A Haunting Collection
Page 29
Tall windows let in long bars of afternoon light. Several pairs of soft leather armchairs flanked the windows. A matching sofa stood near the door. In front of it was a low table covered with magazines. Books crammed the shelves built into the walls.
Grandmother picked up a thick, well-read paperback and handed it to me. “Page 103,” she said.
I sat down on the sofa, and Corey perched beside me. I opened the book to page 103.
The Inn at Fox Hill was built in the late 1700s. Originally a private home, it has changed hands many times. Although I checked old records, the inn’s history is sketchy at best. Apparently, it served several purposes—among them, a boardinghouse, a tuberculosis sanitarium, a private school. In 1940, the place was abandoned. For fifteen years, it stood vacant. Weather, neglect, and vandals took their toll. Smothered in ivy and surrounded by weeds, the mansion was soon reduced to a shell of its former self. To passersby, it was the very image of a haunted house.
In 1955, Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Cornell, young vacationers from Boston, saw the building and recognized its potential. They spent more than ten years restoring the house and grounds. In 1967, the Inn at Fox Hill opened for business.
Soon the Cornells began receiving complaints from guests. A woman in a long white dress roamed the grounds at night, moaning so loudly she woke them up. Others were kept awake by noisy children playing in the halls. Many reported hearing footsteps on the stairs, banging doors, barking dogs, sobs, and laughter. Lights and radios came on in the middle of the night. Water gushed from faucets. Toilets flushed continually. The power went off for no reason—and came back on again for no reason.
Rather amusingly, one woman was especially indignant about an impudent child who called her “Fatso” but who ran away before she got a good look at him. More seriously, several guests complained of theft—watches, rings, jewelry, and the like disappeared from drawers and bedside tables.
Mr. and Mrs. Cornell were as mystified as their guests. They investigated the plumbing and the wiring; they kept doors locked at night; they even hired a night watchman. Nothing helped. The incidents continued.
Soon psychics descended on Fox Hill, followed by ghost hunters with special cameras and recorders. The experts agreed: Ghosts roamed the halls of the inn.
As we all know, some people are sensitive to the presence of ghosts. Others are not. If you want to test yourself, spend a night or two at the Inn at Fox Hill. I did . . . and I was not disappointed! When I woke, the cheap ring I’d left deliberately on the bedside table was gone.
And remember, even if you don’t see a ghost, you’ll enjoy the Cornells’ hospitality, the inn’s charm, the fresh Vermont air, the gorgeous scenery, and the meals prepared by the cook in residence, the excellent Mrs. Martha Brewster, a rare marvel.
I closed the book and stared at Grandmother. “Are you sure,” I began, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand.
“It’s absolute nonsense.” She shook her head disdainfully and returned the book to the shelf. “Five thirty,” she said. “Time for dinner.”
As Corey and I followed Grandmother out of the library, we glanced at each other. Without saying a word, I knew my sister was thinking exactly what I was thinking. Rappings and tappings, footsteps, doors opening and shutting—we could do that. And more. Bringing ghosts back to Fox Hill would be like playing haunted house all summer long.
2
The dining room was large enough for at least two dozen people, but only two other tables were occupied. The bike riders sat together by the French doors, open to a view of the mountains. Lean, sunburned guys with huge leg muscles, they didn’t look as if they’d come to Vermont to see ghosts.
At another table were Mr. and Mrs. Jennings, who’d showed up just before dinner, wanting a room. They were old but not old old—probably forty or fifty. His hair was gray, and hers was an odd shade of tan (dyed, according to Corey). He wore hiking shorts, a navy T-shirt, and walking sandals over rag-wool socks. “He doesn’t want people to see his ugly toes,” Corey whispered.
Mrs. Jennings wore shorts and a flowered T-shirt and sandals without socks, showing her perfect red lacquered nails.
All in all, they looked pretty fit for their age, but I doubted they’d come to Vermont to bike or hike. Corey guessed they were antique collectors in search of rusty farm tools to put in their flower garden.
