Ripples in Time

By Savannah Black

A brutal murder and one justified police shooting took place in 1955
An old haunted southern mansion, sitting on the banks of the historic Suwannee River cannot keep tenants but it can keep secrets!
A 1940’s typewriter, types by itself and puts off scents of peoples favorite flowers.
* * * *
Rose is happy with her job and her life in Cincinnati, Ohio until her grandmother gives her that old typewriter. She tells her the history of it and of the murder of her sister and brother-in-law, so many years before. The machine fascinates her as it greets her with the scent of roses in a garden, not rose water or a perfume, but roses in the early morning, with dew clinging to the petals and leaves. Drawn to the mansion by a force she cannot understand, she quits her job, loads her meager belongings and the typewriter into her car and starts on a collision course with Alligators Ghosts, Romance Voodoo and a hurricane which forces them to stay in the house with the evil, until it passes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Savannah Black
• Release date: Mar 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311148025

Savannah Black

Savannah Black has retired and is somewhere in the Caribbean on her sailboat, with her husband and dog. I am Wil Collins her co-author and have taken over her website http://www.savannahblack.com and other sites. We have worked together for many years and she is missed. Our live have paralleled each others, with having a lot of the same experiences.I hope to fill her shoes and excel in my writing. I live in Florida on my sail boat and hope to join her in more adventures. The profile photo was taken by my dear friend Janet Riley and was taken on the beach in Half Moon Bay California.

Book preview

Ripples in Time

By Savannah Black

Copyright 2006 by Savannah Black and Wil Collins

Smashwords edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. I respect the practice of Voodoo and after extensive research included it as part of the story.

Ripples in Time © 2006 by Savannah Black

Cover design by Skylar Sinclair

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks to all who have supported me in my efforts to get this book out, especially:

First and foremost: The GREAT SPRIT, for THE GIFT.

Mittie, Misty and Miss Mary for reading it and encouraging me to get it out there.

Prologue

The Facts: (Or are they?)

A brutal murder and one justified police shooting took place in 1955

An old haunted southern mansion, sitting on the banks of the historic Suwannee River cannot keep tenants but it can keep secrets!

A 1940’s typewriter, types by itself and puts off scents of peoples favorite flowers.

* * * *

Rose is happy with her job and her life in Cincinnati, Ohio until her grandmother gives her an old typewriter. She tells her the history of it and of the murder of her sister and brother-in-law, so many years before. The machine fascinates her as it greets her with the scent of roses in a garden, not rose water or a perfume, but roses in the early morning, with dew clinging to the petals.

Drawn to the mansion by a force she cannot understand, she quits her job, loads her meager belongings and the typewriter into her car and starts on a collision course with Ghosts, Romance and Voodoo.

GLOSSARY OF THE TERMS USED ON A BOAT AND SOME OF THE ONES USED IN VOODOO:

Starboard is the right side of the boat.

Port is the left side of the boat.

Cockpit is where you sit and steer the boat.

The head is the bathroom.

Fore and aft are front and back.

Lines are ropes.

Halyard is the rope that pulls the sail up the mast.

Helm is the place where the steering wheel and controls are located.

In this story I refer to Cuban Voodoo. With different islands each seems to use their own terminology to describe the same things. For simplicity’s sake I have used the following:

Mambo is a Voodoo priest who has special powers.

Loa is a deity who can take over the body of a devotee.

Being ridden by a spirit means being taken over by a spirit or deity and being used for its purposes.

For any of my readers who want to research Voodoo, I suggest the internet as a treasure trove of information.

RIPPLES IN TIME

Chapter One

The Typewriter

Sitting back on her heels, Rose wiped the sweat from her brow. The bandanna turned dark. Her grandmother’s attic was hot, but she needed to get the boxes down. Her grandmother, Lydia was not at all well and wanted to go through the boxes, before she became too ill to do it. Lydia's sister Rosemary had been murdered way back in the fifties and Lydia had inherited all of Rosemary and her husband Richard’s things. The boxes in the attic were most of what was left of two lives cut tragically short.

