Mrs. Etta Harding

By Bakerj

Chapter One

The hollow echo of his horse’s hooves bounced off the silence as he rode deeper into the heart of the deserted city.  Empty windows stared down, their black holes gaping wounds in the buildings.  His head turned from side to side, checking every alley, cranny, and shadow like a deer picking its way through a wolf-laden forest. 

He tried to make out the familiar houses beyond the main street, but the fog that shrouded them was too thick to penetrate.  The squeak brought his head around with a snap.  A battered door swung on rusted hinges.  Paint peeled off the sign above, the boards twisting on their nails.  Yesterday, Virginia City had been a teeming metropolis of over three thousand souls.  What the hell happened?

Gathering storm clouds gave no relief from the heat that prickled his skin.  He sucked in deep breaths trying to draw oxygen from the heavy, still air while the stench of fear curled around his nostrils.  Drawing Cochise to a halt, he screwed up his eyes and tried to make out the shape at the end of the street.  It hadn’t been there a moment ago.  Maybe it was someone who could tell him what was going on.

When he drew near, the shape shifted and defined into a person, but no comfort flooded Joe.  He couldn’t make out anything other than the man was dressed in grey.  The battered hat that sat on his lowered head shaded his face.  Cooch danced and fretted, and Joe had to work to keep him from bolting.

“What’s happened here?  Where is everyone?”  The figure didn’t move or answer.  Joe’s jaw set, and his fingers tightened around his reins.  “Answer me, damn you!  What’s going on?”

Time slowed as the head rose inch by inch, revealing the featureless face that hung in shadow.

Bolting upright, Joe’s shaking hands scrambled for his lamp and seared the room with light.  His heart thudded with sickening speed, and breath after breath shuddered through him while his eyes darted around his room. 

The hand that ran down his face came away slick with sweat.  His nightshirt stuck to his chest and back with clammy persistence.  He chuckled, trying to bring himself fully awake and lighten the sense of dread that clung to him.  It was just a stupid dream. 

Flopping back on his pillow, the breath in his chest hitched, and his muscles tightened.  His gaze fixed on the grey figure spreadeagled across the whitewashed plastered ceiling like some grotesque spider hanging from its web.  Then – it dropped!

His scream shook the windowpanes.  In under a minute, Pa and Hoss appeared.  Guns in hand.  They pulled up short, seeing no one in the moonlit washed room except Joe upright on his bed.

“Dadburnit.  What’s going on?”

His voice shook.  “Nothing.  A bad dream is all.”

“I wish you’d have quieter ones.”

“Sorry.”

Hoss huffed and stomped away.  Pa hung onto the doorknob.

“You sure you’re okay.”

Joe managed a smile.  “Yeah.  Like I said.   Nightmare.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No!”  Sharper with the reply than he intended, Joe rushed on, “I feel stupid enough.”

Pa smiled at that.  “No need.  Get some sleep.”

Joe only waited for the door to close to light the lamp.  He forced himself to look at the ceiling.  Its emptiness mocked him, but no more than his own words, “Geez, what did you expect?” 

He flung back his blankets and climbed out of bed.  Scrubbing his scalp, he padded to the chair by his desk.  The boards cold and hard under his bare feet.  Slumping down, he let his gaze travel across the ceiling again.  The fire in the grate had died to almost nothing.  Only a few embers glowed red.  He shivered, and he crossed his arms for warmth.  The sunken pillow and crumpled bedsheets called to him.  Joe snorted at how ridiculous he was being.  It was just a nightmare.  Why let it get to him? 

Marching back to the bed, he cocooned himself in the blankets.  The lamp still blazed, but his fingers hesitated when they reached for the wick raiser.  Turning the knob, he dimmed the light but didn’t put it out. 

***

Joe removed his hat and wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve.  Repairing fence was his least favorite chore.  He put aside the hammer and retrieved his canteen hanging from another post.  After one gulp, he let the water run over his head and shook it out.  He held the canteen to Hoss.

