Chapter 12

I stayed another day in Woodstock and scoured the Internet on Jackie's laptop looking for the town. Nothing turned up. In the Massachusetts State Archives, I found no evidence saying the town existed at any time in the past. Either I was looking in the wrong section, or Danielsford was somewhere other than in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

I sat in the office in the shop, the laptop on the desk in front of me. She came in every so often, when customers permitted, to check my progress.

Looking up at her, I shook my head. "It doesn't exist.”

"It has to. You were in it."

"I know. The sign said so. Danielsford, founded in 1693."

"I remember. And the reverend's journal says so. So it existed. Just because the state doesn't know about it doesn't mean it wasn't there. After all, we're talking about Massachusetts."

"Yeah," I agreed, not sure what she meant. "Good point."

More people arrived. She glanced toward them, muttered something not nice and left. I returned to my search.

Some people say that you can find anything on the Internet. Maybe you can if you know how to plug in a search. In my case, I didn’t. Danielsford did not exist online. At around three in the afternoon, I gave up. If I wanted to find the village, I would have to do my searching in the real world.

After signing off and shutting down the computer, I stood, stretched and walked to the front. Jerry saw me and frowned. He was with several people and couldn't dwell on my presence. I stationed myself out of the way and watched.

I decided my only solution was to visit the Archive and talk to a human being. If I turned up nothing in my home state, I would expand my search to New Hampshire and then Maine and hope the elusive village left a trace of its presence somewhere.

Jackie glanced at me. I shook my head. She made a face and shrugged. She returned to her customers, while I went back to trying to be invisible in the corner. More people came in as I watched. She was having a good, if hectic, day.

***

"You're leaving tomorrow?" she asked later. The small group left, and nobody else came in, which gave her a short break.

"I've got to end it. It won’t stop by me staying here."

After a moment, she agreed with me. "I know. Do you have any idea how long you'll be away?"

I shook my head. "Until I find the town and do what needs to be done."

She said nothing for a few seconds. "I have a feeling. We've talked about it before, and they told you at Sherburne Center. She needs a funeral, but I don't think the funeral is only what the people want; I’m starting to think it's what she wants too."

I nodded. We had been over it several times. Mary had tried to convey something to us when she appeared the previous night. Neither of us could read lips and, to be honest, when she materialized so close to me, the last thing I was thinking about was lip reading.

"If I’m remembering right, she cursed them from the gallows,” I said. “I think after, when they realized they killed an innocent woman, or the wrong person, they put her in the church."

"The other one," she said instantly. "You said they look enough alike to be sisters." She hesitated, shook her head and changed the subject. "Putting her in the church for an official burial was their way of apologizing? So, why wasn't there a funeral?”

"Remember, it's all by guess and by gosh. I think they were trying to make things right. But I guess there was never any funeral,” I said. “I don't know why.”

"If it's what she wants, she won't be killing people to get it done," She looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

We talked for a minute about the other woman I saw on the Common. I was certain she killed Walt, yet I had no proof she did or even a reason why she would. If my nightmares were right, she was coming for me, but I hadn't seen her in a while. I also thought Jackie was on to something. She was far enough separated from the problem to be able to see things I missed.

"So you're leaving tomorrow," she said.

"Early. I want to get to Boston and get busy. It's what, three, four hours?"

"Go into New Hampshire, catch 89 and head south to 95. It's about a hundred fifty miles, maybe three or four hours."

***

When the store closed, we went to dinner. Not much was said about my leaving. We returned to the shop after dinner, and she spent until eleven doing the bookkeeping. It was her busiest day of the season.

After taking the receipts to the bank, we strolled to her home.

“You aren't getting away so easily.” She poured glasses of wine and handed one to me.

“It worked last time.” I nodded toward the glass.

“I want you to remember me.” She touched her glass to mine and we took a sip, then walked into the other room and sat on the sofa. Before we finished a second glass, we had moved to the bedroom. It was nearly two in the morning before we drifted off to sleep, each of us completely spent.

