The Grey Girl, The Van Tassel Murders
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For the first time in what felt like years, Alex was alone in the house he had grown up in. Aaron had offered to stay, but Alex had refused. He knew he had spent too much time sitting in Chloe’s room, missing her terribly and smiling sadly at her collection of pictures of them together.

That had been an hour ago. Now the computer hummed quietly while he stared at the search bar, his fingers hovering over the keys. He had read all of these articles several times before. The headlines were all the same: the murder of the innocent wife and daughter, the justice the husband had received at the hands of his dying wife. It was all so sad and horrible. The problem was that it was too neat, too tied up.

Alex turned away from the monitor. Something bothered him. There was no discernible reason for the murders. It just didn’t make any sense. There were rumors about Henry but nothing really substantial. People believed what they wanted. If the rumors were true, why would he kill his daughter? Alex thought. Rubbing his eyes, he reached for his coffee. On its way to the cup, his hand brushed the cracked leather cover of Henry’s diary.

Alex glanced from it to the picture on the desk of him and Chloe holding hands, watching a sunset. He remembered the day clearly. His father had snapped it on his phone shortly after Chloe had been freed. Chloe thought it was too good to live only on a tiny screen, so Alex had printed it out. He remembered, with a smile, her reaction to not only the photograph but also how fast it printed, and in color.

The warm memory was replaced with the cries of Chloe being torn from her body. Shaking the pain away, he grabbed the diary. “Fine, let’s see what you have to say for yourself.”

Oct 9, 1861

My dearest Amelia, I write this diary in the hope that one day we will be reunited. I fear that when we are, you may no longer recognize me. I have done and seen so many terrible things. I sometimes wonder if I could have ever had a life before all of this. I recall those days, long ago when we had no war, no death, just a warm summer day to lie in the field, watching the clouds. The only clouds I see now are the smoke rising from the cannons and muskets.

Nov 9, 1861

Dearest Amelia, we fought well against the traitorous Rebs. On the 6th we left by boat from a town called Cairo in Illinois. We landed in Belmont, Missouri, where we destroyed rebel munitions. General Grant led us to victory. Some of the boys think we will be home by Christmas. I hope it is so. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Jan 22, 1862

My love, I am sorry that it has been a while since I have written. I am in Mill Springs, Kentucky, where again we have routed those bloody Rebs. My dear friend Bartholomew met his fate at the end of a Confederate bayonet. I, in turn, killed that dirty Reb. I held my friend as he died. His last words were of his mother. I must remember those words of love and kindness if ever I see home again. I fear I shall never again feel your soft embrace. Please know my thoughts are ever with you.

July 5, 1863

Amelia, I have had my fill of this damn conflict. They say we won a mighty victory. General Meade tells us we defeated General Lee soundly. From what I have seen, there is only death. When this bloody fight began, I recall sitting in the tavern, the drink flowing as we spoke of the number of Rebels we would kill. By now I am sure I have reached my quota and surpassed it. I am tired of the killing. So many friends have gone before me. I only wish to join them. I don’t think I shall write again, as I hope to make my next battle my last. I am sorry, my love. I am no longer the man you once knew. I march into the hail of bullets and I think not of my safety, only of killing my enemy. I have killed, I am damned.

Alex blinked several times. He was unsure of what he had expected, but this was certainly not it. Nor was it really of any help. The more he read the more it confused him. Looking back over what he had read on the Internet, he realized there was no mention of any of Henry’s military service. He took a moment to scan back through a few entries. There was nothing, not in any of the news articles. The only exception was his military experience in the West. If Henry was so fed up at this point, why had he stayed in the army?

Turning the page in the diary, he found another entry.

October 24, 1864

My dear Amelia, as with my way in the world, I thought this little book was lost. As I lay here I was surprised when a Private brought my field pack to me. There wasn’t much left. The canister shot that did so much damage to me did worse to the pack. As he handed it to me, my diary fell out upon the bed. I read my last entry with interest. My feelings about this struggle remain unchanged. We suffered a loss here in Vermont; I don’t know when this nation might be whole again. As for myself, I fear I will never again be whole in body or spirit. I know now that there is something more for me. I have a duty to continue. I know my last letter home was short. I will cherish always the words you have written. I keep your letters close to my heart. As for my heart, until I can atone for my sins, I cannot give it freely to you. The devil chases me. He wants me for his own. Until I pay my penance, this war will never end.

Alex flipped through page after page. Henry spent almost the remainder of the war in a hospital, recovering from his wounds. His arm and side had been badly burned, but according to the journal, both were recovering well. What was more of a concern to Henry was the incessant sound in his ears. He described it as a constant whispering, just below being understood.

After his release from care in 1865, Henry and Amelia were married. From the information Alex could gather, Henry had been 21 and Amelia 17 when they wed. Shortly after their marriage, it seemed Henry decided the military was where he wanted to be, although he continued to profess his love for Amelia. He thanked her for her patience and hoped that one day he could return to her. By this time he was a captain, and while she was proud, he knew she wanted him to come home.

He spoke more and more of atonement and showed excitement for his new assignment. He had been stationed in the West to help with the relocation of the natives. At the time, Henry thought he would be doing something to help them become “less savage.”

January 20, 1875

My dearest Amelia, I have fought my last war. To call what we did here a war is an insult to all those who have fought and died in one. This was a massacre, plain and simple. What we did, what I did, to women and children can never be described as war. Those deeds will haunt me until my dying day. This is not why I fought to retain the Union. I will return home to never take up arms again. My only wish now is again be with you. I have not yet paid my penance, but I will do whatever I can to earn a life with you, free of pain.

