The Discovery (18 page)

I move toward it and reach for a corner of the tattered fabric.

"Kendall, don't!" Patrick shouts at me.

Too late. I scream out in terror at what I see. The slack broken jaw. The hollow eye sockets. The skull bashed in and the rest of the skeleton disintegrating here in this nearly airtight cell. Spiders, crickets, and other bugs I don't care to catalog scatter away from their hiding places, seeking shelter in other areas of the room, the cave, and the tunnel.

"Nasty!" Celia says when she enters the room.

I dive onto Patrick's chest—not caring that he's icky with mud—and he absorbs me into his embrace. My body shakes, not so much from the shock of finding the remains but because I know what happened to the man. He was tortured and ... murdered.

"Told you this place is messed up, didn't I?" Farah says with a grin. "That poor guy. His is a sad tale. Can you believe that this house was a stop on the Underground Railroad?" She points at the end of the room where the tunnel continues on. "It goes another mile and comes out in the vacant field next to where they're working on Celia's dad's distribution center."

I pass the information to the rest of the group. Patrick begins to feel the clay walls with his hands. His eyes close, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks. I watch his chest rise and fall as he experiences his vision.

"There's a lot of pain and suffering here," he says, which appears pretty obvious. He continues. "People starved here. They had illnesses that prevented them from moving fast enough and ... something happened as they were trying to make it out of the South."

He's right. A few made it, but there's an overwhelming cry of grief from the many, many, many who didn't get out.

"Let's keep going," I say, not even waiting for the others before I get back on all fours and crawl out the other end of the room.

Farah leads the way. I can barely keep up with her as I creep through the darkened cavity that carries us deeper and deeper. An overpowering sense of sadness washes over me as I think of all of those poor men, women, and children who attempted to gain their freedom this way. I marvel at the hours of work and toil crafting this duct to independence.

"There were a lot that got out, Kendall," Farah says. "I have to show you what happened, though."

We continue farther into the subterranean channel; Patrick, Celia, and Becca are on my flank. Our flashlights provide the only information about what we're getting into. My hope is we'll come out the other end free from encounters or danger, but I don't think this is how it's going to happen.

Farah disappears and I blink wicked hard to see up ahead. The darkness is so black that my eyes are playing tricks on me—or are they? Shadows dance in the dimness, letting me know we're not alone. Silhouettes of long dresses and work clothes from another time march across the dirt floor, as if they're on the lookout for someone who might return them to slavery.

"We're not here to hurt you," I say to the outlines. "We just want to help."

They don't respond and only hunker away in apprehension.

It's at this point that I run into them. No, not the shadow people. The bars. Metal bars that have been screwed into the clay walls and bolted in securely. I stop, sit on my haunches, and spin the LED light around. I'm in another room, a bit larger than the previous one. But the bars stretch across like in a jail cell, halving the space. Beyond the bars, on the other side, the walls and ceiling have completely caved in. Red dirt is piled in uneven mounds, preventing any further exploration or escape.

"Why does this look like a prison?" I ask.

"Why not just seal up the tunnel?" Celia asks.

"That's the real question," Patrick says.

Farah materializes behind the bars, gripping them like she's a prisoner. "This is what you had to see, Kendall. Do you get it now?"

I address her with concern. "Someone purposely put this up to stop the slaves from leaving."

She bobs her head up and down. "Althea will tell you everything if you ask nicely."

O
NE OF THE SHADOW FIGURES SHIFTS
, takes shape, and emerges from the dark.

There she stands, as real as I am.

"Can you see her?" I whisper to Patrick.

When his hand grips mine, I have my answer.

In the huff of a breath, the storied slave woman, nanny to Robert Townsend Farnsworth, and creator of Xander the Doll, appears right before us.

"Althea?"

The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth indicate how aged she was when she died. A streak of white hair extends from her right temple all the way back through her short jet-black hair. Her dress is drab and tattered, and she's wearing an apron that has seen much better days. Her eyes are the deepest black, and her face is tired, worn, and very, very bitter.

"Althea?" I repeat.

