Haunted Houses

by Nancy Roberts

  “I think I’ve found it,” said Mark. “Here’s a story from March 1965 on shipwrecks of Casco Bay.” The story was headlined, “Schooner Charles Crashed on Watt’s Ledge in 1807.”

  “Look at this. The date the ship wrecked was Sunday night, July 12. It was a little before midnight when she hit the ledge and began to break up. Sixteen passengers drowned. It couldn’t have been far from the beach. Three were able to swim to shore. “

  “Have you seen the grave of the young woman who was coming back on the Charles from Boston? She was buying her trousseau,” said the librarian. “Her gravestone is right near Crescent Beach. You should look at it before you leave Inn by the Sea.”

  “You know, there has always been a romantic story about that wreck,” volunteered an old man who stood listening with open curiosity. “In the years since it happened, people walking on the beach at night have sometimes reported hearing the sounds of a shipwreck and the terrible screams of drowning passengers. The schooner was in so close that villagers at Cape Elizabeth heard the cries for help, and it made a deep impression upon them. Remarkable story isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Mark, a peculiar look on his face. This did not fit with any of his experience as a biology professor.

  He and Lydia found the gray slate marker at the girl’s grave not far from the inn. It read in part: “Sacred to the memory of Miss Lydia Carver, age 24; who with 15 other unfortunate passengers perished in the merciless waves, by the shipwreck of the Schooner Charles . . . on Sunday night, July 12, 1807.

  “Yesterday was July 12th,” said Mark thoughtfully, “and Sunday night.”

  But Lydia hadn’t heard. She gazed at the marker as if hypnotized. “Mark, do you notice how similar her name and mine are? They are almost the same! I was a Lydia Carver, too, except that my name was Lydia Carver Jordan. I even bought my trousseau in Boston, just like she did.” Lydia’s face was pale, and her eyes had filled with tears. “Poor girl,” she said.

  “You’re right! What a coincidence. I think she may have become a romantic figure after the wreck, and perhaps, you were a namesake of hers.” He remembered the frightened screams of the women he had heard the night before and thought about the bereaved fiancé.

  He shivered as they stood there in the hot sun looking at the girl’s grave. Could something have drawn his own Lydia here on this date?

  The past would never seem as remote to him again.

  The Inn by the Sea is at 40 Bowery Beach Road, Cape Elizabeth, Maine. For details on bookings, visit www.innbythesea.com/ or call (207) 799-3134.

  WHERE YOU NEVER DINE ALONE

  JOHN STONE’S INN, ASHLAND, MASSACHUSETTS

  The manager at John Stone’s Inn always looked after his guests—and maybe still does.

  As Dwayne and Rita Doughtry left their apartment on the outskirts of Boston to go out to dinner, Rita was still urging her husband to change his mind and go to a restaurant nearby.

  “Ashland is twenty-five miles from here,” she complained. “And the weather report says it may snow tonight.”

  “There’s always that possibility in winter,” said Dwayne. “But we can’t hibernate until spring.”

  His wife looked at him crossly. “But I hate driving in snow.”

  “That’s because you’re from the South and not used to it.”

  “No. It’s not that. I don’t know why I feel this way tonight. It’s like something is going to happen, and part of it will be because of snow, that’s all.”

  “Something will happen. We will eat a sumptuous dinner in a historic inn where the past will come alive.”

  About forty minutes later the Doughtrys were entering Ashland, driving toward the center of town. They heard the mournful wail of a train whistle. Then came the noisy clatter of the wheels as a diesel engine, car after car rumbling behind it, sped by. The track was very close to the road. Wham, wham, wham, went the freight cars as they passed. Rita sat quietly, watching the slots of gray March dusk pass swiftly between each car and giving herself up to the hypnotic sight. She could feel the nose of their Honda shuddering at the impact of the wind from the train.

  “It runs right through the middle of town, just the way trains used to do,” said Dwayne nostalgically. “Doesn’t slow much for Ashland, does it?”

