Things Half in Shadow

In loving memory of Shane Edwards and Ruth Trapane. I am deeply proud to have called you family.

W
hen people mention Lenora Grimes Pastor, if they still speak of her at all, many insist that she was killed by a ghost. While a sensational claim, it makes a certain amount of sense. Philadelphia, as it would happen, is filled with spirits. All of that history colliding with the new and the now. Wherever the past piles up, layer after dusty layer, ghosts are sure to linger.

Ah, but already I'm getting ahead of myself. I assumed that was going to happen. I just didn't expect it to be in the second paragraph of this folly I'm about to undertake. So, lest I make more of a fool of myself than I already have, I will start with the basics.

The first bit of information you should know is that my name is generally acknowledged to be Edward Clark. The second is that I was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and reside here still. The third is that this chronicle, or memoir, or whatever you care to call it is being written at the behest of my granddaughter, Isabel, who currently sits across from me, nose buried in a volume of ghost stories. She's a macabre one, that girl, and when I told her I also knew a ghost story or two, she demanded that I write them down. I offered to simply tell her these strange-but-true tales, but she wanted none of that. She said I needed to preserve them for posterity's sake. So that is what I'm doing.

The former reporter in me wants to simply be straightforward with the whole thing. Who, what, where, when, and, that odd man out, how. It would certainly save me a lot of writing and to whoever may see this a lot of reading. But there's no fun in that, is there? No detail or nuance. Certainly no suspense. So I will try my best to
provide all of those things and more. After all, everyone enjoys a juicy tale.

As for those good yarns I promised Isabel, I happen to have several. My life, humble as it may be, has been filled with experiences of a most unusual kind. This particular tale, as I mentioned earlier, concerns Lenora Grimes Pastor and the ghost that people claim to have killed her. I suppose it's easy to see how such a theory persists. As the years pass—fifty, in this instance—rumor solidifies into fact, which is all too often mistaken for truth.

Now, at the risk of disappointing those who believe the stories of Mrs. Pastor's demise, I must state that, no, she was not actually killed by a ghost. Or a spirit. Or a ghoulish creature that dragged her screaming into the underworld. I can say with authority that no such outlandishness occurred.

I know this because I was there when she died. I was, in fact, the last person she spoke to, although there is some debate over whether she was actually the one doing the speaking. Remember, I said that no spirits killed her, not that there weren't any present.

In truth, the moment of Mrs. Pastor's death was so unremarkable compared with everything else going on that it took those of us at the scene several minutes to realize she had even passed on at all.

The real remarkable moments, the ones no one mentions because they were never known to begin with, happened just before Mrs. Pastor's death and in the days that followed. Although five decades have passed and the ratio of events I have forgotten compared with the ones I have not continues to tip ever closer toward senility, I remember everything about that time. I recall those days so vividly that, if I close my eyes, I can see them unfolding before me, much like those moving pictures they now show over on Eighth Street.

But there's more to this story than the supernatural. So, before I talk about Mrs. Pastor, I must mention everything else going on in
my life at the time, because it's all connected. All those strange encounters. The loves lost and found. The laughter and the tragedy and the quiet moments in between.

And ghosts, of course.

I must talk at length about ghosts. For while they didn't kill Mrs. Pastor, without them I never would have been able to learn the truth about who really did.

Edward Clark

Winter, 1919

F
or lack of a better starting point, I shall begin this particular tale on a foggy morning in April of 1869. The mist rose off the water in thick, brownish puffs that reminded me of cannon smoke. It moved in the same skittish manner—an ever-shifting curtain of haze that offered fleeting glimpses of Petty's Island as the fog approached the dock. I felt a familiar, unwelcome shudder of dread when the fog crashed over us. Tucked in its rolling tendrils was a heady stew of familiar odors. Damp earth. Dirty water. Decay.

With the fog in my eyes and its smell in my nostrils, I couldn't help but think of Antietam. So much was the same. The early morning chill. The silhouettes of men shimmering within the mist. The stench, getting stronger. As another wall of haze moved in, I cast my eyes to the ground, expecting to see it strewn with the shredded corpses of my fallen brothers.

But I was not at Antietam. I was right here in Philadelphia. On the waterfront of the Delaware River, to be precise, the city sprawling westward behind me. The smell that rode with the fog was merely the remains of yesterday's catch, sitting a few yards away in a rotting pile of fish guts and lopped heads. The ground, instead of bearing dozens of broken bodies, contained only one. A woman. Fully intact, but dead nonetheless.

