The Discovery (4 page)

"Mr. Rorek?" Stephanie asks.

I scrunch up my face. "Yup. You too?"

Farah waves her history printout. "I'm never eating pork again after the stench I just endured walking through that livestock barn. And me in my new Steve Maddens."

Celia frowns. "Pigs are actually very clean animals. It's humans' putting them in pens with mud and their own squalor that make them smell to high heaven like they do. I once read this article in
Progressive Farmer
about a manufacturing engineer who became a pig farmer. He put them on concrete in wired pens with no mud and cleaned their droppings with strong hoses and squeegees. The pigs remained clean, and because they walked on the pavement, their hindquarters were stronger and the meat was much—"

"
What
are you prattling on about, Celia?" I ask. "And
why
would you voluntarily read
Progressive Farmer?
"

Patrick snickers next to me, but because I can read his thoughts, I know he's wondering the same thing. Celia Nichols: tall, pretty, smart, rich, and she spends her time reading a farming magazine. I don't get it. But it's what makes Celia, Celia.

She gives me one of her trademark shrugs. "One needs to broaden one's informational horizon and be knowledgeable on a variety of subjects."

I give her the stink face; I don't buy it.

"Okay! I don't know. It was there. I was bored. It happens. Deal with it, K."

I hug her and we laugh together. We move down the line of display cases to a large map of General Sherman's March to the Sea and the path that it took through Radisson. Fortunately, he left the small city in pristine condition.

"Well, pristine if you don't consider all the livestock his men took," Patrick puts in, obviously reading my thoughts.

"Confederate sympathizer?" I ask with a brow raised.

"Hardly. There's nothing right about a person owning another person. I'm just saying that the Union troops took what they wanted when they were in the South."

Becca adds, "We've certainly found that to be true in our ghost-hunting adventures."

"Check that out," Courtney says. She points to a long bayonet with a shiny casing and a jewel on the handle. "That must have belonged to someone rich."

"Or an officer," Patrick says. "They were the ones with the best uniforms and the top-notch weaponry. Most of the Confederate Army barely had shoes, let alone ammunition."

Courtney bats her eyelashes at him. "
Who
are you?"

"Patrick Lynn," he says firmly. Then he reaches for my waist and slides me against him. "I'm her boyfriend."

Courtney snickers, and my former adversary surfaces for a moment with a snarky remark. "I see you work fast, Kendall. What would Jason Tillson think of this?"

"Jason left Radisson, Courtney. We've both moved on."

I let the uneasiness with Courtney fade. She's obviously still hurt that Jason dumped her and chose to be with someone like me instead of the popular Miss Perfect she thinks she is. At least she's being sociable instead of throwing applesauce at me like she's done in the past.

Celia steps in to break up the tête-à-tête. "Oh, wow, look. That bayonet did belong to an officer. Patrick was right." She leans in to read. "'Colonel Lawrence Hartsell, Waterbury, Connecticut.' He must have left it behind after the Union encampment."

Next to that is an actual Confederate uniform displayed on a mannequin. "I'm going to try my psychometry," I whisper to Celia.

I spread my fingers out over the worn fabric. In my mind I'm projected down a bright tunnel of memories and emotions. "The person who wore this had his leg amputated at the knee. He enjoyed a pipe every evening and played a ... violin for fun."

Celia makes notes as I speak.

"He was from ... a farm outside of Augusta. Oldest son. Died of dysentery a year after Lee surrendered."

I sigh hard as I step away from the relic.

"Look, right here," Celia says. "Worn by Major Theodore McClellan from Belvedere, Georgia. That's just north of Augusta. He lost a limb in the battle for Atlanta and he died in 1866, a year after Lee's surrender at Appomattox." She grins at me. "You're good, Kendall."

"You must be the students from Radisson High," a voice calls out.

We all turn in unison to see a rather stout, bald man in an ill-fitting suit and too-short tie mopping his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.

"That would be us," Sean Carmickle says. "Are you the guy who can help answer these questions the teach wants?"

"I certainly can," the man says. "I'm Louis Pfeiffer from the Radisson Historical Society. All of the items you see are authentic pieces that came from real Radisson families and households that were part of the Civil War."

