Faded Glory - Part Two
"I better hurry," Samantha told the thick air. Something was causing her to grow a bit nervous. She began to search quickly through drawers, desks, cupboards - all of which were bare. After a few hours, she began to get discouraged. The temperature seemed to be racing upward. Samantha grew uncomfortable even though she was used to brutal southern summers, even in the particularly difficult swampy regions. Samantha sat down in order to rest, but her breathing did not become any less labored.
At that moment, lights flickered in the house. Samantha hadn't remembered turning any on. Looking up, she noticed that the electricity and other modern conveniences seemed rather out of place in a house that was definitely built before the 19th century. She began to wonder if the contemporary appliances were added merely for effect, and to test her theory, she approached the faucet to see if the water would actually run. She turned the faucet on, and water slowly began to drip into the dirty sink below. Suddenly, the liquid spurted out blood red. Samantha gasped. In her haste to get away from the crimson flow, she ran directly into the wall behind her. She had to pause to catch her breath.
"The sink - it's just the rust." Samantha frantically tried to slow the rapid beating of her heart. "With a house this old, you're bound to have rust. Or the air - that's it! The mildew in the air is getting to me. I've got to get out of here!"
Suddenly a noise emanated from somewhere in the house. Samantha leaped at the nearest door, but she was too slow.
"No! Please don't go. I'm really sorry. I did not mean to frighten you," a voice, thick with a southern accent, pleaded.
Samantha turned around cautiously, shaking, to face the direction from which the voice came. A boy of about nineteen stood in front of her, holding out a bouquet of bright yellow roses. He looked as if he had walked through a portal from the 1800s. Samantha opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
"My name is Preston - Preston Lee Ashby." He held out his hand, but Samantha did not move forward to shake it. "Please, I promise I won't hurt you," he continued. "You can stay as long as you want if you'll just do me one little favor."
Samantha could only shrug, her mouth still wide open.
"You see, I was about to attend a cotillion when the war broke out. I had to go fight, so I never got the chance to attend. Now that the war is over, I can go this year. I need a lady to accompany me, though - just so I can have one dance."
"Wait...what war broke out?" Samantha stuttered, confused and more than a little uncomfortable.
"Why, the war between the North and the South, of course. We had to defeat those Yanks before they took over everything." With that, the boy slowly advanced toward Samantha. She tried to run away, but his eyes were so hypnotic that she could not break from her frozen position.
"The Civil War. It isn't possible. It can't be!" Samantha cried over and over, though she couldn't tell whether it was out loud or to herself. The boy kept moving closer and closer. Eventually, he grazed her skin with the flowers. The color plunged from the room and everything turned black and white. The fridge door opened, and flowers spilled out onto the floor.
"What's going on?" Samantha stammered. "I have to be dreaming this." She looked around the room. Dozens of girls appeared around her, all of them in elegant gowns but with different jewelry and hairstyles. Some were flapper girls, others hippies. It seemed that every generation was represented in that one small room. Samantha looked down. She, too, was in a fine silk gown. On the wall directly in front of her was the same picture recovered from the museum, the one she was sent to investigate. Instead of a mystery lady, however, the image of Samantha sat beside the young gentleman. Samantha recognized the boy as Preston. Underneath the picture was a tiny caption, written delicately. It was a date: 1861. Samantha walked forward slowly in order to examine the portrait more closely. It was covered in a thin layer of dust. Cautiously, Samantha lifted a shaking finger to wipe away some of the powdery substance. As she did so, a letter fell from behind the portrait; the parchment was yellowed and worn. Samantha picked up the letter and opened it.
"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Ashby..." the letter began. "We regret to inform you that your son, Preston Lee, was killed in the battle of Vicksburg..." Samantha dropped the letter as a gasp escaped her throat.
Suddenly, the doors and windows snapped shut. Soft music began to play from an unidentifiable source, but no one was dancing to the haunting tune. Samantha looked at Preston. He was sitting in a chair, a forlorn expression masking his youthful countenance. It seemed no one would dance with him. Then the music stopped abruptly. The flowers and the girls all began to disappear, one by one. As Samantha began to twinkle and vanish, she wasn't sure what was going to happen, but she knew one thing for certain: she, like Preston, would never escape the South.
