Black Cat Weekly #18

THE GHOST WHO READ THE NEWSPAPER, by Vicki Weisfeld-1

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

THE GHOST WHO READ THE NEWSPAPER,

by Vicki WeisfeldNuggets of snow salted the ground around the garage, and the heavy clouds of a Connecticut winter promised more to come—too much more, for my taste. I’d suggested to my employer, J. Middleton Dulcey, that we hire a closed carriage and pair of horses at the livery stable for the drive from New Haven to Boston, but he’d hear no misgivings about the fortitude of his new Model T.

“No, my boy, Mr. Ford’s product will carry us there in safety and comfort.” He backed the Ford onto the street and we headed away. The hundred-sixty mile trip would require about four hours in fine weather, but we’d had a late start, due to some business of Mr. Dulcey’s, and it would be well after dark before we could expect to arrive.

Alas, my trepidation about the weather proved correct. Before we even reached Hartford, great gouts of snow poured down, obscuring the road, and I was kept busy with the new electric windshield cleaners, which battled with only moderate success against the blizzard and required frequent attention. Past Hartford, we were the only car on the road, and the tracks of the vehicles that had preceded us were filling rapidly, so Mr. Dulcey found the driving difficult. He peered into a gloom barely dispelled by our headlamps, trying to make sure we followed the actual road and were not steering into a ditch or worse.

A solid shape flew across our path, startling us both. “What was that!” he exclaimed.

“I believe it was a deer, and there may be more of them.”

“That was no deer. It was enormous!”

Although we had been proceeding quite slowly, he slowed more. Then the lamps revealed the forms of perhaps a dozen white-tailed deer ahead of us, stalled in the process of crossing the road. They now stood stock still, trying to work out how two bright moons had come to earth and were now rolling toward them. Mr. Dulcey sounded our Klaxon, and they ran, leaping away. The road now was as startlingly empty of creatures as it had been filled a moment before.

I noted Mr. Dulcey’s hunched shoulders, head thrust forward, eyes straining, and it occurred to me that we would not—we should not—complete our journey tonight. “I’m awfully hungry,” I suggested.

Once I’d had the thought, the desire for someplace warm and welcoming ballooned in my thoughts. At my feet was a small carpetbag containing my favorite book, and I looked forward to a satisfying read before sleep. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes had been a companion of years, and I fancied Mr. Dulcey bore some resemblance to Holmes—not in personality, because my employer was an amiable, gregarious man, but in his determination to get to the bottom of things. It was a small, if immodest, leap to see myself, his secretary, as a sort of American Dr. Watson.

“You young people,” Mr. Dulcey said. “No staying power.” He wisely kept the car in the center of the space between the trees that loomed on either side of us, as there was no knowing where the actual road lay, and it was surely for the best that we met no other vehicle.

At last, I said, “What’s that sign ahead? Does it say ‘INN’? It looks to be pointing to the right.”

“Inn? I don’t think so. Not out here in the middle of nowhere.” But he regarded the sign longingly too. The weight of the snow stuck to its surface became too much and a clump slid off. INN, for certain.

“I have an idea,” he said. “Let’s investigate this place. We can eat dinner, have a good night’s rest, and make an early start in the morning.”

“Yes, let’s.” I nudged the bag containing my precious book.

He threaded the Ford into a narrow gap between two stands of trees that we presumed was the side road. As it turned out, the inn was no more than a mile distant, yet the blizzard was so fierce and our progress so snaillike, tense minutes elapsed before we saw its lights. Our optimism was rewarded when at last the well-lit, welcoming façade appeared. So grateful were we, I do believe we would have gladly trudged the remaining distance on foot, wearing our city shoes, had it been necessary.

A young man met us under a portico bearing a rustic sign reading “Old Blackwood Inn.” The snow had been shoveled away, and before we could properly take in the fact that we had arrived, he unloaded our bags and deposited them inside. He returned with a large broom and began knocking the snow off the car.

“Where should I park my vehicle?” Mr. Dulcey asked.

“I’ll do it. You go inside and get warm. Dinner’s up.”

“I don’t know—” It wasn’t like Mr. Dulcey to entrust his car to a total stranger, especially one not even shaving yet.

“I’ll put it right in that shed over there.” He winked at me and pointed. Alongside the shed was a commodious barn, one door standing open.

Mr. Dulcey remained doubtful. “The shed looks—” He would have said “dilapidated,” I believe, but was reluctant to offend this minion of our new hosts. “What about the barn?”

“Barn’s full of horses,” the boy said. “Everyone else came by carriage.”

“Did you say dinner is ready?” I asked.

That got us moving again and, realistically, we had no choice about any of this. Nor, for that matter, what came after.

* * * *

Dinner was delicious in proportion to how welcome it was. Our fellow diners—for the inn was indeed full—comprised two families, a newly married couple, several traveling salesmen, and us. That is, fifteen guests in all.

The two families retired early, and the newlyweds soon followed. The men—and I boyishly counted myself among them—retired to the lounge and arranged ourselves around the large open fireplace. Soon the innkeeper, Mr. Meese, joined us, bringing several bottles of port. I was allowed one glass. The warmth of the fire, the fumes of the wine, the sweet smell of pipe tobacco, all lulled me into a pleasant frame of mind, free of the numbing cold and the terror of the road.