“Drink?”

“I’m good.”

Recapping the canteen, he slipped the strap back over the post, letting the smooth, pliant leather run through his fingertips.  He froze.  Something was behind him.  He could feel the air being displaced by its presence.  The hairs on his neck rose, and his heart quickened.    His gaze flicked to Hoss, still pounding a post with his sledgehammer.  He flexed his hand to still the quivering and spun, pulling his gun.  Nothing was there. 

“What’s the matter with you?”

Holstering his colt, Joe pulled a face.  “Thought I heard something.”

“What’s up with you anyhow?”

“Nuthin’!”  Joe jutted his chin at the expression of disbelief on his brother’s face.  “C’mon.  Let’s get these dang things done.”

***

Chapter Two

Joe adjusted his tie and reached for the brush.  Tilting his head in the mirror, he grimaced at the dark circles under his eyes.  Wanting to look his best, they weren’t doing him any favors.

The nightmare continued.  Its disturbing echoes stayed with him, even when out doing chores, and he was as jumpy as a jackrabbit.  Sleep lost its appeal when it brought those vivid images of a decaying and rotten Virginia City and that figure.  His eyes searched his room in the mirror, almost as if he expected to see him standing there. 

He’d managed to keep the dreams reoccurrence to himself but couldn’t figure out why it did.  ‘Forget it,’ he told himself.  Tonight was about having a good time.  It wasn’t every day Pa agreed to a night away.  He and Hoss had it all planned.  The Opera House followed by a late supper at Delmonico’s and a night at the International.  A roguish smile crossed his face.  Plus, the chance to flirt with a girl or two. 

“Ain’t you ready yet?  Pa’s waiting.”

“Almost.”

“What’s all the primping for anyhow?”

“Ladies appreciate a fella who makes an effort.” 

“Seems a waste.  I hear tell Mrs. Harding ain’t a day under fifty.”

“And I heard her lecture is a sell-out.  We’re bound to run into a few pretty girls.”

Hoss chuckled and left.  Joe turned back to the mirror.  The grey figure behind him filled the glass.  Whirling so fast, he crashed into his dresser and sent the bottle of cologne tumbling.

“Hoss!”

Poking his head around the door, Hoss asked, “Yeah?”

There was no man there, just his room, same as always.  He’d steadied himself, feeling a fool for calling out.  “Nuthin’.” 

“You sure?  You’re looking peaked all of a sudden.”

Joe rolled back his shoulders and grabbed his blue jacket and black dress hat.  “I’m fine.  Let’s go.”

***

Joe hadn’t been wrong.  The Opera House was heaving with patrons eager to see the celebrated medium, Etta Harding.  Her legendary ability to contact the spirit world had been the talk of Virginia City for three months.

As they neared the town, Joe’s heart had begun to race.  The tendrils of his dream returned like a sour taste.  When they rode up the hill, heard the pounding of the stamp mills, and saw the pristine buildings with boardwalks crammed with people, Joe laughed with relief.  It earned him a glance from Pa and Hoss, but he didn’t care.  The lightness in his chest was worth a couple of funny looks.

Treading up the steps to the open double doors, Joe tipped his hat and grinned at the myriad of young women accompanying their families.  He winked at Hoss, who rolled his eyes and pushed him inside.

The Cartwrights took their seats in one of the side boxes.  The house buzzed with anticipation. 

“Sure is a crowd,” Hoss said.

“Hmm … it’s amazing what attracts people.”

Joe glanced back at his father and raised his eyebrows at Hoss.  It’d taken all their persuasion to get Pa to join them.  He wasn’t keen on contacting loved ones from beyond the grave for entertainment.

The hush died when Thomas Maguire came on the stage.  The owner waved his hands for quiet.  “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming tonight.  Our Opera House has seen many fine performers, but none as extraordinary and gifted as the one we are about to see tonight.  Her remarkable reputation precedes her, and so, without more ado, I present the spiritualist and medium, Mrs. Etta Harding.”

