The Dancing Ghost of Webster's Gore

Jared entered and looked around, impressed by the library's Gilded Age charm. He approached the circulation desk and was greeted by a smiling middle aged woman.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"Hi, yes, I have just moved into Myrna Freeman's house out on Hawthorne Road. I was wondering if there was any way to get more information about the place. You have any local history books or anything?"

The librarian chuckled. "If anyone ever wrote any books about Webster, I've not seen them."

"Newspaper archives?"

"Nothing we have. The Courier went out of business back in the seventies. I don't know if they have an archive anywhere or not."

"Well, alright, thanks anyway." He turned to leave, then looked back. "The town office would at least have records, wouldn't they? Like when it was built, past owners and such."

The librarian pursed her lips and shook her head.

"No. Hawthorne Road isn't in the town, it's in the Gore."

"So who would have records?"

She shrugged. "Nobody, I guess."

Jared sighed and thanked her. As he walked away, he stopped, turned and asked her. "Do you have any books by Jared Prince?"

"Oh, yes, he's quite popular."

He smiled and left the library. The town hall was directly across the square and he considered checking there for records, despite the librarian's advice, but realized he didn't really know what he was trying to learn anyway. It's not like they would have some sort of directory of hauntings. He wandered around the village a little bit and went into the A-1 Diner and ate a club sandwich for lunch. It was good, and at least his trip to town wasn't a total waste.

Returning home, he spent the afternoon setting up his writing room in the unused upstairs bedroom. He arranged his desk and filled his bookshelves. There were still boxes of keepsakes to unpack and pictures to hang, but they could wait. He was anxious to write.

After a quick supper, he returned to the writing room and sat down at his desk. He opened his laptop and looked over the notes he had written the day before. Seeking a way to move beyond mere note taking to actually formulating a story, he mused on the character of the ghost. Like any other character, she should have motivation, but what was her motive? She did not seem to be malignant, she just danced, or at least that was all anyone seems to have observed. Was she dancing for some long dead lover? Or to entrance and perhaps ensnare some passerby? After all, the only descriptions of her dance came from those who had returned to tell the tale. Might there be others who could not, as Abel Campbell had, resist her lure?

He sat and stared at the screen. None of his suppositions seemed very satisfying. He pushed his chair back, slapped his thighs in frustration and whispered, "What is it that you want?"

"I wish for my story be told," a soft voice replied from over his shoulder.

Jared froze in place. His first thought was that he had imagined the voice, but with a growing sense of dread, he slowly swiveled in his chair and looked behind him.

The figure of a woman stood not more than a yard from him. She was tall and slender, dressed in a long white dress. Her skin was as pale as the dress; only her long, curling red hair gave any color to her appearance. Other than her alabaster complexion, she looked completely normal until Jared, steeling himself, looked into her eyes. There was something otherworldly about them. They seemed to not just reflect the light of his desk lamp, but to shimmer with it.

Jared stammered, struggling to find words, but the woman spoke first.

"You are a teller of tales, are you not?"

He nodded his head and sputtered, "Yes...yes, I am."

"I would have thee tell mine," she said. Her voice was sure, but sounded as if it were from a greater distance than the few feet that separated them.

Jared could not take his eyes from hers. "I...I don't know..."

"I would offer a bargain," she said, "Your desires fulfilled in exchange for my own."

"My desires?"

She took a step closer and raised her hand. Jared was surprised to feel its cool touch on his cheek. "I know the desires of men," she said softly.

"Why do you want me to tell your story?"

"It would bring me peace. I can no longer find justice, so it is as much as I can achieve."

A part of Jared's mind was able to separate itself from the wonderment that had overtaken him. Of course, you take that deal, it said.

"Alright," he told her, "Yes, if you tell me your story, I will write it. I have many readers."

She did not seem to move her feet, but she receded away from him. "I shall, but for now, I must go."

"Wait. But when..."

She had vanished. Jared leaped from his chair and ran down the stairs. He threw open the front door, expecting to see her dancing above the lawn, but all he saw was darkness. He looked to the moonless sky. Later, he thought, when the moon comes up.