With each box she moved, sixty years of dust rose into the air. Picking up one and setting it by the stairs, the unmistakable odor of lilacs wafted to her. Looking around the room, she could not figure out where the smell was coming from. How could it be coming from a box that had been stored for sixty years? Maybe she had broken a bottle of perfume. Sniffing around, she came back to the box that was wrapped in heavy tape and twine. Bending down and putting her nose close to it, the smell of lilac seemed to permeate the brittle cardboard. Lilac was one of her favorite flowers and the scent brought back some very pleasant memories.

Shaking her head, she moved the rest of the boxes close to the stairs and began transferring them down to the second floor. When she picked up the box that had smelled of lilac, she smelled roses instead. The scent was heavy on the air, as if she was standing in the middle of a rose garden in full bloom. Her curiosity was getting the best of her and she desperately wanted to tear the box open to discover its secrets.

Rose dear, how're you doing?

I’m okay Grammy, what's in this box that smells like flowers?

Oh…that box, with a heavy sigh, she continued, I’d forgotten about it.

What’s in it?

It’s an antique typewriter. I packed it myself. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever experienced. While I was packing it, I kept smelling honeysuckle. You know it's my favorite flower. Come on down and bring it with you. I have to tell you the history of that machine.

Picking up the box, she slowly made her way down the stairs. Going into the parlor, she set it on the coffee table in front of her grandmother. Pulling a parlor chair close to the table, she sat down and watched her grandmother’s arthritic fingers work slowly to untie the string and slice the tape with a letter opener. The brittle cardboard cracked as she unhurriedly opened the flaps. The surprising thing was, there were no smells or odors coming from the box at all, other than a musty smell of long ago. Rose looked up questioningly.

Shrugging, her Grandmother continued, I know, I can’t explain it. It comes and goes. Honey, will you take the machine out of the box for me. I don’t have any strength in these old arms any more, I can’t lift it.

The typewriter was cold to the touch, almost unpleasantly cold, but instantly it turned pleasingly warm. Suddenly the smell of roses filled the room.

Her Grammy commented, There it is again, honeysuckles.

Honeysuckles, Rose asked, I smell roses, I don't understand; how can we smell different scents? Don’t you smell roses, too? Looking at her grandmother, she saw her shake her head no. What’re you going to do with it Grammy?"

I don’t know, I’ll probably throw it away.

Oh don’t do that, I’d like to have it. I want to solve the mystery of the scents. Besides, it once belonged to my great aunt or rather, my great uncle Richard.

Honey, you need to know the history of the thing. I’m afraid it may be haunted. Look at it. It looks like as if it just came off the assembly line. It isn’t natural. It was sitting on the desk when he hacked up my sister. Blood splattered everywhere. There was blood all around it, but not a drop on the typewriter.

Maybe the blood just missed it.

You don’t understand, Lydia leaned forward becoming very animated. Tapping herself on the chest, she said, "I had to go in and clean up that mess. She was my sister and I’m the one that had to pack up her belongings. Oh God you can’t begin to imagine the smell. There was blood splattered all over the walls, floor and desk. When I picked up the machine to put it in the box, there was not a drop on it, but there was a square under it that was completely clean, not a drop. Blood had to have hit it, but it looked like someone had just taken it out of the box. The smell in the room was horrid, but unexpectedly I smelled honeysuckles. I looked around to find the source of it. There was nothing in the room it could be coming from.

I remember Richard well, we all grew up together. He was a very gentle man and I loved him dearly. After he got home from the war he treated Rosemary like a queen. They were so in love. I don’t know what happened. He was going to write the great American novel, however from the first day he sat down to write, he started to change. Maybe it was the war and all he had experienced. I don’t know, but he withdrew into himself.

