The Dark Closet by Miranda Beall

Green’s sideboard ghost. A red-sashed diplomat appears leaning against it at no regular intervals. It has been observed by Dr. William Benjamin of the history department at the University of Maryland, as well as, of course, by May Wetherton.”
    “Not a professional observer, but how did this Dr. Benjamin get involved?”
    “Courtes y of The Rambler.”
    Crossett laughed. “Any kin to The Lone Ranger?”
    Twynne released the pipe from his mouth, laying it in his lap. “Of course not. This is news, Crossett, the press, journalism. The newspaper is a perfectly valid source of information, even on ghost lore. Don’t you read the newspaper?”
    “Of course.”
    “Haven’t you seen The Rambler’s column?”
    “No.”
    “In the Sunday Sentinel —every Sunday. He does features on this area, concentrates on Barrow and Walsall and Taunton. Lots of articles on the tobacco heritage of Barrow and outlying areas, pre- and post-Civil War lore, the old and illustrious names that helped to found this region and establish the District as the nation’s capital. Families like the Blyths who used to own half of what is now D.C., who gave large portions of their estates to the government to establish a capital. Some died paupers from taxes after gifting the country with a capital city.”
    “You sound angry.”
    “I am angry,” he said leaning menacingly forward in his wing-back chair. “And if it weren’t for The Rambler most of the people in D.C. and Baltimore wouldn’t know where half the place names come from around here and who it was established the great cities they live in.”
    “ Who is The Rambler anyway?”
    Twynne leaned back again in his chair and lifted his pipe thoughtfully to his full lips. “Don’t know. He’s been very successful at keeping his true identity a secret.”
    “Or she.”
    “What?”
    “Or she. He could be a she, don’t you think?” Crossett teased the chauvinistic Twynne.
    “Surely there must have been a few illustrious women back there, too, that The Rambler reports on?”
    “No, no women,” Twynne replied flatly.
    “And are all his ghosts men, too?”
    “No,” he answered slowly, eyeing his friend. “The Wighte ghost is a woman.”
    “And what does she do?”
    “I don’t believe it’s been fully documented,” he said thoughtfully as he stared up at the ceiling. “Not by The Rambler anyway.”
    Twynne eyed his friend. “No, that’s one he’s overlooked.” The pipe hung limply in his hand as he gazed at the ceiling again. “Perhaps I should look into it …” He looked perplexed, as if he had forgotten something but was sure he could remember if he only tried hard enough.
    “What?”
    Twynne roused himself with sudden agitation. “If you’re so damn skeptical , Crossett, why did you ask me about it?”
    “Curiosity. It’s interesting anyway, even if I don’t believe it.”
    “And do y ou believe what you saw yourself the other  night?”
    “I don’t know,” he said in a low voice. “I was tired. Being cooped up like this is making me positively squirrely. I can’t remember ever being snowed in this long.”
    “ Just some frayed nerves, eh? Maybe so.”
    “Maybe so,” Crossett repeated speculatively. “Any other stories?”
    Twynne laughed. “Curiosity killed the cat, my friend, and satisfaction never brought him back. Yes, there are others. Remember Billy Bonns? Sure you do! Every schoolboy around here when we were growing up knew about Billy Bonns. He even got honorable mention in history class, even if he wasn’t required reading. He used to buy up all the incorrigible slaves in Barrow he could get his  hands on, which was a paltry number. Barrow natives like the Greens and Wethertons, Herefords and Teilbrights, Mainwarings and Forsters didn’t give up or give up on their slaves easily. Too big an investment in a state whose residents weren’t typically large slaveholders. Three hundred was an unheard of number and only found on the truly great