Voyages from Main Street: In and out of Time

By E. B. Rocha

Beah cannot help but wonder what lies beyond her earthly existence. For quite some time, she has been frightened by the unexplainable opening and closing of doors, the sounds of footsteps and muffled voices, and the echoes of a childs soft crying while home alone in the Massachusetts Victorian home she shares with her husband. Because no one else ever sees or hears anything unusual, Beah invents logical explanations, for such things just do not happenor so she thinks.

One day while working on the old house, Beah unwittingly loosens a baseboard and unearths an antique pocket watch. Unaware of its mystical powers, Beah eventually falls asleep on the floor, only to awaken as a child in the Victorian era who is happily interacting with the houses original occupants. But when she voyages into the past a second time, Beah is metamorphosed into a teenager who must sail dangerous oceans disguised as a cabin boy. While she faces death under the sea, a murderer pursues her through time. As Beah precariously dangles between the past and present, she must uncover the truth, before it is too late.

Voyages from Main Street is the tale of a womans perilous journey through time as she desperately searches for answers and attempts to outrun a determined killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Feb 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480826557

E. B. Rocha

E. B. Rocha enjoyed a lengthy career in the airline industry. She is now an interpreter of romance languages and is working toward a Master of Fine Arts. Rocha lives with her artist husband in a Victorian home in Massachusetts.

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Copyright © 2015, 2016 E. B. Rocha.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-2654-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-2655-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015921365

Archway Publishing rev. date: 2/5/2016

Contents

Voyage One

Back to the Beginning

A Voyage of Transformation and Discovery

The Secret in the Attic

Mrs. Grayson Continues Her Story

The Coopers' Christmas Eve Surprise

A Beautiful Christmas Comes to an End

Voyage Two

A Return to the Past, Revisiting an Old Friend

A Horrific Blizzard

The Well and the Roses

A Sad Story and a Wild Plan

In Search of Work

To the New Bedford Waterfront and Back Home Again

The Coachman's Story

Voyage Three

The Voyage of Nathaniel Cooper

Voyage Four

We Sail Away to Find Captain Cooper

An Angel at My Back and a Dead Whale

Facing Death under the Sea

An Accident and a Death

Torment

Another Secret Revealed

Banned from the Whaling Ship

Caught in the Act

Las Palmas

The Shadow of Fear

Voyage Five

We Sail through the Strait Of Gibraltar

Murder in Morocco

The Spanish Mainland

A Bloody Affair on the Road North

The de la Vega Estate

Voyage Six

The Monster Resurfaces

In the Clouds

David's Discovery

Back to the Present Day in My Rose Garden

Entering a World of Clutter and Splinters

Rose's Letters

My Secret Revealed

A Man in the Attic

A Man in the Harbor

VOYAGE ONE

Back to the Beginning

T he fog is rapidly blowing in from the sea, billowing thick and sticky, like white cotton candy, clinging to everything. Visibility's almost zero. I'm confused, shivering, and so cold. Where is this place? Why do I have nothing but these wet clothes on my back? I wonder. How will I find my way back home? And how did I come to be here, in this harbor? Did I fall overboard and swim here? I can't remember anything . Looks like this road winds uphill; I'll try to follow it and look for help. Some minutes pass. The fog thins slightly as the hill rises.

Is it my imagination? No, no, it is a building, a large white house. Maybe there's someone inside who'll let me use a phone. If only I could see my way through this horrible fog! It's sticking to my body. Seconds later: That's weird---how did I suddenly get so close? Oh no, what awful luck. The house is dark inside. Maybe it's empty! I'm desperate. Without help, I'll freeze out here---dripping wet and shivering.

An icy hand pushes me from behind. With a trembling voice, I scream, Get away from me; don't touch me!

Immediately I whip around. No one is there. Another second passes. I'm inside the house just like that! Imagine it---I must've passed right through that wall like a ghost! Things just keep getting weirder and weirder, don't they? A few minutes pass as I stand numb, not knowing where to turn. I hear the soft crying of a small child. The poor soul sounds weak, sick, working hard to breathe. A great sadness spreads over me. Tears stream down my face as I wander from room to room in a trance, looking for the weeping child and finding no one. Near a stairway leading to the second floor, I hear the faint quivering voice of an elderly woman, but it soon fades.

Suddenly, all is quiet. My sadness subsides. I continue wandering without knowing why. I see countless stained glass windows, like a French château. I move to the back of the house, where I enter a large room filled with canvases, some painted, others blank. Is this an art studio? I wonder.

