©1 October 2025 Levite
http://themediadesk
1.
It was a Monday Morning. And it was a typical Monday. The traffic on my way to the office was totally stupid, either running way over the speed limit, or stopped dead, there was nothing in between. Then at the office the coffee maker was having some sort of fit, making luke-warm coffee. And then when I sat down at my desk the first email I saw had the "URGENT" tag on it.
What was most unusual about that was that it had been sent late on Saturday Evening, from Manager Marjorie at the Historic Office.
I opened it.
"Detective Elaine." I read, "We have been gifted in joint partnership with the State and the Raynor - Arthur Family Home Foundation the 1880 Mansion in Cold Spring Harbor. I need to speak to you immediately about this property. Please call me whenever you get this message."
Well, I just got the message, so I called her.
"Oh, yes. Thank you, Detective. You were my first thought in the meeting Saturday Night at the house. I sent the message to you during a break. You've got to go out there. I've never been anyplace like that."
"Well, OK. I can meet you out there some time. When is good for you?"
"Can you meet me out there this morning? Really, I'd like to know if it is for real before we agree to anything else with any of the partners."
"If if is that urgent, certainly. It'll take me about an hour to get there." I checked the email for the address, and it was there.
"Good, good. Thank you so much. I'll leave in a few minutes."
Traffic had eased up enough that I was able to make the run in on 495 in good time. But then getting to Cold Spring Harbor was another story, and finding the small, narrow, old, cul de sac the house was on was another story again.
But there it was, complete with historic marker sign, and some of the oldest hedgerow bushes I'd ever seen.
I stood in front of the columned main entrance and marveled at the Gilded Age exterior and wondered who had actually paid for all this when it was new.
In about ten minutes Manager Marjorie pulled in with somebody else right behind her.
Manager Marjorie's friend was from the State Historical Affairs office, and made no bones about it. "This place is haunted from the front door in," Mr. Davis said.
"Tell her about the dinner party you were at."
Mr. Davis shook his head, then he looked up and the building, then at me, "I'd rather tell you out here than in there." He took a deep breath. "It was still owned by family, and they had a caretaker living in the Carriage House, even he wouldn't stay in the main house overnight. But they had a dinner out here while everybody was talking about turning the place over to the State and so on. So I was here, and everything went fine, until about five." He put his hands out and shook one up and down, "There was a bang from somewhere that shook the table like that. Then you could hear somebody running, it must have been in the main hallway toward the stairs. The thing was, Charles Gibson, from the family, just shrugged, 'you get used to it', he said."
Manager Marjorie nodded, "I really didn't believe the stories until we were at the meeting Saturday, and we all heard an argument from the kitchen that then went out into that same hallway. Except there wasn't anybody in the kitchen, we weren't having dinner, we were in the library across the hall and the lights on that side were all out."
Mr. Davis spoke up again. "That's another thing, if you're here at night, make sure you've got a couple of good flashlights, because they'll turn the lights off. Or on. Or whatever. And the upstairs is really confusing if you're not used to it."
They were both looking at me. "I can't wait to get in there. It sounds fascinating."
Manager Marjorie gave me a key, then looked at Mr. Davis. "Is it OK if I give her a key to the property?"
"Is she really a Detective?" He asked her.
I reached into my pocket and handed him my badge and ID wallet, he took it and looked at them, then handed it back to me. "Well, I guess so. Sure, she can have a key, she can move in for all I care. I'll walk in with you, but I'm not going to stay."
"What upsets you the most about the house?" I asked Mr. Davis.
"Well, OK, we're still out here. I'll tell you. And maybe I won't go in." He took another breath, and turned around so he was facing Manager Marjorie's car. "I was here, I don't know, about a month ago, maybe six weeks, something like that, the paperwork was in progress for the transfer, and I met one of the foundation's lawyers out here who wanted to talk about the landscaping contract with the groundskeeper outfit. Of all things. Anyway. We went in to look at the aerial photograph, the grounds aren't square, there's a bit off that way and so on. So we were in the library where the map is on the wall, and we were talking about letting part of it go back to nature. And then we both felt something and turned around at the same time." He visibly shuddered. "If I'm lying I'm dying. I'll swear by my kids, whatever. We turned around and there was a man standing there, he was aging right as we looked at him, and he looked like he was angry enough to kill us both. And then he vanished. I mean it. He aged fifty years in seconds, and then, was gone. Me and that lawyer exchanged looks and ran out of there so fast you wouldn't believe it." He shook his head, "Then we stood out here, right here. And asked each other if that had really happened."
