So, here is the first chapter to this novel. I wrote it many years ago, but it never got out of the manuscript stage. You can read the beginning, and if it seems like something you want to pursue, head over to Amazon and purchase the whole thing.
Chapter 1
Nathan Burgess casually glanced away from the tour group he was with and what he saw populated his arms with goose bumps. A girl was standing not twenty feet from him in the hallway reading a book. Only, she wasn’t just any girl, she was clearly a ghost because Nathan looked right through her at a crimson vase on a small table. When he gasped, she looked up and disappeared.
If he had to be at a museum, this was the way to do it. When he had visited the Queen Mary, and read about ghost sightings on the little plaques all around the ship, he always wished he could see one. What better way than in the safety of the daylight hours and in the company of a tour group.
His mom called to him from the group as it moved away. “Nate? Nathan, Keep up,” she whispered.
He did catch up. “Dad. Dad,” he whispered over the tour guide’s voice. “I think I just saw a ghost. There was a young girl back in the hallway and she…”
“Enough, Nate. Tell me about when the guide isn’t talking.”
His dad wasn’t really listening. Nathan looked back down the hall and saw nothing unordinary. No ghosts. Maybe he didn’t really see her. Maybe he was just hoping he would see a ghost.
It was Saturday, after all. Saturday was nearly sacred. He should be playing football with his friends. He remembered the spectacular final catch he made in the last game. He had jumped high over the hedge at the end of his backyard where the end zone was and as he caught the ball, the bushes knocked his feet out from under him. Smiling, he recalled how shocked he was when he got up and still had the ball. But the smile faded because he was here. The Willoughby House, built circa 1846. Here with his mom, his dad, and his grandmother. They went for this crusty museum stuff. Not him. He wasn’t a real big fan of history.
The tour guide’s medium length brown hair framed her young, oval face. Her museum outfit included navy blue pants, a red sweater vest, and a blue plastic nametag with “Vicki” etched in white above “Baltimore Historical Society.” Nathan thought she looked like she belonged on a cheesy Fourth of July car dealer ad. She seemed pleasant, but she wasn’t; she shushed people when they talked while she did, and scolded them if they touched anything.
She was leading the small group around the house to “ooh” and “ah” over tarnished lamps, out of date furniture and dusty, cloth-bound books. Nothing about ships except an occasional picture. What fun was a tour about a famous shipbuilder if there weren’t any ships? Everything was too hard to see from behind the braided rope chains that kept the little entourage herded to the sides of hallways and the corners of rooms.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, this is the area of the house where John Willoughby spent most of his time,” Vicki droned on, her voice an annoying nasal monotone. She was gesturing from the doorway of a cavernous second story room. A large desk situated between two picture windows commanded what apparently had been the home office of the Willoughby fortune; he was a shipbuilder and financier. Nathan was busy inspecting a vase by the door with a sailing ship glazed into it. The ship was in relief to the rest of the vase; he reached to touch it.
“Excuse me, Young Man. Please don’t handle any of the museum artifacts.” Vicki snapped. Nathan had already been shushed and now he was scolded.
Most of his five-foot-eight inch, twelve-year-old frame was dragging. His straight dirty blond hair was an uncombed mess on top of his rounded face and constantly blushed cheeks. He languished at the back of the line as the rest of the tour group moved out of the room. A glint of sunlight reflected off a gold pocket watch lying on the desk and caught Nathan’s attention. He looked out the window and noticed how the early autumn sun was sinking much faster than he could stand. He wondered what the teams were as he sneaked a bite of chocolate Pop-tart out of his pocket. Would everyone still want to play by the time he got home? He wondered if Brandon was the last one picked, as usual. In fact, since Nathan wasn’t there, he wondered if Brandon was even picked.
They had been best friends since kindergarten, but they were as different as night and day. Brandon was brainy. He loved math and science, and he was good at them, but he didn’t have any common sense sometimes; and he talked too much. Nathan liked playing football – any sport, for that matter – and was often caught between wanting to include Brandon, who was all left feet, and playing in games where Brandon wasn’t wanted.
He looked around as they moved through the house, but no ghosts.
They were moving down the hallway. Now was his chance.
“Dad, what time is it?” Nathan asked in an anxious sort of I-want-to-go tone.
“Just after four,” came the hurried don’t-bother-me-now reply.
“Will we be home before dark?”
“I don’t know, Nate. Just hang in there, okay?” whispered Mr. Burgess. The tour guide was talking again and he clearly did not want to miss a word she said.
They were walking down the front stairs. The tour guide was still jabbering as they descended.
Then, she caught his attention. ‘Vicki’ had clearly used the word haunted.