I wish David and I could own this house, I say aloud. Somehow I feel as though I've always lived here. That's odd---I can't imagine why.

Suddenly, I panic. Oh, heaven help me! A dark figure is coming through the fog toward me, coming for me! He grabs hold of me.

What do you want with me? Let go of me! Put me down!

The ugly bearded brute has me in his grasp. I struggle, falling hard to the floor. The fog's closing in. I can no longer see; I'm completely enveloped in whiteness. Somebody, help me. I'm fading away, can't see anything! Where am I going?

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Ringing ... The telephone rang for just a couple of seconds, and I awakened dripping with perspiration and trembling. Good grief, what a horrible dream I just had. What was all that about? Who knows what goes on in a person's head during sleep? Perhaps I'm losing my mind! At that moment, I didn't know that one day I would discover the painful truth about that dream.

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A few months after having that bizarre dream, in spite of the fear I felt when I awoke, my husband David and I bought that mystical house. Several years later, on a bright Saturday morning, the old grandfather clock in the upstairs foyer struck nine times slowly. A sweet young voice called to me from the door in the front hall, speaking quickly as I rushed from the kitchen, still wiping my hands on a dishtowel.

Hi, Auntie Beah. Wow, I'm so happy to be spending the weekend with you. I hope Mom and Dad stay on the cape till Tuesday! It's so much fun visiting your old house, Auntie. A broad smile lit up Mariel's face, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief and anticipation as she crossed the foyer carrying her weekend suitcase up the stairs to the little guest bedroom on the second floor.

Oh, sweetheart, you know how much I love having you here. I wish you could stay forever, I replied, smiling up at her.

Mariel was very dear and devoted to me. We had the same sensitive spirit and shared a love of art, adventure, and all things beautiful, especially the world of nature. A unique little sprite, warmhearted and tender, at eleven years of age, Mariel seemed to have lived her entire life in an enchanted forest. She was blessed with dimples in her cheeks, penetrating brown eyes that turned upward at the outer corners, and voluminous brown hair that contrasted with flawless pale skin. Always smiling, she radiated affection.

Mariel had spent much of her life reading, mostly mysteries. The inexplicable fascinated and delighted her insatiable, intelligent, and curious nature. Because of her extensive reading, she'd acquired a knowledge and vocabulary that far surpassed that of someone of her young years. In truth, she sounded more like an adult than a child of eleven. To my inquisitive niece, my Victorian home was the biggest riddle of all and the most interesting haunted house in our little town. The stories she'd heard about the world of shadows and spirits thrilled her and stimulated her imagination.

At times, I also wondered about what lay beyond our earthly existence, for on several occasions, when home alone, I had been frightened by the unexplainable opening and closing of doors and the sound of footsteps or muffled voices. I'd been saddened by the sound of soft, sorrowful crying of a small child. Each time it happened, I invented a logical explanation because such things didn't really happen, or so I told myself. Besides, no one else ever saw or heard anything unusual or unnatural!

One day soon, I would have to tell Mariel a tale about the extraordinary happenings that had occurred in this house. It was a tale that had left me without an understanding of time or place, one that would haunt me until the end of my days. Often I asked myself, Where did I go? In what time did I exist? How was I transported to that place and back again to this house?

But for now, Mariel was too young to know such things; she was simply content to go on exploring the secrets of my Victorian home---and with good reason. It was built in the 1840s by the captain of a whaler during a time when whaling was an important economic force in New Bedford, Massachusetts, and the surrounding communities.

Even as I write this, there are many partially hidden rooms and cubicles in this house where I've never dared enter. Of course, Mariel imagined that these spaces held all sorts of treasure and skeletons! I too wonder what is inside---perhaps a fortune in gold and jewels or a horrible secret waiting to be discovered. I've never mustered up the courage to pass through the thick spider-riddled cobwebs to find out.

Many years ago, something or someone in this house called to me from a distant past, before I was ever aware of the house's existence. Since that time, there had been occasions when the unnatural phenomena that occurred made me question my very sanity.

A short while before Mariel was born, I was living in New Bedford, a few miles to the west. My husband and I had been looking to buy a Victorian home in which to set up two studios and pursue our love of art and antiques. A few days before I saw my present home, I had that vivid, terrifying dream in which the house appeared exactly as it was at that time, but I had never before set eyes on it! How its exact image came to me in the dream, I can't understand.