He took a beer from the refrigerator and went back up stairs. For the next several hours, he typed away furiously, recording every detail of his ghostly encounter. As he did so, he pondered the effect it had on him. Writing his thought seemed to give him some distance from the situation, and allowed him to examine his own feelings

dispassionately. He felt no fear, only a sense of wonder, and excitement at the opportunity to hear her tale. Of course he would write it. No one would believe that it was anything but another product of his own imagination, but that was alright. He would know the truth.

He looked up from his screen and realized that it was very late. He went to the window and saw the moon rising above the horizon. He went down stairs and out to the porch.

She was there, and she was dancing. He sat on the top step and watched. Once again, only her legs were visible, although with the moon so low in the sky, they were illuminated to the middle of her thighs. She pirouetted slowly, occasionally lifting one knee high, or raising a heel behind her. As he watched her, he realized that he was becoming aroused. That did not surprise him; her legs were long and shapely, and moved with a sensuous grace. He understood how Abel felt compelled to go to her, and he only resisted the urge himself with great effort. She will come back to you, he reminded himself.

Eventually, her legs became still, and faded into the dark.

He went back inside and sat once more at his desk, but no more words came. All he could think of was the beauty of her dance.

****

She came to him again the next night as he was finishing his supper. He looked up from his plate and she was in the chair across the table from him.

"I would tell my tale," she said.

Jared stared for a minute, the last bite of his supper suspended on his fork, halfway to his mouth. He set it down, cleared his throat and said, "Could I ask you a few questions first?"

She frowned and for a second, he thought she was fading from view.

"I can not say much of what you likely want to know."

"Can you tell me anything about your...condition? What...what are you? Why are you..."

"Haunting," she said, the corner of her mouth rising in the slightest trace of a grin.

"Well, yes."

"Feelings," she said, with a touch of melancholy in her voice. "Feelings give me substance in this world and hold me here."

"Feelings like love? Hate? Desire for revenge?"

"Those on whom I would that vengeance are long since gone themselves. But telling my tale to the world may loosen my bonds."

"Okay" he said. "I need to get my laptop." She looked at him in puzzlement. "My tool for writing."

"I shall wait."

He rushed to his writing room, his heart pumping with excitement. He grabbed the laptop, but before he went back down the stairs, he stopped and took a few deep breaths. When he felt calm, he returned to the kitchen.

She still sat at the table, her hands folded in front of her.

"Do you eat? Drink? Can I get you anything?"

"I take no sustenance."

"Alright then," he said. "Can I know your name?"

"Annabelle."

"And your family name?"

"It matters not."

"I am ready to take down whatever you wish to tell me."

She sat in silence for a moment, then, gazing past Jared, began to speak.

"I crossed the sea in my mother's belly," she said, "She was a woman of low birth, a whore and a pickpocket. When the King's justice at last caught up with her, she was sentenced to transportation to America."

"Do you know what year that was?"

She looked at Jared with obvious annoyance.

"It was a few years before the war."

"I'm sorry," he said, "I won't interrupt again."

She nodded and continued. "In the new world, she continued with her same practices. I hold memories of soldiers coming to our tent, and taking their pleasure. And of fleeing when the soldiers boarded the ships to return to England. I believe that she feared the victors would express their wrath toward any who gave succor to their foes."

Jared took down her words as accurately as he could. He would glance up at her as she spoke, and it seemed to him that as she did, she grew more substantial.

"It was in Baltimore that my mother succumbed to the pox. I was taken to the orphan's home, and then given into the care of Mrs. Fletcher, a washerwoman, to earn my keep scrubbing the linen of the gentry. I engaged in that labor for several years, but then a great conflagration spread through the block, and Mrs. Fletcher's laundry was burnt to the ground. I wandered the street for some time, begging alms from strangers, until a certain Mr. Henderson offered me employ in his tavern. It was there, beyond my duties in the kitchen, that I first began to ply my mother's trade."

"You started picking pockets?" Jared asked.

"No," she said, with what might have been a smirk.

"Oh."

She sat quietly for a moment, then rose from the chair. "I have not spoken at length in many years," she said, "I am taxed."

"Do you want to continue this tomorrow?"

