The Hanged Woman
Jackie Boyle put her signal on and turned down the narrow, scenic tree-lined road. Although it was quarter past seven on a chilly Saturday morning, there were only two cars in the parking lot of the Sussex Inn, which was highly unusual since it was mid-October and nearly all inns, motels and bed and breakfasts were filled to capacity with tourists seeking the beauty of New England's spectacular autumn foliage.
At this time of the morning, there ought to be more people still in bed or having breakfast in the restaurant, she thought.
Overnight bag in hand, Jackie parked her car and entered the picturesque old inn that had been built before the American Revolution. Originally a private home, it was passed down through several generations of Drakes until the early 1930s. It then stood vacant for some time before going through a succession of owners. Over the past twenty years, several people tried to run the house as a hostelry, but none managed to make a success of it. In fact, the current owner of the Sussex Inn was tottering on the brink of bankruptcy.
Jackie was well aware of the financial problems the new owner faced, for she worked for a man who had purchased over sixty historic buildings along the Eastern Seaboard, restored them and ran them with modern hotel chain efficiency. It was Jackie's job to travel through the New England states and look for potential properties that could be absorbed into the company's holdings.
"It doesn't look like you're too busy today," Jackie commented when she checked in, pretending to be an ordinary tourist.
"That's true enough," the woman behind the desk admitted with a half-hearted smile. "We don't get as many guests as most of the other places in this area."
"Oh, why is that?"
"I suppose people prefer to stay closer to the shopping areas or to the tourist attractions. If the Sussex Inn were near Salem, Newburyport or Plymouth, we'd be all booked up."
Jackie suspected there was much more to the high number of vacancies than a matter of location alone. Before she decided whether or not to suggest to her boss that the company make an offer to buy the place, she hoped to discover exactly what was wrong with the Sussex Inn.
* * *
After settling into her room, Jackie drove to the center of Mariner's Cove and spent the morning visiting the shops and small businesses along Cape Street. In each establishment, she casually mentioned that she was from out of state and was staying at the Sussex Inn for a few days. Most of the business owners were not knowledgeable about the inn or its history even though it was located in neighboring Elmwood Hills. It was not until she stopped at the Liberty Tavern for lunch that she received her first snippet of gossip.
"The Sussex Inn, you say?" the elderly proprietor asked when Jackie introduced herself. "Not many people stay there, leastways not for more than one night."
Jackie smiled inwardly. This was just the type of response she had been fishing for.
"What's wrong with the inn?" she asked with a convincing air of innocent curiosity. "It seems like such a lovely old place."
"Oh, it is. It's well-kept, and the food and service are excellent from what I've heard. It's the old stories about the building. They scare some people off."
"What stories?"
"Back in the early 1700s, Sabine Drake, the widow of the man who built the house, committed suicide there: hanged herself in one of the upstairs bedrooms."
"How horrible!" Jackie declared with mock distress, yet she was not at all alarmed.
She had stayed in dozens of old buildings with tales of suicide and even murder attached to them. It had been her experience that stories of sudden and sometimes violent death, no matter how gruesome, rarely deterred the tourist trade. Quite the contrary, in fact. Many people were fascinated with the macabre. Even the Lizzie Borden house, the site of one of America's most infamous double homicides, drew eager guests to its bed and breakfast business. People booked months in advance to spend the night in the guest bedroom where Abby Durfee Borden was hacked to death by a hatchet-wielding killer.
Jackie pursued the matter with the restaurant owner. Perhaps the suicide could be put to good advantage.
"Why did this Sabine Drake kill herself?"
"No one knows for sure, but legend has it that her husband's death unhinged her."
* * *
Jackie returned to the Sussex Inn late in the afternoon. Mrs. Fitzgibbon, the owner, served her a cup of tea with a homemade cranberry nut muffin.
"Cranberries are fresh, not frozen," the innkeeper announced proudly. "They were grown in Carver, which is only a few miles from Plymouth."
"Really? You seem to know a lot about eastern Massachusetts."
"Ought to. I've lived here all my life. Are you from New England, Miss Boyle?"
"No. Pennsylvania, but I've traveled through quite a bit of your state, and I've fallen in love with it."
"Do you travel for business?"
"No, pleasure."
Jackie doubted if Mrs. Fitzgibbon suspected her motives, but she would be very careful just the same.
"I'm a writer, and sometimes I travel through the Northeast because this part of the country inspires me."
"A writer, huh? Afraid I don't get to read much. Too busy."
"I can understand that. Running an inn must take up a lot of your time."
This was an obvious falsehood, given how few guests there were at the height of the peak season.
"That it does. I best get into the kitchen and see about dinner."
Later that night, after Jackie dined on a delicious Yankee beef stew and homemade apple pie, she went to her room, took her laptop out of her briefcase and began working. She was busy typing an outline of her initial recommendations for improving the Sussex Inn when a cold breeze swept past her. She shivered and her hands soon became so cold that she could barely type.
"I'll have to recommend a new heating system for this place if we decide to acquire it," she said and then took the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her arms and shoulders.
