Present Day. St. Edmund, Massachusetts.
A beam of light cut through the autumn darkness, raising a dance of shadows among the rows of granite, slate and marble. At the beam’s source, a thin, trenchcoat-clad figure stood, his black Victorian top hat lifting his height well into the six-foot range. Close around, twenty or so nervous tourists huddled together in the damp cemetery darkness.
“As you see on that elegant tombstone over there, Margharet Fullman passed away on April 23, 1724. She was only nineteen when she left this world.”
The tall figure paused, letting the drama of it take root. “Now you’ll remember” he pointed his flashlight back down the path “one Hadley Williamson, twenty-three years young, who passed away on the very same day as Margharet. There is no documentation as to the circumstances of either’s demise.”
Satisfied murmurs among his tour group let Edgar Wilde know he had them in the palm of his hand. He loved a captive audience.
“Given the date, it could possibly be nothing more than simple, tragic coincidence — yellow fever, perhaps. However, some have claimed that they were actually found by Margharet’s father — a certain Barnes Fullman — the night before their deaths, caught in a very passionate embrace. Mr. Fullman was clearly a very important man in this town, yet to this day his existence is denied. In fact, the name Barnes Fullman isn’t found in any of the official historical accounts of this town. Not even a tombstone to remember him by. However –”
At this point in his well-rehearsed and mostly fictional script, Edgar lifted the beam of light to the bottom of his chin, illuminating his face like a ghost.