The Man on the Stairs

And More Strange Stories

Edward Farber

Author of the short story collection

Echoes of Clara Avenue

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

places, and events are the product of the author's

imagination, or used fictitiously.

Copyright © Edward Farber, 2021

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission except for a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Published by

Timberwood Press, St. Louis, MO

What Readers Have Written about

The Man on the Stairs and More Strange Stories

By Advance Copy Reviewers

Jonathan Wellsley A short read of four stories, but each has a touch of The Twilight Zone that keeps you involved until the very end.

Marge Ingles Farber’s title story, “The Man on the Stairs,” is a winner. He sets a great scene and then leads you into the unexplainable. The other three stories are equally compelling, especially if you like the unusual.

Paula Goldblum Wanted more so I plan to get any of author Farber’s works.

Calvin Tellers I read Farber’s earlier collection, Echoes of Clara Avenue, and really looked forward to more from him. This quartet of “strange” stories lived up to all my expectations, except one…not enough stories. More, Mr. Farber!

Dear Reader,

Your review of The Man on The Stairs and More Strange Stories would be greatly appreciated. It need not be long or scholarly, just your honest opinion about the book. To submit your review, return to where you purchased this book and follow their directions for submitting a review. Thank you.

Contents

The Man on the Stairs

The Mirror

The Journal of Nathaniel Goodwin

Madame Pompadour’s Bracelet

The Man on the Stairs

I have never told a soul what really happened to Frank Dent the night he disappeared. If I had, they would have considered me a candidate for a lobotomy, or at the very least, thought my imagination was in overdrive. Everyone in town believed Frank ran away. He was planning to do just that. I know. I was with him on that night many years ago.

We were walking along the old gravel road at the south end of town headed for the Beauchamp house where Frank intended to hide out until he could slip away. The creepy Beauchamp house. While growing up and filled with the round-eyed gullibility of youth, I had been convinced that the Beauchamp place was haunted. It certainly looked haunted, even in daylight—a deserted, decaying, former plantation-house that had seen its glory years before the Civil War. Now, as we approached the old ruin in the darkness, the childhood stories I had heard about it kept bubbling up, chipping away at my teenage bravado.

“Man, cops or no cops, you couldn’t get me to stay there tonight,” I said.

“Al, you know I have to. I can’t go home, and I can’t walk the streets. It’s the only place I can think of to hide. I’ll get away tomorrow before daylight and leave town,” Frank said.

“What a bummer. Just because they found pot in your locker,” I offered as a form of comfort. After all, Frank was my friend, and I had been the one to warn him that the sheriff was after him. “Listen, Frank, maybe they won’t bust you, just give you a warning or something.”

“Not this time. You know what the sheriff told old man Stutz at the home last time. One more offense and I’ve had it. I got to get away. I just ain’t going to no jail,” Frank replied. The “home” was the Protestant Children’s Home where Frank, an orphan, had lived most of his life.

We rounded a bend in the road and there it was, the Beauchamp house, looming stark and black against the night sky. A rotting, split-rail fence, silvered by moonlight, defined the weed-choked lot upon which the house stood—all that was left of the old estate. The fields long ago had been sold off.

“Must’ve been pretty impressive way back then,” I said.

“Just an old, falling down dump, now,” Frank said. “Come on.”

I followed reluctantly. We edged through waist-high weeds to the rear of the house and stepped cautiously across the creaking boards of the verandah to the back door. Inside, it was pitch black except where moonlight squeezed between cracks in the boarded-up windows. I flipped on my small pocket flashlight and played it slowly around the room. It must have been the kitchen where Beauchamp slaves once prepared family meals, but only some broken pantry shelves, wood crates, and an old flue pipe remained.

“I’ll sleep in here,” Frank said, removing his jean jacket and rolling it up to serve as a makeshift pillow.

“Kind of spooky,” I said. “Remember all those stories about it being haunted?”

Headlights momentarily lit up the rickety old fence then disappeared down the road.

“Must be old man Griswold. His is the only other place on this stretch of road,” I said. “Here, you take the flashlight and look around. I’ll keep my eye on the road just to be sure that car’s not coming back.”

Frank took the flashlight and moved toward the inside door. I heard the boards creak as he stepped out of the room. The glow from the flashlight faded, and the darkness seemed to wrap itself around me. I shivered even though the September night air was quite warm. I called to Frank, more to break the mood than anything else, “You see anything?”

“Just some old boxes and junk. There’s a door here must lead out to the front hall.”

I heard him pull the door open. Suddenly, he cried out. “Hey, who are you?”

“Frank, Frank,” I shouted. “Who is it? What’s going on?”

I started toward the door but tripped over something and crashed to the floor. I felt a wrenching pain in my ankle.

“Al, it’s some guy going up the stairs carrying a candle. Hey, you, what—” Abruptly, Frank’s voice was cut off.

I pulled myself up, lurched from the kitchen, somehow found my way across the room to the door that Frank had just opened, and hobbled into the front hall. The flashlight lay on the floor, its feeble light barely outlining the first steps of the staircase.

“Frank? Where are you?” I called. “Frank? What happened? Damn it, Frank, where the hell are you?”

No answer. Defying the grip of fear urging me to get out of there fast, I picked up the flashlight and started up the stairs. He must have gone after whomever he saw. But why did he drop the flash? And why didn’t he answer my yells? I reached the second floor and limped down the hallway to the first door.

“Frank, you in there?” Again, no answer. I pushed open the door and circled the room with the flashlight beam. Empty. In a rising panic, I moved as quickly as my throbbing ankle would allow, and opened every door, every closet. All were empty. There was no sign of Frank or the man on the stairs. A flight of steps led up to a third floor, but my courage had reached its limit. I peered up into the deep darkness and shouted as loudly as I could, “Frank, you answer me. If you don’t, I’m leaving. Now.” Again, no answer. I turned and limped down the steps, my thoughts a mad mixture of fear, fantasy and even anger at Frank, who, for whatever reason, had left me alone in this dark, haunted house.

I reached the first floor, waited until the fast-rising fear overcame my concern for Frank; then, shouldering open the front door, I hobbled down the porch steps. I looked back one last time at the house, now a menacing, black silhouette against the starry sky. With the moonlight and my flashlight to guide me, I turned and made my way back toward town along the gravel road.