"Yes," she said. Jared stood, thinking he would walk her out, but as he watched, she seemed to blur and diminish, and was gone.

He sat back down, feeling foolish. He had responded to her as if she were not a phantom, but a living woman. He looked over the notes he had taken. This will be an exciting story, he thought, the Revolution, the dying mother, the young girl lost and trying to find her way. He jotted down ideas for how to write Mrs. Fletcher and Mr. Henderson. They could be wonderfully colorful characters.

When the moon rose, he went to the yard to watch Annabelle dance. He had only a few minutes to wait before she appeared, and this time, more of her was visible. the tops of her thighs shone in the silvery light, slowly swaying as she danced. She turned toward him and he saw the dark patch between her legs.

The urge to go to her was almost too much to resist. But he remembered her words on her first appearance. "Your desires fulfilled in exchange for my own." His desires would wait. When she ended her dance, he went to bed, and that night dreamed of holding her, of kissing her, of lowering himself between those graceful thighs.

***

Annabelle came again the next evening. Jared walked into the living room and saw her standing by the window, gazing out across the lawn.

"Do many read your tales?" she asked, without looking at him.

"Yes, my books have all been very popular."

She turned to face him. "Shall I continue?" she asked.

"Just a minute, please." He retrieved his laptop from the kitchen and sat down on the couch. Annabelle turned back to the window as she returned to her tale.

"Mr. Henderson was not an unkind man, but he was prey to vices. Drink was among them, but the worst was gaming. On a number of occasions, it was only the offer of my company that allayed violence from his creditors. At last, his poor luck with cards burdened him with a debt he could not make good. A certain Mr. Crowell, a trader from New England, appeared at the tavern, bearing pistols and demanding redress. Mr. Henderson mollified him with the only payment at hand. He gave me to Mr. Crowell, not for the night, but to take with him to serve as his companion."

"Wait," Jared interjected, "You weren't his slave. How could he do that? You had rights?"

Annabelle turned her head and scowled at him. "Rights? What rights had I?"

"I'm sorry, I just..."

"Perhaps things are different in your time." She stared out the window for several minutes before she spoke again.

"I travelled north with Mr. Crowell. In daylight, I helped him peddle his wares. At night, I warmed his bed. We travelled a goodly distance, to Philadelphia, New York, Boston, and on. We continued north, through farmland and forest until we came near this hamlet of Webster. It was here that Mr. Crowell made his home."

She chuckled softly. Jared was startled, realizing that it was the first time he had heard her laugh.

"Of course," she continued, "I could not go to his house, for his wife was in residence. Rather, we travelled back roads around the settlement, until we arrived here, at our...at my...final destination."

Annabelle looked around the room, as if in reminiscence.

"Has it changed much?" Jared asked.

She shook her head. "Not much." She waved at the television and toward the kitchen. "Men will make machines and devices, but the fundaments remain unchanged."

Annabelle returned to her story, and Jared noticed, whenever he glanced up from his keyboard, that as she spoke, she was subtly changing. There was more color in her lips. Her languid motions became more lively. Feelings hold you here, she had said. Perhaps the emotions aroused by reciting her events of her life were somehow returning her more fully to the living world.

"This was the home of a Miss Caroline Dawes. She was unmarried and her parent's only child. Where I had known no father, her mother had died in giving her birth. When her father was killed while clearing a deadfall, she became his only heir. The pastures she leased to local farmers for hayfields, but her livelihood came in the manner that I had become accustomed to myself."

"She was a prostitute."

Annabelle nodded. "And proprietor of this house of leisure."

Jared grinned. I live in not just in a haunted house, he thought, but a haunted whore house. This book is going to be dynamite. As soon as the thought formed though, he felt a flush of shame and realized that he was starting to truly see Annabelle as a person, and felt real anguish for the troubled life she had endured.

"I'm sorry that I interrupted," he said softly, "Please continue if you would."

Annabelle nodded. "Our arrival was fortuitous. Miss Caroline had three young whores in her employ, but two of them had run off, thinking to find work in the new mills down in Massachusetts. The one remaining was a dear but simple minded girl named Eliza. Hence, she was pleased to have me join her establishment."