Neither the blanket nor the hot cup of tea Mrs. Fitzgibbon sent up warmed the young guest. Unable to work in the bone-chilling cold, Jackie took her laptop downstairs to the sitting room where a fire was blazing in the hearth. Twenty minutes later, the icy coldness enveloped her again.
I hope I'm not coming down with something, she thought as she closed her laptop and stood before the fire trying to warm her hands.
When Mrs. Fitzgibbon came out of the kitchen, Jackie asked her if she could get another blanket.
"It's a bit chilly in my room," she explained apologetically.
The innkeeper looked at her guest questioningly. She always kept the temperature in the rooms at seventy-two degrees. Still, if the young woman wanted another blanket, she would gladly get her one.
* * *
Near midnight, Jackie was awakened by a cold draft that seemed to permeate the room. When her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she could see her breath frosting the air. Teeth chattering, she put her jacket on over her pajamas and snuggled beneath the two blankets.
A few moments later, in the corner of the room, she spotted what appeared to be a cloud forming above the Queen Anne wing chair. She cowered beneath the blankets, shivering from more than just the cold as she watched the vapor coalesce into the vague outline of a woman. Jackie screamed, and the spirit vanished. With the mysterious phantom gone, the temperature in the room rose dramatically.
There was a knock on the door.
"Miss Boyle, are you all right?" the innkeeper inquired.
"Yes, I'm fine," Jackie replied in a shaken voice. "I've had a nightmare. That's all."
Mrs. Fitzgibbon was suspicious. Other guests had cried out in their sleep, no doubt disturbed by the tales of the ghost of the woman who had hanged herself in the house.
"If you need anything ...."
"Thank you, but what I need most is a good night's sleep."
Jackie heard Mrs. Fitzgibbon's footsteps retreat down the hall. She held her breath, listening for any sound of movement in the room, but all was still and quiet.
I've seen a ghost! she realized with amazement.
For years, she had visited old inns, restaurants and taverns and heard legends of murders, suicides and tragic accidents that left unsettled spirits behind, yet she never believed in ghosts. Now that she had proof of their existence, Jackie felt no fear, only a sense of wonder.
Eventually, she fell back to sleep but only after staying awake for several hours, anxiously awaiting the return of the hanged woman.
* * *
After enjoying one of Mrs. Fitzgibbon's delicious homemade breakfasts, Jackie drove back to Mariner's Cove, intent on learning more about the history of the Sussex Inn and, in particular, Sabine Drake. Unfortunately, there was not much information in the back issues of The Mariner's Cove Courier or at the Mariner's Cove Public Library.
"If you don't mind my asking," the librarian inquired, "what kind of information are you looking for?"
Jackie looked embarrassed.
"Well, I'm interested in paranormal activity in and around the Elmwood Hills area: ghost tales, local hauntings, legends about murder and suicide."
The librarian laughed.
"You mean Sabine Drake, right? What you should do is go see Mitchell Drake. He's a direct descendant. I believe at one time he intended to write a book on the history of the family, so I'm sure he'll be able to answer any questions you might have."
Mitchell Drake lived in a charming saltbox near a heavily wooded area on the outskirts of town. When Jackie drove out to the house and spotted a Subaru in the driveway, she went up to the door and rang the bell. A handsome man, not much older than Jackie, answered.
"Mr. Drake? the librarian in town suggested you might be able to help me by answering a few questions about the Sussex Inn."
"Is it the inn you're curious about or Sabine Drake?"
"I'm staying at the inn," she confided truthfully, "and last night I saw something I can't explain."
Mitchell studied her closely as if trying to assess her motives or her mental state. He apparently decided she was not dangerous because he invited her inside.
"I hope I'm not keeping you from your work," she apologized.
"Not at all. I'm a photographer, and I'm not on a nine-to-five schedule."
"Weddings and baby pictures?"
"Heavens, no!" he laughed. "I have a friend who's a woodworker. A couple of years ago we pooled our resources and formed a company that manufactures hand-cut wooden jigsaw puzzles. I travel around New England photographing the foliage, small towns, seascapes and other picturesque scenes. Then I blow up the pictures and print them, and my friend glues them on wood and cuts them up to make puzzles."
"Can you compete with Milton Bradley and other companies that mass produce puzzles on cardboard?"
"We don't sell our puzzles in toy or department stores. We sell them in quaint little gift shops where people will pay thirty-five dollars and up for hand-cut puzzles made in New England. Tourists eat that kind of thing up, you know."
"I'll bet they do."
Mitchell made his guest a cup of coffee, and the two sat down at the kitchen table.
"Now what did you want to know about my family?"
"Do you have any idea why Sabine Drake hanged herself?"
"Her husband, Jonah, died only a short time after they were married. People felt she had a hand in his death and that her conscience bothered her so much she took her own life."
"Did they have any children?"
"No."
"But the librarian told me you were a descendent."
"I'm a descendent of Jonah's brother, Homer."
"Do you think Sabine murdered her husband?"
Mitchell shrugged.
"I don't really know. But if she didn't, why would she kill herself?"