The next morning, a little ashamed of my panic the night before, I decided to go back and make a thorough search of the third floor. When I reached the old house, I saw the sheriff’s car parked in front. I walked up as casually as I could and asked the deputy, Joe Bender, what was up.

“Man down the road called this morning and said he saw a light in here last night. Say, you’re Don Cook’s kid, ain’t you? You’re buddies with that Dent fella. You seen him?”

“No, why?” I asked, playing dumb.

“Looking for him,” Bender said. I could see an unspoken question in Bender’s eyes, but before he could ask me anything else, the sheriff came out of the front door and walked down the steps.

“Should’ve torn this place down years ago,” he said, eyeing every step warily.

“See anything?” Bender asked.

“Went through it from top to bottom. Just trash and this.” He flipped Frank’s blue denim jacket to Bender. “Belongs to the Dent kid. This was in it.” The sheriff held up Frank’s wallet.

“Looks like he cut out real fast to leave that behind,” Bender said. Turning to me he added, “Somebody must’ve told him we were looking for him.”

“Well, he’s certainly gone now,” the sheriff said. “He’s probably halfway to Beckertown. I’ll call over there and have them keep an eye out.”

They climbed into the car, pulled down to the gravel road, and roared off around the bend. Now there was no reason to search the third floor. The sheriff said he’d been all through the house and still no Frank. Maybe Frank had just cut out, like the sheriff thought. But what about the man Frank had seen on the stairs? Had he been a hallucination? A ghost? A real person? And if Frank had run off, why would he have left so suddenly without saying anything to me and without his wallet? The questions buzzed through my head as I slowly walked home.

In the two years that followed, Frank and his whereabouts were forced to the back of my mind. No one had heard from him. The common theory was that Frank had run off like the sheriff said, and I had all but convinced myself of it—until the day I came home from Roanoke College to do some library research for a history paper.

My subject was pre-Civil War society. Since we had an honest-to-goodness ante-bellum house right in our town, I decided I would write about the Beauchamp family. After all, the venerable plantation-house kept intruding on my thoughts anyway.

Mrs. Holden, our librarian, turned up a collection of papers, letters, and other materials about the Beauchamps. The surviving descendants of the original Beauchamp family apparently had donated them to the library when they deserted our little town for other parts. No one, it seemed, had been into the musty, dust-covered portfolio for many years.

That evening, as I sorted through the material, I came upon a worn, ledger-like book, a journal belonging to Roger Beauchamp, the man who had built the Beauchamp house. I flipped through it, reading a paragraph here and a passage there. Then I came upon this entry, and with the help of Roger Beauchamp, the mystery of Frank’s disappearance was solved, at least for me:

September 16, 1864

This night a very perplexing occurrence baffles my comprehension, but I shall set it down as it happened. Perhaps tomorrow an explanation will be found. As bands of scavenging deserters have been reported in our vicinity, this evening I was especially careful to fasten every door and secure each window in the main house. I stationed Ben at the front door with a fowling piece and Hercules at the rear entrance with the dinner gong. At the first sign of trespass, they were to rouse the household to prepare for a defense of sorts. I had placed several rifles with ball and powder at various upstairs windows in preparation for such an emergency.

Earlier, I had sent Marie and the children to town for their safety. I had completed making a final check of the main floor, had snuffed the lamps, and was mounting the stairs by candlelight. About half-way up I had this uncanny feeling that someone was watching me. I turned and much to my amazement I saw a man, or rather a lad, standing at the foot of the stairs, staring up at me in the candle glow. Although I could see him mouthing words, I could hear no sound. Then suddenly he fell in a heap upon the floor in a swoon. I raced down the stairs and looked at him closely. He seemed to be about sixteen or seventeen years of age. His hair was trimmed in an unusual manner, and his clothing was, somehow, foreign. No one I have seen dresses in such a fashion. I thought at first that he might be a deserter and somehow had gotten past Ben and Hercules. Ben assured me that no one had gone past him. Hercules’ reply was the same. I checked every window, but each was still firmly fastened. Somehow, he had entered but I cannot perceive how.

As I write, three hours have passed since this occurrence, and the poor young devil has not uttered one sound. He sits upright, swaying gently, staring at nothing. He neither hears nor sees me. I am afraid he is quite deranged. Tomorrow I will fetch Doctor Alben to see him.

Now I sit here wondering who is he? Where did he come from and even more puzzling, how could he have appeared so suddenly and mysteriously in my own house when no one could have entered without our knowledge? It is as if he appeared out of nowhere like a ghostly apparition. Yet he is flesh and blood and as real as I. Seeing his present state of mind, however, I doubt that we shall ever know the true answer.

I set Beauchamp’s journal down ever so slowly. It was a wild, impossible idea. Unmistakably, it had been Frank that Beauchamp had written about, appearing suddenly in his front hall. I looked at the date of the entry, September 16, 1864. Frank and I had entered the house on September 16, the day before my eighteenth birthday, two years earlier.

Incredibly, the man Frank had seen going up the stairs had been Roger Beauchamp. In some crazy, inexplicable, instant shift in time, Frank had been transported back, out of the twentieth century forever. I had been part of an astounding, inconceivable event, but in the years since, I never told anyone. Who would believe it? Would you?

The End

The Mirror

He stared at the mirror, past the startled expression on his own face to the reflected image of the room beyond, a very pleasant room except for one thing—it was not the room he was in. He faced away from the mirror. Now, this was his room, the bedroom of the apartment he had occupied for the past three years, mussed bed attesting to his recent awakening, the window blind part-way up allowing morning sun to squeeze in, clothing of the day before hanging over the chair. He turned back to the mirror. Unbelievable! The room reflected there was not this room!

It was a large room, what he could see of it, with high walls of stone. Sunlight streamed through an open window within a narrow, arched, stone casement. A large tapestry hung on the wall. It was a room that looked as if it belonged to another era, he thought, in a castle, perhaps. And the room he was looking at did not seem like a painting or a still photograph. It felt as if he was actually there. He could see the sky beyond the window, and clouds were moving! A breeze was coming through the window because the tapestry on the same wall moved slightly. And then he saw something that made him think he really had lost it. Someone was coming into view!

