group of eight – a set of grandparents, parents and four children. The grandparents and father had wandered away shortly after I said my name. This left me with the mother and the kids, who were being kept there only because they had been forbidden to leave with the rest of the family.

The three boys ranged in age from around five to eleven with matching buzz cuts. Their T-shirts and cargo shorts got shabbier with each younger age, a certain sign of a hand-me-down wardrobe. The girl couldn't have been more than thirteen, but didn’t possess the fashion shortcomings of her siblings. Her fingernails were bedazzled with purple glitter and the pockets of her denim shorts stuck out longer than the frayed hems. I observed them feeling a bit more claustrophobic wearing my petticoats in the 93 degree weather.

"The cabin we are standing in was built in 1854 by Benjamin Merrill and his wife, Clara. They had four children, the oldest was named Edgar and he was the only one of the children not born in the cabin. He was born in Ohio, where they moved from in early '54."

The mother had taken interest in the local visitor’s guide she was balancing on top of a pile of brochures, making it apparent that my speech was meant solely for the edification of her children.

"They came to the territory almost before it was even legal to settle here. This was the first homestead in Nebraska."

I saw out of the corner of my eye that one of the younger boys had discovered a brick on the floor. It was nothing of historical importance – we used it for a doorstop. Still, it proved more interesting than my lecture. When he couldn't manage the strength to pick up the brick, he started to kick it.

"There is a root cellar beneath the home. We believe the husband made and stored brooms and wine here, along with farming. Interestingly, though, there was a second root cellar, located under what we believe used to be an outbuilding, like a smokehouse..."

The brick abuse escalated as the boy's second brother joined in as well. The girl pulled out a dark shade of lip gloss from a back pocket and slicked on a thick coat.

"There are newspaper articles dating from the 1890’s that tell us this might have been one of the few stops on the Underground Railroad in Nebraska..."

A cell phone rang from another pocket of the daughter's short shorts. She answered it.

"...which may explain the second, more secretive root cellar used to hide escaping slaves..."

The girl rolled her eyes. "Some lame tour," she spoke into the cell phone.

"...Unfortunately without more historical evidence it is mostly..."

The daughter thrust the cell phone at her mother, who put it up to her ear, covering the other one with her hand. Several of the brochures fluttered to the uneven wood floor.

"... just speculation."

By this point I decided that any explanation about the Underground Railroad or Bleeding Kansas years would be an utter waste of my energy.

I was used to being ignored. I wasn’t much taller than the fifth graders that invaded by the yellow busload for school field trips in the fall, day camps in the summer. But I found that I could be louder than them – which was a powerful weapon on my part, as no one ever saw it coming. From day cares to red hat ladies to teacher conference groups, they were all stunned to find that a short, bespectacled high schooler with washed out purple highlights and wearing a prairie dress could speak with a tone of such pitch and volume to be taken seriously.

At least for a few minutes.

Since most of my groups were captive audiences under the whims of some type of authority figure like a parent, teacher, or over-zealous coordinator who had booked the stop, I could usually garner a polite effort of attention that was long enough to get through an abridged explanation. Sometimes I would try to gauge the volatile state of my patron’s interest and delve ahead into more detailed information, but most of the time I just did what was best for both the group and me, and gave up entirely.

I would break out the magical phrase, "You can navigate on your own from here, if you’d like." This way I could let them off the hook while sparing them from feeling rude when they would inevitably tell me more or less to shove it. But my services were often salvaged when one or two interested persons, with craned necks to see over the mass of blank stares, would later come up to me and ask questions.

It gave me encouragement, on the mornings that I laced up my reproduction riding boots and buttoned my chemise to go in for a day’s work at the museum, that however indifferent most people were to learn about a time before cell phones, special effects, or vending machines, there would be at least one kindred spirit whose interest would be sparked at the mention of "Underground Railroad." Someone who would stop and think that he or she could be standing at a place where such an amazing piece of history took place, and about such people who lived for more than themselves – the people that came through, the people that helped, the people who fought for freedom – and we could keep part of those people alive by learning about their stories.

The brick hit the side of the log wall with a sickening thud.

I bit my tongue and turned toward the other corner of the one-roomed cabin.

The oldest of the boys picked up a wooden spoon from the table and let it fall. He then smashed the bowled end of the spoon with his fist. It flipped over and landed in a pot on the stove, which distracted his brothers from stomping on the brick. The girl took the phone back from her mother, hung up and proceeded to put on another layer of lip gloss.

