A ghost story. A true story.
The kerosene lantern arced in broad swing.
By itself.
The speed made me think I must have bumped the motion to begin with my shoulder. I reached my thick gloved hand and held it to stop. The light I had set to flame perhaps 30 minutes before burned bright orange yellow.
I was working in the steam engine house at the old mill. The blue granite blocks laid in 1863. In the day, the engine powered a packhouse higher on the bluff. The ruins still visible. What the mill packed was black powder. And at a mill that made explosives explosions marked the timeline with disasters and death.
In this modern era, I made a safer living at the mill. Interpreting the Industrial Revolution at a sprawling historic site called Hagley. The steam engine was a favorite place. A place more of work than words.
The oil burning nineteenth-century replica hung from a chain over the box-bed of a slide-valve engine from 1890. The brass shine contrasted with the coal fired atmosphere and offered compliment to the big flywheel’s red and green celebration of machine.
There were two engine house lanterns: one hung near the boiler, one over the engine. The height adjusted with a brass double chain and pulley anchored from the wall. As the small building’s opened double front doors, back corner door, and broad paned window offered an abundance of light, the lanterns shared more period atmosphere than illuminance. I liked the look and the smell and practicing the skill of burning them just right.
With the swinging lantern stopped, I turned my attention to the fire. The coal glow having already overtaken the narrow-chopped wood flames I nurtured to get the boiler lit. I raised the fire that boiled the water that made the steam that turned the wheels.
It was about the perfection of the fire. Massing the controlled heat needed to bring the pressure needle to neat rest on the redline. The Exhibit Boss had painted the red on the vintage glass gauge face. Purposely lower than 19th Century pressure to prevent tour-guide operators from blowing the whole works to bits.
Testing the engine before tour times was a pleasurable ritual. Gently opening the steam valve brought the piston to reciprocate the century old engine into smooth motion. It always impressed. The hiss. The dank of the steam. All that power coming from flame. On this grey October morning, the crisp air had already been replaced with the rising boiler heat. In the next hour the small space would be a dry 100 degrees.
I surveyed the moving machinations ahead of the busy museum workday. I liked checking the engine operation as the visitors saw it. From their side of the wooden gate dividing the display. The thousand pounds of flywheel powering the broad leather belts overhead. You never stopped being careful around the flywheel. It could remove your arm without slowing. I noticed a darker area of wear on the driving belt’s underbelly. I repositioned to take another look at the darker section as it came back around.
And the lantern started swinging. Again.
By itself.
And my blood ran cold.
The movement came suddenly. Not building speed but having speed. A broad pendulum. A wide, creepy, how the hell is it doing that, back and forth. There was no wind. The other lantern still. I stood staring at the movement. I don’t remember if I was feeling awe struck or dumb struck, but I was feeling I had been struck by something.
The lanterns would often do weird things: burn a sudden longer flame, smoke smolder black, stop burning all at once. The thick wicks had a cantankerous way of blackening the glass chimneys if not trimmed or adjusted as preferred. They might wiggle in a light breeze or move with a rushed gust on a blustery day. But even in the windiest seasons, they moved with a gentle circling. They didn’t swing. Swing as if some unseen hand forcibly decided to move it right now.
It wasn’t right and I felt a little afraid.
I moved the hip high wooden gate to open and reached towards the lantern again. It rested still against my now bare fingers. I could feel my heart.
I stepped further inward to shut the engine down. The heaving huff of the piston quieting. The mass of machinery still moving in momentum. Now with gloved hands, I lifted the lantern from its hook and stood holding it closer to my face. As if I’d be able to discover something offering explanation. I clanked it to rest on the broad boxbed. The kerosene smell strong in my face. One ball of sweat rolled from my temple. I felt it crawl to my chin.
For some reason, I don’t know why, it simply came to mind, I switched the lanterns. Put the one in question near the boiler. Hung the second over the engine.
I watched. I waited.
The mood, thankfully, changed from weird to normal, as the maintenance Chief parked his tree green pickup outside on his usual morning rounds. The museum logo bright white perfect on the door. He didn’t clean the truck that much, but always wiped off the logo. Broad in build, short in stand, a raucous Italian manner, Chief never failed to bring laughs. He only joked with those whose work he respected. Our side-splits were big, and he never checked my fire.
Chief sometimes mentioned the ghost of his grandmother and I wondered If I should tell him what had just happened. And I wondered if I shouldn’t. And I decided that I wouldn’t.
These days I speak openly of ghosts, of hauntings, of personal experiences. I’ve matured to understand this relationship as natural and ongoing. On this day, though, it felt unusual and uncomfortable. These were times preceding the prolific ghost hunting shows. Before paranormal gadgets could be found with ease on the internet. Talking about the afterlife was still kind of fringe.
During the 10 minute chat with Chief, I found myself eyeing both lanterns. Our discussion was about a new guide class being hired. Chief wanted to try some new things with our training routine. I was the docent newbies shadowed for knowledge. We agreed it be best to quietly implement, instead of proceeding through endless committee approvals.
The shutting of his truck door always echoed against the engine house bluestone into the forest edges behind. We said our goodbyes as I broomed some brush and dust from the visitor entrance. My first tour was due in about 20 minutes. I paused outside, cooling myself in the early fall air. And then stepped back into the already sweltering heat of my little bit of recreated history.
The lantern was swinging. The same lantern. On the different hook.
By itself.
And my blood ran cold.
1. Cover photo: the lantern in the steam engine house. Hagley Museum.
2. The Author and Hagley Museum steam engine.
Thank you to Dick Scott for both of the photos.
© Copyright William Hazel, 2024
Comentarios