It was a woman carrying a basket. A most beautiful woman, dressed in a long gown that looked to be green velvet trimmed in silver, something you might see in a movie about Henry VIII, he thought. Her hair, a reddish gold in the sunlight spilling through the window, was pulled back into a braid which hung down her back. She set the basket on the chair next to the window and stood looking out.

Maybe he was still sleeping, and this was a dream. He hurried into the bathroom and splashed cold water over his face. When he looked at the mirror above the sink all he saw was the familiar bathroom wall behind him. He appeared as he always did in the morning, dark hair ruffled, well- trimmed beard, body not bad for a thirty-year-old who did not exercise enough. It must have been a momentary hallucination or a remnant of a dream. He reentered the bedroom and turned on the radio. It was the early news, and that was real enough. Once more he looked at the mirror.

It was the room he had seen earlier, now empty. The beautiful woman was not in sight. He stared at the tapestry. The central motif of the tapestry was a coat of arms surrounded by intricately woven designs. On impulse he went to his night table, picked up the pad and pen he always kept there and returned to the dresser. As closely as he could, he copied the design. His drawing was rudimentary at best, but it did show the principal elements. Perhaps Leslie could discover the history of that coat of arms. It was Leslie’s hobby as well as part of his course work on English history. But why did he feel so compelled to identify the coat of arms? And who was that gorgeous woman? The whole thing was totally absurd.

He turned abruptly from the mirror vowing not to look at it again this morning. It would only affirm that he was going completely out of his mind. Today was a workday, after all, and he had to get to the university. Hastily he showered, shaved, dressed, and left the apartment, but not before tucking the drawing he had made into his jacket pocket. He spent the rest of the morning teaching his classes in Ethics in Journalism. It was not until lunch time that he remembered the drawing. He dialed Leslie’s office number.

“Les, John. How about lunch? I’ve got something for you to look up. The Heidelberg in ten minutes? I’ll see you there.”

He left the Journalism school building and crossed the Strollway to the restaurant, a local hangout for J-School students and instructors. Les was already at a booth when he arrived.

“Did you see the retraction the Bulletin made on that story about our esteemed senator allegedly using cocaine in his youth?” Les began. He always made a point of bringing up lapses in journalistic ethics. “The story made front page, but the retraction was on page 10. How’s that for ethical behavior.”

“I’m not about to defend the Bulletin’s news policies,” John replied. “And how come you’re so interested in newspaper ethics? I don’t go around pointing out the improprieties of 17th century English society.”

Les laughed. “That’s because you aren’t aware of them. Oh, the stories I can tell.”

“I’m sure you could.”

The waiter came and they ordered.

“I do have something that might interest you, though,” he said and drew the drawing he made from his pocket. Les made a show of pulling out his glasses and putting them on his rather prominent nose.

“Ah, a coat of arms. More accurately, a family crest.”

“Yes, and I was wondering if you can track it down for me in one of those giant, reference books I’ve seen you pouring over.”

“There are thousands of these, you know. First you must determine if it is English, French or from which region of Europe it came. Did you draw this?”

“I did, from a…an illustration I saw. I have no clue what country it’s from.” He was not ready to tell Les or anyone else about the freaky mirror encounter of this morning.

“Good thing you are a teacher of journalism, not art,” Les quipped. “Even though your scratches leave much to be desired, I believe it’s English, probably 16th or 17th century. I’ll check the registry and let you know.”

“Today?” he asked hopefully.

Les looked at him and shrugged. “Why not?”

At about 4:30 that afternoon his office phone interrupted the disagreeable task of grading final test papers, a task which had undergone multiple interruptions as his thoughts kept returning to the woman in the mirror.

“John Carruthers.”

“John, it’s Les. I think I’ve found your coat of arms, although I had a difficult time of it until I figured out that it’s the reverse of the real coat of arms, a mirror image you might say.”

That made sense since he drew it from a mirror image. Suddenly, a shiver of excitement coursed through him. If the coat of arms was authentic then the room in the mirror could be authentic as well…unless he saw that coat of arms somewhere in the past and his imagination dredged it up. “Whose coat of arms was it?”

“Belonged to a noble English family, one Sir Edmund Forsworth, Earl of Chatwyck. Don’t know much more than that however, except that the lineage goes back to 16th century England and probably beyond, but I have no more information. It’s a wonder I found the coat of arms this fast. Is that all you need?”

“Yes, and thanks. I appreciate your help, but then I knew if anyone could come up with it you could. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Forsworth. That name was familiar, but he could not place it. He shrugged and returned to grading the test papers.

Back at the apartment he hurried to the bedroom, flicked on the light, and looked in the mirror, hoping it had been a hallucination after all. He groaned. It was there, his mysterious room, but now it was dimly lit. The light from candles or a fireplace—he could not see which—flickered against the wall and the tapestry. The window was dark. If she were in the room she was beyond his viewpoint.

Beyond his viewpoint? The whole thing was beyond belief. He wished it would all disappear, and he could chalk it off as a strange dream of sorts. But then, he would not see her again. And he wanted to.

Suddenly, the room in the mirror grew a little brighter. She appeared carrying a candelabra. She was wearing a white gown with gold embroidery. Her hair was unbraided now and hung loosely across her shoulders and down her back. The soft candle glow gently lit her face as she turned toward the mirror. God, she was beautiful. So graceful. A moment later, she moved beyond the frame of the mirror.

Seeing a room was crazy enough but seeing a person in it? And looking forward to seeing her again? That was totally irrational. He must be going insane. He went to the linen closet and grabbed a sheet. Quickly he hung the sheet over the mirror. Out of sight, out of mind, he thought, a cliché that seemed to be so apt but so wrong because he could not get her out of his thoughts. That night, his dreams were filled with that enchanting face.

In the morning, he was tempted to peek behind the sheet which hung over the mirror, but he resisted. It would only confirm the belief that he might be going nuts. He smiled wryly. He could imagine the headline in the Bulletin: “Journalism Professor Found Raving about Magic Mirror.” He had a quick cup of coffee and left for the university.