"Well, we have several other buildings on the grounds… A depot, schoolhouse, church, and several others, just out back, up the hill. You can navigate on your own from here, if you’d like." My voice normally fell in disappointment when I said this, but at that moment it was hot, I was at the bottom of my well of patience and I was more than satisfied with going back into the air conditioned museum and straightening the brochure rack.

"No, no, come with us!" The mother protested, looking up from the visitor’s guide. "The kids are learning so much more having you here!"

"Oh. All right. Um..." The heavy scent of restoration sealant that had been sprayed on the cabin walls earlier in the year mingled with humidity and it took an extra second for my brain to process the fallibility of my magical phrase. "Sure! Uh… why don’t you check out the root cellar and when you’ve gotten everyone rounded up, we’ll head to the village?"

"Sounds good to me, sound good you guys?" She started picking up the pamphlets she had dropped.

The oldest brother held the brick over the two younger boy’s heads. Their sister texted on the cell phone, her pouty glossed lips reflecting the lantern lighting within the room.

The mother stood up straight with a huff. "We’ll flag you down."

* * *

White clovers clustered around the hem of my skirt as I sat on the grass before the cabin’s front stoop, overlooking a downward slant into a ditch on the side of the highway. When it was built, the cabin sat isolated a mile or two out of town, but now was nestled in a pseudo-residential industrial area where the highway speed limit dwindled to 45 before rolling into town. Across the two concrete lanes were several empty lots, punctuated by creeks and thickets of trees. These lots ran into a black iron fence that set the boundary to the several acres that made up Glenwood Park Cemetery. My house was on the other side, one of the few houses on the streets before the industrial road ran into the railroad tracks. Since the 19th Century, this side of town wasn’t seen as prime estate, but like the Merrill’s before me, I knew it as home.

I had moved to Nebraska the summer before my freshman year at high school. My first impression of the riverside town of Ashford, Nebraska: boring. Then I read in the newspaper about a museum, The Merrill Homestead, that was looking for volunteers. I soon found myself filling my time there planting flowers and moving rocks. While I watered the daylilies I read the signs. One day a board member overheard me clearing up information to some tourists. She immediately had me put down the hose and go fill in inside the museum. This led to helping with research and coordinating events. The board then decided to hire me as a guide. I didn't think I fit the image of "tour guide," but they put up with my purple hair and introverted manner. Throughout the years I grew into the role and got accustomed to the pace set by the small home town that wasn’t my home town.

Historically, Ashford had originally been named Ashgrove to paint the image of a nice grovey town to settle in. But it soon became apparent why people had come there in the first place – it was one of the best places to ford the Missouri River and get on with life, which is what most people did.

I, however, took a seat on the Merrill Homestead Foundation board which opened the door to a place as a junior member in the historical society. This, much like my purple hair, remained in my life until the summer before my senior year of high school, when I suddenly realized that I had grown used to, into and out of Ashford, and before I had grasped what was going on I had lost my hold. With each new day every curb, brick wall, and stoplight got another inch too close.

But I figured there was no use having a mid-life crises in high school, so I made a deal with myself to put one off at least until college. The most change in my life occurred when I stopped dyeing my hair, but the purple pigment lingered throughout the hot summer months and had only just begun to fade.

Heat from the sun was pulsing on my neck and the aroma of clover nectar was brimming in my lungs, but the fallen leaves that accompanied the fluffy array of cottonwood seeds about the yard hinted that mother nature was anticipating autumn on this late August afternoon.

My group had taken longer to round up than even I had anticipated and since no new visitors had appeared on the scene from the museum’s back door, I felt obligated to wait.

While the group was in the reconstructed root cellar beneath the cabin, my mind wandered to the long-destroyed, potentially never-existent, second cellar that had been suspected for use other than tomato storage. If it had existed, any remnants of it would have been located in the lot across the highway, hidden away on what was now private property.

I surfaced from my thoughts about pioneer life and the journeys of escape for freedom. The rumbling vibrations of passing traffic and the perfume of clovers in the summer heat had given me a headache, and I had been waiting for nearly 20 minutes.

I gathered up my skirts and shifted my weight, rising to my feet only to be startled into a flat fall back into the indent I had made in the patch of clovers.

"Josh!"

"Oh. Hi."

Shaggy dark hair, slender build, looking a little uncomfortable in his dress shirt and khakis, my museum colleague Joshua Roedell stood above me looking genuinely unassuming.

