Page 34 of A Pack of Pumpkins
Ineverusedthelibrary 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 donotmention 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.
They 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.
Bram
I’vebeengoingovermicrofilm for the years listed on the four graves. It quickly becomes obvious what happened when I found the ferry accident on the exact day the members of the Blackthorn Pack died. Back then, ferry travel was a fairly common form of transportation, with cars still a luxury reserved for the wealthy. I had to research 1900's transportation for a book once. All the names from the tombstones were on the passenger manifest.
Except Finian’s.
So I work backward on a hunch. Sure enough, Finian’s name is on the manifest for the same ship, but from a year and a half prior. Then his name appears again on documents kicking off the construction of a large Victorian-style house.
Pieces begin falling into place. I brace myself as I load the microfilm for the newspaper clippings from the date of Finian’s death and the days that followed. My heart sinks as I read the headlines.
“Bram, I found the three members of Finian’s pack. They were on a ferry. It doesn’t look like they made it.” Clara’s voice is slightly raspy, like she’s holding back tears, and it guts me. It also doesn’t make what I’m about to tell her any easier.
“That’s the same wreck Victor and Dagan are working on for their series.” Her eyes widen, the air between us sharpening. “I found something over here too,” I add carefully.
I explain about Finian being on the manifest the year before, and the permits for the house.
“So, you think Finian was sent by his pack first? To build them a home? And then, when they finally came, they perished in a boating accident en route?” she puzzles out.
I nod.
Something in my expression must give away that I’m still holding something back, because she straightens, eyes narrowing slightly.
“What else?”
I take a deep breath and pull out the chair next to hers. Reaching out, I tuck a stray black curl behind her ear and run my knuckles along her smooth cheek. She turns her face into my touch, scent-marking me.
I can’t help but lean in and nuzzle just behind her ear. Her apple pie scent blossoms beneath my touch and I savor it. I know that it’s going to sour with the next thing I say.
“The headline in the newspaper the day after Finian’s death was ‘Local Recluse Jumps from Bluff’.” Could this be the spirit that destroyed Victors room?
My little ghost’s scent immediately turns bitter, burnt sugar and charred pie. A tear slips down her cheek and I can’t help but swoop forward and kiss it away. The salt mixes with her apple pie skin in a delicious swirl.
