A Halloween Tale: Chapter 1

The Cromford mansion, a stately structure, dominated the landscape at the end of a tree-lined lane on a vast five-hundred-acre property. The meticulously kept grounds were peppered with ornamental trees and countless flowers — the foyer’s grandeur and natural light awestruck all who entered. Conversely, in the gloomy library, only the warmth from the massive stone fireplace provided a small glimmer of optimism in an otherwise dreary setting.

March 29, 1903

Mrs. Abigail Cromford sat in the four-season room overlooking the vibrantly blooming crocus, tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths. At fifty-eight, she was tall and thin and still strikingly beautiful, but carried an air of sternness. Savoring her Earl Grey tea and nibbling on delicate cucumber sandwiches, she read the Sunday newspaper.

Anna Hillyer, her forty-something housekeeper, entered the room with caution. “Sorry ta be interruptin’ yer tea, ma’am.”  

Mrs. Cromford did not look up. “Yes, Anna?”

Anna quickly rushed to the head of the table and curtsied. “Three gentlemen have come ta see ya, ma’am. I directed ‘em ta the study.”

“Who are they?” Mrs. Cromford said.

“Commissioner Brinks, Pastor Broyles,” Anna said, clasping her hands nervously, “and yer lawyer, Mr. Whitestone.”

The newspaper slipped from Mrs. Cromford’s grasp as she clutched at her chest. When she stood and steadied herself on the table’s edge, her face drained of color.

Anna reached for her arm.

“Thank you, no, Anna,” Mrs. Cromford said, pushing her away. “I’ll be all right.”

She entered the study with a stiff upper lip and her head held high. The men stood when she walked in. Hesitating momentarily, they approached her, their shoulders slumped. Pastor Broyles offered his hand.

Remaining still, Mrs. Cromford clasped a handkerchief. “Tell me... What has happened to Emma?”

“How did you know?” Pastor Broyles said.

“A mother always senses these things without being told, Pastor Tim. How did it happen?”

“Train...” Pastor Broyles gulped. “It was a train accident, Abigail, and Emma was —”

“Did she suffer?” Mrs. Cromford said abruptly, taking a step forward and placing a hand on a nearby settee for support.

“It was over in an instant,” Commissioner Brinks said.

Mrs. Cromford turned away, her cold gray eyes staring off into space. “Please leave me to my grief, gentlemen.”

“Of course,” Mr. Whitestone said quickly. “Of course... I’ll be in touch about Emma’s estate.”

“If there is anything we can do, please —” Commissioner Brinks said.

But Mrs. Cromford interrupted again. “Thank you, but no. Nothing at the moment. Please go.” She turned away, avoiding eye contact.

“Well... Yes,” Pastor Broyles said, bowing slightly and extending his arms around the men’s waists. “Shall we, gentlemen?”

Mary, the downstairs maid, ushered them to the door, leaving Mrs. Cromford standing alone in the study, dry-eyed and stoic. She walked to the window and gazed out, seeing nothing in particular.

Jonathan’s gone, and now Emma, she thought. What’s left for me?

“My God, ‘tis it true?” Anna rushed to Mrs. Cromford’s side. “Tell me, little Em ain’t gone.”

Mrs. Cromford did not move or speak. Anna slowly dropped to her knees and sobbed.

###

Emma was laid to rest beside her father, Jonathan, on April 4, in the family plot under a spreading chestnut tree. In Emma’s eulogy, Pastor Broyles quoted Mr. Cromford, who had often said of the chestnut tree, “It symbolized the Cromford family’s prestige, vitality, and longevity.”

Mrs. Cromford muttered angrily, “How’s that working for you now, Jonathan?”

After Emma’s death, Mrs. Cromford retreated from all outside contact and fell into a state of deep depression. By mid-summer, her despondency had reached its peak. To combat her feelings of despair, she commissioned a large portrait of Emma and had it placed above the fireplace in the library.