"You scared me," I said, catching my breath.

"Sorry." His apology was sincere, but practiced. Josh was always sneaking up on people, though not intentionally. Even when he had to cross a stretch of dry fallen leaves, like he had nearing me, he maintained a magical talent of silently appearing, which caught most people off guard.

"What’s going on?" I asked.

"Oh." He shrugged. "Just thought I’d come out and say hi. See how you were doing."

I smiled. He probably knew exactly how I was doing. Josh had welcomed the guests inside, took their admissions and sent them out to me. He had a knack for reading people and, at the end of most days, we would recall certain groups or individuals and usually agreed on which ones we wished we could take home and keep forever and which ones we’d just as much like to impale on sticks.

Only a couple years older than me, Josh lived in Ashford but went to college about an hour away. Josh was the person I spent the most time with at the museum, and he could turn the most mundane tasks into grand adventures. Because of budget cuts, the museum director no longer appeared on a daily basis. The other board members rarely graced the scene except for Faith, a warm, plump, cheery woman who had started volunteering more time at the beginning of the season. But it was usually just Josh keeping a hold on my sanity, standing between me and a showcase of skewered tourists.

"Well, I’m just about ready to go…" I started, but stopped abruptly as a tiny silver glint registered in the corner of my eye. All thoughts of the annoying family were abandoned at once as I lunged with all my being for Josh’s ankle.

"Aha!" I clutched at his shin with both hands to prevent his escape. "Victory is mine!"

"Ohh!" Josh surrendered, holding his foot up as I unclasped the safety pin that had been secured in his sock. "It only took you three days!"

One of the museum adventures we had invented was a game of which the title explained the objective: Hide the Safety Pin. The premise was simple – we took turns hiding and finding the same safety pin, bent in the middle to prevent cheating. The rules were straightforward – the pin could be hidden anywhere as long as A) I could reach it from my short stature and B) the discovery of the pin would not lead anyone to be arrested for indecent exposure. After a while, we had added a seven day limit that the pin could remain hidden in one place. After that time, the offending party had to disclose the location and relinquish the pin to be hidden by the opponent.

"Don’t sound so put out," I said, eagerly clamping the prize safely on my sleeve.

"Put out, I’ve been wearing high waters all week."

"Well, you get an A for creativity and dedication."

"After last time," he said, shielding his eyes and surveying the yard, "I should say so."

Not even a week earlier, I had carried out my responsibility of hiding the safety pin by dumping a couple hundred pins of various sizes in the passenger’s side of Josh’s car. I strategically placed the original pin where I would remember it, and left it for him to find. When he discovered the chaos within his '91 Civic Sedan, I caved and volunteered to just tell him where it was and help clean up the mess, but in true spirit of the challenge he went home and gloated over his success the next morning as we scooped the rest of the pins out of his car before any visitors arrived.

"I believe you are being summoned," Josh continued, palm shading his face.

I followed Josh’s gaze and saw the mother with a few collected family members. She was waving her handful of brochures like a lifeboat survivor hailing a Red Cross chopper.

I smiled and waved back. "Subtle," I said to Josh without moving my lips.

He just grinned and offered me a hand up. "I better be getting back in, anyway. Have fun."

"Thanks." He pulled me up. "You too."

I brushed off my skirt as Josh headed back toward the museum, casually hooking his thumbs in his front pockets, his short pant legs flashing white calf socks with each strolling step.

I turned and quickly made my way across the yard, interest piqued by the notion that they might have a question. I didn’t anticipate what the question could be, which turned out for the better.

The mother had been joined by her husband and the grandparents. When I arrived, she said, "Hi, I was just chatting with Phyllis here." She indicated the woman who must have been her mother-in-law. "And we were just wondering if you could tell us what flowers these are." She pointed to the fence line where an abundance of blade-like foliage sprang up, sprouting a plethora of spiky, flame-hued flowers.

"Oh. Uh. Daylilies." I realized this was not a satisfactory answer, and the two women glanced from me to the plant life with dissatisfied looks.

Out of a three-year-old memory bank surfaced the warm, moist soil through my work gloves, a wheelbarrow full of uprooted plants and a dirt-smudged greenhouse invoice. But it still didn’t give me any more information, and I finished dully with, "Regular… daylilies."

"Oh, that’s interesting, yes. But what kind, do you know?"

I surveyed the tiger tangerine and black speckled petals, then offered weakly, "Orange?"

"Oh… Yes."

