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The Bridge at Loys Station

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A serial fiction story for your enjoyment

written by James Rada, Jr.

6: The Decision to Cross

Surprisingly, Thomas Hamilton found it easier to accept that he was stuck in the 1950s than to accept that his boss’s daughter, Jessica Weikert, was going to marry George Kirkpatrick, the son of a store owner in Thurmont. Thomas had met the man. Not that George was mean or boring, but he wasn’t a farmer, and Jessica wanted to farm. It was in her blood, just like it was in Thomas’s. George wanted to take over his father’s store, not John Weikert’s farm.

Thomas kept working on the farm through the harvest. It was easy and hard working beside Jessica at the same time. Easy because he enjoyed talking with her, laughing and thinking about life while they shared the labor. However, it was hard knowing she left the fields to see George in the evening. Did he make her laugh? Did George know how much Jessica was tied to the land?

Thomas felt those conflicting feelings helped him decide. Since it appeared he had no way to return to 2021 and no farm in Rocky Ridge, he had no reason to remain in Thurmont. He had no life here any longer. His farm was somewhere in his future. His parents were children at this time. He was alone.

Thomas often went running after work. He wasn’t sure why since he was usually pretty tired, but the run worked different muscles in his body and got his endorphins flowing. It allowed him to familiarize himself with the new, or rather old, Rocky Ridge. He often ran by his old farm, feeling nostalgic about it.

One day, he was running near Loys Station when he saw fog on the other side of the covered bridge. He stopped and stared at the bridge. It was the exact opposite of what had happened to him two months ago, except he was standing on the clear side and looking at the fog on the other side of Owens Creek.

Thomas walked along the road until he could see through the bridge. He saw an old man standing in the middle of the bridge, a stupid thing to do in the fog. If a car came along, it would hit him before the driver could see him.

Somehow, though, Thomas didn’t think a car would come along. This was the same old man he had seen on the day he walked across the bridge and back in time.

“This is my way back, isn’t it?” Thomas asked.

“Back, yes, but not forward,” the old man said.

“What do you mean?” Thomas wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

“You fought to get Paula back after she dumped you with a text, but if you cross this bridge, you’re letting Jessica go without a second thought.” Paula Clark had been his girlfriend. They had been dating for a year when she dumped him with a text message and didn’t return his calls.

“Jessica’s engaged.”

“So? Engagements are broken.”

Thomas stepped closer to the man, who looked familiar. “Who are you?”

“Someone who made the right decisions and still got hurt. Sometimes, you have to gamble. You may not win, but if you try to understand the game, your chances are better.”

“I understand the game. If I cross this bridge, I will be home.”

The old man shook his head. “You’ll be in 2021, but you won’t be home.”

“Who are you? Are you the one making this happen?” Thomas paused. “Are you an angel?”

The old man laughed. “Does this look like heaven?”

“No. It’s Rocky Ridge.”

“Then I’m not an angel.”

“No, you’re a cryptic smartass.”

The man laughed again. “I’ve been called worse. So, are you going to cross?”

Thomas looked around. He saw the nearby farms, but he knew he was looking for something farther away. He wasn’t looking toward his old family farm where he had scared his very young grandmother when he walked in two months ago. He was looking toward the Weikert Farm where Jessica Weikert was probably out in the fields checking on crops before she got ready for a date.

“Why won’t you explain things to me?” Thomas asked.

“You’re an adult. You need to make your own decisions.”

“You said the first time we met that if I walked across the bridge, I would find the love of my life.”

“Yes.”

“I only wound up going back in time, apparently.”

“Yes.”

“So, where’s the love of my life?”

The old man gave him a look as if to say, Are you that stupid?

“Jessica?” Thomas asked. “An engaged woman who can’t wait for me to leave her farm is the love of my life? How do you know that?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

The old man shook his head. No, I think it only matters how you feel.”

Thomas hesitated. “Okay, so I like her. I like her a lot.”

“More than a girl who broke up with you via text?” the old man asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I think you know whether you should cross this bridge right now.”

“What will people think if I just disappear?”

He wasn’t sure whether he meant the people here in 1951 or those in 2022.

“I don’t know,” the old man admitted. “I can’t tell the future, and it’s still the same day here that you left.”

Movement caught Thomas’s eye. He turned and saw Jessica walking along the road towards him, but she wasn’t looking at Thomas. She was staring at the fog bank across the creek.

Could Thomas break her engagement to George? Could he really be in love with Jessica, or was he just fooling himself like he had with Paula? Jessica didn’t seem to be in love with him. Yes, she had held his hand the one time, and they had grown close enough to call each other a friend. That was a lot different from her being in love with him, though.

The love of his life. Could it be?

Thomas turned to the old man. “I want to stay and see what happens.”

The old man smiled and nodded. “I knew you weren’t an idiot.”

Thurmont Granger Wins 1st Place in National Grange Photo Contest

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Andrea (Myers) Mannix wins 1st place for her photograph entitled “Independence Day Sunrise with Round Straw Bales” in the 2022 annual National Grange Lecturer’s Photography Contest.

At the November 2022 National Grange Session in Las Vegas, the annual National Grange Lecturer’s Photography Contest winners were announced.

From the 81 entries in the Agriculture Category, Thurmont Grange’s Andrea (Myers) Mannix won 1st place with her photo entitled “Independence Day Sunrise with Round Straw Bales.”

This photo was taken by Andrea at her family’s Catoctin Mountain View Farm, established in 1962, which is owned by C. Rodman and M. Jean Myers and family.

Andrea painted an oil painting of “Independence Day Sunrise with Round Straw Bales,”and notecards of her oil painting are available.

Writing Contest Open to Middle-School Students

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   For the 24th year, all Maryland middle-school students are invited to enter a statewide writing contest focusing on the themes of peace and social justice. Seventh- and eighth-grade students enrolled in public or private schools in Maryland and to homeschooled students corresponding to the same grade levels are eligible. Four cash prizes will be awarded ranging from $350 for first place to $100 for fourth place. The winners will be honored at a special ceremony, although attendance is not required to receive an award.

To enter, students must submit an entry of up to 1,200 words on this topic: Some students have engaged in school “walkouts” to express their views on an issue on which they have a strong opinion. The “climate strikes” proposed by Greta Thunberg calling attention to the challenges posed by climate change and the “March for Our Lives” advocating gun control are examples of this tactic. School officials have responded in different ways. Some have allowed it, some have “scripted” the actions with specific guidelines and limitations, and some have declined to permit it. You are asked by your principal to serve on a committee at your school to develop a policy governing student actions on important issues such as climate change and gun control. What would be your suggestions be and why?

Entries must be accompanied by a separate cover sheet, including the student’s name; address; phone number;  email address; school’s name, address and phone number; and the name of the teacher sponsor if applicable. Entries must be postmarked no later than May 15, 2023 and mailed to Peace Writing Contest, 310 Riverview Avenue, Annapolis, MD 21403-3328. Anne Arundel Peace Action and the Maryland Peace Action Education Fund are affiliated with Peace Action, the country’s largest grassroots peace and disarmament organization.

For more information, please call 410-263-7409 or email [email protected].

The Bridge at Loys Station

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written by James Rada, Jr

A serial fiction story for your enjoyment

5: Thomas or George?

Jessica Weikert might think Thomas Hamilton was a hobo who had jumped off the Western Maryland Railroad train as it passed through Thurmont, but she had to admit he was a good worker on her family’s farm. He hadn’t been lying when he said he knew about farming. He kept the equipment in good repair and, most times, better than new. He had even introduced her father to some new concepts that she had never heard of before, like no-till farming. Her father was skeptical about most of them, but Jessica understood the points that Thomas made and saw the merit in them.

Thomas and her father got along well together. They talked farming during the day’s meals and played chess on the front porch at night. Sometimes, they would argue about both, but they were more like loud disagreements.

Her father definitely liked Thomas better than George Kirkpatrick, although he was very supportive of her engagement to George. He should be. He was the one who had set them up. She suspected he hoped to get better prices at the Kirkpatrick’s hardware store once she was married to George.

“He’s a good match for you,” John Weikert had told her after George had asked for John’s permission to marry Jessica.

“But you don’t like him,” Jessica had said.

“I don’t hate him either.”

“Then why are you okay with me marrying him?”

“Because I want you to have a good life, and I think George will provide it for you.”

But George didn’t make Jessica laugh. He didn’t make her heart beat faster. He was polite and handsome, and he was considered a very eligible bachelor. Jessica’s friends considered her very lucky. When Jessica tried to picture herself 20 or 30 years into a marriage with him though, she didn’t see herself on a farm with fields of crops ripening under a blue sky. She didn’t see George walking with her along the rows of corn to see how they were maturing and making sure they were healthy. She saw herself sitting behind a counter, pushing buttons on a cash register or stocking shelves in a store cut off from the land she loved.

Jessica walked into the barn and saw Thomas bent over a blade from the harvester, sharpening it. He worked hard, even when he didn’t have to.

“Why do you do that?” Jessica asked him.

Thomas looked up and brushed his brown hair out of his eyes. “It needs to be done. I don’t mind. It keeps my mind occupied.”

“Why do you need your mind occupied?”

He shrugged. “I’ve got some things I need to figure out.”

“Like what?”

Thomas set his whetstone to the side and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

“I thought I knew what my future was going to be. It seemed all set, and then it all changed in an instant. Now, I’ve got to figure out what I want to do. My future is no longer certain, so I have to ask myself, what do I want to make it?”

Jessica nodded slowly. “I can understand that.”

“Really? I thought your future was planned out. You’re getting married, right? That’s what your father said.”

“It doesn’t mean it was the future I wanted or planned.”

“Is someone making you get married? You’re not…” He glanced at her belly.

When Jessica realized what he was implying, she blushed and punched him in the shoulder. “Of course not!”

“Then if you accepted the proposal, why isn’t it the future you wanted? You made the choice.”

“I wonder if it’s the right choice.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Well, if you break up with him, do it in person. Don’t text him.”

“Text?”

Thomas shook his head. “Nevermind. It’s not important. So, what is the future you want?”

No one had ever asked Jessica what she wanted. Everyone just assumed she would be happy with a good match. Sure, she had enjoyed dating George, but she hadn’t ever fallen in love with him. Her mother said that would come with time as long as they were well-suited. Jessica didn’t want to have to wait for it to happen years from now. Being well-suited was no guarantee of future love.

“I wanted to take over this farm. I enjoy farming. I enjoy seeing things grow. I enjoy knowing that this farm not only feeds my family, but dozens, maybe hundreds, of other families. That’s satisfying.”

Thomas nodded. “It is, but it’s not an easy life.”

“I know that. I’ve grown up on a farm.”

“Most people would want an easy life. I love farming, but sometimes even I wish life could be easier.”

She thought about that. “I think most people want a happy life, and they think if their lives were easy, they would be happy. I’m happy now, despite it being hard. Maybe I need the challenge.”

Thomas smiled. “A true farmer.”

“You’re mocking me.”

Thomas held up his hands. “No, I’m just stating a fact.”

“What about you? What will you do when the harvest ends?” Jessica asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I hadn’t planned on being here.”

Her father was impressed with Thomas’s knowledge. He knew equipment and how to improve its performance. He had interesting ideas about how to increase the farm yields without even tilling the soil.

He enjoyed the work. She would watch him singing in the fields, and sometimes, he would encourage her to join in with him. She would, when she recognized the songs. It helped the work go faster.

However, there were other times when he would leave the farm. At first, she wondered if he had just up and left, but he was always back for work in the mornings.

Then, one day, she had followed him. He had walked out to the covered bridge at Loys Station, where she had first seen him. He would stand at one end of the bridge, staring across it. Sometimes, he would walk across it and back a few times. Each time he emerged on one side, he would look around and back the way he had come.

Jessica didn’t understand it all. Whatever his fascination with the bridge was, it didn’t interfere with his work.

One day, they were working in the field when Thomas stopped for lunch. Instead of going to the house, though, he laid a blanket on the grass and lay on his back. He ate his sandwich as he lay on the blanket.

Jessica walked over. “What are you doing?”

“We spend so much time looking at the land, I wanted to spend a little of it looking at the sky and think about my future.”

“Does it help?”

“It does. The sky is like a blue chalkboard and the clouds are white smears of chalk across it because someone used one of those felt erasers to wipe it off. But it’s a clean slate that I can imagine my future on.”

Jessica looked at the sky. She would love to see her future written in the sky. A message from God telling her what to do.

She lay down on the blanket next to Thomas and stared at the sky. “So how do you make your future appear?”

“It’s not a crystal ball. It’s just when you stare at the blank space, your mind fills it with images. If you’re thinking about your future, those images will sometimes be about your future, almost like a waking dream.”

Jessica stared at the blue above her and wondered where she would be in five years. Would it be a store or the farm? She saw herself on the farm, but it wasn’t with George.

At some point, she had reached over and grabbed Thomas’s hand, not clutching at it, just holding it gently. She also realized that he hadn’t pulled his hand away. Not in real life, not in the vision she saw in the sky.

The Bridge at Loys Station

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written by James Rada, Jr.

A serial fiction story for your enjoyment

4: You Can’t Go Home Again

Thomas Hamilton was in no rush heading back to Rocky Ridge because he had no idea what he would do when he got there. All he knew was that the bridge at Loys Station was the key to him getting home. Scratch that. He was home. He needed to get back to his own time, and the bridge was the way there.

