PREFACE
The old dirt road was at the edge of the park in the small town within the Northeastern Pennsylvania area. To an outsider, it seemed innocuous, shrouded in trees while stretching down toward the Road Closed sign that guarded an even deeper brush. Brush shrouding the lore and legend of that surrounding land.
Among such lore was a tale of pale blue mist that after nightfall, arose from the ground and became especially dense during a full moon. Celestial orbs also danced about, casting their light while weaving in and out of the swirling mist.
During the day, one might see individuals walking, jogging, and biking along this path. After sunset, however, not a soul could be found and those that might attempt would turn back rather quickly, often for a reason unexplainable.
On this night during the Spring Equinox, the moon was full, lighting up the path as the mist started to arise and dance. Few cars were passing by, usually with the driver keeping his or her eyes forward, though every so often, a certain curious folk might try catching sight of the legendary mist.
Midnight passed, and the hours inched their way closer to daybreak. Then another month would pass, and the road remaining still as someone lying in wait.
THE MOONLIT PATH
One month later during the summer solstice
A small smile brushed over Marissa’s lips as she drove beneath the full moon. After her most recent musical gig, she was finally headed home. Her adrenaline still rushed from the excitement of the event as the crowd in attendance had been quite expressive in their enthusiasm. In this moment, she felt as if nothing could touch her, a feeling she normally had and enjoyed following a gig.
Still dressed in early Renaissance era attire (driving in a corset had become a mastered art form) and her small harp and other music equipment in the trunk, she took in the night scenery surrounding her vehicle as she continued the drive to her apartment. It was in that moment that the Wentworth House entered her mind.
The house had been built in the late 18th century by John Wentworth and his wife Flora. It had been inhabited by four generations of families and became a historical landmark and museum in the early 1980s. Now, Marissa served as the museum’s Events Director. Back in March, she finished training the new living history interpreters and the staff was enjoying another successful season so far, sharing history with the world. It was also Marissa’s passion for history that fueled many of her choices in life.
With the Wentworth House’s forthcoming events running through her mind, she turned onto the road leading into the park she frequently jogged at. The park with the infamous Blue Mist Road.
Slowing the car down to the 25 mile per hour speed limit, she turned on her high beams, noting the eeriness of the surrounding dark woods. It certainly seemed a different world from what she knew during the daylight.
Such an observation sent a chill down her body as her car continued crawling along the road until that certain dirt path came into view.
Marissa’s breath caught in her throat as she recalled the many times on which she jogged along the various paths within the park. Every time, it seemed, she felt almost compelled toward the blue mist path of legend, as though she were being beckoned - or perhaps even summoned.
In some instances, she would give in and make her way to the road, her steps growing slower despite the energy that seemed to tug at her, urging her feet onto the dirt. At about a quarter of the way down, an odd sense of comfort would seep in, along with a contrasting uneasy feeling of being watched. This was typically when she would turn back. One day this past week, however, she decided to try making it down to the ROAD CLOSED sign. She made it halfway when that sensation of being watched started crawling in. And there was not another soul on the path.
Marissa continued down, determined to make it to the brush that was at the end when her breath grew short and a lightheadedness washed over her like a tidal wave. She tried pushing forward, but the nausea became almost unbearable. She turned back, moving up the path as quickly as she was able.
As she neared the entrance, the unpleasant sensation faded and by the time she returned to the path, it had ceased entirely.
Marissa thought about that ROAD CLOSED sign and what lay beyond there. A few of her friends interested in the paranormal talked of getting together one night to venture all the way down and into those woods. Over the years, several paranormal investigation teams had set up equipment along the path, searching for anything that might indicate truth within the legends. The usual was often found, including orbs on camera, audible whispers, wavers in the air and detection of energy. To believers, such findings indicated forces beyond the human world and was just enough to excite locals.
Now as Marissa’s vehicle approached that dirt path, her foot moved to tap the brake, pulling the car over onto the shoulder at the entrance. Without much thought, she turned the keys, taking them from the ignition. The engine went silent and she felt a slight chill.
