Ghost Stories Don’t Lie

 

Sara and her husband Tom arrived in Maine by the end of a cold winter. It was the middle of March and the end, so they were told, to an exceptionally hard winter.  Sara later learned that every winter in Maine is long and hard, but then she took the words at face value. Her first impression of Maine was ‘gray.’ The sky was the color of ash. The snow, still on the ground, was a mixture of mud and slush. The few people  that walked the streets were wrapped in their winter coats, and their heads bent to the ground to watch for hidden obstacles. When the wind blew, it brought a faint scent of salt from the ocean but mostly a bone penetrating chill.

 Everywhere she looked, she saw old houses, some over two hundred years old. They reminded her of the stories she loved as a teenager. In these books, the hero, or heroine, in the first chapter came across a locked trunk, found in a dusty attic with intricate cow-webs hanging from the corners, or a musty basement rancid with undefined smells and the whiff of old stories that might freeze one’s bones if ever told.

The way the rather modest fronts of the houses masked their actual size was fascinating. A house could stretch on and on until it ended with the traditional ell that in the fancier ones hosted the toilets, usually just a wood seat over a hole in the ground, and then followed by the three stories barn. The front doors were another curious phenomenon she couldn’t decipher. It was evident that no one used them to enter the house, that was done via the kitchen door on the side. The front doors, made of dense wood, appeared formidable and were placed in most houses over a massive slab of granite that only giants could climb.

Coming from the west coast where houses and past stories did not stretch as far back, this was all new and made her anxious. Tom convinced her to move to Maine, where he thought he had a better chance to pursue his career as a cartographer, developing  mapping software tools in the growing mapping industry Maine was known for. Sara on the other hand was reluctant. It meant being far from her family in a state that boasted long cold winters. Tom said that it would be her chance to fulfill her longtime dream to open a bridal salon. He convinced her that one of these old houses with the huge barn would be perfect. She will have all the space needed, and the atmosphere as a bonus.

The real-estate agent who showed them the house that they later decided to rent said that it was relatively new. Only a hundred and sixty years old. Its greatest appeal was the low rent due to a ghost story that the locals related to the prior residents.

The folk story was about a woman named Catherine, who grew up in the house. In 1860, the night of her wedding, already dressed in her wedding dress, the carriage taking her from the house to the ceremony overturned going over a steep hill, and Catherine was killed. The mountain was called after her, Catherine Hill, as was the road winding through a dense forest. People said that when the fog rolls up from the ocean, many drivers reported seeing Catherine standing on the side of the road, hitching a ride.

“Does she wear her wedding dress? “ Sara was curious and horrified when she heard the story told over and over again and read it in books documenting Maine ghost stories. For some reason, this question she couldn’t find an answer to kept spinning in her mind. Tom said that she was acting foolishly, ghost stories are just stories people make up. Still, the picture of Catherine, ethery, and fluttering, standing at the side of the road, refused to fade away. She found herself striving to see it better and, as a wedding dresses designer,  was especially curious about her attire. 

The house has been thoroughly renovated since the current owners took possession, ten years prior, the real-estate agent explained when he showed it to them on a bright sunny day. The kitchen was all new, as were the bedrooms on the second floor. A new bathroom was added, as well as a modern heating system to replace the old wood stove.

“What about the attic and the hundred- and- sixty-years-old basement?” Sara inquired, slightly apprehensive.

The agent gave her an inquisitive look, and Sara could swear that he winked at her husband as if sharing a secret.

“Ah, that ancient myth, you do not believe in old ghost stories, do you?”

Sara laughed and shrugged her shoulders as if the idea was ridiculous. Still, she wondered if stories that linger for so long have a grain of truth in them after all.

Sara was hesitant, but Tom was persistent. The price could enable her to fulfill her dream. The massive barn, in good condition, was perfect. The  story might draw clients to come and look at the old house. She could even choose a name that will reflect on it.

The first thing Sara did when they moved in was a thorough search of the attic; it produced two daddy-long-legs that she knew were harmless, and one should leave alone for good luck.

In the basement, only faintly lit by one light bulb, she marveled at the massive rocks that the house sat on. Those looked like they were taken from another time, and for a minute, she was tempted to touch them and test their ability to transfer her to another period, the time when Catherine was still alive and looked forward to her wedding. Perhaps she will be able to have a closer look at the dress and settle that question that haunted her.

What a crazy thought, Sara drew her hand in the last minute and made sure, once back in the kitchen, that the door leading to the basement was locked.

Was Tom right about the barn?

She opened her salon two months later, transforming the barn into a modern, inviting space. During the day, the place was lively, with women searching for that one perfect wedding dress. But at night when the quiet resumed, and she was alone in the salon, tiding, and closing, or in the kitchen by herself waiting for Tom to return home, she often thought that she could hear a strange sound coming from under the house. It sounded like a buzzing, like a swarm of bees trying to escape.

When she told Tom, he laughed,

“I never took you for one who believes in old tales,”

He offered to go with her to the basement to check it again, but in the light of the kitchen with Tom next to her, she felt silly like a little girl who needs adult protection.

The morning she found a couple of white cloth flowers from a bride’s hairpiece attached to the barn door; Tom was already at work. She looked around, but the forest around the house was as impenetrable and obscure as usual.

She did not say anything to Tom, she felt that he would see it as another proof of her recent infatuation with the unnatural.

Two days later, it was a piece of white silk from a wedding gown. It looked as if it was torn rapidly. A delicate fabric with small flowers cross-stitched into the material. When she examined it closely Sara was sure that it was not part of anything she had in the store.

Then a few days later, a soft shiny tulle was tied to the door when she was ready to leave the barn after a busy day of dealing with clients.

That evening when Tom returned home, Sara was all packed and ready to go.

“You might think these are just old ladies’ tales,” she said. “But I am not staying here one minute longer.”

She handed him a small box tied with a silk ribbon. Inside Tom found the three pieces of a wedding ensemble, he attached to the barn door. He thought it would make a good joke, something to laugh at in the years to come, but when he tried to talk to Sara and explain she was long gone.

 

·       An ell is a wing of a building that lies perpendicular to the length of the main portion. It takes its name from the shape of the letter L. Ells are often additions to an existing building which makes it L-shaped in a plan. In connected farm architecture, the ell is often extended to attach the main house to another building, usually a barn. Wikipedia