Applause pounded off the walls and rose to the rafters.  Onto the stage walked the lady they’d come to see.  Hoss was right.  She wasn’t a day under fifty.  Grey snaked through the brown hair, tied in a neat coil with curls on each side of her face.  A hush fell when she reached the podium in the middle of the stage.  The lady had quite a presence. 

“Thank you for your warm welcome.  Tonight, I will attempt to contact the spirits and pass on any messages they may have.”

Joe and Hoss grinned at each other, the schoolboys in them excited.  The show began.

“I have a gentleman with me who recently passed.  He is impatient to be heard.  His name is Antonio.  Does that name mean anything to anyone here?”  Hands in the audience shot skyward.  “Food was a vital part of his life.  He owned a restaurant.”

Hands dropped, and one remained.  Mrs. Harding indicated the woman stand.

“He was your father?”

The girl nodded.  “Yes.”

Gasps of amazement rang out around the hall.

“He was the chef in his restaurant.”

Turning pale, the young woman replied, “Food was his life.”

“Your father is happy.  He is with your mother.”  Tears fell down the young woman’s face, and the man beside her handed over his handkerchief.  “He wants to tell you that you and Luca should run the restaurant.  You have the same love of food, and he has faith in both of you.”

Between her sobs of joy, the young woman called out her thanks and returned to her seat.

When the applause died, the show continued, and Mrs. Harding connected four more times and passed on the spirit’s messages. 

Then the medium bowed her head, and intense concentration crossed her face. 

“Ain’t she a caution?” Hoss said.

Joe didn’t acknowledge the comment he barely heard. 

“There is another presence, but … I can’t quite reach him.  I will attempt a different approach.  For this, I need the assistance of my husband.”

A small, unassuming man came on stage, followed by stagehands who carried a table and two chairs.  The man laid a stack of paper on the desk with a small pile of pencils. 

Mrs. Harding left the podium and sat.  Placing her palms face down, she bowed her head again.  Her husband turned to the audience.

“My wife will now attempt to contact the spirit using automated writing.  This requires her to enter a trance-like state, and the spirit’s replies will be written.  I will relay the answers.  It is a delicate process and requires the utmost concentration.  I must request absolute silence.”

Joe didn’t feel the thrill that ran around the theatre or how nobody moved when the medium began.  Guided to the paper, her hand started to turn, creating circles with the pencil. 

“Is somebody there?  Please tell us you are there.”  When Mrs. Harding’s scribblings filled each piece of paper, her husband pulled it away and set her hand on the next sheet.  She continued her monotone questions, unaware of his movements.  “Is somebody there?  Don’t be afraid.  I can feel your presence.”

Joe’s knuckles turned white when his fingers tightened over the balcony of their booth.  He leaned forward, drawn toward the stage, and sweat began to stand out on his top lip. 

“Is somebody there?”

Joe’s heart rate slowed.  His gaze riveted on the woman. 

Her hand moved with a definite purpose and wrote a word.  Mr. Harding read it aloud, “Yes.”

“Can you tell us your name?  We want to speak with you.  To help you.  Tell us your name?”  The world began to slip away and dim.  The smell of roses clogged his lungs.  It became hard to breathe, like he was being held underwater.  “Tell us your name.  We want to help you.  Can you tell us your name?”

The hand wrote again.  “Joseph.”

No longer in their box, Joe was on the stage next to Mrs. Harding.  How did he get there?

“Joseph, tell us what you want.  We want to help you, Joseph.  Tell us what you want.”

He looked down.  His feet were there, but he couldn’t feel the solid wood beneath them.  Everything around him was blurred and out of focus, like in his dream.  Was he dreaming? 

“I don’t understand.”

Joe jumped when Mr. Harding repeated his words.  Another sheet of paper flew to the floor.  Joe stared at the man.  Couldn’t they hear him?  See him?

