Randy White - Haunted

I enjoyed the next few minutes inspecting dozens of glass shards and several unbroken bottles. One was a rectangular medicine flask, Sassafras Tonic embossed above the manufacturer’s mark and location, Vicksburg, Tenn.

“Confederate?” I asked.

“Not necessarily. It’s not dated, so I have to research the maker. The bottle is seamed”-he held it to the lantern-“it’s flat-based, so it could have been made after 1865. I try to stay objective, but”-his smile was more like a wink-“I think you’re right. And here’s why.”

From a separate box, he placed a green translucent bottle that was heavy-lipped and out-of-square. “Pontilied” is how he described the bottom, which was sharply concave. The front was embossed:

XXX

PORTER ALE

WALTHAM, MASS.

“Check the back,” he suggested, then watched, having fun because I was interested.

Before the glass had hardened, a date had been etched: 1864. The color and shape were so unusual, I said, “I’d love to photograph this.”

“You’re a photographer, too?”

“Just learning. A friend loaned me a camera with a lens that’s good for low light. It sees colors most people don’t.”

“Drink enough of this Porter Ale, you’d see all kinds of things,” he grinned. “And someone did.”

From the same box, he removed a dozen shards that were similar. “They had quite a party. Or stayed in one place for a while. This came from just downriver-a mile, I’d say.”

I scooted closer to the lantern and held up the bottle: thick green glass; air bubbles trapped within-air from the lungs of a long-dead craftsmen. I said, “This is more like art. What I appreciate most? Besides you and Carmelo, the last person to touch this might have been a soldier during the Civil War. It creates a sort of closeness, you know? Makes me wonder about him. Was the man lonely? Did he survive? I once found part of a Spanish demijohn that gave me the same feeling, and-” Suddenly, an unexpected thought popped into my head.

“Is something wrong?”

I held the bottle out for him to take. “What about fingerprints? I shouldn’t be touching this if the soldier’s prints might still be-” I stopped again, shook my head, and laughed. “What am I saying? They didn’t know about fingerprints back then. I’m usually not so dense.”

Belton Matás didn’t consider me dense. “There’s no way to match them, but fingerprints on one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old glass isn’t silly. I’ve found thumbprints in handmade bricks from that period, ceramics, all sorts of things. You’re actually very perceptive.”

I asked a few questions. He asked about the old house. “Why not sleep in a hotel?” I offered a partial truth: My friend’s aunt owned the property and wanted to know if rumors had turned the place into a sideshow attraction.

“The only one way to find out,” I explained, “is to stay there for a night or two and keep notes. Plus, being this close to Halloween, we thought it might be fun.” Which had been true-until the sun went down.

“Fascinating,” he said. It was a word he used to nudge my story along. The whole time, through his thick glasses, he studied me with pleasant approval that could have been mistaken for fondness. Soon, he nodded as if he’d made up his mind about something and said, “Carmelo, please bring my briefcase. I want to show Hannah our map.”

Carmelo was surprised. “Your map ?”

“You heard me.”

There were already maps and satellite photos on the table. Belton saw my confusion and, after hesitating, patted my hand in the same friendly way I had patted his. “I consider myself a good judge of character, young lady. I’m going to show you where we found these bottles. You enjoy history. You seem to know something about it. No”-I had started to thank him-“this is to my advantage, not yours. I want your opinion on some photos I took. However, I will ask one favor in return. It has to do with-”

From the RV, Carmelo interrupted, “Should I take my boots off, Mr. Matás?” He was standing at the door, the door open.

Belton made the sound people do when frustrated but patient. “ Always , Carmelo. That’s the rule. Oh, and please bring the magnifying glass. It’s on the desk.”

He turned to me. “It has to do with Dr. Ivanhoff. I’ve met some fine archaeologists. I’ve also met one or two who are egocentric thieves and their position gives them a license to steal. I don’t know the man. Until I do, I’d like you to keep this just between us.”

“Sure,” I said. Already, I was hoping to be invited along on his next bottle expedition. However, I also reminded myself, You don’t know this man any better than you know Theo. Take it slowly. Which is why I didn’t offer collateral in the form of information about my uncle, the blockade-runner.

Carmelo placed a briefcase on the table: leather and tarnished buckles. Belton removed a laptop, which he opened, then a cardboard tube that contained another satellite photo. As he arranged things, I looked at more bottles. They had been rinsed but not cleaned. Muck and sand clung to the inside. They had a distinctive odor familiar to me.

He noticed. “What are you thinking?”

I took another sniff. “Sulfur. Where I grew up, well water tastes like this. My mother still prefers it. Not as strong as the smell of mangroves or some spots in the Everglades. That could be because you rinsed them. Otherwise, I’d guess you found these underwater.”

Raised eyebrows, a boyish pretense of shock on his face. He slid the photo in front of me. “I think you might be the witch. Have a look.”

The satellite photo could have been shot from a helicopter, the details were so clear. It showed a river switchback, cattle pasture on the west side, which might have been part of the old Cadence estate. To the east were old-growth mimosa trees-feathered leaves gave them away-then dense cover, brambles and palmettos and bayonet plants. Stamped into the chaos was a vague rectangle, a pile of bricks or rocks at one end. A squarish pile of something else was nearby and the faintest hint of pathways, one through trees to the east and a narrower path that vanished before it got to the river.

“Use this.” Belton handed me the magnifying glass.

It didn’t help much. After a while, I sat back. “There was a house here with a chimney. Not a big house. Maybe an outbuilding or two and fencerows. This is what I can’t figure out.” I indicated a spot on the photo. “It looks like a stack of bricks. Part of the chimney, maybe, after it fell, but that doesn’t seem quite right.” I tried the magnifying glass again.

No need. Belton pulled his chair around and used the computer, which neither of us could see until he dimmed the lantern, its hiss dropping an octave. Moths fluttered, one hammered against the screen. He swatted it away and opened a file while our eyes adjusted.

“I don’t know what it is either,” he said. “If it was smaller, I’d think some kind of brick oven. Now I’m thinking a root cellar, a cool place to store things. It’s coffin-shaped but too big for that. And why would anyone build a crypt way out here anyway? It’s eight-by-four and at least five feet deep, with an arched cover that’s falling in. But still solid. The bricklayer who built this really knew his trade.”

Right away, from the photo, I knew what the structure was but let him click through more images, Belton saying, “Carmelo shot deer there as a kid and remembered the foundations of what had been a house. Yesterday afternoon, on the river-he’s got an electronic fish finder on his boat-we passed over something interesting on the bottom. That’s why we went back today.”