Sarah

By Roger Rule

Sarah Pardee Winchester grew up in New Haven, Connecticut
where she married William W. Winchester, son of the entrepreneur who founded
the Winchester rifle company, which became the largest gun company in the
world. At its peak, many members of the
Winchester family started dying: Sarahs sister-in-law, her only child, her
father-in-law, and finally, her husband. Because of the succession, Sarah found
herself heir to the Winchester fortune.
And because her lifespan exactly coincided with the popularity of
Spiritualism, Sarah went to a medium in Boston who told her that evil spirits,
killed by Winchester rifles, were murdering her family in revenge.style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Given advice to thwart them, she moved to
San Jose, California becoming an early feminist and creating a new life for
herself: one of eccentricity, romance, and intrigue, while overcoming powerful
forces against her. Because of her
beliefs, she truly felt that evil spirits surrounded her.style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Her fame drew a Victorian version of
paparazzi, one of which nearly killed her. She battled behind the scenes with
Theodore Roosevelt and local hypocrites; and was buried alive in the 1906 San
Andreas Earthquake. Even with all of this, she remained kind-hearted and sane.
Her home remains today as one of the largest Victorian mansions ever built.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 29, 2003
• ISBN: 9781410775245

Roger Rule

The New York Times listed Stealing Home as one of thirty on their “Bookshelf Must-Have.” From Kirkus Reviews, September 3, 2021 “Rule offers a sensitive, if muted, depiction of Eisenhower-era racial tensions.” [About the main character] “William’s character arc is more fully explored in limpid prose that exposes his conflicting impulses, which are sometimes not at all admirable. Young readers will find his struggle with his attitudes believable and perhaps inspiring.” From The U.S.Review of Books, reviewer Mari Carlson writes: “Intended for middle readers, the book’s subject, form, and style are age-appropriate. The book highlights boys’ lives away from supervision. Scenes of swimming, bike riding, riding horses, and shooting guns make for a wholesome and historical read. Feelings are honest, handled with able adult guidance, and described in accessible language. The moral experience is couched in a personal narrative that is touching and easily applicable to others’ lives.” From Pacific Book Review, reviewer Allison Walker writes: Stealing Home: Summer of 1958, written by Roger Rule, is a sweet boyhood story with themes age-appropriate for middle schoolers. Rule does an admirable job writing about complex issues in ways which are easy for children to understand. Most of all, his book is interesting and exciting for children to read. Parents will be impressed by the lessons about empathy that Rule writes. The relationships between the characters really serve to deliver the main message of the book: that people, regardless of race, are complex. Good people can perform dishonest acts and cruel people can behave compassionately. Stealing Home is everything a child, and their parent, could want from a chapter book. Rule does an excellent job keeping the themes age-appropriate. … a book children will enjoy and parents will approve of.”

Book preview

Prologue: 1848

East Coast

As Kate walked home from school, she had no idea of what was about to happen.

Her one-room schoolhouse was on the outskirts of the little hamlet of Hydesville, New York. On this cold Friday evening in March, every chimney of the hovels she passed, billowed forth white smoke chalking the twilight air. No one else stirred outside since everyone was in for suppertime and Kate was late for hers as she trudged through the frozen snow on the road home, going away from town. Behind her, the buildings were clustered together: simple wooden stores, in-town dwellings, churches, and Kate’s schoolhouse. In front of her, were the modest farmhouses of the small town farms, where Kate and her family lived.

Further out from these, were the larger farms, the country farms, spread sparsely and concentrically out from the center of the community. At the extreme limits of this outer tier, a country-farm family might be equidistant from two villages, trading in one and worshipping in another.

These were unassuming families whose men-of-the-house had varied métiers—farmers, cobblers, wrights, smiths, butchers, and storekeepers. Collectively, they formed a cohesive self-contained society whose members were, for the most part, Protestant Christian—Congregationalists, Methodists, Baptists, and a few Quakers.

As Kate approached her home, she could see the windows glowing from flames of the evening candles and the flickering firebox. Her breath steamed the air and her face showed delight as she anticipated the warm rooms waiting ahead.

Her family’s humble four-room frame house was not new. Like most in the district, it had been inhabited by more than one generation. Now it was occupied by the Fox family—a farmer, his wife, and their two youngest daughters. Father Fox was a short but stout man, nearly fifty, balding, with a superior intellect and an industrious disposition. Mother Fox was the same age as her husband, and as tall, fit, and energetic with a serious face. Margaret, at fifteen, was nearly a woman with regular features, alert, and a contributor to the family and protective of her younger sister. Kate—normally called Cat by her father—at twelve, was cute, fearless, as sharp as a needle, and still dreamed of magical things. Four older children had left the nest, which ordinarily occurred at the early age of sixteen.

Inside, after supper, as the fireplace sizzled, cracked and popped from the wooden staves that had been carelessly left unsheltered from the recent snow, Father Fox was napping on the wood floor. The air in the meager four-room house was still filled with the aromas from the meal, while Mother Fox and the girls cleaned up the dishes, an insignificant routine of their main event—the ladies evening chat. Tonight they were discussing the anti-righteousness of slavery, a subject Kate had continued from school. All seemed calm and normal.

After all, the Foxes were Methodists, and Methodists were known for their conservative but rigorous, daily and weekly schedules. For Father Fox, it was farming six days a week from sunup to sundown; for the girls, there was school five days, and then the weekend: Saturdays with their mother doing household chores, and civic and charitable work afterward. Then came Sunday. The day of rest was a special family and religious day for all, starting with Sunday School and Worship Service until noon, followed by a big family dinner attended by two to four of the out-families of the grown children, and ending with the evening church service. There were other routine church events throughout the week—Tuesday nights, Bible study; Wednesday, prayer meeting; Thursday, choir practice; Friday, WSCS (a women’s daytime meeting); and, on occasion in the summer, special nights of revival meetings by lay evangelists.

So tonight, for these Methodists, who methodically followed their routine, all was tranquil and ordinary, with only sounds of the crackling fire, the clinking of dishes and low vocal tones of three females chatting within the confines of the kitchen about their opinions on slavery.

And, then… BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!—came the intrusive sound of loud sudden blows within the house.

The whole house reverberated from the booming noise.