“What don’t you understand?  Tell us, Joseph.  We’re here to help you.”  Joe reached out but couldn’t move.  “How can we help you, Joseph?  We want to help you.”

“What’s happening?”

Panic clamped down when no one heard him except the medium, who scratched his words on the paper.

Mrs. Harding’s droning, one-tone questions continued, “You’re speaking to us, Joseph.  We want to help you.  Tell us, Joseph.  How did you die?  How did you die, Joseph?  Won’t you tell us?  Tell us how you died.”

Why was she asking that?  He wasn’t dead.  He wasn’t!  He fought the weight that pressed on him, crushing his chest. 

“I’m not dead!”

The whole auditorium jumped and turned to look at their box.  Tearing from his chair, Joe sent it clattering to the floor and staggered toward the door at the back.  His chest heaved with the effort of dragging in air he couldn’t seem to catch.

“Joe, what’s wrong?”

His hands flailed for the doorknob, but he couldn’t reach it.  Then the world crashed in.

***

Joe waved the glass away with a sharp motion.  He couldn’t feel any more of an idiot. Bad enough to pass out like a girl, but to do it in front of half the town!

“Drink it.”

Pa wasn’t joking.  Not up to an argument, Joe took the glass and sipped at the whiskey.  His hand went to rub his throat.  Someone had unbuttoned the top of his shirt, and his string tie hung loose at the side. 

“Where am I?”

“The manager’s office.  Feeling better?”

Joe nodded and pulled himself further up the sofa.  A knock at the door had him swinging his legs off.  He wouldn’t be seen stretched out like an invalid.

Mrs. Harding entered the room.  She checked in the doorway and took in the three men before her.  Then she smiled at Joe.

“I just came to see if you were all right.”

“Thanks, ma’am, but there’s no need to worry.  I’m fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Etta Harding knew how to hold a room.  Sweeping in, she took the hand of the young man, looking pale and disheveled before her.  Tilting her head, she waited.  Catching on, he said, “I’m Joe, and this here’s my Pa, Ben Cartwright, and that’s my brother, Hoss.”

Her smile encompassed them all.  “Pleased to meet you.  You look like you’ve been through the wars, Joseph.  It is Joseph?  Joe is short for Joseph.”

“Yes, ma’am.  It’s a lot of fuss over nothing.”

“Still, I do wish to talk with you.  I must finish my performance, but I’ll come back.”

“I’ve caused enough trouble.”

The hand she placed on Joe’s shoulder prevented him from standing.  She wasn’t about to let him run away.  Alarm fractured at the back of his eyes, but he was a gentleman and wouldn’t refuse her request.

“Please, as a favor to me.  Stay until I come back.  Please.”  Getting the consent she wanted, she patted his shoulder and returned to the door.  Stopping, she looked back.  “Thank you.”

Without so much as a twitch or a flicker of her eyelashes did she betray what she’d seen the moment she entered the room – the dark presence that loomed behind Joseph Cartwright.

***

Chapter Three

Joe stood the moment the door closed. 

“Let’s get out of here.”

“But you promised you’d stay,” Pa objected.

“She was just being polite.”

“That’s not the point.  You gave your word.”

Joe turned away.  He hadn’t liked the look in her eyes when the medium asked about his name, and he’d caught the delicate scent of her perfume.  Roses.   When he’d come too, he thought he’d imagined the whole thing, but now?  Before he could protest, the door opened.  A stagehand came in carrying a tray.

“Mrs. Harding asked me to bring you wine while you wait.”

“Thank you.  That’s very kind of her.”  Ben laid the tray on the large desk that dominated the manager’s office.  He looked at Joe.  “Now, what d’you say?”

Joe threw up his hands in surrender and sat back down.  “Hoss, you don’t hav’ta miss the show.  Go back and watch.”

“If you’re feeling all right?”

“I don’t need two nursemaids.”

Taking his chance, his brother scooted out the door.  Joe turned to look at his father, who handed the glass back to him and raised an eyebrow.  “Nursemaids?”

