Spirit Story Chapter 13
Chapter 13
Claire was silent for four seconds. Mara counted.
Then— “You think we found the man.”
“I think we found a man.”
“You literally just said—”
“I know what I said.”
“Mara.”
“We have a carpenter named Thomas Mercer who lived in the same community as Margaret Vale, whose surname matches the woman Margaret was corresponding with, and whose business specifically advertised cedar work.”
“And Evelyn smelled cedar.”
“Perceived cedar.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“Words matter.”
“Fine. She psychically perceived lumber.”
Mara almost smiled. “Thomas is a candidate.”
“A candidate for being dead?”
“He is definitely a candidate for that.”
Claire laughed. Mara turned back to the screen. Thomas Mercer & Sons. Carpentry, Cabinetry and Fine Woodwork. Repairs undertaken. Cedar chests made to order. There was an address beneath the advertisement.
Mara copied it into her notebook. Then she returned to the mill accident. Thomas had been one of three men injured when a belt failed and machinery threw debris across the work floor. His injuries were described only as not serious.
Nothing about his hand. Nothing about a burn. Nothing about a fingertip.
“Wrong accident,” Mara said.
“What?”
“The mill accident doesn’t explain Evelyn’s description.”
“Maybe the newspaper didn’t list everything.”
“Maybe.”
Claire made a triumphant sound.
“Don’t.”
“You said maybe.”
“Maybe is not evidence.”
“But it is growth.”
Mara ignored her. She searched Thomas’s name, more advertisements, a property transfer, a church committee, a notice that Thomas Mercer had been appointed to something involving roads that Mara did not care about.
Then a marriage announcement. Thomas Mercer and Anne Bell.
Mara stopped. “Anne.”
Claire leaned closer to her phone, as though proximity would somehow let her see Mara’s laptop, “Margaret’s Anne?”
“Possibly.”
Mara opened another record.
Anne Mercer.
Same approximate age.
Same town.
Husband: Thomas.
Mara wrote it down.
“So Margaret was writing to his wife,” Claire said.
“Yes.”
“They knew each other.”
“Margaret and Anne knew each other.”
“And Thomas.”
“Presumably.”
Claire groaned. “Do you require notarized proof that they occupied the same room?”
“Preferably.”
“Mara.”
She smiled, but this mattered. Margaret Vale had not merely lived in the same town as Thomas Mercer. She had corresponded with his wife for years, the connection was real.
Mara searched again, this time she added Anne. The search included a church picnic, a ladies’ committee, a birth announcement, then an obituary.
Thomas Mercer died in 1918. Age sixty-one.
Survived by his wife, Anne, two sons and a daughter.
Carpenter for more than forty years.
Mara calculated. Thirty-two in 1889.
“That isn’t middle-aged,” Claire said when Mara read it aloud.
“Depends on when Evelyn is seeing him.”
Claire paused.
“Oh.”
Mara looked at Thomas’s death date again. Evelyn had never said the guides appeared as they had at the time of the event. That had been an assumption.
Mara wrote:
Apparent age may not correspond to 1889.
Claire sighed. “You really have a category for everything.”
“No. That’s why I need the notebook.”
⸻
Thomas’s hand took longer, three evenings, two newspaper archives, one historical society catalog, a genealogical website Mara distrusted on principle until she could corroborate its claims and a deeply unpleasant hour spent reading badly scanned insurance notices.
Nothing.
By Wednesday night, Claire had begun sending increasingly unhelpful messages.
CLAIRE: Maybe his hand was eaten by Margaret’s cow.
Mara ignored it.
CLAIRE: Mr Delacroix finally gets revenge.
Ignored.
CLAIRE: THE CABBAGE CURSE
Mara put her phone facedown.
Newton sat beside the laptop. “You’re more useful than she is.” Newton stepped on the keyboard.
The screen changed. Mara stared at him. “I retract that.” She moved him. A newspaper page remained open beneath the window he’d accidentally minimized.
Mara almost closed it, then she saw the date. She’d searched Thomas Mercer with injury. The article was not about an injury. It was about a fire, a workshop on the rear of the Mercer property had caught fire shortly before midnight. Neighbors helped contain it before flames reached the house. Tools and lumber were lost. Thomas Mercer sustained burns while attempting to remove equipment.