The problem was that he didn’t know how it worked. He had wound up in the 1950s simply by walking across the bridge at the wrong time.

It didn’t make sense to Thomas. He only hoped it was all part of a bad dream he was having and that he would wake up. Maybe a car had hit him while he had been jogging in the fog. He rolled his eyes. How worried must he be if he was wishing he were unconscious by the side of the road?

Until he figured out what was happening, his body still told him he needed to drink and eat. He inquired at the farms he passed whether they needed a hand. Thomas knew farming. He was a farmer, so it was work he could do. No one needed help. Some paid him for odd jobs that he did, like sharpening plow blades or chopping wood, but they were one-time jobs. Thomas wanted to find steady work in the area while he tried to sort through what was happening to him.

He finally came upon a farm along Myers Road that could use his help.

“What do you know about farming?” John Weikert asked him. John had broken his leg earlier in the week and needed help. His daughters and wife were doing their best, but they had other things to do besides work in the field all day.

“I’m a farmer,” Thomas said. “I have a degree in agriculture.”

John snorted. “My youngest has a coon-skin cap, but that doesn’t make him Davy Crockett.”

“I grew up on a farm. I’m working my way out to Western Maryland to help my brother with his farm near Grantsville.”

“I need someone to help until I get this thing off.” He slapped his cast. “I won’t hire someone only to have him leave in two days.”

“I understand, sir.” Thomas didn’t know how long it would take him to figure out what was happening at the bridge. He doubted it would be something he figured out quickly, though.

In the end, John hired Thomas. Thomas got room, board, and what Thomas assumed was a fair wage for the time. He had to adjust his thinking about money. Even expensive things in 1951 seemed cheap when he compared them to 2021 prices.

John showed him to a room in the barn that had been built for a hand to live in, although the Weikerts hadn’t used a hand regularly for years. Thomas unpacked his clothes and sat on the bed. The room was small but comfortable. It was well-lit with a bed, bureau, sink, chair, and desk. John explained that Thomas still had to use an outhouse and the claw-foot tub behind the barn for his other needs. The barn had power, but the waterline had only been run to a spigot behind the barn.

Thomas came into the house at 7 p.m. for supper. He was looking forward to having his first full meal in two days. Up to now, he had been living off what he could scrounge from farms he passed, but the fruits and vegetables weren’t always ripe.

As he walked into the kitchen, John said, “This is Thomas. He’s going to be our hand around here until I get the cast off.”

Thomas looked around at the Weikerts. John and Amelia had three children, and one of them was the young woman Thomas had frightened when he came across the bridge yesterday. Her name was Jessica. He saw by her expression that she recognized him. The Weikerts also had a 10-year-old named Nathan and a 6-year-old daughter named Emily.

As soon as Thomas smelled the sausages and vegetables on the table, his stomach growled loudly.

Amelia laughed. “Someone’s hungry.”

“I guess I am, ma’am,” Thomas said. “It smells wonderful.”

He ate dinner quickly, or as quickly as he could between answering questions from the family. He tried to keep his story as close to the truth as he could. He didn’t want to have to remember too many lies.

He woke up early the next morning and dressed in his sweat clothes. He had washed them in the sink the night before and hung them in his room to dry. They would have to serve as his work clothes until he could find something else.

When he walked into the kitchen for breakfast, Jessica laughed at him. “I thought you knew farming.”

“I do.”

“You don’t look it.”

“It’s all I have right now. I’ll buy something else when I get paid.”

Amelia laid an arm on his shoulder. “Ignore her, Thomas. She’s just mad.”

“About what?”

“She is learning she can’t run this farm by herself.”

Jessica blushed. “That’s not true,”

Thomas tried to suppress a grin. She looked like a young child who was pouting.

John gave them instructions on what he wanted to accomplish for the day. He had Thomas harvesting the corn using a Massey-Harris combine Thomas had only seen as an antique, although this model was fairly new. The children, including Jessica, much to her chagrin, picked tomatoes. John tended their roadside stand, freeing up Amelia to handle the additional work around the house that the children usually did.

It went smoothly. Thomas enjoyed driving the old combine. It also gave him time to think about his predicament.

After dinner, Thomas walked over to the Loy’s Bridge and walked back and forth across it, hoping to find a way to trigger whatever had sent him into the past. Nothing happened.

When he came across the bridge a third time, he saw Jessica standing to the side.

“What is it with you and this bridge?” she asked.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Why are you here?”

For a moment, Thomas thought she was asking why he was in the 1950s, but then he realized she meant the farm.

“I needed work,” he said.

“We don’t need your help.”

“It looks like you do. Your father can’t work in the fields, and he probably needed the help when he was healthy.”

Jessica put her hands on her hips. “It’s going to be my farm someday.”

Thomas cocked an eyebrow. “Okay.”

“Just in case you had any ideas.”

“About what?”

“About trying to take my farm.”

“Your farm? I think you have quite a few years before it becomes your farm, and even then, your father might split it between you and your brother and sister.”

“No, it will be mine. They won’t want it. I do. I can turn it into a first-class operation if my father would just listen to me. There is so much being done that is helping farmers get more from their land. I intend to grow our farm and make it larger and better.”

“It sounds like you’ll need help.”

“Not from you.”

“Why not me? What do you have against me?”

She stared at him for a few moments and then she said, “I don’t trust you. You are lying about something. You say you’re a farmer, but you don’t dress like one. You say you have a college degree, but you don’t have anything more than the clothes you’re wearing. And you keep coming to this bridge.”

Thomas was about to reply, but Jessica turned away.

And this was the woman who was supposed to be his future. It didn’t look too promising to him.

Look for what happens next in our March issue

GOLDEN YEARS?

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by LA Worthington

The face in the mirror’s beginning to droop,

I walk with a wobble and stand with a stoop;

Is this the same body that once was so fit?

I cannot believe I am living in it.

My vision is blurry, my hearing is dim,

I’ve lost all my vigor and most of my vim;

I assume all these changes are time’s souvenirs…

I wonder who said these are our “Golden Years”?

April 2022

The Bridge at Loys Station

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written by James Rada, Jr.

A new serial fiction story for your enjoyment

3: Lost in the 50s

Thomas Hamilton couldn’t believe he had simply walked back in time by crossing the Loys Station Covered Bridge. It made no sense. How many times in his life had he driven, jogged, and walked across that bridge? How many times a day did other people cross that bridge? Not to mention that time travel was impossible!

He looked around Main Street in Thurmont and shook his head. This was not the Thurmont he knew. The cars were bulkier. The streets were more crowded with people, and none of the businesses were the same. Mechanicstown Park hadn’t been built yet. The lot had a small garage and gas station on it. When Thomas looked down Water Street, he could see the marquee for the Gem Theater, which he had never seen in his Thurmont.

Thomas took out his smartphone from his armband. It had power, but no signal. He had no money and identification on him because he had been jogging. The only reason he had brought his phone with him was because he had been listening to his running playlist while he exercised.

He noticed the odd looks people gave him. He wondered if it was because of the way he was dressed or the smell of dried sweat on him.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Thomas turned and saw a police officer walking along the sidewalk toward him. He looked like Andy Griffith in his uniform on The Andy Griffith Show, which now that Thomas thought about it, wasn’t even on the air yet.

“I don’t believe I know you,” the officer said. “Do you live in town?”

“No, I live out in Rocky Ridge,” Thomas said.

The officer looked him up and down. Then he sniffed. “You don’t look like a farmer.”

“I am. I’m just making a trip into town for a break.”

“I’m not sure how much the store owners and customers will appreciate you in their shops.” He pinched his nose.

Thomas frowned. “Well, that’s rude.”

“I’m just trying to head off any vagrant complaints the police might get, sir. If that happens, we’d have to ask for identification, and things could get unpleasant. I wouldn’t want to see that happen. After all, you’ve done nothing wrong… yet.”

Thomas nodded. He also didn’t want to have to produce a driver’s license to show who he was. Not only didn’t he have one, but if the police checked the address on his license, they would find someone else living there and expiration date 70 years in the future.

“Thank you, officer. I guess I should have showered and changed before I came. I’ll head home and remember to dress for the occasion next time.”

The police officer nodded. “A good idea, I think.” Then he continued walking down the street.

Thomas headed in the opposite direction. People kept staring at him. They had certainly seen sweaty people, and they wore sweat clothes from time to time, perhaps not outside in public, judging by the crowd he saw, but it wasn’t unheard of. Then he remembered his smartphone. It was in a case attached to his arm so he could run with it. He grabbed it, slid it off his arm, and stuffed it in his pocket. He couldn’t do much about his reflective vest unless he wanted to stuff it in a trash can, which he didn’t want to do.

If Thomas was going to get by until he figured out a way to get home, he needed a change of clothing and money. He might look like a beggar, but that didn’t mean people would feed him.

He turned down an alley because there was no one down there to stare at him. He needed to think, and he couldn’t do that if he felt like every eye in town was watching him. He saw laundry hanging on clotheslines behind the houses that were built along the alleys north of Main Street.

He wasn’t a thief, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He slowed his walk, studying the laundry, trying to guess the sizes as best he could. He didn’t need long johns or socks. He could get by with a pair of pants and a shirt. He would look passable with those, even if he kept wearing his running shoes.

He saw a set of clothes he thought would work. He looked around, opened the back gate, and quickly took them off the line. The pants were still damp, but they would dry. He jogged out of the yard and headed down the alley and crossing the railroad tracks. He ran into a field of corn and changed into his new clothes.

One problem solved.

The next one was more difficult. He started walking to the farms he saw to the north and east of town, asking if they needed any field help in exchange for a meal. Thomas knew farming. He was a farmer, so it was work he knew he could do. He made up a story about his own farm failing and heading to Western Maryland to help his brother with his farm.

He only wished it was true. Things would be so much easier. He could walk to Western Maryland if need be. He couldn’t walk to 2023.

He didn’t find any takers for his services that day. He did manage to snag an apple off a tree while walking away from one farm. It turned out to be his dinner for the day.

He found a place in the woods away from the roads where he bedded down for the night. Once it got dark out, he worried he might twist his ankle in an unseen hole. He ignored the smell of his dirty sweat clothes and wadded them up to use as a pillow.

It was all about the bridge, he decided. The bridge had been a tunnel through time. It had shown him a clear scene on one side while all around had been foggy. He had known something was weird, but how many people traveled over that bridge in a day? Certainly, they all didn’t travel back in time.

Also, did it only work one way? He had gone back in time when he crossed over, but he hadn’t come back to his time when he crossed back. Still, if there was a way to travel back in time, there had to be a way to travel back to his time. He just had to figure it out.

Look for what happens next in our February issue

The Bridge at Loys Station

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written by James Rada, Jr.

A new serial fiction story for your enjoyment

2: Times Past

Thomas Hamilton walked across the Loy’s Station Covered Bridge, ignoring the wooden beams around him. He focused his attention on the other side of the bridge, where the sky was clear and the sun shone. It stood in stark contrast to the thick fog on the side of the bridge he had just left.

He reached the other side and shook his head. It was a cloudless summer day in Rocky Ridge. It wasn’t even overly hot. He looked across Owens Creek and saw that it was now clear. The fog had lifted in the time it took him to walk across the bridge.

He couldn’t see the old man who had encouraged him to cross the bridge and find the love of his life. How could the man have walked away so quickly that he was out of sight? Thomas looked back across the bridge, wondering if the man had followed him, but it was empty.

He shook his head. This was turning out to be an unusual day. First, his girlfriend had broken up with him via a text message. Then, he had met the old man with his message that Thomas would find the love of his life on this side of the bridge. And, finally, Thomas had seen the odd fog that had moved in quickly, stayed on one side of the creek, and disappeared just as quickly.

The woman he had seen walking across the field was closer now. She was an attractive redhead who had her hair tied up in a kerchief. She wore overalls and work boots. He had grown up in the same house his father had grown up in. He thought he knew just about everyone in the area, but he didn’t recognize this woman.

“Where did you come from?” she asked.

Thomas shrugged. “I just walked across the bridge. You had to have seen me. You were looking right at it.”

“I must not have been paying attention. It was clear and then, suddenly, you seemed to be standing in front of it.”

She looked him over and then her nose wrinkled. Thomas realized he must still be sweaty from his run.

“Sorry about that. I was running earlier.”

“Running? From what?”

“For exercise.” She looked at him like he was crazy and stepped back. “I don’t recognize you. Do you live around here?” he asked.

“All my life. You’re the one who’s not from around here.”

“Of course, I am. My name is Thomas Hamilton. I live out on Old Mill Road.”

“I know the Hamilton Farm, but not a Thomas Hamilton.” There was only one Hamilton Farm on Old Mill, and it was his family’s farm. The woman cocked her head to the side. “You don’t look like a farmer. You look like someone dumped a can of fluorescent paint on you.”

He looked down at the reflective vest he was wearing. He didn’t think it looked that unusual, and it helped protect him from getting hit when he ran.

“You should talk. You look like someone trying to imitate Rosie the Riveter.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter. What’s your name?”

She raised her chin and glared at him. “I’m not sure I should say.”

Thomas shrugged.

“Whatever.” He had been crazy to give that old man any credence. This woman was the love of his life? Not likely.