Joe cracked a smile.

***

By the time Hoss returned, Joe was pacing the floor.  To his relief, Mrs. Harding followed.  If he had to do this, he wanted it over and done.  She settled on the sofa, and Joe had no choice but to accept her invitation to join her. 

“Joseph, what I have to tell you is difficult, but you must hear it.  Something happened tonight, and I think you know that.”

A knot tightened in Joe’s stomach.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Have you been having strange dreams lately?”

“He sure has.  Horrible nightmares, some of them.”

Joe shot a glare at his helpful brother.  “I’ve had a few bad dreams, is all.  So what?”

“Did you know that dreams are a way for spirits to communicate?”

“Spirits?”

“Yes.  Have you recently been injured?”

“No.”

His father cleared his throat.  “Well.  That’s not quite true.”

Joe swung around to frown at Pa.  “I think I’d know.”

“You weren’t exactly injured.  Do you remember a week ago?”

“That?  I knocked myself out.  But I was fine.”

“No.  You weren’t.”

Joe turned to Hoss, staggered by his comment.  “What’re you talking about?”

Mrs. Harding put a hand on Joe’s arm, and he quietened down.  She looked at Hoss and Pa.  “Please, tell me what happened.”

Pa took over the conversation.  “Last week, Joe saved a boy who ran out in front of the stage.  But he hit the boardwalk hard when he jumped.”

“When Pa and I reached him, he weren’t breathing.”

“Hoss grabbed you, and it started you breathing.  But, for a minute there ….”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were fine, and well, why scare you?”

Joe rolled his eyes.  “Okay.  I was injured.  So what?”

Mrs. Harding took his hand between hers.  “Sometimes souls don’t pass fully over when they die, and when someone is near death, they can break through to latch on to that person.”

Yanking his hand free, he sprang from the sofa.  “So, some dead guy’s haunting me, is that it?  What next?  We pay you to get rid of him?  Is that what this is all about?”  His words were insulting, but something gnawed at Joe to get out of there.  “C’mon, Pa, we don’t hav’ta listen to this.”

Rising from the sofa, Mrs. Harding clamped her hands around his arms.  “You’ve seen him, haven’t you?  The man in grey.”

The air became thick, and his head felt like an orange being squeezed dry as it began to pound. “I don’t know what your—”

“He’s getting closer, Joseph.  You can’t ignore him.”

“Mrs. Harding—” Pa began.  She cut him off, but her gaze never left Joe’s.

Sweat stood out on his forehead, and his skin turned clammy.  The heavy, dark presence pressed against his back.  It turned his stomach to admit it, but he was terrified. “He’s there, isn’t he?”

When her gaze flicked away and back, he swallowed.  “Yes.”

His eyes slid sidewards, and he wiped his top lip.  “What do we do?”

“We talk to him.” 

She glanced at her husband, and he left the room. 

Seeing his chance, Pa asked, “What exactly is going on?”

“Mr. Cartwright.  A spirit has attached itself to your son.  It must be detached.  The longer we wait, the harder that will become.”

Her words sent a shiver up Joe’s spine.  He’d go mad knowing that thing was waiting every time he closed his eyes or looked in a mirror.  He met Pa’s gaze, and he didn’t say anymore. 

When Mr. Harding returned, he carried a wooden board and laid it on the table before the window.  When they took a seat, Joe saw the letters of the alphabet had been burned into the board’s surface in two rows.  Underneath were the numbers, one to zero, and below that, the word Goodbye. 

“A Ouija board?” Pa asked.  “You’re going to hold a séance?”

“Yes.”

“It’s okay, Pa.  I need to do this.” 

The lamps in the room were lowered.  Their light cast long, quivering shadows over them.  Joe ran his sweaty palms down his trousers and wondered why dim lighting was always necessary for this sort of thing.

Mr. Harding placed a small triangular piece of wood on the board and told Joe to rest his fingertips on it.  Joe shifted in his seat and gazed back at the lady opposite him, her hands linked with Pa and Hoss, who flanked her on either side.