***

I was up, showered and out the door early. It was not as early as I had planned because of the previous night, but before eight o'clock. Nothing remarkable happened during the trip. The spectacular New England countryside zipped by almost unnoticed. My mind was on other things.

Three and a half hours later, I was in my driveway. Nothing had changed at home. I dropped off my clothes, made a quick trip through the house and found it just as I left it. Even the dishes from my last meal were still in the sink. They also still had the remains of whatever food they once held now caked on them like cement. I'm not sure why I thought they'd be anywhere else.

It took only a minute to find the address to the Archives. I wrote it down and left. A little past noon, I parked near the building. Like all government agencies, they were closed for the lunch hour. I spent the time until one o'clock sitting in my car, checking my surroundings. Everything and everyone around me looked normal.

When they opened for business again, I was inside right away and talking to a clerk named Pamela. She was a woman in her forties, heavyset and serious. In a way, she reminded me of a librarian which I guess, technically, she was. She listened as I explained my curiosity about the town of Danielsford. I left out the more incredible details.

"Danielsford," she said. She nodded and wrote down the name. Her eyes narrowed.

I spelled it for her, but what she wrote was correct. "I'm pretty sure it was located in Massachusetts."

"It sounds familiar," she said. “Seems like somebody else was here asking about it.”

She turned to her computer and spent a few minutes searching, shook her head and tried something else.

"I'm not getting anything," she told me. "Let's try another angle. Danielsford. That's Daniel's Ford. Like maybe it’s a water crossing. We'll see if we have anything about it."

A minute or two passed. Pamela made a face at the computer.

"Nothing," she said and looked at me. "What else do you know about the town?"

I hesitated for a moment, not sure how much I wanted to tell her. Finally, I gave her the information about the witch hanging and told her it happened sometime after the Salem Trials.

"Do you have a name?" she asked.

"Mary Bradbury," I said.

"Not the same one, obviously, as was convicted in Salem," she said.

"No. This one would be quite a bit younger, maybe in her early or middle twenties," I replied.

She turned to the computer and hesitated. "This is all sounding so familiar. I’m sure someone else was in a few years ago asking about this."

"About the town?" I asked.

"And the woman. I remember it only because of the woman's name. I spent a week researching it." She smiled. “We aren’t so busy here that I can’t remember some contacts.”

"Did you find anything?"

She nodded. “Not without a lot of work."

I waited.

"I don't remember where I looked," she continued. "Can I have you fill this out? I'll notify you when I locate the information."

She handed me a simple form. I filled it in and pushed it back to her.

"You wouldn't have the name of the other person?" I asked.

"No," she said with an apologetic smile. "It was two or three years ago. Maybe longer."

She read the form. "I'll call when I find something."

"Leave a message if I'm not there."

She made a note beside the phone number. "I'll do that."

I nodded and turned to leave.

"Mr. Jackson. Can I ask what the interest is in finding this town?"

"You wouldn't believe me," I said.

"Try me," she replied.

I stared at her for a few seconds, debating whether I should tell my story. When I did, she listened without comment until I finished. Then, she nodded.

"Now I know I was right. The other person who came in. I heard something very similar from him.” She watched me for a reaction. "He said almost the same thing. I'm not sure about the three-year span in time, and I don't remember him saying anything about a coffin, or that he was pursued by a spirit. I think I surely would have."

"You remember all that?"

"It isn't the sort of story you forget," she replied. "I thought at first he was, you know, crazy. His story, though. It isn't the kind of thing you forget. Now, you're here with the same thing."

"But you don't remember his name."

"No, and the form with his information will be gone," she said. "After notification, we don't keep them."

I stood for a moment, trying to think of something else to trigger her memory. With a quick shake of my head, I thanked her and left. On the way out she called after me, telling me she would get to work on it right away.

Outside, I stopped and looked around. There had been progress, however small. At least now I was quite certain Danielsford was in Massachusetts.

Of greater significance, I wasn't the only one looking or who had looked. I didn't know if the man was still hunting the town or even if he was still alive. And I couldn't think of an immediate way to locate him.