There was a marked moment of silence before I asked if everyone was ready to go on.

"Of course!" The mother said, leaving an impression that she was used to salvaging optimism. "Everyone else," she added, brow furrowed, corners of her mouth turned down, "will just have to catch up."

Half an hour later, it was clear that no one had the intention to catch up, or stay caught up for that matter, as the four meager patrons that I had guided to the village soon dispersed and strayed away, leaving me alone in the center of the grouping of buildings.

The village was comprised of several buildings – a depot, blacksmith, firehouse, feed and seed store, saloon, livery stable, church, and schoolhouse – that sat on a fenced, six acre piece of land, bound on two sides by a winding creek. A few trails and pathways had been built into the creek and the buildings had been moved in, some directly deposited, others having been dismantled and reconstructed on new foundations.

The land had been the last of a Victorian-era farm, and the miniature town was completed with the farmhouse on top of the hill, built in 1910. The park inherited the house with the land and it had been restored to its original condition, furnished with turn of the Century antiques for a walk-through display. It provided a quaint mantle piece, neatly surrounded by a white picket fence.

Tucked away from the highway traffic and loud noises from the industrial plants, the shelterbelt of trees surrounding the park made the pocket of existence almost otherworldly, but the various plastic signs tacked onto the sides of the historical buildings kept it set firmly in reality.

In the center of the miniature town square was a rock and flower bed arrangement around a flagpole. There were a few large boulders lying around that had metal memorial plaques fused to them. Having lost sight of my group, I took a seat on Mr. Shanefelder’s rock.

Samuel Shanefelder had bought the 1910 house and the land it came with in the mid-1930’s. When the highway was put in shortly after, he had been responsible for pulling the cottonwood cabin out of harm’s way, about 25 to 50 feet, to the Southern edge of his property. It was thought that there had not been any outbuildings from the homestead still standing, because if there had been, Shanefelder would have gotten his hands on them, even if he had to take them one board, brick or nail at a time, like his other buildings.

On top of his odd hobby of collecting small historical structures, Mr. Shanefelder was known for being a bit of a packrat. The largest building he bought and reassembled was the livery stable, which could house four carriages with teams of two horses each. It was rumored to have been purchased exclusively to store all the knick-knacks and artifacts that had accumulated. In later years, most of the items he had gathered would be dispersed through all the buildings, including the cabin and 1910 house, for display. He did, however, have his share of useless junk, and even in 2004 we would still be finding remnants of his hoarding in livery stable nooks or in the 1910 house’s upstairs closets. The most interesting find in my memory had been a pile of half a dozen vintage mannequins, all missing their heads.

Quirky the man might have been, he was also a hard worker and probably deserved the nickel admissions he began acquiring in a jar daily, toward the late 1940’s. It might have seemed like a ramshackle endeavor to some, but Mr. Shanefelder possessed a charm that made it stick. Over the next decade, Samuel had a booming enterprise of day vacationers from bigger Midwest cities and a steady flow of long-haul highway travelers who had an eye out for roadside attractions. He invested in the construction of the main museum building, and died shortly after it was completed in the mid-60’s.

Since then the park had been maintained by a historical, non-profit organization. The cabin, one of the first structures built in the state, was certainly a valuable and legitimate piece of history. The insubstantial reports of a vegetarian society in the 1850’s led by Clara Merrill’s brother which might actually have been an undercover abolitionist movement in a highly pro-slavery town only added to the intrigue. Whatever the political climate of the time, most of the citizens of Ashford – Ashgrove – simply wanted to tend to the welfare of their families and personal trades – farming, in the Merrill’s case. Simple, slow, everyday. Exactly what the Merrill Homestead was at this particular point in history.

I sighed and shifted on the rock – memorials to bygone founders didn’t make comfortable perches. A year or two earlier, I had the enthusiasm to stay standing all day no matter how scattered or completely absent my audience had become. I also wore more layers in my ensemble in an extra effort to be true to the 19th Century. Those days, I thought as I snuck a look at my thoroughly unauthentic wristwatch, had certainly waned.

Only 4:42? We closed at six. I noticed an edge of cool in the hot air and observed dark, bubbling clouds looming over the 1910 house, the same shade of blue as the slate shingles that plated the roof. Toward the other end of the village, I saw that the family had more or less reconvened in front of the yellow and green depot. Urged by distant thunder, I bid a silent farewell to Mr. Shanefelder, and headed over to give it another shot.

