The Station
Gwyneth Harrelson sat in the conference room of Crichton, Hoskins and Doyle, Attorneys at Law, waiting to hear the reading of her late grandfather's will. Old Artemas Harrelson was the president and major stockholder of Lowell Publishing, Inc., and, as such, had been an extremely wealthy man. Gwyneth, his only surviving relative, now stood to inherit his vast estate.
Lemuel Crichton, the publisher's personal lawyer, read the will. As was expected, except for several generous bequests to Artemas's loyal household staff and a number of worthy charities, the Harrelson fortune was passed on to his granddaughter.
"Do you have any questions concerning your grandfather's holdings?" Mr. Crichton asked respectfully.
Gwyneth scanned the list of real estate properties, businesses and investments that had comprised her grandfather's estate.
"What's Maplewood?" she asked.
"Let me see," the lawyer replied, thumbing through a stack of documents he removed from the manila folder in front of him. "Ah, here it is. Maplewood is a house."
"A house?"
Gwyneth's interest was piqued. She had graduated college a few weeks earlier and was looking for a place to live, so she eagerly read the description of the property.
According to Crichton's document, Maplewood was a former farmhouse located in Autumn Cove, Massachusetts. It was originally built in 1854 by Esau Parkman, an ancestor of Artemas Harrelson. The house had been vacant for some time and was now in a state of disrepair.
"What a coincidence!" the heiress exclaimed. "I need a place to live, and my grandfather has left me a house."
"He also left you his Beacon Hill townhouse. Personally, I think you'll find it a much more suitable dwelling for a young woman of your social and economic standing."
"But I'm not sure I want to live in the city. I'd prefer a house with a back yard, a garage and a garden. I think I'll drive to Autumn Cove tomorrow and take a look at Maplewood."
"But, Miss Harrelson, the house is almost two hundred years old, and it has been abandoned for years. It will probably cost you a small fortune just to make it livable."
"It seems like I'm in luck, then. I just inherited a fortune, and not a small one."
* * *
The following week Gwyneth met with Blake Rendell, a contractor from Plymouth, on the unkempt grounds of Maplewood. Although the windows had been boarded up and it was in dire need of paint and landscaping, the farmhouse was still a magnificent building. Two stories in height with four bedrooms and three full bathrooms and a powder room, it was a bit large for a single woman living by herself. However, she was undaunted at the prospect. After sharing a small dorm room with a classmate, she welcomed the change.
Blake handed her the keys and a written estimate for the necessary repairs. When she saw the figures, she was surprised to see how little it would cost to restore the house.
"Frankly, I expected it to run me at least twice this amount," she confessed.
"This house was built to last, Miss Harrelson. Good hardwood used throughout. Other than some repairs to the heating and plumbing systems and installation of central air conditioning, it doesn't need much more than a good cleaning and a fresh coat of paint. Of course, my estimate doesn't include any work on the grounds—just the house itself. But I can recommend a good landscape architect if you're interested."
"Thank you, Mr. Rendell. I'd appreciate that."
Gwyneth then gave Blake a check to retain his services and asked him to begin work as soon as possible. Eight months later, the renovations to Maplewood were finally completed, and she was ready to move in.
"You did a beautiful job, Blake," the homeowner announced as they walked from room to room, admiring the finished house.
"I can't take all the credit. The original builder used only the best materials. I'd hate to see how much it would cost to build a house like this in today's market."
"I think you're being entirely too modest. You forget. I saw what this place looked like before you began work on it."
Once the oriental rugs and antique furnishings were delivered and set in place, Gwyneth took up residence in her new home. Her first night there, as she lay beneath her mother's heirloom quilt in the master bedroom, waiting for sleep to come, she heard a strange scratching noise in the attic above her.
Mice, she surmised, or perhaps birds.
She would have Thompkins, the handyman she had recently hired, check it out in the morning.
"There's nothing up there, Miss," Thompkins said after examining the attic the next day. "No birds' nests in the rafters and no rodent droppings or tracks in the dust."
"Maybe whatever I heard found its way out. Thank you anyway. That'll be all then," Gwyneth said, dismissing the man.
That night, however, she again heard the scratching sound above her as she lay in the four-poster bed trying to fall asleep.
Droppings or not, she thought, some animal is scurrying around up there.
The following day, Gwyneth met Blake Rendell for lunch at the quaint Mayflower Tavern. On her way to the restaurant, she stopped at the local hardware store and purchased a package of mousetraps—humane ones, guaranteed not to needlessly maim the poor creatures.
"Sorry I'm late," she apologized as she sat across the table from the contractor.
"No problem," he smiled. "I'm through with work for the day."
As they waited for their food to arrive, Gwyneth told Blake about the noises she had heard in the attic the previous two nights.
"I didn't see anything when I examined the roof and the beams, but I didn't pay too much attention to the attic. I was more concerned with restoring the lower floors. If you want me to check the attic more thoroughly, I will."