On the weekend following that extraordinary dream, my husband and I went for an afternoon ride to enjoy the sunny Sunday weather. A couple of towns over from where we lived, we drove past Main Street purely by chance. As we sped by, I pointed to my left. That's it. That's the house I saw in my dream. Go back! Let's go back and look at it, David! I exclaimed to my husband, shaking with excitement.

Oh, all right, he said with a scowl. But I don't want to spend too much time looking at houses. I want to enjoy this pleasant weather. He reluctantly turned the car around. When we saw the property, both of us were a little less enthusiastic. Understandably, the property had been for sale a long time. It was dilapidated---little more than a wreck! But what joy I felt when I peeked through the large oval stained glass window in the middle of the gorgeous intricately carved front door and saw another oval stained glass window just like it directly across the foyer. Also visible from the multicolored window was a magnificent delicately carved railing leading to the second floor. I'd felt that I had to have this property, no matter how much work it needed. Since that time, at great expense, we've made great strides in bringing the house back to its former glory, with lots of long and tedious labor on our part. To the joy of everyone in our little town, we painted the house in twenty-six lovely colors.

My sweet niece Mariel was over on this particular day because she loved to come for a visit and hear the stories I would tell her about the house's history and mystery. Mariel, honey, go change your clothes. Put on your old jeans. We're going to work in the rose garden this morning, I called down the corridor to her, feeling guilty about using my little niece as slave labor. We have at least a dozen rosebushes to plant before sundown tomorrow. The garden needs to look especially lovely for your mom's surprise birthday party next week. I then ran to my room to change my own clothes.

Mariel came to my room and looked me straight in the eyes. Did you say a dozen rosebushes? I nodded. "Well, I guess that's okay. And oh, Auntie, I'll work extra hard, but please don't forget that you promised to tell me if anything really creepy happened since the last time I was here." She dashed off again.

On that warm Saturday morning, my unrealistic goal was to finish the work on my large rose garden before the weekend was over. It was a pleasant and rewarding task because the rest of the garden was just bursting with thousands of flowers in every imaginable color. Dozens of brightly colored ceramic pots were spilling over with splendid flowers and delightful fragrances. All sorts of birds chirped happily, hopping in and out of the sparkling water fountains. In short, this was a place far removed from the world of noisy, polluting cars that zipped by our street.

Mariel, who was very creative for her young age, had already spent a great many hours helping my husband and me design and plan the fun parts of our gardens. However, without her knowledge, I had recently placed a large old sculpture in the center of the new rose garden that we were about to develop. A few dedicated landscape workers, whom I'd hired specifically for that purpose, had positioned the ancient sculpture in the center of the rose garden with great diligence and care. Those same landscapers had helped me dig it up from the bramble patch where it had fallen more than a century and a half earlier.

The air smelled wonderful, and life was full of promise on that Saturday morning when Mariel and I went about collecting the tools, fertilizers, two-gallon watering cans, shovels, and so on, in order to begin beautifying the garden with magnificent blooming rosebushes. But before beginning, Mariel and I enjoyed a delightful tea that I had prepared and set on the table in the patio next to the new garden. Mariel and I were the only people I knew who had afternoon tea at any hour of the day just for the fun of it. Along with a steaming pot of Earl Grey tea and scones, we had cucumber sandwiches, fresh strawberries, and dark-chocolate cake with frosting made from fresh raspberries and cream. I had baked the cake early that morning just for the occasion.

Auntie Beah, we have to work really long and hard to burn off all those calories we just ate! Mariel said with a guilty look on her pretty little face and a bit of raspberry frosting still clinging to her lower lip.

You've been listening to your sisters again. You're much too young to worry about that, sweetheart. Besides, you're still very thin, and what's more, everything we ate today is healthy, including the dark-chocolate cake. Don't worry, sweetie. We'll soon burn off all those nasty calories. We'll be digging for hours to get all this work done, I told her, trying to justify my own feelings of guilt about my passion for dark chocolate.

Okay, if you say so, Auntie. The chocolate cake was the best you ever baked.

Thanks, sweetie. Now let's roll up our sleeves and start digging. I bought some small gardening gloves that should fit you. They're over there next to the digging tools by the back door. I'll take the north side of the garden, and you start on the south side. I've placed markers where each rosebush will be planted. I was trying to impress her with my great sense of direction, which both she and I knew was nonexistent. In reality, I couldn't tell east from west or north from south. My husband, David---or Uncle David, as all my nieces and nephews call him---was always bewildered by my lack of a natural sense of direction. He had gone to great lengths to teach me where north, south, east, and west were, to no avail.

