Chapter One

Delaney Adams wiped her brow and set down the cardboard boxes she'd lugged up the steps of her new townhouse apartment.

"Keaton?" She called her husband, who she could hear huffing up the stairs. "Honey?" Going out into the hall, she found him loaded with boxes and bags, trudging slowly up the steps. Delaney laughed and took two boxes from under his chin. "Set those down, we need a break." Happily, Keaton set them down and followed his young wife into the room that would soon be their bedroom. She collapsed on the floor and stared up at the beige ceiling. "So, what do you think, baby?"

"It's nice."

"Nice? This place is amazing! What's the matter with you?" Keaton looked at her,

"Well, yeah, it's amazing. But there's a lot of stairs babe."

"Stairs, storage space, rooms, windows…there's a lot of everything. Can you believe they even have buildings like this in New York anymore?" Delaney gushed, propping herself up on one elbow.

"All right, you're right. It's a catch."

"You won't believe all of the history a place like this has. From what the realtor told me, the building itself was built in 1890. 1890! Can you imagine? God! The stories these walls must have to tell." Keaton rolled his eyes and kissed her forehead.

"My little history buff. I think I'll leave all the wall-stories to you, no offense." He rose to his feet. "I'm gonna get the rest of the stuff from the car."

"Do you want some help?" She offered, starting to get up.

"No, no. You stay here and relax, there's not that much left." Her husband left the room and made his way down the flight of stairs to the ground level. Left alone, Delaney stood and looked around the room.

The realtor hadn't lied about the date when the building was erected, but from the looks of the blueprints, it certainly hadn't always looked the way it did now. Granted, she wasn't holding actual original blueprints. No, even her job at the museum couldn't get her something like that. However, she had been able to call in several favors with her friends at the county real-estate records building and have copies made of the original blueprints, in a much smaller scale. Studying the sketches of rooms and measurements, she realized with disappointment that the construction crew most likely gutted the townhouse and modernized it from the inside.

She spread the blueprints out on the ground, sat down, and gazed intently at them. The kitchen was in the same place, but had been expanded, there had originally only been one bathroom, the one that connected to the master bedroom. Also, there was only one other smaller bedroom, down the hall, where there was now two. (An addition had obviously been added.) And the basement was…enormous. Delaney squinted her eyes and studied the third page of prints. According to the paper in front of her, the basement was the same size as the upper floor. But she'd never seen a basement, the realtor had told her there was none.

"That's weird." She said, confused. Her concentration was broken as Keaton called up the stairs that the movers were there and needed assistance. Delaney stood up again, rolled the blueprints and stuck them in her back pocket, deciding that the basement mystery would have to wait.

Several hours later, when all furniture had been unloaded and the movers gone to help some other family, Delaney collapsed once again on the couch and sighed. Keaton moved her feet and sat down on the opposite end of the sofa.

"What a day."

"Indeed." She looked at her watch, which read seven 'o' clock. "Wanna hear something weird?" Keaton sighed, Delaney was always finding odd things.

"What?"

"I was looking at the blueprints of this place today, and there's one for the basement." He looked at her.

"What basement?"

"Exactly." She sat up and disclosed the blueprints, unrolling them to reveal the basement measurements. "What do you make of this?"

"I don't know, Del. Maybe it's a mistake."

"Or maybe not! Think about it," she began excitedly. "How could they mix up blueprints like that? And especially with a place like this?" Keaton didn't want to get into this craziness. Delaney was always making mountains out of mole hills, over-analyzing situations…he didn't want to get into it that night, not when he was tired and hungry. She was exhausting once she got going. It was better to shut her up now instead of having her get her hopes up and be disappointed later.

"It happens. It happens all the time, Delaney. It's a mix up, let it go." She sighed. "Are you hungry?" He asked, trying to apologize.

"A little."

"I'll go get us some food, okay?" She nodded. "Chinese?"

"Sure. Get egg rolls." Keaton smiled and kissed her gently.

"I'll be home in a little bit." He shrugged on his old leather coat and grabbed the keys. After a minute or so, Delaney heard the distinct sound of a car pulling away and leaped to her feet. In the kitchen, she unrolled the papers that displayed the ground floor, and this peculiar basement.

