The Portal

By George DeHaven

On a quiet cul-d-sac in downtown Brooklyn, stands an abandoned, dilapidated Victorian home. Purchased and renovated by a college history professor, it is, unbeknownst to him, a portal to the past. A strange noise, signaling a visit from a young woman posing as the wife of the home's original 1850's builder, begins the professor's interaction wit

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mataria 17 Publishing
• Release date: Nov 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088072745

Book preview

1

Are you with the Building Department?

The chubby man in the tweed sports coat and brown fedora moved a camera from his face, letting it drop to his chest on a strap around his neck. He had been taking photographs of the old, dilapidated Victorian-style home, plywood sheets covering the windows and front door. He looked around, seeking the source of the question. Looking to his left, standing on the front porch of a similarly-shaped house, in much better condition, was a woman standing in a pink bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, hands on hips and scowling.

The two houses were the only occupants of a small cul-de-sac off Montague Street in the heart of downtown Brooklyn. Named Buchanan Place for the fifteenth President. The entrance to the cul-de-sac was little more than an alley between two brownstone buildings. Beyond the brownstones, there was a large gravel-strewn open area, with mature trees on either side extending past the two houses and coming together beyond them. Small lawns fronted each house, though the lawn on the right was severely overgrown. Mid-April daffodils lined the cobblestone walkway leading to the porch on which the lady in pink stood. The houses themselves were about twenty feet apart. The street sign was long missing and never replaced. Few knew what lay behind the brownstones aside from the postman.

No, I’m not with the Building Department.

Then why the heck are you taking pictures of that monstrosity next door?

Because I intend to buy it and live there he replied. I have been looking for a historic home for some time now, and I think I have found just the right one. What can you tell me about it? And why did you think I was with the Building Department?" As he spoke, he walked toward the woman on the porch.

The man’s father had been a contractor specializing in the refurbishment and rehabilitation of older homes. Growing up in Richmond, Virginia, he often accompanied his father to jobs throughout Northern Virginia. Many of the homes were antebellum mansions on the sites of former cotton and tobacco plantations. He grew to love the architecture of these buildings, some of which were more than two hundred years old, for their craftmanship and durability. As a consequence of these trips with his father, he had the opportunity to tour many of the Civil War battlefields in Virginia and became immersed in the history. By the time he enrolled in the University of Richmond, he knew what he wanted to do with his life.

He was an only child, a bit of a loner, and had few friends growing up and through his teen years. His mother died of cancer when he was twelve. His father became his lifeline, and the two remained close, more like best friends than father and son. His father remarried during his senior year of high school, and the bond with his father became loosened considerably. His love for old houses and Civil War history, however, remained strong.

The scowl left the woman’s face replaced with a slight smile. She invited him up to sit on her porch.

I’ve just put coffee on. Would you like a cup?

Yes ma’am, thank you kindly.

He removed his hat and jacket, perching them on the porch railing. He leaned over the railing and gazed at the house next door. Part of its porch roof sagged, and paint, what was left of it, was faded and peeled. It reminded him of a punch-drunk boxer, savagely pummeled but refusing to go down.

As he eased himself into a faded wicker chair, the woman pushed open the screen door while carrying a tray with a carafe, two mugs, sugar bowl and creamer, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. The robe and slippers were gone; she was now wearing jeans and an oversized tee shirt. Her hair was wrapped in a red kerchief.

Don’t get many visitors here. Help yourself to coffee.

He poured coffee from the carafe into a mug, brought to his mouth and blew across the top. Taking a sip, he asked, So, have you lived here long?

All my life, she replied. My grandfather bought the land here from the neighbors and built this house around 1890. My parents lived here, and when they passed, it was left to me. I live here by myself now, my husband passed away two years ago, and my son now lives in California.

Please tell me what you know about the house next door. I do know it was built in 1856 by a man named Pennington, and it is now owned by some off-shore bank. My lawyer is handling the details of the sale, and we should be closing title in the next couple of weeks. It took my lawyer and I quite some time to track down the title ownership, and frankly, I think the bank was very happy to have it taken off their hands.

I was born in 1950. Growing up I can’t remember anyone living there, though I would see people come and go from time to time. The grass was always cut, and the house was painted at least once, but I can’t remember exactly when. It was boarded up sometime around 1980, and been that way ever since.

… and the Building Department?

I have been calling because the house is so run down, the lawn and gardens are overgrown, and I have seen what I think are rats going into and out of a hole in the foundation. I was afraid that at some point it would become some sort of a drug den, or a flop house for itinerants.

Well Mrs. … I am afraid I don’t know your name … since I am about to become your neighbor, I can assure you that you won’t have to worry about any of that anymore.

I am Mrs. Patterson, Lillian Patterson, but please call me Lily.