With our stomachs full and a delightfully warm, mild breeze blowing, we started our work. After a couple of hours of pulling up pebbles, rocks of all sizes, and even some good-sized boulders, I came upon what I thought was part of a dead tree or bush. Interlaced fibrous projections, probably belonging to various plants, enclosed a peculiar-looking object. Using a pair of gardening clippers, I cut away at the fingers of plant life, which pulled back, refusing to release whatever was imprisoned in their grasp. Finally, perspiring and frustrated, I released from the earth a most unusual lump of crisscrossed roots encrusted with soil and tiny pebbles. In the bright sunlight, I became convinced that this was no ordinary root ball. Unless seen up close, it was almost indistinguishable from a twisted clump of tree roots. However, its squared corners convinced me that I was holding a box strangled by decades of growth. More unusual still was that at the very moment I lifted it from its hiding place, I distinctly heard a faint noise like pebbles or small metal objects rolling around inside.

How curious that I should come across something so mysterious in the very spot where I've just finished digging to plant a bush of velvety red tea roses, I told myself.

Mariel was so busy digging on the opposite side of the garden with headphones in her ears, her head bouncing to some rhythm as she listened to heaven knew what, that she took no notice of me or what I had just brought out of the ground. As I cut away the tenacious fingerlike roots and removed the soil and pebbles, I uncovered a clue to the incredible story that I told Mariel later that same afternoon. However, at that moment, I began to tremble and perspire in a state of disbelief or denial, so I decided to put aside that object until my mind could process the feelings of confusion that had washed over me. Some memory was tugging at my heart, but the box looked as if it had been buried for a century or more. Who in heaven's name would bury such a thing ... and why? I asked myself in a whisper.

Just then, Mariel decided to take a break from her digging and stood up to stretch and admire the old moss-covered sculpture of the beautiful woman pouring water from an earthen pot on her shoulder. The sculpture stood six feet tall on top of a great water-filled basin in the center of the rose garden. This is such a beautiful fountain, Auntie Beah. Where did it come from? Did you find it on one of your trips hunting for antiques with Uncle David? Mariel asked, a furtive smile curling up the ends of her cherub lips and more than a little bit of humor in her voice.

No, sweetie, I found it under that patch of bramble in the back of our property. I pointed toward the back. Don't you remember how things were back there a couple of years ago? It used to look like a jungle of grapevines, blackberries, and wild roses bushes. Little by little, we've been cutting it back. There were times when I swore that the bramble was alive and had a mind of its own. I swear it was out to kill me. The thorns used to get stuck in my clothing. If I tried to escape its hold, some vine or thorny branch would snap back and slap me so hard it brought tears to my eyes. Many times it ripped my clothes or pulled off the scarf I wore to protect my hair. To me, the blasted thing was possessed by some vindictive woodland spirit wanting to rid itself of me.

Mariel chuckled but said nothing. I suspected that she secretly enjoyed my predisposition for getting into scrapes, as long as nothing really serious happened to me.

I continued my tale about the bramble patch. One day about two months ago, as I was hacking, I tripped and stubbed my large toe over what I thought was an enormous boulder buried deep in the soil. I fell right on top of that sculpture that you see there and got a swollen and bloody toe. My backside landed on top of its face and scraped away a good deal of the green moss. I don't mind telling you that I got more than a few bruises from that nasty tumble.

Oh, Auntie, you're always having accidents. If you're not careful, you'll get yourself killed one of these days. Please be more careful. I don't want to lose my favorite storyteller. I could tell that this time Mariel was serious and worried about my habit of getting tangled in disastrous situations. Changing the subject in order to ease her preoccupation, I continued my account about the sculpture.

As I said, the sculpture of the beautiful nymph was almost completely buried, and its partially exposed face was covered with thick green moss. But with a great deal of help from the landscapers and some of our neighbors, we carefully and gently dug her up and lifted her out of the ground using ropes to hoist her upright. We cleaned off the soil, washed her carefully with warm water and a mild soap, and placed her where she stands today, on top of that fountain basin, which we purchased from an antique dealer in Rhode Island. Uncle David spent many hours working to make the water pour out of the pot on top of the nymph's shoulder down into that basin at her feet. I told Mariel all the details, knowing how much she would appreciate my finding such an old treasure in the back of my property.

Wow, Auntie Beah, my mom is going to love this old statue! Has she seen it yet? You have so many wonderful adventures, Auntie, she added with a gleam in her eye.