"Okay, Del. According to this, there should be a doorway with stairs leading down right about…here." She spoke aloud to keep herself company and went over to the wall opposite the sink and refrigerator, the one on the side of the house. Placing a hand on the wall, she pressed gently, hoping for a weak spot. There was nothing. She sighed and pushed again. "I can't be wrong." She examined the prints again and began knocking on the wall. Each knock, echoing against the plaster that was on the other side. Delaney growled with frustration- she didn't want Keaton to come home and simply say "I told you so," which was highly likely-she wanted to have something to show him, that her hunch wasn't just her looking for oddities.

She yelled and began pounding furiously against the wall, not bothering to listen anymore. When she stopped, however, Delaney noticed something. Something absolutely wonderful. There was no echo. In an empty, silent house as the one she was in, things echoed. Things like hitting ordinary walls echoed. But there was nothing. Was there nothing because she couldn't hear it? Or was there nothing because this was not an ordinary wall that she was pounding on? Delaney didn't know, but there was only one way to find out.

It took her a few minutes to locate the box she needed, it had been lost in a sea of cardboard labeled 'Kitchen Crap' and 'Bed Stuff.' She took a deep breath, retrieved the hammer from the 'Tools Box' and continued back into the kitchen. With another glance at the blueprints, Delaney took the pen that was holding up her hair and marked a circle on her target. The young woman blessed herself with the sign of the Cross and lunged the hammer at the wall with all of her strength. And something else wonderful happened. The wall broke. Just a little bit, but it broke. She hit the same spot again, still praying. The plaster began cracking as Delaney began wailing into the wall with primal force and…she hit something. Brick. But that didn't stop her, she kept on pounding until finally, the brick fell out of the wall.

Delaney stopped, breathing heavily, and stared at the hole she'd just placed in her new wall. "Keaton's going to kill me." She said aloud, almost in fear of her husband. Hesitantly, Delaney put a hand through the small hole she'd made. The air on the other side was cool and damp, not at all like the air in the kitchen. With the timidity of a mouse, she pushed on the wall around the hole, wincing as she heard more bricks crumbling and breaking. "This is taking too long." She talked to the room again, deciding that if she wanted something to show Keaton when he came home shortly, she was going to have to pick up the pace. Picking up the hammer again, Delaney turned it in her small hand, and attacked the wall again, this time using the hammer as a battering ram.

Within a few minutes of ferocious ramming, the woman had cleared a space big enough for her to fit her petite frame through. She poked her head in first, coughing amidst the dust and grime, and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. There were stairs on the other side of the wall she'd just destroyed. Stairs that led downward. Delaney chewed her lip in thought. I've done this a hundred times. She reasoned with herself, mentally making a reference to the many times she'd explored unknown areas of residence. She was a historian, it was what she did. But still, this isn't a job. This is my house. Eventually, the explorer in her won out and she carefully climbed through the space she'd made.

Holding on to the railing, Delaney slowly made her way down a flight of stairs, into a room that had obviously not been touched in some time. She squinted into the darkness, trying to make out what the large, shadowed shapes were. There was a chair, a couch and table, a few other pieces of furniture, and some triangular shaped thing, but she couldn't be sure of what that was. Realizing her findings would be useless unless she could see what she was doing, Delaney turned and went back upstairs, where she dug through three boxes in record time, victorious at last, pulling a flashlight out of one of the thousands of cartons. She flicked the light on and descended once again to the basement.

The thin beam of light swept over the furniture she'd already identified, the couch, the chair, the table, until she found what she was looking for, a light fixture, hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room. She made her way over carefully and pulled on the chain that hung down from the low ceiling. A dim bulb flicked a few times before finally illuminating the room.

"Oh my God." Delaney couldn't believe what she had wandered into. She turned around slowly, taking in her surrounding with awe. She found herself in a room, an ordinary room that had been preserved for seemingly decades, if not longer. There was few pieces of furniture, only that which she had already seen, a few little tables, an armchair, and an artist's easel. Delaney wasn't worried about the furniture, it was what was around the room, on the walls, in the corners, everywhere she looked, there was a painting. There were tons of them, some hanging, most just resting against the wall, as if waiting to be picked up and put somewhere. In the corner, propped up in front of a door were three or four paintings of children. And on the table, there were two sketch pads that lay open, one exposing a drawing, the other, only the inside cover. Delaney could only guess that there were sketches and drawings on the other pages. On the edge of the same table, beside the easel, were a set of oil paints, brushes, and a few rags. Everything had been so well preserved, however, that she wouldn't have been surprised if someone came down the stairs after her and began cleaning up their paints.