I drove home, mind racing. Three years wasn't a long time in some respects. Where Danielsford was concerned, it could be a lifetime. Then, somewhere in my head, a light went on. Three years ago would have put the incident in western Massachusetts, when Reverend Putnam and his wife encountered the phenomenon. Was it possible the man Pamela had spoken with Reverend Putnam? I parked in my driveway, hurried into the house and grabbed the telephone.

**

Mrs. Putnam sounded pleased to hear from me again so soon after my last call. She listened as I wasted no time getting to the point.

"No," she said. "My husband didn't go to Boston. Honestly, checking in the Archives never occurred to either of us. You're saying somebody else is looking?"

"Three years ago," I said. "That would be when it happened to you."

She was quiet. I could hardly hear her breathing into the speaker.

"But you don't know who, or if they were from here?"

"No," I said. "The clerk didn't have his name. I didn't think to get a description, if she would even remember after three years."

"Can you?"

"Get a description? I can call the clerk."

"Do that and get back to me," Mrs. Putnam said. "If he's from here, I might recognize him. I know many people whether they come to our church or not. We're a small town."

***

I hung up a minute later and called the State Archives right away. I told Pamela what I had discovered. She listened but couldn't remember what the man looked like.

"No, I don't remember a thing about him," she said. "I seldom recall those who come in. They're after information. My sole focus is to get the details in order to help them."

"You don't remember whether he was young or old, tall or short?" I asked.

"I'm sorry," she said. Her tone didn’t sound very upset.

***

Minutes later I was again speaking to Mrs. Putnam. I recounted my short conversation with the clerk at the Archives.

"We tried." She went silent for a few seconds before continuing. "I'll discretely ask around. Maybe just mentioning the town might be enough to get a response."

"I hope so," I said. "If he's from there and was looking or maybe still is, he should speak up."

"If I find him?"

"Do you still have my phone number?" I gave it to her again and asked her to have him call day or night. "He got information from the Archive. It might be what I need, or maybe it can save me a little time."

"You're back at home," she said. "Have you had any other experiences with the spirit?"

I realized I hadn't told her about my last encounter and spent a minute filling her in.

"Just six feet away," she said. "And she was trying to say something?"

"We couldn't hear her, but yes. She repeated it three or four times."

"The same message?"

"I imagine so. I couldn’t really tell," I replied. "Being so close, she startled us. Scared is more like it."

"I can understand," she said with a soft chuckle. "So, this confirms your belief that she isn't the one trying to kill you."

"I don't think she’s the one."

"It's the other one," she said, "who looks like her."

"Dresses like her," I replied. "She has the same hair style and clothing."

"But you haven't seen her yet," she mused.

"No. Only in those dreams I told you about. And I haven't had them in a while."

"I'm glad. I'll put your phone number in my purse. When I go out, I'll ask about the town. If I find anyone, I'll tell them you're looking and give them the number."

"I'm indebted to you," I said.

"One other thing," she said. "Get a voice recorder and keep it with you."

"A voice recorder?"

"You know, like a tape recorder. I've heard it can sometimes pick up the spirit's voice. It's worth a try."

"I've got an old tape recorder. I'll make sure it's nearby."

We hung up a couple of minutes later. I sat for a moment and stared at the phone. Just knowing somebody else was looking gave me a glimmer of hope. It was as if the nightmare was nearing an end. I knew better, of course. Rather than coming to an end, finding the town was the beginning.

I gave a passing thought to how a preacher's wife would know about tape recorders picking up the voices of the dead. After a moment, I dismissed it. Clergy are human. Maybe she had an interest in the paranormal.

I knew she would get the word out around her town. I was now as eager to hear if she had found the other person as I was to get a call from the Archives.

Then, I went hunting. I found my tape recorder in my office desk. The batteries were long dead. I opened it and pulled them out, pleased that none of the contacts had suffered corrosion damage. I put in new batteries and tested it. Satisfied at discovering the old tape still picked up sounds, I went into my bedroom and placed it in the drawer of my bedside table.