Upon my arrival, the mother caught my attention once more, pointing to a planter next to the depot steps and asking if I knew for sure what was growing in it. When I said I didn’t, she informed me that the flowers were Asters, a type of bloom that attracted bees. Maybe we should think about posting a warning about them. Apparently she knew a lot of people whose health had been seriously compromised because of bees.

I assured her that I would inform the board as soon as possible, in fact, I’d go write a note then and there, and I promptly took the most direct sidewalk to the indoor museum.

Inside the modern building was a long, hallway like room, with glass display booths lining either side that contained lit up 19th Century scenes – a pharmacist’s counter, bank window, lawyer’s lobby, and a dentist’s office, complete with a tooth drill that had to be pedaled by foot.

The soothing central air hummed overhead as I pulled the heavy back door shut behind me, my eyes adjusting to the studio lighting as I marched to the front of the room.

"Back so soon?" Josh quipped as I came upon the front desk.

"I’m becoming a botanist."

Josh was filling out a data form from a grant the museum recently received, so I knew his attention wasn’t on the conversation. "Good luck."

"Thanks." I ran my index finger along the front edge of the desk. "Shut down the computer yet? I’ll check the email again before we close."

"Go for it. I haven’t been back there. Faith left early, I have to finish this stuff." Josh waved his hands over the daily paperwork.

To the right of the front desk were two doors – one was for the bathroom, the other had a piece of copy paper taped on it with "Employees Only" written in blue marker.

I eagerly passed over the threshold to the sacred tourist-free zone, through a small kitchen area, into the back conference room that served as an office. It took me a whole 15 seconds to pull up the browser and check the empty inbox. So I spent the next 15 minutes surfing the internet, looking up daylilies. Genus Hemerocallis. I also found several gardening sites in defense of Asters.

The sound of commotion muted by two doors still managed to pull my attention away from the computer screen, depicting a very detailed USDA Plant Hardiness Zone Map. Summoned from my sanctuary, I found the entire family crowded into the gift shop section of the museum, Josh doing his best to focus on ringing up a few purchases as two of the boys wrestled on the floor, dangerously close to the brochure rack.

No one noticed as I snaked my way through and slid behind the front counter in time to hand Josh a paper bag for the gift items.

"Looks like rain," he said to me, voice low, gaze fixed beyond his work, out the front door’s window.

"Yeah, I heard thunder when I was coming in," I responded, trying not to flinch as I watched the boys in my peripheral vision.

Sneaker hit shelf, pamphlets went flying.

"Here, why don't you go lock up," Josh said, handing me my set of work keys from a hook by the register. "I'll take care of things in here."

"Thanks," I muttered, taking the keys. Then, when I was sure no one else was listening, "If I'm not back in ten days, make sure the brochure rack gets put back together."

* * *

A cold front had lifted the day’s heat and the whole sky was covered with marble gray and blue storm clouds. Happy for the first time that day to be in long sleeves, I decided to make the trek all the way up the hill to the 1910 house and lock the rest of the buildings on my way back.

Locking up was my second favorite task at work, the first being opening up. It sounded crazy, even to me, but the stillness in the morning hours of the humble recreation of an Old-West town fascinated me every time. People built these structures 50, 100, even 150 years ago, and then Mr. Shanefelder came along and placed them in Ashford, Nebraska. If I locked a door, I would come back to find the door locked. If I put a chair in the middle of the room for no good reason, I would return to find the chair in the same place, for no good reason. Places like Stonehenge boggled my mind.

I would like to visit Stonehenge someday.

But when I returned from the depths of my musings, I wasn't at Stonehenge. Instead I stood at the cracked stone and cement steps of the 1910 house. Each night, I went inside and looked things over in the buildings before locking up. When it started to seem redundant, groups like the family we had just entertained reminded me of the necessity to my ritual.

I stepped through the covered porch and into the kitchen. The house was simple, and contained the rugged charm of a farmhouse rather than a town home. The house was built by the person who had first owned the land. He had not been rich, but he constructed his home with dedication and affection that somehow kept it standing.

My long skirts swept the dusty floor and dishes rattled slightly on their shelves as I walked into the adjoining parlor. The thick lace curtains made the interior even more dreary and Victorian than the small living room might have been originally.

An old, framed photograph of a husband and wife stared down at me from over the settee, and I took a moment to imagine her, sixteen on her wedding day rather than sixty in the anniversary pose. But the mental imagery of the young woman in her mother’s lace was ruined in that my brain conjured her up with a thick, slippery coat of burgundy lip gloss.

