Sabrina/Sabine: Time out of Place

By Samantha Wood Wright

When, Sabrina is a child, she has a haunting dream about a strange house. Although she moves forward in life, she never forgets the dream.

Many years later, fate leads Sabrina, to the old brick house of her dream, only todiscover it has just been sold at auction. Determined to solve the mystery of thehouse, Sabrina, convinces the new owners to let her buy it. She moves in, and soon finds she is sharing her home with a spirit who looks exactly like her. The resident ghost is Sabine Wynter, an abused wife who took refuge in the house after the Civil War.

With a psychics help she also learns about the rebel who was hung in the barnand is still there.

And then there is the greater mystery of the problem grave in the hillside cemetery overlooking the property, and why someone is still placing fresh flowers on Sabines grave nearly a hundred years after her death.

But what Sabrina does not know is that she is about to unearth, her surprising connection to Sabine Wynter, who is seemingly locked in time.

Sabrina/Sabine tells the haunting story of a womans journey as she slowly unravels the story behind her new house and reveals her part in a century-old mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491797006

Samantha Wood Wright

Samantha Wood Wright is the author of the time travel novel, The Question of Time, She currently resides in Brooks, Kentucky, with her husband writer RD Wright and their adult autistic son. Samantha enjoys Eastern philosophy and religion, history, genealogy, time travel books, and ghost stories.

Book preview

Sabrina

1990’s

It began with the dream, a bad dream; the wake up in a cold sweat, heart pounding kind of a dream. Terrified I rushed to the window to look out. The ground was snow covered with a single set of animal tracks that seemed to circle the house. Off to the left at the edge of my field of vision was a lone wolf, who looked up at just that moment. I screamed and grabbing a blanket from my bed I threw it around my shoulders and walked to the fireplace. I stirred the fire and begged for heat. I could never remember being so cold or so scared in my life.

With my scream the whole house was awake. I could hear people coming toward me and my mother sending them back to bed telling them everything was okay. Then I felt her beside me trying to calm me. I opened my eyes to find I was in the living room of my own home standing in front of a cold fireplace that had never been lit, at least not that I could remember. The strange house of the dream was burnt in my mind.

This happened the summer I turned ten, the summer of little sleep. Because I was afraid of having the dream again I fought sleep doing anything I could to put off my bedtime. I spent countless nights counting stars or trying to find signs that were supposed to be there any sign never mind the dippers, until I was sure my mother’s patience was at its end. Then I read until I could barely keep my eyes open. The next day I would be tired and irritable, snapping at anyone who tried to talk to me.

Just before it was time for school to start my mother took me to the doctor to see what if anything could be done and he put me on sleeping pills. And with that the dream was filed away though never forgotten. I knew the dream was trying to tell me something, it was too real, too vivid not to be important.

Fast forward, to the spring day that my grandfather and I met on a narrow stretch of road near the family cemetery. He didn’t see me and I had to ditch the road to keep from running into him. When my car stopped I looked up to see where I was and there in the distance was the old brick house, the one in my dream. I was awe stricken.

Yes, I told myself the house had been there all along, and I had passed it coming and going hundreds of times over the years on trips to my grandparents and to the cemeteries. But this was the first time I had seen the house. Yes, every Memorial Day I had stood in the hilled cemetery beside the house. Yes, I had looked out over the beautiful, peaceful fields surrounding the cemetery. Yes, I had noticed the trio of trees behind and to the left of my grandfather’s grave (different grandfather), but I had never noticed the house. Now it stood in plain view and appeared at this distance, of three or four hundred feet, to be deserted.

Once I was back on the road I decided to go up to the house and hopefully get a closer look. The grounds were spacious, the day quiet. The brick house was two stories with a very unbalanced look to it, sort of reminding me of the children’s poem about the crooked man who built a crooked house. There were two front doors and two stoops, instead of a single set of steps and a porch. A single water pump stood a few feet from the back door, and overturned water pail nearby. At the back of the back of the property there was a worn unpainted barn. The place seemed more than deserted; it seemed a long time abandoned.