Celia whips out a digital recorder and begins taping everything Mr. Pfeiffer says.

"We have relics that date back even earlier than the Civil War," he states. Pointing to a case, he says, "Like this piece of pottery here. We've tested it and it goes back to 1837, before the war. They would have used it as a plate, or possibly a cup. And over here, there's a Bible from the Wentworth family, who were rumored to be Yankee sympathizers and who fraternized with the Union troops when they were in Radisson."

"I'm just going to take pictures of everything," Farah says. "You know, a digital homework assignment."

"I don't think that'll be enough for Mr. Rorek," I say.

Stephanie raises her hand like she's in elementary school. "I've always wondered if there were any safe houses on the Underground Railroad in Radisson."

Mr. Pfeiffer swabs at his sweaty face again. "There's nothing in any of the historical or city records to indicate that."

My vision clouds for a moment to a scene of a slave family sneaking out an underground tunnel that opens into a field in the dark of night. I blink hard to focus on what I'm seeing, but as quickly as the image appeared, it's gone.

"Are you all right, K?" Celia asks.

"Yeah. Mascara in my eye."

Why lie, Kendall?
Patrick asks in my head.

It was just a flashing image.

I saw it too.

What does it mean?

I don't know, but I'm sure we'll find out.

"Pay attention," I whisper to Patrick.

Mr. Pfeiffer continues to showcase things in the exhibit, and I listen closely and look to my history assignment to make sure I don't miss a thing. However, my fingers begin tingling like I slept with my limbs bent up the wrong way, and now there are millions of ants crawling up and down my arms. Everyone around me is either halfheartedly paying attention to Mr. Pfeiffer or not taking him seriously at all. Everyone but Celia, who is hanging on his every syllable.

That voice inside my head—which rarely leads me astray—tells me something is not right here. Perhaps that danger Anona spoke of. The other kids are laughing and cutting up and poking fun at the uniforms, the aprons, the shoes people wore back then. Don't they realize what a time of trouble and turmoil the Civil War was? They're literally surrounded by historic buildings and artifacts that are teardrops of our American history. There's nothing funny about brother killing brother, about slaves kept against their will, or about a nation torn in two.

Anger boils and bubbles inside me and I'm sure my face shows something is toying with me, baiting me, and pushing me over the edge. I curl my fingers into a fist in preparation for fight or flight. What is doing this to me? What is making me so annoyed and ill at ease? Something's here. A spirit, perhaps? Of another belligerent soldier? A townsperson who doesn't realize the Civil War is over? A slave looking for that elusive Underground Railroad?

I slip my hand up to my temples and rub, hoping it'll knock the answer loose. Something is undeniably here.

Patrick is on to me and he comforts me with a gentle hug. "Kendall? Are you okay?"

"I most definitely am
not
okay. Don't you feel it, Patrick?"

"For once ... no."

Becca and Celia seem to sense something is looming as well.

It's there.

Something historic.

Something delicate.

Something important.

Something ... sinister.

Patrick catches my eye and nods.

Yep, now he's feeling it too.

I strain my vision up ahead, to the next case.

And that's when I see
it.

Every hair on my body is standing at attention.

A
T FIRST GLANCE
, it doesn't appear to be anything threatening.

It's just sitting there in the glass case. The one past the antique field plow and next to the box of useless Confederate money.

"What is that?" Shelby-Nichole asks.

"It's a doll, silly," Stephanie says.

"It's not just any doll," Celia corrects. "That's the one."

"You're quite right, young lady," Mr. Pfeiffer says.

I move toward the glass for a closer look, away from the glare of the overhead spotlight. My eyes shift left and right to take in the sight of the very, very old, ragged dirty doll sitting in a small rocking chair. Although his face is plain fabric and his eyes are made from scratched black buttons, he seems to have life in him. As if this doll is gazing right at you and into you.

"
That
is the creepiest damn thing I've ever seen in my entire life," I manage to say.

"I couldn't agree with you more," Patrick says from behind me.