Darkness filtered over the room until the corners became deepened with shadows, and moist air dampened the dust. I took a quick look in the bedroom to make sure everything was all right, stopping to fix my hair in front of the large vanity mirror. Taking an exit, I locked the door behind me and used a second key to secure the padlock that had been installed as an extra precaution.

I was mindlessly making my way toward the other buildings when I felt a cold hard splash on the top of my head. Raindrops. A few at first, but then a sudden downpour engulfed the courtyard. Shielding my face, I dashed inside the closest building, Mt. Zion Church.

Once in the entryway, I brushed off my navy calico and entered the sanctuary. It was a small, single room with off-white walls, wood trim painted light blue, and 1930’s electrical workings. The church had been built in the middle of the 19th Century but the inside was still in pleasant condition. Two rows of six pews filled the center of the room and a black iron stove stood in the corner. A raised stage with stairs on either side held the pulpit, podium and an antique pump organ.

The floor was hard wood and as I walked slowly down the aisle, my footsteps echoed throughout the church. When I gave tours I always aimed to get into the building just a few seconds before the rest of the group so I could hear the sound of my own footsteps. I loved to walk around the church just to take in that sound.

Standing in the front of the church I could see directly out the front door. The initial storm had lightened to a steady fall shower that continued soaking the stairs, water flowing in a stream down the railing.

I was watching the pattern of rain that made the yard outside look like an impressionist painting when a man strolled by my line of vision. He walked past and just as my mind comprehended what I saw, he was gone.

He had looked like a reenactor. His threadbare 19th Century clothes were accompanied by a walking cane that he leaned on heavily. A white beard and hat completed his appearance.

Startled and somewhat concerned, I ran out of the church and into the pouring rain. There was nothing to my right, nothing to my left. Just the wet, abandoned grounds. My mind was racing. He couldn't have been a reenactor. Not many reenactors showed up when we had reenactments, why would there be one on a rainy August evening?

Nothing looked out of place as I surveyed through the falling rain. My gaze fell upon the 1910 house and was snagged by a bright, sudden movement.

A little girl wearing a long, red gingham dress and bonnet unexpectedly ran around from behind the house, lightly up the steps, opened the door and let it slam behind her.

The metal keys I held in my hand turned to ice for a few seconds before I dropped them into the slippery grass. I replayed locking the door only a few moments ago in my head. Key, door, padlock. Without taking my eyes off the now still door, I picked up the keys and marched across the grounds and up the stairs. I gripped the door handle tightly and pulled. The door remained closed. I reached up and tugged on the padlock that secured the entrance. It was locked.

My heart was beating hard in my chest and a sick feeling clenched the pit of my stomach. I inserted the key in the lock, willing my brain not to flash close up frames of M. Night Shyamalan films before my eyes.

I gradually pushed open the door and peered into the unlit entryway. Reluctantly, I stepped inside and made my way into the kitchen. Looking about, everything was arranged and organized. I put my keys gently on the kitchen table and, with my best Bruce Willis in Die Hard impression, reached up and grabbed a rug beater that was hanging on the kitchen wall. I tread as quietly as I could on the hard wood floor, as to not disturb the dishes, breathing silently, searching.

All was still. All was silent.

"Sophie?"

"Ah!" I spun around, hoisting up the rug beater as my only weapon of defense.

"Sophie, what on Earth are you doing?"

It was Josh. He stood shaking the rain off a half-closed umbrella.

"I'm locking up." I nodded. "Just, uh... making sure everything's in its place. Oh! Look! It's a rug beater!"

I stood there, dripping wet, holding out the wire apparatus as though it were a prize. Josh just stared at me, eyebrow raised.

I didn't want to tell Josh about the people I had seen. Or thought I had seen. They obviously had not been there. I was just letting my imagination get the best of me. Wasn't I?

"Why don't you go home and let me finish up?" Josh asked slowly. "Go ahead and take off early."

"Okay." I nodded toward the keys on the table. He picked them up and watched me as I re-hung the rug beater. His eyes followed me until I reached the door. Before I could leave he held out the umbrella but I motioned it away.

"Have a good night, Josh."

He nodded. "You too. And, uh... Get some rest."

I quickly turned and tripped down the stony porch steps. I walked down the square looking straight ahead. The rain had stopped falling. I slowed my pace when I came to the church. I looked into the trees behind it as I passed. All was still and silent.