He turned and walked back across the bridge. When he reached the other side, he still didn’t see the old man, but other things were different, too. The road wasn’t paved. It was macadam. And the playground in the park off the right was gone.

“What gives?”

He hadn’t thought things could get weirder. He was wrong.

He jogged back to his house to shower and change. Even the house looked different, particularly when he walked inside. All of his furniture was missing, replaced with the type of stuff he would see in an antique store. Wallpaper, not paint, covered the walls. He smelled ham cooking when he knew he had left nothing in the oven.

A woman screamed, and Thomas spun around. She had walked out of the kitchen, her face red from the heat from the oven and stove.

“What are you doing in my house?” she shouted.

“I–I live here,” Thomas said, even though he wasn’t sure of that any longer.

“You do not! This is my family’s house. Leave this instant before I call the police.”

“But this is the Hamilton Farm. I…” He was about to say “I live here” again, but while the house itself might match his home, these furnishings and the wallpaper all said someone else lived here and had for some time. Certainly, longer than the hour Thomas had been out.

“Can you…?” he started to say.

The woman ran back into the kitchen and came back with a rolling pin covered in flour. She waved it at him.

“Get out now!”

Thomas held up his hands and backed toward the door. Once he stepped out onto the porch, the woman slammed the door, and Thomas heard the lock engage.

He sighed and walked back down the driveway to the road. He headed toward MD 77, although he wasn’t sure what he would do when he got there. Something unusual was happening, but he had no idea what it was.

He walked along the road toward Rocky Ridge when a vintage truck pulled up alongside him.

“Need a lift?” the driver asked. “I’m headed to Thurmont.”

Thomas didn’t recognize the man, but he had friends in Thurmont who might help him, or worst-case scenario, that’s where his doctor’s office was located.

Thomas climbed into the truck bed, and the driver started off. A confused Thomas looked over the countryside. He recognized the landscape and many of the buildings, but others were different. It was like he was in Rocky Ridge, but not his Rocky Ridge. It became very obvious as they entered Thurmont. The two elementary schools, police station, and housing development on the east side of town were all missing. The truck pulled over to the side of the road and stopped across from the middle school, which now had a sign that said it was the high school.

The driver hopped out and said, “This is as far as I go. I have to arrange for some lumber.”

Thomas jumped out of the bed to the ground. “Thanks. I appreciate the ride.”

He walked toward the center of town. He grew more nervous with each step. This was all wrong. He stopped when he saw a sign in the window of a clothing store. “New Styles for 1951 Are In!”

Thomas staggered and had to lean against the wall. It couldn’t be, but in the back of his mind, he had been seeing the signs and ignoring them.

He was in 1951…48 years before he was born.

Look for what happens next in our January issue

Catoctin High School Student Wins First Place in Landscape Photography at The Great Frederick Fair

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Cassidy Miller, a freshman at Catoctin High School, won first place at The Great Frederick Fair in landscape photography. Her photograph was taken on a morning walk at the Thurmont Community Park.

Cassidy started enjoying landscape photography when she would travel to visit her Pappy Leach, who lives three hours away in the mountains of West Virginia.

The Bridge at Loys Station

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written by James Rada, Jr.

A new serial fiction story for your enjoyment

1: The Crossing

Thomas Hamilton reread the text message on his smartphone. He called Paula’s number a third time, and the call joined the other two in her voicemail. He texted, “Can we talk?” He doubted it would be answered.

“I don’t want to see you anymore.” Her message earlier had been short and direct, but it made no sense to Thomas.

Paula broke up with him using a text and then ghosted him. Who does that? Didn’t he deserve an answer as to why? He could drive over to her apartment but doubted she would even answer the door.

Thomas glanced at the ring box sitting on his desk in the den. What was he to do with that? It was his grandmother’s wedding ring. He had been planning on giving it to Paula on the first anniversary of their first date next week. He didn’t see that happening now.

He pulled open a drawer in his desk and dropped the ring box inside. Then he walked back to his bedroom and changed into sweat clothes.

He went outside and started jogging down Old Mill Road to Old Frederick Road where he turned right toward Loys Station Park. He ignored his anger, sadness, and confusion and just ran. If he could exhaust himself, maybe he could ignore things for a while.

Thomas wore a reflector vest over his clothes because the shoulders were almost nonexistent on the roads around here. There wasn’t a large amount of traffic, but it only took one careless driver to put him in the hospital, or worse.

He crossed over the old Western Maryland Railroad track. He did not know who used it nowadays, only that if he wasn’t careful, it could trip him up.

He was glad he had worn his reflector vest because, as he neared Loys Station Park, it quickly grew foggy. He reached the parking lot for the playground at the park and started walking. He had run further than he planned, which was fine, but he needed to rest before he headed back to his house.

He hoped the fog would burn off soon or at least move on to somewhere he wasn’t jogging. It would only make things that much more dangerous for him.

As Thomas walked in a large circle around the park, he came upon an old man sitting on one of the stone walls that bordered the road and led up to the Loys Station Covered Bridge. The bridge was one of six covered bridges remaining in Maryland, of which three were in Frederick County. The 141-year-old Loys Station Covered Bridge spanned 90 feet over Owens Creek.

Thomas had noticed no cars in the parking lot, so the old man must have walked here and was probably waiting for the fog to lift.

The man raised a hand and waved. “Hello, Thomas.”

Thomas stopped his loop and walked over to the man. He didn’t recognize him, but he looked familiar.

“You look done in,” the man said.

Thomas nodded. “I just ran three miles.”

The old man chuckled. “You might be planning on running three miles, but you’ve only done two miles so far.”

“How do you know that? Do I know you?”

The old man cocked his head to the side. “I imagine you think you know me, but I know you a lot better.”

“Really?” Who did this man think he was? If he was a stalker, Thomas would have wished for someone prettier.

“Paula just broke up with you, didn’t she?”

Thomas’s eyes widened. “How could you know that?”

The old man grinned. “And she did it with a text. Who does that?”

“That’s what I thought.” Thomas paused. “Who are you?”

The old man stood up. “That’s not important right now. What is important is that you need to believe that you will find happiness again.”

It was easy to say, and it might even be true. Thomas didn’t feel that way right now, though. It would probably be a long time before he felt that way again.

“You didn’t deserve to be treated like that,” the old man said.

Thomas nodded. “No, I didn’t.”

“Do you want to know why she did it?”

“How would you know?”

“Because I saw it happen. Not the text you got, but I saw why she broke up with you. She was at the Ott House last night and met one of those big wigs at FEMA. He was all-right looking, I guess, but he was flashing a lot of money, and he took an interest in Paula. He was buying, and the last I saw, they were making out behind the bar and heading back to the FEMA campus.”

The old man said it clinically with no emotion, but every word cut into Thomas, and he winced from the pain. He wanted to scream for the man to stop talking, but Thomas knew the man was telling the truth. Paula liked to go to the Ott House because she had worked there a few years back. She was also very focused on making a lot of money while Thomas was happy running his family farm. It would never make him wealthy, but it made him happy.

“I know it’s hard to hear,” the old man said. “But what would you say if I told you the love of your life is on the other side of this covered bridge?”

Thomas moved closer to the stone wall and leaned over so he could look through the opening of the bridge.

On the other side, he could see a young woman walking along the sunlit road. He leaned back and looked down the side of the bridge. He couldn’t see the other side because of the fog, but what he saw looking through the bridge was clear and sunny.

“What is going on?” Thomas asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there’s no fog when I look through the bridge.”

The old man shrugged. “Some things can cut through the fog we see and focus our attention.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “You’re too tall to be Yoda, so don’t try.”

The old man chuckled and stepped onto the road. “I’ve told you everything you need to know.” Then he walked across the street and kept going until Thomas couldn’t see him in the fog.

Thomas climbed over the wall so that he could see more easily through the bridge. It was still clear on the other side. He could see the young woman walking across the field beyond where the road turned to the left.

He leaned over and looked down the side of the bridge. The fog was as thick as muddy water, probably even thicker on the other side of the bridge than this side.

Yet, Thomas wasn’t seeing that through the bridge. He walked across the road and looked down that side of the bridge.

Still foggy.

What was going on?

Was that woman the love of his life that the old man had been talking about? Not that he believed the crazy man, but Thomas was curious about how the fog looked from the other side.

Was it a dark wall or like a fluffy cloud that had settled on the ground?

He started across the bridge and changed his life.

Look for what happens next in our December issue

Artist and Art Restorer to Offer Ukrainian Icon Lecture at the Mount

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On Sunday, November 13, artist and art restorer Kateryna Dovgan will offer a Ukrainian Icon lecture at Mount St. Mary’s Knott Theatre in Emmitsburg for the benefit of Ukrainian war victims. 

Ukrainian-born Professor Dovgan teaches art and art history at McDaniel College. The lecture will be held from 2:00-4:00 p.m., and a goodwill collection will be taken up. The public is warmly invited to attend. 

Sponsors are the Town of Emmitsburg and the Mount St. Mary’s University Center for Service.

Author James Rada, Jr. to Present Benefit Book Talk at EOPCC

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Author James Rada, Jr. will present a benefit Book Talk at EOPCC (the Emmitsburg Osteopathic Primary Care Center) on November 6, from 2:00-4:00 p.m. Copious desserts and a silent auction will be held for the benefit of Dr. Bonnie Portier’s EOPCC at 121-123 W. Main Street in Emmitsburg (entrance on Lincoln Alley). 

James Rada, Jr. will speak at 2:30 p.m., so come at 2:00 p.m. for refreshments! Entrance is $12.00 per person at the door, but please RSVP to [email protected] or at 301-447-2690 and leave a message after the gruff warning to telemarketers.

EOPCC is a 301c nonprofit and a 20-plus-year gift to our community.

Nights at the Sanatorium

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written by James Rada, Jr.

A serial fiction story for your enjoyment

7: The Last Fight

Tim Ross wandered from window to window in the basement of the nurse’s building of the State Tuberculosis Hospital in Sabillasville. The foundation of the building was stone, but except for load-bearing walls, the inner walls in the basement were all frame construction. Most of them were empty, but some had been converted to storage.

Tim looked out the windows, expecting to see Dr. Vallingham or one of his personal orderlies/guards approaching the building. Tim had already been down here overnight, but no one had come into the basement, not even Frank Larkins, the orderly who had hidden him here.

It was probably better that way. If someone saw Frank coming into the basement, it would be suspicious. Tim was getting hungry, though. No one had brought him food, and he hadn’t found anything to eat down here, although he did find a half-filled pint bottle of moonshine. It slaked his thirst and calmed his nerves.

While he hadn’t seen anyone other than nurses approach the building, Tim thought he heard sirens at one point. He also saw more vehicles driving around than he had seen in his short time at the hospital.

“Tim.”

Tim jumped. He spun, holding a fireplace poker he had found in one of the storage rooms. He relaxed when he saw it was Frank.

“Give a guy some warning,” Tim said.

“I did. I said your name and stayed back from you,” Frank told him.

“You didn’t bring me breakfast by chance?”

Frank shook his head. “Sorry.” Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out an apple. He tossed it to Tim. “You can eat that for now. I’ll get you something to eat.”

“Does that mean I have to stay down here?” He bit into the apple. It was sweet and crunchy.

“Not for too much longer, hopefully. Someone saw Vallingham drive away last night. I’m hoping that means he knew the game was up and won’t be coming back.”

“He deserves to be in prison.”

Frank shrugged. “I’m sure they’ll catch up with him eventually. I’m just happy he’s not around here interfering with the bootlegging.”

Frank and some of the other employees at the hospital ran a bootlegging operation from the powerhouse.

“And killing patients,” Tim added.

“That, too.” Frank chuckled to himself. “Boy was Dr. Cullen furious when I told him what was happening. His face turned deep red, and he stomped around the office. He called the police himself; I give him that. He’s a good man, and this hospital is important to him.”

“Surprised he let something like this happen then.”

“Well, there’s a lot going on here nowadays. We’ve got the regular TB patients, the children’s hospital, and the nursing school. One man can’t run it all.”

“I suppose not.”

Frank left and arranged for a nurse he trusted to bring Tim breakfast, so that he wouldn’t risk being seen coming into the building again. Tim ate the pancakes and sliced apples with cinnamon and then took a nap. He had been up all night worried Vallingham would find him.

Frank came back after lunch. “Things are in an uproar. They are still searching for Vallingham in the woods. We had to break down our still and store the pieces in different locations.”

“Do you think he’s in the woods?” Tim asked.

“I doubt it. Why would he stick around? They’re just being careful, and so are my people.”

“So, is it safe for me to leave?”

“I suppose you can. The police have been asking for you, anyway. I guess they want to talk to you about everything.”

“You didn’t tell them where I was?”

“I do my best to avoid the police. It’s a habit. I don’t want them recognizing me if they spot me at a still.”

Tim followed Frank back outside the nurse’s building. He looked at his watch and saw it was dinnertime. He went to the dining hall and ate while he listened to the surrounding conversations, as people speculated on why the police had been at the hospital all day.

After dinner, he walked through the connecting hallway to the administration building. The police were eager to talk to him. Tim sat through two hours of questions from Dr. Cullen and the Frederick County States Attorney. Tim explained everything that had happened to him, leaving out finding out about Frank and the moonshiners who operated in the powerhouse. By the time he finished, it was dark out.