He was looking for a reference book in the bookcase at his office when he noticed a slim volume among the books. The family history that Aunt Mary had written. I’ll be damned, he thought, that’s where I saw the name Forsworth. Hastily he opened the soft cover book and thumbed to the fold-out family tree. The genealogy report traced the Carruthers and the Marsh family back to its earliest beginnings in colonial America. And there was the name Forsworth. One William Forsworth, originally from England, had married Lucie Duchesne in Boston in 1756. They had one daughter, Eugenie, who married Jonathon Carruthers, and those two were the matriarch and patriarch of the Carruthers clan down to him, the last of the Carruthers to bear the name since all the other recent offspring had been women.

Now what was the significance of that, he wondered? Was it a coincidence that one of his ancestors was a Forsworth and that the coat of arms he had seen in the mirror belonged to a Forsworth family? Were they related? Was he related? Was the beautiful woman in the mirror a Forsworth?

He looked up Aunt Mary’s number and called her on his cell phone.

“Hi, Aunt Mary, it’s John. How are you?

“Johnnie, it’s good to hear from you. Everything’s OK, I hope?”

“Fine. I was just looking at your family history and wondered if you ever researched the Forsworth family in England?”

“No, I spent all my time on our family here, but I meant to do it someday. Odd that you brought that up. I recently had a letter from a woman in England who wanted information on the descendants of William Forsworth and that would, of course, be our extended family. I haven’t responded yet.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to pursue the English part of the family history, and I’d like that woman’s name and her regular address or an email address if you have one. Just email it back to me. You still have mine?”

“I do, and I will send you everything I have on William Forsworth. It’s not much, but it will give you some basic information and dates to start with.”

“Thanks, Aunt Mary. Give my best to Uncle Pete. I’ve got to get to my class now, so take care.”

That evening, he looked over the information Aunt Mary had forwarded. The woman in England was one Ellen Denton. He emailed her, attaching the data about his ancestor and a copy of the family tree, asking her to get back to him with information on the English Forsworths.

Before retiring for the night, he decided to look behind the sheet over the mirror. He saw only darkness even though his own room lights were on. He wondered if his mysterious lady would appear. He could not get her image out of his mind. All day long he had found it difficult to concentrate on teaching, his thoughts drifting to the mirror. He was reminded of the film Laura and how the portrait of Gene Tierney had captivated Dana Andrews. He stared at the darkened mirror for a long time, hoping to see her again, then replaced the sheet, climbed into bed, and turned off the lamp.

This bizarre phenomenon had captured him completely, he thought. If he wasn’t nuts, then it was the strangest adventure he, or anyone else, ever had. And if he were going nuts, then he’d better keep it all to himself for a while—until he really needed professional help. But he certainly missed seeing the woman in green velvet.

Ellen Denton replied the next day. It was Saturday and he had spent the time tidying up his apartment before checking his email. The brief information she forwarded disclosed that William Forsworth was a direct descendant of Sir Edmund Forsworth,

“There were other male heirs to the name,” she wrote, “but over the centuries the progeny of subsequent generations was limited in number and they often died in youth. In fact, the last two English heirs to bear the Forsworth name died without leaving any children at all. One had been a gay fellow and the other had been married but childless. Of the descendants who were offspring of other branches of the lineage, the last two males of English heritage died in World War II as young, unmarried men. There were, and are, female descendants here in England and elsewhere. In fact, your Aunt Mary is one of them.

“One other point of interest. Forsworth Castle is a landmark in the countryside of Kent, southeast of London. It was built by Sir Edmund Forsworth at the time of Elizabeth I. In the early 1800s, it was sold off to Henry Bartholomew, Earl of Bainbridge and lived in by the Bartholomew family up until the last thirty years or so, then left in disrepair. It was recently restored by descendants of the Earl and now is having a gala reunion of all Forsworth and Bartholomew descendants. The date is May 28. I forwarded your name and address to them since you are one of those descendants, and you should be receiving a formal invitation. I realize that time is short, and you are in the United States, but if you could make it, I am certain you would have a wonderful time.”

He promptly emailed his thanks for the fast work, then sat back and thought about what she had written. It was amazing that he was related directly to the owner of the coat of arms, but go to England for a reunion of sorts? Ridiculous, he thought. It was only twelve days away. School would be out in two days. That would leave ten days to make the arrangements and arrive. Impossible.

He walked into the bedroom and looked at the draped mirror. Should he take another peek? He had refrained from doing so all morning although the urge was almost overwhelming. I have my own unexplainable fantasy in real time right here in my own apartment, he thought, and for a sci-fi nut like me, that’s paradise. He pulled the sheet to one side and looked at the reflected room. She was there, the beautiful lady, seated in the chair beside the open window. She appeared to be embroidering or sewing. Sunlight poured through the window and filled the room with its brightness.

Who are you, my lady? he wondered. Are you a Forsworth wife or daughter who lived in this castle centuries ago? By the look of your fine gown, you must be. And if this is a room in that Forsworth castle, wouldn’t it be something to really see it in person? How strange would that be?

“No stranger than seeing it now in my mirror,” he said aloud. As if she had heard his voice, the woman in the mirror turned and looked directly at him, or at someone else in that room, and smiled.

He reached his hand out and touched the mirror and when he did the reflected room and the beautiful lady vanished. All he saw was his bedroom behind him, and a stunned look on his own reflection. My god, he thought, what just happened? Have I returned to my senses suddenly? Was it all my overactive imagination? Have I been dreaming the entire time after all and finally awakened? That must be it. It was all a dream. Everything. The coat of arms, the beautiful lady, the castle. The castle? The information from Ellen Denton. Was that part of the dream, too?

He ran into the next room to his computer. There beside it was the email he had printed out. From Ellen Denton. It was not a dream. He had really seen that room, everything. But now it was gone. That night he did dream of the room and the lovely woman in it, and for the entire day on Sunday he could think of nothing else.

On Monday he decided that he must go to that castle in England if only to see if the mirror-room were really there. He called Aunt Mary and told her about the reunion and asked if she wanted to go with him. She declined but told him to take a lot of photographs. On Wednesday, the invitation came. He would be staying at the castle, no need for hotel reservations. But one thing puzzled him. In his confirmation reply, he noted that he was to include his suit size, height, waist and chest measurements, shirt and shoe sizes. Were they planning to fit him out in a new set of clothes? No matter. The entire situation was puzzling. Dutifully, he emailed the information to the address enclosed.