Startled, Mother Fox and her two daughters momentarily froze. Awakened and surprised by the strange and loud noise, Father Fox leaped to his feet, half-coherent. With each blow, the occupants heard the rattling of the stacked dishes in the kitchen and saw the furniture vibrating near them.

What in God’s name is that? bellowed Father Fox, shoving his arms through his overall straps, momentarily snagging them on his cream long underwear sleeves.

It must have come from outside, said Mother Fox.

Someone’s on the roof, said Kate.

As Father Fox flung open the front room door and raced out into the cold night air, he could barely hear his older daughter, Margaret, whose voice trailed after him: Sounded like it was right in here.

All three inside were frightened. Mother Fox and Margaret stood their positions, staring after Father Fox into the darkness, while Kate moved cautiously toward the front room window to see what she could. They heard their father outside as he crunched through the thin frozen snow-covered ground working his way around the house.

What was it, Mother? said Kate.

Mother Fox didn’t answer, but shouted out to her husband: Be careful…Katie thought it sounded as coming from the roof.

Then, again, BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! A pottery dish fell off the table, shattering as it hit the hardwood floor. Chairs vibrated. This time Mother Fox SCREAMED! Her scream sent the daughters in momentary hysteria, both SCREAMING uncontrollably, standing motionless and staring at each other across the room with their trembling mouths gaping.

Father Fox came rushing back inside, wide-eyed, and grabbed Kate who was closest to the door and shook her, stopping her hysteria, and then plunged through the room to the other two. When he reached Mother Fox, she stopped screaming and then she turned and embraced Margaret, in an attempt to get the older daughter under control. Father Fox engulfed them both with his big underwear-covered arms. Kate had recovered and began to whimper. Margaret started crying, too.

What was it, did you see it? said Mother Fox to Father Fox.

No, when I was out there, it sounded as if it came from in here, said Father Fox.

It did, said Kate. It was right under me, and over me, it felt like it was coming from where I was standing, she stepped back and pointed at an undefined place in the air, there.

The other three looked to where she pointed.

Father Fox said: Well, whatever it was, it was not on the roof, and there weren’t any footprints on the ground. Even with as little snow as there is, I’d be able to see someone’s footprints as clear as day.

For the remainder of that evening, nothing more was heard of the new noise.

The next morning, Kate awoke to the warm bright sun, shining in through the window hitting her face. She sat up and rubbed her eyes and thought she had dreamt the entire scene the night before. The house smelled of bacon and coffee; Margaret’s bed was empty and already tidily made. Kate realized it was Saturday and was at once in a pleasant humor. Now wide-awake, she tugged off her nightgown, retrieved her everyday clothes from the shaker pegs, and dressed quickly.

At the kitchen table, Margaret sat in her chair waiting for breakfast and Father Fox was in his, closing the family Bible as Mother Fox brought over a large serving bowl. When she set it onto the table, the two seated saw it was filled with fried potatoes and onions, and smelled its singular aroma steaming up into the air. The table was set with a plate of stacked toast, a skillet of scrambled eggs on a trivet, and a platter of crispy fried bacon.

Did you wake your sister? Mother Fox asked Margaret.

I’m here, came back Kate, as she entered the doorway tucking her old white shirt into her floor-length gingham skirt.

Did you sleep well? asked Father Fox.

Margaret said: I don’t know how anyone could sleep after what happened.

What did happen? said Kate.

Father Fox said: I don’t know, Cat, but I’m going round to all the neighbors today to see if any of them knows what that was last night,.. .surely someone else heard it too. He placed the big Bible upright in the center of the table between the saltbox and the maple syrup crock.

Mother Fox began saying the blessing: "Dear heavenly Father, Bless this food to our.

BOOM! BOOM!. the table shook. Kate’s young reflexes recoiled her out of her chair and instantly upright as if synchronized to and awaiting for it to happen again: Not again! she yelled.

All faces turned to one another in shock; all were nonplused.

Two days later, six families of neighbors were assembled outside the Fox home. The atmosphere was festive, for the break in these people’s humdrum lives. Children were playing oblivious to the reason their parents had gathered. The day was cool and nearly everyone had on light winter clothes. The thin snow-covered ground was unchanged. The youngest participants had rosy cheeks and their heavy breath crystallized in the air while they laughed and frolicked, playing their games. The older children played a version of tag, and some of the younger ones feigned ring-around-the-rosy, while the adults stood around in the front yard in groups—men with men, and women with women—facing the Fox home. Mother Fox, Margaret, and Kate were among them. The sweet smell of new spring jasmine buds was in the air and a flock of barn swallows flew overhead returning from their southern migration. Adult conversations were mostly in low monotones, with a aura of solemnity.

A portly neighbor man in his thirties addressed three men: No one has been able to make any sense out of it.

When they first told us, we thought it must have come from the cobbler over there, said a lanky man in the center named Eric Larsen, as he pointed to a neighboring house fifty yards to the west of the Fox home. Larsen was a family man, a farmer, in his early thirties, trusted, with a keen mind.

The third man started to speak, but was interrupted.

BOOM! BOOM!.. .BOOM! came the intermittent blows from inside the Fox home. Everyone instantly turned their attention to the front of the Fox house and saw windowpanes shaking in their mullion, as the groups of people listened to the strange sounds coming from the house.

Then, the front door swung open and Father Fox came out with two men, visibly rattled. Moving abruptly from panic at first,

Father Fox drew up a more casual pace when he realized everyone was staring at him. He removed his brimmed felt hat and wiped his balding head with his sleeve.

You all hear it? bellowed out Father Fox, and then calming his voice: For the life of me, we can’t figure it out.

Of the two men with him, the shorter one nodded in agreement, and the other looked back at the house as if he were expecting someone or something to follow them out. Kate ran up to her father while Margaret stayed with the women.

Daddy, it’s been three days, I can’t stand it.

Father Fox put his arm around her: I know, Cat, we’ll get to the bottom of this.

A neighbor woman, Mrs. Redfield, matronly, with her hair netted in a bun, stepped forward, Well, it surely didn’t come from the cobbler’s house, I had my back to his’n, and the noise came straight from yourn. She was a mother of four, in her late forties, and a townsperson who was highly regarded for her common sense.

The short man with Father Fox asked: How often has it been happenin’?

One or two times a day, about half a dozen times in the night, answered Father Fox.

And that’s all, just that blamed bangin’? asked the short man.

Yes, except it’s been jarring some chairs and tables around, said Father Fox, and driving us crazy.

