Out of the Mist (16 page)

“
Who do you think that
was?” asked Eddie. “The sea captain? Mr. Nolan?”

“
Not Mr. Nolan. He’s too
old, too short, and no way could he pull that much weight.” Phil
snorted. “And it wasn’t the sea captain. At least not the one
you’re thinking about.”

“
Shouldn’t we tell
someone?” Maria’s mild voice was barely audible.

“
We can’t tell anyone,
because then we’ll be in real trouble. You know that we’re not
supposed to go near that place. If our folks find out, we’re all
done for.”

“
Let’s just go home,” said
Eliza. “I’ve had enough adventure for one night.”

***

Across the bay from the beach, Mrs. Dawse
was adjusting her curtains at the front window before retiring for
the night, when she noticed a glint of light in the distance.

“
There’s a light on in the
old Robertson house,” she mused. “That’s odd.”

***

The next morning, Mrs. Dawse telephoned to
make sure my mother knew about Bud Smith’s abrupt departure for
Ontario to work at an automobile plant with his uncle, and about
the light coming from the old Robertson house the night before. My
mother repeated the whole conversation to me as she resumed her
weekly Saturday baking ritual.

Preoccupied as she was with her task, she
wasn’t aware of my rapt attention to each detail. There was no
mention of Bud’s girlfriend Marilyn.

***

Later that same morning, Phil called. He and
Patty arrived home the night before to see their father, Rev. Bob,
standing on the doorstep. He was dressed in his weekday sports
jacket, shirt and tie, looking at his watch under the porch light.
Phil handed him the car keys.

“
Tell your mother that I
have to go to the hospital, and I’m not sure how late I’ll be,”
said Rev. Bob. “I just got a call from Martha Nolan; Alfred Nolan’s
had a stroke.”

Phil and Patty looked at each other
wordlessly as their dad drove away.

***

That Sunday afternoon, when Mrs. Crosby from
the United Church took a tinfoil-covered plate of dinner to Ol’ Man
Thorburn’s little house, as was her habit, she noticed that the
cats were all outside the door, mewling and looking hungrily at the
plate she carried. When her repeated knocking got no response, she
hurried off to fetch Mr. Crosby. He quickly returned with Rev. Bob,
and they forced the lock to find Ol’ Man Thorburn unconscious on
his cot, an uneaten meal from the day before still laid out on the
table. He was taken to the hospital but never regained
consciousness, and died before the week was out. Only the minister
and a handful of mourners attended the funeral. No one could
remember any family ever visiting Ol’ Man Thorburn.

The shack stood empty for a while and the
cats took up residence under the station platform. Maria’s father,
who was the station agent, put out food scraps and saucers of milk
for them. Eventually, the town council declared the shack an
eyesore, and decided to raze it. The few belongings worth saving
were stacked in an unused storeroom at the railway station in case
relatives of Ol’ Man Thorburn showed up to claim them. Pushed into
the far corner of the storeroom was a big metal trunk with a curved
top and rusting hinges. A big padlock hung off the front, and
affixed to the outside were faded, barely legible labels, reading
“Boston”, and “…ntego Bay”. Piled on top of the trunk were an iron
bed frame, old chairs, and cardboard boxes.

***

As time went on, the events of that night
became less important, and our attention was focused in other
directions. Our little group dispersed. Maria and Phil started
dating. The rest of us, even Patty, were not welcome on their
jaunts in Phil’s father’s car. Eddie’s dad was posted to another
base in Quebec. Eliza and Rosemary decided they wanted to pursue
nursing careers, and volunteered for the Candy Striper’s program at
the regional hospital.

In my free time, I escaped the house to take
our family dog on long walks to the shore. While Trixie explored
the rock pools and stalked hermit crabs, I perched on a boulder
where I could gaze across the bay at the old Robertson house. My
imagination invented scenarios of what might have taken place
within those walls over the many years it stood empty.