Then we noticed they were reading Haunted Inns of Vermont. Grandmother pointedly ignored their taste in literature, but Corey kicked me under the table to make sure I’d noticed.
As promised, the grim and silent Mrs. Brewster produced a great meal: spicy chicken served on rice with some vegetables I shoved aside, a basket of freshly baked rolls, and a salad.
A blonde with a freckled nose served us. She looked about sixteen, I thought. Probably in high school. She was really cute, just the kind of girlfriend I hoped to have someday.
“Tracy,” Grandmother said, “these are my grandchildren, Travis and Corey. They’ll be here all summer.” Smiling at us, she added, “I don’t know what I’d do without Tracy. She serves meals, washes dishes, and keeps the inn clean and tidy.”
“You’ll love it here.” Tracy leaned a little closer to Corey and me. “The inn’s supposed to be haunted, but so far I haven’t seen a thing. Kind of disappointing, actually. I was hoping to have some scary stories to tell when I go back to school.”
Grandmother shook her head. “I thought you had better sense.”
“I know you don’t believe in ghosts, Mrs. Donovan,” Tracy said. “But you can’t prove they don’t exist.”
“You can’t prove they do exist, either,” Grandmother pointed out.
“Well, why not give them the benefit of the doubt?” Corey asked. “It makes things more interesting.”
“That’s enough silly talk.” Grandmother frowned at Corey’s plate. “Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”
Tracy left to refill the bike riders’ water glasses, and I dug into my dinner, washing it down with gallons of iced tea and topping it off with peach cobbler à la mode. Except for the vegetables, it might have been the best meal I’d ever eaten.
Corey ate most of hers, which was amazing. Usually she picks at her food, which drives Mom and Dad insane. If she doesn’t eat enough, they worry she’s anorexic. If she eats too much, they worry she’s bulimic. I think she just likes the attention.
After dinner, Grandmother dropped into a rocking chair on the porch and gazed at the mountains. The trees cast long shadows toward the inn. High in the sky, swallows dipped and soared, catching bugs on the fly.
The bike riders sat down nearby and spread out their maps to plan the next day’s ride. “I say we go this way.”
“After today,” the other said, “I was hoping to take it easy tomorrow. How about this road along the river?”
“We came up here to get in shape, Tim.”
As they argued about their route, the screen door opened and Mrs. Jennings stepped out, Haunted Inns of Vermont in her hand.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Donovan,” she said, “but my husband and I read about Fox Hill in this book, and we were just wondering—”
Grandmother smiled and shook her head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no one has seen a ghost here for at least three years. Maybe they took their little ectoplasmic selves down to North Carolina with the former owners.”
Mrs. Jennings sighed. “According to the author, you have to be in tune with the spirit world to see ghosts. Just because no one has seen them doesn’t mean they’re not here.”
“I’m glad I don’t have such an ability,” Grandmother said pleasantly. “The real world’s scary enough for me.”
Mr. Jennings joined us just in time to hear the end of the conversation. “How about you kids?” he asked. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
Corey and I put on serious faces. “Definitely,” I said.
“I’ve seen a ghost,” Corey added.
“Really?” Mrs. Jennings drew in her breath, ob
viously ready to believe anything. “What was it like? Can you tell us about it?”
I hid a grin behind my hand. Could she tell them about it? The Jennings didn’t know how much my sister loved an audience.
“Well,” Corey began, “last winter, I was sleeping over at my friend Julie’s house, and something woke me up in the middle of the night. This old lady was standing at the foot of the bed and staring at Julie.”
Corey paused a moment to let the suspense grow, I guessed.
“When the old lady realized I was awake,” she went on, “she smiled at me and put a finger to her lips. Then, real slowly, she backed away from the bed and walked out of the room, watching Julie all the while, like she was never going to see her again.”
The Jenningses hung on every word. Grandmother listened, too—but in her case, she seemed to be wondering what my sister was up to.