And some of mom’s dishes have broke, said Kate.

Ifin’ it comes more at night, maybe someone’s playin’ some kind of trick, spoke up the taller man of the two with Father Fox.

Father Fox said: That’s the only explanation I could come up with at first, but yesterday we had neighbors and my boys here, all around the house in the daytime, and when it started, it was something inside the house, for sure. He replaced his hat, turned his head to the side and spat onto the ground, punctuating his statement.

Kate’s attention was drawn skyward to another flock of barn swallows that came into view flying their return trip home.

At the end of March, about three weeks after the unknown sounds began; a red sunset painted the early spring sky over the little hamlet. Inside the Fox home, Father Fox sat on a ladder-back chair reading his Bible in front of the evening fire that was the only source of heat for the four modest rooms. Kate and Margaret were in the kitchen cleaning the supper dishes by themselves, while Mother Fox sat at a long quilting frame, hand stitching a pattern of brightly colored rings to its tucking.

BOOM!.BOOM! BOOM! Margaret dropped the cup she was drying, which hit the floor and shattered. Kate jerked her wet soapy hands from the deep round pan of dishwater and turned toward the noise, dripping sudsy water down the front of her apron and onto the floor. Mother Fox stopped sewing and didn’t stir. Father Fox, who had been cradling the family Bible open with his big right hand, closed his hand slamming it shut with one motion, and shot up instantly out of his chair, with his head cocked to listen for the exact location of the sound.

Although the inhabitants had never noticed before, the room grew chilly.

This time, it’s coming from over here, said Father Fox, as he walked to a spot in the front room about three feet from the center wall that divided the small room from the kitchen.

BOOM! then silence.

They listened, keeping quiet.

BOOM! BOOM! again silence.

They listened, Father Fox moved slightly to center his body directly over the location.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Kate broke the human silence: It’s counting!

Father Fox looked at his wife. Margaret swept the pieces of broken cup to the edge of the cabinet with the side of her foot while staring at the location where her father stood. Kate quickly dried her hands and repeated the tempo of the sound by snapping her fingers: SNAP!. SNAP, SNAP!. SNAP, SNAP, SNAP!

Then, BOOM! BOOM!

Again came Kate: SNAP! SNAP! The fire crackled in the background but no one seemed to notice. The human silence became icy.

Then Kate challenged the sound, by snapping first: SNAP!

There was silence for a moment, Mother Fox sighed and gave in to breathing louder, then.

BOOM!

Kate, again: SNAP! SNAP!

Then, BOOM! BOOM!

Kate: SNAP!. SNAP! SNAP!

Then BOOM! .BOOM! BOOM!

Kate squealed enthusiastically: It’s copying me.

It is! said Margaret.

Father Fox followed up: Holy cow, what the heck is it?

I wouldn’t use holy, said Mother Fox. She was standing now, looking in her husband’s direction.

Do it again, Katie, said Margaret.

You can hear me, can you see me? Kate challenged in an unusual loud voice for her that drew looks from the other three.

This time, Kate motioned her snaps in the air, directing her hand toward her father’s position. Without sound, she used a snapping motion, throwing her wrist forward from the elbow repeatedly… four times. Then,

"BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Now how many? Kate demanded again, motioning twice.

"BOOM! BOOM!—came the response.

Spontaneously, Margaret fainted, dropping to the hard wood floor like a sack of sodden laundry. Father Fox responded quickly and lunged from his stationary position into the kitchen in two strides. He bent down and raised Margaret’s head and shoulders off the floor. Mother Fox rushed to the kitchen and scooped up a dipper of water from the water bucket, splashing everything around her in her nervousness. She hovered over Margaret, and seeing her daughter’s eyes open, passed the ladle to Father Fox who pressed it to Margaret’s lips.

After seeing Margaret was taken care of and recovering, Kate waited a moment and then intrepidly moved to the front room. Her mother stood up and followed her.

From behind Kate, Mother Fox now directed a question to the source of the sound, How many fingers am I holding up? When she made the statement, she thrust her left hand forward with four raised fingers spread and her thumb tucked into her palm.

RAP! RAP! RAP! RAP!

To everyone’s fascination, the blows had mellowed to more of a knocking noise, still with an unidentifiable origin.

And now how many? Mother Fox folded her little finger under her thumb.

RAP! RAP! RAP!

How old is Kate?

To this came a response of twelve quick raps.

How many children have I had?

"RAP! RAP! RAP! RAP! RAP! RAP! RAP!

Mom, that’s seven! came Margaret’s voice from behind her mother. A pallid Margaret had recovered and was standing by her father. Both had moved to the edge of the front room with their backs to the kitchen. Margaret said: We only have six kids in the family.

How many children have I had? Mother Fox repeated.

Again, there were seven raps.

Kate contorted her lower lip in confusion. Margaret looked bewildered at her mother. Father Fox was the first to answer, We did have seven, one baby died in infancy, but how on earth did this thing know that?

Precisely, said Mother Fox. The two girls stood static, awed at the news of having a deceased sibling. Mother Fox said: How on earth, but I don’t think this thing is of the earth. While continuing to look in the direction of the raps, which now seemed to come from the floor, Mother Fox asked: Margaret, do you feel up to getting Jane Redfield? I think we should have someone, other than our family, here to hear this; everyone is going to think we’ve gone mad.

Kate interjected: I’ll go!

No, I’m all right now, responded Margaret. That knocking noise is much better than those loud blows. She then looked out the window; the sun was nearly down and it would soon be dark. Margaret added: Besides, Kate, Mom doesn’t want you out after dark.

While Margaret was gone, Kate and her parents continued to engage in their question and answer game with the rapping noise. After twenty minutes elapsed, they were interrupted by a different knocking sound, coming from the front door and Mrs. Redfield’s out-of-breath voice: Hello inside, it’s Jane.

Mother Fox called out for her to come in.

What’s all this hullabaloo Maggie’s been tellin’ me? said Mrs. Redfield, as the door swung open.

Mother Fox looked past her: Isn’t she with you?

No, I told her to go fetch Reverend Jervis, Mr. Duesler, and Mr. Larsen, said Mrs. Redfield. Then seeing the family’s concerned faces, she added, She’ll be along. Now what’d she mean, you been communicatin’ with this bangin’ noise? She ended the question by rolling her eyes as if she were amused at the thought.