I reflected on how lucky I was to have acquired my position as Mr. Dulcey’s secretary and factotum. Born in 1902, I had been too young to fight in the Great War and could not help feeling as if I’d missed out. (That alone tells you how inexperienced I was.) My mother moved our family to her father’s country home during the influenza epidemic, and while I was grateful we were spared that catastrophe, still we were isolated from society and the bustle of New Haven for what seemed an interminable period. The only recompense in our self-quarantine was my grandfather’s extensive library. There I pursued my education in fits and starts as different interests overtook me.

It was Grandfather who learned of Mr. Dulcey’s desire for an assistant and recommended me to him. In the summer of 1920 I took up the post and, six months later, found myself at the Old Blackwood Inn, roasting beside the best fire in northern Connecticut. Half listening to the conversation of the men, I thought, as I frequently did, that every young man should have a sojourn with a Mr. Dulcey. He taught me many things, but most important, how to wring adventure out of life events of every sort.

Reflecting on my good fortune, I must have dozed, because I was startled awake by a log noisily shifting position in the fire. The landlord stood up to poke the blaze, and I saw the lounge had emptied, except for Mr. Dulcey, landlord Meese, and me. Seeing I was awake, Mr. Dulcey said, “Our host here has been telling me we have the best room in the house.”

I sat up at this unexpected intelligence. We were, after all, last to arrive.

“Yes indeed,” Mr. Meese said. “You have the room of the Old Gentleman.”

“Who?” I asked, a bit suspicious, because Mr. Dulcey was not above pulling a joke on me, and this sounded like it might be one.

“We don’t know who he is,” the landlord said, “but he’s haunted this place, gone fifty years now. The woman who sold my wife and me the inn two summers ago warned about making too many changes to your room.”

I glanced at Mr. Dulcey. This sounded to me like an excuse for what might be the poor condition of our quarters. He continued to study the fire benignly.

“There’s a ghost?” I rubbed my tired eyes.

“Yes. He’s why we don’t use that room much. Not that everyone who stays there sees him, but he’s frightened several of our guests. I usually don’t tell people about him, especially the women, so as not to plant the suggestion, but Mr. Dulcey seems a paragon of common sense and asked about the inn’s history, so I did mention it.”

“What is your history?” I asked. “Was it always the Old Blackwood Inn?”

“Since the day it opened in 1801. Your room is in the original part of the Inn, which offered only a few rooms back then, but did a big business in food and drink, being the only stopping place along this road for twenty miles or more. In the 1880s, the owners expanded, added the second story, and the Old Blackwood became more or less as you see it today.

“Mrs. Meese and I improved the plumbing—a big investment, but it’s the way of the future, she says—and refurbished the public rooms downstairs.”

“They are exceedingly comfortable,” Mr. Dulcey said. “But please tell us about your ghost. How does the Old Gentleman manifest?”

The landlord paced in front of the fire. “People awaken in the night and see a man sitting on the end of the bed, reading a newspaper. He scans the pages and turns them, paying no attention to the bed’s occupants. In the morning, he and the newspaper are gone, though my guests say there is a slight indentation at the foot of the bed where he sat. He wears a stovepipe hat and, from their descriptions, I fancy he looks rather like President Lincoln.”

“Did the president ever stay here?” I asked.

“Not to my knowledge. In fact, I’m sure not,” the landlord said. “The previous owners were all sharp businessmen, especially Charity Farthington, who owned the inn the longest, and she would certainly have capitalized on such a visit.”

“Well, it’s past our bedtime. If that gentleman visits us tonight, he will certainly be welcome.” Mr. Dulcey and I left the lounge and made our way to room #3 at the back of the house. He would have the four-poster to himself, and a trundle bed had been brought in for me and placed under the window. My book lay there enticingly, but I was too sleepy for a long session of reading.

“I, for one, am grateful for our landlady’s dedication to modern plumbing,” I said, crawling under the covers. The room was chilly, but I was still warm from the fire and soon heated the bed like a live warming pan.

“I could not agree more,” Mr. Dulcey said, settling into the massive double bed. “I included her in my prayers.”

* * * *

I’d fallen asleep so fervently hoping that we would see the Old Gentleman that I scarcely credited my eyes when at some unknowable hour of the night I awoke and did see him, just as the landlord had described, sitting at the foot of Mr. Dulcey’s bed, reading the newspaper. I pinched myself to be sure I wasn’t dreaming, but then thought, what if I’m dreaming I pinched myself? With difficulty, though the apparition took no notice of my gyrations, I took my arms out of my nightshirt, turned it around backward, and stuck my arms through again. If in the morning it was wrong-way-round, I would know I had been awake. It would be impossible for me to accomplish that maneuver in my sleep.

As the Old Gentleman continued to read quietly, I eased my feet to the floor. I wanted Mr. Dulcey to see, but he typically woke with such splutter and flutter that I feared the ghost would flee. I approached the wraithlike figure as closely as I dared and discerned that he wasn’t exactly transparent, but could be more accurately described as translucent (a distinction I’d learned in one of my grandfather’s science books).