  “No. It certainly doesn’t.” Trains weren’t one of Rita’s favorite topics. She’d had a “conflict of interest” with one once about a crossing, and the train had won. Rita had miraculously emerged unscathed, but the incident had made her heart beat faster every time she saw a crossbars without a gate and heard the approach of a train.

  “The inn should be right along here somewhere.”

  She turned and saw it. “There it is on the corner. Oh, Dwayne. I love it!” They parked and got out of the car.

  John Stone’s Inn, at 179 Main Street, was painted a cheery New England red, and for a moment Rita stood staring at it and the black colonial-style sign out front. On it was painted the stern countenance of a man of another era. An old-fashioned balcony on the second floor was supported by white columns running the length of the inn. On the third floor, two dormer windows perched near the peak of the roof.

  Lights glowed welcomingly in the windows of the first two floors and the large wing on the side. Only the windows on the third floor were dark.

  “It would look perfect on a Christmas card, if only those gables were lighted, too,” said Rita.

  “Yes, it would,” said Dwayne. “Let’s go in. I’m freezing!”

  Once seated in the restaurant, Rita took off the hunter-green car coat with its hood. Holding the menu in one hand, she fluffed out the back of her long black hair with the other. How lovely she was, thought Dwayne, watching her as she studied the menu. She debated between beef Bourguignon and chicken Grand Marnier.

  “Two brandies first, please,” said Dwayne to the waiter, after they had both decided on the beef. They carried their glasses over to the fireplace, and Rita talked about an upcoming magazine story, a trip trailing tigers in Sumatra. She was a freelance writer. How could she be so daring about some things and so fearful about others, he wondered.

  “Old John Stone is giving us the eye,” said Dwayne. “See his picture over the bar?”

  Rita turned her head and smiled. “He almost seems to know something we don’t. A secret?”

  At that moment the front door opened, and an icy gust blew in with two couples, their coats flecked with snow.

  “A real blizzard’s blowing up out there!” said one of the women, shivering.

  “Not much chance of that this time of year, ma’am,” replied the hostess.

  Dwayne saw Rita pale, but she turned away from the new arrivals. She was listening to one of the boys clearing a table. “But sir, I did see someone downstairs near the storage room,” he was saying to the manager. The rest was lost, for the boy was hustled into the kitchen.

  “It’s a good time for the grand tour of the inn while everyone is waiting for their food. Would you like to go along?” asked the hostess, stopping by the fireplace.

  “That sounds wonderful!” said Rita.

  “Well, if it’s no trouble,” Dwayne replied, with limited enthusiasm; he was enjoying the warmth of the fire.

  Joining them, the young assistant manager had overheard the exchange. “Oh, no. My pleasure,” he replied. Several other diners came, too, and they all formed a procession down the stairs into the cellar.

  “Slaves were kept here in this hidden room during the Civil War until it was safe for them to go on their way to Canada,” their guide said, with the air of one who had given this tour many times before. “It was part of the Underground Railroad,” he explained. “I’ve heard stories that some people have heard the voices of the slaves singing. Then there is a story about the ghost of a little girl. People who have seen her say that she sits staring forlornly through the kitchen window.”

  “Oh, I hope we will see something tonight!” giggled one of the women.

 
“Well, I can’t guarantee that, but we have had all sorts of odd phenomena. Glasses floating through the air, an ashtray suddenly splitting in two . . . once a tray flew through the air and hit one of us in the head.”

  “O-o-o-h. Watch out guys!” said the same woman. “You’d probably be the very one something would happen to, Joe,” she said, grasping her husband’s arm.

  “Down here is where something really scary happened,” continued their guide. “A manager who once worked here was in this room and saw a transparent figure that he was convinced was old man John Stone. Bad thing about it was, he saw it just before his own death. All the help thought it had been a sign, a kind of warning.” He opened another door. “This used to be a game room. Stone and his friends were playing poker one night and one of the players, a salesman, accused them of cheating.

  “Old John was enraged,” continued their guide, warming to his story. “Swinging his clenched fist”—the assistant manager showed them how—“Stone, with one blow to the head, struck the salesman and killed him. I’ve always heard that his body is buried somewhere beneath this floor.”