Listen, Mrs. Redfield, said Kate. She snapped her fingers twice. Everyone waited for the response; Mrs. Redfield looked at them with a foreshortened doubt in her face.

Then, after a few seconds…RAP! RAP!—came the response.

Mrs. Redfield’s eyes enlarged. Now, much less amused, she took a step backward adding clearance between herself and the location of the sound.

Kate said: Now watch this. She motioned five soundless snaps, as she had earlier, aiming her downstroke toward the phenomenon.

Then came five raps with the same timing.

Putting her index finger to her lips to signal everyone to remain silent, Kate then gestured two soundless snaps, followed by a pause, then one more silent one.

Again, RAP, RAP, .RAP.

Where in godsname is it coming from? asked Mrs. Redfield, looking down at the floor in the area of the sound’s origin. Not expecting an answer to her question, she added, How long has this been carrying on?

Mother Fox answered: "This evening it started just after supper. Kate began copying it by snapping her fingers, and then it started copying Kate. But it’s queerer than that. After the copying game, we started asking it questions that it could answer with numbers and it has been right every time."

Father Fox broke in: Yes, Jane, you are one of the few who knows the real answer to this question, we almost forgot ourselves. He turned toward the noise and delivered the carefully worded question, How many children did the missus have?

Seven raps returned.

Mrs. Redfield’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped, Was that seven? Did your girls know?

Not ‘til tonight, said Father Fox. Like I said, we had put that baby behind us and didn’t even think of it until this thing reminded us.

How many times have I been ill, ill in bed, since we’ve lived here? asked Mother Fox.

The pause was longer, then came four raps.

Mother Fox was nodding her head slowly, pensively, Yes, that’s right.

Oh my lord, this is too strange for me, I couldn’t live in this house another minute! What are you going to do about it? said Mrs. Redfield, thrusting her trembling finger toward the noise.

Before anyone tried to answer her, everyone’s attention was diverted to a din of people approaching, trampling the lawn, as nearly half of the population of the village descended on the little farmhouse. The cool night air was now saturated with darkness, but many of the visitors carried torches and through the window Father Fox could see that among them were the Methodist minister, Reverend A.H. Jervis; their upstanding neighbors, Mr. Duesler and Mr. Larsen; other neighbors; several town council members; and Margaret.

Reverend Jervis, slender, in his thirties, was more devout than most of the clergy and known for his powers of reasoning. Mr. Duesler, a man of medium frame, in his mid-forties, owned the hardware and tack store and was regarded as pedantic but friendly.

As Father Fox opened the door, the redolence of the coal oil torches drifted in. Standing in the doorway, everyone quieted while Father Fox described to them as well as he could most of the events of the evening in chronological order. He said from the show of the public interest, the night was going to turn out to be a long one, and since his home was too small to invite everyone inside, he would allow those in, who might get to the bottom of the ordeal or who might be best to verify the story. And, he added, his first order of business was to excuse his wife and two daughters so that they could get some sleep since they had already experienced the phenomenon first-hand. He then asked the disorderly assemblage to step aside and let his women-folk through.

Mrs. Redfield, Mother Fox, Margaret, and Kate would never forget that night. Mother Fox took the two girls to sleep over with a neighbor family that had two daughters—friends of Margaret’s and Kate’s and about the same ages. Then, Mother spent the night at Mrs. Redfield’s.

Back at home, the raps continued exactly the same as before. Inside, the town clerk, the Methodist minister, and several others recorded every question and response. Those outside could hear nearly as well as those inside, except for the silent gestures inside and the occasional chatter mouths outside—that would drown out one of the questions being asked—to whom the others would loudly SHUSH in unison. The perpetrators of the chattering were made to feel unpopular, if not downright criminal. Others outside recorded the events also.

Inside, Mr. Duesler came up with the idea of spelling by raps while an informal committee was formed to investigate the noise. The women’s sewing bee stayed to brew coffee for everyone and neighbors tended the fireplace inside and built a generous bonfire outside. Amidst the smell of fresh coffee, the crackling of firewood, and the showering sparks drifting up towards the night’s blackened sky, the people shared comfort in numbers. The once-eerie raps became accepted and nearly commonplace by the early hours of the morning, although everyone was well aware this was a special event in his or her life.

Once an alphabetical code was worked out, a major part of the night was spent asking questions of the invisible intruder.

Who, or what, are you? asked Mr. Larsen, as he scratched his head mussing his straw yellow hair.

This was answered with a series of RAPs that spelled out,

Y-O-U-W-U-L-D-C-A-L-L-M-E-A-S-P-I-R-I-T.

Duesler sounded out each letter, one by one. Father Fox then translated them in words, You would call me a spirit, it misspelled ‘would’.

Are you deceased? said Mr. Larsen.

Y-E-S.

Did you live in this house? asked Father Fox.

M-U-R-D-E-R-E-D-H-E-R-E

Murdered! repeated three or four persons inside. When this answer was learned outside, the crowd turned into a hubbub of skittish voices talking over one another, sounding as gibberish and gabble from inside; until several of the more bossy members tried to SHUSH the rest so that they could hear the next question.

Who murdered him? Uh, . . . who murdered you? asked Mr. Larsen.

B-A-R-T-H-O-L-O-M-E-W

Bartholomew, who’s that? asked Father Fox, searching the faces around him.

The Bartholomews lived here a few years ago, said Mr. Duesler.

The Weekmans had your house last, said Mr. Larsen. And now I think about it, I recall Mrs. Weekman complaining of strange noises in this house, too, but at the time. What was your name? asked Mr. Duesler.

R-O-S-M-A

Rosma, translated Mr. Duesler.

What was your Christian name? added Mr. Larsen.

C-H-A-R-L-E-S-B

What’s that? asked Father Fox.

Charles B, said Mr. Larsen. He’s given us his middle initial too. Does anyone know him? Mr. Larsen looked around at the blank faces.

Father Fox turned to the front window near him and crouched slightly to direct his voice outside: Anyone ever hear of a Charles B Rosma? Just no’s responded. Then, confirming his answer: Did anyone say yes? There remained only no’s.

Father Fox turned back to those inside and directed his question to Mr. Duesler: Are you sure Bartholomew lived here a few years ago? Without waiting for an answer, he questioned the spirit: How many years ago were you murdered? Change back to numbers.