He walked back to the shack and wondered if the police were still wandering the property trying to find Vallingham, or if they had moved their search away to other locations.

When he walked into the shack, it was dark. He turned on the light in his ward and saw Vallingham standing there with a pistol.

“What did you tell them?” Vallingham asked.

“Everything. At least everything concerning you.”

Vallingham grimaced. “You have ruined everything. I was trying to heal people.”

“So, if you killed some along the way, that’s all right?”

Tim wondered if he could turn off the lights again before Vallingham shot him.

Vallingham jabbed the pistol in his direction. “What would you know? You just stumbled into something that was beyond you. I tried to get my notes from my safe, but the police were all over the building.”

“They will catch you.”

“Doubtful. I have money saved. I can disappear and start my research again elsewhere. I had hoped to get what I had done so far.”

“You don’t think a new doctor studying tuberculosis might give you away? You want attention.”

Vallingham paused and thought for a moment. “I want…”

That’s when Tim turned the lights off and threw himself backwards into the entry area. He heard the shot fired and the impact when it hit the wall. He scrambled out the door on his hands and knees and then ran.

Tim meant to run for the administration building, although he wasn’t sure anyone was still there, but when he came down off the porch, he slipped and tumbled down a hill toward the woods. Then, he heard Vallingham coming after him and another shot fired. Tim took off for the cover of the woods.

The shots would undoubtedly bring the police if they were still around, but Tim couldn’t wait to see if they would show up before Vallingham shot him.

He ran into the trees, feeling like he now knew what Max Wenschof had felt like when he ran into the woods chased by a moonshiner. He slowed as he reached the woods because he didn’t want to trip on a root. He wasn’t thinking about going somewhere in particular, he just pushed further into the woods. He stumbled once but caught himself on a tree. After that, he moved slower and kept his hands out feeling for trees.

He heard Vallingham coming behind him, but he also heard the man yell when he tripped and fell.

After a few minutes, Tim saw a low light in the distance. He headed toward it, thinking it must be one of the hospital buildings. However, as Tim came into a clearing, he saw it was four moonshiners working by lantern light around a still.

They yelled when they saw Tim, but he didn’t stop. He shouted, “Revenuer coming.” Then he ran back into the woods.

Out of breath, Tim dropped behind a fallen tree and tried to find a place where he might hide.

He heard more shouts and gunshots. When the gunshots stopped, Tim heard voices speaking too low to be understood. He heard metal and wood hitting each other. After fifteen minutes, things fell silent.

Tim pushed himself and walked back toward the clearing. The lanterns that had cast the low light were gone. He tripped again, but this time, he hit the ground. As he pushed himself up, he felt something soft and realized it was clothing. He patted it. It was a body. He felt for a pulse. Whoever it was, was dead.

Tim pulled out his matchbook and lit a match. It cast a small circle of light. He held it toward where the head was. He saw Vallingham’s dead eyes looking back at him.

Tim shook the match out and sighed. Then, he slowly stood and made his way back the way he came, although he came out far from his shack.

Police were walking around with flashlights on. One of them shined a light on Tim. “Who are you?”

“Tim Ross. Dr. Vallingham, the man you’re looking for, is in there.” Tim waved toward the clearing. “He’s dead.”

“Dead? Did you kill him?”

“No, he ran into bootleggers. They shot at each other. He lost.”

By morning, police were swarming over the hospital grounds. In Dr. Cullen’s office, the doctor profusely apologized for what had happened.

“I’m alive, at least,” Tim told him.

“Yes, and like you, I mourn for those other patients who aren’t so lucky. There are doctors from the state right now pouring over hospital records, looking over all patients Dr. Vallingham supervised. Their families deserve to know the truth.”

Tim nodded. Dr. Cullen was right, but Tim had been thinking that he was alive while Dr. Vallingham was dead. This might have been Tim’s last fight, but at least he had won it.

The End

VFW Post 6658 Auxiliary’s Patriot’s Pen Contest

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Each year, the VFW Post 6658 Auxiliary sponsors a contest titled, “The Patriot’s Pen,” which is open to students in grades six through eight. Students are required to enter a typed essay of 300-400 words based on the theme: “My Pledge to Our Veterans.” Monetary prizes are given the winners on local, state, and national levels. Judging is based on knowledge of theme, theme development, and clarity of ideas. 

If interested, please contact Annette Wivell at 301-447-3475 for an entry form. Entry deadline to VFW Post 6658, Emmitsburg, MD 21727 is October 31, 2022.

Memories of a Swing

Poem by Sue Clabaugh

Written for the man who made the swing and for my grandson who loved the swing.

My first memories of the swing are joyful.

I am a tot, too small to realize the full meaning of the thing

But aware enough of my feelings to know

It is a joy and it’s fun.

It’s also love. love from my Mother and Father

one in front and one in the back

pushing me from one to the other

a threesome—making one

Showing a family of love.

Years passed—now I’m five.

Old enough to know the swing is the first thing I run to in the park.

I want the thrill of the highs, thinking that each trip through the air

I will be able to touch the tree limbs with my toes.

And the best part is the feeling of love.

A happy love for 

I’m being pushed—to and fro by my Granny

I trust her her—she pushes me higher than my mother does.

I’m brave because she is

the two of us—making one

Showing a family of love.

 Sixteen now—The years have flown.

I sit on the front porch swing

dreaming of the boy I love

The handsome one, the one with the smile,

And quietly he sneaks up behind me

And gives the swing a sudden push.

I scream and he laughs as he sits down beside me

to say hello.

We begin to talk and share each other’s company

We are unaware that our nervous legs are pushing us

to and fro—making us one

Showing our feelings of love.

I’m old now, very old, feeling very alone

sitting here on this rickity old swing.

 It’s the one my man made for me years ago.

It held our children and grandchildren

And then their grandchildren

All cuddled together

Swinging and smiling.

The one place that young and old could be a child.

I wonder what will become of it when I am gone.

Will anyone remember that

It brought a family together—taking turns swinging

to and fro—making us one

Showing a family how to love.

Nights at the Sanatorium

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written by James Rada, Jr.

A serial fiction story for your enjoyment

6: Time To Leave

Tim Ross looked at the body Frank Larkins and the other orderly loaded into the truck bed. It was the same man. Paul Donofrio. He had spoken a few hours earlier about recovering from tuberculosis. He had praised some sort of secret treatment Dr. Vallingham, the assistant director of the Maryland Tuberculosis Hospital in Sabillasville, was giving him.

“That’s him,” Tim said.

“Him who?” Frank asked.

“The man who was getting the secret treatment I told you about.”

Frank turned to stare at the body. “Are you sure?” Tim nodded. “He was a good guy. I liked him, and he seemed to be getting better. I thought they might send him home.”

“Really?”

“I didn’t run any tests on him, but he was looking a lot better than he had been when he first came here last year. He had better color and was gaining weight.”

“Was he getting aspirin?” Tim had discovered that was virtually the only medicine that patients received at the hospital. The main therapy was rest and fresh air.

Frank shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

Paul Donofrio had been getting better and had seemed fine at breakfast. Now, he was suddenly dead. Even if the treatment hadn’t been working, Paul shouldn’t have died so quickly. It didn’t make sense.

“Are they going to autopsy the body?” Tim asked.

“No, we’re going to put the body in a coffin and send it out on the evening train.”

“Is that unusual?”

Frank shook his head. “No. People here die from TB.”

“Does he look like he did?”

“That’s what Dr. Vallingham wrote on the death certificate.”

That was a surprise. “Has he seen the body?” Tim asked.

“I don’t think so.”

Tim sighed and shook his head. “Something’s not right.”

Frank loaded the body and drove away to wherever he needed to go. Tim watched him leave. Then, he turned toward the administration building. He thought he could see Dr. Vallingham standing at the window of his second-floor office, but it could have been his imagination.

So, if Paul had been getting a secret treatment, where would he have been getting it? Dr. Vallingham wouldn’t have wanted to meet with him openly. At that moment, Tim remembered the beds on the second floor of the laboratory.

He headed back across the campus and up the hill to the two-story stone building. When he arrived, he found the door was still unlocked. This still surprised him, having come from Baltimore where people locked their doors out of necessity. Inside, he walked around the tables that were filled with test tubes, bottles, Bunsen burners, and the other things one would expect to see in a place where medicines were prepared. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Did he expect to find a bottle labeled “Secret Treatment”?

He walked upstairs to where the beds were. Here, he found a cabinet filled with vials. He picked one up and held it up. The fluid inside was light green. Was this the treatment? He slipped it into his pocket.

A small desk sat in one corner. He walked over and looked through the drawers to see if he could find anything useful, but they were empty. Then, he looked over at the three beds with straps that would restrain whoever lay on the bed. This had to be where Dr. Vallingham administered his treatments, but he didn’t see anything he could definitely point to as being sinister.

“You do not belong here, Mr. Ross.”

Tim spun around and saw Dr. Vallingham standing at the head of the stairs with his special orderlies. He wore his tweed suit and seemed out of place in the room.

“I’m a curious person.”

“You were told specifically that you were not allowed in this building. It is a reason for dismissal from the hospital, which is what I will do. It is time for you to leave the hospital. You are not a good fit here.”

“Who is a good fit, though, for your special treatment?”

“I told you that there is no special treatment,” Vallingham said.

“That’s not what Paul Donofrio thought.”

“He died from tuberculosis.”

“Did he? You signed the death certificate without examining him.” When the doctor said nothing, Tim said, “Maybe I should leave. I need to get in touch with his family and encourage them to have a doctor autopsy his body. I imagine if it turns out that Paul died from anything other than TB, the authorities will have questions.”

Vallingham took a deep breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I am only trying to help people, Mr. Ross, and I have been making progress. If I have a few setbacks along the way, that is the cost of research.”

“Easy for you to say when you aren’t the one paying the cost.”

“I am. My reputation is on the line.”

“But not your life.”

“No, but perhaps yours.” Vallingham stepped back. “Strap him down. We’ll see how the next iteration of the serum works.”

The orderlies stepped forward. Tim backed off, looking for a weapon. He could grab the chair, but he could only hit one orderly before the others swarmed him. Then what would happen? Tim wasn’t sure he wanted Vallingham’s special treatment.

Tim grabbed the wooden chair and swung it back and forth, trying to ward off the orderlies. That was the best he could do. He didn’t have much of his strength anymore. One orderly grabbed the chair and yanked it out of Tim’s hands, tossing it off to the side. The other two closed in on Tim from different sides. Tim punched at them, but his jabs lacked power.

A group of half a dozen men rushed up the stairs with hoods over their heads. Two had bats and three of them had pistols.

“What is this?” Vallingham shouted.

“Let him go,” one hooded man said.

“This man is a patient of mine.”

One man swung his bat at Vallingham’s stomach. It hit him, and he doubled over, falling to the floor. The orderlies moved forward, but the armed men pointed their pistols at them.

“Let him go,” the hooded man repeated.

The orderlies released Tim. One of the men with bats grabbed Tim’s arm and pulled him away. They went down the stairs and out the door. They crowded into a truck Tim recognized.

“Which one of you is Frank?” Tim asked.

Frank took off his hood. He was driving.

“Thanks,” Tim said.

“I saw you heading back here. Then, I saw Vallingham head out with his goons on my way back from the station. I figured that couldn’t be good.”

“He’s using people to test his treatments.”

“Crap! That’s worse than I thought. I figured he was just doing some side work for money.”

Frank stopped the truck in front of the nurse’s building. He climbed out and took Tim’s arm.

“Come with me.” He turned to the other men. “They’ll be looking for the truck. Park it at the administration building and then disappear. Double the guards at the power house for now.”

The truck drove off.

“Bootleggers?” Tim asked.

Frank nodded. He took Tim into the building through the basement door. It was dark and smelled musty.

“We’re not supposed to be here, either, but every once in a while, a nurse and orderly will hit it off.” He nodded toward a bed in one corner. “You can stay here for now. They won’t look for you here.”

“What if one of the nurses reports me?”

“They won’t. They hate the way Vallingham treats them but stay quiet just in case.”

“For how long?”

“We can try to get you out on the train, but Vallingham will probably have the orderlies watching it. I think we should call the police. We’ll have to move the still somewhere off into the woods.”

“Wait, what if you turn Paul’s body over to the police? We can tell them what is happening, and they can have a doctor autopsy the body. It should show that Vallingham was lying about how Paul died. You might not even need to move the still.”

Frank rubbed his chin and then grinned. “I like how you think.”

Capture Art in a National Park

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Art has been part of the history of national parks since the 1860’s when Hudson River School painters captured the majestic Western landscapes that became our first iconic national parks. Their awe-inspiring works spurred Americans to preserve those lands for future generations. Artist George Catlin, during an 1832 trip to the Dakotas, was perhaps the first to suggest the idea of a national park. Catlin traveled extensively and noted that Indian civilization, wildlife, and the wilderness were in danger unless they could be preserved “by some great protecting policy of government…in a magnificent park….a Nation’s Park, containing man and beast, in all the wild[ness] and freshness of their nature’s beauty!”

