The Visitor (4 page)

Six

I
was very tired the next morning, having dozed only fitfully after I'd gone back to bed. The insect shell left on the nightstand troubled me greatly because it was concrete proof that
something
had been in my house, even in my bedroom. In hindsight, the actions of my strange visitor seemed almost childlike—pilfering my sparkly bookmark after a macabre game of hide-and-seek. But this revelation made the intrusion no less alarming. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Despite my exhaustion, I managed to rise at a decent hour and was out the door well before nine. I'd scheduled a meeting with a local historical society for late morning, but I still had plenty of time to investigate Dowling Curiosities.

I found a place to park, and as I walked along the shady streets, the sights, sounds and tantalizing smells of a Charleston morning helped soothe my ragged nerves. The tourists were already up and about, although most of the upscale shops along King Street's antiques district were not yet open.

Passing the address of the shop, I backtracked but saw no sign or shingle. I thought I'd entered the wrong address in my phone until I realized the shop was located at the back of a building. Access was through a wrought iron gate and down a cobblestone alley lined with potted gardenias.

A sign in the window informed me that the shop would open at ten so I headed over to the harbor for a walk along the water. By the time I returned, it was a few minutes after ten and I could see some activity in the shop. A woman was just leaving and we nodded to one another in passing. Bells announced my arrival and her departure as the door swished closed and I stood for a moment gazing around.

Dowling Curiosities was small, cramped and smelled of camphor. The restricted space might ordinarily have repelled me, but the light shining in through the windows was pleasant and the crowded displays had been styled by a clever hand: antique dolls dressed in mourning clothes, carnival sideshow posters in gilded frames, glass cabinets showcasing all manner of curios from ivory-handled dueling pistols to bizarre mechanical toys. And on long shelves above the display cases, dozens of antique cameras and stereoscopes.

As I approached the back counter, a man came through the curtains and stopped dead when he saw me, his hand flying to his heart.

“Oh, my,” he said on a sharp breath. “You gave me a fright. I didn't know anyone was about. I heard the bells but assumed that was Mrs. Hofstadter leaving.”

“We passed each other in the doorway.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

I looked around doubtfully. “You are open for business, aren't you?”

“Yes, of course.” He stepped up to the counter with a welcoming smile and I found myself charmed by his whimsical fashion statement—plaid pants and a sweater vest over a lavender shirt with a popped collar. He looked to be in his mid-to late thirties, but the silky sweep of dark blond hair across his brow gave him a boyish look that belied the tiny crinkles around his gray eyes. “How may I help you?”

“I'm hoping to find some information about an antique stereoscope.”

“Well, you've certainly come to the right place. Stereoscopy happens to be a passion,” he said. “What kind of stereoscope are you interested in?”

“I'm not here to buy. I found an old viewer in my basement and I'm hoping you can tell me something about it.”

As we spoke, I removed the stereoscope from my bag and placed it on the counter. He picked up the device and lifted it briefly to his eyes even though the cardholder was empty.

“This is a handsome piece. Manufactured by the Keystone View Company here in the States. You can still see their stag elk trademark on the side. See?” He pointed out the emblem. “The unit appears extremely well preserved for having been stored in a damp basement.” He gave me a reproachful glance.

“I had no idea it was even there,” I said defensively.

“What a wonderful find, then. I'd put the age somewhere around 1890 to 1900.”

“That old?”

“Yes, indeed,” he said as he carefully returned the viewer to the counter. When he glanced up, there was a shrewd gleam in his eyes. “If you're looking to sell, I should warn you that the Monarch—which you have here—was the most common viewer on the market back in those days. Handheld units were mass-produced and relatively inexpensive even in the late nineteenth century. They're collectible, of course, but not as highly prized as the larger stereoscopes.”

“It's not mine to sell. As I said, I came across it in my basement and I'm trying to determine the original owner.”

“That'll be next to impossible, I'm afraid.” He leaned an arm against the counter and I got a whiff of orange blossoms with a dark base note of hawthorn. “A viewer this old has undoubtedly changed hands any number of times. Unless you know how it came to be in your cellar, I don't know how you'd be able to trace the provenance.”

“That's why I came here, Mr. Dowling—”

“Owen, please.” He flashed a beguiling grin.

“I think you may be in a unique position to help me...Owen. There's a small silver tag on the bottom with the name of this shop and an inscription.”

He lifted a curious brow as he turned the viewer over. “So there is. ‘To Mott, From Neddy. Together Forever,'” he read, a frown fleeting across his features as he studied the plate.

“Do you recognize those names?” I asked anxiously.

“What? No,” he said with a distracted air. “I was just trying to remember when we switched from silver plating to brass tags for inscriptions.” He paused, considering. “I don't recall ever seeing one like this, so I think we can safely assume the viewer was bought and sold before my time.”