He would sit and write many hours a day. He became obsessed with writing. The things he wrote were incredibly well written; I didn’t know he had it in him. He wrote his first book in a few weeks and sent it off to a publisher. They loved it. They said it was one of the few times they had gotten a manuscript, from a new author, which they did not have to do much to. The book sold like hotcakes and the money started coming in. That’s when they got…the house. I think the typewriter was in the house when they bought it. The old mansion had been vacant for some time. He gave away the machine he’d been using and started using the old Royal, exclusively. After a couple of more wonderful books his writing turned dark; dark and foreboding. Finally the time came when he snapped and allegedly attacked Rosemary with a machete, or at least that's what the police said. One of the neighbors heard her scream and called the police, they said they could hear Richard screaming at the top of his voice, ‘I'll kill you, you evil fucking bitch.’ When the officer came in, Richard had a machete in his hand and would not put it down. The officer shot him dead.

You can’t believe the mess I had to clean up. They took the bodies away, but there were dried brains and innards on the floor and walls, and the damned flies swarmed all around me. I had to clean up maggots, and let me tell you, I puked my guts out. The heat and humidity in the south can be overpowering and added to the oppression. At the time, I thought I would sell the house, so I cleaned it up. I put the word out that I needed to hire some of the locals to help, but couldn’t get anyone to come into that mess. I really can’t say as I blame them, it was real bad." She stopped talking and wiped her eyes.

Rose injected, I just hate to see it go in the trash Grammy. Besides, I don’t think it was the machine that affected Richard. If he was in combat and from what I've read about that war, it was pretty brutal, he might have flipped out. Look if things start getting weird I'll throw it away. She was hit with the unmistakable smell of roses. Not rose water or an artificial smell of roses, but fresh still on the bush after a gentle summer’s rain, roses. She could almost see the bush and blooms.

Please honey, just be careful. Now, if you can, move the other boxes down here, we can go through some more of them. I’m not getting any younger, you know. Will you go ahead and set that machine in your car? I don’t want to look at it. It brings back too many bad memories. Patting her heavily hair sprayed hair, she relaxed against the back of the couch.

Sure, I’ll be back in a minute, Rose said, as she got up and picked up the machine. It felt light as a feather. The rest of the afternoon was spent going through boxes. Each one was filled with her Grammy's memories. Her Grammy reminisced about the good times as she pulled items out, holding them for a moment before laying them aside. She and her sister had grown up close and when Rosemary died; it had really hit her hard. Rose could tell she still missed her, even after sixty years. Finally her Grammy told her the box they were going through had to be the last one for the day. Rose could tell she was very tired and a bit distraught. The last trip to the trash can was completed and it was getting late. Rose wanted nothing more than to go home and get in the shower and then take a long hot bath. She was tired, but it was a good tired. She had learned a lot of family history.

Having forgotten about the old Royal in the trunk of her car, she got in and drove home. Pulling into the driveway and getting out of the car, she picked up a box of memorabilia which her grandmother had given her and started to close the door. The sudden smell of roses brought her up short. Remembering the typewriter in the trunk, she told it, Just hold on back there. I'll come back and get you. Shaking her head, she thought, I guess it doesn’t want me to forget it. Hummm! What have I gotten myself into?

Dropping the box just inside the door, she went back out and opened the trunk. There was not a hint of flowers to be smelled. Again she shook her head as she carried the typewriter into the house, setting it on her desk. On a whim, she stuck a piece of paper in it and typed through all the keys. Each one worked as easily, after sixty plus years, as a well-oiled new one. She left it and headed to the bathroom.

Stripping off the dirty dusty clothes, she stuffed them into the hamper and stepped into the shower. Standing under the stream of water thinking about her aunt and uncle, she washed sixty years of dust off her body. After the shower, she filled the tub and sank down into the hot water. Lounging back she dozed. Her thoughts passed before her in a steady stream. Each thought turned into a quick dream, a mere flash and it was gone, her aunt and uncle speeding down the river in a wooden ski boat, him sitting at the typewriter working away, while a dark and evil presence hovered over him. A man and woman, standing in the yard of a plantation house, arguing and looking back at the house, while a slim beautiful milk chocolate skinned woman watched them from a window. There was an evil flash in her eyes, along with hatred so intense it was a palpable thing.

