Chapter Eight
The Plight of Aldorhaven
As Mr. Allen gave them the tour of the inn, Oliver tried to focus on the layout of the building instead of catching the attention of the dog that trailed at the older man’s feet.
The brindle mutt was built like a hippopotamus with a wide snout and a rounded body, though much like a hippo, he moved quickly when he wanted to.
Argos zipped from Mr. Allen’s side to the tree line to boof at a squirrel when he opened the door in the kitchen to show them the outhouse and clothesline should they need them.
The inn itself was rather small with a cramped kitchen, a dining room large enough to accommodate half a dozen people, a locked room off the entrance that may have once been a front parlor but had been converted into Mr. Allen’s bedroom, and a sitting room tucked at the back like an oversight.
Oliver couldn’t imagine many people used it.
It had the distinct look of a shared space that had been slowly taken over by one person.
The walls were decorated with too many paintings of dogs and horses, and while the furniture was in decent shape, it was far too big for the room and the cushion on the chair nearest the fire was stacked with books and a magnifying glass.
Years ago, the parlor may have been meant to be used by guests, but over time, it had gone from cozy to cluttered with knickknack shelves stuffed with ceramic and wooden creatures that creeped onto the mantle along with photographs and several racks of decorative pipes.
At least the man chose pipes over cigarettes, Oliver thought as he eyed the pipe with a grinning green man’s face; of all the tobacco smoke, pipes were the least offensive.
“You’re a veteran, Mr. Allen?” Felipe asked, nodding toward a tintype of a young man in a union calvary uniform as Mr. Allen paused to poke at the banked fire.
“I was seventeen when I joined the War Between the States. First Ghost Regiment of the Pennsylvania Cavalry.” Mr. Allen’s features flushed with pride as he straightened. “That painting up there is of my horse. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t think I would have gotten through the war.”
In pride of place above the mantle was a framed pastel drawing of a large, brown horse with a white diamond on its nose.
The horse stood in an encampment littered with tents, looking far more regal than it ought on a battlefield.
Beneath the painting hung a Henry repeating rifle with a horse etched into its stock.
“The ghost regiments... Those were special all paranormal units, weren’t they?” Gwen added as she took a seat on the sofa.
When Mr. Allen picked up the pile of books and sank into the spindly chair near the fire, Oliver and Felipe sat a safe distance apart on the loveseat.
“Yes, ma’am. Everyone in my regiment had some power or other.
I have a touch of invisibility, so they sent me on reconnaissance missions or to deliver messages.
I didn’t see much in the way of actual fighting and killing, but they kept me busy.
Those missions had their own dangers,” he replied, patting his injured leg.
“I can definitely see that. You know, the New York Paranormal Society has made a point to record the stories of soldiers who were in the ghost regiments to preserve them in our archives. Before we leave, would you be willing tell me about your time in the army, Mr. Allen?”
“I would be happy to.” Looking between the three of them, Mr. Allen’s smile faltered into a frown as he fingered the pipe in his hand. “With all of you here, I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you why I sent a letter to the paranormal society.”
“That would be helpful.”
No matter how many times Oliver watched Felipe shift from his life partner to his investigative partner, the subtle change never ceased to fascinate him.
He was the same person, yet he felt more present and focused but also guarded.
It was like seeing him through a prism or a pressurized version of him.
Pulling out his pencil and notepad, Oliver waited for him to begin.
Leaning forward in his chair, Felipe cleared his throat and leveled his gaze at the innkeeper. “We read your letter and the scant report left by the second group of investigators from the New Jersey Branch of the Paranormal Society, but we couldn’t glean much from it.”
“The second pair, ugh. A bunch of ninnies. The first pair barely did anything, but the second— I know Aldorhaven isn’t the norm, but they had already made up their minds they weren’t staying before they even got here.
They took one look at what was going on, packed up the other investigators’ stuff, and flew out of town like the hounds of hell were chasing them. ”
“So what is going on?”
Mr. Allen drew in a tense breath as he filled his pipe with tobacco.
At his feet, Argos glanced up at him with doleful eyes and hunkered closer to his legs.
He smoothed a hand over the top of the dog’s wide head as he slowly replied, “I feel like you all are going to think I’ve lost my mind when I tell you.
The first investigators certainly thought I had.
If they don’t see things like this at the New Jersey Branch of the Paranormal Society, somehow, I doubt you see things like this in Manhattan. ”
“Oh, we’ve seen our share of strange things.”
“But Aldorhaven is stranger than most. See, the problem is the dead aren’t staying dead.”
Oliver looked up from his notes to search the other man’s features for any signs of joking, but he was engrossed in lighting his pipe. “When you say the dead aren’t staying dead, do you mean that people are seeing ghosts, or do you mean the dead are actually coming out of their graves?”
“The second one.”
“Like actual corpses leaving their graves and going for a walk?”
“Yep.”
“And how long has this been happening?”
“About five years.”
The point snapped off Oliver’s pencil and rolled into his lap. “Five years! Five years you’ve had dead people popping out of their graves, and you only thought to write now?”
He knew his voice was rising an octave above where it should be, but he couldn’t help it.
The whole thing was absurd. Five years?!
Either these people were having them on or Aldorhaven’s population had become far too desensitized to queerness.
If the dead walking didn’t scare them, what did they live with normally?
As Oliver dug in his jacket pocket for his pen, Felipe flashed him a pointed look of warning.
Clearing his throat, Felipe asked Mr. Allen far more gently, “What changed that made you concerned about the dead?”
“Well, for one, they started attacking people. At first, we would find them out of their graves or trying to escape their mausoleums. We would just put them back when we could and those we couldn’t, we buried beside the church.
Then, all would be quiet for a time. We didn’t know if there were vandals or pranksters messing with them.
You see, no one saw it happen because it only happened at night.
We just found them in the morning wherever they ran out of steam.
Until recently, it didn’t happen often, and they never got very far.
Someone years ago once told me about those Medieval danse macabres, and I assumed it was something like that. Eerie but manageable.
“Then, things changed. I don’t know what, but they’re able to get around far easier and faster.
They’ve now made it past the cemetery gates and gone after people.
At first, we thought it might have been a freak accident or that the person who was attacked summoned the dead somehow, but then, it happened again and again.
Those people swore up and down that they had done nothing to provoke an attack.
After the second attack, there was talk of burning everyone in the cemetery to keep them from rising, but once that idea was thrown out, people started downplaying it.
Someone got it into the others’ heads that they’re overreacting, and the dead just attack people sometimes.
I lived outside of Aldorhaven for part of my life.
This does not just happen, and it didn’t happen here when I was a child either.
Something is going on. Something changed.
That’s why I wrote to the Paranormal Society because no one here will do anything about it. ”
Oliver’s pulse pounded in his ears as he jotted down everything Mr. Allen said.
This was far worse than he had expected.
Part of him still hoped maybe Mr. Allen was exaggerating and it might still be someone playing a prank or a vampire panic, but somehow, he doubted it.
It all felt too complicated for that. Oliver tapped his pen against the paper.
He had never heard of a case where the dead somehow left their graves without a necromancer’s help.
That had to be it: a rogue necromancer was terrorizing the town.
Quickly rereading his notes, Oliver silently sighed.
This sort of thing was why his powers were stigmatized.
It wasn’t funny to play on people’s fears, and it wasn’t right to manipulate the dead like that.
Once he found out who it was, he and Felipe would put an end to it.
“You said this started about five years ago. Did anything happen then or did anyone new come to town?” Felipe asked.