Dressed in a gray shift that clung to her body, she looked more girl than woman. Her blond hair, darkened by the water from which she had been pulled, spread across the dock like dredged-up kelp. Sand, pebbles, and streaks of mud stuck to her pale flesh. With her eyes closed and body still, she looked at peace, although I was certain she hadn't died that way.

It was not, incidentally, the first corpse I had seen that week. I'd seen two the day before—an unlucky pair that had been stabbed in
an alleyway on the city's southern tip. Sailors, caught on the wrong end of a drunkard's Bowie knife. After witnessing a sight such as that, a dead girl wasn't so shocking.

Not that I was easily shocked to begin with. In my line of work, death came with the territory. As a reporter for the
Philadelphia Evening Bulletin
, I was called on to write about a wide assortment of subjects, but the one I covered the most was crime. Murders, mainly. And for a place nicknamed the City of Brotherly Love, there were an alarming number of them.

But the girl on the ground, it seemed, wasn't a murder victim. At least that's what Inspector William Barclay, standing on the other side of her body, thought.

“She drowned,” he told me. “The crew of the Cooper's Point ferry spotted her floating in the river.”

The ferry was docked at Pier 49, ready to make the morning's first crossing to Camden. Just beyond it, an impatient crowd grew along the end of Shackamaxon Street, waiting to board, with those in the front trying to peer past the line of policemen blocking their way. The rest of the waterfront rattled with activity, even at that early hour. The lumber mills and steelworks to the south were clanging and buzzing beasts. To the north of us, Kentucky boats filled with coal pushed out onto the river. But on the edge of the pier, it was just me, Barclay, and the dead girl.

“So there's nothing suspicious about her death?” I asked.

Barclay shook his head. “Not particularly. Of course, that's ultimately for the coroner to decide.”

“I assume he'll rule it an accidental drowning,” I said. “But what do
you
think?”

Barclay, who had seen even more death than myself, tried to avoid looking at the corpse again. Instead, he stared at the pile of fish scraps nearby. A fair number of birds—gulls, mostly, but also a handful of crows—circled it, swooping down at regular intervals to scoop up pieces of the stinking bounty. Barclay watched two gulls
battle for a bit of tail before saying, “If she was found in the water, then logic dictates that she also died there. So, to answer your question, yes. I believe that this poor girl drowned in the river.”

He looked to me, hoping his answer was satisfactory. He could tell from my expression that it was not.

“You don't agree?”

“Not precisely,” I said, pausing to let Barclay issue the sigh that I knew was coming. When you spend lengthy periods of time with someone, as I had with William Barclay, you quickly learn their particular habits. For Barclay, that included shifting his weight to his left leg and putting his hands on his hips when he was impatient or sighing when he was annoyed. Since his hands had already fixed themselves on his hips as soon as I arrived, I knew what was next.

“I know your readers are a bloodthirsty lot,” Barclay said, “but try not to turn what's simply a tragic accident into sensationalistic fodder for your newspaper.”

I intended to do no such thing, although I couldn't hold the accusation against Barclay. The
Bulletin
's readers were rather ghoulish. No crime was too foul, bloody, or unthinkable for them. There was a reason the motto among the city's crime reporters was “The morbider, the merrier.”

“I'm not wishing that this girl had been brutally butchered,” I said. “All I'm asking is that you not be so quick to conclude what killed her.”

Because Philadelphia is flanked by two rivers, I had seen a fair number of drowning deaths. The lack of oxygen colors the faces of most victims a pale purple. Their bodies are often bloated. Quite a few of them have pieces of flesh missing from the hungry fish that found them before any human got the chance.

The pitiful creature at my feet possessed none of these telltale signs. Granted, she could have thrown herself into the chilly Delaware only minutes before she had been found, yet it looked to me
that something else was at work. If it wasn't for the soaked clothing and the dirt on her skin, someone waiting for the ferry couldn't have been blamed for thinking she was still alive and merely napping on the bleached wood of the pier.

“She looks at peace,” I said. “As if she had passed in her sleep.”

Barclay sighed again. “So you're a trained coroner now, I see.”

“I'm simply saying that she doesn't look like a drowning victim. Surely, you can see that.”

“All I see,” Barclay said, “is that it was a bad idea to grant you access to the police department that your competitors in the press do without. I'm sure the gentlemen at the
Times
or the
Public Ledger
wouldn't ask me to second-guess myself.”