With a start, Rose awoke to cooling water and a feeling of dread. Shaking it off, she got out and wrapped a towel around her long lean body. Taking another towel, she rubbed her red hair dry. Looking in the mirror, she wondered if her great aunt had had freckles too. None of the pictures she had seen were in color and most were fading and indistinct.

Smiling at her reflection, she turned and headed to the kitchen. She had decided to pop something into the microwave. Her body ached from the hard work and mental stress. She was just too damned tired to cook anything. This was one of those times she was glad she lived alone. She could eat what she wanted, when she wanted and not have to worry about what someone else needed or wanted. As she waited for the food to heat, she took the package of cat food out of the cabinet and shook it. Whiskers, the neighborhood cat, came running in through the cat door, meowing loudly. He rubbed his long well fed body against her legs, while she poured the food into a bowl and set it on the floor. Whiskers made his rounds throughout the day and stopped at her house in the evenings for his free handout. Taking her dinner from the microwave, she put it on a tray and carried it into the living room.

Sitting on the couch and turning on the television, she ate while watching a sitcom. As she finished eating and took her dishes to the sink, she thought she heard the sound of a typewriter, typing. Turning off the water, she walked back into the living room. The cat, which had finished his supper followed her. Walking over to the desk she looked down at the paper in the machine. There was a sentence which she had not typed when she had tried the keys. It read: No Doom, only Justice!

Now this is freaky, what the hell does that mean and how did you do that? The machine sat silent.

The cat jumped up onto the desk and as it got near the old Royal, its ears went back. Hissing loudly it jumped down, running out of the room, its tail hairs standing straight out. Scrunching her brow, she stood studying the text and looking at the beautifully preserved antique machine. She loved the stark simplicity of the lines. It was bare bones and utilitarian. With a shiver, she wondered again what she had gotten herself into. Maybe the old typewriter would help her write a great novel or the story of her aunt and uncle.

The days passed and Rose gradually grew use to the typewriter sitting on the desk. She loved the way it would put off the smell of her favorite flowers. The only problem was the cat. It would not even come into the room anymore. Rose thought it must be the smells keeping the cat out. What else could it be?

A few days later, her Grammy called and asked her to come over. Apparently, she had been going through the remainder of the boxes and had come across something she wanted Rose to see.

As Rose walked through the living room, she caught the unmistakable scent of honeysuckle. The drive to her Grammy’s house took only a few minutes. The door was unlocked and she knocked and walked in. An open box was on the coffee table and several items were scattered around it.

Hi Honey, come on in and have a seat.

Hi Grammy, what did you find? You sounded a little funny on the phone.

Would you mind making a pot of lemon verbena tea before you sit down, her Grammy asked.

Sure, hang on. I’ll have tea ready in a few minutes. She was thinking about the way her grandmother looked, a little drawn, or peeked. Putting the tea kettle on the stove, she stepped outside to pick a few leaves from the lemon verbena bush. After rinsing them and dropping them into the tea pot, she waited for the kettle to whistle. Finally with the tea steeping, she set the cups on the tray, along with a small plate of tea crackers.

Setting the tray on the table, she looked up expectantly at her grandmother. Her Grammy patted the sofa seat beside her. Sit here so we can look at this together.

What is that, a journal?

Yes, it was Richard's journal. To say the least it’s interesting. It seems maybe it was Richard that haunted the typewriter instead of the other way around. I don’t know, but I started reading this and my blood changed to ice water. He confesses to some very bad things in this. I remember I found it in the false bottom of a drawer. That must be why the police didn’t find it. I didn’t read past the first couple of pages at the time, but stuck it in a box. Had I read farther, I would have turned it over to the police. Here, read it and see what you think. Do you want honey in you tea dear?

No thank you Grammy, plain’s good. Opening the book to the first page, it was all just normal everyday things that happened to Richard. Skimming farther on it grew dark and foreboding. He started talking about death a lot. The dates on the pages showed it was after he had gotten back from the war that his mind started turning to the dark side. He began reminiscing about things that had happened in Europe. He had seen his buddies killed and blown apart and something inside him changed. He felt he had lost his humanity.