I had to ask him, "Do you remember what the man was wearing? It might help me narrow down who we're dealing with."
"All I really remember was he was wearing a jacket with big wide lapels." He put his hand up with his fingers several inches apart. "That's all I remember. Oh, yeah, and his shirt had a high collar, like they used to wear."
"OK, that's good enough." I looked up at the large double doors encased in their marble frame. "Shall we go in?"
Mr. Davis thought about it, but he finally nodded, "OK, I'll go in, but that's it."
Manager Marjorie stopped me when I got to the first step up, "You didn't tell her what they said about the basement."
Mr. Davis froze, "Oh, yes. Gibson, from the family, told us not to let anybody go into the basement alone because something down there would try to possess them."
"The guy from the family said that?"
"Yes, at that dinner party. Of course he said that after we had all agreed to take over the property."
"Of course."
2.
The house was pure Gilded Age from floor to ceiling, and it was built to impress. And where the Shippenberg house had been built to be functional in town and not waste any space, this place had space that seemed to be intentionally wasted and unusable just to let you know that they could do that. Such as in the three story main entrance there were alcoves larger than they needed to be with artwork placed in them that somebody had to dust.
The main entrance was three stories tall, with all the detail and decoration they could cram into it. And that included the main staircase that you could just imagine somebody making a grand procession down to greet some dignitary who had just arrived in a limousine.... or grand horse-drawn carriage, depending on the year. To our right was a ballroom, to the left, occupying most of the first floor on that wing was a formal parlor complete with fragile looking furniture and an amazing fireplace.
"They moved in in eighteen eighty, but the house wasn't dedicated until the following year." Manager Marjorie told me. "But the Raynors didn't stay here long. They sold it to the Arthurs in the Nineteen hundreds and moved into another mansion further inland. You see the inlet is right down the hill, and Mrs. Raynor didn't like the smell at low tide."
"But it took her twenty years to notice?"
"No, apparently she noticed that right away, but it took her twenty years to convince her husband to sell and move."
We were all standing in the grand main entrance, there wasn't supposed to be anybody else in the house as the manager had turned the alarm off before she had me try my key to make sure it worked.
"That sounds like it's upstairs." I said as we stood quietly and listened to what sounded like limping footsteps above us. "Going toward the back of the house."
Mr. Davis agreed, "Some of them talked about the limping man."
"Did anybody say they'd ever saw him?"
He shook his head, "not that I know of."
The footsteps stopped. Then in another moment we heard what sounded like a woman say "no!" in a loud and shrill voice. Then the house grew very quiet.
"OK, Ms Marjorie, Mister Davis, I'd say something interesting is going on in your Mansion. And it's only, what? A little after ten in the morning?"
They both checked their watches. "Yes."
"So, are you willing to let me basically have the run of the place for a couple of days and see what I can come up with?"
"Yes, ma'am." Mr. Davis said. "There's an old staff bedroom over the parlor," he gestured up and to the left. "You're welcome to it."
"Thank you," I said and tried to remember if my overnight bag was in the trunk of my car. The best I could come up with, was 'it should be'.
"And, Detective, I happen to know that there's a very good pizza shop in Cold Spring. The menu and number is in the kitchen next to the wall phone" Manager Marjorie added. "I like their Italian Classic."
"Well, thank you."
I walked back out with them and got my kit bag. Mr. Davis looked back at the house and then at me, "So, you don't think we're making it up? Or crazy? Or something?"
"No. I've dealt with the Historic Office enough to know when something doesn't sound right." Then I thought about something, "Is there wifi here?"
Mr. Davis answered, "yes, it's in the office between the library and the dining room, on the outside. Inside is a pantry. The password is on the bulletin board."
"Thank you."
My overnight case was in the trunk of my car. I left it there for now and carried my bag and my laptop in and found the office. Given the size of the house it was smaller than I expected. But it was efficient, and had access to the rest of the house through the library or the dining room.
I set up my laptop and got logged in, then I took my kit bag and took a tour of the old house and decided where I wanted to put the cameras and recorders.
Given the sounds we'd heard earlier I knew I wanted a set upstairs to cover what I had been told was a hallway that wound through various bedrooms and other features spread across the three wings.
