A two-parter here. Oftentimes I’ll split a story because it’s gotten away from me, and I want to continue to write the following day. This one is a little different in that I didn’t run out of time but got to the end and realized there’s practically a whole other story to tell. Hopefully that will be clear by the time you get to the end…

Amelia and her lawyer, Susan, were already seated at the dark wood table in the glass-walled conference room at Baldwin, Reed & Parker on the top floor of the Hellman building downtown when David and his lawyer, Vivian, were escorted in by the firm’s receptionist.

“Thank you, Edgar,” Susan smiled at the neatly dressed young man as David and Vivian took seats across from Amelia and Susan. Edgar made his way back out the glass door and left the room in an only moderately uncomfortable silence. “Vivian, good to see you,” Susan said cordially.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Vivian smiled.

“It has. I thought you were out of family law.”

“I am. David and my husband are friends, and he asked me to represent him.”

Amelia audibly cleared her throat.

Susan looked at her client and then said, “Right, well, thank you both for coming this afternoon. This is an informal discussion to list marriage assets and determine how things are divided so that when we get to court everything goes smoothly. All right?”

Amelia stared daggers at David, who gave a resigned sigh and nodded. Susan looked at Vivian and the two exchanged an all-but-imperceptible look that said, “Oh boy…”

Susan and Vivian opened their respective folios and shuffled some papers while their clients looked on.

“I believe most major things have been discussed previously,” Vivian started. “David agrees that Amelia will get the house and her Audi, while David will keep his SUV…”

“The one he slept with that whore in,” Amelia exclaimed, jabbing a finger at David. As soon as it was out, Susan turned a fierce stare on her, cowing her back into her seat.

David, for his part, sighed sadly and said, “Amelia, you know that’s not true. I never slept with Trish…”

Amelia looked like she was going to say something, but the withering stare from Susan kept it unspoken.

“Just so we’re clear,” Susan said venomously, looking between the couple, but mostly at Susan. “We’re not here to make accusations. This isn’t a therapy session. You both agreed that ship has sailed and crashed on the rocks and you are here to sort through the wreckage. I’m sorry to be blunt about it, but Vivian and I can sort through this without the two of you in this room if there is going to be any further outbursts. Am I being clear?” This last bit was directed pointedly at Amelia.

“Understood,” David said at once.

Amelia was sullenly quiet.

“Amelia? Is that clear?” Susan asked more sharply.

“It’s clear,” Susan said finally.

“Good,” Susan said, her face relaxing into a mask of a smile. “Back to the big subjects, the house, the cars…” She looked down at her notes. “…Umm… you’ve both agreed to split retirement accounts and savings, good…”

“My client would like to make sure that accrued debt would be split equally between the two parties,” Vivian added.

Amelia flashed outrage, but a look from Susan stifled whatever she was going to say. “That’s fine. We’ll have to work out the logistics, but in principle that’s fine.” She looked back at her papers, reading her notes, “…neither side is seeking alimony… no children…David, am I correct in that you’re not looking for any of the furnishings in the house?”

David looked at Vivian who nodded. “That’s right. She can keep the house and the furniture. I just want my clothes and effects.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t burn them or cover them in bleach!” Susan exclaimed.

This time David wasn’t quiet either. “Do you mean before you falsely accused me of sleeping with Trisha or after you slept with Carl?”

“I only slept with Carl because you slept with Trisha!”

“But I didn’t sleep with Trisha!”

“You might have well have!”

“Stop, both of you!” Susan yelled above the fray. Both sunk back into their respective leather chairs at Susan’s tone. “Once more and we’re kicking you both out. Understood?”

Both nodded.

“Last item here… custody of Sam?” Susan asked quizzically. “I thought there weren’t any children involved…”

“There aren’t,” Vivian explained. “And the name is Sal, not Sam…”

“It’s Sam and you damn well know it!” Amelia said.

“It’s Sal!”

Susan held up a finger and the two fell silent.

“Who is this Sam/Sal character?” Susan asked.

Vivian shifted in her chair before answering and then cleared her throat nervously. “Sal is a ghost.”