At that moment, lights flickered in the house. Samantha hadn't remembered turning any on. Looking up, she noticed that the electricity and other modern conveniences seemed rather out of place in a house that was definitely built before the 19th century. She began to wonder if the contemporary appliances were added merely for effect, and to test her theory, she approached the faucet to see if the water would actually run. She turned the faucet on, and water slowly began to drip into the dirty sink below. Suddenly, the liquid spurted out blood red. Samantha gasped. In her haste to get away from the crimson flow, she ran directly into the wall behind her. She had to pause to catch her breath.
"The sink - it's just the rust." Samantha frantically tried to slow the rapid beating of her heart. "With a house this old, you're bound to have rust. Or the air - that's it! The mildew in the air is getting to me. I've got to get out of here!"
Suddenly a noise emanated from somewhere in the house. Samantha leaped at the nearest door, but she was too slow.
"No! Please don't go. I'm really sorry. I did not mean to frighten you," a voice, thick with a southern accent, pleaded.
Samantha turned around cautiously, shaking, to face the direction from which the voice came. A boy of about nineteen stood in front of her, holding out a bouquet of bright yellow roses. He looked as if he had walked through a portal from the 1800s. Samantha opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
"My name is Preston - Preston Lee Ashby." He held out his hand, but Samantha did not move forward to shake it. "Please, I promise I won't hurt you," he continued. "You can stay as long as you want if you'll just do me one little favor."
Samantha could only shrug, her mouth still wide open.
"You see, I was about to attend a cotillion when the war broke out. I had to go fight, so I never got the chance to attend. Now that the war is over, I can go this year. I need a lady to accompany me, though - just so I can have one dance."
"Wait...what war broke out?" Samantha stuttered, confused and more than a little uncomfortable.
"Why, the war between the North and the South, of course. We had to defeat those Yanks before they took over everything." With that, the boy slowly advanced toward Samantha. She tried to run away, but his eyes were so hypnotic that she could not break from her frozen position.
"The Civil War. It isn't possible. It can't be!" Samantha cried over and over, though she couldn't tell whether it was out loud or to herself. The boy kept moving closer and closer. Eventually, he grazed her skin with the flowers. The color plunged from the room and everything turned black and white. The fridge door opened, and flowers spilled out onto the floor.
"What's going on?" Samantha stammered. "I have to be dreaming this." She looked around the room. Dozens of girls appeared around her, all of them in elegant gowns but with different jewelry and hairstyles. Some were flapper girls, others hippies. It seemed that every generation was represented in that one small room. Samantha looked down. She, too, was in a fine silk gown. On the wall directly in front of her was the same picture recovered from the museum, the one she was sent to investigate. Instead of a mystery lady, however, the image of Samantha sat beside the young gentleman. Samantha recognized the boy as Preston. Underneath the picture was a tiny caption, written delicately. It was a date: 1861. Samantha walked forward slowly in order to examine the portrait more closely. It was covered in a thin layer of dust. Cautiously, Samantha lifted a shaking finger to wipe away some of the powdery substance. As she did so, a letter fell from behind the portrait; the parchment was yellowed and worn. Samantha picked up the letter and opened it.
"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Ashby..." the letter began. "We regret to inform you that your son, Preston Lee, was killed in the battle of Vicksburg..." Samantha dropped the letter as a gasp escaped her throat.
Suddenly, the doors and windows snapped shut. Soft music began to play from an unidentifiable source, but no one was dancing to the haunting tune. Samantha looked at Preston. He was sitting in a chair, a forlorn expression masking his youthful countenance. It seemed no one would dance with him. Then the music stopped abruptly. The flowers and the girls all began to disappear, one by one. As Samantha began to twinkle and vanish, she wasn't sure what was going to happen, but she knew one thing for certain: she, like Preston, would never escape the South.
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