In the tone of an undertaker, Mr. Harding said, “We will begin.”

Hoss winked, and Joe couldn’t help but smile.

Mrs. Harding started, “We are speaking to the spirit in the room.  We know you are there.  Tell us your name.”

Silence followed, and Joe looked from Hoss to Pa.  Seconds passed to the ticking of the clock on the shelf in the corner.  Hoss drew in an audible breath.  When he breathed out, a diaphanous white cloud formed before him.  Joe met his stunned gaze and shivered at the sudden cold.

“We know you are with us.  Tell us your name.”

Under his fingers, the piece of wood trembled.  He fought the urge to let go.  Instead, he followed when it forced its way across the board.  Pa spoke the letters it selected and then put together the name.  “William Potof. “

“Tell us, William.  How did you die?  How did you die, William?” 

Like some crazed trapped animal, the triangle circled the board, becoming more frenzied with each move until Joe could barely keep up.  The intense cold pressed in, turning his lips blue. 

Mrs. Harding continued, “We want to help you, William.  Tell us how you died.”

The shadows moved, and the grey figure rushed Joe.  The slam of his chair hitting the floor bounced off the walls like an orchestra’s crescendo.  Cold engulfed him, and his breath froze in his lungs.  The apparitions’ fingers curled into his shirt to twist and tighten it across his chest.  The tips of his boots thrashed and scraped the wood in their fruitless endeavor to gain purchase.

Unable to bear the shapeless features, he turned away to see the window frame behind bow and twist.  Dropped to the floor, he flung up his arms to protect himself from the flying shards that flew when the window erupted.  The lamps flared, engulfing them in blinding light before exploding in a blast of glass and oil. 

Plunged into darkness, everyone scrambled.  Ben to Joe’s side, and Hoss to open the door.  He returned with a lamp, followed by the theatre manager.

John Burns stared at the chaos.  “What happened?”

“It’s all right, Mr. Burns, everything is fine.  Give us a few more minutes, please,” Mrs. Harding said.

“Look at my office.  Who’s gonna pay for this?”

Seeing Joe was on his feet, Ben turned to Burns.  “I’ll take care of any damage, John.  Now, please, give us a moment.”

Joe watched his father lead the man out and shut the door before turning to the room, “Is everyone all right?”

Mrs. Harding walked around the table to Joe.  Concern shone in her eyes.  “You’re bleeding.”

Joe picked glass from his hair.  “Just a few scratches.”  He grinned.  “I guess we made him mad.”

She smiled, but his father shook his head and held Joe still to check the cuts on his face.  “It’s no laughing matter.”

Joe shot Pa a look that let him know he knew that and brushed his hands aside.  Frustration dug its way back.  He threw out his arms.  “What do we do now?”

“Is there a way to find out anything about William?” Mrs. Harding asked.

“What good will that do?” Joe snapped.  “We already know the man’s dead.”

“How he died could be the key to helping him.”

“I don’t wanna help him!”

“Joseph, the only way to end this is to get William to pass.  Maybe how he died could tell us how to do that.”

Joe shook his head but turned to Pa for an answer.  Putting his hands on his hips, he thought for a moment, then suggested, “There’s the Territorial.  They keep obituary records, and Potof isn’t a common name.”

Joe grabbed his hat.  “Let’s go.”

“Wait … wait a minute.  We can’t go there now.  It’s late.  The office will be closed.”

“Since when has Dennis ever left before ten?”

“Even so.  Let’s wait ‘till the morning.” 

Their eyes met.  How could Joe tell Pa he couldn’t face one more night knowing that thing was there trying to burrow into him like a tick?  Worse still was knowing he was a grown man afraid of a ghost.  

Hoss always said Pa could read him easier than a primer, and it looked like he wasn’t wrong.  “All right.  Let’s go.”

Joe gave Mrs. Harding a wave and headed out the door.