Late on May 27, he arrived, having slept nearly the entire trip on the plane. He and his fellow passengers were passing through customs when he heard his name being paged. “Mr. John Carruthers, please report to the British Airlines Desk in the main terminal.”

At the desk, he introduced himself to the clerk who waved to a tall, uniformed man. The man walked up to him. “Welcome to London, Mr. Carruthers,” he said, “I am Wilson. From the castle. I’ll take your bag, sir, and if you will follow me, we will soon be on our way.”

The afternoon ride through the English countryside was everything he had read about. Once out of sprawling London, numerous small towns and tiny villages followed one another in quick succession. When they passed through the quaint village of Merrydale in the County of Kent, the driver informed him that if he looked to the west, he would see the stone walls of the castle rising from the rocky crag upon which it was built.

“The castle was formerly an old Norman keep,” the driver explained, “given to Lord Forsworth by Queen Elizabeth when she bestowed the Earldom upon him as a reward for his efforts in the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588.”

In a few minutes they pulled up a long drive to a gated entry in the massive wall, guarded by twin stone towers. A real castle, he marveled, small by comparison to the well-known castles such as Windsor, Leeds and others, the driver had explained. Nevertheless, it was the first castle he had ever seen up close, and he was impressed. Once inside, he was even more impressed since the castle had been restored to what must have been its best years during Queen Elizabeth’s reign.

A man in costume greeted him upon his arrival, checked his name against a list, informed him that his luggage would be taken to his room and directed him to a desk in the great hall. There, a stout woman, also handsomely costumed, gave him a name tag and a program.

“This evening’s dinner will be held in the Great Hall,” she said, “and we are suggesting that everyone come dressed in Elizabethan costume which we will furnish. Of course, if you prefer not, a suit and tie will do fine. But it will be oh so much more fun if you dress.” She looked at him with a questioning smile on her face.

“Is everyone dressing up in costume?” he asked.

“So far everyone has chosen to join in the spirit of the occasion.”

“Well, then so will I,” he said.

“Excellent. If you will follow Mr. Sims here, he will take you to the fitting room.”

A half hour later, he emerged, a little self-consciously, fully dressed in regal Elizabethan splendor from high, lacy collar down to silken hose and leather shoes. Mr. Sims directed him to a grand staircase.

“Mr. Corruthers, you will find your room on the second floor, the door will be tagged with your name. Sorry, no lifts to take you up. Wouldn’t be fitting for a castle, you know.”

He smiled and thanked Mr. Sims for his help, then mounted the impressive, stone staircase to the second-floor corridor. As he walked down the hall, he passed an open door and glanced in. On the far wall hung a tapestry. He stopped in amazement. It was his tapestry, the very same one in his mirror-room, coat of arms and all. On impulse, he walked through the door into the room. THE room…the room he had seen in his mirror. He stopped short. There was someone else in the room, a woman in costume looking out the window.

“Excuse me,” he said aloud. “I didn’t know there was anyone else in here.” The woman turned. My God, he thought. The woman in the mirror. Shorter hair style, no braid, but with that same extraordinarily beautiful face. He was staring, he knew it, and the beginnings of a smile on her face had turned to a surprised expression, as well.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just passing by and saw that tapestry on the wall and…”

She did smile then and interrupted. “No need to apologize. Actually, I wandered in here myself, so we are both trespassers. I’m Ellen Denton.” She extended her hand.

“I know you,” he said about to blurt out his secret, then caught himself, “I mean, I’ve corresponded with you. I’m John Carruthers from the States.”

“Mr. Carruthers. John. Last of the Forsworth male descendants. I am so happy you could make the trip. I recognized you immediately.”

“But how? We’ve never met.”

She hesitated a moment then took his hand and led him to the far end of the room, the part he never saw reflected in his mirror.

“Look,” she said pointing to two portraits hanging on the wall. One was the woman in his mirror and the other was a likeness of himself, beard a little fuller, hair longer and styled in the fashion of the day, but unmistakably him, painted in a stiff pose in full Elizabethan dress.

“Meet Sir Edmund Forsworth and Lady Enid, his wife, your ancestors…and mine.” Miss Denton said.

“Obviously, you’re a descendant. You look so much like her…only more alive, just like in the mirror!” He had not meant to say the last part. It just spilled out. She looked at him oddly. And no wonder, he thought, talking about his mirror. How could he explain that?

“You, too?” she whispered. “I thought I was the only one going balmy.”

“You mean, you’ve had this weird thing with the mirror, too?”

“This room reflected in my bedroom mirror, yes, and Sir Edmund walking through every so often. I thought I was going truly mad.”

“And I saw you, or rather Lady Enid, in this room. It’s why I came here.”

“I also and thank goodness you did. We cannot both be mad now, can we?”

“I hope not, but I can’t explain any of it, about the mirrors, I mean, and how we both resemble those portraits,” he said. “Does that make us cousins, or something?”

“Many, many, many times removed. You are descended from the only son of those two, and I am descended from the only daughter.”

“Unbelievable,” he said.

“I…I’m even afraid to say this aloud, but I am beginning to believe that fate brought us here to meet,” Ellen said. “Perhaps they had something to do with it?” They both looked up at the pair of portraits.

“It could be. Must be. I was certainly drawn to her when she appeared in my mirror,” he said. “I could not get her image out of my mind. She was a stunning woman, and you are her mirror image.”

Ellen laughed. “An appropriate phrase, mirror image, for you are Sir Edmond in appearance, and I must confess, I was quite taken with him and very disappointed when my mirror turned to normal.”

“Well, we have the rest of the week to mull it over,” he said. “but I think we should keep the mirror episodes to ourselves, don’t you?”

“Quite,” Ellen replied. “We know we’re not balmy, but everyone else would consider us so.”

“Shall we explore the rest of our castle before dinner, Lady Enid?”

“Indeed yes, my lord,” she replied.

In the spirit of Elizabethan gallantry, he offered her his arm. She took it with a little curtsy. At the door, he looked back into the room, now so familiar to him, a room he would remember every time he looked into a mirror.