I walked to the side of the house where I remembered seeing the wolf tracks in my dream. The house was low on the ground and I could see in the window. The walls were covered in old green flowered wallpaper; the floor was worn linoleum in a brick pattern, a few overturned boxes lay in one corner, and a single naked bulb hung from the ceiling. A wall and a closed door kept me from seeing anything more so I went to the back of the house, where worn faded curtains hung in the lone window and on the window in the door.

Anxious to know more about this house I drove into town to the one small store, I knew from my childhood, that would be open on a Sunday, Rider’s grocery. A lone female clerk knew nothing about the house. The town was so small I could hardly believe I had actually met someone who didn’t know somebody else’s business, I bought a dr. pepper, and a bag of chips and left.

As I was getting in the car the clerk came running out of the store calling after me. I turned to see a man I hadn’t noticed before step out of the door and stand beside the young clerk. This man was older and said he did know something about the house he had heard me ask about inside. He explained that he was ankle deep in stock and was sorry he hadn’t made it out to talk to me sooner. He introduced himself as the owner’s grandson and was about my age. That seemed to be about right to me as my grandparents had been good friends with the owners.

I listened as the man explained that the house was indeed empty and had been sold at auction, only three weeks before. I asked what realtor had handled the sale and learned it was Day’s, a local agency. I thanked them both and got back in my car for the long drive to Louisville.

Once at home I called information and got the realtor’s telephone number, and made plans to call the next day to see if the new owners would at least let me see the inside. I had to know more about the house.

I decided to call my sisters and brothers to see if they remembered seeing the house. I called my older brother Dana first. Who kept telling me the house was white not brick and reminded me about the snake we found in the tire in the back yard. He wanted to know if Marilyn’s friend Sandy had ever given back all the old books, we had lent her, that we had found in the attic of the house. Then he started talking about how our dad had taught him to drive on that old road to the cemeteries It was a hundred miles from nowhere and how when Dad stopped at the crossroads we all laughed and kidded about a Greyhound bus coming.

He talked about our Dad and Granddad going hunting and how our dog Tiger would always run back to the house a soon as the first shot was fired; I didn’t remember that but I did remember the dog running after the family car when we started home. I asked Dana why to both questions? He said that the dog had been his when we lived on Haycraft Street in Elizabethtown. He said being a kid he didn’t know any better so he and our cousin Johnny had been fooling around with firecrackers one 4th of July and Tiger had been scared by the noise. He couldn’t remember why the dog had been taken to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s, but he guessed the dog remembered living with us and that’s why he had run after us when we left. One last time I asked about the brick house and once again he said I was wrong the house was white, not brick and it was close to our grandparent’s house not close to the cemetery. I gave up said my good-byes and hung up.

I called my sister, Marilyn next, but she wasn’t home so I left a message on her answering machine and called my brother, Josh. The phone rang six or seven times and I heard Josh pick it up out of breath shouting, I’m comin. I’m comin. When he found out who it was me he asked me what was so dammed important that I had to let the phone ring off the wall. I apologized and said I hadn’t noticed it rang so many times and asked him about the house.

Yes, he said he knew the house I was talking about but nothing else about it. Then he started talking about the white house and how much fun he had teasing us girls with that snake. Funny but I could barely remember the snake let alone the teasing. I didn’t want to talk about the white house anymore so I asked him if he remembered getting sick at his stomach when he rode in the back seat and how Mom would let him up front after awhile. Yes he remembered, he said, and no he didn’t still get sick when he rode in the back; he guessed all the years he’d been in the army had broke him of that.

Then he asked if I remembered the icy cold room where we had to change out of our good clothes and into our play clothes? Did I remember about the spring where we use to go and get a bucket of water for Grandma, or about the old wagon in the barnyard where we had stood and fought off Indians? Did I remember the names we gave to the two chickens Grandma said we could have, kind of unofficially of course. Yes, I did remember Alex the chicken and that meant I had to remember how Grandma caught him one Sunday for dinner and his neck was wrung before I could stop her. While Grandma plucked the feathers, I had stood teary-eyed staring at the islands of freckles on her arms; large islands made by the sun over the years of plucking chickens, working in the garden, and hanging clothes.

Then of course he had to ask a really embarrassing question. Did I remember the potatoes in the garden? Of course I remembered, I told him and I didn’t want to talk about it. But he wouldn’t let it go. Okay, I said making excuses remember I was a city girl, though admittedly Elizabethtown was pretty small in those days, and the only thing I knew about potatoes was that I liked them fried.