Part of her wanted to start the car again and drive until she reached her apartment building, and her logical mind screamed at her to do just that. But instead, her hand gripped the door handle, hearing that clicking sound as her thumb brushed the unlock button.
Marissa opened the door, allowing in the night air. She stepped out, her late Medieval era leather shoes touching the dirt and pebbles on the ground. Night air attempted to penetrate her gown, weaving through her corset as a light breeze moved the hem. Her eyes gazed down the path, narrowing slightly as what appeared to be a blue mist formed several feet away.
The stories surrounding the mysterious blue mist raced through her mind as she stood frozen on the edge of the path. Stories telling of how the mist was a doorway to other worlds, a gateway for beings from the beyond. Some lore told of the mist housing these moving portals, including one that possibly gave way to time travel.
One of the more prominent legends told of the kissing tombstones. At certain times during a full moon (typically on a solstice or equinox) the stones, which were said to mark the graves of two star crossed lovers, would lean into one another, attempting to touch or even “kiss”. Some individuals claimed to have seen such a phenomenon, while others dismissed it as a mere optical illusion. But even skeptics seemed to enjoy the romance behind the legend.
A sigh left Marissa’s throat as she thought of her own love life. Having just ended a long term relationship, she had been throwing herself into music and her work within the living history community. A few young men within reenactment groups she was affiliated with expressed interest in her, and she was considering taking a couple of them up on their offer, even though she was uncertain of whether she was ready to date again. Still, the idea was tempting as the young men within these groups were quite handsome and seemed more well-mannered than those she encountered outside of living history endeavors.
Such thoughts were knocked from Marissa’s mind as her skin prickled. A certain memory was coursing through her, a dream that was reoccurring at least one night a week in the last month. In the dream, she was at a ball and her surroundings along with those in attendance resembled those from the middle part of the 18th century. Every time, she wore the same beautiful French Sacque gown. Despite feeling like a fish out of water here, there was also a sense belonging. She walked through the crowds, trying to make out facial features. All were hazy but seemed to greet her in a friendly fashion. Just as she was trying to place where she was and why, she happened upon a man in an elegant red jacket, standing at the end of the room as if he were waiting for her.
As it was with the rest in the crowd, she could only make out his body and dark hair that was pulled back quite elegantly. She could also see outlines of rugged, handsome features and his eyes pierced her. After holding her gaze for a moment, he gallantly held out a gloved hand, his expectation of her accepting him very prevalent. While she hesitated, he never wavered, standing with a commanding confidence that made her stomach flip.
Eventually, she reached out, ready to accept his gesture. But before they could be joined, she would awaken to find herself in her dark bedroom. Sometimes the essential oil diffuser by her bed would still be going and other times, it had long since shut off.
Any time she awoke from the dream, she felt a strange anxiety along with a sense of loss. As Marissa thought on it, the dreams started up after she and her now ex-boyfriend ended their relationship. She considered that perhaps this - along with her constant time within the living history community - was the reason behind the dream.
The memories faded to the night air as Marissa’s gaze remained fixed on the path. She took a tentative step forward and her breath started growing rapid. She felt a brush against her arm, as if someone had come to stand beside her.
Jolting, Marissa turned, only to find that it was only she and her car on that path.
A strange sensation permeated her core as that strange blue light appeared again. Her mind conjured the story of the kissing tombstones and she had a sudden desire to hike down the path.
I should find those stones…
She felt foolish for thinking such a thing at this time of night. After all, she was hardly dressed for a hike. But an outside force seemed to tug at her.
When she took a tentative step forward, small flickering lights were floating among the trees. She let out a small gasp and tried shifting her focus to the possibility of fireflies being the source.
Marissa crossed her arms over her body, her hands trying to relieve the prickling chills enveloping her skin. As if responding to her discomfort, a warm wave suddenly embraced her, bringing with it a distant familiarity. It was as though this energy was also trying to persuade her down the path.