The End

The Journal of Nathaniel Goodwin

The letter claimed he had plagiarized an old family journal for his newly published novel, but that was impossible. He had outlined the characters and the plot as he always did before doing any research on the period. He had gone over his copious notes thoroughly and could not find anything that approached even inadvertent copying. As a leading author of historic novels, he abhorred plagiarism. He refolded the letter, put it back into his suit-jacket pocket, and stared out the window of the taxi.

A short time later, they pulled up in front of a white, brick and frame two-story home on a block of similar, mid-century homes. The street was lined with pin oaks now beginning to shed their leaves. He had flown here to meet the woman, Mrs. Mary Dorn, writer of the letter, to see the proof she said she had. He could have let his lawyer handle this, but she was not demanding compensation of any kind nor even hinting at a lawsuit.

Mary Dorn answered the doorbell. She was an attractive woman about his age, mid-thirties, he thought, auburn hair in a short cut, bright blue eyes that stared at him for a long moment.

“Mrs. Dorn, I’m John Rand. I believe you were expecting me,” he said.

“Mr. Rand, please come in.”

She led him into a large, tastefully furnished living room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filled completely, flanking a brick fireplace. She motioned for him to be seated on the gray-striped couch and sat down at the other end. On the coffee table in front of the couch lay an old, worn, journal, a picture-frame face down, and a copy of his novel, The Challenge.

“Mr. Rand,” she began, “I wrote you because your book and this journal which has been in our family for generations contained unexplainable similarities.”

“And I am here to find out why, Mrs. Dorn. I assure you I have never seen that journal, although I would like very much to do so. I’m a purist and abhor plagiarism in any form.”

She reached over and picked up the journal, opened it to the first page and showed it to Rand, pointing to a title written in fine, even elegant, penmanship.

The Journal of

Nathaniel Goodwin

Begun this day,

March 14, 1881

He gawked at the page in disbelief. Could that be the real journal or an elaborate hoax? Nathaniel Goodwin was the name of his protagonist in the novel. Doctor Nathaniel Goodwin. It was the name he had chosen from the very beginning after considering a number of other names.

“He was my fourth-great-grandfather,” Mrs. Dorn explained, “born in 1852, died in 1920. This is his journal. Now, look at this.”

She carefully turned some pages, yellowed with age, and showed the top line on the page to Rand.

July 5th, 1882, Sommerville, Ohio

Rand was startled even further. Sommerville was the name he had used in the novel. He had jotted down a list of possible names for the fictional town in the book, and selected Sommerville. Incredible that it appears in this journal.

“Now read the first line on this page that Great Grandfather Nathaniel wrote,” she said.

Two events mark this day in my life. I turned 30 years old, and it was the first day of my practice, taking over for Dr. Boland.

“Unbelievable,” Rand blurted out. “How could that be? Same town, same age, even ‘Dr. Boland’ was the name I used.”

“Now read this entry,” Mrs. Dorn said, after turning more pages.

Today I was introduced to a beautiful young woman, a nurse-companion for ailing Mrs. Duffy. Her name is Abigail Bellows. I was instantly taken with her, and I intend to see her again and often.

“And now he mentions Abigail Bellows, the same name as the woman in my character’s life. That is baffling,” Rand said, thoroughly shaken by these disclosures.

“That’s precisely why I wrote to you. I couldn’t understand the similarities, either.”

“More than similarities. Exact duplications! Are you certain this is the same journal handed down in your family?”

“It’s never left my possession since my father died four years ago, and it’s never been printed or copied.”

“Mrs. Dorn, someone who has read this journal must have influenced me in some way. It’s the only sensible explanation, although I can’t imagine how that could be possible.”

“Neither can I. But I believe the answer is not a sensible one but more likely supernatural, a subject that has always interested me,” Mrs. Dorn said. “However, there is more than the words written in this journal. I must show you something I never knew until I bought your book.”

She turned over the picture frame on the coffee table so that he could see the photograph in it. It was an old sepia-toned photograph of a man dressed in the Victorian fashion of the day.

“This is Great Grandfather Nathaniel’s portrait,” she said.

Again, Rand was astounded beyond belief. The face in that old photograph was his own face in the same pose as the photo on the book jacket of his novel. Same eyes, same nose, mouth, short beard and mustache, his features with one minor difference…the man’s hair in the portrait was parted more in the center than his own 2020 style.

“My Lord, he exclaimed, “I look exactly like Nathaniel Goodwin.”

“Yes, it’s uncanny, but true. You must be genetically related somehow.”

“But how could that be? Even if I were related genetically, and I doubt it, how could I know exactly what he had written in his journal about a hundred-forty years ago?”

“The only explanation, Mr. Rand, is that there is no logical explanation, so it has to be paranormal. In some strange, mystifying way, you not only share Great Grandfather’s looks, but shared his life and thoughts as well.”

Rand was silent, his mind awhirl. Finally, he spoke.

“I am thoroughly astounded by all this, Mrs. Dorn, but relieved that it isn’t a case of plagiarism…at least, not in the conventional sense,” he said with a wry smile.

“I, too. And Mr. Rand…John,” she added with her first smile since their encounter, “welcome to the family.”

The End

Madame Pompadour’s Bracelet

To: Municipal Museum Curator Johnson or his successor

Dear Sir,

If you are reading this letter, then I, Henry Fish, am now in heaven or hell sent there by whoever makes such decisions. I was a docent in the museum forty-five years ago. This letter and the object I enclosed with it concern an event that happened in the museum, an event so odd that I have kept it a secret all these years. You might dismiss it as nonsense, but please believe me, it happened just as I will describe, almost word-for-word.

On October 6, 1974, after the museum had closed for the night, I was making my final rounds of the period rooms in the lower level. The period rooms were my responsibility as docent, and I loved the ambience of those displays. I was just twenty-six-years-old, working on my PHD degree in European History at the university and lucky enough to have qualified for the docent job. I must add, however, that Mrs. Shawmett who was Assistant Curator at the time, had admonished me for falling asleep on the job, and I was warned that if it happened again, I would be terminated. Unfortunately, I suffered from a form of narcolepsy, sometimes but rarely resulting in sudden uncontrollable periods of sleep.