I also found out there was a partial third floor, which built over the back wing, and reachable by a set of stairs not part of the grand main staircase. I peered up into the darkness above, even though it was still morning outside, and said "if I was a ghost, that's where I'd be".
I went back to the office and got my active investigation gear, including a working flashlight, EMF detector, full spectrum camera, and whatever else I could carry or jam into my pockets. Then I headed back up to the third floor.
First I just walked around and got an idea about what this part of the house was.
I found several small bedrooms, a small bathroom, no, two small bathrooms, a sewing room with a pair of vintage black sewing machines complete with big black electric motors and belts under them, and then I opened a door and found an actual junk room that would be the envy of several antique and novelty item dealers.
"So this is where old Christmas wreaths go to die," I said to a stack of the things several feet tall, with more on a shelf behind it, and several hanging from a strap nailed to a beam in the roof.
Besides wreaths there were several spinning wheels of various sizes, a large wooden box full of old children's toys, and even plastic garbage bags of clothes and shoes that were several decades out of style. I stopped for a moment and smiled at several old advertising signs for a car company that I know went out of business before I was born, and a brand of cigarettes that I'd never even heard of.
I continued my tour and found myself looking out a small window that faced the inlet. I stood there for a minute and then got out my digital recorder and my EMF meter and began a long slow sweep of the floor back to where I'd come up the stairs.
I stopped walking and listened. The house was silent.
"Hello. I'm Detective Elaine from the Sheriff's Office. I was asked to come here and see if anything was going on."
It was still quiet.
"If there is anybody here with anything to say, now is when you need to say it. The ownership of this beautiful old house is being transferred from the family to the Historic Trust and a private foundation that will turn it into a museum and conference center."
As soon as I said that I heard a bang somewhere below me. And the EMF meter that had been showing some of the lowest background readings I'd seen that were inside a building began to fluctuate.
Then just as I took a step forward one of the bedroom doors that had been open just enough for me to peek in and see what was in there, swung almost all the way open.
There was no breeze or vibration or anything I noticed that would account for the door's motion, and none of the other six or so doors to the rooms, including the junk room which I'd left almost back where I'd found it, moved.
I walked toward the now open door and looked in. I thought it had been just another bedroom when I walked down the hall the first time. And it was. Except this one, now that I could see the whole room, looked like somebody had just left for the day.
The bed was neatly made, and there were women's clothes hanging in the cabinet, with several pairs of shoes, including some very nice dress shoes in a line along the wall. I looked around and saw a calendar on the nightstand with the month of June 1975 showing. Sunday, the 22nd, was circled and 3 pm was written in a small neat hand. There was a selection of personal care things on the dresser, including a few basic makeup items, and a few old photos, one of which was in a small, cheap, frame.
It was obvious that a young woman had been staying there some fifty years ago, and, by the looks of the room, had gone out for the day in the summer of '75, and never returned.
I looked through the nightstand for any personal items, and found a few pieces of personal mail with the name of Veronique Lavoie, and a return address in New Brunswick, Canada, as well as a department store store credit card statement in the same name from May of the same year.
That information changed my plans, so I had to walk all the way back down to the office and then back up. Somebody had wanted me to come into this room. I didn't know if it was Miss Lavoie or somebody else, but now I was in the bedroom, and there was only one old straight chair in the room, the other option was to sit on the bed. So I took the chair and put several monitors and sensors on the bed, with two digital recorders in the room, and another in the hallway.
"Hello again. Like I said, I'm from the Sheriff's Office, and I'm here because of some activity that has been reported in the house. Somebody wanted me to investigate this room where...." I had to check the credit card bill, "where Miss Veronique stayed back in the nineteen seventies. You can see some things on the bed, if you get near some of them they'll change color or make a sound, but they won't hurt you. That way I'll know you're here. And you can speak to either of these little boxes, they can hear you even though I can't. OK?"
I thought I saw one of the detectors on the bed blink. Then it did it again.
"OK, good. Can you say your name to the recorder so I know who I'm talking to. Like I said, my name is Elaine. I'm from the Sheriff's Office, but you're not in any trouble. I'm just checking out reports of activity."
During my speech two of the detectors on the bed blinked several times. "That's it. If you want, make it blink once for yes, and twice for no."
The one detector kept flickering somewhat at random. Something was here, but it either didn't understand or couldn't control what it was doing.