(persuade her to stay forever…)
Sudden feelings of panic arose and without thinking, she ran down the path toward the ROAD CLOSED sign, her feet seeming to barely touch the ground. Her mind was blank, paying no mind to her car at the top of the dirt road (or the musical instruments inside the vehicle). It was almost as though she were being carried down the path.
The feeling of being watched (and waited for) increased and her mind raced to keep up with her steps, battling with her logical mind and pummeling her with thoughts of the mist housing portals to worlds outside of her own. She felt as though she wanted to stay. Somehow this was her place, where the past was said to meet the present.
She did often wonder about what it might be like to travel back to the time that she and many others portrayed, even if just for a day (and a day might be the longest she would want to spend in the past). But she always thought that living history would be the closest she would be able to get.
Suddenly, Marissa’s steps came to a halt.
Her legs shook as she caught her breath, looking around. She was further down the path than she had ever gone.
The ROAD CLOSED sign was only a short distance away.
The blue light weaving within the brush had a hypnotic effect. She took a step forward, her green eyes shifting to the side. Her body grew stiff upon seeing two headstones wavering in the moonlight. Stones that seemed almost out of place among the scraggily brush. One stone was made of a dark granite, and the other white marble. The full moon cast its beam, creating a spotlight for the stones as they seemed to attempt touching.
Marissa took a step forward, desiring a better look, but her movement stopped upon feeling a whisper in her ear. Her heart wrenching, she glanced around, once again seeing no one else around. Then she felt that same brush across her face, and she could hear words being said, unclear as they were.
Her eyes returned to the stones, which now seemed closer to one another than a moment ago. In her peripheral vision, a shape moved passed her, darting from one tree to the other. She turned, her breath growing rapid, her body quivering beneath her 18th century gown.
For a moment, she felt foolish. Here she was, standing in 18th century attire on a wooded path in a deserted park at nearly midnight. Even without the legend and lore, basic logic would suggest that such a thing was far from safe. Laughter escaped her throat as she found the irony quite amusing, but it wasn’t long before anxiety set back in.
Her mind questioned what she would do if something (or someone) was indeed hiding in the brush. Having grown up in the country, Marissa knew the best methods of handling dangerous wild animals, should she cross one. She was also a fast runner, though the 18th century clothing and shoes would prove quite a hindrance.
Fear seeped in and while she wanted to run back to her car and drive to the safety of her apartment, she found herself unable to move. Then she saw it again, that same shadow moving at a close distance, this time toward her as blue mist swirled and danced.
Marissa tried calling out, but her voice remained lodged. The mist thickened, turning a deeper blue, appearing to glow in the moonlight. Shapes were moving about, dancing (as if at a ball).
Her temples throbbed, and nausea filled her stomach. Her legs were caving beneath her, but before she hit the ground, a pair of strong arms caught her.
She looked up, seeing piercing blue eyes just before the world around her slipped away.
The mist engulfed her and when it lifted, the cry that she had been wanting to let out finally escaped. As the last of the fog cleared, Marissa was stunned as she found herself in front of a familiar and very lavish 18th century house.
The Wentworth House.
She shook her head, her mind racing. Chills engulfed her skin as she stared at the building that now stood still and dark.
Her mind returned to the dirt path, the idea of the alleged portals filling her.
Taking slow, cautious steps, she moved up the Wentworth House carriage door. Her shoes clicked on the stone walkway, echoing in the still air. She slowed her steps, attempting to soften them as she feared being heard.
The Wentworth house was said to have its ghosts, and many claimed to have seen or heard things while alone. Even Marissa had moments when she would feel the air shift and it was as though she were not the only one in the room. But as quickly as that sensation entered, it would leave and she would be left with a strange melancholy. Now here she was, hit with that same feeling. Her focus shifted toward the door. As the house seemed to beckon, Marissa moved to the entrance and slowly reached for the knob. She barely touched it when the door unlatched and opened to her.