Nothing doin he said and asked again if I remembered Mom telling me to go to the garden to get some potatoes for lunch, and how I had come back telling her I went across the street and looked but couldn’t find any potatoes. It was funny enough to them that I called the dirt path between the house and the garden a street, but then to add to that I didn’t see any potatoes because I didn’t know that they grew underground.

Enough is enough and I had had enough so I said my good byes to Josh as he laughed at this very old joke on me and I hung up.

Early the next morning I was on the phone to the realtor Darren Day and he offered to meet me in Glendale at the Whistle Stop Restaurant for lunch Tuesday at one. There was nothing left to do but to wait.

Tuesday at eleven I was on my way to Glendale. It was less than an hour’s drive from my house but I wanted to take it slow, and arriving early in Glendale would give me time to look around in the many antique shops.

Once at the restaurant I asked for Darren Day. He was already seated and I was led to his table. He stood up, shook my hand and introduced himself. He was about five nine or ten, medium build, gray black hair and in his early to mid forties. He offered me a seat and I sat down across from him we ordered catfish dinners and tea, I asked for mine unsweetened and we settled back in our chairs.

Anxious to know about the house I started off with the question of its age. He told me it was built in 1812 with bricks made on the property by slaves, and had been in the same family for years. It had recently been sold at auction because of the death of the owner, and had been bought for a song by a distant cousin of the past owner.

I asked why the house had sold so cheap, and he went on to explain that it had rained a lot before the auction and the field and the road at the side of the house was flooded. People had had to park alongside the main road, which I knew to be hardly more than the flooded road at the side of the property; due to the size of Upton and the cities it connected to like Millerstown. The people had to walk across the back field to the house. It had also been overcast the day of the auction and that had kind of put a damper on things.

He went on to say that the house had been furnished with primitives, and they had pretty much gone to different people, except an iron bed that had been bought by the family that bought the house.

He had asked the new owners if I could see the inside of the house and they had agreed to the viewing. With this settled the realtor, and I finished our meal and talked other things like the countryside, the weather, crops and family. When I mentioned family in the area it turned out he knew most of the people I mentioned, especially one cousin. It seems he belonged to the Sonora sports club that my cousin Jason was active in.

We planned to go to the house together, but he got called away. In typical small town fashion I was given the keys and told to go on to the house and look around, and he would join me when and if he could. If not I could drop the keys off at his office and he would call me later.

I took the keys and hurried to my car not able to believe my good fortune. I had hoped at the most to be the first one to go in the house and spend a few minutes looking around but the afternoon alone in the house was more than I had dared hope for.

I drove to the house as fast as the narrow curved roads would allow, and turned onto the church road, then immediately left onto the gravel road at the side of the property which lead right to the front of the house. Stopping ten feet or so from the house I got out of the car, grabbed my cell phone, and the cup of coffee I had ordered back at the restaurant. I turned back to put my sun glasses on the dash of the car, reached across the seat for my camera and walked to the door on the left.

I was nervous when I placed the key in the lock and opened the door. Taking a deep breath I heard a loud squeak and with my heart pounding I entered the house. I stood for a long time in the doorway and looked around. Much of the room stood in shadows, as there was only one window. I noticed a fireplace just inside the room on the left wall and beyond it a half hidden staircase. Across the room on my right was a door. I walked slowly towards it, and opening the door I saw before me a room much like the one I was standing in with the same fireplace and half hidden staircase along its outer wall. I left the door open and turned back to the first room.

I walked to the mantel and stroked it. Immediately I felt there had been a fire in the house and I sensed that it had started from the fireplace. I searched for burn marks, or smoke damage but found none, still I couldn’t shake the feeling there had been a fire and made a mental note to ask about a fire when I saw the realtor.

Continuing to walk around the room I opened a door beside the fireplace and found an enclosed staircase, the steps were very narrow and turned a corner. I climbed the stairs and at the top I stopped suddenly. I saw two women crouched in fear and over them was a tall black man with an axe. I screamed and the scene faded. My heat was pounding; I was bathed in a cold sweat, too scared to move.