Now, there was total silence since everyone wanted to hear the response. A slight cough was heard outside, and someone shushed the one who coughed. Then, someone shushed the shusher, and everyone began shushing everyone. But when the raps commenced, all quieted quickly.

RAP! RAP! RAP! RAP! RAP!

Five… five years ago, translated Father Fox, and then he turned and directed his voice outside and shouted: FIVE YEARS AGO!

How old were you, .when you died? asked Mr. Duesler. Thirty-one raps returned, at which everyone in the room joined in counting.

Thirty-one, HE WAS THIRTY-ONE, said Father Fox, turning and shouting the redundancy outside again.

Good Lord, right in the prime of his life, added Mr. Larsen, I wonder why he was killed.

Why were you killed? asked Mr. Duesler. Change back to the alphabet.

M-O-N-E-Y

For money? said Mr. Duesler.

Y-E-S

What did he do, what kind of work was he in? asked Father Fox. Mr. Duesler, who had taken the lead in asking the spirit its questions, was unable to repeat the question before the raps came directly in reply to Father Fox’ question.

P-E-D-D-L-E-R

As the night lengthened, all present learned one Charles B. Rosma, a thirty-one year old peddler, had been in Hydesville five years ago, and according to this strange narrator, was killed for money by Mr. Bartholomew, a farmer turned blacksmith, who lived then in what was now, the Fox home. The spirit further revealed the distressing news that his corpse was buried in the cellar of the home about ten feet deep. When the investigative team learned this, they descended to the cellar.

Lighted by torches, the ensemble made their way in the darkness toward the dull, heavy thumping, which came from the ground in the center of the cellar. The air was musty and smelled of mildew. Brushing through spider webs, Mr. Larsen walked to the spot, where upon the thumping grew louder. When he backed away, the thumping stopped. When he readvanced, it started again, and from this, the group was able to pinpoint the exact location. It was Reverend Jervis’ idea to wait until daylight to do any digging.

During the rest of the night, Father Fox stayed predominantly awake while the rapping continued relentlessly marking the previous evening’s date of March 31st as a turning point in the discovery of the spirit and the events that were to come.

The following day was the warmest since winter, but the fetid air smelled of manure from the surrounding farmers fertilizing their new spring crops. Contrastingly, the sky was vividly blue with puffy clouds and the whole community was rippling with rumors of the events of the night before. In the daylight hours, the rapping had stopped, but the news had traveled as fast as the flights of the migrating swallows.

A crowd was still assembled and growing, and on this day, it numbered over two hundred. Unlike the day three weeks earlier, the children were present but not playing. Then, their playfulness had turned into fright from the loud unexplained blows. Today, they and their parents approached the house with caution, suspicion, and reservation. One young boy, eight years old, with straw yellow hair peeked in the windows more curious than most.

Many of the adults were fatigued from being up all night. Reverend Jervis returned early morning and, after having given the circumstances more thought, requested the investigative committee delay any excavation until the proper authorities could give legal sanction for the exhumation. And then Reverend Jervis added: If indeed, we are to believe a corpse really exists.

Since the peaceful committee agreed, the entire day of April 1st turned out to be uneventful, other than the news and rumors of the last night’s activity that were running rampant through the mass of people that had assembled. Mother Fox and the girls had learned of what had happened while they were absent and returned home mid-morning to find more people at their house than they had ever seen in Hydesville. The entire Fox family found themselves caught up in a new kind of celebrity they had never experienced, and one that was accompanied with no privacy or peace from the public at large.

At dusk, the rapping resumed. However, instead of communicating with the prodigy on this night, the investigative team attempted everything they could to prove or disprove the source of the noise. They wanted to expose any hoax or trickery, and weary from the last day and a half, finally gave up with the conservative conclusion the rapping was indeed from an unknown source originating from under the cellar ground surface in the center of the house. While the committee members carried out their duties, Kate and Margaret Fox played question and answer games with the spirit.

The next day, April 2, 1848, was different. First, the crowd could not discern any difference in the rapping of the daylight hours from that of the nighttime. Next, about mid-morning, a young woman, having heard all the stories, came to the Fox home. Her name was Lucretia Pulver and she was a Hydesville resident. Lucretia was eighteen years old, a working-class girl, with a small figure and a virtuous face. While she made her way through the wonder-mongers and sightseers standing all around the property, walking up to and knocking on the front door, Reverend Jervis recognized her through the window and greeted her in.

When the rapping continued, she was expectedly quite agitated. Then, she proceeded to tell what she had come to say: I’ve heard the stories about this spirit, and I think I know something that is important.

The Reverend introduced Lucretia to the Foxes and asked her to go on. A string of rapping briefly interrupted them. When it stopped, Lucretia recommenced: About five years ago, I remember a peddler called on this house. I was working helping the Bartholomews at the time… she paused.

Yes, said Reverend Jervis, do go on. His facial expression gave way his exhilaration at this news and his enthusiasm caught the attention of the others in the room. Now everyone was staring at the young lady with piqued interest in anticipating some revelation.

The peddler remained here for the night, and I was sent away, to my parents’ farm, which was unusual, for I normally spent the nights here during the week while I was working, and the Bartholomews asked me not to come back for three days, said Lucretia.

Did you know the peddler’s name? asked Mr. Larsen.

I can’t remember it, I probably only heard it once, Lucretia replied. But I talked to him and he promised to call on my father’s house and he never came.

And after three days, did you return here? asked Mr. Larsen.

Yes, she said, and on my return, I heard these strange noises in the house for the first time. And when I tried to find where they were coming from, I went down into the cellar.

Again, their conversation was broken by repeating raps.

Trying to ignore the interruption, Reverend Jervis asked: Did you observe anything peculiar?

Yes, the center of the ground in the cellar was soft, I asked Mrs. Bartholomew about it.

Do you remember what she said? said Mr. Larsen.

It’s been some time, but I believe she told me the soft dirt was due to rat-holes, said Lucretia. But I found it strange that right after she told me this, Mr. Bartholomew carried down a lot of dirt and worked in the cellar for a long time.

Good heavens, dear, would you give a statement? asked Reverend Jervis.

Yes, but there was one other thing.

And what is that? asked Mr. Larsen.

It was shortly after that… that the Bartholomews moved away from the house and the neighborhood, said Lucretia.

My dear, I want to thank you for coming forward with this. We’ll have someone reach you for your statement, said Reverend Jervis.