After a glance behind, she peered inside, expecting to see someone but not a soul was present.
“Hello…?” Her voice was barely above a whisper as she fought to keep herself from shaking.
As if being coaxed along, she stepped into the passageway. She inhaled and a sudden wave of inviting warmth filled the room. It was as though she were being offered an escape from the chilling night air. There was also a sense of belonging, similar with what she felt in her dreams.
She turned to close the door, but it creaked shut on its own, latching behind her. She jolted slightly and turned back around. She could see outlines of elegant furnishings and decor. Her attention was drawn to a lone candle flickering and offering a small amount of light from within the parlor.
Marissa stepped into the room, heading toward the candle. She looked up to see the small light illuminating a portrait, one that she had never seen displayed in the museum before. Yet the likeness was eerily familiar.
The portrait was of a handsome young man with dark, wavy hair and piercing blue eyes. As she looked over the portrait’s facial features, an image of the man from her dream passed through her. Fixated on the man’s piercing blue eyes, her mind also recalled the eyes she saw on the path. The memory jarred her to attention and she sensed movement behind her. Upon turning around, her eyes caught a figure moving in the shadows toward her. She was able to make out a strong, athletic physique. When the figure stepped into view, Marissa was rendered speechless. She was face to face with the young man from the painting.
She shook her head, her mind suddenly returning to her car, the automobile still at the edge of the path in the park. My instruments…
“Hello, Marissa.”
She jolted upon hearing his smooth, baritone voice.
He smiled slightly, his blue eyes brightening in the dimness of the candlelight. “I have been trying to reach you. You don’t know how much it delights me to have you here.”
Marissa struggled to speak. “Are you new here?” Her voice trailed off and a hint of amusement filled his eyes.
He chuckled. “New? I live here.”
Marissa stared at him and his eyebrow raised.
His amusement only irritated her. “Interpreters aren’t supposed to be here this late after hours. And how did you even get in here? You can’t possibly have a key.”
His smile grew and he stepped in toward her. “Did you not hear me, my lady? I live here. This is my family’s home. Though you are also supposed to be here. I have wanted you here ever since I first laid eyes on you.”
Marissa shook her head and drew in a breath.
The left corner of his mouth turned upward. “I am Christopher Wentworth. For a long time I have been trying to reach you. It pleases me to see that now I have.”
Marissa’s recurring dream flashed through her mind and she could see that it was indeed Christopher standing at the far end of the ballroom, wearing his elegant red jacket and his hand extended to her. This time, she could see his entire face and frame, every physical detail. She also knew from museum records that John and Flora Wentworth did have four sons, one of whom was named Christopher.
The image faded from her mind and she looked up into his eyes. A certain sense of knowing made her stomach flip.
Finally, she brought herself to ask, “What year is it?”
He took a step toward her, closing the gap between them. “We are not in time right now. You and I now are between my time and yours. This is also how I’ve been able to be near you as you work.”
Marissa’s eyes lowered as she took in Christopher’s words. She knew the Wentworth home had its ghosts. Or at least she thought so. But from what Christopher was saying, perhaps it wasn’t so much ghosts as it was a time barrier or portal.
Maybe we’ve been crossing one another’s paths all along…
Marissa had listened to a few radio podcasts and seen a few documentaries covering that very theory.
A wave of dizziness came over her. As her eyes adjusted to the room, she could see that some of the furniture was indeed different from what she knew was in the museum. As reality set in, she could feel her legs collapse beneath her. Once again, she fell into the same arms that caught her on the path. His solid build could be felt beneath the wool and linen of his clothing.
She raised her eyes, seeing the concern in his. As the nausea dissipated, she struggled to stand.
“Please, have a seat.” Christopher lowered her onto the couch. “I will get you a drink.”
Marissa barely managed a nod before slumping forward onto the chaise. She tried forming a coherent thought, but try as she might, fatigue took over her conscious, causing her to fade out until nothing but blackness surrounded her.
To be continued on Sunday, February 21...
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