~ Lost In The Mist ~

by

W. C. Keesey

Shadows filled the short hall, darkening it as the light drifting through two small windows began to fade.

“Careful, light’s not real great in here. Afternoon sun’s behind us, ya see. This hall’s an anteroom for the minister and his helper. A waiting place before starting the service. It’s okay in the mornings; the sun comes in here then, but not afternoon.” Harvey filled the silence between speeches by humming softly.

The hall ended at another low door that opened with a series of sharp squeals as metal worked against metal. “Hinges should be oiled,” the old man mumbled to himself.

They entered a small office. A lamp on an otherwise bare desk gave off an eerie yellow glow. “Through here,” he said.

Brian and Connie followed him into another, larger room. The cool, damp air smelled of old leather, mold and years of dust. The windowless room stretched across the back of the church. Four light bulbs, covered by metal shades and hanging from chains at even intervals across the high ceiling, provided light.

Sets of candleholders, small tables, and stacks of straight backed chairs lined the north wall. Shelves, standing eight feet high lined the back wall, objects protected by plastic filled most of them. Connie could make out the shapes of vessels used to hold flowers along with oblong and flat packages that probably contained linen vestments.

At the south end of the room a long battered table waited.

Connie saw rows of old books, big volumes with dates on the spines. The ones on the bottom shelves were bound with cloth covered wood, while higher up the books had leather covers. Many of the books had suffered damage from heat and dampness, the leather cracked and peeling, the cloth discolored, and separating from the warped boards.

“Pull up some chairs and I’ll get ya some books down,” Harvey talked while he looked at the laden shelves. Finding a corner for his broom, the sexton wheeled a step stool under one of the shelves.

After putting his camera away, Brian pulled out two of the old wood chairs at the table. He cautiously tried their strength, before nodding his approval.

“Can you feel it?” Connie whispered, then without waiting for a response she continued. “The people, they’re all here, the people from the past.”

Harvey gently laid the first of the books on the table in front of his guests, reporting the dates noted on each.

Brian helped Connie read the faded writing. They searched for mention of the doctor or his family.

The eighteen forty-seven volumes were nearly illegible, the ink faded to blurred shadows. After the third book she asked Harvey to move to the eighteen fifties, hoping the ink had held up better. It hadn’t, but they looked anyway.

“I think I see something.” Brian stood and leaned forward peering intently at the middle of a page. The year was eighteen fifty-two.

“Can I see?” Connie moved closer, squinting at the faded ink. “You’re right. It could be ‘Dr. Maxmillian Brentwell’. I can’t make out all of it, but I think it’s something about being made a church elder.” She lowered herself into her chair. “Great. We’ve established that the Brentwells did worship here, and the doctor was an elder. I have to check another date. What do you say, Brian? One more and I treat you to an old fashioned ice cream sundae.”

“I can’t remember ever getting a better offer.” Brian smiled as he closed the book in front of him.

Connie could see Harvey waiting. He probably wanted to get home. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly two-thirty. “Can we see late February, eighteen fifty-seven?”

“Ya got it.” He was spry for his age, pulling the step stool to the next set of shelves and climbing to reach the second row of books from the top. He started scanning the dates with care, repeating each to himself until he located the requested book.

“What’s important about that date? Is it something you read in the journal?” Brian moved to Harvey’s side taking the heavy book from the old man’s short arms.

“Yes, that was the time period when Victoria’s sister was born and died.” Connie’s thoughts went back to the troubling events she had read the evening before. “I want to confirm the entry.”

“Here you are.” The book raised a small cloud of dust as Brian laid it on the table.

Carefully turning the stiff pages, they searched for the right date.

“I think I found it.” A tremor in her voice revealed Connie’s sadness as she studied the pale letters.

The date was February twenty-fifth, eighteen fifty-seven. The top of the first letter was clear. It was an “E”. Some of the other letters were evident. The first name was Evangeline. The second name and last were faded beyond recognition except for the last few letters, “twell”. A paling ink smudge marked the end of the entry.