… and I am Michael O’Shea. I am a history professor at Hofstra University on Long Island.

Are you married Mr. O’Shea? Any children?

No, I am afraid not. It is just me sad to say, he said, looking out over the porch railing pensively. But I must be going now or I’ll be late for an appointment. It has been a pleasure meeting you. Thank you very much for the coffee.

He retrieved his jacket and hat, and headed down the porch steps.

One more thing Mr. O’Shea. He stopped on the bottom step and turned around. I believe that the house is haunted. I have seen lights come through cracks in the window coverings, mostly that window on the second floor in the middle she said, pointing. Thank you, Mrs. Patterson … er … Lily, but I do not believe in ghosts. I am sure there is a logical explanation for what you saw. With that he waved, turned around and headed off to Montague Street and the nearby subway station.

2

True to his word, he was able to close on the house two weeks later on May first. It took most of the day due to the amount of paperwork necessary to be read and signed. The morning following the closing he arrived at the house with a crowbar, and a contractor in tow. He had not seen the inside of the house prior to the sale, and was anxious to do so. He cautiously ascended the porch steps, taking care to avoid a large rotted hole. With the crowbar, he pried off the plywood sheet covering the front door. Surprisingly, the front door was unlocked. It opened with the squeal of rusty hinges. He pulled a flashlight from his back pocket, and entered what he knew to be the parlor. Expecting decades of dust and dirt, and perhaps a dead animal or two, he was surprised to find only a thin layer of dust and only a mild musty odor.

The contractor, a burly man with weathered features, came through the door and whistled. Looks like someone’s been gone for four weeks instead of four decades.

Much of the house appeared the same way, though one upstairs bedroom was heavily water-stained, and part of the ceiling had collapsed. He could see through the hole in the ceiling up into the attic, and the source of the water, a hole in the roof. He made a mental note that a new roof would be the first order of business.

Having been told by his neighbor of the strange lights seemingly emanating from the upstairs middle bedroom, he decided to investigate. He opened the hallway door and stepped inside. Slivers of sunlight shown through cracks in the boards covering the only window. The light of his flashlight played around the room, which was empty except for a small wooden table in the corner of the room nearest the window. The walls of the room were covered in wallpaper, much of it yellowed, stained and peeling.

The room was musty, and dust covered every flat surface. Dust motes danced in the air illuminated by the light of his flashlight. There was a closet door to his right. As he approached it, the beam of the flashlight pointed down to the floor. The dust on the floor was disturbed, with what appeared to be footprints. Cautiously he crept towards the closet door, brandishing the flashlight as a club. Grabbing the door’s handle, he quickly opened the door, raising the flashlight above his head. The closet was empty. He poked around the interior, tapping on the walls and stamping on the floor. Solid, he thought to himself, if someone had been in this room they were no longer. A chill ran up his spine. He was at a loss for an explanation for what his neighbor claimed to have seen.

For the next six months the reconstruction of the house continued. He hired an architect who specialized in the restoration of historic homes. A steady parade of building trades came and went. O’Shea was at the house almost every day to inspect the progress and consult with the architect and general contractor. More often than not, he would stop by to visit his new neighbor and update her on the progress of the work. An exterminator quickly took care of the vermin in the basement. O’Shea made sure the lawns were cut, and a landscaper would be scheduled in the spring.

Work was finished in late November and he moved in shortly thereafter, bringing with him the furniture from his Manhattan apartment and his collection of American Civil War memorabilia, books and paintings. The unfinished basement held a collection of old furnishings, most of which had seen much better days and were discarded. There was, however, a large oak desk in reasonably good shape, which he decided to keep and arranged to have refinished. It would become the centerpiece of his new office in the house.

3

O’Shea had been a university professor for almost twenty of his forty-five years. After a Masters and Doctorate, he began his teaching career at a small Pennsylvania college, where he specialized in American history with a focus on the American Civil War and Reconstruction. When not teaching or writing, he could often be found exploring the battlefields of the Eastern Theater of the War, especially Gettysburg in Pennsylvania and Antietam in Maryland. He had published biographies of Irish-born Generals Thomas Francis Meagher and Patrick Clebourne, and was working on one of Confederate cavalry commander J.E.B. Stuart.

Though he thought of himself as in pretty good shape (for a 45-year-old), he was getting thick around the middle, his stamina was not what it once was, and his hair seemed greyer and thinner by the day. When he looked in the mirror, his hazel eyes were the same as ever, but small bags appeared under them, his cheeks seemed puffier, and the skin under his chin was beginning to loosen.

He never married. There had been relationships, never terribly serious, except for a near engagement to a fellow professor. But she took a job at another university a thousand miles away, left abruptly, and never returned his phone calls or texts. She had given him no explanation for her change of heart. He planned