As she started to leave, she turned back: Don’t misunderstand, I don’t hold any ill will for the Bartholomews, they always treated me right, but after I heard these stories, I just had to tell someone what I know. For a long time, I thought I was going crazy, and no one else could hear these sounds, the Bartholomews never seemed to, except one time I thought their seven-year-old boy did.

The rapping commenced again, this time a little louder and persisted through mid-morning until the investigative committee, at a loss for what to do next, finally gave in and decided to excavate. When the lead investigator walked to the exact spot, dull, heavy thumping increased as it had done for Mr. Duesler on the 31st of March. When the investigator backed off, the thumping stopped. After digging down about a foot of earth over the length of what was anticipated to be a grave, the excavation started filling with water.

What is it? asked Mr. Bush, one of the team members.

It’s the water table, said Father Fox. The river’s up from the spring thaw, the whole land is flooded if you go down a ways. I was afraid of this. We’ll have to wait till the table goes down.

How long will that be? asked Mr. Bush.

Maybe not till summer, said Father Fox. He threw his shovel down and turned for the cellar stairs; the others followed.

Ten weeks later, in mid-June, David Fox, the youngest Fox son, showed up at his parents’ house. His resemblance to his father showed how his father must have looked at age nineteen, virile and athletic. With him were Mr. Larsen, Mr. Bush, Mr. Granger of Rochester, and two others—having come to excavate again. The concourse had been arranged early in the morning to beat the midday heat. Father Fox met them at the door and took the six men down into the cellar, carrying two wide-mouthed spades and a pick. The rapping had never ceased and the many onlookers had continued to hang around outside, although with changing faces—some from Rochester and a few from as far away as Boston.

When the seven men stepped down the stairs into the cellar, rays of light shown in through the cracks and holes in the foundation throwing beams that shot back and forth across the cellar air highlighting dust particles, set in motion by the human movement. The musty smell was yet present, but the foul odor of stale water from the hole was stronger, permeating the compact space. The water was gone. Father Fox’ shovel still lay by the excavation attempted earlier. When the seven men were all gathered around the diggings, the thumping started for a few seconds.

It stinks down here, said David, embarrassed of the malodorous odors coming from his own father’s house.

What’d you expect with the high water table? said Father

Fox.

Father Fox bent over and picked up his shovel: Might just as well get this over with. To show the newcomers what he and Mr. Larsen and others had learned, Father Fox stood in the hole for a second and the thumping started again. He climbed out and it stopped.

Three of the men began digging. After gaining a couple of feet, they traded places with three others, while one manned the pick, which was needed in spots of hard-packed clay. When they reached a depth of five feet, Mr. Larsen lowered down a ten-foot ladder and they continued digging. At nine feet, they came to planks that were hard to remove. Under them were some broken bits of crockery, charcoal, and a thin layer of quicklime. To all those present, this was evidence of a grave. Digging through the mud and quicklime, they found some human hair, then several bones, and finally they retrieved a human skull, with what appeared to have a gash at its base.

Holding it up for everyone to see, Father Fox said: There you are, Mr. Rosma, looks as if we found you after all.

1849

West Coast

On January 24th, John W. Marshall discovered gold at Sutter’s Mill, California—and all Hell broke loose.

Part One: The East Coast

Present (1883)

With Memories of the Past

Chapter 1

The Present (1883)

In the pouring rain, the four-horse team of black Hackneys hurried the Brougham coach over the slippery cobblestone streets that glistened with the reflected glow of the flickering gas street lamps. Trying to maintain their footing on the wet surface in the poor light, the horses were high-strung and wild-eyed as they traversed the wet narrow Boston streets past little buildings, saloons, and seedy hotels at the downtown edge of the city.

Inside the coach, Sarah, Henrietta, and Maria jounced along and could hardly hear one another from the rhythmic clattering of sixteen horseshoes pounding the cobblestones at nine miles an hour in the musty night air.

Henrietta was a large-framed woman with a stout face and a square jaw. Hired since Willy’s illness, she was Sarah’s bookkeeper, although she looked as if she were someone accustomed to hard physical work. She sat with her back to the driver’s wall, facing the two dainty women riding on the bench seat across from her.

I still think this is poppycock, clamored Henrietta, and lowering her voice she added: going to a fortune teller. As she said this, she gripped the horizontal handrail under the flapping window cover, allowing raindrops to land onto her hand.

No, no, Madame, Monsieur Coons is a fine seer, very respected. And Madame Sarah ‘as been so depressed, zis will be good for ‘er, said Maria, holding onto her wide brimmed, Leghorn flat hat.

Don’t concern yourself, Maria. We’ve already had this discussion and we’ve come too far to turn back, said Sarah.

As the coach jolted down the streets and rounded the turns, Sarah realized this was unusual to be cooped up with these two spinsters without their incessant talking. Normally, Henrietta was loquacious and Maria was glib. Although this outing seemed to be rescuing Sarah from two years of ennui, she still wasn’t up to carrying on conversations tonight. She thanked the Lord for the noisy ride.

A petite woman at four feet ten inches, Sarah was wearing mourning clothes, although it was still evident she was a fastidious dresser, from her mourning bonnet, her Zouave jacket, her high collar taffeta blouse and French fancy front ruffles—all black, down to her tiny corseted waistline. If she weren’t in mourning, she would be wearing navy blue. Although forty-two years old, she still had a doll-like posterior and dainty facial features: a button nose, thin lips, and slight ears that would go unnoticed if she didn’t wear her silver blonde hair up in a French twist, her usual style. Her distinct feature was her sapphire-blue eyes that always sparkled and could make a dishonest person turn from her gaze. Since Willy’s death, she had been in a serious depression and the dimple in her left cheek rarely showed these days.

Maria, now in her late twenties, would be considered small by other women’s standards, but at five feet two inches, she was tall next to Sarah. Slender and hyper, she had the metabolism of a humming bird and could eat anything without gaining weight. She had not outgrown her trim nose that terminated in a little ball, nor her youthful, blissful nature. Maria was an optimist and even at her age, seemed always to be cheery and to get overly excited about the simplest of things. Sarah felt Maria was naive, but Maria had learned English quickly and always seemed to find the correct word, sometimes when no one else could. However, Sarah had given up on Maria’ pronunciation years ago, her pidgin English had a thick French accent and Sarah had resigned herself that it always would. Maria’s way of speaking had become a part of her—it was Maria. But she had a compassionate heart, and she was honest to the point of being afraid to touch something if it didn’t belong to her. Sarah had observed this without Maria’s knowing it.