Today, there are Artist in Residence (AIR) programs in more than 50 National Park Service units, which preserve the connection between arts and the parks. Catoctin Forest Alliance (CFA) manages the local Artist in Residence program jointly with Catoctin Mountain Park and Cunningham Falls State Park. Selections for the program are made by a panel that includes art experts from local colleges. In addition to accepting a variety of visual media, the program in 2013 began accepting written media as well.                                                                                                

 CFA was established in 2009 as a partner organization to Catoctin Mountain Park NPS and Cunningham Falls State Park MPS. One of the CFA founders was artist Elizabeth Prongas, who began the local AIR program here in 2010 to bring a new and diverse voice and constituency to the parks. Since the inception of the AIR program, CFA has welcomed 31 artists to the Catoctin Mountains. They have come from California; Washington, D.C.; Kentucky; Tennessee; Massachusetts; Maryland; New Jersey; New York; Oregon; and Virginia. The artists include painters; photographers; poets; a writer; a videographer; cast metal artist; a wool felter; a journaling artist; and, this year, a fabric artist/quilter. The artists stay in an historic cabin in Catoctin Mountain Park for one to three weeks and produce art influenced by the mountain setting. After the residency, each artist donates one piece of the art they created during their stay to the CFA AIR collection.        

The AIR art collection has been on exhibit at the Delaplaine Arts Center in Frederick, the Thurmont Library, the Emmitsburg Library, and the Visitor Center in the Manor Area of Cunningham Falls State Park. The collection is permanently housed in Catoctin Mountain Park.

This year’s Artist in Residence is Susan Lenz, a fabric artist/quilter, who will be in residence during September. She will be presenting free workshops in September at the Catoctin Mountain Park Visitor Center and the Thurmont Regional Library. Visit their websites for dates and times and check out the Community Calendar in this issue. Adults and children are welcomed to hear her presentation and have the opportunity for hands-on participation.

The Artist in Residence program not only strengthens the bond between nature, art, and the outdoors, but the sale of the art produces funds to bring children to the parks for outdoor learning experiences.

For more information on CFA and the AIR program, please visit www.catoctinforestalliance.org. To learn more about the artist, visit her website at www.susanlenz.com.

Nights at the Sanatorium

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written by James Rada, Jr.

A serial fiction story for your enjoyment

5: Miracle Cure

Tim Ross walked backed to the courtyard area of the Maryland Tuberculosis Sanatorium in Sabillasville. He hadn’t found the man he believed had been shot, but what he had found gave him pause. The laboratory seemed to hold more than just a laboratory where medicines could be formulated and blood and fluids tested. It appeared as if humans were sometimes restrained there. He had also discovered a still in the power house. Unlike the laboratory, which worried him, Tim thought he would enjoy knowing where he could go to get a drink, especially since the federal government had outlawed liquor.

He reached the yard area and walked to the dining room for breakfast. The room was filled with patients, most of them seemed to be eating oatmeal and fruit, but some had eggs on their plate.

Tim looked around for Max Wenschof. He wasn’t sure whether or not he expected to see the other patient. Max hadn’t been at dinner, and Tim suspected he might have been the man in white he believed had been shot last night. Frank Larkins, an intern at the hospital and one of the moonshiners operating a still in the power house, thought a rival moonshining gang could have shot the man accidentally.

Tim walked over to a table with two men at it and sat down. He introduced himself to the men, who seemed more interested in their own conversation than in Tim.

“I’m telling you, I feel great,” a middle-aged man with jet-black hair told his companion.

“It’s temporary. You’ll start feeling the TB effects again,” the other man said. He looked older, but it may have been the effects of the disease on him.

The first man shook his head. “It’s not. I’m really getting better. I’m on a special treatment.” He looked over at Tim nervously.

“What’s different about it?”

The first man shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know I was doing real bad. You know it. You saw me.” The second man nodded. “I’ve gained 10 pounds in the last two weeks. I can walk from the shack to here without running out of breath.”

“I have to say you look good, but when can the rest of us get some of what you’re getting?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the doctor wants to wait until I’m ready to leave here and go home.”

“You think you will… go home, I mean?”

“That’s what Dr. Vallingham says.”

“I’m happy for you, Paulie.”

“Thanks, but keep it under your hat. The doc doesn’t want word getting out until he has everything the way he wants it.”

“Sure, sure. Just put in a good word for me. I want to be next.”

Tim kept his head down and focused on his oatmeal. He listened with interest and didn’t want to stop the man from talking. He was hoping to hear clues of what the special treatment was. However, when he heard Dr. Vallingham’s name, he was immediately suspicious. He didn’t trust the assistant director, but he wondered how much of that feeling came because of the doctor’s attitude versus his ability.

He might have trusted the news of a new treatment if Dr. Cullen had been the doctor mentioned. He had a good reputation and was the reason Tim had chosen to come to this hospital when he had been diagnosed with TB.

He finished his breakfast and walked back to his shack. All the windows had been opened wide, although it was still cool out. He went inside and flopped down on his bed, pulling the covers over himself.

Frank came by a short time later, carrying a tray with medicine on it.

“What’s that?” Tim asked.

Frank’s eyebrows rose. “It’s medicine.”

“What type of medicine?”

Frank glanced around. “I’m not supposed to know, but I saw the nurse fill the cups once. It’s aspirin.”

His treatment was aspirin? “I don’t have a headache.”

“It’s not for a headache. It’s Dr. Vallingham’s standard treatment. He relies more on the fresh air to help clear the lungs than medicine.”

“I heard someone talking this morning about a special treatment that Dr. Vallingham has been giving him.”

Frank shrugged. “Not from me. The tablets I give all look the same.”

“Have you seen the patients who get his treatments?”

“I’m not sure who they are. He probably uses his goon squad.”

Tim sat up in his bed. “Goon squad?”

“The doc has three orderlies who work just for him. They don’t do anything unless Dr. Vallingham okays it. They’re big guys, but you usually don’t see them unless the doc has them running an errand.”

Tim took the aspirin and swallowed it. He felt thinking about everything that was going on at this hospital would wind up giving him a headache.

Later that afternoon, he walked over to the administration building and asked to see Dr. Vallingham. He had to wait a half an hour, but eventually, the nurse at the front desk showed him into the office.

The doctor was sitting behind his desk as he had been during the first interview.

“I don’t have much time, Mr. Ross. What can I do for you?” Dr. Vallingham said.

“Well, Doc…”

“Doctor,” Vallingham corrected.

“Doctor. I heard that you have a special treatment for some patients that seems to work. I was hoping I could get it, too. I want to get out of here and back to work, but I’ve got to get better.”

“And what makes you think I have a special treatment?”

“Someone was talking about it at breakfast. He was very excited about feeling better and gaining weight.”

“I’m not sure what your heard, but it couldn’t have been what you say. I have no special treatment for patients, and if I had one that worked, I assure you, I would have used it for everyone here. I want you to recover as fast as you can, Mr. Ross.”

Dr. Vallingham looked down at something on his desk, as if to dismiss Tim. Tim frowned, but he stood up and left the office. As he walked down the hall toward the stairs, he saw three orderlies come out of a room at the other end of the hall. They were each as large as Tim had been before he got sick.

Tim was forced to stand to the side of the hallway as they passed him without saying anything. They reminded Tim of boxers. He glanced at their hands and saw their knuckles were scarred. They were definitely men who fought, but they weren’t boxers, not with scarred knuckles. They also looked nothing like typical orderlies. Tim watched them knock on Dr. Vallingham’s door and then enter the office.

Back in his shack, he tried to read the newspaper. He had never been much of a reader, and honestly, the only news he wanted to hear was how he could get better. He didn’t want to wither up and die like a plum turning into a prune.

He went outside and tried to run around the road that ran around the yard for exercise, but he was out of breath before he had even completed a lap. As he stood bent over, trying to catch his breath, he saw Frank drive the truck up to one of the shacks.

Tim walked over. “What’s going on?”

Frank frowned and shook his head. “One of the patients died. I have to take him to undertaker in Thurmont, so they can get him ready to send home.”

“Who was it?”

“Paul Donofrio.”

Tim didn’t recognize the name, but then he didn’t know most people here.

“What happened to him?”

“The same thing that happens to most everyone here. The TB gets them.” Frank paused and looked at Tim. “Sorry.”

Tim shook his head. “I know what I’m up against. Believe me. It scares me more than any boxer I ever faced.”

Frank walked into the shack with another orderly. They came out a couple minutes later, carrying a body on a stretcher. Tim bowed his head. He hadn’t been lying when had said he was afraid that he wouldn’t recover from his TB. This might be his future.

As the two men slid the stretcher into the back of the truck, Tim looked up. He saw the dead man and was surprised that he recognized him.

It was the man who had been bragging about getting better at breakfast, and now he was dead just a few hours later. Even TB didn’t work that fast. Something else had happened to him.

Nights at the Sanatorium

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A serial fiction story for your enjoyment

written by James Rada, Jr.

4: The Power House

Tim Ross wasn’t sure what to do. A man in white had run out of the woods around the Maryland Tuberculosis Sanatorium, calling his name. Then, just as quickly, he had disappeared back into the trees. It had been dark, but Tim thought he also saw another man pursuing the man in white, although that man had remained in the trees. Tim had just been getting ready to go after the man in white when he heard shots.

That gave him pause. He had seen some shootings in Baltimore, and he knew better than to walk blindly into a place where men were armed. That was a good way to get shot himself.

Still, someone had known his name. Only a few people on this mountain knew him.

This hospital was supposed to be a place where he could recover from TB, but it was beginning to resemble a prison with lots of rules, a stern warden, and now, armed men around it.

Tim had trouble sleeping that night. He kept waiting to hear the man call for him again or more shots. He heard neither. He fell asleep at some point, but he was awake with the sunrise.

He dressed and walked out across the field to the tree line where he had seen the man in white. He looked around, but he saw nothing that made him think someone had been here. Of course, he wasn’t a tracker. He walked to where he thought he had seen the man re-enter the trees. He looked into the forest and slowly entered. He saw a log and, just beyond it, marks in the dirt. One of them was a handprint. Someone had been along this path, although who knew how old the print was. Tim’s best guess was that the person had tripped over the tree in the dark and fallen.

He continued along the path, looking for more signs. He was about to turn back when he saw a large rock with a stain that Tim recognized. He had seen it on his clothing and boxing ring mats before. It was dried blood.

He kept walking, wondering if someone might need help, although the blood on the rock had dried. Not too far beyond the rock, he saw what looked to be more blood on the leaves of a bush. Tim set off in that direction.

He soon came to a clearing where there was a large stone building. He thought it was a home at first, but when he approached and looked in a window, he saw it had machinery inside. It must have been the power house Dr. Vallingham, the hospital’s assistant director, had told him not to go near.

Too late now.

The door was locked, but looking in the windows, he saw large boilers and a furnace. The piping to other buildings on the grounds must have been buried underground. Then, he saw something familiar. It was a moonshine still set up inside the power house. No one was around, but it looked to be in use.

He turned around and saw Frank Larkins, an orderly from the hospital. The man wasn’t wearing the friendly smile he’d seen at the train station when Frank picked him up.

“What are you doing out here, Mr. Ross?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“In the power house where you aren’t supposed to be?”

Tim nodded. “Last night, I saw someone running in this direction, and I heard a shot. I went looking this morning and found blood.”

“Really?” Frank sighed. “You have created a problem for me and others.”

“You mean the still?” Frank nodded. “I’m from Baltimore where they are pretty much ignoring Prohibition. I don’t care about the still, although I wouldn’t be against sampling some of your product. Right now, though, I am just trying to find out what happened to that man. The blood has me worried.”

Tim was thinking about asking Dr. Cullen, the hospital director, about it, but he needed something more to tell him than a shadowy man running in the dark and some possible blood.

“Did you see anyone around here last night?” Tim asked.

Frank shook his head. “I wasn’t here. Are you serious about this man?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, people have been shot at near here.”

“Why?”

Frank nodded toward the power house. “Why do you think?”

“Has anyone been hurt?”

“Not here, but there are different groups on this mountain who are making a lot of money and want to protect themselves. The Clines and Russmans over in Smithsburg are in a shooting war. Each group wants to control all the moonshine in this area.”

Tim had heard about Smithsburg, but he didn’t realize it was close. The area had made national headlines as having an “old-time mountain feud” between John Cline and Henry Russman, involving night raiding, indiscriminate shooting, and fights. They were accused of wrecking a church, dynamiting a sawmill, killing one person, and wounding others.

So much for the quiet country life where he could recover from TB.

“So, if the bootleggers were doing the shooting, who were they shooting at?” Tim asked.

Frank rubbed his chin and shook his head. “We haven’t heard of any bodies being found or anyone being shot. However, if a patient was out last night, and the Smithsburg bootleggers were prowling around looking for our still, they might have thought he was one of my crew.”

“Well, someone was out there, running from someone, and it was someone who knew me. I want to find him. I couldn’t care less about your operation.”

Frank stared at him for a moment. “I believe you. You seem like a stand-up guy. My men work at the hospital and in town. I’ll have them ask around and listen for anyone who is talking about someone missing.”

“I appreciate it. Your still is what I saw in the power house?”

Frank nodded. “It’s isolated and no one but people who I work with come here. It’s also close to the train station, where we ship out a lot of our product. Being on the hospital ground gives us some protection from other moonshiners. Plus, the revenuers never think to look there.”

