Lemon Hill, Philadelphia,
October 31st, 1863
Lincoln could not sleep. He had sent orders to his agents in Europe to negotiate peace, but he had no idea if those orders were being followed, or even if the British were preparing for peace. He was not even in what was, ostensibly, his home. Much as he wanted to return to Washington to show the world the United States was not defeated, he could not deny the logic of his advisors who warned him that the Confederate forces still lurking near Annapolis presented a problem. Should he be captured, the whole nation might take yet another blow to their morale they could ill afford.
Or perhaps they will celebrate, he thought wryly, I fear I am unpopular.
It was sadly true. Though he was still cheered in Philadelphia, the riots in so many cities over the month of August had shown him that he was not as universally beloved as a man leading his country in war might hope. Idly, he wondered how James Madison had felt when he had fled Washington in 1814, or when he had learned the people of New England might secede because they hated that war as much.
Mr. Madison’s War they’d called it. The Copperhead newspapers now were calling this war “Mr. Lincoln’s War” and he’d heard the term had been much abused in Albany the month prior. Lincoln twisted his mouth angrily, how could men claim to be patriots when they plotted to make peace with their neighbors' enemies? So far as he understood it, the men who had met in Albany were naught but scoundrels. They wished for the South to go free so they could fight the British, but he was sure they would make peace with England as soon as was practical and declare that all the death and destruction were the fault of the Republicans who had brought the nation, nay, the continent to war, and for what?
The familiar feeling of melancholy, the melancholy he had felt so much since poor Mary had died, settled on him like a familiar coat. A poorly made coat that itched and scratched to be sure, but a coat he wore nonetheless. The shroud would settle, and it would pass, that was what made these nights so haunting. He missed Mrs. Keckley’s company on nights like these. They both knew loss. Her only son eaten by the war in 1861, and his wife only a few months later in 1862. Lincoln at least had his sons, but poor Mrs. Keckley had no husband, and the less speculated upon who her poor boy’s father was, the better for Lincoln’s mind.
He shivered, and belatedly realized it had nothing to do with his melancholy. Oddly, a breeze was blowing from the great windows.
Lincoln frowned, surely they would all be shut up tight? The October chill was setting in, and there were still warm embers in the fireplaces in the home. What servant could be so lazy as to leave a window open? Seeing no sense in rousing someone, he stalked towards the breeze. On his way he passed his self-proclaimed bodyguard, Lamon. The man was surely in a tense mood, for he sat staring straight ahead, like a statue.
The president smiled as he passed. “There is no need to be so severe on my account Lamon! We have guards enough outside! Rest and make easy!”
Lamon made no reply, he merely sat statue still and stared straight ahead. Perhaps melancholy kept him awake too. Lincoln paused and regarded the man, who showed no sign of acknowledging the leader the nation. Scratching his head, Lincoln carried on. No need to inflict his melancholy on others so late at night.
The source of the breeze was soon located, an open window indeed. The curtains rustled softly in the night air. The world outside was still and silent. It was oppressive, and Lincoln sighed. The cloak of melancholy heavy on him as he reached over and made to close the window, but paused.
On the portico, a man in soldier’s blue lay sprawled on the ground. His rifle was right beneath the window, away from his outstretched hand. Panic suddenly fell on him. Was this why Lamon was so silent and tense? Assassins here in Philadelphia? But then, why had he not given warning? Why was the house not now swarming with soldiers?
Lincoln cautiously picked up the rifle, a bayonet gleaming on the end in the wane light. He hadn’t handled a weapon since his time with the state militia back in 1832. Hopefully he did not need to call on those skills from his brief stint thirty years prior!
Abraham.
He jumped and turned, pointing the bayonet threateningly into the darkness behind him. It was a voice, but there was no speaker. The voice though, it was so familiar.
Abraham, where are you?
Lincoln peered into the gloom. Was it true, was God driving him mad before he destroyed him? Was this his own personal Judgement for his failures? To be mocked by the dead.
“Show yourself! Come out!” He called angrily. He did not believe in seances or spirit talkers. Parlor tricks and shenanigans was all it was. If this was some ill thought joke he would club the trickster with the rifle and remind them of the error of their ways. Maybe send them to be locked in Fort Warren for a time! That might teach the rascals.
Hesitantly, almost demurely, a ghost stepped out of the shadows.
Mary Todd Lincoln was pale, her skin shining bright and dark. She was beautiful though, as beautiful as the day he had laid eyes on her so many years ago. Her hair shone, dark and sleek, there was a roundness to her face he did not remember, and her eyes, her eyes glowed in the dark. The rifle drooped in his hands.
“This cannot be,” he said softly. “I buried you.”
“Oh Abraham, why are you here? Why are you not in Washington, in our house!” She looked suddenly forlorn, and Lincoln’s heart broke in two. “Where are the boys? Where is Willie, Tad, where is Robert?” Fear studded her expression. “You have not sent him to war?”
“No Mary! No! He is safe in Boston, he does not yet wear blue,” Lincoln said, bewildered.
“My sons must never go to war!” She hissed. Her demeanor changed. “Why are we not in Washington? Why are we not home? I searched, and I searched, but you were not there!”