"It's just a ratty old doll," Farah says. She moves around back to get a better angle on the antique toy.

Stephanie screws up her face. "I'm with Kendall. That thing is over-the-top creeptacular."

Farah lifts her small Nikon camera to grab a shot. Mr. Pfeiffer stops her. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Why not?" she asks.

He hesitates and then swallows hard, judging from the action of his bobbing Adam's apple. "The doll has ... a story."

Becca crosses her arms across her chest. "Okay, now he's got my attention."

Mine too. Is it this creeptard of a doll that's been sending out the negative energy I'm picking up like a Geiger counter? Waves and waves of hatred, bitterness, and, dare I say, intent to commit malice?

Celia moves forward with her recorder stretched out so as not to miss a word of this story. Everyone else gathers around, listening.

Pointing to the case, Mr. Pfeiffer says, "This is Xander the Doll. He was owned by Robert Townsend Farnsworth in the late eighteen hundreds, following the war. His father was a very prominent member of Radisson society, and Robert was the youngest of sixteen children."

"Sixteen?" Courtney spits out. "That poor mother of his! Her stomach must have had a zipper on it."

"That's how they had babies back then," Farah notes to her cheerleader partner.

"Shhh, I want to hear this," I say firmly. Patrick's hand grips my hip and I know he's picking up the hinky vibe from this doll as well.

"Carbon dating on Xander's clothing shows that he dates back to the eighteen seventies, post Civil War. Legend has it that he came to the Farnsworth family from their slave nanny, Althea. She took care of all sixteen of the Farnsworth children, but she took a special shine to Robert, the youngest." Mr. Pfeiffer walks around the case, carefully inspecting Xander. "You see, Althea was bought by the Farnsworths from a man who traded stock from the West Indies."

I almost growl at the thought of another human being considered stock. But I listen up and don't say anything.

"In the West Indies, in Haiti, Althea was rumored to have practiced the religion of voodoo as a girl and was even thought to be a
manbo,
or priestess, who could invoke the voodoo deities."

Celia speaks up. "Yeah, but isn't
voodoo
just a scary word for mixing African culture with the beliefs of the Roman Catholic Church? I mean, we throw around the word
voodoo
like it's a curse when it's really very religious and based heavily in Catholicism."

Mr. Pfeiffer harrumphs. "I'm not here to teach you theology, son. I can only share the history of this family and their artifacts as I know it."

"So, this Althea chick made a voodoo doll of the kids?" Dragon asks, quite fascinated by the whole theory.

"Not exactly," Mr. Pfeiffer says. "She actually made Xander the Doll and gave him to Robert as protection. From what, our historic documents don't show. All we know is that Althea was accused of making charmed objects that enchanted the children to the point where they were uncontrollable by the parents. Shortly after Reconstruction, Althea tragically was lynched by ... someone."

"Sorry, but I don't believe all this voodoo crap," Kyle states.

"Language, son," Mr. Pfeiffer snaps.

"Sorry."

Molten heat emits from the glass case, almost like the summer sun radiating off the hot pavement. Invisible waves of energy surround this figurine. I bet if we had an electromagnetic field detector, it would be registering off the charts right now.

"Is this a voodoo doll of the boy Robert?" I ask.

"As I said," Mr. Pfeiffer continues, "it is thought that Althea made him as protection for Robert, but it seemed that over the years, as Robert grew older, all sorts of strange incidents and accidents occurred. Xander the Doll was often blamed for wreaking the havoc and destruction. Nothing could ever prove the doll was animated, yet people swore it was."

"How did Xander the Doll come to be in your possession?" Patrick asks, obviously as fascinated as I am.

"The Farnsworth family's last heir donated the property, including the house and all of its items, to the Radisson Historical Society. In fact, our office is based at Farnsworth House, right on Main Street, but we don't allow visitors anymore. Xander the Doll was in a trunk in the attic and so we moved him to a chair in what was thought to be the room Robert shared with his brothers. People with the historical society would often find Xander the Doll in different locations in the house, never in the chair. About twenty years ago, he was placed in this protective case."

"To keep him from wandering around?" Sean asks with a snicker.