"What'chall doin' here?" she asks in a molasses Southern accent tinged with her African and West Indies heritage. "Don't y'all know this ain't no place to be? Ain't safe for neither man nor beast."

Approaching cautiously, I say, "My name is Kendall, Althea. My friend Farah brought me here to meet you."

Farah literally walks through the bars and sidles up to the slave woman. "These are my friends that I was telling you about. They can actually
see
us. They're the ones who can help."

The older woman lowers her gloomy eyes. "Ain't no one gonna help me. I couldn't protect those children, so who's gonna help an old woman like me?"

Patrick eases forward. "I'm Patrick, Althea. We've heard that you were the caretaker for the Farnsworth children. Is that what you mean? Are those the children you were protecting?"

Althea crosses the room and picks at a stain on her dress. Her hands work across the fabric just as if she were truly alive and animated with her love and care of the family in her keep. There's a deep sorrow, though, indicated by the worry lines in her forehead. The pain radiates off her in sheets of energy that fills the room.

"You made a doll for Robert Farnsworth. Do you remember?" I ask.

"Of course I do, missy. That doll was the world to that child."

Patrick asks, "Would you like to see him? Xander, that is."

Althea's wrinkles lift for a moment, but it's unclear what her answer is.

"Celia, go get it!" I say.

Without hesitation, my ghost-huntress partner drops to her hands and knees, and she heads back out the tunnel. I'm sure Mr. Pfeiffer isn't going to be happy at all that we're disturbing Xander, but my gut instinct tells me that the prized museum piece has got to be involved if we're to pass these ghosts on to their final rest.

"I'll go with her," Becca says. "You know, so she's not alone."

I mouth my thanks and turn back to the two spirits before me.

"What happened in here?" I ask, indicating the bars.

"Master found out 'bout the tunnel," Althea states. "Instead a destroyin' it straightaway, he made it a torture chamber. Dozens of my fella slaves was caught when them bars was put up. Most done died a no air or no food or just goin' plumb crazy."

"That's horrible and inhuman," Patrick says.

Althea nods her head.

Farah adds her two cents. "Merciless. Heartless. Brutal. Mean. Cruel. It all applies to him, according to Althea."

"I can't believe Phillip Farnsworth was so bastardly that he would let men, women, and children die of suffocation like this," I say, shaking my head in denial.

Anger highlights Althea's features and her nostrils flare. "Phillip Farnsworth was the devil in fine gentleman's clothin', I tell ya."

Farah elbows the slave woman. "Yeah, yeah ... they've got to hear all that crazy family stuff you've been telling me. It's okay. Kendall and Patrick are cool."

I imagine that this woman has very little reason to trust me, considering my skin color matches that of the people who enslaved and murdered her. "You can tell me, Althea. I'm special. So is Patrick. We can see spirits like you and Farah. Folks who have passed on to another realm. If you'd like, we can help you find the light. All you have to do is ask for it."

"Chile ... I done seen that light ya talk of. I gotta protect those in my care."

"Most of the Farnsworths have died," Patrick tells her. "Even Robert."

Althea looks as if she's going to cry. "I did everything to protect that boy."

Celia and Becca emerge from the tunnel with Xander the Doll. Loreen is behind them, dirty from head to toe.

"I had a sense that you needed me," she whispers, and she squeezes my arm.

"Thanks, Loreen."

"Look what we've got," Celia says in the general direction of Althea.

The woman's eyes shift to the doll. She makes as if to take him, but of course, she's not able. Celia cradles him in her arms while Althea stands next to her, gazing at Xander with trouble in her expression. She steps back and begins muttering a prayer under her breath.

"What is it, Althea?"

Her eyes open wide, heavy with despair. "Dat ain't da Xander I made for muh boy. This doll's got the ol' man's evilness in him. I saw ta dat."

"I don't understand, Althea."

Tears well in her eyes. "I made Xander to protect Robert. I done put a blessin' in him ta keep muh Robert from harm. The
loa
went in Xander to watch muh boy and keep him safe."

Patrick furrows his brow. "Safe from who?"

"The devil himself!"