She breathed in deeply, slowly, almost afraid to disturb the cool, damp air. The room itself had such a used, loved look to it that Delaney was afraid to disturb it's lived-in beauty. It was like being in church. There was a moment where the young woman was at a loss as to what to do. Should she investigate her findings? Go back upstairs and wait for Keaton? Wait for Keaton so she could stick her tongue out at him and say "I told you so?" As appealing as that last idea was, she figured that it couldn't hurt to look at the pictures, at least.

They were all of people, Delaney noticed right away. In all the sketches and paintings that she could see, not one was of a landscape or a still life. She leaned over the table and blew a light covering of dust off of the open sketchbook to reveal a charcoal drawn picture. It was a drawing of two boys sitting across a small table from one another, playing cards. One of them, the one on the left, had a cigar in his mouth, slicked back hair, and a mischievous look on his undeniably Italian face. His opponent, a handsome specimen, lighter hair, strong jaw, lively eyes, and a cigarette between two of his fingers. This one was deep in thought, chewing on his lip, brow furrowed, as he looked at his cards. It was quite striking. Delaney couldn't help but be impressed as she turned the page of the book, to find another detailed portrait of a young man with curly hair, large features, and a crutch holding up his left side.

Page after page were filled with drawings of the same group of boys, ranging in age, ethnicity, and looks, but all dressed similarly. They wore buttoned shirts, vests, suspenders, and pageboy caps that were popular at the turn of the century. But these can't be from that long ago. Delaney thought, and focused her eyes on the corners of the pages, all of which were initialed 'MB-99.' Did that mean 1899? She couldn't believe that something as fragile as these pictures could be so well preserved that they were literally flawless when touch almost a hundred years later. Remember Titanic? The little voice in her head asked while she flipped through the book. That was a movie, idiot. It couldn't really happen. The two sides of Delaney's mind were fighting, that usually meant she was on to something. Just as she went to close the leather bound book, the young woman noticed an message on the inside cover:

To our future artist,

What do you see? We hope this helps you.

You always got family here. Remember that.

Merry Christmas.

Love,

Your boys at the LH

She smiled. The book had been Christmas gift. But from who? And who was it for? A future artist? LH? What on Earth was that? She quickly went to the other sketchbook, hoping to find another clue. Unfortunately, this one contained only more pictures of the same people, not even a note or message to lead her in any direction. There was, however, one thing she noticed in both of the books, how many times the artist had drawn the handsome man whom they'd captured playing cards. There were drawings of him carrying a small boy on his shoulders, selling newspapers to some wealthy gentlemen, eating, sleeping, he was everywhere! But who was he? Delaney wondered, and who kept drawing him? Why? These questions swirled around in her mind, begging to be answered. But other than the artist's initials and the year, there was nothing to indicate anything. Disheartened, she put the book down and walked over to the couch, where two painting sat propped on the cushions.

After testing the sofa gently, she sat down, praying it wouldn't break. It didn't, and gratefully, Delaney picked up one of the paintings. It was done in oils, and made her smile by looking at it. The boy from all of the sketches was in it, she could see that his hair was actually a dirty blond color. He was sitting on the very couch that she was, holding a baby over his head, smiling at the child. It was a beautiful painting, one that captured the life of both man and infant so well that Delaney could almost see them alive in her mind. She checked the corner: MK-03. MK? Whatever happened to MB? Then she realized…the artist was a woman. And that somewhere between 1899 and 1903, she'd gotten married to a 'K.' Now she just wanted to figure out who this man was. Husband? Boyfriend? Brother? Who could he be?

"Delaney?" A voice called from upstairs, scaring the young woman to death. "Del? Are you here? I got us some General Tso's." Keaton. He must not be in the kitchen yet. "Del- holy shit!" Nevermind. "Delaney!" She got up, walked to the foot of the stairs, and smiled up at him.

"See? I told ya!"

"What is this?" He asked, nearing the point of being enraged.

"It's the basement I was telling you about. You know, 'the mix up.' The one that I let go." Keaton rolled his eyes. "Come on down, it's quite safe."

"It looks condemned."

"Bring the food and come see what I've found." Cautiously, her husband stepped through her crawl-space, careful not to hit his head, and trudged slowly down the stairs. His cynical expression changed quickly when he realized just what his wife had discovered.

