Page 17 of The Ghost of Ellwood

My skepticism about ghosts was waning. Part of me still struggled with grasping the notion of the paranormal existing, but the other half—the one that had witnessed things I couldn’t really explain—was slowly taking over.

Which is why I’m here.

Theo Blackwell had intrigued me from the very first moment I opened that journal and saw his name scribbled on the front page. What ifhewas the ghost people had seen around the property?

What if he was the man I’d seen in my dream two nights ago?

“Who are you?”he had asked.

The bigger question was: who washe?

After browsing through the selection of papers about the history of the town and all the people in it, I flipped through the online newspaper clippings; specifically, the obituaries. I wanted to know when Theo died.

But I couldn’t find anything other than a record of his birth—born in 1898—and a few mentions when in relation to his father.

Catching Florence’s eyes, I scooted back the chair and walked over to her. “Actually, thereissomething you can help me with, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking into the history of Blackwell Manor. I moved there, you see, and I’m just… curious about the family who built it.”

A knowing look gleamed in her eyes. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. Many people have come here looking up the same thing.” She pushed her glasses farther up her nose. “A lot of bad things have happened there, Mr. Cross. Terrible things. Death and sadness. Horror. You’re not the first to ask, and I’m sure you won’t be the last.”

Her statement told me she didn’t expect me to stay in the manor for long.

Boy, was she wrong. If ghosts actuallywerereal, it fascinated me more than terrified.

“I have a question about Theo Blackwell.”

“Oh?”

“There’s nothing in the records about his death. Nothing about him marrying or moving away. It’s almost like he—”

“Disappeared?” she interjected.

“Well…yeah.”

“Come with me, Mr. Cross.” Florence walked out from the counter and headed toward a door in the back markedStaff Only.

As I followed her through the doorway, I attempted to suppress the excitement in my bones. Nothing captured my attention more than a good mystery.

Books clearly too old to be in the public area were positioned in a row on a bookshelf. Many had unmarked spines, and the text on others was so worn it was illegible. The room was musty, smelling of mildew and smoke, as if some of the items had been in the house of chain smokers, and the stench of cigarettes had absorbed into the material. Thick, three-ringed binders were stacked on a table.

Florence slid over a binder and flipped through it before setting it aside and grabbing another. “Aha,” she exclaimed, after turning the page. “Here we are.”

It was a cutout of the front page of an old newspaper. A sheet of plastic protected the page, but the paper was faded, creased, and torn around the edges. The headline read:Blackwell Boy Still Missing.

“Not many of these papers survived,” Florence said, scooting the binder closer to me. “George Blackwell made sure of that.”

Beside the article was a photo of Theo; well, an illustration, really. But even though it was a drawing, it captured the man I’d seen in my room. I stared at the sharp angle of his jaw and the way his dark hair fell across his brow.

Beautifulcame to mind as I touched the photo, tracing his jawline with my forefinger.

“Why would Blackwell not want the papers distributed?” I asked, bewildered. “Surely, if his son went missing, he’d want every damn police officer, detective, and the whole damn town out searching for him.”

“The article speculates that George had something to do with his son’s disappearance. A close friend of Theo’s swore that the last person Theo visited before he went missing was George. In the statement, he also said George had a wicked temper, and that he’d seen bruises on Theo on several occasions.”

A close friend.Could it have been Harvey, the boy Theo wrote about kissing in his journal?