"No, your mom hasn't seen it; I want the rose garden to be in full bloom. Then I'll have one of my afternoon teas and invite the whole family over to see the sculpture. Everyone will know that it's a surprise party for your mom, except your mom, of course. Anyway, the new rose garden is the excuse I'm giving your mom in order to get her here without suspecting anything. Actually I'm not lying. I will be having high tea, but of course your mom doesn't know it's to celebrate her birthday. However, for now all this will remain our little secret, Mariel. Come on---let's get back to work. We have lots of rosebushes still left to plant." I nudged her.

"Okay, Auntie. I bet there's a mystery about that stone lady. She's sooo beautiful. But don't you think it's weird? How did she come to be buried like that, in a briar patch?"

Her question was justified, but having no idea, I replied, I can't even begin to imagine how. Maybe way back in time there was a bad hurricane. That part of the property is low and often becomes waterlogged during periods of heavy rain. So possibly, between the high winds and the soft, wet ground, the figure might have toppled over and with the passing years become buried in the soggy soil. Probably, over time, she became covered with decaying leaves and other plant material. Anyway, I hope someday the truth will become known. And if it does, I'll let you know, honey.

Mariel nodded, seeming satisfied with my explanation of how the sculpture probably ended up buried in the briar patch, so we got back to digging, adding fertilizer and planting and watering the remainder of the rosebushes. The following day would be for tidying up and mulching the rose garden. After a while, as her work brought her around to where I had already worked in the circular space, Mariel noticed the root-covered object that I had found. She grabbed hold of it and with a pair of shears cut and pulled off more of the roots and removed the remaining soil that clung to the top. Her eyes popped out when she noticed that it was a rusted ancient brass box.

"Auntie Beah, can I open it, please?" she pleaded, out of breath and unable to contain her excitement.

Yes, but be very careful how you handle it, I replied. It's very rusty and extremely fragile. We don't want to break anything.

Mariel's hands trembled. This was exactly what she hoped she would find each time she visited my house. There was nothing Mariel liked better than a good mystery, especially hunting for treasure.

I'll bet anything there are jewels inside this box, she added, her eyes flashing.

Slowly and painstakingly, we washed away the remaining soil and pebbles with a soft cloth and water flowing gently from the garden hose. The top of the box was covered by a thick pane of glass which over time, had become discolored. Beneath the dirt-and mold-stained glass, we saw a picture, hardly visible, but yes, it was a portrait. Again we washed the top of the glass, this time using a mild dish detergent on a wet cloth until we saw clearly a small painting of a beautiful woman with her arms around two smiling children. The style of their clothing was of a bygone era, a different century. Moisture and mold had done damage to the lovely antique portrait, but the faces were still recognizable. Suddenly, a long-forgotten memory flashed in front of my eyes.

Mariel, I exclaimed, I think I met those people almost a dozen years ago, around the time that you were born! I was sure, my eyes bulging with astonishment.

But, Auntie, that's not possible. That box looks like it's over a hundred years old! she shot back at me, her eyes narrowed with exasperation.

And so it is, I said almost in a whisper, staring off into space.

Are you pulling my leg? What are you talking about? she asked, sounding a little annoyed.

Well, Mariel, shortly before you were born, I had an experience in this house that only your uncle David and I know about. I never speak of it to anyone. I'm afraid people will say I've lost my mind---you know, that they'll think I'm batty, going crazy. I said in a hushed voice pointing at my temple with my index finger.

Oh, I won't think that at all! Please tell me all about it, Auntie, she begged, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous gleam as she jumped up, eager to hear the story I was about to tell her.

Mariel, since you've already seen the box and know that there's a mystery that I was a part of, I will tell you the story. You must promise that it will go no further than between you and me.

Mariel crossed her heart several times, at the same time shaking her head no in an effort to convince me that she would keep our secret. I won't tell a living soul, Auntie, not even if I'm tortured.

I smiled at her earnest expression, and before we attempted to open the box or remove the remaining roots from its sides and bottom, I began telling Mariel this story.

"One snowy afternoon, just after we bought this old house, I was sitting on the floor in one of the upstairs bedrooms, scraping paint from the baseboard. The house was empty and dilapidated. It needed so many repairs that uncle David and I couldn't move in for another six months. As I scraped away the layers of old paint, uncle David decided to go to the hardware store to buy more paint and supplies. I knew that he would be gone a long time because he always got carried away looking at this or that, and before he realized it, several hours had gone by.

"I was alone in the house and suddenly felt cold and frightened. I began thinking about the stories I'd heard about our house