"Wow. Where'd all this stuff come from Del?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out. See, she initialed everything, but I haven't found anything with her name on it yet." She grabbed his arm and led him over to the sofa, sat him down, picked up the sketchbooks and handed them to him.

"She?"

"Yes, the artist was a woman."

"How'd you know that?"

"Look at the initials on those pictures." He did. "Now look at the ones on that painting." She motioned towards the painting of the man with the baby.

"Wow."

"I know, aren't they incredible? But anyway, what I was saying was that the initials changed. She got married."

"Or, he took a fake name."

"I doubt that. Why would he only change his last initial?" Keaton considered this.

"I guess you're right. So, my dear, what now?"

"Well, I would really like to figure out who belongs to all of this stuff. If I had some help, I bet I could get through all of these paintings. Maybe there's a name on them somewhere." Delaney suggested hopefully. Her mate groaned.

" There's got to be at least seventy paintings here."

"We better get started then, don't you think?"

Almost an hour later, they had found nothing. Not even a first name. Keaton threw up his hands.

"I'm not looking any further. There's nothing here and our food is cold." Delaney rolled her eyes.

"Go plug in the microwave and heat it up! I just want to check one more thing." He squeezed her shoulders and went upstairs to re-heat their dinner.

Left alone, Delaney stood and walked to the far corner of the dim basement where she'd seen the door before. She heard the beeping sounds of Keaton pressing buttons on the microwave and her stomach growled. She was more hungry than she realized, but shook her head and placed a hand on the dull brass doorknob and pulled hard. The door squeaked open, and she jumped back, fearing the worst. But there was nothing. Nothing but a large, black trunk, and a pair of black boots. Delaney raised an eyebrow at the trunk. 'Talk about my lucky day,' she thought, pushing a few wild hairs out of her eyes. Without a second thought, she moved the boots away and pulled the trunk out into the open room.

"Here. Dinner." Keaton called, returning to her. He was carrying two paper plates, loaded up with white rice, General Tso's chicken, and an egg role. "What is that thing?" He asked, motioning to the trunk with his chin.

"Don't know yet. Help me open it."

"No, you have to eat something first. Pull it up to the couch, we'll eat off of it."

"Keaton! This may be the historical find of the century and you want to drip soy sauce all over it?" She threw up her hands and sat down on the floor. "We'll eat on the ground." He was too tired to argue with his wife, and joined her on the floor. She dug into her chicken with determination, but he couldn't help notice how she was eyeing the trunk hungrily- anxious to open it and continue her search for the artist responsible for the paintings.

"For God's sake Del. Just open it." He gave in, there was no point in trying to have a nice moment with his wife when she was on the trail of something. She was like a basset hound when she got like this. Without wasting a second, Delaney sprung to her knees and moved herself over to the trunk. "Do you want some help?"

"Maybe. Let me work with the latches a second." She hooked her thumbs under the dull gold latches and pushed upwards. To her surprise, the case unhooked. With the excitement of a child, she pulled up on the lid, exposing the contents within. She looked inside and gasped.

It wasn't the historical find of the century, but it was pretty cool. Inside this black trunk was what Delaney took to be the remnants of some woman's youth. There was a folded lump of pink fabric (when unfolded turned out to be a summer dress,) a small box containing a gold locket and a lock of brown hair, and a charm bracelet. Underneath the dress and the little box, however, was what Delaney was really interested in. Another box, this one containing about ten or fifteen black and white pictures. As she looked through them all, there was no doubt in her mind that these were all from the turn of the century. She could've squealed with excitement. But it got better, because under the pictures, and the dress, and the jewelry was…a black book. And not just any black book, but one with the words 'Diary' stamped on it in little gold letters. Delaney practically died. She pulled the little diary from the bottom of the box and held it in her hot hands, like a little girl with a new doll, almost afraid to touch it. In the end, however, curiosity won out again, and she carefully open the cover.

"What did you find?" Keaton asked, bringing the food over to her. She grabbed her egg roll and began munching as she read, (with pure glee),

This diary is private property of Miss Moira Bailey.

Absolutely no one is authorized to open this diary.

If Miss Moira Bailey finds out that someone read her diary without her permission,

she will be forced to kill the offender and all those near and dear to him.

This means YOU!

Delaney all but cackled. Moira Bailey. MB. She was real. The young woman took a deep breath, turned the first few pages, and began to read…