"There's really no need to. I'll just have Thompkins place the traps up there."
* * *
Night after night Gwyneth continued to hear the scratching noises on the attic floor above the master bedroom. Yet each morning, Thompkins claimed that the traps were empty. Finally, she climbed the old ladder-like stairs through the trap door and examined the attic herself. She had expected to find a clutter of boxes, crates, old trunks, old furniture and cobwebs, but the attic was empty and surprisingly clean. As Thompkins had said, there was no sign of rodents anywhere.
Still convinced she had a pest problem, she carefully descended the attic steps, went into her den and got out the phone book. She turned to the Yellow Pages and looked for a professional exterminator.
"My attic appears to be clean," she explained to the man from Autumn Cove Pest Control when he came to Maplewood later that afternoon, "but I'm wondering if there might be something in the walls or beneath the floorboards."
"Did your contractor find any sign of infestation on the other floors?"
"I don't think so. I'm sure he would have mentioned it to me if he had."
"I can spray a general pesticide along your woodwork if you'd like; but to be honest, I don't think pest control is the problem here."
"What do you think it is then?"
The old man hesitated as if searching for a way to break bad news gently.
"I've lived in Autumn Cove all my life, Miss Harrelson, and I've seen quite a few families move into this house. They never stayed very long, though."
"Why not?"
"The truth is some people say this old place is haunted."
If the man thought his revelation would shock or frighten Gwyneth, he was wrong.
"It's not unusual that a house of this age has a few ghost stories attached to it," she said logically. "After all, I'm sure the usual number of deaths, personal tragedies and broken dreams have occurred here over the past two centuries."
"That's not exactly true," the exterminator informed her. "After Esau Parkman and his wife were killed, the place was left vacant for several years."
"Killed? Were they murdered?"
"No, not murdered. They died in a train wreck on their way to visit their son who was attending a private school in Boston. After the death of his parents, the boy lived with Esau's sister in Cambridge. He later attended Harvard, and then after graduating, he decided to move to New York. He never did return to Maplewood, but he held on to the place, hoping that the land would go up in value. Eventually, it was passed down to his heirs who farmed the land, but none of them ever actually lived in the house. During the Depression, the Parkmans gave up on farming, and portions of the land were sold. The house was rented out many times since then, but as I said, no one stayed here very long."
"I guess what I need is a ghost buster rather than an exterminator," Gwyneth laughed, not taking the haunting theory seriously. "Still, as long as you're here, why don't you spray the place down anyway? I hate bugs."
* * *
The strange scratching noise persisted, but Gwyneth had learned to live with it.
Since her conversation with the exterminator, she had developed a strong curiosity about both Maplewood and her family tree. Since the Parkmans—like the Harrelsons—had been socially prominent and financially well off, she did not have any difficulty finding information about them. The Autumn Cove News, the town library and the local and county historical associations all offered a selection of official records, photographs, news articles and diaries pertaining to the family.
As Gwyneth thumbed through the pages of an old Parkman family Bible, it occurred to her to write a book about the Parkman-Harrelson clan. She had been an English major and always wanted to write. What better place to start than with the history of her own ancestors?
As the last of the Harrelson line, she wanted to learn more about the family. She soon became immersed in the world of nineteenth-century New England, its social customs and political concerns. She developed a profound respect for Esau Parkman who, although a shrewd businessman, was also a humanitarian, a philanthropist and an ardent abolitionist. According to an old article that appeared in The Autumn Cove News, Esau and his wife died in 1859, just prior to the start of the Civil War.
After she finished reading the article, Gwyneth glanced down at her watch. It was almost five o'clock, and she had been writing all afternoon.
Oh, no! Blake will be here soon, she thought, remembering their dinner date.
She closed the Word file, shut down her computer and went upstairs to get ready.
Later that evening she relayed to Blake all she had learned about Esau Parkman, the man who had founded Lowell Publishing and started the family fortune.
"He helped build schools, started orphanages, funded hospitals ...," Gwyneth excitedly enumerated her ancestor's many charitable deeds.
When she saw Blake smiling at her with amused affection in his eyes, she stopped speaking.
"I suppose I should keep things in perspective," she said, blushing with embarrassment. "Esau was only human, after all, and not a candidate for canonization."
"You have every right to be proud of your Parkman heritage. Esau was a good man. I've even heard that Maplewood was used as a station for the Underground Railroad."
"You're kidding? My house?"
"That's the rumor."
When the couple left the restaurant, they found it had been snowing steadily for over an hour. As Blake drove along the winding road to Maplewood, his Corvette frequently lost traction on the slick surface.
"If I had known it was going to snow," he laughed, "I would have taken the Subaru. I must admit, I tried to dazzle you with the 'Vette. But then, with your family's money, I doubt even a Ferrari would impress you."
"Actually, I'm more the Rolls-Royce type," Gwyneth teased him.
The truth was that, despite her fortune, she still drove a five-year-old Honda.