“I know it's a long shot,” I said on a hopeful note. “But I thought you might have a sales receipt or even a record of the engraving.”

“The computerized files won't go back that far, and even if they did, it would be impossible to locate a receipt without a last name. But if I may make a suggestion?”

“Please.

“If you'd like to leave the viewer, I'll be only too happy to show it to my great-aunt. She's owned the shop for nearly forty years and I believe she used to do all the engraving herself. The names in the inscription are rather unusual, so there's a chance she might remember them.”

“Would it be possible for me to come back later when she's in?”

Owen Dowling shook his head regretfully. “Her visits are few and far between, I'm afraid. She rarely even comes to Charleston these days.”

“I see.” I pulled a business card from my bag and placed it on the counter between us. “If you or your aunt should think of anything, would you please give me a call?”

He glanced down at the card and another scowl skidded across his forehead, but when he looked up, his expression showed nothing but a mild curiosity. “You're a cemetery restorer.”

“I am.”

“I don't think I've ever met one before. Sounds like a fascinating profession.”

“It can be. Anyway, thank you for your time.”

“It was my pleasure. I only wish I could have been of more assistance.”

I shrugged in resignation and thanked him again as I returned the stereoscope to my bag.

A phone rang in the back and he pocketed my card with an apologetic smile as he glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry. I'm the only one here so I have to get that. But please...” He waved a hand to encompass the showroom. “Stay and have a look around. Take your time and enjoy our curiosities.”

“I have an appointment, but some other time perhaps.” My voice trailed away as he disappeared through the curtain and I could hear the rumble of his voice as he answered the phone. I would have liked nothing more than to spend the rest of the morning browsing through all the oddities and treasures, but I had to get to my meeting with the Greater Charleston Historical Society.

The pleasing tinkle of the bells followed me out into the sunshine. As I started down the cobblestone alley toward the street, something compelled me to glance over my shoulder.

Owen Dowling stood just beyond the doorway peering after me. He had a phone to his ear, and as our gazes connected, he stepped back into the shadows as if he didn't wish to be seen.

I experienced the oddest sensation in that moment. Part premonition, part déjà vu. I'd never met the man before, had never been to that shop. Yet I couldn't shake the notion that I had been guided to Dowling Curiosities for a reason, and that my visit with Owen Dowling had somehow set something dark and dangerous in motion.

Seven

L
ater that afternoon, I headed out again, this time to see Dr. Rupert Shaw at the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies. As I came around the side of the Institute after parking, I shot a glance across the street at Madam Know-It-All's, the palmist I'd become acquainted with last fall. I didn't linger to try to catch a glimpse of her. I was in too much of a hurry to speak with Dr. Shaw.

“He's expecting you,” the new assistant said with a smile after I introduced myself. “I'll take you back.”

She escorted me down the hallway and motioned me through a set of thick pocket doors. “Go on in. If either of you need anything, I'll be at my desk.”

“Thank you.”

As her heels clattered down the hallway, I stepped across the threshold and glanced around the room, relieved to see the same cozy muddle that I remembered so fondly. If anything, the stacks of books on the wooden floor had grown to a new, precarious level and an assortment of files and magazines threatened to swallow Dr. Shaw's massive desk.

The French doors stood open to the garden and I spotted his lanky silhouette at the edge of the terrace. He stood with one hand propped against a column, his head turned slightly away from me, but I could still see his careworn profile. His profound sadness caught me off guard, and I paused before knocking or calling out his name. A second later, he stepped in from the garden, his eyes lighting when he saw me.

“There you are. Right on time as always. I was just outside getting a little fresh air.” The melancholy I'd glimpsed a moment earlier was now carefully masked, but there was no disguising the ravages of grief. The past few months had not been kind to Dr. Shaw. The sorrow of losing his only son had etched deep furrows in his brow, and his eyes held the shadows of a man haunted by memories and regret—a look I'd seen often in Devlin's eyes.

Not wishing to be caught staring, I bent to remove the antique stereoscope from my bag and placed it on his desk.

He picked up the device and turned it in his hand. “What an interesting piece.”

“I thought you might find it so. And this is the stereogram.”

He took his time scrutinizing the images before slipping the card in the holder as he swung his chair around to capture the light. “The faces are startlingly clear, aren't they? Almost as if they could speak to us.” His voice held a note of wonder. “Are there others?”

“Other stereograms, you mean? It's possible. The basement is crammed full of old boxes.”

“Worth a look, I should think.” He lowered the viewer and swiveled back to his desk. “The resemblance is uncanny. I'm referring to the woman in the window, of course. Is she an ancestor?”