Mara leaned closer. The article specified his right hand and forearm. She stopped and reached for her phone.
Claire answered immediately. “I knew the cow theory had merit.”
“1896.”
Silence, “What?”
“Thomas’s workshop burned.”
Claire went quiet.
“He was injured.”
“Where?”
“Right hand and forearm.”
“Oh.”
Mara looked at Newton. He was washing himself beside the computer as though he had contributed nothing.
“Burn scar,” Claire said.
“Potentially.”
“Mara.”
“A burn does not necessarily leave a permanent scar.”
“Fine. Potential burn scar.”
“Correct.”
“Do we have the finger?”
“No.”
“Smoke?”
Mara looked at the article. Burned lumber. Workshop. Fire.
“That’s not useful.”
“Why?”
“Anyone standing near a fire smells like smoke.”
“But Evelyn—”
“Could have associated a carpenter with sawdust, wood, smoke, any number of things.”
“Cedar.”
“His business advertised cedar.”
“Right hand.”
“The newspaper says right hand.”
“Margaret.”
“His wife corresponded with her.”
Claire paused.
Then: “How many coincidences do you need?”
Mara closed her eyes. “You’re becoming repetitive.”
“I’m becoming correct.”
“Goodnight, Claire.”
“Wait. The finger.”
“What about it?”
“We find the finger.”
Mara stared at the ceiling, “That sentence sounds considerably worse out of context.”
Claire laughed.
⸻
The finger found them, or more accurately, Helen found it. Mara had sent her Thomas’s name without explanation and asked whether the historical society held anything connected to Mercer & Sons.
Helen called Thursday afternoon,“I have invoices.”
Mara sat up, “From the business?”
“Some.”
“What kind?”
“Repairs. Furniture orders. Household accounts. Mostly boring.”
“Boring is useful.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Anything personal?”
“A photograph.”
Mara’s pulse changed, “Of Thomas?”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?”
“Three men outside the shop. Caption identifies Thomas and one son. Third man unnamed.”
“Can I see it?”
“You know where I am.”
⸻
Claire arrived before Mara. Mara found her standing outside the historical society with two coffees.
“You were told not to contact Helen.”
“You contacted Helen.”
“I did.”
“So the contamination has already occurred.”
“That isn’t how contamination works.”
Claire handed her a coffee.
Mara took it.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They went inside.
Helen had the photograph waiting. Three men stood in front of a wooden building. The image was clearer than Margaret’s church photograph.
One young.
Two older.
Thomas was identified on the back.
Mara looked at him. Middle-aged, broad through the shoulders, suspenders, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Claire said nothing. Mara appreciated the effort. Thomas’s hands rested on the top rail of a chair. Large, rough-looking even in the photograph, workman’s hands.
Mara leaned closer. Right hand, there was discoloration across the back of it. Could be the photograph. Could be scar tissue. Could be nothing.
Then Claire touched Mara’s arm. Mara looked at her. Claire pointed, not at the scar.
At Thomas’s fingers.
Mara counted.
Thumb.
Index.
Middle.
Ring.
Little—
She stopped. The little finger on his right hand ended above the first joint.
Claire whispered, “There.”
Mara didn’t respond.
Helen, standing behind them, said, “Something significant?”
Mara straightened, “Possibly.”
Claire looked at her. Mara ignored her. Helen smiled faintly. “I’ve learned that’s the word you use when you’re alarmed.”
“I’m not alarmed.”
“Interested, then.”
“Yes.”
That was true. Mara returned to the photograph. She took out the notebook.
Claire watched. Mara wrote each one down, then drew a line beneath the list. For the first time, she did not write an objection beside every item.
⸻
The invoices were less dramatic. Chair repair. Table repair. Cabinet. Two cedar chests. A child’s cradle. Replacement shutters. A small walnut writing box.
Mara read every entry.
Claire lasted twelve minutes, “This is terrible.”
“This is documentation.”
“This is lumber with prices.”
“Go look at something else.”
“I might.”
Helen gave Claire a stack of local photographs to occupy her. Mara continued.
The invoices were incomplete, whole months missing, sometimes years. Then an entry from October 1891. No customer name, that was unusual, most had one.
The handwriting was Thomas’s, according to Helen.