After a while I realized the people I had seen had not really been there, and decided what I had seen were ghosts, and what two hundred year old house wouldn’t have its share of ghosts? I smiled reassured and walked to the window at the rear of the second floor, I could see its light where I stood but realized it actually was in a room beyond the room where I now stood. I started toward the window, and I noticed a break in the floor, descended two steps and ducked my head to enter the room. The room was much smaller than the other rooms and seemed cruder. Though there were no furnishings anywhere in the house this room still somehow spoke of harsher circumstances. I noticed that not only were there no furnishings and no curtains but there were no closets, just some old wire-hung sheets to indicate where a makeshift closet might have been.

I walked toward the window and looked down. Immediately below I saw a small shack of some sort, I could only see its roof but couldn’t tell its use. Out across the field stood an ancient barn which suddenly turned new as I looked on, in the open doorway I saw a man standing there holding the reins of a gray horse. What the hell is going on? I asked myself aloud?

The only answer was my pounding heart and racing mind. I hurried down the tiny twisted steps nearly tripping at every turn. At the foot of the stairs I turned back to the front door where I had come into the house. The door stood open and something told me to leave, but I found I couldn’t and I didn’t know why.

Trying to quiet my mind and to still my heart I walked outside and around in the yard for much needed fresh air. I sat down under a nearby tree to rest, but found my mind still racing with a thousand questions. Now I knew this was about more than the dream of a wolf. There was something very familiar about the house, something frighteningly familiar and I was determined to solve the mystery.

Confused and tired I locked the door, dropped off the key at the realtor and drove home. Late afternoon traffic gave me plenty to think about and I forgot the house, that is, until I got home and found a message from Marilyn on my answering machine. I knew to return Marilyn’s phone call would put me emotionally right back at the house so I waited. I decided what I needed right now was a hot bath, a glass of Merlot, and a movie followed by a good night’s sleep. Wouldn’t it have to happen that the movie I ended up watching was Sandra Bullock in The Lake House. The good nights sleep shot down by a time travel movie. I laughed to myself as I walked to my room and got into bed.

Time was somehow out of place on this property, what other explanation was there for what had happened when the old barn became new again, and with the vision of the two women crouching in fear as some man stood over them with an axe. Were ghost time travelers, I wondered?

I fell asleep thinking about the house and slept fitfully. Once again I dreamed of the wolf and the tracks in the snow.

I woke up several times during the night looking at the clock, each time praying for morning. At nine o’clock I was back on the road headed to Day’s Realty to talk about getting the house for myself. I knew this would not be easy because the new owners had just bought it and it would take a lot to get them to agree to sell, but I was determined to have the house, and vowed to pay whatever the house might cost. I knew they had paid very little for the property, but human nature being what it is, I expected to see the cost jump considerably just because of the unusual circumstances.

While Darren Day was happy to see me he was not one bit happy to hear that I wanted him to ask the owners of the house to consider selling it to me. He argued that they would want a ton of money just because I was from Louisville, since they thought that meant I had money.

It turned out this was exactly what they thought, and as much as said so, but in the end they did agree to sell, and their asking price was three times what they had paid for the house. Darren told them to forget it.

When he told me he thought their offer was ridiculous, and that he had turned them down, I was livid. I reached for my purse, took out my cell phone, and my checkbook and pen. I put the checkbook down on his desk opened it, and signed a blank check, and looked straight at him. I want that house and I will have it if I have to pay ten times what they paid. You, Sir have no idea how badly I want that house. I suggest you call the owners or go see them or whatever it takes to get that property in my name, the sooner the better. Call me when you have the contract, I said then turned and walked out the door. He watched in shock as I left his office, walked across the parking lot, and got in my car. I could feel his eyes on me, as I drove away.

Minutes later I was once again on the road to the house, but this time when I pulled up in front I made no move to get out of my car. I simply sat and stared. I don’t know how long I sat there before the realtor drove up with a man in his car. The man was of medium build and was dressed in work pants and shirt with muddy boots and a worn cocked straw hat on his graying head. He was introduced to me as the owner and I shook his hand never really catching his name.

The realtor held the contract in his hand and offered it to me for my signature. When I took the papers I saw that the owner had already signed it, and while the selling price was a lot, it was nowhere near what I had been willing