After a few more miles of fishtailing and knuckle-biting, they arrived safely at Maplewood. Rather than take any risks driving back to his house, Blake accepted Gwyneth's invitation to spend the night at her home. They stayed up for several hours, sipping wine in front of the large stone fireplace and enjoying the comfort and security of being safe and warm inside while the storm worsened outside. Finally, they decided to call it a night.
Just as Gwyneth was about to doze off, the familiar scratching sound woke her. Then she heard Blake, in the guest room next door, get out of bed. She put on her bathrobe, and a few moments later, they met in the hall.
"Did you hear it?" she asked.
"Yes. It's coming from upstairs, all right. Have you got a flashlight?"
The single sixty-watt bulb that was suspended from a chain in the middle of the ceiling could scarcely illuminate the huge attic, so Blake shined the flashlight's beam into the shadowy corners.
"See, I told you," Gwyneth said. "There's nothing up here."
Blake put his index finger to his lips, signaling for silence. Head cocked to one side, he was listening intently for any further sounds.
"There it is again," he said, walking toward the eastern side of the home.
He reached out his arm and firmly knocked on the wall.
"I don't think anyone's home," Gwyneth joked.
"Ha, ha," Blake said, as he began walking along the perimeter of the attic, knocking on the walls as he did.
"Hear that?" he asked.
Gwyneth looked at him, puzzled.
"It's hollow," he explained. "There must be a crawlspace behind this wall, but I don't see any door. Do you?"
They both looked, but neither could find an opening.
"If there was a door, wouldn't it be in plain sight?" the homeowner asked.
"Not if the builder wanted to conceal the existence of the crawlspace—or hide what or who was being kept inside of it."
"Are you talking about runaway slaves? So, the rumors about Maplewood having been a stop on the Underground Railroad might be true."
"It seems so. If we could only find the door."
"Couldn't we just break through the wall?"
"I'd rather not. Wait! Maybe the door is downstairs."
"With stairs or a ladder leading up?"
Blake nodded.
"But wouldn't you have seen it when you made the renovations?"
"It could be hidden."
They returned to the lower floor and searched the rooms and closets but still could not find a door.
"Shall we try the first floor?" Gwyneth suggested.
While searching the kitchen on the ground floor, Blake's eyes went to the walk-in pantry.
"If I wanted to hide a door, that would be a good place to do it," he said.
As he was examining the shelves that lined the walls of the pantry, he noticed a small metal ring in the ceiling. He pulled the ring, and the trapdoor in the ceiling opened.
"What is it?"
Blake shined the flashlight beam through the opening.
"It looks like a passageway," he replied. "There's a ladder on the far wall. That's how to get to the secret room."
He stood on one of the kitchen chairs and hoisted his body up through the opening.
"What are you doing?" the homeowner asked.
"I want to see that crawlspace. Aren't you coming?"
Gwyneth, who had a touch of claustrophobia and a major case of arachnophobia, had no intention of crawling through a dark, narrow passageway that was probably inhabited by any number of eight-legged creatures.
"I think I'll sit this one out, but you go ahead. You can give me the details when you get back."
Blake returned nearly an hour later.
"I was beginning to think you got lost," Gwyneth laughed, brushing the dust off his hair and clothes.
The contractor was pale and silent. All traces of the adventurous young man were gone.
"What's wrong?"
"It was just as everyone said. Esau Parkman was harboring runaway slaves here at Maplewood."
"That's great! I'm going to include that information in my book, but first I'll more need proof than an empty room."
"There's plenty of proof upstairs," he said cryptically.
"There is?"
"I've never seen anything like it," Blake explained, shaking his head. "The door to the crawlspace can only be opened from the passageway. The other side, the surface that faces the secret room, is smooth. There are no handles, no way for a person to open it from inside the room."
"I'm sure there's a good reason for that," Gwyneth surmised. "Esau wouldn't want the slaves to leave the attic unless it was safe for them to do so. How could someone hiding in that room know if other people were visiting Maplewood? The Parkmans would let them out only when it was safe."
"If they had been home, that is," he replied sadly. "But ...."
The horror in Blake's eyes frightened her.
"You don't think there was someone up there when the Parkmans were killed, do you?"
Blake nodded.
"There are three skeletons in the crawlspace—two adults and a child. And there are scratch marks all over the smooth surface of the trapdoor, as though someone had desperately tried to raise it."
Gwyneth closed her eyes, yet she could not shut out the image in her mind of the runaway slaves locked away in a secret room, left there to die, with no hope of escape.
The following day the local police were notified of the gruesome discovery. The skeletons were then removed from the crawlspace and interred in the local cemetery. Once the souls of those poor escaped slaves who had died so tragically in Maplewood’s attic crawlspace were at rest, a serene calm fell over the house, and neither Gwyneth nor Blake was ever again awakened in the night by the eerie sound of scratching from the secret room above them.
Salem thinks he's escaping from me by way of the Underground Railroad. When he gets to the West Coast, then I'll tell him he's "on the wrong track."