“Mary, my sweet Mary, it was the war,” Lincoln said, not trusting himself to move. “The war has driven us from our home, like so many others. The siege is over though, and in time Rosencrans may drive the rebels back across the Potomac!”
“We must go home Abraham! We must go home!” She crossed the room so quickly she seemed to blur. The dead were surely walking. “Bring the children, we must go home!” She laid a hand on his arm and he gasped. She was cold, cold to the touch.
“Mary! You are so cold, come, come sit by the fire! We can wake the children after we talk.”
His late wife suddenly recoiled again. “No,” she murmured. “Abraham, wake the children, we must go home.”
“Mary, how is it you are here? You died!”
She smiled, coyly in a way he did not remember her smiling in life. It was both sweet, and horrible. “Oh Abraham, I did not die. I was merely sleeping, you buried me too soon.”
Horror gripped him. Had he buried his wife alive? Had he been so wrong and so oblivious? What kind of monster buried his own wife alive? How could he not have been sure?
“Mary, my God! I buried you, buried you alive? How can this be? How did you end up here?”
“He saved me, Abraham,” a fanatical light entered her eyes. “As I lay on death's bed, he came in the night. A bright and shining light! He kissed me and light entered my soul. He told me he would wake me up. And he did, Abraham, he did.”
Rage and fear suddenly coiled in Lincoln’s chest. Some man had dared enter his home, kissed his wife, and then dug her up? It was more than he could bare. Her sudden appearance, this mystery man, he was outraged and angry in ways he had not felt in a long time.
“Speak spirit! Who has sent you here to torment me? Is God truly forsaking me? Why send this angel of judgement to my home?” Lincoln was angrier than he could describe.
Mary tittered in a way she had never laughed in life.
“God? No Abraham, not God. It was a man, more than a man. He knew things, he had seen things. Nero burning the Christians in Rome, Diocletian and his persecutions, the great Sack, and he saw the hypocrisy, the lies!” Mary’s voice rose in a fever pitch. “He had already learned the truth of resurrection, the secrets of Egypt! He whispered them to me, and he sent me to find you, to teach you and the children!”
“This makes no sense Mary,” Lincoln cautiously brought up the rifle again. “Who is this… this man?” He said with venom. No husband should hear his wife speak so, and not so blasphemously.
“He is great Abraham! He is Theophilus! Pure as the snow, powerful as the thunder! He has brought me back and he promises life eternal! Please, Abraham please, let me show you, and the children.” Her eyes were large, pleading, and ever so red.
Lincoln looked into those eyes, those pleading eyes. He did not see his wife. It was something older, far more terrible. That or a soul so tortured he could not endure it. Men were not meant to cross that forbidden River Styx again, to wade back from its dark shores into the world of the living. He shuddered, what had she become?
“Oh Mary,” he said softly. “Can you forgive me?”
She cocked her head. “Forgive you what, Abraham?”
In his youth, Lincoln had been quite the wrestler. His height and reach had given him great advantage. Lincoln knew his strength, and age had not dulled his reflexes. It was surprising, he thought, how he had used weapons just enough to know where his arms should go. The bayonet sprang forward, and struck Mary in the chest. She shrieked in an unearthly wail, a banshee cry, in a voice so unlike his wife’s he knew he had made the right decision. Her small body crumpled and Lincoln fell with it.
He had no idea how long he law on the floor in nothing but his nightshirt, but stomping footsteps were running down the hall towards him. Lamon, previously so stock still burst into the room, his Colt revolver at the ready and a lantern grasped in another hand. Horror washed over his face as he took in the scene.
“Mr. President! My God are you alright?”
With a shuddering breath, Lincoln rose, and looked up. “As alright as a man who has spoken with a ghost may be.” He gazed forlornly at the small, now much older, much less delicate looking form of his dead wife. “I must have taken her through the heart.”
Cautiously, Lamon nudged the body with his boot. It did not stir. He looked as shaken as Lincoln felt.
“It’s the damndest thing sir,” he said, confusion etching his features. “I was standing guard, and suddenly I hear a voice, an impossible voice. It was all I could do not to faint. She… she commanded me to wait. So I sat, and I couldn’t move. Then, all of a sudden the spell was broken.”
Lincoln shook himself out of his reverie. “There’s a man on the portico, please check on him. He may need his rifle back.”
Nodding, Lamon walked to the window and stepped out. A moment later he returned shaking his head. “He’s breathing, and he’s unwounded save for two little marks on his neck.”
Lincoln nodded, feeling grim. He had briefly been able to forget about the war, but now he couldn’t. When it was over, he would have something to do either way. Morning would come, and he would need to bury his wife again.
“We must get him a doctor. Let us hope he says nothing, or I may compel him to secrecy. In the meantime Lamon, I need you to help me with… well, with my wife.”
“To, erm, bury her sir?”
Lincoln shook his head. “No, to burn her. I have no intention that someone should defile her remains again. I do however, intend to find who that someone was, perhaps not this year, or maybe even the next year depending on the election. But I swear to you right now Lamon, I will scour this continent if I must in order to find who disturbed my wife’s eternal rest. The man… no… the creature that tried to use her against me. I won’t rest until I’ve sent them to hell.”
