The Letter Part 2

Continued from The Letter Part 1
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I, Emily Watson, field representative for the Virginia Society for the Preservation of Antiquities, found this letter when I visited the old Balsam Inn on October 30, 2007 to evaluate it for possible funding for renovation and use as a museum.

The inn had been deserted for many years after the civil war. It was reopened briefly in the 1950s as a motel but was soon abandoned once again. There were stories of footsteps on the stairs and loud pounding on the door at night, the usual haunted inn yards. The motel lasted for less than a year.

I pushed the bulky, intricately carved oak doors. They were unlocked. The hinges made the usual creaking sound particular to old unused doors. I had expected most of the antique furniture to be damaged but was pleasantly surprised to find most of it still present and intact with dust covers over the damask upholstered pieces. This was very unusual indeed for such a well-known property that had been unsecured for years. The ghost stories had probably kept the scavengers at bay. It was my job to describe in my report the overall condition of the property and to catalog each piece of furnishing noting its condition. It was already mid afternoon and I had only two days to finish my work at the inn. There was no electricity so I would have to work quickly to accomplish as much as possible before dark.

I worked my way through the drawing room, admiring the heavy mahogany pieces and the richness of the faded red draperies. There was a huge formal dining room, kitchen and back parlor as well as two bedrooms on the ground floor. The furnishings appeared to be in good condition. The office would be pleased that all of the pieces there could be used as part of the museum. By this time it was late afternoon and I knew my time was limited.

I climbed the wide winding staircase with the balcony at the top. At the top of the steps, I noticed a door that had planking nailed over it. My natural curiosity as a historian was aroused and I pulled the wooden bars away. When I pushed the heavy door open, a rush of stale air threatened to overcome me. Apparently this room had been boarded up for many years. As my eyes began to adjust to the dim light coming from the heavily draped windows, I was impressed by the beauty of the ornamentally carved posts of the canopy bed. In front of the window was a large desk on which was placed a box. It bore engravings and the initials R.H. Well, whoever had left it would have no need for what it stored and certainly no longer had any objections to my looking inside.

I'm not a superstitious woman, however as a historian and an explorer of ancient and deserted properties and places, I have seen things, felt things, things too strange to explain or name. I reached out to take the box and as my hand touched it I suddenly felt a chill and had goosebumps all over my body. I had experienced this before but never this strongly. I opened the box and inside was a handwritten letter on stationary that was yellowed and almost crumbling. Darkness was falling, so I had too little light and didn't waste any time in reading the letter. I placed it in my pocket and took it with me that night to my motel, a few miles from the Balsam Inn. The first thing I did after checking into my room was read the letter. It affected me deeply. I knew the letter was no hoax, it was too old and the tone of it too credible. I didn't believe in ghosts, and besides, what could I do to help this one?

I lay awake all night, the tormented request of the letter troubling my mind. I determined that the next day I would ask around locals and see if someone could shed any light on Richard and Susan and their untimely death.

My search led me to Derek Shepherd, the local librarian. If he seemed ancient, it was because he was. Derek must've been around 90 years old. He was now too frail to lift the heavier books, but the county had hired several young assistants to help him manage the library. He smoothed his white hair and peered intently at me over the frame of his spectacles.

"Yes, Miss Emily. I'm very familiar with the tragedy of the Herrings. I'm also an expert on the stories that sprang up around the tragic happenings of the night of October 31, 1854 on the Balsam Inn road. It seems that Richard and Susan had started on the trip back to their home when for some reason the horse must've bolted and the carriage turned over on poor Susan. The horse was dead from a broken neck and here's the most horrible part, Richard's head was quite crushed beneath the heavy wheel. Beyond explanation, he managed to get up and walk almost half way up the mountain towards the inn before he died there on the road. The bodies were found the next morning by a traveler and they were buried in the local cemetery. After the incident, the guests at the Balsam Inn never stayed more than one night. They reported hearing loud knocking at the doors and footsteps on the staircase. I don't think anyone actually ever saw anything paranormal, but most didn't stick around long enough to chance that they might. The civil war started and people traveled less and less. The inn was closed and reopened the year of 1956 as a motel. The new owners abandoned it when it failed to make a profit. Why are you asking? Have you seen anything unusual?"

"Oh no. No, Mr. Shepherd. I'm a historian and just curious about the truth of the story. You've been very helpful. Thank you."

That afternoon I returned to complete my work. I began absorbed in cataloging the contents of the last bedroom when I realized it was twilight. Just about another half hour and I could finish. I turned on my flashlight and continued to work. I was startled by a loud knock on the front, oak doors. As I descended the staircase I experienced the same chilling cold of the previous day and my heart began to pound uncontrollably. The experiences I had before with unexplainable things had in no way prepared me for what was waiting on the opposite side of that door. As I swung it open there before me stood a young man. The whole left side of his skull was missing and his dark hair was covered in blood. He held up bloody hands in front of him in an imploring gesture. In a sudden drawl, he whispered, "Please help me."

This was no ethereal specter, but a flesh and blood man whose ravaged body and bloody hands appeared to be as solid and real as my own. Before I could reply to him, he was gone. Did I really see a ghost? I couldn't be sure, but one thing I was sure of, if there was any chance of release for him, the old Balsam Inn had to be destroyed.

I retrieved the can of gas I always carried for emergencies from the car. I poured the gas on all the furniture, on the draperies and on the walls. Then I stepped out into the veranda, struck a match and threw it into the inn. I ran to my car, drove down as fast as I could to the bottom of the mountain. I watched the inn burn from a safe distance away. When I was satisfied that it had completely burned down, I drove back to my motel. It was then that I realized I had left my report in the inn. It would've made a great souvenir.

I found the local cemetery where Richard and Susan were buried. I couldn't enter; the lock to the gate had long ago rusted shut. But I pushed a red rose through the iron bars of the gate along with the yellowed, crumbling letter. As I proceeded back to my car, I saw my report lying on the seat along with a yellowed, crumbling note. On it was written, 'Thank You.'
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