Her expression grew wistful. "Miss Caroline treated me well, and Eliza became the first good friend I had known. The work was easy. The large part of our patrons were farmers and laborers, but the more prosperous gentlemen of the town enjoyed our services as well."

She hung her head and was silent. Jared thought she was finished for the night, but she said, in a whisper, "I was happy."

Jared stood and walked toward her. He stopped, hesitated, then reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder. She turned her head and showed him a weak smile.

"If you want to stop for the night..." he said.

She shook her head. He nodded and stepped back toward the couch. As he sat, she crossed the room and sat down at the other end. She folded her hands in her lap and gazed up toward the ceiling as she began, once more, to speak.

"In the summer of my second year with Miss Caroline, I accompanied her to town on market day. While she haggled over the price of onions and cabbages, I wandered to a cart filled with strawberries." She smiled at the memory. "They were a delicacy I dearly loved."

"If I got some," Jared asked, "Could you eat them now?"

Annabelle nodded and grinned. "I believe I could. When I am more...substantial, I can take pleasure." She paused. "And feel pain."

"And it is your emotions that give you substance?"

"As it seems, yes."

"Again, I interrupted. I apologize."

"If you will provide me strawberries, I will forgive you," she said, smiling.

And I will taste them on your lips, Jared thought, then pushed the thought from his mind.

"There was a young man selling the strawberries. His name was Isaac Barkley. His father was one of the most prosperous planters in the county." She cast a sideways glance at Jared, "And one of the greatest whoremongers. I approached the wagon, and Isaac offered me a plump red berry. I had never tasted such sweetness. We spoke a bit, of the weather and the crops, and he called over one of his father's servants, instructing him to tend to selling the berries. He took my arm and we strolled, to the edge of the village and down along the mill stream. In a copse of birch, he kissed me."

She rose and crossed to the window and gazed out, although it had grown full dark.

"In the summer of my twentieth year," she whispered, "I at last knew love."

Jared stood, but did not approach her. She turned and faced him. "Lust and passion were as familiar to me as sunlight and rain," she said, slowly moving toward him. "But a kiss of tenderness, a caress of affection...such was new, and such I have not felt since."

She raised her arms, and Jared raised his, and they embraced. When her lips touched his, they were cool, but soft. He held her close and their kiss lingered, but then she gently pushed herself away.

"I must go," she said.

"Why?"

"You know what I must do."

"Very well."

"Until tomorrow..."

"I will have strawberries for you," Jared said, but by the time he finished the sentence, she had vanished. He went to the porch, and waited for the moon to rise. As it's light touched the yard, he watched the graceful motion of Annabelle's delicate feet. He was tired and longed for his bed, but he could not take his eyes from her. The moon slowly climbed in the night sky, and cast its light on her calves and then her thighs. It rose still higher and he could see the fullness of her hips, undulating seductively. He no more than glanced at them, however, before her visage faded.

He went to bed and thought of her until sleep overtook him. When we awoke in the morning his first thoughts were of her as well.

****

When Annabelle appeared the following evening, Jared had arranged a vase of fresh flowers, a bottle of fine red wine and a pair of glasses, and of course, a bowl of plump red strawberries on kitchen table.

He was pacing the floor when he saw her. All day, he had been thinking of her, and little else. He had not written a word.

He held out his hand and she took it, and he led her to the table. He pulled out the chair and she sat. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of the strawberries. Jared sat and watched as she lifted one to her lips and tasted it.

She smiled and and Jared clapped his hands in delight. "I bought them at the farmer's market in town. I wonder if it's in the same place it was in your day."

She shrugged and ate another berry. Jared poured two glasses of wine, and Annabelle took a small sip. Setting her glass down, her face turned serious. "Tonight, I shall finish telling my story. I do not know what might happen when I do."

"What do you mean?"

"I feel that once it is told, the bonds that hold me to this world may unravel."

Jared felt a weight in his chest. "I won't see you again."

"Perhaps," she shrugged. "Or I will receive my release when you have put my tale to parchment. Or to...whatever that implement of writing may be."

Jared stared into his wine glass. Annabelle rose from her seat. "Come," she said.