“A ghost?” Susan chuckled, but when no one joined in, her smile faded. “Look, I’ve had a lot of strange requests in these meetings – really contentious fights about who gets the teacup pig, or who could or couldn’t go to a specific bar. But custody of a ghost?”

Vivian looked at her, “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Beyond the fact that ghosts aren’t real…” Susan said.

At that moment, the papers in front of Susan flew up in the air in a whirl of white pages before drifting down to the table as Susan stared wide-eyed.

“I thought you said he wasn’t coming to this meeting?” Vivian asked David.

“It wasn’t my decision. He attaches to one or the other of us and we don’t know when he’s around until he…” he gestured to the scattered papers as the last one settled on the dark wood desk, “… until he makes his presence known.”

Amelia smiled, “Hi Sam!”

 “Okay, well, then…” Susan breathed deeply to gather herself. “Has Sam/Sal made any indications about who he wants to stay with?”

“He wants to stay with me,” Amelia stated flatly. An empty rolling chair next to Amelia slammed into her chair. “Ow!” she grabbed her hand that was caught between the leather chairs.

“That’s pretty clear,” David smirked. “Sal wants to go with me,” he said. A disposable water bottle launched itself from the table and bounced off David’s head. “Jesus!” he clutched at his forehead.

Susan looked between David and Amelia. “So, I guess that means Sal/Sam isn’t interested in being with one or the other. Perhaps we can discuss a…” she paused, rubbed the bridge of her nose and muttered “I can’t believe I’m saying this…” barely loud enough to be overheard. “Perhaps we can discuss a joint custody of Sam/Sal.”

All hell broke loose.

Empty chairs were overturned, the conference room door swung open and closed violently, both lawyers’ papers flew around as if propelled by an unseen tornado.

The chaos went on for several minutes as everyone looked on in terror. When everything finally stopped moving and slamming, Susan looked at Vivian with a helpless expression. “Viv? You got anything?”

Vivian took slow breaths trying to calm herself before speaking. “I’ve got an idea, but it’s pretty crazy…”

Susan looked around at the upturned chairs and papers everywhere. “At this point, I’ll entertain crazy.”

“Have you ever worked with Mary Ann?”

“Oh Christ, not Mary Ann Nurse? No, no, no, no, no…” Susan said.

“Susan…” Vivian coaxed.

“She’s crazy, Sue. She claims to be a psychic.”

“Fine,” Vivian said, “but given what has just transpired here, can you honestly say a lawyer who also claims to be psychic is all that strange?”

Susan considered this. “Is she even still practicing? Is she with a firm? I know Hillman & Wexler fired her…”

“I believe she has her own firm of just herself.”

“Just herself? What’s the ‘firm’ called,” Susan added air quotes.

Vivian bit her lip and paused before pushing a black business card embossed with gold script across the table. It read, “Nurse & Visions Legal Counsel.” In smaller script below, “Paranormal Proceedings, Spectral Counsel, Attorney at Law.” And in smaller script below that it read, “We validate parking in the theater garage.”

Susan rubbed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes and finally said, “Okay. Call her.”

To be continued…

At dinner tonight, my coworker’s wife, Jan, mentioned she was visiting a Civil War reenactment and felt a deep connection to those who died there. Encountering ghosts at Civil War sites is pretty cliché’ – I mean, it’s understandable and probably super common in real life, but for telling ghost stories it’s about as original as “It was a dark and stormy night…” Unless…

Shannon couldn’t care less about the Civil War. That’s not true – as a history buff, she found it very interesting, especially the ramifications that continue to ripple out today. But as far actual battle logistics and who died here and what line was broken there? About this, she couldn’t have cared less.

But her husband, Ethan, did care. A lot. Enough that when he tagged along on her business trip to Richmond, he practically begged her to drive the forty minutes to the Civil War reenactment of the Battle of Five Forks that weekend at the Petersburg National Battlefield. He finally won her over by explaining that seeing a real Civil War Reenactment rated high on his Bucket List, and she couldn’t reasonably argue about a Bucket List item that was a measly forty-minute drive, even if she’d rather watch proverbial paint dry.