***

Chapter Four

Dennis McCarthy unlocked the door.  “What the devil, Ben?  What’s this about?”

“Sorry, Dennis.  But it’s important.”

“You come pounding on my door at this hour.  It’d better be.”

“We need to look at your obituaries.  We’re trying to find out how a man named William Potof died.”

“William Potof?  You won’t have to search.  That’s not a name or a story I’ll forget.”

Joe’s eyes widened.  “You know him?”

“He was my first headline.  A tragic case.”  McCarthy walked to the back of his neat office to a large cabinet.  Pulling open one of the broad, narrow drawers, he removed an old copy of the newspaper and carried it to the table.  “See for yourself.”

The three men gathered around.  The paper was dated September 1860, and Joe read the headline.  “Tragedy takes the lives of two.” 

“What happened?” Ben asked.

“You remember what it was like back then.  People pouring into the city.  They couldn’t put up buildings fast enough.  Potof and his son were walking home.  Rafters being hauled up broke loose, taking most of a wall with them.  Potof stayed put so he could throw his son clear.”  McCarthy shuddered.  “Horrible business.  He was pulverized.  There wasn’t enough left to bury.”

The tips of Joe’s fingers ran over the text.  “He died saving his son.”

McCarthy shook his head.  “Afraid not.  A beam caught the boy.  He was only six years old.”

Joe laid his palms on the table and read the story.  The man that haunted him was a husband and a father who died trying to save his child.  Did he know he’d failed? 

“Thanks, Mr. McCarthy.”

McCarthy threw up a hand when they headed for the door.  “What?  What’s this all about?  I saw you pass out at the lecture tonight, Joe.  Is this something to do with that?”

“I’ll explain it to you later, Dennis,” Ben told him before he turned and followed his sons.

***

Chapter Five

Back on the street, Joe hesitated, not knowing what to do next.  His father’s hand dropped onto his shoulder.

“It’s late.  Why don’t we get something to eat and turn in?  We can see Mrs. Harding first thing and tell her the news.”

The golden liquid swirled around the thick glass.  Joe had downed the top half in one gulp, but the rest was going down slow.  Supper at Delmonico’s was forgotten.  Instead, they’d headed for the Silver Dollar and their steak plate with all the fixings.  They’d been lucky to find a table in the packed saloon.  The metallic tinkle of the piano that had seen better days provided the background accompaniment to the loud murmur of voices.  Saloon girls shimmied to their table but moved on, finding the occupants uninterested. 

Stopping his rotation of the glass, Joe took another swig.  Did it make a difference to know the ghoul haunting him had once been a family man?  The chair creaked when he leaned back into it.  Was he here now?  Joe closed his eyes and returned to the moment the specter grabbed him.  He chilled again at the memory of William’s hands on him with a touch that froze his flesh and veins.  He’d felt again the waves of anger that had struck him, but also something else.  He drew a deep breath and let the feeling return to engulf him.  A sadness that drove the air from his lungs and constricted his heart ‘till he thought it couldn’t take another beat. 

“Joe?  You, okay?”

Joe opened his eyes.  Startled, he rubbed the heel of his hand over his face.  His gaze flicked around to check no one else had seen the tears. 

Their meals arrived and provided a welcome distraction.  A second beer followed the first, and Joe relaxed as his family kept the talk light and off the subject of spirits.  Joe even managed a smile and wink at Gracie, one of his favorites.  Although a half-hearted gesture, it earned him a visit to their table.  He obliged by buying the lady a drink before she moved on to likelier prospects.

Pa drained his glass.   “Well, you two can stay for another, but I’m beat.”

Breathing in the heavy scent of Gracie’s lingering perfume, Joe smiled.  He knew what Pa was doing, giving them a chance to enjoy more than just the beer.  Not tonight.

“I’ll join you.”

“You sure?”

Joe nodded, and Hoss drained his glass, too.  “Wait for me.”

Pa opened the door to the suite, and they followed him inside.  Joe had his suspicions why he’d booked this and not three rooms.  The suite only had two beds, which meant one thing.