Mara read:
Small cedar box. Brass hinges. Interior fitted. No charge.
She stopped. Claire was across the room.
“Helen.”
Helen came over.
“What’s ‘interior fitted’ mean?”
Helen read the entry.
“Could mean compartments. Lining. A fitted insert. Depends on what it was intended to hold.”
“Size?”
“Not listed.”
“Why no customer?”
Helen shrugged.
“Could be personal.”
“No charge.”
“Same.”
Mara stared at the line, a small cedar box. Evelyn had seen Thomas carrying something approximately a foot long, wrapped in cloth, something he had made.
Maybe.
Mara could feel herself leaning toward it. She disliked the sensation.
“There’s no connection,” she said.
Helen looked at her, “To what?”
Mara realized she’d spoken aloud, “Nothing.”
Helen raised an eyebrow, “That’s becoming another one of your words.”
Mara smiled faintly. She photographed the invoice with permission, then called Claire over. Claire read it. Her eyes widened.
“No.”
“Correct.”
“I meant no as in—”
“I know what you meant.”
“He made a small cedar box.”
“He made many things.”
“Wrapped thing.”
“We don’t know its dimensions.”
“He made it.”
“Evelyn said that with low confidence.”
“Cedar.”
“Thomas was a carpenter.”
“Smoke.”
“His workshop burned five years later.”
“Margaret.”
“His wife knew her.”
Claire looked at Mara. Mara closed the invoice book.
“We need to know what the box was for.”
Helen said, “That may be difficult.”
Mara looked at her, “Why?”
“Because if it was personal and never billed, there may be no other record.”
Claire sighed. Mara did not. Records had gaps, that did not mean the information ceased to exist. It meant you looked elsewhere.
“Who was living with Thomas and Anne in 1891?”
Helen smiled, “There she is.”
⸻
Thomas and Anne Mercer had three children in 1891.
Samuel, eleven.
Joseph, eight.
Elizabeth, five.
No one else appeared in the census closest to that period. Mara checked neighboring households, nothing obvious.
Then Margaret. Margaret and her husband, Edward Vale, lived six streets away. Their daughter was seven. Their surviving son was three.
Nothing.
Claire sat beside Mara at the historical society’s research table. “So where’s our girl?”
“We don’t have a girl.”
“You know what I mean.”
“We have an unidentified third female presence Evelyn perceives.”
Claire stared at her.
“Do you practice saying things in the least exciting way possible?”
“No.”
“Natural talent?”
“Yes.”
They searched church records.
Nothing.
School enrollment.
Nothing.
Poor-relief records.
Nothing.
Mara began to wonder whether they’d made the wrong turn, perhaps the cedar box was unrelated, perhaps Thomas was unrelated.
Perhaps Margaret— Claire touched the screen. “What’s that?”
Mara looked, a church ledger.
Baptisms.
She had been scanning names.
“What?”
“There.”
Claire pointed to an entry in different handwriting.
Not a baptism, a note in the margin.
Unknown girl received at Vale residence. June 1891.
Mara stopped breathing for perhaps a second.
“What does that mean?” Claire asked.
“I don’t know.”
They enlarged the scan, the handwriting was difficult. Helen came over.
She read it. “Looks like a parish assistance notation.”
“Why in a baptismal ledger?”
“Paper was expensive. People wrote where they had space.”
Mara looked offended on behalf of recordkeeping everywhere.
Helen laughed, “Different century.”
“What does ‘received’ mean?”
“Could mean housed.”
“By Margaret?”
“At the Vale residence, apparently.”
“Name?”
Helen looked closer, “No name.”
Claire leaned forward, “Age?”
Nothing.
Origin?
Nothing.
Just:
Unknown girl received at Vale residence. June 1891.
And beneath it, in smaller handwriting:
Temporary.
Mara’s pulse had begun to pound. She looked at Claire. Claire had gone completely still.
“Don’t,” Mara said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Good.”
Mara turned back to the ledger. June 1891. Four months before Thomas’s unbilled cedar box.
“Coincidence,” Claire whispered.
Mara looked at her. Claire raised both hands.
“I was helping.”
Mara almost laughed. She searched forward.
July.
August.
September.
No mention.
Then October.
Nothing.
November.
Nothing.
The girl vanished from the ledger as abruptly as she had appeared.