With that, Althea fades away.

I throw my hands up.

"What? What happened?" Becca asks. "What did she do?"

"She left," I say.

Farah shifts between Patrick and me. "Y'all, I've got to tell you more. Althea didn't lay down the whole narrative."

I instruct Becca to move the recorders in front of where Farah is standing. Celia's manning the video camera since Shelby-Nichole couldn't come down here. Loreen paces around the area where Althea had been as Patrick and I listen to the rest of the story. "Tell us, Farah."

Looking at her manicure, Farah begins the heartbreaking tale. "Not only was Daddy Farnsworth a real jerk to his slaves, he beat them and killed several of them with his horrible treatment. Including poor Althea. He also beat his children."

My mouth drops open.

"What?" Celia says, irritated that she can't hear this.

I fill her in, and Farah goes on. "When I say he beat them, I mean horrible abuses, like locking them in closets and not letting them eat if they disobeyed him. A lot of mental shit too, like telling them they'd never amount to anything and beating their hands when they did something wrong in his eyes."

I gulp down the disgust in my throat at Farah's words.

"Althea was a house worker, so she helped some of the field hands get into the manor after dark while the master slept, to create what you see here. A lot of times she gave him a special concoction of roots and herbs that put him to sleep so he wouldn't hear anything. Took them three years of working every night until sunup. Once it was completed, Althea sent the others to freedom while she stayed behind."

At that moment, Althea returns, moving slowly around the room and taking over the story where Farah left off. "I hadda protect them Farnsworth children. Which I did the best I could. The
loa
went into the doll. Nuthin' but love for muh lil' Robert." Her facial expressions shift into a passionate hatred. "What'd it get me? Murdered, I tell ya. Accused of witchcraft and voodoo and hung from dat front tree out yonder by the master himself."

My hand flies to my heart.
That's
who lynched Althea? A well-respected citizen of Radisson, known to be a family man, had murdered his children's nanny. My heart feels as if it's died just a little bit as I listen to the stories of this totally barbaric time when one person could own another and do to that person whatever he saw fit. Monstrous. And not so long ago in our nation's history.

I need one particular question answered. "Why does Xander hurt people now? If he was created out of love to protect Robert, why has he been the catalyst of so much mischief and mayhem? So much that he has to be locked up in a museum."

A deep guttural groan escapes Althea and she hangs her head. Farah comforts her. "Go ahead, girlfriend. Tell them. It's why they're here." Silence, and then Farah says, "It's not
her
Xander that did all of that."

"This isn't the doll you originally made?" I question.

"Dat be the physical doll, but I done sum'thin' to it b'fore muh spirit left muh body."

I spread my hands wide, urging the woman to go ahead.

"I cursed the devil, I did. Master's soul done passed into the doll upon his death. Doomed to spend eternity dat way. For the misery and sorrah he caused ta so many."

Patrick scratches his head. "Let me get this straight. The soul of Phillip Farnsworth is in this doll. The protective charm you put on it for Robert was lifted at some point, and now this bitter man is stuck inside the toy."

Farah jumps back into the convo. "Decades and decades and decades, the man's been trapped in there. Isn't that justice? I mean, he believed all this weird shit and he beat people and it's only right that he suffer some. But like Althea told me, it seemed that over time, Phillip Farnsworth lashed out in the only way he could, and that was by getting revenge on people who disrespected him when they saw the exhibit. You know, like me."

"All you did was take a picture," I say.

"Yeah, but I wasn't supposed to. Farnsworth believed that if you took a picture of someone, it stole part of his soul," Farah explains. "Apparently, he's been enjoying his reign of terror and is continuing to inflict pain on others, like he did when he was alive."

I stave off the tears. "You shouldn't have died, Farah. You were so young, beautiful, and talented. You totally had a career in opera ahead of you."

She waves me off. "It was my time. I did disrespect the history, and Farnsworth scared the crap out of me when I was driving. But I had work to do here, you know? I had to bring you to Althea so you could make it all right. And do whatever ghostly investigative stuff you do to exorcise the wickedness inside the doll."