“You two won’t mind sharing a bed.”

Joe sighed, resigned to this obvious move. 

Hoss’s bear-like grip enfolded him.  “Sure.  We’ll be snug as two bugs.”

“Just don’t roll on me.”

***

He faced the deserted main street again.  How could that be?  Had he ridden in circles?  What was that shape at the other end of town?  A man?  Wait!  There was something important he had to do, and there was a name, wasn’t there?  He frowned, chasing the memories that swirled around him.  William Potof!

This was it.  This was the dream!  Joe pursed his lip, remembering Mrs. Harding’s words while they waited for her husband to return with the Ouija board.  “We must encourage the spirit to cross.  Persuade him it’s time.”  She’d made it seem so easy. 

Joe stared down the street at the figure.  “Okay, William.  Let’s finish this.”

His fear slid away like removing a coat replaced by anticipation that tightened his back, shoulders, and stomach.  Dismounting, he faced the grey figure. 

“William, it’s time for you to go.”  The figure shuddered at the mention of his name.  Joe ploughed ahead.  “You’re a brave man.  You died trying to save your son.  No father can do more.  But he’s dead, William.  Joshua died, too.”

Joe met the maelstrom head-on.  But he couldn’t control William any more than a boat could control the storm that tossed it around on the ocean.  Crashing to the ground, he rolled under the fingers that ripped at him.  Howling screams vibrated in his ear.  How could you fight a spirit?

The voice broke through the noise and violence.  Hoss!  Calling him back.  Waking him.  William began to fade.  He couldn’t let it happen.  This was a one-time deal.  It had to end now!

“No, Hoss.  Let me be!”

He was back, and William stood apart from him, silent and entrenched like a giant oak. 

Joe pulled himself up and began again.  “I know you’re a good man.  You don’t want to hurt anyone.  But you’re hurting me.  There’s nothing to keep you here.  Joshua is waiting.  It’s time to go.”

The figure didn’t move.  Joe lowered his head.  Were his words making a difference?  How does a spirit move on anyway?  Should he have waited for Mrs. Harding?  Was this all a waste?

The light came from nowhere, and Joe turned to face it.  It wasn’t bright, yet it filled all the space around them.  He looked at William and saw him for the first time.  The lean face and eyes filled with tears.  A man not much older than himself, who’d suffered enough.

Joe smiled.  “Go see your boy.”

When William walked forward, the glow shimmered and faded.  Darkness closed in, and Joe heard Pa calling to him.  He opened his eyes and shut them again at the glare. 

“Hoss, move the lamp.  You all right, Son?”

Joe’s hand pressed around his father’s bicep.  “Yeah, Pa.  I’m fine.”

“Can’t say the same for your nightshirt,” Hoss remarked.  Joe looked down at the ripped material.  “You must’ve torn it when you were thrashing about.”

Picking a shred out with his fingertips, Joe shook his head.  “Guess so.”

***

“Thanks again,” Joe said, taking Mrs. Harding’s hand through the stagecoach window.

“I was glad to help.”  Instead of letting go, she squeezed his fingers.  “Well done.”

Joe blushed, smiled, and stepped back, tipping the front of his hat in a goodbye salute. 

His family stood on either side of him as they watched the stagecoach bowl down the grade out of town.  Joe slapped them on the back.

“C’mon, let’s get home.  I need to herd some cows or fix a fence.”

“You sure you’re all right, Little Brother?  I ain’t never heard you volunteer to fix fences.”

“Okay.  Maybe not a fence ….”

*** The End ***

[Oct 2023]

If you enjoyed my little story, please consider scrolling down and letting me know. Thanks.

Thanks to Chrissie for being my second pair of eyes.

Author’s Notes:

Early day Spiritualist mediums were the celebrities of their time and were considered to be in the entertainment field.  Many came to the Comstock to speak on the subject and give readings in Virginia City and Gold Hill.