When they arrived, Ethan was oohing and ah-ing at the actors in the parking lot in their allegedly authentic uniforms and the pounds of kit including real pointy-looking bayonets. Shannon lasted about fifteen minutes before the fandom of this quirky obsession overwhelmed her sense of patrimonial duties and she decided to follow a hiking trail that deliberately led away from The Battle of Five Forks.

The fog drifted low as she moved away from the gathering crowds, the crowns of the loblolly and Virginia pines all but invisible in the morning gloom. As the studied the bright green sheen of a holly bush just off the trail, she heard a rustling in the bushes. She froze. The rustling grew in intensity and she quickly ran through what animals she knew in this part of country. Did mountain lions live out here? Do they call them pumas? The rustling grew louder and she started going through her ideas of cryptids – are there Bigfoot in Virginia? Mothman?

A man emerged from the bushes wearing a gray, loose-fitting, button-front shirt, high-waisted trousers with suspenders that clearly came from the time of the Civil War. Her fear disappeared when she figured it was just another Civil War buff probably relieving himself in the foliage. She rolled her eyes and started off down the trail.

“Excuse me,” he called. “Can I ask you a question?”

“It’s back along this trail, probably ten, fifteen minutes,” she responded without turning around.

“What is?”

“The reenactment.”

“The what?”

She stopped and looked at him, confusion evident on his face. “The reenactment? The Battle of Five Finger Death Punch – no, that’s a metal band…” She shook her head, “I don’t remember, the Civil War battle.”

He tilted his head quizzically. “The battle? It’s over?”

“Yeah, yeah, stay in character, whatever. It’s back that way,” she started off again.

“What year is it?” he asked as she kept moving.

“2024,” she said without stopping.

“I’ll be bound,” she heard him exclaim. “I missed it.”

She stopped, and immediately sighed in frustration of herself for indulging this guy. She turned around and walked towards him. “What are you talking about? People are still arriving. You’ve got like,” she looked at her watch. “Like an hour before it starts.”

“What is that?”

“What?”

“On your wrist?”

“A watch.”

“Okay, why is it shaped like that? And is that a picture?”

She sighed heavily. “It’s an Apple Watch. Look, drop the act already.”

“I don’t know what you’re going on about, but it sounds like I missed the battle. Dag nabbit…”

It was something about his demeanor, his tone… she… believed him.

“You’re dead?”

“I am.”

“You died at the battle?”

“Well, yes…”

The verbal elipses at the end of “yes…” in his answer set off her inner sleuth. “There’s more to this. What’s your story? Why were you here? Which side did you fight for?”

“I wasn’t part of either army,” he said. “I was here for a special purpose.”

More academic alarm bells went off in her head and she needed more answers.

“Special purpose? That’s intriguing. What’s your name?”

“Me? Jubal Dorsey. Why?”

“What were you doing here?”

His face registered that he figured out how interested Shannon had become. Just then the footfalls and heavy breathing of a jogger broke the morning stillness. Jubal’s head snapped towards the noise about to emerge around the bend in the trail. “Look, whatever you do, do not look into my death.”

“Why? It’s something important, isn’t it? Key to the battle? Did your death cost the Confederacy the battle?”

Jubal faded to nothing as a Lululemon-clad woman charged down the path. She gave Shannon a funny look, but from her AirPods and pace, she clearly wasn’t interested in what this woman was doing staring off trail.

But Shannon couldn’t let it go.

She wandered back to the battlefield and Googled Jubal Dorsey as soon as she found a spot with a single bar of coverage. Nothing. She tried looking into registries of Civil War dead, but the signal wasn’t strong enough.

“Hey honey! How was your hike?”

“Good, good,” she said distractedly as she searched.

They flew home the next day, but Shannon quickly found herself obsessed with the question of who was Jubal Dorsey. He wasn’t in the National Park Service Civil War Soldiers and Sailors Database. He wasn’t in the Fold3 military records database. She found Dorseys, but not Jubal Dorsey.

A few months later she had a conference in Philadelphia where she rented a car and drove the four hours back to the Petersburg National Battlefield to look for Jubal Dorsey. He didn’t materialize. But while she was there she searched records at the local library where she found her first clue: microfiche birth records of Jubal Percival Dorsey from March 23, 1840. No marriage records in the nearby churches – she checked the Methodist, Baptist, even inquired with the Quakers.

