Letters in Time, Reiss Susan [read me a book TXT] 📗

might be time to cut it back. I scribbled a note to check with the doctor’s office.

I shuffled my research papers and found a small book stuffed in there. It covered the folklore of the Eastern Shore. There was a statement from an issue of "McBride's Magazine" published in 1886. It said that Virtue Violl was not the only witch who had lived on the Point.  I scanned the article. Another woman had settled on the same piece of land. Katie Cobin was lonely, deformed, ugly, and wretchedly poor. People claimed that she terrorized both adults and children. Many wore charms to protect themselves against her spells. After she disappeared, they reported that a gauzy specter lit by an eerie light wandered around the old Lone Oak.

I was overdosing on the stories of the supernatural. There were a lot of suggested remedies, but not one for a lonely, lovesick ghost. I put the book aside and caught myself staring at the Point. Why had the Lone Oak drawn two women there to live out their wretched lives. Were they witches? Probably not, but still… What was it that drew them to that place?

I took a long drink of lemonade to center myself in the here and now. Of course, an unexplained light in the middle of the night was upsetting. In today’s world, it was probably a flashlight. Centuries ago, women might have wanted privacy. But to do what?  I trembled for a moment as the face of the detective flashed in my mind’s eye. The other night, someone had wanted privacy to bash a boy’s face in with a shovel.

I leafed through some more articles about dealing with ghosts. Some of the self-proclaimed spiritual experts wrote about the constant battle between heaven and hell, dark angels and … the list of eerie entities was a long one.

Okay, that’s enough.  I was frightening myself. I didn’t need to do that. It would be best to finish looking at all this material and get on with things. All this talk about the supernatural was enough to make me think I was hearing things and seeing things that weren’t there.  Some of the advice and recommendations made me laugh out loud.

A rustling sound behind me made me jump.

A woman asked, “What’s so funny?”

Chapter Seventeen

“It is a great violation of propriety to send an awkward, careless, badly written letter, as it is to appear in a company of refined people, with swaggering gait, soiled linen, and unkempt hair.”

—How to Write Letters

by Professor J. Willis Westlake, 1883

My breathing stopped. My stomach clenched. My hands curled into fists. PTSD, again. I didn’t begin to calm down until my brain registered the fact that I recognized the voice. it was Stephani from the library who had asked the question.

She rushed to my chair. “I’m sorry.  Are you all right? I scared you.” Her words of concern tumbled out like a waterfall.

I took a sip of my lemonade and was embarrassed to see the glass shaking in my hand. I sucked in a deep breath and insisted in a thready voice, “Don’t be silly. I’m fine.”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated, as she sank into a patio chair and looked like a lost puppy. “But I did scare you,”

“Well, maybe a little.” As casually as I could, I turned over the pages about dealing with ghosts so she wouldn’t see them. “I haven’t adapted to being in the country yet. Still on my guard as one must be in the big city.” My laugh sounded forced.

She leaned forward in her chair and pushed her red-framed glasses up her nose. "I did knock on the door several times," she assured me. "Knowing that you can't drive, I thought I'd check out here." She cast her eyes over the water view and sighed. "If I lived here, this is where I'd be on a day like today."

“And here you are.” I liked the girl and appreciated the company, but I would have preferred to be alone, to recover after such a fright.

“Yes, here I am.” She reached into a huge purse, the kind that is so popular with everyone but me. I didn’t have enough stuff that I wanted to lug around with me all the time. Women I knew always claimed it was a fashion statement. I believed it was a conspiracy of orthopedists who specialized in back and shoulder ailments to drum up business.

“I brought the materials as promised,” she said. “I was able to find a few things, but – well, you’ll see when you go through it.” She gave me a tentative smile.

I took the papers and added them to the pile of reference materials. “Thank you so much for doing this work.”

Her smile relaxed into a genuine one. “It’s my pleasure. I’m glad to help. Work like this gives me more experience and that’s what counts in my internship.”

"I appreciate you bringing the papers all this way," I added.

“I don’t live far from here. My family has owned land close by for hundreds of years. We don’t have what they once had, but my mom still has a house with a few acres.” She picked up her purse. “Speaking of my mom, I should be going. If there’s anything else I can do to help you, I hope you’ll let me know. Oh!” She put the purse back on the table and dug around inside for what seemed like several minutes.

Proudly, she pulled something out and handed me the librarian’s business cards with her name and phone number written on the back. "If you need anything, you can contact me directly."

“As a matter of fact, there is something. I don’t