Reenactment

By Marjorie Doughty

What if possession were possible and an errant spirit from another time took over the body and subsequent actions of a living susceptible person. What would happen, especially if an avenging spirit felt the killings were justified? In Re-enactment, this does occur and bewildered law enforcement and others come to a conclusion that the person committing the crimes was chemically imbalanced. This the logical mind can accept; possession it cannot. However, some southern re-enactors, descendants of slave owners, have a foregone destiny with death because of this vengeful ghost that will not die, using the physical body of someone on the edge to commit these crimes.

Could this happen as told in this story? Skeptics say no – others who ask questions, are not that certain.

ISBN 1-59431-095-5 Mystery/Paranormal/Romance

Cover Art/Maggie Dix



Prologue

It was an unusual place to die, on the open field in daylight, able to see from only one eye. Pine trees blurred by heavy white smoke from cannons and muskets lined each side of the open area. The sound of artillery roared into his ears. Above him the sun appeared, gave brief sullen light before dirty clouds closed in and dumped more thin chilling rain on the sandy soil. He didn’t feel the cold or wet.

Men in gray uniforms fired reloaded and surged around him and other fallen comrades, down the field toward the enemy in blue. He became faintly aware of sticky fluid inching down the side of his face. I’m going to be 21 on Saturday.

Then he thought how his grandfather and father would be so disappointed in him, because they had been successful reenactors of the South. He gave a great sigh of bewilderment and died.



Chapter 1

College student, Alice Benton, looked around the basement of the Victorian house where she had been born and raised. She had been cleaning for hours. There was something different in the old basement she couldn’t identify, but it was not threatening. Curious. She stood motionless under the uneven light leaking from three seventy-five watt bulbs hanging haphazardly on sagging black wire that made small inroads into the gloom. The Beatles had finished singing “Hey, Jude” from a small cassette player she had placed on the high windowsill beneath a tiny window. But she didn’t bother to turn the tape over. Instead, she leaned on the broom, wondering about the urgency that drove her to the basement this morning. This feeling of something waiting for her. Something she sensed just out of her reach but silently calling.

The place hadn’t been touched since her mother and father’s deaths three years ago. She had worked all day. Finished with the final sweeping of the cement floor, Alice looked at the shadowed corner of the basement that held all that remained of her parents’ lives. The old huge seagoing chest contained their precious memories. To Alice, that part of the basement was hallowed ground.

Approaching exhaustion, but satisfied with her work, she placed the broom against one of the filled black plastic trash bags. There was one more task to take care of and then she was finished. She glanced around and again felt something different.

“Probably just my imagination,” she said to herself.

“Too much imagination,” her parents had often told her. They had worried about her when she was a child, the fact that she never wanted friends. She tried to make them understand. But that only worried them more. After school she would go straight home to her room and study, or let her mind drift into her own imaginary adventures, adventures she always shared with her twin, Alex, who understood how she felt. He, too, wanted only to be with her. They never felt the need to include outsiders in their play. She smiled as she thought of Alex. She was sorry he had gone to another school when they were younger, but for some reason her parents had felt it was necessary. Now they could be together whenever they wanted to. Soon he would be coming back from a Civil War reenactment in Andersonville and they would talk and talk.

Alice knelt down on the cold cement floor and opened the lid of the remaining chest. She had meant to check it out long before this, but something always interfered. Now she felt the need to know.

It was some kind of dark wood, slightly splintered on the edges, held together with tarnished metal bands. It had belonged to her Aunt Jessie, who was part of a traveling troupe of actors around the turn of the century. As she reached in, a small shiny black spider landed on her hand. She brushed the body to the floor before it could bite, stood up and grabbed the broom, smashing it down on the spider as it tried to run away. The spider's body flipped over and she saw the red markings on the belly. A black widow. She grabbed the dustpan and swept the dead spider into it. Then she dumped the contents of the dustpan into one of the trash-filled bags. After rubbing the palms of her hands against her dirty jeans, Alice looked into the chest to see if there were any more spiders lurking, but she couldn’t see clearly. She closed her eyes and waited for the red spot before her eyes to clear.

After a few minutes, she reached in again. Alice lifted out each costume, shaking it vigorously before spreading it on the floor. The musty smell from the inside of the trunk tickled her nostrils, making her sneeze. She remembered stories her aunt had shared with her of wearing these very costumes back when she was still “treading the boards” as she put it.

A mild envy filled Alice. She sat back on her heels for a moment, holding a long red ruffled dress in her hand, something she could never successfully wear with her tall straight body and barely noticeable breasts. This was a dress that needed filling out, she told herself. She was built too much like her brother, Alex. She knew her parents had wanted only boys. She had lived in Alex’s shadow when they were alive. In fact, sometimes Alice felt as if her whole life had been a sort of shadow existence. But she didn’t blame Alex. He was perfect. She loved him too much to ever do that. It was the fault of the world into which she was born.

Alice lifted out the last piece of clothing and placed it on top of the others, smoothing out the material. It was the uniform jacket of a Union soldier, a lieutenant. For a moment she felt a surge of excitement that quickly died. It was only part of a Civil War uniform used on stage . She glanced at the trunk. The only thing left was a small object wrapped in a piece of age-yellowed linen. When she touched it, it felt like a book. It slipped from her tired fingers onto the floor and a small leather-bound volume fell out. She gingerly picked it up. There were smudges on the outside of the book, but no title or identification of any kind.

Intrigued, she sat down, resting her back against the trunk. The leather cover was cracked in places so she opened it slowly and stared at the date on the inside cover. 1861. Her long, bony fingers carefully turned the brittle pages of the book containing handwritten entries. It was a journal of some kind. She read a few sentences and sat enthralled. The faded writing was difficult to make out, the closely penned letters cramped and some of it had faded. The first entry was legible if she went slowly.

“My name is George Blakely and today I have joined the Union Army. The arrogant, self-serving men who drain the very lifeblood of others have left me no other choice. My destiny has been made known to me. I must restore dignity to those stripped of it.”

Her breathing became rapid. What she had here was a treasure. This truly was the diary of a Union officer during the Civil War. Alice’s gaze riveted on the page with its old-fashioned writing, her fatigue forgotten.