Page 36 of Wildwood

I stare at her a moment, trying to decide how much I should push her. Am I crazy or shouldn’t academic people be more open-minded? Isn’t this what the historical society does? Collect lost information to try and continuously piece together the history of the town? But still, I’m the newcomer. I don’t want to be known as the flatlander who arrives and thinks she knows everything.

“Okay. That makes sense. Just curious, does the historical society do field research? I would really love it if someone could come out and take a look at the gravestones I found and do some form of dating on them. Wouldn’t this be a valuable thing to explore? Especially if it could prove that Newfield Village was settled earlier than thought?”

Jean laughs again. “We don’t have capabilities for something like that! We are a small-town historical society, not some fancy research lab. We do things like collect photos and stories, do barn surveys, protect architecture, that sort of thing.”

I force a smile onto my face and laugh agreeably. I can’t help but cast my eyes around the room. It certainly does not look like the historical society is lacking funds, what with the array of original artwork, chandeliers, and technology system.

I look over at Patty, but she keeps her eyes glued to the computer.

“Look, I think that’s about all I have time for,” Jean says suddenly, standing up. “I’ve got a busy day ahead. Patty can show you out. Thanks for coming by, Elinor.”

“Um, okay. That’s too bad. Thank you for your time.” I stand up and shake Jean’s hand before she scuttles out of the room.

“I’m sorry we can’t be of more help. Did you want to see the photos?” Patty asks.

“Oh! Yes, definitely.” I’m desperate for any information. Anything that can tell me what the hell is going on in my house. I haven’t had one of the vision nightmares since the one when I awoke paralyzed, the serpent coiling and uncoiling in the shadowy corner. I think I’ve felt too spooked to let my body fall fully asleep. Last night, I had tossed and turned, in a perpetual state of waking dreams, which did nothing to calm my nerves. I would find myself in a forest of trees, wandering through air that felt heavy with moss and bark, the limbs coming alive and reaching toward me as I pass. I would be sitting with Uncle Ezra in the parlor. He is about to tell me what happened here and what happened with Mathilde, but when he opens his mouth to speak, branches sprout from his mouth, slowly turning the parlor into thick woods. I would jolt myself awake each time, sweat dampening my nightgown. Terrified I wouldn’t be able to move. Hugo woke when I did but would only let out a low whine of solidarity. Even he is getting tired of me.

These waking dreams were somehow even more terrifying than the visions. When I staggered out of bed this morning, Wildwood felt alive. The creaking of the floor felt more like the creaking of branches in the wind. When I heard water running through the pipes after I started a load of laundry, I was convinced I was hearing the river.

Patty’s good-natured laugh snaps me back to the present.

“Here you go. I just love this one! Men in suits on top of a steam engine.”

Patty clicks through a series of photos, which present on the screen up front, and my hopes quickly deflate. Each one is familiar. Each one a photo I’d seen already at Madeline’s. Is this the historical society’s history or the Brooks’ history? I wonder bitterly, a little kernel of suspicion taking root.

There is one image, though, that I haven’t seen before. It’s the front page of a newspaper from 1778. It’s called the Green Mountain Herald.

“Could you stop on this?” I ask.

The page is cluttered with dark text, in tiny, antiquated font, divided into four columns. It takes me a moment to focus my eyes on any one thing, there is so much to take in. My eye travels across the page, trying to figure out why it’s of importance. One column contains short descriptions of places “to be let.” A pleasantly situated cottage, two hundred acres of land. Another advertises various treatments, like oxygenated bitters, which claim to cure dyspepsia, asthma, and general disability. I’m not sure what oxygenated bitters or dyspepsia are, but I smile at the claim of curing “general disability.”

But then I see a short paragraph titled “Blizzard Claims Lives of Prominent Newfield Family.” The information is concise.

November 9th, surprise blizzard claimed the lives of Josiah Bishop (40) and Nathaniel Brook (35). Both men were found buried in snow, just a few hundred yards from Bishop’s home, Wildwood. Josiah leaves behind his father William Bishop, Josiah’s wife Hannah, brother Elias, and several children. Nathaniel leaves behind father Levi Brook, wife Winnett, sister Francesca, brother Archie, and several children.

“That’s right, I almost forgot,” says Patty. “The eldest sons of William Bishop and Levi Brook perished in a storm. The storm was considered apocalyptic. Dumped nearly two feet of snow in a matter of minutes is what the article said.”

“Is there any more information on those men?” I ask.

Patty considers for a moment. “Not that I know of.”

“Do you have the death records?”

“You’ll have to ask the town clerk,” says Patty apologetically. “But yes, I believe they have the records. Newfield Village should have begun tracking when the village was settled in 1771. And then they certainly would have been tracked when Newfield Village joined with Newfield in 1870.”

“I’ll ask Sarah, who works in the clerk’s office, for you,” says Jean, who has suddenly reappeared in the doorway. “She’s a dear friend of mine. I know they are pretty backed up and pulling old records will take some time. But hopefully I can help nudge it along,” she says decisively. “Patty? I need your help with something?”

Patty stands and smiles at me apologetically.

“Oh, okay, that would be great.” I quickly gather my things, feeling like I’ve worn out my welcome.

I write down my mailing address and thank them both for their time. On my way out of the building, I pass a floor-length gold plaque in the downstairs lobby. I pause to inspect it. It’s a list of donors. Madeline Brook’s name is at the very top. Of course, I think and realize that I’m irritated by this.

Back out in the drenching rain, I pull up my rain hood and turn left to walk toward Elevated Brews. I need an indulgence to dull the disappointment I feel over the meeting with Patty and Jean. Essentially, I learned nothing new. I want someone to tell me why there is a cemetery on my property and that it’s possible there was a settlement before Newfield’s known settlement in 1771. That’s the only thing that could explain why, if something terrible happened, it wasn’t recorded in any official documents. That, I suppose, or it was simply covered up. But no one seems to want to help me.

I feel a flutter in my belly and stop walking. The first of the baby’s kicks. I’d felt one like this a few days ago and thought it was gas. But here it is again, stronger, more pronounced. I smile, momentarily lost in the warm magic of pregnancy. But then I become aware of the rain pelting my hood. The drops like grains of sand in an hourglass. Aware of the undeniable fact that I’m being haunted. That some strange, unexplainable, and fucked-up thing is happening to me. I’ve never sleepwalked before. I’ve never had dreams like these before. I’ve never lost half of a day to a hallucination before. I need to learn what happened at Wildwood. And I need to figure it out before the baby comes. I cannot be a mother if I’m consumed by this.

I’m about to start walking when I hear someone calling my name.