The scouring salty winds continued to batter
the old house, until little of its green paint remained.
Eventually, new caretakers took over, cutting down the scraggly
trees and bushes, mowing the grass, and drilling a brand-new well
so the house could be rented. However, potential renters didn’t
stay longer than a couple of weeks, complaining that the house was
perpetually cold. There were renewed rumours of odd noises from the
closed-off attic.

As was the custom, rumours and stories faded
into the local lore, and many forgot the events of that early
spring. Trains ran less frequently along the shore, eventually
stopping altogether, and the railway station was boarded up. Ol’
Man Thorburn was remembered as a reclusive, quirky old man, but few
people could say they actually knew him. His belongings gathered
dust in the station storeroom, where they were forgotten until, one
night, someone noticed flames leaping from the station roof. By the
time the volunteer fire department arrived to hose down what
remained, the roof had caved in, and little of the structure
remained. Maria’s father, now retired, volunteered to help clear
away the debris once the fire investigation was complete. When
questioned, he didn’t remember seeing a trunk in the ruins. He told
Maria a metal trunk like that wouldn’t burn up. The raised train
platform looked incongruous without the building behind it, like
the ghost of an era when trains thundered daily into the station,
screeching to a stop to disgorge passengers and freight.

***

A few short years later, I
returned home to visit my mother. One day, I walked along the old
railway line, now bereft of iron rails and tar-blackened ties, in
the direction of the causeway. At a place where there was a wide
view of the bay between clumps of trees, I paused to look across at
the beach. Perched atop the bluff where the old Robertson house had
been stood a huge, multi-storied house, like a modern-day castle,
multiple roof lines and dormers placed to catch every angle of the
sun and sea breezes, no doubt with a sophisticated air-conditioning
system for back-up. With landscaped grounds, neatly trimmed grass
and ornamental trees placed precisely around the perimeter, it was
state-of-the-art, as if whisked from the pages of a home design
magazine and plopped onto the pristine lot. No signs of the old
house remained. I felt a pang of nostalgia for the old house of my
younger days, which breathed history as well as mystery from its
every corner and cranny.

When I returned to my mother’s place, I
paused in the doorway to marvel at her fortitude; she still prided
herself on remembering dates and names of people she knew from
childhood.

“
I noticed a new house
over by the beach,” I said, “on the spot where the old Robertson
house used to be. Do you know who lives there?”

“
Let me see.” She tilted
her head to one side, as if searching her memory. “I recall Melanie
telling me—you remember Melanie, don’t you? Mrs. Dawse’s
daughter?—about a man and his wife showing up out of the blue,
going straight to that spot on the hill, bound and determined they
were going to build a house overlooking the beach, and not even
bothering to look at other properties. Before anyone knew it, the
old house was gone, and that monstrosity sprang up almost
overnight. Five bathrooms! Imagine!”

I waited.

“
Their name is… it’s
something like Thornton or Thornbloom or… hmm…” She looked up and
tapped her chin as if that would help her remember the
name.

“
Thorburne!” she said
suddenly. “That’s it. Thorburne, with an ‘e’ on the end. They were
adamant about the spelling. Definitely not from around here,
perhaps down around Boston way? Or New York? They must be, to have
that much money!” She raised her eyebrows and inclined her head
towards me, as if suggesting the solution to a puzzle.

“
Oh,” she added, “they
also have a fancy sailboat, but bigger, more like a yacht. It’s
usually anchored in the cove next to the beach, but they just left
on a trip around the world. Melanie called this morning to catch me
up on the news.”

I thought of the
mysterious disappearance of the old trunk before the station fire.
What if… my mind raced with scenarios: Could Bud Smith have been
the tall figure we saw that night, dragging the trunk to the beach
and loading it in a boat? He’d disappeared the next day, presumably
to Ontario to work. Was it really Marilyn we saw driving recklessly
past us on the beach road? Had Bud been in a conspiracy with Alfred
Nolan, the caretaker? Or with Ol’ Man Thorburn? Did Ol’ Man
Thorburn have family connections after all, and had their
descendants now taken up residence in the brand-new house? The
possibilities surged and clamoured to the surface of my mind for
attention.