“Is that why Dr. Vallingham tells patients not to come out here?”

Frank chuckled. “No, Dr. Vallingham is a drinker, but he would never be caught dead drinking moonshine. He has his private pre-Prohibition stash. Besides, Vallingham is a jerk. He would turn us in if he knew what we were doing.” Tim smiled. “Dr. Cullen would, too, but at least he is polite to the staff. We would much rather deal with him than Vallingham.”

Tim shook Frank’s hand and started walking away. Then he paused and turned back. “If I come back sometime, can I buy a bottle?”

“I’ll give you the best we have.”

Tim followed a path up the hill and through the woods. When it came out in a clearing, he saw the laboratory building. It was a two-story stone building, much smaller than the power house. This was where medicines were prepared for the patients.

He walked over to the windows and looked inside. He could see tables with test tubes, bottles, Bunsen burners, and the other types of things one would expect to see. Nothing looked out of place. It didn’t look like it was used often.

He tried the door and found it open. He walked inside and up the staircase to the second floor. Here, he found a cabinet filled with vials. A small desk sat in one corner. What disturbed Tim was the three beds with straps that would be used to restrain who ever lay in the bed.

What was going on here?

Local Artist Brings Sculptures to Life

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Blair Garrett

A local artist is making waves, adding a dash of color to parks and museums across the east coast.

Alyssa Imes, a Catoctin High School graduate and Emmitsburg resident, has been perfecting her craft for years, featuring her vibrant sculptures in various festivals and parks.

Imes has spread her art from Washington D.C. and Virginia, to Hagerstown, Maryland, and hopes to soon have one of her sculptures right here in Emmitsburg. Her art ranges from small pieces that make a statement to big and bold structures that brighten the area around them, and everything in between.

Imes also brought her talents to the Maryland Iron Festival in May, where she put her skills to the test for all to witness. She brought her own furnace to melt iron on sight, and poured it into scratch blocks for attendees to craft custom iron works.

The 2020 and 2021 Maryland Iron Festivals were held virtually, so it was a nice change of pace to have Imes and other art and iron enthusiasts be able to show guests this centuries-old way of producing things.

Outside of festivals, Imes has a wide array of sculptures she produces and sells. There are exciting things ahead in the career of this young artist. 

Imes received her Bachelor of Fine Arts from Shepherd University in 2018, and she recently completed her Master of Fine Arts in Sculpture at University of Maryland. So be on the lookout for big things from this talented local artist.

Her art is currently on display at the Frederick Arts Council Center in Frederick, and it will be available to see until mid-July. You can catch more of her works online at: www.alyssaimes.com.

Designed and created by Alyssa Imes, “Winged Forces” is a 4-foot cement sculpture of a Monarch butterfly and a honeybee that stands at the traditional president’s residence at Shepherd University, where Imes graduated in 2018.

Nights at the Sanatorium

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A serial fiction story for your enjoyment

written by James Rada, Jr.

3: A Voice In the Night

Tim Ross closed the door to Dr. Vallingham’s office in the Maryland State Sanatorium Administration Building. He paused for a moment before releasing his grip on the doorknob, feeling like he had been hauled before the principal of his high school.

Tim turned and saw Dr. Vallingham sitting behind a large oak desk that was entirely empty, without even a blotter or desk lamp. The man who was second-in-charge at the hospital didn’t even bother standing up. He simply motioned to a wooden chair in front of the desk.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Ross.”

No hello or handshake. He was not a warm fellow by any stretch.

Tim sat in the chair and noticed it was low, making him have to raise his head to look over the desk at the doctor.

“I am Dr. Jeremy Vallingham. I will oversee your treatment while you are a patient here.”

“What about Dr. Cullen?” Victor Cullen was the doctor in charge of the hospital and also the reason it had an excellent reputation for treating patients with tuberculosis.

“I am his… associate. The demand for our services here is so great that it requires two doctors.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Tim wouldn’t wish his disease on anyone. He had lost weight and strength. He coughed up blood or just felt pain while breathing at times. He had a fever during the day and chills at night. He felt like he could feel himself slowly fading away, slowly dying.

Dr. Vallingham’s brow furrowed. “Hmmm… oh, yes, I see what you mean. Your tuberculosis was detected early and seems mild. That is good news. It means you won’t be placed in the reception hospital.” This was the building where the sicker patients were housed.

Tim nodded. “Yes, I am in shack five.” Shacks were what everyone called the pavilions that were barrack-like buildings with large floor-to-ceiling windows that could be opened to allow plenty of air to pass through the buildings.

“Shacks. That is the colloquial term. It does not do them justice. They are specially designed housing units to augment my treatments.”

“Which are?”

Dr. Vallingham’s nose lifted a bit. He did not like being questioned. “Treatments vary depending on the patient. It will require some testing to fine tune the best treatment for you. Tomorrow morning at 8 a.m., a nurse or orderly will come to your pavilion to take your temperature and pulse. You will also be given your first dose of medication. From there, we will see how things progress.”

Tim nodded. “What are my chances of recovery?”

“I don’t like to speculate, but I have an excellent track record. You are in good hands, Mr. Ross.”

“That’s why I came here.”

Dr. Vallingham nodded. “And now that you are here, there are some rules you need to follow. No fraternizing with the nurses. It is allowed between patients, of course, but no intimate relations. No alcohol is allowed. Feel free to walk the yard and even over to the reception hospital should the need arise, but avoid the pharmacy, powerhouse, and nurse’s quarters.”

“Why’s that?”

The doctor stiffened at being challenged. “Because those are not areas patients need to be. Also, this area has problems with men making illegal liquor, and we wouldn’t want them to mistake you for a federal agent.”

Tim knew that was possible. He had heard about the moonshining war in nearby Smithsburg, even in Baltimore City. “For patients caught breaking the rules, there are consequences,” the doctor continued.

“Consequences? What sort of consequences? Do you send me to bed without my dinner?”

Tim smiled to show Dr. Vallingham he was making a joke, but the doctor did not have much of a sense of humor. He was the king of his kingdom. Tim had seen it with some fight promoters when he was still able to box. They were all friendly and smiles when things were going their way, but let one customer try to welch on a bet or a fighter not take a fall, and those smiles suddenly seemed like a way to show sharp teeth to those people right before they got hurt.

Dr. Vallingham said, “It varies based on what rule is violated, but rest assured, patients don’t like them and rarely make the same mistake twice.”

Was this man the reason people here seemed nervous? He and his rules and punishments?

Tim shrugged. “OK.”

The doctor nodded. “Fine. That is all, then.”

Tim knew when he was being dismissed, so he left. He walked back to the shack. He saw a few more of the residents of pavilion five. Eleven people were currently in the shack. Tim introduced himself to four other people who had returned to their beds. They were all men who weren’t severely sick. Tim introduced himself to them. Then he sat on a deck chair on the porch and stared out into the forest, trying to process what was happening here.

He felt like he was in a prison without walls. People walked on egg shells, afraid of violating one of Dr. Vallingham’s rules. This was not going to be an enjoyable stay, but was any hospital stay? Best he take his treatment and leave as quickly as possible.

Frank Ziolkowski, another resident, shook his shoulder. Tim looked up.

“We’re heading over for dinner. Want to come?” Frank asked.

Tim nodded and stood up. The small group of patients walked over to the dining room and got in line for the meal. He looked around for Max Wenschof. Tim wanted to talk to him about Dr. Vallingham, but Tim didn’t see him.

He saw the young nurse who had fetched him at lunchtime and stopped her.

“Have you seen Max Wenschof?” Tim asked.

“Who?”

“Max Wenschof, the man who was eating lunch with me when you came to get me.”

“Him? Oh, yes, Mr. Wenschof is no longer a patient here.”

“No longer a patient? Was he cured?”

The young nurse frowned. “Patient information is confidential.”

“It’s not like we don’t know what he has or had. Everyone is here because they have TB. And if he’s no longer a patient, then it’s no longer a breach of confidence.”

She looked around nervously. “Mr. Ross…”

Tim held up his hand. “Nevermind.”

He was drawing stares from some of the other patients. He didn’t feel like getting punished, especially when he wasn’t sure what it would be for.

He skipped dinner and walked back to the shack. The windows were all open, allowing a light breeze to flow through the building. It was quiet outside. Did he smell alcohol, or was he imagining it? The hidden stills couldn’t be that close, could they?

“Tim…”

Tim sat up and listened. Had he heard someone calling for him?

“Tim…”

He walked through one of the open windows to the railing of the porch. It was dark out, except for the starlight. There was no moon, but he could still make out shadows on the field in front of the forest.

Had he imagined the voice?

He saw a white figure emerge from the forest. It wasn’t a ghost, but someone dressed in white like an orderly. The figure was running and seemed to be looking over his shoulder, but Tim couldn’t be sure in the dark.

Tim looked at the forest. He couldn’t make out anyone else there, but something was scaring this man. Was he the one who had called for Tim? If so, who could it be? Only a few people around here knew his name.

The man in white veered off in another direction and ran back into the trees. A short time later, Tim heard a shot.

Then everything went quiet again.

Nights at the Sanatorium

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written by James Rada, Jr.

A new serial fiction story for your enjoyment

2: Learning the Rules

Tim Ross straightened up from the railing of the barracks-like housing unit at the Maryland Tuberculosis Hospital. He looked at his hands. They were shaking.

He wasn’t afraid. He knew that. It would take a lot more than a whispered warning to cause him fear. The air this high up was a little chilly, but not enough to make him shake. Had he lost his tolerance to cold? Or was it the tuberculosis (TB)? He had lost his speed and stamina to the TB that racked his body. His strength was going.

Tim focused on his hands and stilled the trembling. Then he closed his hands into fists and hammered them down onto the railing and was rewarded with a deep “wham” that seemed to vibrate through the wood.

Tim smiled. He might not be strong enough to fight any longer, but he was far from weak… and far from giving in to the TB. He would fight this, and just like with his boxing matches, he would win.

He left the pavilion and walked to the dining hall. He enjoyed the walk and paused occasionally for quick sets of deep-knee bends or to throw shadow punches.

The dining hall was a stone building connected to the rear of the administration building and was roughly in the center of the surrounding pavilions. He entered the building and paused. The room was filled with rectangular tables covered with tablecloths and surrounded with wooden chairs. People moved through a cafeteria line with trays of food.

What caught Tim’s attention was the people. They didn’t look sick, or at least not very sick. Should he take that as a good sign? They were young adults in their 20s to the elderly. Some were dressed as if this was a night out. Others looked like they had walked in from a garden.

Tim got in line with a tray and got an open-faced turkey sandwich covered in gravy, green beans, and mashed potatoes. He found an empty table and sat down. He ate slowly, paying more attention to the people in the dining room. They seemed too quiet. People were talking, but they acted as if they were in a library, whispering to each other. Some cast suspicious glances around themselves. More than a few watched Tim as if he was a threat as a new person at the hospital.

He had finished half of his sandwich when a man about his age sat down across the table from him.

“Hi, there. My name is Max Wenschof,” the man said.

“Tim Ross.” He reached across the table and shook Max’s hand.

“You’re the new guy. You don’t look too sick. Well, I guess if you were, you wouldn’t be in here. Where are you staying?”

“I’m in Pavillion Five. What do you mean if I was sick, I wouldn’t be in here? Doesn’t everyone in here have TB?”

“Sure, sure, but we either have mild cases or we’re on the mend. Some might even be ready to go home. The real sick patients stay in the receiving hospital. Nurses and orderlies bring them their meals.”

“Oh, it’s good to know I’m not too sick.”

Max clapped him on the shoulder. “Of course not. You can walk around.” Max cut into his sandwich and took a bite.“By the way, I’m in the shack right next door to you. Four.”

“Shack?”

“That’s what everyone calls the pavilions. Too fancy schmancy. They’re shacks.” Max paused. “Are you from Baltimore? You sound like you might be.”

Tim nodded. “I lived out near Sparrows Point.”

“This place must be a bit of a shock for you, then.”

Tim snorted. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get along fine once you learn the rules.”

“That’s what I hear, but no one has told me what they are.”

Max chuckled. “They are vague on purpose. They would rather you break a rule and catch you at it, so they can correct you. And if you don’t break enough rules, I think they make them up, so they can punish you.”

“Punish?”

Max nodded and concentrated on his feet.

Tim wondered what sort of punishment they could inflict, but Max seemed not to want to talk about it.

“So, what is there to do here?”

“Officially, you can go to the recreation hall. It has cards, games, and a radio, although you can’t pick up much up here on the mountain at night.”

“That doesn’t sound like much.”

“It’s not.”

“You said officially. Are there things to do that are unofficial?”

“Well…” Max looked around and then lowered his voice. “A good-looking guy like your yourself could probably find a cute nurse for a little romance. They’re not supposed to fraternize in that way, but it has happened. You could even find a woman among the patients. It depends on how much you want to kiss a gal with TB, but hey, I say, it can’t make you any sicker.” Tim didn’t point out that was exactly what Max was expecting the nurses to do.

“What if I just want a drink?”

Max drew back. “Officially, the word is that absolutely no alcohol is allowed on the property. Not only is it Dr. Cullen’s rule, but it’s the law.”

“And, unofficially?” Tim asked softly.