Henrietta, on the other hand, was older than Maria, nearly forty, and recently added to Sarah’s entourage. Sarah didn’t know much about Henrietta, yet knew she was freely open, even to the point of being opinionated about most things. Although her opinions on some issues made Sarah uncomfortable, this was a behavior Sarah admired and saw as a form of honesty. As a bookkeeper for many years, Henrietta had proven her integrity and her proficiency to protect her employer’s money, but Sarah had reservations about Henrietta’s ability to keep matters confidential that weren’t financial. So far, Henrietta seemed loyal, and although she was condemnatory, she was not pugnacious with Sarah. Nevertheless, Sarah had not shared her secrets with Henrietta.

When the rain seemed to be easing up, Sarah took the opportunity to lightly lift the window flap next to her, carefully raising one corner, to see what she could in the wet night air. She could make out they were now on the outskirts of the city, in the suburban district among two-story buildings that were predominantly stores and shops on the first level with living quarters above. As their carriage rounded a turn, Sarah could see a lit kerosene lamp hanging on a sawhorse barricade indicating some type of obstacle in the street. The driver, George, must have seen it also because she felt the coach slowing up.

Holding the window flap higher, Sarah noticed there were two sawhorses as the coach approached—with the hanging lamp on the front one. As they drew closer, she could see the sawhorses were marking the boundaries of an open trench in the street, and as they passed in the outer lane, the horses began acting up and neighing nervously. The big horse in the front left, on Sarah’s side and closest to the barricades, reared up and whinnied in alarm, but restrained by its harness, simmered back down. From inside the coach, Sarah and the other two women were jarred about. Sarah could hear George crack his whip above the horse’s head. Again trying to see what was happening, Sarah thought for a moment she saw the sawhorses animated, bouncing up and down, with the kerosene lamp flickering in synchronization. It was a strange experience, but she had seen optical illusions before and with the movement of the coach and the irregularity in the movement of the team, she ignored the allusion. She yelled out hoping George could hear her, George, is everything all right?

Something needs to be done about his driving, said Henrietta, gripping the handrail again.

George did not answer. That’s unlike him, Sarah thought: He must not have heard me.

Then, she felt the coach stop and was startled by the deep voice from the driver’s seat penetrating the sudden silence: Here we are Miss Sarah, this is th-th-the place.

A few moments later, the coach door on Sarah’s side opened. George, the big black driver who stuttered, took a portable step from the boot, placed it down, and helped the ladies out one by one: Sarah, Henrietta, and then Maria.

George had been with Sarah since Willy’s death. Sarah’s brother-in-law, Tom Bennett, had recommended him as a loyal freight-wagon driver for the factory for several years and someone Tom used to wrestle with, many years ago. A big black man, in his late thirties and single, he had plain features and was gentle for his muscular, heavy-weight frame, and sturdy straight back. Sarah didn’t think about his stutter any more, which disguised his intelligence. Over the last two years, she had become use to it and he had shown himself to be loyal to her, a quality she treasured above all others.

As the three ladies climbed out into the drizzling night air, they each in turn raised umbrellas and stood for a moment to get oriented and to straighten their clothes. It wasn’t a cold night, by New England standards; it was about fifty degrees. From the light of a gas streetlamp, Sarah could see they were standing in front of a two-story brick building. She could see a swinging sign hanging from an arm on the lamppost that read Adam Coons, Medium. Behind it, there was an exterior stairway running up the side of a gabled end wall to the second floor of the building. The whole setting seemed strange, right out of a Charlotte Bronte novel, with the rain glistening in the light.

A tall, thin man, slightly hunched, in his sixties, was holding an umbrella and standing on the landing. Sarah’s first thought was that he was disrespectful not to be wearing his waistcoat. From where she was, he appeared to be wearing a white shirt with exposed sleeves under a buttoned vest and necktie.

Watch your step, Ladies, but please come up, I’ve been expecting you, said Coons.

As they negotiated the wet street to the stairs, Sarah could see their team had knocked over the sawhorses and the sawhorse lamp was lying broken on the street, its light extinguished. There was a stench coming from the open trench that was nearly unbearable when they walked past it. Although gloved, Sarah made a V shape with her thumb and index finger and held them under her nose while Henrietta and Maria pinched their noses tightly in a much less genteel fashion. Sarah couldn’t discern Henrietta’s explicative as Henrietta passed, and Sarah didn’t want to. George followed them.

Maria was at the top of the stairs first, Monsieur Coons, this is.

Coons placed his index finger to his lips and interrupted her, Shhh! You must not tell me!

Coons stepped back through the doorway to allow the visitors to enter. He gestured for George to take a seat and for the three ladies to follow him into the next room. Coons had a high forehead and Sarah found him at once irascible and daunting.

The outer room where George sat down was plain, devoid of decoration except for the davenport on which he was sitting with a low writing table in front of it. There were no pictures on the walls and the one four-paned window had no curtain.

When the ladies entered the second room, Sarah could see it was different. There were no windows, only the door they entered, and the wainscoted walls were covered with posters from theatrical plays in major cities, mostly New York. Below the chair rail of the wainscoting, the walls were lined with low bookcases crammed with papers, books, and scrapbooks, in total disarray. The room had little light save the one main coal-oil lamp hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room, over a square table of the size for four persons. A black floor-length tablecloth covered the table, and Sarah observed several objects sitting on it: a glass of water, a wide flat circular shallow pan, a jug, a draw-string bag bulging of something, and a stack of what appeared to be school children’s writing slates. She noticed the inner room smelled mustier than the outer room where George was. From the doorway, she could see a desk across the room against the wall in this second room.

As soon as they had entered, Coons, with the door to his back, spoke: Ladies, please be seated around the table. The subject should face north. He pointed his thumb behind him. Following his instructions, Sarah moved to the opposite side of the table; Henrietta took the chair to Sarah’s right—the one closest to the door; and Maria moved around to the chair at Sarah’s left. Since there was no other place to put them, the ladies hooked their umbrellas over the back of their chairs. Henrietta removed her rain shawl and placed it also over the back of her chair. As they sat down, Henrietta started to say something, and again Coons raised a finger to his lips quickly like a spooked bird: Ladies, I ask only that you don’t say anything until I address you. Please be patient, because I need total concentration. Maria, did you bring the gold coin?