“The next morning,” Corey said, playing to the Jenningses, “I expected to see Julie’s grandmother, but when I asked where she was, Julie’s mother said she lived in Pennsylvania. ‘Then who was that old lady in Julie’s bedroom?’ I asked. They all looked at me like I was crazy—even Julie. ‘There’s no old lady here,’ her father said. ‘You must have been dreaming.’”
Corey paused to swat a mosquito. “Just then the phone rang,” she said, “and Julie’s mother went to answer it. First she said, ‘No, oh, no.’ Then she asked when. And then she started crying.”
She took a deep breath and dropped her voice to a whisper. We all leaned closer to hear her. “It turned out Julie’s grandmother had died just about the time I saw the old lady. She’d come to say goodbye.”
Mrs. Jennings grabbed her husband’s hand. “Oh, I’m all over goosebumps.”
“Me, too.” Corey rubbed her arms as if she were cold. “I can still see that old lady smiling down at Julie.”
“Incidents like that are often reported,” Mr. Jennings put in. “It’s a well-documented phenomenon—the last farewell.”
Mrs. Jennings turned to Grandmother. “What do you think now? Surely you believe your own granddaughter.”
Grandmother was staring at Corey. “I must admit I didn’t know she was such a good storyteller.”
Corey wasn’t a good storyteller—she was a brilliant storyteller. No matter what Grandmother thought of Julie’s grandmother’s last farewell, the Jenningses totally believed Corey. In fact, I almost believed her myself.
While Grandmother rocked silently, the Jenningses told a few ghost stories they’d either read or heard about—last farewells, phantom limousines on deserted roads, old-fashioned ladies in brown who appeared and disappeared in dark hallways.
The bike riders stopped arguing and listened. Tim even threw in a story of mysterious blue lights that hovered over a mountain down south somewhere. His buddy, Robert, said he didn’t believe in that stuff—which earned him a nod of approval from Grandmother.
Tracy joined us and claimed her grandfather had seen his dog’s ghost at the very spot on the road where he’d been killed by a car. And her sister once visited a friend’s house and saw a lady in a long gray dress walk through a wall and vanish. “The house was really old,” she added. “And the people who lived there had seen the ghost themselves.”
Gradually, the stories faded away and we sat together silently, each of us thinking our own thoughts—about ghosts, I guessed. Some believing, some not, and some not sure. The moon was almost full, and stars studded the sky—thousands, maybe millions, more than I’d ever seen in New York.
“It’s getting chilly.” Mrs. Jennings got to her feet with a shiver and headed for the door with Mr. Jennings behind her.
The bike riders yawned and followed the Jenningses. “Big day ahead,” Robert said. “At least seventy-five miles.”
Tim groaned.
As Tracy started to leave, Grandmother asked her to tell Mr. Brewster she needed him.
A few moments later, a short, bearded man crossed the lawn toward us. For a moment, I thought an ancient garden gnome had come to life, but it turned out to be Mr. Brewster. He wore a frown as permanent as Mrs. Brewster’s, made even sterner by his drooping mustache.
“These are my grandchildren, Corey and Travis,” Grandmother told him. “They’ll be sleeping in the two rooms on the first floor in the back. Can you help them with their luggage?”
Mr. Brewster got our suitcases from the truck and carried them inside as if they were packed with feathers instead of books and shoes and clothes that weighed a ton. Like Mrs. Brewster, he didn’t say a word to anyone, just sort of grunted an acknowledgment of Grandmother’s request.
“Henry’s a bit taciturn,” Grandmother said. “But he totes luggage up and down the steps, fixes everything that breaks, and keeps the grounds in shape. In some ways, the two of them run the place.”
She laughed as if the Brewsters were lovable characters in a sitcom, but I thought it would be annoying to depend on such cranky people.
We followed her and Mr. Brewster through the kitchen and into an annex built onto the back of the inn.
“This used to be the servants’ quarters,” Grandmother said, “but the Cornells made it into a modern apartment for themselves.”
At the end of a hallway, Mr. Brewster set our luggage down and walked away without a word.