What if the trunk had been hidden away in
the attic of the house on the hill for years and years, until that
fateful, chilly April night? Was it a treasure chest left behind by
the sea captain? I thought of how afraid we’d been of seeing ghosts
in the old Robertson house.

This was so much more interesting than mere
ghosts.

~~~***~~~

The Dancing
Tulip

Wilma
Stewart-White

She drove deeper and
deeper into the forest. The trees arched over her closer and
closer. Perhaps this was a wild goose chase. She was collecting
information for her research on old houses of Lunenburg County and
her friend, Martha, had enthused about an early house she said she
had lived in as a child. She was following Martha’s instructions
and had turned at the old Baptist church on the corner. The road
had quickly branched and narrowed.

What had been a pretty little country road
with a cosy tunnel of green was turning into a very narrow lane
that now squeezed the car tighter and tighter. Branches reached
out, leaving fingernail scratches on the roof.

Why am I doing
this?
she wondered
. I can blame Martha.

“
Hmmm,” she finally said
in frustration, thinking about how she would talk to Martha. “If
this road peters out and I’m stuck with nowhere to turn, I’ll
scream. I’ve started too late in the day. This path is dark and
gloomy and the day is wearing on.”

Suddenly, the tunnel ceased and the car shot
out, released from the thicket of branches. The sun, close to
setting, glared right in her face, momentarily blinding her. She
jammed on the brake and took stock of her surroundings. She got a
quick glance of a barred gate in front of her and a huge red barn
on a hill. Two black and white sheepdogs raced to the gate,
barking, daring her to come closer.

“
You! Vat you
vant?”

She jumped half out of her skin.

A gnarled old man peered in her window.
Where had he come from?

She tried to quickly gather her wits about
her. She looked at the caricature of a face. Two small, evil,
glowing eyes glared at her. Skinny hands with long curving
fingernails left a trace of slime on her window. She inched her
window down hesitantly.

“
I am doing research on
old buildings around here and I was told there was such a house
here. I am interested in seeing it.”

“
Of course, is old but is
private house—no visitors.”

“
Oh, well—you see, I am
also looking for traces of early Lunenburg County symbols. I hear
you have a rare carving. I only wanted a quick look and maybe a
photo…?”

Inwardly, she quailed at the thought of
actually getting out of the safety of her car and coming face to
face with this creature and his two snarling dogs. Was she mad?

“
Komm then.”

He wrenched open the gate and whistled to
the dogs.

Slowly, she edged her way up the deeply
rutted track to a house so old it seemed rooted in the hillside. Up
close, the barn seemed even more enormous. A flock of dirty,
unshorn sheep moved steadily closer, watching her out of small,
dark eyes.

She slowly opened the car door. The flock
parted unwillingly, providing a walkway to the house. The house was
indeed old with a low roof and tiny windows. The door was almost
sunk into the earth. The gnome appeared and ushered her in, swiftly
closing the door behind her

The room was almost pitch
dark. She blinked and tried to focus. A fetid earthy and mouldy
smell filled her nostrils. A massive hearth faced the door and a
miserable fire glowered in the grate. A huge wooden table took
pride of place heaped with onions and cabbage and potatoes. Carrots
lay in a separate pile. They seemed to be in curious shapes, almost
as if they had legs. A pile of old pewter plates sat at the other
end of the table beside a large black pot and a wicked looking
knife.

“
Here!” he shouted “Iss
this vat you vanted to see?” He pointed to a carving on the
mantle.

The date, 1762, and the name, Johan
Schlangenveit, was engraved and beside it a beautifully carved
tulip. The tulip, though frozen in time, was bent ever so slightly,
petals fanned, as if it had been blown by a gentle breeze.