“Mrs. Cromford... Abigail... Please,” Anna pleaded. “It pains me so ta see ya like this.”

“Emma was so young, Anna,” Mrs. Cromford said, her eyes reddened from tears. “So very young.”

Anna did not believe in the spirit world, mediums, or anyone who claimed to be able to contact the dearly departed. But if a parlor trick could bring Mrs. Cromford out of her doldrums, what was the harm?  

“Perhaps we can contact her spirit,” Anna said. “Then ya’ll find peace.”

Mrs. Cromford shook her head. “I don’t believe in spirits... Or the spirit world. And what would Pastor Broyles say?”

“He don’t havta know,” Anna said, smiling.

“No, Anna. Certainly not... Besides, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Throughout the summer, Mrs. Cromford struggled with her melancholy and sorrow, and none of the remedies prescribed by her physician provided any relief. Meanwhile, Anna offered to find a spiritualist and arrange a séance to communicate with Emma’s spirit. By summer’s end, Mrs. Cromford had warmed up to the concept and told Anna to organize a séance for the fall.

###

September 30, 1903

As the hour for the séance drew near, Mrs. Cromford paced the floor nervously, wringing her hands. The look of dread and fear had replaced her dour façade.

“I don’t think I can go through with this, Anna.”  

Anna comfortingly placed an arm around Mrs. Cromford’s waist.

“Don’t worry, Abigail, she’ll be here any moment, and everything will go smoothly... And ya’ll do just fine... All ya have ta do is listen ta what she has ta say and folla’ her instructions.”

Mrs. Cromford took a deep breath and straightened up.

“Take her to the library, Anna... No, to the study... No, we’ll hold the séance in the library under Emma’s watchful eyes. Have Joseph light a fire in the hearth. Its glow and warmth will be the perfect setting.”

###

“Welcome, Miss Knapp,” Anna said.

“Yes... Thank you... I have an appointment with Mrs. Cromford at seven.”

“Certainly. May I take your coat?” Anna said, closing the door behind them.

Miss Knapp removed her overcoat and handed it to Mary, the downstairs maid.

“Please follow me.” Anna led the way, guiding Miss Knapp to the library, where Mrs. Cromford waited, gazing at Emma’s portrait.

###

After the séance concluded, Anna ushered the spiritualist to the door and then hurried back to the library.

“I can hardly wait ta hear what happened. How’d go?”

“She’s a fraud,” Mrs. Cromford said, facing Emma’s portrait. “That charlatan tried to deceive me.”

“How?”

“By claiming she’d contacted Emma’s spirit,” Mrs. Cromford said, spinning around.

“How’d ya know she didn’t?”

“The details that Emma’s spirit supposedly told her weren’t true, couldn’t be true.”

“What details?”

Mrs. Cromford gazed at the portrait again. “That most spirits there are very young, old, or infirm. She said Emma is so terribly lonely and wants a male companion nearer her age who is strong and virile.”

Anna took Mrs. Cromford by her elbow. “Maybe —”

“My young, beautiful Emma? Not likely,” she said, yanking her elbow free and stepping back. “Manly spirits would be buzzing around her like bees to honey!”

“Abigail, listen... It might be that way there... Remember the Russian Flu? Killed the young, elderly, and infirm. Over a million died worldwide.”

“Oh, my God,” Mrs. Cromford said, staggering to a nearby chair and slumping into it. She pondered for a few moments, then stood. “You’re right!” She took a step toward Anna. “You must help me help Emma.”

“I don’t like the look in yer eyes, Abigail. What ya thinkin’”

“Schedule another séance, with a man this time... And ensure he’s robust and virile. Someone Emma’s age.”

“What ya plannin’?”

“For Emma,” Mrs. Cromford said, gazing at the portrait. “We’ll do this for Emma.”

“Do what?”

“You’ll see in due time, Anna. In due time.”

Anna was having second thoughts about the afterlife and the spirit world. Perhaps some people could talk to the dead and reach our loved ones, but she would have to see more before she would completely change her mind.