Max clapped him on the shoulder. “See? You are learning about this place already. We are near the Pen-Mar resort and far from police. There are stories of lots of stills and moonshiners in the woods on this mountain. They sell to the resort and places like Hagerstown and Frederick.” He slowed his speech. “Some of them are very close by.”

“Are you saying there’s a still on the property?”

“I would never say that. You can draw your own conclusions.”

Tim shook his head. “Why does everyone seem so nervous that they won’t talk directly?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He suddenly concentrated on his sandwich as an orderly walked past the table.            

“I just don’t get it,” Tim said.

Max sighed and looked around. “You seem like a nice guy, Tim, but you’ve got to be careful. You don’t want to be corrected too many times. Watch what you say and who you say it to. Don’t attract too much attention to yourself, but you also want people to notice if you are gone.”

“Gone?”

“That’s all I can say.”

Tim shook his head. He didn’t need another cryptic warning. He needed answers. He wondered if he tried to leave the hospital and go elsewhere, would he even be allowed?

A cute red-headed nurse who still looked like a teen walked into the dining hall. She looked around and then walked over to Tim’s table.

“Mr. Ross?” she asked.

“That’s me,” Tim said with a forced smile.

“Dr. Vallingham will see you now.”

“Dr. Vallingham? I thought Dr. Cullen was in charge?”

The nurse smiled. “Oh, he is, but he can’t see all the patients here and run the hospital, too. Dr. Vallingham is the assistant director.”

Tim wondered why he had not heard of this doctor before now. Dr. Victor Cullen was the man credited for the hospital’s success. Not only had he saved the lives of many of the patients here, he had also recovered from TB himself. He was the one Tim wanted treating him.

Tim stood up. Max laid a hand on Tim’s arm. He glanced at the nurse, then back at Tim.

“Remember what I said.”

Tim nodded. “I will, and I will see you around.”

He turned and followed the nurse out of the dining hall. They walked through the hallway back to the administration building.

“You look barely old enough to be out of high school,” Tim said to the nurse.

The girl laughed. “That’s about right. I graduated last year. I go to the nursing school here.”

“Are all the nurses here students?”

“Most of them. Most of the nurses here are also former patients.”

Tim paused and stared at her. “You had TB?”

The young woman shook her head. “No, but my father did. He was a patient here until he died. I wanted to do something to honor him.”

“How do you like it here?” Tim asked, wondering if he would be given another mysterious warning.

“I enjoy it. People are sick but not as bad as a lot of patients in regular hospitals. It’s given me time to get used to dealing with ill people.”

“I guess that would be important.”

“Some of the pictures I’ve seen in class make me queasy, so I definitely need time to make the adjustment.”

She led Tim to an office on the second floor and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” said a voice from inside.

The nurse opened the door. Tim stepped inside and met the man whose hands his life was in.

Administration Building, Maryland Sanatorium

Nights at the Sanatorium

By On · Add Comment · In Arts & Entertainment

written by James Rada, Jr.

A serial fiction story for your enjoyment

1: Arrival

Timothy Ross stepped off the passenger car at the train depot near the Maryland Tuberculosis Hospital. He was used to the large platforms in cities like Baltimore, Washington, and Philadelphia. This was a small 15×30-foot wooden building surrounded on all sides by a wide porch. It could fit inside of the washroom of Penn Station, where he had boarded the train.

He noticed he was the only person on the platform. He expected more activity here, but it was still a bit early in the season for vacationers to be heading to Pen Mar, the nearby resort area. Green was starting to appear on the trees, and the sky was a bright blue. He felt just a hint of chill in the air. It wouldn’t be long before vacationers sought to escape the heat and humidity in the cities and headed for higher ground.

“So this is where I’ll die,” he whispered to himself.

He wondered if he had made the right choice coming here. He was a city boy, born and raised. He had never been able to escape the city, even in the heat of the summer, to come to a place like this. Tim lived in the night, in the gyms and arenas where he made his living in the ring…or at least he had.

His chest heaved, and he started coughing. He grabbed for his handkerchief and covered his mouth. When the hacking stopped, he pulled the handkerchief away and saw phlegm and spots of blood. So much for the clean, fresh mountain air helping him.

Tim walked into the station. He saw no people, just empty benches. There wasn’t even a stationmaster. It was as if people were only dropped off here, and no one ever left on the train, so no one needed to buy a ticket. That thought sent a chill down his back.

A door opened, and a man walked out of the washroom, drying his hands. He was a large man, almost as large as Tim had been before he had gotten sick. He was dressed in white, so Tim guessed this was the man he was supposed to meet.

“Are you from the sanatorium?” Tim asked.

The man nodded. “I’m Frank Larkins, one of the orderlies there and a driver when they need one.”

“I’m Tim Ross.”

Frank smiled and clapped his hands together. “Great! Let’s load your bags in the car and get you to the administration building.”

“Is it far away?”

“Not at all. You’re actually on the sanatorium property now. This is our station.”

“I thought this was the station for the resort.”

Frank shook his head. “That’s Blue Ridge Summit. It’s a little further up the line, just across the Mason-Dixon in Pennsylvania.”

Frank grabbed the two suitcases Tim had brought with him and headed out the front door. He walked down the steps from the front porch to the waiting car. It was a gray four-door Ajax sedan. Tim had seen plenty of them in Baltimore, but this was a newer model that had come out in 1926. Frank went around to the far side and put the suitcases in the back while Tim climbed into the car.

Then, Frank climbed into the driver’s seat. He started the engine and drove along a dirt road that led uphill.

“I used to live in Baltimore until I got this job,” Frank said. “I saw you fight Rusty Barrett last year. I won five dollars when you knocked him out.”

Tim grinned. “Seems like a lifetime ago.”

He hadn’t fought in three months. His stamina and speed were gone. He was withering away. Even if he got rid of the tuberculosis, he wondered if there would be enough of him left to recover.

Frank seemed to read his mind. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Ross. You got diagnosed early enough that this place can help you. You aren’t even in the main hospital. You’re in a cottage. That’s where they put the people who are in good shape.”

Tim shook his head. “No, they put them on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere. There’s as many trees here as there are people in Baltimore.”

“And that’s why you’ll get better. You aren’t in Baltimore. That’s what made you sick. They did a study last year that said there’s an area of the city that has the highest death rate in the country from TB. The best thing you could do was get out of that cesspool.”

He turned onto a drive that swung around in front of a three-story stone building that could have passed for one of the rich people’s homes in Mount Washington. Frank turned off the engine, and they walked onto the porch and through the front doors. They were in a hallway that led to a staircase to the second floor or the rear of the building. The rooms off the hallway all had closed doors. At a desk near the door, an attractive young nurse sat smiling up at them.

She looked at Tim and smiled, showing bright white teeth.

“Emily, this is Tim Ross, a new patient,” Frank said. He glanced at Tim. “Emily is one of the student nurses at the training school here, and if she wasn’t behind that desk, you’d see she has great gams.” Emily blushed and giggled. “I need to know what shack he’s in.”

Emily nodded and looked at her notes. “He’s in pavilion five. Also, I’ll need you to come back here after you finish putting your things away. I’ll have the paperwork you need to sign, your schedule, a map of the grounds, and a few other things.”

Frank and Tim walked back outside. Frank drove the car around the side of the administration building. Tim saw two rows of long, wooden buildings leading away from the back of the administration building. Frank stopped in front of one, and they walked to the entrance. Tim saw four people sitting on chairs on the porch that ran the length of the front of the building. The building was wood frame, but it sat on brick piers.

Inside, there were two wards, one off to either side of the entryway, which was a large sitting room. Frank looked at a chart on the wall, turned left, and walked to an empty bed near the end of the ward. Tim saw that all the windows on the ward were open, as well as doors that led onto the porch. More fresh air.

“So, this is your bed, but you’ll keep your things in the back,” Frank said.

He walked through a doorway behind the bed that led into a long rear room that nearly ran the length of the building.

“These compartments are where you can change and store your stuff. You have compartment three, which is also your bed number. The toilet room is in the middle.”

Tim nodded numbly.

Frank laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mr. Ross. It’s confusing now, but everything will be all right.” Then, he looked around, leaned closer, and whispered, “Be careful. Don’t wander off alone and don’t trust anyone. No one is safe. Don’t say anything about this.”

Frank then straightened up and smiled, but Tim could tell it was a fake smile.

“I’m going to leave you to unpack, because I have some other things to do. Once you’re finished, head back and talk to Emily.”

Tim nodded. “Thank you.”

Frank left and Tim walked out onto the porch, although with the large sliding windows between the wall columns, it was almost as if the ward was part of the porch.

He had to admit, the view was nice if you liked to look at trees and lawn. He started coughing so hard, he nearly dropped to his knees. Instead, he leaned on the rail and watched Frank drive off.

What had the man been talking about? More importantly, what had Tim gotten himself into?

Fire, Fire, Burning Bright

By On · Add Comment · In Arts & Entertainment

written by James Rada, Jr.

A new serial fiction story for your enjoyment

7: Ready for the Fireflies

Paul Cresap had barely escaped being burned alive, but his office in the Mechanicstown Jail wasn’t as lucky. The roof collapsed shortly after he made it out. He suspected he knew who had set the fire, and the charcoal he found around the building seemed to confirm it. It was most likely the work of a collier, and he had seen Abednego Hunt leaving the scene.

Paul would have followed him, but too many people wanted to know if he was all right and what had happened. It was dawn by the time he finally got his horse saddled and headed up to Abednego’s camp on Catoctin Mountain.

Not unexpectedly, Paul found no one at the camp, but it was the only place he knew of where he might find Abednego. He had to check it first. As Paul rode around the camp looking for the collier, he spotted the handmade grave marker for Meshach Hunt, the brother Abednego had said fell into one of the charcoal stacks and died.

Paul saw no other sign Abednego might come back. Had he abandoned the camp entirely?

He rode his horse down to Catoctin Furnace to find the superintendent for the Catoctin Iron Works. The paymaster for the company directed Paul to a house outside of the village. The superintendent and his family would be staying there since an arsonist had burned the superintendent’s house down yesterday.

“He should still be out there,” the paymaster said. “He hasn’t been in today. He’s probably trying to get things sorted out and order new furniture and clothing since he lost just about everything in the fire.”

Paul thanked the paymaster and headed out to the house. It was about half the size of the ironmaster’s mansion, but it was still much larger than the jail where Paul had been living for the past six months.

He knocked on the front door, but no one answered. He smelled smoke and saw a plume rising from the woods. The superintendent was probably there doing something. Paul walked into the woods and was surprised to see the gagged superintendent tied to a pole with a fire that had already been started under his feet.

Paul rushed forward and kicked at the logs, trying to disperse the fire and get it away from the man. He pulled off his vest and beat at the flames to keep them from spreading to the nearby brush.

Once the flames were out, he freed the superintendent and pulled the gag from his mouth. The man was singed a bit, but the flames hadn’t caught his clothing on fire.

“What’s going on?” Paul asked.

“It’s Ben Hunt. He attacked me and did this.”

“Where is he?”

“He was watching, but he ran deeper into the woods when he heard you coming.”

“Why is he doing this?”

“I don’t know. He’s always been a loner and quiet, but he was a good worker,” the superintendent said.

“What about his brother? Did his brother’s death have anything to do with this?”

The superintendent’s eyes narrowed. “Brother? Ben doesn’t have a brother. He came in the other day wanting death benefits for his brother, but we don’t have a record of a brother being employed by us.”

“But his brother fell into the stack and burned to death. I saw the grave.”

“I checked the records myself because Ben was so upset. We have no brother or any other relative of his working for the company.”

“Then what’s he talking about?”

The superintendent shrugged. “I don’t know. Ben works alone. It’s the best situation. Colliers usually work in teams, in case someone falls through a stack. Ben wanted to work alone, and he does the same work per man as any of the teams, so we let him continue. He doesn’t want to work with a team.”

Paul walked the superintendent back to his house. Then he mounted up to ride back to the collier camp. If Abednego Hunt didn’t have a brother, who was buried in the grave?

Ben rode back to the collier camp. He wasn’t sure why, perhaps it was because he had nowhere else to go. All Ben had wanted was his brother’s death benefit from the superintendent, but the man wouldn’t even admit Shack worked for him.

“Where have you been, Abednego?”

He turned and saw his brother. Ben froze. “Shack? I saw you die.”

Shack brushed non-existent dust off of himself. “I didn’t. I got out of the stack, although I’ve got some burns. That’s why I haven’t been back. I collapsed in the woods and have been nursing myself back to health.”

Abednego ran over and hugged his brother. “Why didn’t you let me help you?”

“You couldn’t. You weren’t ready.”

“Ready? Of course, I was ready to help you. I tore the stack down looking for you.”

Shack shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. You weren’t ready for the fireflies.”

Shack threw his hand in the air and dozens of fireflies scattered in front of him, glowing like stars in the sky…or embers.

Paul rode into the collier camp and saw Abednego talking to himself next to a smoldering pile of charcoal, log fragments, and dirt.

“Ben,” he said.

The collier didn’t seem to hear him. He was talking to someone Paul couldn’t see. Abednego walked to the stack he was near, still talking to no one Paul could see. Abednego didn’t even notice that his shoes were smoldering.

“Ben, get out of the fire!” he called.

Abednego didn’t acknowledge him. He bent down and picked up a handful of charcoal embers. They were still smoking, but he acted as if nothing was wrong.