“Ok, so you saw a lot of shit,” Alex muttered, flipping through several pages. “That doesn’t make it ok to off your family.” Continuing, Alex held his head in his hand as he idly turned pages. He was confused by the relationship between Henry and Amelia. They seemed to have known each other since childhood, but Henry had been away from her for going on 14 years. Even though they were married, she had not been with him at the fort. Time and time again he mentioned his longing to be with her and acknowledged her increasing dislike for being alone.

Alex found that by March of 1875, Henry was back home in Pennsylvania. From all accounts, things were going well for them. Henry worked for Amelia’s father, and the couple purchased a modest home in Pittsburgh. Henry often felt worried that Amelia would leave him, as they had not been able to have any children. He would often write to blame his injuries, even hinting at the possibility that an Indian Curse was the cause. That caused Alex to smirk. “Guess Viagra wasn’t invented yet, ol’ boy.” Even though he couldn’t see any connection to what was going on now and the entries in the tatty old book, he kept reading.

He arrived at the year 1879. That was the year Amelia’s father passed away and Henry inherited the family estate and business. “Lucky Bastard,” Alex grumbled as Henry outlined the vast fortune he had come into. Still frowning while he flipped another page, his attention was suddenly pulled to an entry on the yellowed, brittle paper. The month and day were smudged, but it the year was definitely 1880.

(smudged date,) 1880

Amelia has returned from her trip, but I fear something is dreadfully wrong. She doesn’t appear to remember many of the happy times we spent together. When pressed, she laughs it off or claims exhaustion. She wanders through the house as if she has never been here before. I fear it is a deep melancholy from the loss of her father. They were very close.

“Wait! What?” Alex yelped. He flipped back a few pages, re-reading entries. He checked and rechecked his notes. “Trip? What trip?” he shouted at the book. “You never mentioned she left on any trip!” He was up and pacing now. “How can I understand what’s going on if you leave out vital information like that?” His hands found his hair and pulled, “Grrrww! Seriously, dude. If you’re going to keep a diary, keep it up to date!” He was breathing heavily as he leaned against the counter. “Damn it, Chloe, I need you.” Swiping at the tear that rolled down his cheek, Alex poured himself a glass of water and returned to the offending diary.

Finding his place again, he re-read the section. Amelia had been somewhere and came back confused. This was followed by another entry that did not include a date.

I fear there is an imposter in my house. Amelia is so different from herself. This is not the woman I married. Sometimes I see her looking at me with eyes full of something evil. I have requested a visit from a physician. I pray he will assuage my fears.

February 12, 1880

My heart overflows. My fears before were unfounded. The physician informs me that Amelia’s behavior is due to her being with child. The news has calmed my heart and brightened her mood.

The next several months contained little of interest. Henry explained how the house was being made ready for a child. He described changes in his wife and her attitude. He often commented on her reaction to things as worrisome but would always blame the concern on the humors of his wife’s condition. What Alex noted most were the violent mood swings. She would lash out at Henry and the staff. One entry in particular took away Alex’s breath, while chasing a chill down his spine.

Today was most peculiar. Dear Amelia was very tired. She has bloomed greatly. She manages with strong appearance but I know she is weary. She retired to her room early before dinner. The servants refuse to intrude upon her when she suffers these bouts of exhaustion. She has been in a foul mood for weeks now and they fear her wrath.

I know not what to make of what occurred. I scarcely believe it happened. I approached the door, my footfalls quieted by the heavy rug in the hall. I was just outside the door when I heard the voices. They were deep and angry and sounded accusing, but I could not understand the words. The forceful reply of my wife gripped my heart. She spoke in the same words I had just heard. The language was unknown to me. Her tone was filled with more venom than any snake could hold. I feared for her safety.

Bursting in, I was ready to confront an intruder, but I found myself alone with someone I did not know. She appeared to be my Amelia, yet there was an unearthly glow about her. She turned her terrible face to me, her eyes burning with hatred and power. In the instant I blinked, my Amelia had returned to me. She questioned my fearful state. She coughed in a manner that resembled the other voice I heard. I am still unsure what I have witnessed.

After being piqued at this entry, Alex’s interest waned again. He flipped through a few more pages before coming to the end. He was confused. Nothing like this was mentioned again. If anything, the diary became increasingly perfunctory, as if Henry was concerned that what he wrote was no longer private. It mentioned nothing more than the normal workings of the home and business. Alex stared angrily at the worn leather. Even in the few remaining interesting moments, the tome told him nothing more. Amelia was acting strangely. Henry had been a soldier.

Alex rubbed his tired eyes. What am I supposed to have discovered from this? He snatched the book from his desk. He flipped through the brittle pages again, not caring as pieces flitted to the floor. He looked at the front and back covers. Frustration growing every second, he flung it from him. “How is this supposed to help me get Chloe home?”

The book hit the stone hearth, exploding into dust. The dust hung in the air, growing larger by the second. Alex’s chair crashed to the ground. He stumbled backward, away from the forming apparition. He knew what—or who—was about to appear, yet shock was still all he felt when it did.

Henry Van Tassel stood in Alex’s living room, inspecting his appearance. He looked up at Alex. “I will tell you what I know. Together we may be able to save your Chloe and end my curse.”

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