  Rita shivered. The other guests looked like they wished something would happen, but no spirits put in an appearance, nor did anything else out of the ordinary occur. The tour was drawing to a close.

  “One word of warning,” said the assistant manager with a grin. “Remember that when you dine at John Stone’s Inn, you never dine alone. At least that’s what people here in Ashland say.” There was a momentary silence. Then someone laughed, and the others joined in.

  “I propose a toast to an unforgettable evening,” said Dwayne, back at their table. He raised his brandy glass, waiting for Rita to follow suit, but she hesitated.

  Her lips parted in an amused smile. “Does ‘unforgettable’ mean I’ll see a ghost, honey? If it does, I’ll drink to that.”

  As the brandy touched Dwayne’s lips, the oddest thing happened: He felt a firm tap on his left shoulder. “Yes?” he said turning his head. No one was there.

  “What did you say, honey?” said Rita, looking up.

  “Nothing. Just thinking out loud,” Dwayne improvised quickly. He must have imagined that someone had touched his shoulder. That’s all it could have been, but it left him with an uneasy feeling that was not to go away.

  The Doughtrys ate in silence. They heard the long, drawn-out whistle of one of the many passing trains, then the sound of the locomotive and the rumble of the cars as they went by.

  “A train whistle has an eerie sound at night, doesn’t it?” said Rita.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said her husband. It did, though, and for some reason Dwayne was beginning to feel the faintest sense of dread. Had it started with Rita’s original desire to go somewhere else? Or was it the tap that he thought he had felt on his shoulder? He dismissed these things as foolishness.

  Dwayne glanced at his wife and saw her wince slightly and move her hand. “What’s the matter?” he asked sharply.

  “Nothing. For a moment I thought I felt something touch me.”

  “Like what?”

  “A little like . . . well . . . like fingers placed over my hand,” she stammered, flushing with embarrassment at how melodramatic her words sounded.

  “That’s ridiculous!” Dwayne said, a little too loudly. He knew he was overre-acting and went on lamely. “Perhaps someone touched you accidentally as they passed our table?”

  “I’m sure that was it,” agreed Rita. “Did you know that this inn was built more than a hundred and fifty years ago?” she said, changing the subject.

  “Yes. I read it on the back of the menu.”

  “It was finished in 1833 by a wealthy sea captain named John Stone. The inn is named after him.”

  “Figures,” said Dwayne smiling.

  Rita gazed with interest up at the exposed beams. “I know a magazine that runs pieces on early American homes and inns. It would probably buy a story on this place.”

  “Snow’s stopped,” announced a new arrival.

  Dwayne saw Rita’s shoulders relax, and she leaned back more comfortably in her chair. There was something about her now that reminded him of a lovely, sleek cat lolling in a comfortable spot. He guessed that she had been uptight about the weather and that had started her imagination working overtime. Fingers touching her hand, indeed.

  But he, too, was relieved that the snow had stopped. So why couldn’t he rid himself of this crazy sense of dread? If there were really ghosts here, what dire meaning could a tap on the shoulder have? Was it to warn him that his time had come? Even thinking something like that really made him a first-class crazy, thought Dwayne. He sipped the last of his coffee.

  Helping Rita on with her coat, Dwayne gave her a little hug. The evening had been pleasant. But he had the feeling that it was not over . . . at least not yet. At the cash register he thanked the assistant manager for the tour.

  Dwayne opened the door of John Stone’s Inn and emerged to find that snow was falling again—heavily. Within seconds he could hardly see Rita. She was halfway across the street when he caught up with her hurrying figure. This was almost a blizzard. Could he see well enough to drive back to Boston in weather like this? They heard the sound of a train whistle.

  Suddenly, Dwayne squeezed Rita’s arm. “Look! There’s a stalled car on the track and a man trying to push it off. My God! A train’s coming!”

  Even with the flakes swirling around them, they saw the snow-covered figure on the tracks pushing the rear of a sedan. A woman screamed. Again they heard the wail of the whistle. Dwayne dashed toward the stalled car, Rita following. They heard the roar of the fast-approaching train.