"That's OK. I'm going to listen to the recording for a minute and see if you said anything."
I stopped the recorder that was on the nightstand and listened with my small headphones.
I heard something soft, but it sounded like a male, I backed the recorder up and listened again.
".... veroni... not here..." a pause, and some odd shuffling noises " ... where is she..."
The question at the end of the message was the clearest of the entire recording.
I thought I'd answer it and then wait a few more minutes before continuing.
"I don't know where Veronique is. But, like I said, I'm from the Suffolk County Sheriff's Office, so I might be able to find out where she went, and when. OK? I'll do my best, but it may take some time. Then I'll come back and tell you," I said as I collected my gear and slowly walked out of the room. Almost shutting the door behind me, but leaving it open, just a bit, like the others.
The sounds from that bedroom weren't the 'limping man' or the woman that had shouted. And the voice didn't sound as angry as Mr. Davis had reported his apparition appeared. So I had documented at least one new spirit in the house, and an approximate time as to when the living person was there, and what they were in need of.
And it wasn't even noon yet.
Now I continued my investigation by ordering two pizzas from the shop that Manager Marjorie had recommended. The Italian Classic that she had suggested, which did sound good by the description in their online menu, and a meat lovers, with extra cheese, which always made a good breakfast.
3.
While I ate lunch I checked my office emails, and spent some time looking for Veronique Lavoie, who may have had some connection to New Brunswick, and lived here in the seventies.
I had good results with both the pizza, and the search. The pizza had a bit more vegetation on it than I usually like, olives, bell peppers, onions, and such, but it was well balanced with sausage and pepperoni and perhaps some ground beef although I wasn't sure. And it tasted really good.
As far as finding Miss Veronique, I still had some checking to do, but I thought I'd found a high school yearbook photo that could have been one of the people in the photo on the dresser. There was also an odd article in French about 'local girls that made good' in a Fredericton newspaper that mentioned her as now working as a translator for the French Ambassador to the UN, with a date in May 1976.
I just kept chasing leads, and links, and mentions and so on. Fortunately, her name is somewhat unusual, so when the combination appeared, it was likely to be her, or, as it turned out, her aunt who died in the late seventies, and who my Miss Veronique had been named for. The last mention of her had her in France in the early eighties, where she married an employee of the Foreign Affairs Ministry in Marseille, with the note that the couple will reside in Brussels where they both work at the Embassy.
I didn't think that was the news that the spirit upstairs was hoping for. I couldn't print the article and thought about what to do when I saw the printer/scanner/copier/fax machine sitting in the corner opposite the built-in desk.
"I wonder," I said to myself and made sure it was on, then I checked the network and saw the multi-function unit listed. So I printed the two articles, or at least the English translation of them, with a picture of the pretty woman in her wedding dress. Then I finished another slice of pizza and decided to tackle the second floor after lunch.
It didn't work out that way.
My using the printer evidently got somebody's attention in the library next door. I heard solid, not limping, footsteps in the room as I closed up the Special pizza box with the plan to put both of them in the fridge in the kitchen.
"Hello?" I said through the library door.
There was a movement on the far side of the room. So I left the pizza where it was and got the full spectrum camera and took a series of shots of the entire room. Then I put a recorder on the central reading table and left it while I went through the dining room to the kitchen with my pizzas.
When I came back I walked into the room slowly with the EMF detector and got a baseline of the room.
"Was it OK that I used the printer? Or should I have asked permission first?"
I kept seeing motion, and hearing footsteps and rustling, but that was it.
After more time than I thought I should spend in the room I took the recorder back into the office and listened to it while I looked at the photos. Other than my voice and activity in the room, including looking at the map and looking at a couple of the books, and the occassional footstep that wasn't mine, and a bit of the rustling.... nothing.
I put the recorder back in the library and got my gear together and went upstairs.
The second floor was quiet, but the hallway wasn't straight and appeared to be designed to minimize noise and maximize privacy, which was probably nice for the family, but made it difficult to investigate.
I kept listening for the limping footsteps, but never heard them.
Then I took a break and went to check out what I had been told was the staff bedrooms over the parlor. The rooms were like the main bedrooms in that two shared one bathroom, but the bedrooms were smaller. I picked one that was on the end of the hall and checked the bed to make sure it was serviceable. The bathroom was small, but functional and stocked. So it would serve well enough for tonight.