On this night, I entered the French period room, my favorite since my ancestors hailed from France a century ago. As you might know, the French period room at that time was an exact reconstruction of Madame Pompadour’s spacious boudoir in the Evreux mansion in Paris where she had lived after she was no longer King Louis XV’s mistress but still his best friend and advisor. In fact, after she died and the place reverted back to the crown, her quarters, especially the boudoir, were carefully removed piece by piece together with a plan for reconstruction, plus all of her clothing, jewelry and furnishings, and were preserved at Versailles at the King’s direction.

After the French Revolution, the entire Pompadour unit was taken to the Louvre and eventually sold to our museum. That room was exactly as it had been when Madame Pompadour occupied the space, down to such trivial things as her rouge box and make-up brushes. I have included these details to help you understand what happened long ago.

On that evening in the Pompadour room, I suddenly became very drowsy, the onset of the narcolepsy I described earlier. I sat down upon one of the small divans in the room. The next thing that occurred, I was awakened by voices approaching. When I opened my eyes, I was shocked to see that I was in the Pompadour room, but it had drastically changed. The drapery had all been pulled open, and sunlight poured into the room, something that could not possibly happen in the lower level of the museum. I looked out the window which in the museum had been a fake area lit by electric lights and saw elaborate gardens. I knew these to be the actual gardens of the Hotel d’Evreaux which later became the French President’s Palace where I had once visited on a day it had been open to the public. I was astounded, but I was to be astounded even more.

I looked back into the room. An easel stood in one corner, and artist’s brushes and an array of paints were on a table beside it. On the easel a painting rested, a portrait of Madame Pompadour by Boucher. I recognized it immediately since a copy of it hung in the museum’s French room. I turned to the door, just as two people entered the room, fully dressed in the fashion of the day. Wonder upon wonders, I recognized a living, breathing version of the lady on the canvas in the corner, Madame Pompadour herself, in conversation with a man wearing a powdered wig and a smock covering his costume. I assumed this to be Francois Boucher, the artist. They both stopped short when they saw me.

Boucher, to his credit, stepped protectively in front of Madame Pompadour. “Monsieur,” he said. “What are you doing here. These are private quarters.”

He spoke in French, naturally. Believing this to be some sort of strange dream, I answered in French since I am fluent in the language and said the first thing that popped into my mind to explain my presence, “I am so sorry. I just blundered in, taking a wrong turn after being told where to go. I have come to see Madame Pompadour.”

“I am she,” the woman said. “And what business do you have with me?”

What could I say? I was completely bewildered. But I knew the historic period well and managed to stammer out a reply that might explain why I was there.

“Madame, I have come from New France, and they informed me at Versailles that you are quite interested in what is going on there, and that I should see you since the King is otherwise occupied.”

“You are on official business, then?”

“Ah, no, Madame. I am but a loyal French citizen even though I was born over there,” I said, thinking that I was getting in too deep with my little lie. What else could I do? Here I was in my twentieth-century suit and tie, so much out of place in this elegant room with its lavish, rococo furnishings, trembling before two people who apparently really belonged here.

“And do all people where you come from dress as oddly as you are dressed?” she said with a small smile on that quite recognizable face which had beguiled the King of France for many years. “No powdered wig? No silks and satins? You are not nobility then?”

“Just a humble citizen, Madame,” I said.

“I do not admit it often,” she said, “but my title of Marquise was given to me by the King. I, too, was born out of the nobility.”

That, of course, I knew, and I was becoming a little more confident in my lie, since I was well-studied in this period of European history with its Seven Years War, and the rivalry in North America between France, England, and Spain.

“Well then…what shall I call you?” she continued.

“My name is Henry Poisson, Madame.” I gave the French word for fish as my surname, for that is what my family had done in reverse when they had come to America.

“Poisson. Why that was my birth name. We might be relatives, eh?”

“Many, many times removed, if at all,” I answered.

“Well Henry, you sit there on that divan while I re-pose myself for Monsieur Boucher, my favorite artist. The portrait is almost complete, just some small details, eh Francois?”

“A few touches here and there, Madame,” Boucher said and lifted his pallet and brushes.

She settled herself in the pose which must have been quite familiar to her by now, arm raised and holding a rouge brush as if she had just applied rouge to her face. In reality, the rouge on her face was quite too much, I thought, and the make-up too thick. Boucher had artfully made her image on the canvas more youthful than her thirty-seven years. I knew that the Marquise had suffered from various debilitating illnesses throughout her life and she would die at age forty-two, but in the painting, her skin was creamy, no wrinkles, her eyes a bit larger than actuality. However, she was quite attractive even now, though she had ceased to be the King’s primary paramour but remained his best friend and confidante.

She sat there in a white peignoir with lacy edges, gathered at the throat by a pink bow, with matching pink accents at the bodice. On her wrist she wore a cameo bracelet with the background a pink to match her other accents.

“Henry, what do you think of France’s position in that vast land across the ocean where you are from? I have heard from our General Montcalm that our forces have defeated the British in a number of battles,” she asked me.

I knew, of course, that the British had ultimately defeated the French in that war, and in a number of years from this year of 1758, for that was the year Boucher had painted this portrait, France would cede to England and Spain its New France territory in Canada and also what would become the United States. She, however, had no inkling of the coming events.

“There is much turmoil in my part of the world, Madame,” I began, warming up to my newly invented persona in this weird dream. “As you know, the British outnumber the French in both colonials and in the size of armies.”

“But we have convinced the native tribes to fight with us. They are fearful warriors, I understand. Shouldn’t that be in our favor?”

“Madame,” I explained, drawing from my real position as a historian who knew how that war had ended, “The British forces on the continent are well-trained, well-armed and experienced. The red men who fight with France are fearful, yes, but the British and the colonialists seem to have the edge, I fear.”

“War, war, war!” Boucher interjected. “When the Gods warred, it was romantic to talk about, to depict. When common mankind goes to war, it is madness. Blood is not beautiful.”

“Ah Boucher, you seek beauty in all things,” Madame said. “But war is necessary to protect one’s ideals, the interests of the kingdom. However, it is not as exciting as I had once thought. Had I the means to change time around, I think now I would not have been so persuasive with Louis to join forces with Austria,” she said thoughtfully. “But now let us cease speaking of war.”