No name.
No baptism.
No departure.
No placement.
No death.
Nothing.
Mara sat back, “She’s missing.” The words came out before she could stop them.
Claire did not tease her. Helen looked between them.
“Who?”
Mara stared at the little line of handwriting. Unknown girl. Temporary. She thought of Evelyn’s face during the first reading. There should be three. Not gone. Not absent. Missing.
Then Saturday:
She’s closer.
And finally:
I don’t think she knows she’s dead.
Mara stood, “We need to stop.”
Claire looked surprised, “Why?”
“Because we’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Building a conclusion ahead of the evidence.”
“Mara—”
“No.”
She pointed to the ledger. “We have an unidentified girl who temporarily stayed at Margaret Vale’s house in 1891.”
“Yes.”
“We have Thomas Mercer making an unbilled cedar box four months later.”
“Yes.”
“We do not have evidence those facts are connected.”
Claire looked at her for a long moment.
Then nodded.
“All right.”
Mara hadn’t expected that. Claire closed the laptop.
“What do we need?”
Mara looked at her.
Claire continued.
“To connect them.”
Mara sat again, that was a better question. Not Is this her? What evidence would connect the unidentified girl to Thomas Mercer?
Mara looked at the date. October 1891. Small cedar box. No charge. She thought of Margaret. Dirt beneath her fingernails. Digging. Then of the silver case. Something hanging at her waist. And Thomas carrying something wrapped in cloth. A box he’d made.
Mara’s eyes moved back to the ledger, “Forty-one.”
Claire froze. Mara did too.
Neither spoke. Claire finally whispered, “What?”
“I don’t know.”
“You just said forty-one.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Mara opened her notebook. The number sat exactly where she’d written it after the first reading.
41.
No context. No year. No age. No house. No explanation.
It will.
Mara hated that sentence. She turned back to the church ledger. Page numbers appeared in the upper corner. The scan currently displayed page thirty-eight.
Mara clicked forward. Thirty-nine. Forty. Then— Forty-one. Claire leaned so close their shoulders touched. The page contained burial entries. Mara felt the room narrow.
She read the first.
An elderly man.
Second.
Infant.
Third.
A woman of fifty-six.
Fourth.
Mara stopped.
No name.
The entry read:
Female. Unknown.
Approximate age:
18 years.
Date: October 17, 1891.
Mara did not move.
Claire whispered, “Mara.”
“Don’t.”
Mara kept reading. Burial location: There was no cemetery plot. No family name. No marker. Only a notation. The handwriting was faint. Mara enlarged it.
Helen leaned over them. “What does that say?”
Mara read it once.
Then again. Private ground by request.
Claire covered her mouth. Mara’s heart was beating hard now.
She went back to the earlier page. June 1891.
Unknown girl received at Vale residence.
Forward. October 1891.
Thomas Mercer: Small cedar box. Brass hinges. Interior fitted. No charge.
Then page forty-one.
October 17. Female. Unknown. Approx. 18 years. Private ground by request.
Mara stared at the screen. She could hear Evelyn.
She doesn’t know she’s dead.
No.
That was not evidence, not yet. Mara reached for her notebook. Her hand was steady. She wrote every source, every date, every archive reference. Then she drew three separate boxes around the three facts. She did not draw lines between them.
Claire watched her. “You’re not connecting them.”
“Not yet.”
“But you think—”
“I think we have three records.”
Claire waited. Mara looked again at the unnamed eighteen-year-old girl. A person reduced to two words.
Female. Unknown.
No name.
No family.
No place of origin.
Not even a grave.
Something inside Mara shifted. It wasn’t supernatural. It wasn’t scientific. It was anger. Quiet, immediate anger at the inadequacy of the record. Someone had known this girl. Someone had fed her. Spoken to her. Perhaps laughed with her. Someone knew the sound of her voice. And yet here she was, more than a century later:
Female.
Unknown.
Mara closed the notebook. Claire said softly, “What now?”
Mara looked at the burial entry, “We find her name.”
Claire didn’t smile, neither did Mara. The question of whether Evelyn could see dead people seemed almost secondary. There had been a girl. She had been eighteen years old. She had died in October of 1891. And somebody had gone to considerable trouble to make certain history forgot who she was.
Mara intended to find out why.
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