As she read, Connie’s nose almost touched the yellowing page in her effort to decipher the hundred and fifty year old entry.

The air grew thick with mist. Pushing herself upright, Connie leaned against the table, trying to stop the change. “Not now,” she whispered. The world around her disappeared. She could hear Brian calling her name, but she couldn’t respond.

The past closed in. Helpless as a baby, she fell through time. The caretaker and Brian were left behind. She was alone on this journey. Where was she going? Why?

The foggy shroud thinned. She looked around the dim room. The shelves were gone. Leather trunks lined the walls, stacked three high. A collection of candleholders and spent candles stuck out of a large wood barrel. Connie was crouched over the area where the table had been. Rodent droppings and cobwebs were evident. The air was thick with dust. The old books were stacked on top of another set of trunks. There were far fewer of them.

Straightening, she glided across the room, at first hearing nothing but the sound of her own erratic breathing. Then she heard the voices. They carried down the hall. She moved toward them.

A man’s voice, giving gentle and reassuring council. “She is resting in the arms of our Lord. Don’t be concerned for your sister, my dear.” Another voice, too quiet for Connie to make out the words responded then the man again. “Go home, and rest. Take care of your poor mother. You will find peace in the work.”

With a gasp of surprise, Connie whispered, “Someone’s talking to Victoria.”

She hurried forward taking steps that carried her effortlessly over the plank floor.

The outer door in the vestibule was closing. As she approached from the empty sanctuary, Connie caught a glimpse of a dark green cloak against a heavy snowfall. The hand on the latch belonged to a thin man in the somber black garb of the clergy.

Connie watched as the pastor bowed his head. He remained in place for a moment before turning to walk down the narrow center aisle to the altar. He stopped when he reached Connie. His eyes narrowed as he put his hands on his arms rubbing them as if to ward off an unexpected chill. With a small shake of his head, the minister turned and continued his walk.

This is no dream. I’m here, in the vestibule of the Chapel of Mercy in February eighteen fifty-seven. It’s like this afternoon in the market. So real. Not like the dream of last night, or the daydream in the Pub. Not this time.

The crackling of the fire in the iron stove and whisper of the wind trying to find a way through the cracks around the door told tales of winter, not the budding spring she had left in the future.

I’m here, but for how long? I could be pulled back without warning--or stuck here forever. She stepped into the vestibule. How? Why? So many questions, so few answers.

Looking around the small annex, Connie walked to the pedestal table that held an open record book. Today was the day of the funeral. She had to see the entry.

Her senses were alert to every sight and sound, every snap made by the fire, every moan of the settling building. The sound of icy snow hitting the stained glass windows, the flickering wick of the oil lamp in the vestibule bouncing shadows on the walls, the smell of new leather mixed with the polished wood and burning oil, they are all real. Connie felt a chill, but it wasn’t the winter winds that made her shiver.

The leather-bound book loomed before her, its presence larger than life. The new pages lay open on the waist-high stand, not yellowed and brittle, but crisp paper. An old-fashioned pen lay next to a small jar of black liquid its nub still glistened with wet ink.

Connie drew near. She had to read the entry on the open page. A thrill ran through her body, whether it was from excitement or fear, she couldn’t tell.

The words jumped off the page. Every letter as clear as the day they were written--This is the day they were written, she reminded herself as she read the script.

Evangeline Amanda Brentwell, stillborn 23 February 1857, put to rest 25 February 1857. Father, Maxmillian Brentwell, Mother, Prudence Chessman Brentwell.

The wet ink sparkled in the unsteady light. With a trembling hand Connie touched the page. As her fingers brushed its edge, she left a smudge.

She watched her fingerprint dry. The air thickened, swirling around her. Connie didn’t resist, as the mist engulfed her, she held the small table for support.