She started voraciously reading accounts from soldiers and civilians at the battle, and even around the battle and nearby battles. Months went by and she was convinced she was becoming the foremost expert on the Battle of Five Forks. While searching for clues online, she repeatedly found herself correcting “experts” in the comments and found herself imminently pleased when they tried to shut her down and she came with the receipts – if she was going to find Jubal Dorsey, she would master every document she could find.

More time passed and she registered again for the conference in Richmond. She asked Ethan if he wanted to go to the reenactment again, but he said, “Nah. I crossed that off the Bucket List.”

For some reason, this incensed her and she said, “Fine, I’ll go alone.” Leaving him staring dumbfounded at her wondering when she became interested in Civil War reenactments.

She hit pay dirt just weeks from her trip when she found the account of Corporal Silas McCord in an antiquarian bookshop in Alexandira, Virginia while visiting a friend in Washington DC. She combed through the handwritten text with cotton gloves:

“The Yanks hit us hard, and we were driven back through the trees, the smoke thick as tar in the air. I shouted for the men to fall back, my legs moving before my mind caught up with the order. We were stumbling over roots, tripping on each other in the chaos. My heart pounded like the war drums had shifted to my chest.

In the madness, I nearly tripped over a figure – not the first time, as my fellow countrymen lay strewn dead around us that day. But it was the face that stopped me. Jubal Dorsey, my dear friend, lay dead at my feet. He should have been home in Nelson County, not dead here at the Five Forks. Despite the mortal danger, I crouched down and took my friend in my arms. That’s when I noticed…”

“Son of a bitch,” Shannon said flatly.

She stewed on the plane. She paid no attention during her conference, going through the rote motions. Finally, she drove down to Petersburg National Battlefield early Saturday morning. She parked and walked past the reenactors and down the trail she had taken a year ago. She stood in front of the bush where she had had her encounter.

“Jubal Dorsey, get your ass out here,” she called.

Nothing at first, then the bushes rustled, and Jubal Dorsey emerged looking a little sheepish.

“I have searched for a year… I’ve combed databases, census records, library collections, countless miles of microfiche…”

“Micro-what?” he asked.

“Don’t interrupt me!” she yelled and he flinched. “Church records, death certificates… I’ve paid hundreds of dollars for obscure texts and recounts of the Civil War. I’ve deciphered shitty handwriting and do you know what I’ve found?”

“Nothing?” he asked hopefully.

Shannon’s smile grew predatory. “No, not nothing. I found Silas McCord’s journal.”

“Goddamn it, I didn’t know he survived the war, much less wrote anything down…”

“He found you. He turned you over and discovered you died…”

“Choking on a piece of salt pork. There! Are you disappointed now?”

“Oh yeah,” she said, advancing towards him through the brambles. “I’m disappointed…”

“I told you not to look into it. I knew you’d be disappointed,” he stepped backwards as she moved towards him. “I mean, I didn’t think you’d actually find anything, but…”

“I’m more than just disappointed… I’m going to kill you a second time!” She ran at him. Jubal Dorsey turned and ran for his death.

In the midst of reenacting the critical moment of the Confederate line breaking under the Union assault on the left flank, the actors halted as a woman screaming obscenities sprinted through the battlefield.

Flying from Seattle to Phoenix tonight. Full flight. I’m grateful I haven’t been witness to any egregiously bad behavior on board. I’m sure I’ll encounter it sooner or later, but for now I’ll leave the terrible behavior on the page.

Somehow I won the flight lottery and pulled group A for boarding. With assigned seating and always checking my bag, my boarding order has never been a big deal for me. But still, I’d never been group A. I was waiting to ask the gate agent about whether it was going to be a full flight or not when I overheard her conversation with the steel gray bun.

“But if the seat is open, why can’t you move my husband to the window seat?”

The gate agent bore the interrogation with aplomb, but the crinkles at her eyes belied her frustration. “I’m seeing what I can do, ma’am.” She tapped at her keyboard and frowned. “I’m sorry, ma’am, the system won’t let me move anyone into that seat.”

“I don’t understand,” the steel haired lady said, her volume increasing with each protestation.