I spent some time checking work emails again, and then did another sweep of the building. Then I went out and got my overnight bag, and made sure that everything in it was clean and ready, instead of like one other time when I forgot to unpack and do laundry.
After I put my things in the bedroom where I could find them later I went back and did another sweep of the second floor. Then, I got the printout from the office and went back up to Veronique's room.
"Hello. I'm back." I said to the hallway, then I walked into her room and laid the printouts on the bed. "Can you see these newspaper stories?" I stepped back and sat in the chair and let the room settle down and grow quiet around me. "It says she went to work in New York City at the UN, and then later she moved to France and married a guy she worked with. I tried to find more about her, but there wasn't anything else."
The room was quiet and still around me.
I held out the picture of her in her wedding dress. "Is this the same girl that stayed here? She looks beautiful and happy on her wedding day." I said to the room.
Later I listened to the recording and when I asked if it was her in her wedding dress I heard a soft reply, " .... yes... ... is her.... ... happy...."
I spent more time on the second floor, but never heard anything there. None of the sensors went off. It was rather boring.
I can't say that about the library.
Something in there knew I was looking for it, and had the ability to detect it.
But I was slowly narrowing down what it would, or maybe could, do, and how I could get it to respond even when it didn't want to.
Unfortunately, there were no photos or portraits of anybody from the early days of the house. And the images that were there were mostly group portraits of a good number of somewhat formally dressed, serious looking people with a sign that said "shareholders meeting, July 1927, B. Q. Arthur, Host".
Finally, looking through the drawer that was on the far side of the reading table, I struck gold.
"Arthur Finance and Commerce Executives and Managers. 1915 - 1916." I read off one of the books, and then I looked at the second one, "Same title, 1919 - 1921."
I opened the newer one and looked at the large photo on the first page. It was the same sort of group as the framed on on the wall from 1927. But then on the next page I got to see the somewhat stern face of Berthold Quentin Arthur, President and Executive Officer.
He was wearing a shirt with a very high collar and a jacket with almost ridiculously wide lapels. Which made me curious, so I went and got my laptop and brought it back and sat at the table and looked up everything I could find about Mr. Arthur.
In a few minutes I was reading his obituary from the early 1940s. One of the notes about the gentleman was that "not only was Mr Arthur always well dressed in the latest men's fashions, he often set the fashion by embracing a new style."
I decided a bit of gentle provocation might get a reaction. "Is this correct Mister Arthur? Did you really like new fashions, or did your wife want you to dress like that?"
"My ideas."
I have no idea where the voice came from. It sounded like it was from the end of the table, but when I checked the directional recorder it said it was from, basically, right on top of it, and the recorder was on the desk on the other side of the room.
"Very good. This suit looks good on you." I said as I turned the page and he was standing next to the Board of Directors in a very smart looking business suit.
And then later the reason why became very apparent. One of the pieces of this business empire was a line of men's apparel manufacturers and retailers..... 'for the discerning gentleman', as the line beneath the photo stated it.
I asked several more questions, but never got another response. But that one was good enough to confirm who was in the library.
It was getting late, and I knew I didn't want to tackle the basement just yet. So I retired to the kitchen and had another slice of the Special pizza while I read some more about the business interests of Mr. Arthur.
In the end, not only did he buy the Raynor's house, he bought up most of their businesses and merged them into his own. But according to a Long Island Business publication, after Mr. Arthur died unexpectedly, nobody else could run the unrelated enterprises like he could, and in the middle of WW2, nobody had time to figure it all out.
So by the fifties the family was selling off parts of it to stay afloat. The last vestiges of what had been a large conglomerate were some financial partnerships that were partnerships in name only with a couple of large banks, and what was now an online only business training and consulting firm using materials that BQ had written over a century before, but had been updated for the digital age.
But that did explain why he was angry. The business he had put together from his selling the shirts and waistcoats his mother and grandmother made were no more, and now, even his house was no longer part of the family.
I finished up my pizza and made sure I'd cleaned up my mess. I thanked Mr. Arthur for his hospitality. Then I headed upstairs for the night.
4.
"It's residual." I said to Manager Marjorie, Mr. Davis, my boss, and a few others involved with the Raynor - Arthur house who were sitting around a table in the parlor in the Mansion. "Remember the morning we were out here? We heard the limping footsteps on the second floor and the woman shout at just before ten in the morning."