Coons had never met Maria, but Sarah surmised he knew the French girl’s name from her making the arrangements and identified her from her attempt to make introductions when they arrived.

Henrietta had a look of disgust and mistrust on her face. Sarah guessed what Henrietta was thinking at Coons’ request for the gold coin right off. Maria seemed overjoyed to be involved, as if participating in an adventure. Sarah, herself, was resolved to go through with this, now that they had come all this way.

In response to Coons’ question, Maria looked at Sarah who opened her purse and took out a double eagle (twenty-dollar gold piece). Seeing this, Henrietta let out an uncontrollable grunt in protest obvious to everyone. Sarah felt embarrassed, but said nothing and politely handed the two-inch gold coin to Coons. She hoped Henrietta would control herself.

All were now noticeably quiet. In a ritual manner, Coons proceeded to place the coin into the center of the shallow pan. He then poured a slight amount of what appeared to be water, from the jug, and then extended his hands toward Henrietta and Maria with his palms down.

As soon as the water is stagnant, we must all join hands and not release our hold until I say to, spoke Coons in a monotone. Then, slowly, he added, Is that understood?

When they joined hands, Henrietta accepted Sarah’s right hand but was obvious in her reluctance to accept Coons’ hand, as she hesitated for a moment. Then, after receiving a pointed glare from him, she submitted, extending her hand and allowing him to hold it.

This will never do, I feel there is a great opposing energy generating from you, Madam. Would you please wait in the other room with the driver? said Coons.

Henrietta was mortified. She looked at Sarah, then Maria, both of whom were looking at her, saying nothing. Maria seemed sympathetic but submissive. Sarah, who was holding Henrietta’s other hand, gave it a squeeze and smiled with a brief nod that said: It’s all right Henrietta, go ahead and do as he says.

Well, I don’t believe in all this hocus pocus anyway, said Henrietta, as she rose from the chair, grabbed her rain gear and flounced out of the room with all eyes following her. When she shut the door behind her, there was not the anticipated bang Sarah expected. Instantly, Sarah’s tense neck muscles started to relax. She was surprised to discover her relief that the querulous Henrietta would not be participating in this.

Coons reached across the table securing Sarah’s right hand and began, Before I look into your future, I must tell you from the moment you arrived I have felt an intense presence from your past. Can you lend me something of yours that is personal?

Maria gave a shudder of exhilaration. Sarah thoughtfully paused. Then, she released her hands and took off her wedding ring and handed it to Coons. While she was doing this, Coons stood up and turned the lamp down until there was a warm glow in the room that reflected off the walls in a moving pattern from the swinging lamp. He sat back down, took the ring, and gripped it tightly with both hands and then, closed his eyes for a moment. As Sarah watched him, she tried to decide whether he was sincere or merely playing out a performance. When he opened his eyes, he laid the ring onto the table and extended his hands for the two ladies to rejoin.

While Sarah watched his every move, Coons first held dead-still, staring across the table without looking into her face, as if in deep concentration. After what seemed to be ten minutes to her, but was in reality three, Coons swung his head back looking up, staring at the ceiling. Again, there was a silent wait, and then Sarah could feel Coon’s hand begin to stiffen. Both hands must be tensing she thought, because Maria had begun to tighten her hand around Sarah’s in response. Coons’ whole body stiffened: his neck sinews protruded and the blood vessels in his neck and forehead enlarged. Although his head was tilted back, Sarah could see his eyes as they rolled back into his head, with minute oscillations, eventually showing the white sclera only while his lids made flittering movements, never fully covering his eyeballs—allowing continuous exposure of the whites of his eyes.

Still somewhat skeptical, Sarah became unnerved at the sight of what she was watching. In college, when she had observed the Fox sisters’ demonstrations, they had not gone through this much ritual. In the low glow of the room, she could sense Maria was anxious and timid by her tightened sweaty grip. Then, without transition, Coons lowered his head and opened his eyes. To Sarah, he seemed to be staring into space with a blank look on his face, staring past here—behind her.

The silence broke with Coons’ words, I can see a man, your husband. He’s by the desk behind you. You may look but do not release your hands.

The two women looked toward the desk. Sarah had to twist her neck to see in the direction Coons was looking, over her left shoulder. She could see a willowy, wispy fog-like image about one foot wide and four or five feet tall, but to her it didn’t resemble the image of a man. Nevertheless she was apprehensive, she could feel a chill in her spine and the goose bumps of her skin. All she could manage to verbalize was: I see something. Her heart beat in a funny, jerky way.

I don’t see anyzing, said Maria.

Sarah thought about Maria’s comment: Surely she must not see anything—if she could see what I can see, she would have acknowledged it or have screamed by now.

Ladies, understand we all see something different. He is handsome, about six feet one, 185 pounds, a dark mustache, and he is smiling cunningly at my account of his description, said Coons.

That’s Willy, my Willy! burst Sarah, feeling the color drain from her face.

Watching, the wispy image stretched taller and moved closer to the table. Sarah’s eyes followed. It stopped about four feet from Henrietta’s empty chair. Sarah looked at Maria and Coons. Maria obviously did not see it, because she was looking at Sarah and

Coons. Like Sarah, Coons had followed the movement of the apparition.

If it’s Willy, please tell him I miss him desperately, said Sarah, nearly in tears with breaking speech.

By now the apparition appeared more human-like to Sarah, changing in and out of shape from a fog-like nothingness to a human form in black, gray, and white tones like a three-dimensional photograph with constantly vignetting surfaces. For a moment, she could make out Willy’s face, which wore an expression of love in reciprocation to her remark, and then the clarity faded instantly and she was not sure if it was just an allusion superimposed by her strong desire for the image to be Willy.

Then, the apparition moved closer to the table. Although it’s mystic form would come in and go out of focus, it mostly resembled a smoke-like substance. It touched her hair. She could see it but not feel it, though her chill intensified. It touched the tabletop and then the slates. Sarah could feel her heart thumping in her chest.

Do you want to write? asked Coons.

I still see nuzing, said Maria. Sarah could see Maria was wide-eyed watching the two of them, whose eyes had followed something she couldn’t see.

"He can hear us. He wants you