Chapter 23

I awoke Wednesday morning to mixed clouds and sun with an occasional wave of light rain. The heart of the storm had moved on to annoy people further north. As the coffee dribbled into the carafe, I dug my clothes from the washing machine and shoved them into the dryer. Some of the wash was the clothes I planned to wear next day. I had to get them done and ready.

While they dried, I stood in the kitchen wondering what to do with myself. When all else fails, go to the computer. I went to my office, turned on the computer, brought up Google Earth, and tried to pinpoint the area where Danielsford once sat.

I stared at the swath of forest, magnified the picture and slowly scanned what I thought might be the location. Finally, I settled on a spot and moved in closer. I couldn't see anything but felt fairly certain I was close.

It felt good to be looking at it even from 500 feet, as close as I could get without the picture blurring. I could see no remains, which didn't surprise me. We could barely see any on the ground. Still, looking at it gave me some satisfaction to know it was no longer hidden.

A few minutes later, I pushed away from the workstation, grabbed a cup of coffee and went into the garage. My workbench sat in one corner.

Over the years, I had managed to accumulate a comprehensive though seldom used set of woodworking tools. A table saw, jigsaw, router, wood lathe and various other pieces of equipment sat patiently, awaiting the day I could begin using them. All now sat covered with a thin coating of dust. Some of the machines had never been used, or even turned on, since I bought and tested them after they were set up.

Woodworking was a hobby I developed and had achieved a reasonable proficiency in long ago. I enjoyed the smell of the wood and the art of creating but had no time in recent years to pursue it.

I chose a couple of wide boards about 4 feet long and began. It was the last thing I had to do prior to going to Danielsford. Working slowly and carefully, I planed and smoothed the wood, joining the pieces together with a strong adhesive. When the glue was set, I penciled in the cuts I needed to make and picked up the router.

The entire procedure took most of the day, longer than I expected. But, I told myself, I was out of practice. I stepped back to look at it and found myself pleased with the results. I grabbed a brush and began coating the finished piece with polyurethane. Then, I set it aside to dry. I planned to add one more coat later, when it was ready.

Leaning the nearly finished piece against the wall at the back of the bench, I felt a twinge of sadness again.

"There is no need for sadness, Frank Jackson," said the now familiar voice from behind me.

My heart leaped into my throat, and I spun to see the figure of Mary Bradbury standing a few feet away.

"What shall be done is my wish," Mary continued. "I am very long past the time for my rest."

I swallowed hard. "I wanted to do this."

She looked past me at the wooden marker, with her name cut into it.

"There is no need," she said softly.

"Yes there is," I replied. "I want to do this for you."

Her eyes flicked from the headboard to me. Again, the gentle smile crossed her face. Her eyes returned to what would be her grave marker.

"It is well and finely done," she said and looked back at me. "The coming day, we shall meet again."

With a last look at the marker, she faded away. I stood, staring at the spot she had occupied. Tears welled in my eyes, I think from the wood dust that still hung in the air.

"I want you to be remembered," I said aloud.

***

On Thursday morning, I was up before six. I fixed a large breakfast, loaded the wooden marker into the car and was on my way to Wenham. Traffic was heavy although leaving town was slightly less of a problem and I made good time.

I parked near the restaurant in Wenham and sat less than five minutes before George pulled in and parked behind me. Barely a minute later, a man of average height with a ruddy face and red hair appeared. He was dressed in worn blue jeans and had battered, worn hiking boots and a faded blue shirt he looked nothing like what he was.

"Mr. Jackson?" he said. "I'm Father Maloney."

We shook hands, and I introduced him to George.

"Well," George suggested, "Let's go get coffee and figure this thing out."

We trooped into the restaurant and quickly found a table.

Father Maloney looked at me. "Before we start planning this thing, how about you run the story by me again."

George began first, telling the priest what happened to him. When he finished, I took over. My story took a full ten minutes. Father Maloney listened intently. He gave no indication whether he believed us.

"I think I told you during our phone conversation," he said to me. "If Reverend Conant wasn't adamant that this was all real, I'm not sure I could believe it."

"I think you will before we're finished," I said.

"If it develops as you expect," he said.

George pulled the map from his shirt pocket. He opened it and quickly found the site of old Danielsford.

"It's an easy walk. Maybe three-quarters of a mile," he said. "It might be a bit damp from the storm. I don't know if water collects anywhere in there. Could be we'll have to figure out a detour if it has."

The priest eyed the map for a moment. He put his finger on the location George had pointed out.

"So you're both sure the town was here?"

"We found traces," said George. "When the ghost appeared, she confirmed it."

Father Maloney's eyes flicked up to George. "The woman I'm doing the service for."

"Mary Bradbury," I said. I reminded him that George and I both saw and heard her.

George glanced at his watch. "How long does a Catholic funeral service take?"

Father Maloney shook his head. "A few minutes. Not long. Obviously I won't be doing a full Mass. I'll do the graveside prayers."

"Let's get going," I said, draining the last of my coffee. "We'll take my car. I've got something in the trunk that needs to go with us."

Outside, I opened the trunk and showed them the grave marker.

"We'll never find the cemetery," I said. "I'll put this where we do the service."

George stared at it and looked at me. "She's made an impression on you."

I nodded. "She was an innocent young woman who was hanged by mistake. All she wants is to be properly laid to rest."

"An innocent young woman who has some kind of really strange power," George countered. "She's made an entire town appear for the past over three hundred years."

Father Maloney listened, saying nothing. If he had any doubts, I think the brief interchange between George and I seemed to have an effect. I saw it on his face.

I shrugged. "Maybe the act of being on a gallows gave her a kind of energy. I don't know what you’d call it. All I know is she wants it to stop and hopefully this will do it."

“Key word being hope," said George.

"Yeah, I hope."

I closed the trunk and we climbed in. George directed us to the parking place we used last time. The forest looked less forbidding and daunting this time. I cannot honestly say it looked any more inviting.

I took the headboard from the trunk, and we started into the woods. George again led the way, followed by Father Maloney and me bringing up the rear with the wood headboard.

***

The hike in wasn’t as bad as we expected. There were no pools of water forcing us to detour. We arrived at where Danielsford used to be a half an hour after starting. Father Maloney began prowling the area. He quickly found the old boards we had discovered.

"It's always been a hobby of mine," he said. "I was raised in the west and loved searching out and investigating ghost towns. Fascinating places."

"I imagine it's a lot different here," said George.

"Much," he replied with a nod. “Stuff doesn't last as long up here.”

He continued prowling around the site, occasionally finding remains of the town. A few minutes later, he walked up to us.

"Where will we do this?" he asked.

"Right around there," I said, pointing to the spot I estimated to be where the church sat. “She’ll be here and I’m sure will show us.”

The priest eyed me for a second. “Okay.”

He continued prowling around, searching for more remains, or maybe for any artifacts.

“I doubt you’ll find much above ground, father,” George said. “You’ll need a metal detector. Everything is buried in 300 years or so of leaves and all.”