He threw the embers into the air and they spread in a cloud around him.

Some of them fell on him, but he didn’t react as if they were burning him. Some of them started catching his clothing on fire.

Paul ran over to him and pushed Abednego out of the fire. Then he got down next to him and rolled him over and over until the flames went out.

Once the flames were extinguished, he rolled Abednego onto his stomach and tied his hands behind his back.

“I’m arresting you for arson,” Paul said.

Abednego still didn’t seem to even know Paul was there.

Paul put the dazed man on the saddle and rode him back to town. He carried him to Dr. Westgate to have his burns looked at.

“What’s wrong with him?” Paul asked.

“You mean the burns?”

“No, he still doesn’t seem to know we’re here.”

The doctor waved a hand in front of Abednego’s face and snapped his fingers. Abednego didn’t flinch or blink. “I noticed that. I think his mind might be broken. He should be in a lot of pain, but he doesn’t seem to feel it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s beyond me. It could be the heat. It could be the solitude up on the mountain. Or, it might run in the family.”

Paul rode back up to the collier camp. He walked over to the grave and started digging. If he could find a body, it would show whether Ben had a brother.

About a foot below the ground, he found a cigar box. He opened it up and only found pieces of charcoal inside.

Fire, Fire, Burning Bright

By On · Add Comment · In Arts & Entertainment

written by James Rada, Jr.

A new serial fiction story for your enjoyment

6: Hot On The Trail

Rubbing his eyes and yawning, Mechanicstown Sheriff Paul Cresap rode his horse into the collier’s camp on Catoctin Mountain. This was the fourth camp he had visited today. The colliers moved their camps from time to time to stay close to lumber being cut for the Catoctin Furnace. The furnace needed 800 bushels of charcoal each day to run, and each pound of charcoal came from an acre of hardwood trees.

A couple of people in the village of Catoctin Furnace had told Paul they had heard something about one collier burning to death. Paul thought it might be the fourth arson fire, particularly if the arsonist who had burned homes in Catoctin Furnace, along Frederick Road, and on West Main Street in Mechanicstown had been setting fires as he moved west. It would make sense that there was a fire on the mountain. Paul was probably lucky the man didn’t start a forest fire.

He had had little luck finding out who had burned to death, and he was beginning to think it was just a story. As the colliers at each camp would tell him no one in their group had died, they would direct him to another camp.

Paul knew something was off about this camp as soon as he rode in. The other camps had been a collection of smoking mounds of earth or circles of charcoal that needed to be raked from the dirt. The colliers tended to sing, swear, or just cough from the wood smoke.

This camp had mounds, but only a couple were smoking. A couple of others had collapsed but hadn’t been raked out. Paul also saw what looked like had been a cabin that had been burned to the ground.

And the place was quiet. If not for the wood smoke, he would have said it was abandoned.

“Hello,” Paul called.

A man walked out from behind one stack. He was covered in soot.

“Who are you?”

“Sheriff Cresap from Mechanicstown.”

“This isn’t Mechanicstown.”

“No, but I heard that someone had been burned to death up here. Do you know anything about it?”

The man nodded. “It was my brother.”

“And who are you?”

“Abednego Hunt.”

“Can you tell me what happened? It may tie into some other things that have happened,” Paul asked.

“Meshach — that’s my brother, — was on top of a stack and it opened up under him. He fell through and burned. I couldn’t get to him in time.” Abednego shook his head. “It was horrible. The screams…”

Paul stared at the stacks. They looked like mounds of earth to him. He had seen them as the colliers built them in other camps, though. He knew there was a stack of logs beneath the earth. The dirt was used to control the amount of air that got into the stacks.

“It was an accident then?” Paul asked.

“Of course it was. Shack didn’t jump into the center of a burning stack on purpose!”

Paul held up a hand. “Sorry. That’s not what I meant. I mean, no one could have done anything to the stack to make it give way under your brother.”

Abednego thought for a moment and shook his head. “No. It’s not the first time something like that has happened. It all depends on how the logs burn.” He paused. “Why would you think someone did it to Shack on purpose?”

“I don’t, but someone set fires last night at the furnace and in my town. They are all connected. I thought the fire that killed your brother might be, too.”

“What makes you think those fires were connected?”

“They happened on the same night, and they didn’t start naturally. Whoever tried to burn the houses down, set them all up the same way.”

“Nothing like that happened here. This was an accident I wished never happened.”

Paul nodded. “Sorry for your loss.”

He looked at the ground and picked up a piece of wood that had been turned into charcoal. Then he looked over at the charred beams of what had been a cabin. They both were burned wood, but the charcoal was darker and denser. It had to be burned in a special way to become charcoal. It didn’t come from a regular fire.

“This is charcoal, isn’t it?” Paul asked, holding up the chunk he had picked up.

“That’s what we… I make here.”

“What’s the difference between this and burned wood?”

“That is burned wood. We just burn it in a certain way, so it will continue to burn and burn hotter than wood. It can’t have too much oxygen when it burns, or it won’t be of any use as charcoal, but if it has too little air, it won’t burn fully.”

Paul nodded and walked back to his horse. Abednego followed him.

“What are you going to do now?” the collier asked.

“I’ve got some thinking to do and an arsonist to catch.”

Paul headed back to his office. When he got there, he took his bottle from his desk drawer and poured himself a drink. He could concentrate better when the whiskey took the edge off the day.

He pulled the piece of charcoal out and set it on the desk in front of him. He had found charcoal around each of the houses that had been burned. It couldn’t have been left over from the fire, according to Abednego. Also, while it wouldn’t have been unusual to find it at the ironmaster’s house, it would have been odd to find it at the other two houses. People around here used firewood in their stoves. It was abundant and cheaper than charcoal.

It would have required a lot of charcoal to build a fire around three houses if it was used for that. Whoever had started the fires had access to a lot of charcoal and knew how to use it.

Then there was how the logs that were used in the fire were laid upright against the houses rather than being piled in one spot or lengthwise along the houses. Colliers stacked wood that way and also had access to charcoal.

Things were pointing to a collier as the arsonist, but there were a couple dozen of them on the mountain.

Which one would have wanted to start the fires and why? Paul fell asleep trying to figure this out. He woke up coughing. He sat up and quickly doubled over as his coughing continued. He opened his eyes, but they watered. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw the room was filled with smoke.

He ran to the door. He reached out to open it, but when he put his hand on the doorknob, it felt hot. He jerked his hand away.

He hurried to the window and looked out. He saw flames.

He coughed and fell to his knees. The air near the floor was clearer. He took a few deep gulps of air and stood up. He ran to a side window and saw more flames.

The arsonist had set his office on fire.

How was he going to get out of here?

He ran to the side door and wasn’t surprised to feel the doorknob was also hot. He looked around, trying to find a way out. He wondered if he could get onto the roof and go over the flames, but there was no way onto the roof.

He ran back to the cell and grabbed the straw mattress off the metal frame. Back at the side door, he laid on the floor to catch his breath again. Then he stood up, pulled his shirt sleeve down over his hand, and opened the door.

He had to push hard because logs were leaning against it, which he expected. Flames rushed in, singeing him. He threw the mattress down, which momentarily created a clear path for him. He ran outside and a few yards from the building.

A crowd had already started forming a bucket brigade, but Paul could see it was too late. The fire had caught the roof on fire. The building would collapse soon.

He looked around and saw a familiar face in the crowd, someone who shouldn’t be there. It was Abednego Hunt. Paul started toward him, but the collier disappeared into the crowd.

…to be continued next month

Fire, Fire, Burning Bright

By On · Add Comment · In Arts & Entertainment

written by James Rada, Jr.

A new serial fiction story for your enjoyment

5: Home Fire Burning

Paul Cresap woke with his head throbbing and someone pounding on the door. He tried to open his eyes, but they were crusted over.

He rubbed his eyelashes to break up the crust. Even then, he would have preferred to keep his eyes closed.

Someone knocked on the door to the office again. “Sheriff! Sheriff!”

Paul sat up. “Wait a minute! I need to dress.”

He stood up slowly and pulled his suspenders over his shoulders. He walked out of the single cell that Mechanicstown had. Since it also served as Paul’s bedroom more often than not, it meant he had little incentive to arrest anyone. He didn’t want to lose his bedroom.

He walked out of the cell and across the office. He opened the door and saw Tom Weller. He owned a dry goods store on Church Street. Paul often bought his coffee beans there.

“Sheriff, there’s been another fire,” Tom said. He was out of breath, and Paul guessed he had run from his home above his store.

“Another fire?”

“Didn’t you hear the fire bell ringing earlier?”

Paul shook his head. He wasn’t about to tell Tom that he had been passed out drunk and wouldn’t have heard a black powder explosion if it had gone off under his bed.

Paul said, “Apparently not. Besides, fires aren’t my jurisdiction.” Two of them hadn’t even been in Mechanicstown. The ironmaster’s home in Catoctin Furnace had burned earlier this evening. Then Rev. John Clark Hoyle’s home had burned down sometime. That house had been on Frederick Road, not far from the church he presided over in Catoctin Furnace.

Someone had told Paul about both of them, but he hadn’t done anything because they were outside of the town limits.

“But three fires!” Tom said. “That can’t be coincidence. Something needs to be done.”

Even in his drunken state, Paul realized Tom was probably right. Mechanicstown might have a fire a month, usually from sparks escaping a fireplace, but three in one night? It probably wasn’t accidental.

“Where is this fire?” Paul asked.

“It’s the Worthy place on Water Street.”

That home was in Mechanicstown. The people in town would expect Paul to check it out. “Is the fire out?” Paul asked.

Tom nodded. “Just about.”

First, the ironmaster’s mansion, then the reverend’s home on Frederick Street, and now a house on Water Street.

“Who owns the Worthy Place?” Paul asked.

“Jonah Worthy. He owns the general store in Catoctin Furnace,” Tom told him.

It was like someone was making his way from the furnace and up the mountain. Paul also realized that for three fires to burn in one night, they had to be started fairly quickly. Each fire would divert people to it. There probably hadn’t been too many people left to form the bucket brigade at Jonah Worthy’s house. People might still be at the fire on Frederick Road.

“I’ll go out to the Worthy place shortly,” Paul said.

He went back into his office and picked up the bucket. He walked out back to fill it with water from the pump and relieve himself in the outhouse. He walked back inside to wash himself off and dress. He combed his hair to make himself look presentable.

Then, he saddled his horse and rode out to the West Main Street. Then he turned south on Water Street. The Worthy place was just a shell of blackened timbers by the time Paul reached it. It was still smoking. He saw the Worthys rummaging through the remains, seeing if there was anything they could salvage. He wished them luck and hoped they would find something to help them rebuild their lives.

Paul hadn’t been so lucky. He had lost his family and his farm. Of course, it hadn’t been a fire that took them away. He’d been too drunk most of the time to run his farm, and he had fallen behind on the taxes. The county took the farm, and then his wife and daughter left him to go live with her parents.

It surprised him that the townspeople elected him sheriff. Paul had run because he needed the work. He was lucky no one else wanted the job, or he would still be looking for work.

Paul walked over to Jonah Worthy, who stopped what he was doing.

“Did everyone get out all right, Jonah?”

Jonah Worthy looked like he had been in a fight. His clothing was torn. His face was covered in dirt, and he looked despondent. “Mary was just getting up to start the morning fires in the stove when she saw the flames.”

“Where did it start?”

“That’s just it, Sheriff. She said the flames were all around the house. They worked their way in. We gathered the children and used blankets to get through the fires at the back door.”

Paul patted the older man on the shoulder. Then he walked around the edge of the house. He could see pieces of logs all around the perimeter. These weren’t boards, but logs the size of firewood.

He scratched at his beard and considered what he was seeing. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.

He mounted his horse and rode his horse further south to Rev. Hoyle’s house on Frederick Road. It looked much the same as the Worthy house, although the fire hadn’t destroyed it entirely because the house had been constructed of stone. The walls were standing, but the roof had collapsed.

Paul walked to the edge of the house and saw pieces of logs all along the sides where there shouldn’t be wood.

He suspected he was dealing with an arsonist, but why would someone even try to burn a stone building down. Certainly he had damaged it, but the reverend could gut the interior and rebuilt the roof. It wasn’t a total loss like the Worthy house, which is what Paul would have thought an arsonist would have wanted.

So, if complete destruction wasn’t the goal, what was? Did the arsonist know the people who lived in the houses? This house belonged to the reverend at Harriet Church. Jonah Worthy owned the store in Catoctin Furnace, and the iron company owned the ironmaster’s mansion.

Paul nodded slowly. So, all three owners had connections to the iron company, but was that enough of a connection? He could understand someone being angry with the iron company, and maybe even the owner of the store, but a reverend? Paul had met Rev. Hoyle. He was as nice as they came.

Honestly, it surprised Paul there weren’t more fires at the furnace. They kept the furnace fires hot enough to turn iron into liquid. Imagine what damage it could do if some of that molten iron was thrown on a house? This all looked like was it was the work of a well-set wood fire, though.

Paul suspected this was the work of an arsonist because the two houses he had seen had been burned from all around the outside inward, and he suspected he would find the same thing at the ironmaster’s mansion. Paul was in over his head. He was just a farmer, and a drunk one at that.