Another gate agent, an older man with salt and pepper hair perfectly trimmed and a pencil thin mustache stepped next to the frustrated agent and spoke to her in hushed tones.

She pointed at the screen and quietly explained the issue.

“This is silly,” the steel woman said, voice rising higher.

The man met her with piercing blue eyes and silenced her with a curt, “Ma’am” whose tone made it the most strident order to cease talking. The woman looked outraged and was about to say something when the senior gate agent raised an eyebrow. The steel woman stopped talking.

He nodded at the original gate agent and said, “Ah, this is N47869. That’s why that seat isn’t available.”

“But it shows as available online,” the steel woman said brandishing her phone.

“Ma’am, that seat is not available. The online information is wrong. Please sit down.”

“But..”

“Now.”

And she did.

And so did I, because my query wasn’t worth even asking at that point t. Besides, group A what?!?!

So I was surprised when the seat being discussed – 12A – was occupied. I was 12C, so I settled in and waited for the rest of the flight to board. The man sat with his fedora low over his eyes, like he was already napping. The fedora looked good on him, and I dug his style.

However, the steel woman appeared indicating she was in the middle seat. I stood up and she plopped down in 12B. She wasted no time trying to plead her case.

“Sir? Sir?” She said too loudly for a person sitting right next to her to hear.

He didn’t respond. Instead, just adjusting his hat further over his eyes.

Undeterred, the steel lady pressed on. “Sir, would you trade seats with my husband? He’s back in 22B. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

The man’s sigh seemed to come from his soul, but that was the only indication he gave that she even spoke to him.

“Sir? SIR?” She employed her rising volume technique, but followed it up with tapping his shoulder.

Her fingers went right through his shoulder.

“Oh my God!” She screamed and practically ran off the plane shouldering aside a flight attendant in her way. Her husband followed a few moments later from further back in the plane apologizing to the flight attendant on his way by.

Another flight attendant hurried to her side and whispered something, eyeing the now-vacated 12B. The other shrugged and they continued pre-flight preparations.

Despite the high strangeness I just witnessed, I wasn’t about to bother whatever it was in 12A. Frankly, I didn’t care if it was a gelatinous mass, we had an open seat between us and that’s gold on flights this time – I won the flight lottery twice!

Midway through the flight, I was surprised to catch movement in my peripheral vision. The person? Ghost? Fedora in 12A tipped his hat back and sat up. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he said in a slow gravelly drawl.

I turned to him and saw he was actually slightly translucent.

“Uh, no problem,” I pasted on my best smile. “Besides, that means we’ve got an open space between us!”

He let out a little chuckle. “Yeah,” he started slowly, scratching his 5 o’clock shadow. “See, it’s just his is MY seat.”

“Oh, sure, I get it…” The idea of someone having their own special seat on an anonymous flight seemed ludicrous, but I wasn’t about to argue with Fedora.

“No, I don’t think you do,” he drawled. “See, I died in this seat.”

“Uh, come again?”

He let out laugh that started hearty but quickly dissolved into a coughing fit. “Sorry,” he croaked when he could manage. “About five years ago. I had a heart condition – I had no business on a plane.” He shrugged.

“Wow… I’m… I’m sorry.” And i genuinely was.

“Eh,” he waved a hand. “Everyone’s gotta die somewhere…”

“Well, I guess that’s true enough. So now you’re stuck here?”

“Something like that…” he nodded behind me and the flight attendant was asking if I wanted anything to drink. I got my Diet Coke and ever-tinier bag of pretzels.

She nodded at Fedora. “Good to see you, Frank.”

“Janet,” he said tipping his hat. When she moved on to the next row, he continued. “So you can see why I call it my seat.”

“Yep, makes perfect sense,” I said toasting him with my cup.

He grinned and nodded, then settled back in his seat, pulling his hat back down over his eyes.

When I finished my pretzels I looked over to check on Fedora, but he was gone.the seat was empty.

The flight attendant came by for my trash. “Huh,” she said regarding the empty 12A. “Frank usually doesn’t hang around past takeoff.” She flashed a smile at me. “He must have really liked you!”

I smiled back, partly because I didn’t know how to feel about a ghost liking me, but mostly because I had the whole row to myself!

Flight lottery for the third time!