“I have no idea.” I released a breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding. The fact that he could see her was confirmation that she'd been alive at the time the photograph was taken.

“Surely someone must have mentioned how much you favor a grandmother or great-aunt or distant cousin,” he suggested.

“No, never. Until last fall, I'd been told I was adopted.”

“But you're not?”

“The circumstances of my birth are unusual, to say the least.”

“I see.” He removed a magnifying glass from his desk and studied the images for another long moment. “Intriguing the way the camera caught her in that window. Almost as if she were a guardian watching over them,” he mused.

“I hadn't thought of her that way,” I said. “I wish I knew who they all were.”

“You don't recognize the man?”

I glanced up at the note of excitement in his tone. “No. Should I?”

“You're much too young, I expect. Ezra Kroll's legacy is all but forgotten these days, but there was a time when the very whisper of his name could send a chill down one's spine.”

“Ezra Kroll?” My pulse quickened, though I was certain I'd never heard of the man before. “Who was he?”

“The founder of a rather mysterious commune back in the fifties. He and his followers lived in a self-sustained colony a few miles south of Isola in Aiken County. Some of his relatives still reside in that town.”

Something niggled. Not a memory but a bristling awareness that this tidbit was important. A clue, perhaps?

“What about the children?” I asked. “His daughters, I presume?”

“Kroll had no offspring. But I seem to recall reading something about twin sisters. Conjoined twins,” he added.

“What age were they when they were separated?”

“They were never separated.”

“Never?” All of a sudden, the inscription from the stereogram flashed through my brain:
To Mott, From Neddy. Together Forever.
“What happened to them?” I asked with a shiver.

“It was very tragic if the stories are to be believed. One of the twins died. The other was so distraught that she tried to hide her sister's passing by using cloves to cover the smell. It was days before anyone caught on.”

I stared at him in horror. “Is that true?”

“Cloves were used in the Middle Ages to disguise the stench and flavor of rotting meat.”

“No, I mean...is it true that they were still joined even after the sister passed?”

“Who's to say? Stories become embellished over time.” He dropped his gaze to the stereogram, scrutinizing it for another long moment. “Notice the way they're standing back-to-back, heads turned to the camera, expressions identical. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was an optical illusion.”

I put a hand to my nape, where the flesh still tingled. “What else can you tell me about Kroll?”

“He was a distinguished scholar and scientist who seemed to have a brilliant future ahead of him, but he came back from the war a changed man. He gave up his family, career, money—everything—to pursue his vision of utopia. He gathered like-minded people around him, many of them former soldiers desperate for a quiet life. And for a time, Kroll Colony flourished. But every paradise has its serpent. No one knew anything was wrong until the smell drifted into town.”

My fingers tightened around the chair arms. “What happened?”

“Mass suicide. Men, women, children...all gone. Kroll's body was found sometime later in the woods with a gunshot wound to the head.”

“Self-inflicted?”

“More than likely, although there have been contradicting theories down through the years. The bodies from the Colony were buried far away from the public cemetery and sealed off by a stone fence. The place is isolated and nearly hidden by an overgrown maze that can be quite daunting to navigate, especially when the light starts to fade.”

“I take it you've been there.”

“Yes. A few years ago I was contacted by one of his sisters, a woman named Louvenia Durant. She owns a Thoroughbred farm in Aiken County. The cemetery is located on the property she inherited from Kroll's estate. Over the years, there have been reports of strange lights. She requested that the Institute send someone down to do some readings.”

“What did you find?”

“A few pings on the EMF meter, a bit of static on the recorder, but nothing of consequence. However, the visit was well worth our time. Kroll Cemetery is the most strangely beautiful place I've ever investigated. There are thirty-seven graves inside, all of them marked with unusual headstones and tombs.”

“What's so unusual about them?” I asked.

“For one thing, the symbols are unlike anything I've ever seen. Each marker is inscribed with a seemingly random number and a key—”

“A
key
?”

He gave me a quizzical look as he nodded. “No two are alike. The effect is quite eerie.”

“I can imagine,” I said on a breath. “Normally a key represents knowledge or, if wielded by an angel or saint, the means to enter heaven. Crossed keys symbolize Saint Peter. But the keys you've described...” I trailed off, tamping down the advent of something fearful in my stomach. I had a bad feeling that I was being led down a dangerous path with nothing but these esoteric bread crumbs to guide me. “I don't know what to make of them.”

“Some claim the cemetery is a puzzle or riddle that no one has ever been able to solve. Just think of it.” Dr. Shaw leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “All those clues and symbols hidden behind high walls for decades, waiting for someone clever enough to come along and put all the pieces together. And who better to solve a graveyard mystery than you, my dear?”