Haunted Houses by Nancy Roberts & TARYN PLUMB

Author:Nancy Roberts & TARYN PLUMB
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Globe Pequot
Published: 2020-05-20T00:00:00+00:00

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.

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