The Promontory - Chapter 4

The Promontory 17,000 words

-4-

The nearest town was Patchogue, a collection of slate roofed, red brick buildings housing a supermarket, a gas station, a bakery, a bank and not much else. In later years it would transform into a major regional business center and finally - with the arrival of the mall phenomena and the subsequent leeching of local commerce away from such towns - into a decrepit graying town in half ruin. But today it was a growing place, stalwart in its simplicity, standing fast against the wilderness. The streets were busy with the passing of mud stained pickups and red cheeked locals in their cold weather gear.

"We should come into town more often, you know that, Peter?" commented Julie, as she examined the storefronts passing by. We slowly cruised down the main street in our wood-paneled station wagon, waving to the occasional familiar face.

Right then I thought I understood her obsession with the Promontory. It was lonely out here, plain and simple. Would I be any different? I steered the station wagon around the corner into the municipal parking lot; really just a dirt patch behind the municipal building.

"Ready to do some detective work?"

She sighed in my direction, making it clear she'd rather be raiding, but gamely got out of the car and led the way to the front entrance.

Together, we approached the reception desk. Our shoes squeaked against the linoleum tiles and the noise echoed slightly.

I cleared my throat and the elderly woman behind the desk looked up, as if unaware of our entrance.

"Good day. May I help you in some way?" she asked in perfect Grandma voice.

"Yes, in fact you can, Ma'am," I responded. "Can you point us to the Records Room?"

She nodded, understanding. No doubt she figured we were having a property dispute or were prospective buyers. It was a common enough request and the municipality was outfitted to make this sort of search straightforward.

"Second floor, then left. It's three doors down on the right side of the hall. Will that be all? Stairs are right that way," she said, pointing with her pencil.

"Number 3-A, Shirley Road. The Promontory," I announced when we arrived at the proper office.

The young man behind the counter nodded and went to the card indexes. Flipping through the narrow drawers, he spoke aloud as he searched.

"The Promontory, you said, right? Cool name. Lots of the older places had names." He looked up with a wry smile. "Found it."

"You're kidding," I said, involuntarily.

I really didn't know why I felt that way. Maybe up to that point I had considered the whole affair a private delusion of ours. That was finished now. It had a reality outside of us. Looking over at Julie, I was surprised to see her perfectly unperturbed by the news.

The young man looked at me strangely, but he handed over the requested documents, as well as a file of contracts, correspondences and clippings related to the property. Julie and I retired to a carol to study our find.

We spent hours at the study carol, exchanging whispers and elbowing each other with every discovery. There were land titles and property deeds, architectural drawings and surveyor maps going back to the 18th century.

We traced the family, the Swaneys, through their initial occupancy of the property, in the late-19^th century. It had been originally built without electricity but then later modified as the technology took hold. They were extremely successful in the dry goods business, having established a well-known emporium in Patchogue. With the incident of a fire in the years following World War II, the business was crippled and never fully recovered. Swaneys lived at the Promontory until the mid-1950's, when the business finally gave out and they were forced to abandon the property. Or so the story went.

"Why did they just leave?" wonder Julie aloud.

"You mean why didn't they sell?"

"They must have needed the money by then," Julie nodded.

"Maybe it was in such poor shape that..."

"But it's not. You know."

"Hm."

We read on.

Evidently, the building continued to be in the claim of the Swaney clan, though no Swaney had lived on the premises or done so much as exercised the claim since their departure in the midst of the 1950's. They simply vanished without a trace and the house was left to fester, behind its wrought iron gates and stone walled perimeter.

"I found something," whispered Julie, as she grabbed at my upper arm and shoved a photocopy of a newspaper article at me.

It was the Easthampton Star's Monday edition, 1887. There, on the front page, was an illustration of The Promontory under construction. The article was entitled, "Breaking Old Ground," and reported that the structure was being erected over an old Patchague Indian burial site, against the advice of locals. Patchague Indians could be seen in the accompanying line drawing, protesting the raising of their dead.

I kept reading. The article described the negative reactions of the Indians. The patriarch of the Patchagues, James Whitewolf, declared that he would curse the land from one end to the other if the sacred burial ground of the tribe was disturbed further. He warned that those who desecrated this land would be imprisoned in a limbo between death and life for all eternity. The house would be their tomb and that of any Swaneys that lived in the area.

The Most Reverend Balthazar Tinley scoffed at these claims in the next paragraph of the article, stating that the Indians were primitive demon worshippers and knew nothing of the absolute power of God. The God fearing need not concern themselves with the rantings of these backward Indians.

And so they were not feared and so The Promontory was erected.

When I put down the photocopy, Julie was waiting for me on the other side. She studied me with expectant eyes.

"So it's haunted," she declared.

"I don't believe it."

"But you read it. Big Chief Whitewolf."

"Hocus Pocus, Julie. Why do you want to believe in this crap?"

"Because it explains what we've seen."

"No. It doesn't. How can the house contain nineteenth century furnishings if people lived there into the 1950's? Did they simply maintain the ancestral furnishings? Impossible. Everything is in pristine condition."

"The curse must only apply to the original inhabitants."

"But the furnishings and dor had to have changed over time."

"Maybe they did, but after the house was abandoned -- heck Peter, maybe it was abandoned precisely because of the curse. Maybe the Swaneys simply freaked and decided they had had enough -- after they left, the house must've reverted to its original state."

"You're reaching. There's electricity. The original house didn't have it, remember?"

"Oh, Mr. Technical. I think you're afraid to admit that what you just read might be true. A haunted house across the street from your newly built home? That's upsetting, isn't it?"

I stopped arguing. It wasn't so much that the idea of a haunted house frightened me, as the fact that such a happenstance would be an affront on my sense of reason. I simply didn't believe in ghosts. So how to explain this?

"We have to go back," I concluded out loud.

"Now you're talking," Julie beamed.

"We can't tell anyone about this just yet. I don't want to lose control of the situation before figuring out exactly what's going on over there."

"No argument there, bud."

"We also have to find someone who might know something about the house. Ideally, someone who knew the Swaneys..."

"Or Whitewolf?" suggested Julie suspensefully.

I smiled, despite the mystery's effect on me. "Or Whitewolf."

To be continued...