“Are we all in? Good. As I was saying, this is the parlor. It was here that the Willoughbys entertained, spent time together as a family, and enjoyed the glow of the evening fire.” Vicki continued as she brought the group toward the middle of the room.
They looked past the furniture and the braided ropes toward the marble fireplace. The ceiling was twelve feet high with cherry crown molding. Two crystal chandeliers retrofitted with electric lights dominated the room. Two sets of windows flanked each side of the fireplace. Heavy maroon and gold curtains were pulled back to both sides. A baby grand piano sat just off a large area rug on the right side and the Willoughby family heritage in portraits filled the wall on the left.
“Now, I did indeed say haunted back in the hallway as we entered this room. You see on the left hand wall,” she gestured to her right and the group’s left, “a large central oil painting of the Willoughby family.”
Nathan was all ears.
“Mr. Willoughby stands at the back of the picture with his wife Virginia seated in front of him. To Mr. Willoughby’s right stands his eldest son, Paul,” Vicki said as she clipped through the two-dimensional figures on the wall. Nathan noticed Mr. Willoughby’s serious, stern, look, his thick graying moustache, overly hairy eyebrows, and the deep creases in his forehead. Everyone in the picture seemed serious.
“Paul, at the time of this portrait, was twenty and already handling a large portion of the family ship building industry. Historical records indicate that Paul had become a capable, if not overly miserly, apprentice. That might explain the furrowed brow and solemn visage that mirrored his father.” She went on but Nathan wasn’t listening.
His eyes were glued on the young dark haired girl in the picture. She looked like what he thought he saw upstairs. The ghost. Was he imagining things or was she… It almost seemed like she was…
“… Staring at you,” interrupted the guide with a well-timed observation. Nathan was shaken out of his eerie reverie. Vicki continued, “Some people that visit the House are absolutely convinced that young Katherine is indeed staring right at them.” At this point, Vicki leaned a little toward the group and abandoned her tour guide tone in favor of a more secretive tour guide whisper.
“Unofficially, it is held that Mr. Willoughby did not die five years after the making of this portrait because of the stress of his business. In 1859, the rumor on the cobbled streets was that Mr. Willoughby was haunted by his wife and his daughter who died in 1854 in the fatal shipwreck of the Tempest, a steamship traveling from San Francisco to Portland.” Vicki maintained the whisper and the small gathering, including Nathan, maintained its morgue-like silence.
“The rumor said that they were disgruntled because the Willoughby men did not have enough time for the family. They were preoccupied with the Willoughby fortune. Rumor has it that the restless souls of the Willoughby women still wander the halls of this old house wishing they had never boarded that ill-fated steamer.” And just as quickly, Vicki went back to the tour guide voice, “Well, on behalf of the Baltimore Historical Society and the Pershing Foundation, I would like to thank you for joining me today. Please stop by the gift shop on the way out. If you have any questions I’ll be staying for just a few minutes and I’d be more than happy to answer them.”
As the group moved back toward the entrance, Nathan was still standing across from the painting, holding on to the rope-chain, mesmerized by the image of Katherine. She looked like the ghost he saw.
“We’ll be in the gift shop, Nate,” his mother called from across the room. “Nate? Nate…”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, Mom,” Nathan replied absently. He could concentrate on nothing but Katherine.
Something about the portrait. Maybe all the haunted talk. Nathan was uneasy and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. It did feel like she was staring at him.
Ridiculous. He turned to leave.
Nathan hurried across the large room to catch his parents. As he was turning the corner into the hallway leading to the gift shop, he looked back at the portrait.
He thought he saw the ghost girl again, but figured his mind was playing tricks on him. It’s like when a person has a hunch and turns to check on it, but finds everything normal. Only the hunch is so strong that in spite of the evidence it still seems the hunch was correct. Nathan didn’t see a ghost, but something appeared to be moving in the painting. Walking toward it, Nathan did a double take as the thing came into view.
Mr. Willoughby’s pocket watch was outside of the little vest pocket and was swinging back and forth as if someone (or some ghost) had nudged it. The watch in the painting, with a three mast ship etched into the lid, was swinging back and forth. This was crazy. Nathan wondered if it was the same watch that he saw upstairs on the desk. He wondered if he was going nuts.
He turned to get someone’s attention, but his family and the tour group had all gone into the gift shop. How would he explain this to them? How would they ever believe him?
Looking back at the painting, Nathan was shocked to see that the pocket watch was gone. The little gold chain disappeared right into Mr. Willoughby’s vest pocket as if it had never been out. Was he imagining all this?
He was pretty sure he couldn’t tell his family about this and he wasn’t sure what it all meant, but he was sure it was time to get out of the museum and back home. Maybe some football would help.
Light Flood 