  “Stop! Dwayne—stop!” Rita shouted, but her husband never heard her. Her cry was lost in the clatter of train wheels. The engine burst out of the darkness, striking the car with a horrendous crash. Rita heard the tearing of metal and, finally, screeching brakes. Somewhere up the tracks, the train shuddered and jerked to an emergency stop.

  At the side of the tracks, a stunned-looking couple stood hugging each other. They had abandoned the car just in time. But where was Dwayne?

  In the fast-falling snow, Rita couldn’t see him, nor could she see the man who had been vainly trying to push the car off the tracks. Then she tripped over something. It was the crumpled body of a man. She bent down and saw the snow covered overcoat. Oh, God! she thought, it’s Dwayne! He’s dead.

  “Dwayne! Dwayne!” she began screaming. The figure on the ground struggled to his knees, almost fell, then tried again and managed to rise to his feet. It was her husband. Hugging him around his neck, Rita burst into tears.

  “I’m OK. Calm down, honey. Where’s the man who was trying to push the car?”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  Dwayne, the assistant manager from the inn, and several guests organized a search. The sound of the screeching train brakes had brought everyone out of the inn. The trainmen who had run back to the crossing helped them comb each side of the tracks, thinking that the man had been dragged along by the train. The inn sent a thermos of coffee out to the trainmen. They continued searching, but whoever had been trying to push the car off the tracks was nowhere to be found. The train went on.

  By now the snow was fluttering lazily down in great flakes, the fierceness of the wind had abated, and visibility was greatly improved. But no body—alive or dead—could be found. Finally, with wet, snow-encrusted shoes and clothing, the Doughtrys and the other guests who had helped search went back in the inn and sat around the fire.

  When the assistant manager of the inn joined them, Dwayne was saying, “I thought I could push him off the track and save him. Should we look more?”

  “There is no need to,” said the assistant manager, his eyes dark and strange.

  “But he could be dying out there somewhere,” persisted Rita.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “Do you remember my mentioning on the tour that our former manager, John DuBois, was killed a few years ago in fr
ont of the inn?”

  “Yes,” said Dwayne. “But what does a badly injured man lying out there somewhere in the snow have to do with . . .”

  “With John DuBois? Well, there was a late March snowstorm much like this one. John was trying to push a stalled car off the tracks when the train struck him.”

  “When you left the inn tonight . . . ,” the assistant manager seemed reluctant to continue.

  “Yes . . . what about it?”

  “I think that what you saw was the ghost of John DuBois out there on the tracks.”

  “His ghost! Good Lord! Now I understand. Part of his face was gone!” Dwayne shuddered.

  “Yes, we found him that way.”

  “Seeing his face was such a shock that I threw myself back from the tracks. That’s why the train didn’t hit me.”

  His eyes were filled with awe. The man whose life he had been trying to save was already dead!

  John Stone’s Inn (now Stone’s Public House) is located at 179 Main Street in Ashland, Massachusetts. For reservations, visit www.stonespublichouse.com/ or call (508) 881-1778.

  WHERE HISTORY COMES ALIVE

  THE OLD MANSE, CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS

  This famed literary haven is teeming with history—not to mention, some say, more than a few ghosts.

  The steep, narrow stairs object with startling creaks and ear-splitting whines to the intruders disturbing their relative slumber. Flashlight beams cut through the dusty darkness. Bouncing, darting, and sweeping along cracked and cobwebbed wooden walls and floors, the erratic flashes reveal glimpses of unknown surroundings.

  The group of night-time visitors, whose members claim to possess a variety of sensitivities to the world beyond our own, slowly enters the attic—a cramped warren of brick passages and alcoves.

  At the landing, they split up; four head one way, four the other. The latter group moves to the end of the alley, their lights grazing up, down and around, beams catching shifting shadows and flecks of dust. They pass one alcove filled with chamber pots; in another tiny room, flowered wallpaper is unfurling itself in large sections from the wall at the behest of time and gravity.