She turned to me. “Henry, I noticed you staring at my bracelet. Beautiful is it not? The cameo of my King Louis. It was my friend and teacher Jaques Guay who created this bauble. I, too, dabble in creating cameos. I have the latest lathe in my studio. Here, look at the fine workmanship, carved in the finest sardonyx.”

She handed me the bracelet. “Beautiful,” I said, knowing that the original had never been found after her death. Some say it was destroyed or stolen in the Revolution when the palace at Versailles was raided. It was a masterpiece.

“Madame is a fine artist in her own right,” Boucher said. “She has made engravings that I would be proud to call my own.”

I had seen some of her engravings, three of which were on exhibit in our museum, and while not masterpieces, did show extraordinary talent. By any measure, Madame Pompadour was much more than “the King’s whore,” as the populace called her.

“Francois,” she said. “I am getting tired. Are you finished?”

“We can come back later, Madame. So, now show me your latest etching.”

“Monsieur Poisson, why don’t you come with us?” she said, rising from her pose.

I began to get up from the divan when I became suddenly dizzy and abruptly sat back down.

“Young man, is something wrong? Are you ill?” she asked.

“Fatigued from my recent voyage,” I improvised realizing that I might be having another narcolepsy attack. Was that even possible in a dream when you are already sleeping, I remember thinking?

“Well, then, rest here. We shall return shortly,” she said to me.

They exited. The next thing I knew I was in the same room, sitting on the same divan, but this time there was no bright sunlight. I was back in the museum in the French room, the re-constructed boudoir of Madame Pompadour. It really had been a dream, I surmised. An elaborate dream fed by my exuberant imagination and caused by my deplorable narcolepsy, but so real.

Then I looked down and in my hand was Madame Pompadour’s bracelet just as she had handed it to me, the Jacques Guay bracelet with the cameo of Louis XV. I was stunned beyond all belief. If it were all a dream, how could that be? There was no explanation. So, for all these years I have kept this extraordinary event a secret. My secret until now.

Please take the bracelet accompanying this letter and have it authenticated. You will find that it is not a reproduction or a fake. It is real. How you explain obtaining it for the museum is a problem you must solve. I never could.

Respectfully,

Henry Fish

The End

More books by Edward Farber

Echoes of Clara Avenue

A Collection of Short Stories

Available as an E-book

Take a stroll along an old, decaying, city neighborhood with its now-empty, silent hulks and imagine the people who lived there through the years. That is precisely what author Edward Farber does in his new collection of short stories, Echoes of Clara Avenue. Now, the houses that remain await the wrecking ball, but as the old saying goes, oh what stories they could tell.

The author deftly weaves the stories together in a rewarding mix to remind us that old neighborhoods with their once-grand houses or lowly flats have stories to tell, and fictional Clara Avenue is like many older neighborhoods, perhaps like yours, where “people moved in, played a portion of their lives there, and moved away—a constant stream—emulating the continuum of life itself.”

After reading your copy of Echoes of Clara Avenue, a fast, enjoyable read, you’ll wonder about the people you’ve never met on your own block and what stories they might have to tell.

Looking Back with a Smile

Bits and Pieces of a Lifetime

A humorous memoir available as an E-book

There’s a chuckle on every page of Looking Back with a Smile as the author recollects in brief but entertaining anecdotes (bits and pieces) of a life that has spanned more than seven decades. Bits and pieces are what they are. Quick looks at what he calls an “ordinary” life, each served up with a laugh.

You’ll enjoy a merry romp through growing up during the Depression and wartime 1940’s, the transitions from grade school to high school to college to the military and, finally, to marriage, kids and grandkids. On the way we also laugh about pets, secretaries, bugs in the BOQ, being a canine midwife, and many more incidents and observations, all dished out with warmth and wit.

Coming Soon

Gambler’s Luck and Other Short Stories

Another collection of short stories by master story-teller Edward Farber. He writes about this volume: “…the collection is a medley of situations and characters, drawn from my own eclectic view of life, both serious and humorous.” At one end of the spectrum is “Faith,” a highly dramatic allegory, and at the other end, the laugh-out-loud tale of a cow and a flood in “The Five-Step Flood.” In between are more delightful stories that make this book one you will love to read and pass on to others.

Baron and Brannigan, Volume 1

A Novel of the 1890s

Enjoy the erratic adventures of Billy Brannigan and Daniel Baron as they move from Doc Noble’s medicine show to minstrel show and finally to the gas lit stages of New York’s music halls and variety theaters, only to find mayhem and misfortune thwarting their plans. On the way, they meet willing showgirls, zany songwriters, and real celebrities of the Gilded Age in the early 1890s including songwriter Monroe “Rosie” Rosenfeld, famous minstrel George Primrose, empresario Tony Pastor, and champion boxer John L. Sullivan in a walk-on role. Billy finds romance with Lily Langford, and Daniel pines for Claire Noble, but they both discover that love, like life, seldom follows the chosen path.

Brannigan’s Quest

Baron & Brannigan, Volume 2

If you liked Baron and Brannigan, you will love the sequel, Brannigan’s Quest. His search for success on the stage thwarted, Billy Brannigan employs all the ballyhoo he learned from Doc Noble in the medicine show to seek fame and fortune. This time, it is old New York’s world of song writing and music publishing that challenges him and Daniel Baron, partners once again. And, once again, we meet Lily Langford, Monroe “Rosie” Rosenfeld, Claire Noble and many other colorful characters you enjoyed in Baron and Brannigan.

It is Billy’s relentless pursuit of money and respect that spurs him on to success although the cost is great—lost love, failed partnership, intense personal conflict, even a murder charge.

Watch for The Rover, a Novella,

Prequel to Baron & Brannigan, Volume 1,

Coming Soon

Doc Noble is proprietor of the Elixir of the Incas medicine show.We meet him in the opening chapters of Baron & Brannigan, Vol. I and delight in his story-telling, his strong character, and his concerns for both Billy and Daniel. The Rover takes us back to Doc’s early adventures beginning with the end of the Civil War and the events that helped shape his later years.