Grandmother opened the doors to two small identical rooms. “I meant to paint the walls and hang new curtains, but somehow I never got around to it. The season started with a dozen bicyclers and then a busload of senior citizens, which was good for business but took all my time.”
“It’s great,” I said. “A bed, a bureau, a table, a chair, and a lamp. What more do I need?”
Corey nodded. “You should see the cabin I had at camp last summer—four bunk beds, eight girls, and an outhouse a mile away.”
Grandmother smiled and excused herself. “It’s been a long day. If you two don’t mind, I’ll go to bed and leave you to unpack.”
As soon as she left, I followed Corey into her room, almost identical to mine. “Where did you come up with that granny story?”
“I saw it on a TV show about ghosts. The Jenningses really ate it up, didn’t they?”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Corey grinned. “Ghosts are about to reappear at the inn,” she said. “In fact, I predict the Jenningses will have their own experience with the supernatural before they leave.”
“They’ll go home and tell other people,” I said, “who’ll come to the inn hoping to see ghosts. They won’t be disappointed.”
“Soon Fox Hill will be booked up every night,” Corey went on. “Grandmother will have to turn people away.”
“They’ll camp out in the yard.”
“They’ll look in the windows.”
“There’ll be a traffic jam from here to Burlington.”
“The Learning Channel will send a team of psychics and ghost hunters.”
“We’ll be on the evening news.”
“Anderson Cooper will do a week long special on CNN.”
“Someone will write a book like The Amityville Horror!”
“It’ll be a bestseller.”
“They’ll make a movie of it!”
“We’ll star in it!”
“We’ll be famous!”
By this time, we were shouting and laughing and jumping on Corey’s bed.
“Travis!” Grandmother shouted from the doorway. “Corey! What on earth is all this ruckus?”
We tried to stop laughing. “We’re just fooling around,” I said while Corey hiccupped hysterically.
“Well, please calm down,” Grandmother said. “You’ll disturb the guests.”
That made Corey and me laugh again. Grandmother had no idea how disturbed the guests were going to be.
“It’s almost ten, and you haven’t even started unpacking,” she said with a frown. “At the risk of sounding like a camp counselor, I suggest you save that task for tomorrow, put on your pajamas, and go to bed.”
“Don’t be mad,” Corey added, faking much better than I had. “We’re just so excited to be here. I guess we got carried away.”
Grandmother came into the room and gave us each a kiss. “I’m not mad. Just tired. Now settle down and go to sleep.”
After she left, I went to my room and put on my pajamas. When I tapped on Corey’s door, she said, “Come in.”
Still wearing her shorts and T-shirt, she was rummaging through her suitcase, scattering clothes everywhere. At last she found what she was looking for.
She held up a white nightgown and swirled it in front of me. “At breakfast, I’ll tell the Jenningses I saw a ghost in a long white dress, flitting around under the trees—like the ghost in the haunted inns book.”
“How do you know they’ll believe you?”
“They believed the granny story, didn’t they?” Corey smoothed the gown. “People like the Jenningses are easy to fool because they want to see ghosts. You don’t have to convince them—they already believe. All I have to do is go outside tomorrow night wearing this and they’ll think they’re seeing a real ghost.”
“But won’t they recognize you?”
Corey sighed the way she always did when she thought I was too stupid to be her brother.
“We’ll ride bikes to Middlebury and buy white makeup and that black stuff teenagers use on their eyes. Maybe we can find a long filmy scarf to hide my hair. After Grandmother goes to bed tomorrow night, I’ll smear my face dead white and make big dark circles under my eyes, like empty eye sockets. I’ll put on my nightgown and dance around under the trees in a scary way, moaning and groaning. Maybe I’ll even shriek.” She frowned. “Too bad I didn’t bring my Vampira costume from last Halloween. It would’ve been perfect, but who knew I’d need it up here?”
“So that’s the plan—you impersonate a ghost and scare the Jenningses, and they go home and spread the word?”