Disclaimer:
The following story contains explicit content and is intended for mature audiences and open-minded people only. Reader discretion is advised.
This work of fiction includes themes of sexuality, romance, and adult situations and is not meant to be taken seriously. In fact some of my works may require you to suspend belief. It may contain scenes of explicit language, graphic depictions of sexual acts, situations of cheating and polyamory, group minglings, and other content suitable only for those over the legal age of consent in their jurisdiction.
All characters depicted in this story are consenting or willing adults and are works of fiction. Any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, or both, is purely coincidental.
By continuing to read this story, you acknowledge that you are of legal age to access adult content in your area and that you understand the nature of the content provided and have an open mind for such things. The author assumes no responsibility for any actions taken by readers as a result of the content of this story. Further, the author accepts no responsibility if you are offended by what you have read.
If you are not comfortable with or legally allowed to access explicit adult content, please discontinue reading now.
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Note to the reader:
In this chapter, I wrote about something I am not entirely familiar with, and you will see that when you get there. I do not want to mention it here as it could be considered a spoiler. Please take a moment to read the notes at the end of the story and give me your input on how I did and if you, the reader, the reason I created, have suggestions on how I could have done better or if you are happy with the work.
Thank you again, as always.
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The temporary stairs creaked loudly as Martin crept up them and into the attic. They were only supposed to be there for as long as it took to build new, permanent stairs, but still, he cursed to himself as he moved up and into the attic.
He was not even sure why he was bothered by the noise. It was a little after four in the morning, and no one was on site except for him, and fifteen ghosts, all of whom, to the best of his knowledge, were in their respective rooms.
"Shit... ow!" he said as he hit his elbow on a piece of the wood trim that hung out into the path of the stairs.
When he got to the top, Martin looked around. The attic was spooky and dark. He could hear what he assumed was a mouse somewhere in the darkness, but it sounded far enough away that he was not worried about it.
Turning on his flashlight, he moved through the room carefully, making sure not to step in any areas where the plywood subfloor had not yet been installed. He was not a contractor or a skilled carpenter, but he never understood why the boards seemed to be placed in random order rather than in organized rows.
As he walked across the room, he could see the outline of the wall where the door was in front of him. Then, there was a creaking sound behind him, and he turned to see what was there, but there was nothing.
"It's just the building settling, " Martin thought as he panned his flashlight back around and right into Madam Isabella's face.
Martin jumped and fell backward on his ass and could hear the wood beneath him crack as he hit it and then hit his head on the floor.
"I am sorry, Martin, it was not my inten..."
Getting up and brushing himself off, Martin grumbled, "It's fine, Madam. I was already a little spooked, you just threw gasoline on the fire, that's all." He then looked up at her and met her gaze, a slight grin on his face, "Or is it your intention to have me join you and your ladies in the afterlife?"
She chuckled a little, her face waxen in his flashlight's light, "No, no... nothing like that. You are more valuable to us on this side of the page, I suspect."
He started moving to the door again and asked, over his shoulder, "What is in this room, Madam?"
"More than you are prepared to understand about me and my history, I think." She shrugged, "Though looking at the world you live in now, what you may find in here is not as much of a consequence now as it was in my time."
Martin reached the door and looked at it, then at the Madam, "May I enter?"
She paused briefly, looked carefully at him and then at the doorknob, and nodded, "You may, Martin."
He wrapped his hand around the knob and turned it, and whereas the last time it was firmly sealed, this time it turned and opened freely, and he stepped inside.
As he walked in, the Madam followed closely, talking to him the entire time.
"This is where I worked on one of my other passions, and where I was the evening that we..." She paused.
Martin turned to look at her and saw that the memory visibly moved her. "Isabella, are you OK?" This was even more troubling because this was the first time he had seen her this emotional.
She looked at him and nodded, collecting herself, "I was here when we all died, Martin. I could hear... I mean, I feel when Amanda reached out to me when she died."
As Martin watched, he saw a range of emotions sweep through Isabella's features, then saw her eyes lock onto something behind him, and she covered her mouth as she started to weep openly.
"Oh my." She whispered.
Following her gaze, he swung the flashlight around until its beam fell on the mummified and lifeless form of a woman sitting in a chair at the desk. She looked like she was still working on whatever she had been busy with.
Slowly, he walked over to the desk, looked closely at the body, which was still in surprisingly good condition, and then looked back at Isabella.
"Madam? Did they never find your body?"
She shook her head slowly, "This was my hideaway to work on my duties as a Suffragette." She looked around the room, "Had anyone known what I was doing, I could have been arrested. Some of us were even killed."
There was a pause, and then she let out a sad laugh, "Ironic, really. The constabulary would turn a blind eye to us ladies selling our bodies but arrest us for demanding equal rights and treatment."
Martin moved around to the body and gently placed his hand on the hand of Isabella's body, "We will take care of this for you, Isabella. Did you have a family plot?" He asked as he turned to face her.
She nodded. "We did. It was at Mather Cemetary in Brattleboro, but I am uncertain if it is even there in your time. It was a small cemetery in my time, and they were trying to have it moved."
He nodded, still looking at the body. Its features were gaunt but still resembled those of someone just taking a nap. Martin suddenly felt a tremendous sadness wash over him. He turned again to look at the Madam, but she was gone.
He continued to look around the room and found stacks of posters and papers promoting women's rights, including the right to vote. There was even a picture on the far wall of a woman he suspected was a younger Isabella, in a cluster of other women, all handcuffed and with several police officers around them.
On the desk, there was a typewriter with a page still in it, and the first line was:
October 4, 1902
Mrs. Burns
I hope this letter finds you well. I would like to thank you for your kind words to Ms. S.B. Anthony on my behalf. Her support for my efforts in Vermont is truly a blessing. Further, I would like to thank you and your exceptional team at the NAWSA for the signs and posters you were able to send to my home secretly. I am sure my members and I will use them well.
I also write you today