They nodded that they remembered.
"I have it again, on both vibration sensors on the floor, and a digital recorder that was on the hall table at the landing for the stairs to the third floor. The video camera is on a tripod at the far end of the hall."
We could hear the footsteps getting closer, then we saw one of the small sensors light up a couple of times, then the next one, and then the third in turn. Finally, the limping steps stopped, and in a moment we heard what could have been a woman saying 'no'.
"Her voice is louder and more clear in the recorder that you can see down the hall on the left. I'll play it."
I did. The limping footsteps approached, went quiet, and then "No!".
"Who is it?" One of them asked me.
"I don't know, I haven't been able to find any record of a man that walked with a pronounced limp. But maybe it was an employee, a guest, I have no idea. As for the woman's voice, again, there's no way of telling. But. It is residual. It evidently happens almost every morning around the same time, so at least you can be ready for it."
Then I gave them the report about the young lady on the third floor and whoever was concerned about her. "Will they still keep looking for her? I don't know. I left the printouts and the photo up there, so maybe, eventually, they'll accept that she moved on and was happy."
"You said you had news about the basement." Mr. Davis said in a moment.
"Yes, and it is sort of good news."
After I had had my meat lovers pizza breakfast, I went down into the basement and did some, well, first, exploration, then, investigation.
The first thing I noticed was that the place needed aired out. Something I confirmed with a small, not the best on the market, air quality meter. So I opened the doors and the one window I could get to open, and waited for precisely one cup of instant coffee before I went back down there.
The basement ran under the entire house, and there was a sub-basement, under the central core of the house where a set of aging sump pumps kept the groundwater under control.
It was under the ballroom where I noticed something odd about the dirt and gravel floor. So I made a call.
The next day the Sheriff and our favorite ground penetrating radar team carried their gear down into the basement and, after looking at the ground under the ballroom and comparing it to what was under the parlor, they agreed to scan it.
"Well. There had been at least four burials down there. But there is good news, as far as we could tell, and we only excavated one just to make sure. Whoever was buried down there is no longer there. They scanned the rest of that area, and did a couple of passes around the rest of the basement and didn't see anything in the graves."
"You could tell where the ground had been disturbed," the Sheriff said pointing at the screen with the photos of the work. "But we got to the bottom and there wasn't anything there."
"That's good. I guess." Manager Marjorie said for everybody.
"I think, and I have some documentation to back it up, that it had been members of the Raynor family, and when they sold the property and moved they disinterred the remains and moved them as well. But I'm still trying to confirm that."
"How about the presence in the basement?" Manager Marjorie asked me.
"Bad air." I said simply. "I took an air quality meter down there and it went red almost instantly. You need more ventilation in the basement. It spends most of its time sealed up, and the air isn't good after a few days."
They looked at each other, "we can get that fixed."
They were absolutely fascinated with the photos I had of Mr. Arthur.
"That's him. I mean it. It's giving me chills, that's the man we saw." Mr. Davis said.
"He's here, but he's not overly interactive. He knows when somebody is in the library, and perhaps the dinning room, but that's about it. I imagine he's just watching over what he thinks of as his house.
We wrapped up the meeting and even Mr. Davis seemed more relaxed being in house.
As I packed up my laptop and unplugged the presentation monitor to take back to the Mansion's office the Sheriff stepped up to me and gestured to the stately parlor with its ornate wood trim and shiny brass sconces, "You know Detective, this is a much nicer part of this place than you brought me to the other day."
"Well, you know, we had other guests here today." I looked around. It was a room that displayed certain elements that in a dozen years would become Art Deco mixed with the original Queen Anne style. "Yes, it's nice, and there's a lot fewer spiders in here than there were down there. I thought they might be a distraction during the briefing if we had everybody come down to the basement."
"I can see that. And I think I'd had enough of them when we were downstairs."
I brushed at my own hair, "I had a few of them try to go home with me. How about you?"
"I left a couple of them out in the driveway." He smiled, "And, once again, Detective Elaine, I think you solved the case."
"Thank you, sir. I always try my best."
-end 1880-
[NOTE: The above story were written as adventure fiction, and is to be taken as such. While most of the features of Long Island exist, including several Gilded Age Mansions, the rest of the setting is fictional.
Thank you, Dr. Leftover, TheMediaDesk.com]
http://themediadesk.com