Page 53 of Ghostlighted
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case here. Instead, the box contained several lace collars wrapped in yellowed tissue paper and half a dozen thin, oversized books in some kind of rough gray binding that was definitely not leather.
I set the collars aside carefully—Saul would probably be able to use them in one of the room displays—and lifted out the first book.
“Please be another journal, please be another journal.”
My muttered plea to the universe wasn’t exactly answered, but it wasn’t exactly ignored either.
No, the book wasn’t a journal, nor was it written by one of the Richdales. Instead, it was their housekeeper’s ledger. And whoever their housekeeper had been, they were the spiritual ancestor of the company that packed up Oren’s effects, because while they were lousy at categorization and logical grouping, they were fantastic at listing the detail for each item purchased.
I peered at the bottom of one page and noted the faded date accompanied by a flowing signature in sepia ink—Frances Richdale. I snorted.
“Frances Richdale, matriarch of corporate micromanagers everywhere.”
In her journal, Frances had flat out stated that Thaddeus was wasting their financial resources on his quest to pierce the veil “to the great detriment of our Family’s wealth and well-being.” From the looks of this, she was either keeping her housekeeper honest or doing her best to control a budget that was bleedingheavily from the cash outflow caused by Thaddeus’s inability to grasp the sunk-cost fallacy.
Because holycrap, some of this stuff was expensive, especially for that time period.
This could actually be a good topic for a blog post, maybe not the inaugural one, but close after the introduction—a list of the supplies Thaddeus used for his research. I peered at the page again, noting the large amount of garlic and excessive number of silver chains.Or maybe the supplies Frances used tointerferewith his research.
HadFrancesbeen the one to stumble upon the spirit-repelling artifact? According to her journals, she certainly hadn’t been a fan, although her entries had been observations of Thaddeus’s attempts, rather than plans for anything that would block them.
The housekeeper’s ledger contained item descriptions, but not always the reason for the purchase. For example,“Haunch of venison requested for Mr. Holum’s dinner”was pretty clear, especially since each page also included a list of who was staying at the Manor on that date. Mr. Broderick Holum of San Francisco evidently had a taste for venison and a hearty appetite.
However, it had nothing more to say about the“carved purple chalcedony locket on golden chain”or“rings of braided Andalusian horsehair (5) wound with silver thread.”Maybe it figured those were self-explanatory?
What would anybody do with five rings of braided horsehair, anyway, Andalusian or not, regardless of what thread they had wrapped around them?
Victorian spiritualists could be super weird.
My chuckle died in my throat as I spotted the date next to Frances’s signature—it was more than two years prior to the first entry in her journal.
While Frances’s journal had been explicit about thewhatof Thaddeus’s attempts—that is, what he was hoping to achieve with any given experiment—they hadn’t been very specific abouthowhe intended to accomplish it. Well, she’d described the activities, but not what the participants had used for them in anything but general terms. I remembered every seance called forthree white candles.
But this page of the housekeeper’s ledger had an entry forbeeswax candles, 12 inches, three dozen, scented with lavender, tinted black.
Somewhere between this date and Frances’s journal, Thaddeus had switched from black candles to white. Why?
Excitement began to crawl from my belly up through my chest. If I could match actual materials from the housekeeper’s accounts to the journal’s events, I’d be able to match Thaddeus’s goal with what he’d used to reach it. If nothing else, it would tell us whatnotto try investigating regarding Avi’s abilities.
And maybe, justmaybe, if I was very lucky, I’d find that break in the timeline. Because I can’t imagine that something that would result in repelling all spirits within a hundred-mile radius could possibly be a small thing.
I remembered how fascinated I’d been by the historian’s research methods inThe Daughter of Time, how he and the bedridden detective had used sources other than “official” history to build their case for absolving Richard III of murdering the princes in the tower.
History was too easily revised by the winners in any conflict, and people—even the most well-intentioned—had a tendency to cast themselves and their “team” in the best possible light. To get the real picture, you had to look at objective facts. Things that had no reason to be either sanctified or demonized. Frances, in her journal, had a clear bias—she thought Thaddeus was an idiot for pursuing his obsession to communicate withJosiah, and furthermore, she resented the hell out of him for wasting their family money to do it.
Frances’s journal only covered about eighteen months, from September 1906 until March 1908, when Frances had been in her mid-thirties. She’d introduced the volume with a very telling paragraph:
Whereas my Husband has devoted all our Resources to his Pursuits, it behooves me to chronicle his Actions, ere he once again repeat failed Trials to no avail and to the great detriment of our Family’s wealth and well-being.
From that, it was clear that Thaddeus’s experiments had been going on for some time. I suspected—I hoped—that somewhere in all these boxes I’d find other volumes of her journal and I’d be able to align them with the housekeeper’s ledgers.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I wiped the dust off my hands and pulled it out, hoping for a text from Ricky.
It wasn’t, but it was equally exciting in a completely different way: a delivery notification from UPS. My EVP equipment had been delivered and left on the porch.
I checked the time—eleven thirty. That was totally legit for an early lunch, right, especially on a day I wasn’t required to be working? I grabbed my hoodie and hurried down to my car.
I laughed to myself as I drove out of the empty lot. Saul Pasternak was probably the least-demanding boss in the history of the world—witness what amounted to an extra paid holiday for Manor staff. However, if the EVP equipment worked as I hoped, he’d probably forgive me for anything short of burning down the Manor, because it would mean that he could speak with Avi. Thatanyonecould speak with Avi.
