27. Clara
Clara
I never used the library much before Cali took over as head librarian.
I don't know why, honestly. It just never occurred to me. So I immediately enlist Cali’s help when I walk in with Bram to do research on the tombstones we found.
We have a name—Finian O’Connell. And a pack, the Blackthorn Pack.
Along with the three other names we found on the tombstones.
I introduce Bram and Cali.
I explain to Cali that we found a little graveyard and we’re curious about the house and its history.
I do not mention ghosts or hauntings or mysterious alpha scents.
I don’t need any of that getting around town before the barbecue.
She nods and doesn’t question it at all.
It probably helps that I’ve always been into this kind of spiritual stuff.
Cali leads us back to the Local History Room, as it’s so aptly called. Inside, there are rows and rows of local scrapbooks organized by year, filing cabinets full of microfilm, reader machines, dusty books, and more. The place is quiet and dimly lit. No windows.
Cali shuts the door behind her as she heads off to help a patron.
Leaving us alone. I study the handwritten spines of the scrapbooks, noticing the dates.
Some have titles highlighting the biggest local news of the year: 1909 – First Car is Driven in Lakeside Point 1973 – Commune Off Lakeside Point Wreaks Havoc on Locals 1990 – Omega Rights Activists March Downtown.
The y are meticulous. One catches my eye: 1903 – The Omega’s Dream is Shipwrecked
That was the year listed on the first three tombstones.
I pick up the scrapbook, my hands shaking, and glance over at Bram. He’s engrossed in the microfilm filing cabinets, sleeves pushed up, brow furrowed in focus.
Setting the scrapbook on the table, I flip it open and sit down to start reading. The first few articles and pictures are about the first annual Ice Festival. Then some news about a farm. Then a string of obituaries. Finally, the story of the sinking.
“ Sinking of Local Ferry”, the obvious headline declares.
No clickbait spins in the early 1900s. The article outlines that the ferry was transporting new immigrants from Chicago to a port in Lakeside Point when it hit rocks in unexpectedly thick fog and capsized, killing all on board.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes. To come someplace new, full of hope, and have that hope dashed away by forces beyond your control?
I could think of few things more devastating.
I flip back to the obituaries. The ferry manifest is listed.
Sorcha Doyle, Cormac Byrne, and Seamus Smith are all listed.
I glance over at Bram, his caramel-apple scent grounding me before I even realize I’m breathing it in. Bram's already watching me with concerned, protective eyes.
Little do I know, he’s about to one-up the devastation.