“Keep talking just like that. It’s sure to get your new girl interested.”
His eyes slide sideways to meet mine. “You jealous, St. Clair?”
“Of course I am. If you’re out with someone else, who’s going to discuss dysentery with me?”
I bump his shoulder with mine and head into creative writing class, uncomfortably aware that I am jealous. If Ben gets a girlfriend, he won’t be hanging out with me anymore. That also leaves a lot more of my time free for Finn, and traveling, and all that comes with it.
I’m still not sure I’m ready for all that comes with it.
14
Unexpected
The Ardenville Historical Society is housed in an unassuming old stone farmhouse, on half an acre of what used to be a sprawling farm, before it got sold and developed into a community of town houses.
There’s a woeful lack of ghost stories centered in or around Ardenville on the Internet, which is not surprising in the least, since there’s a woeful lack of anything about Ardenville on the Internet. We’re just not that exciting.
But since the local historical society is offering a ghost tour on Halloween night, I figure that’s a good place to start with the research on my article. I push the door open, listening to it creak loudly. The wooden floorboards aren’t any more forgiving, and I wince as I try to make my way silently into the room.
“Hello?” I look around, but there’s nobody in sight. There’s a light on in the next room, and the door is partially open. I make my way back to it.
“Hello?” I call again. “Are you open?”
The door swings open wider, and an older woman with a mop of unruly gray hair stuffed under a kerchief peeks her head out.
“Hello!” she calls out cheerfully. “Yes, yes, we’re open. All the way to six. Sorry I didn’t hear you. I’m trying to get this room sorted out. We’ve got a ghost tour coming up, you know.”
“So I’ve heard,” I remark, looking around. “I’m actually here to research that very subject.”
“Oh, well, then,” she says, brushing dust and cobwebs off her shirt and pants. “This is your lucky day! One of our volunteers organized it all into a collection, over there.”
She gestures toward one corner of the room. “If you go behind those bookcases, there’s a set of shelves on the wall and a small display of items from haunted houses in the area. You may take pictures, if you’d like.”
I thank her warmly, and she heads back to her work, reassuring me that I only need to call for her if I have any questions. I make my way back to the corner, squeezing between packed bookcases and old, dusty cardboard boxes until I see what she was directing me toward. The shelves are small, and there can’t be more than a half dozen or so books and a stack of yellowed newspapers a few inches high. I may not get much out of this, but I’m pretty sure I can stretch whatever I find into two pages of writing.
I carefully grab a couple of newspapers off the shelf and spy a weathered rocking chair across the room out of the corner of my eye. I make my way over to it as I skim the front page, and turn around to sit, laying the papers in my lap. I realize I’m too close to the wall behind me, because the chair makes a weird metallic thump against whatever the rockers have hit. I half stand so I can pull the chair out a bit more, and my eye catches a piece of my reflection when I glance behind me.
It’s an enormous mirror with a very ornate frame, full of curlicues and scrollwork, and it’s framed in pewter, so it must weigh a ton. It’s propped up against the wall, and it’s like something out of an old gothic novel or maybe some Jane Austen story. I’m fascinated by the intricate carvings in the metal, with roses and ribbons intertwining. It’s just beautiful. The kind of mirror that would have hung in a grand parlor or a vaulted entryway somewhere in an opulent old estate. I stare at my reflection and smile, picturing the beginning of a story, of a girl in a high-necked dress, refined and genteel. I catch a glimpse of my reflection, and I smile as I reach out, putting my fingers against the glass.
Her eyes and my eyes lock, and she slowly stops smiling as the room behind me begins to change. The faded roses on the wallpaper give way to stripes, alternating crimson and gold. The arm of the rocking chair is against my leg, but before my eyes it becomes a leather-covered settee, also in a deep shade of crimson. I push my hand forward, and I am through.
I stop a moment to look around, and it’s like I landed in some kind of weird Victorian fantasy. A music player that looks on the outside like an old Victrola, complete with the horn on top, sits on the rolltop desk in the corner, and on a table is a gadget with a hand crank and gears that powers what I know to be a projection screen, for watching movies.
I realize I’m having trouble breathing, and that’s when I look down and see myself. Holy cow, I’m wearing a corset. I can feel it, binding my ribs and waist, under the mountains of fabric that make up my navy skirt and bustle and the smart navy short coat with brass buttons I’m wearing over it. A lacy white blouse with a high collar and a sapphire brooch at my throat round out the ensemble.
My hair is pulled to one side, hanging in artful curls over my shoulder. I pull my skirts back and take a look at my pointed navy shoes with a prominent brass buckle across the bridge and an inch-high heel. I pick up my foot to turn it this way and that