"Grief," Jackie suggested. "Maybe she really loved him and couldn't bear living without him."
"You're quite the romantic," Mitchell said with a captivating smile that made Jackie's pulse quicken.
* * *
After a delightful dinner with Mitchell, Jackie returned to the Sussex Inn. She went to her room, took out her laptop and continued working on her report. As on the previous night, she felt a drastic drop in temperature.
"Sabine," she called quietly so as not to alarm Mrs. Fitzgibbon.
The temperature dropped even more, and Jackie began to shiver.
"Is it you? Are you the spirit of the woman who hanged herself in this house?"
The cold mist appeared, and for a moment it moved forward and hovered above the laptop. Then it was gone. When Jackie looked at her computer, she saw the words ALL LIES typed in large bold letters on the screen.
The next day Jackie returned to Mitchell's house and told him about the message she'd received.
"I'm sorry, Jackie, but I just don't believe in ghosts."
"Neither did I until two days ago."
"Are you sure no one is playing a prank on you?"
"The other two guests checked out yesterday afternoon. I'm the only one staying at the inn right now, and I don't think Mrs. Fitzgibbon is the practical joke type."
"Maybe all our talk about Jonah and Sabine Drake triggered your imagination," he suggested tactfully.
Jackie seriously considered his suggestion but then rejected it.
"I didn't imagine it. There was something in my room, and it tried to communicate with me. I believe it was the ghost of Sabine Drake and that she was trying to tell me that the legends about her are all lies."
"If that's so, maybe she'll contact you again."
* * *
For the third night in a row, Jackie felt the numbing cold and saw the strange vaporous outline of a woman in her room. Once more, she tried to communicate with the specter.
"Sabine, I know it's you. Please speak to me. I want to learn the truth. Did you kill your husband and then take your own life?"
The vapor seemed to swirl faster. Then in the midst of the cloud, a woman's face appeared, its beauty marred only by a look of profound sorrow.
"Please tell me what happened to you."
Suddenly, Jackie felt icy cold hands grip her throat. She struggled, but the unseen fingers only tightened their grasp. As the young woman began to lose consciousness, the icy mist floated toward her and engulfed her in its coldness. The hands abruptly left her throat, and the mist gradually faded, leaving Jackie lying on the floor, gasping for breath.
* * *
It was almost eleven o'clock when Jackie showed up on Mitchell's doorstep, terrified and sobbing hysterically.
"What's wrong?" Mitchell asked as he helped her inside.
"It tried to kill me."
There were red bruises, like handprints, on her throat.
"What tried to kill you?"
"The ghost. But I don't believe it was the vaporous one I told you about. I believe it was another one, a man this time."
"I'm calling the police," Mitchell declared.
"No!" Jackie cried, grabbing his arm. "The police will never believe me. They'll just think I'm crazy. Besides, what can they do, arrest a ghost?"
"What if it was a real man who attacked you?"
"I know I sound like a raving lunatic, but the thing that attacked me wasn't a living human being. It was a ghost. You've got to believe me."
Mitchell poured two glasses of brandy and gave one to Jackie, who sipped it gingerly because of her aching throat.
"I'm sorry for coming here, but I couldn't spend one more night in that place, and everything else is booked up."
"Don't worry," he said, soothing her. "You can stay in the spare bedroom. Would you like me to take you to the hospital and have a doctor look at your bruises?"
"Don't trouble yourself. I'll be fine."
The next morning Jackie drove to the Sussex Inn, collected her belongings and paid her bill. When she went back to Mitchell's house, she sent an email to her employer, strongly suggesting that he forget about purchasing the old inn.
"The place is in need of a lot of work, and the cost to restore it would be exorbitant," she wrote.
Three days later, with the bruises on her throat beginning to fade, Jackie left Mariner's Cove and headed toward her next assignment, the Prentice Inn in Greenport, Massachusetts.
* * *
Eighteen months later, Jackie Boyle turned toward Mitchell Drake, took his hand in hers and lovingly gazed into his eyes.
"With the power invested in me by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts," the minister said, "I now pronounce you man and wife."
After the ceremony, the bride and groom got into the back of the limousine and headed toward Elmwood Hills. Their photographer wanted to take pictures of them in front of the town's park, the main attraction of which was a cascading waterfall. Along the way, the limo passed the Sussex Inn, abandoned for nearly a year. Its windows were boarded up and its doors padlocked. A realtor's FOR SALE sign had been placed on the front lawn. All the while she was dating Mitchell, Jackie intentionally avoided the place where she once encountered the ghost of Sabine Drake. Seeing the inn now sent a shudder through her body.
Mitchell squeezed her hand, smiled warmly and asked, "Are you okay?"
"I was just remembering that night. I was so sure there was a second, malevolent spirit in my room."
"And now?"
"I don't know. Perhaps you were right. Maybe it was only my imagination."
"Those bruises on your neck were real enough, and I'm sure they weren't self-inflicted."
Jackie was able to put Sabine Drake out of her mind during the reception and during the couple's two-week honeymoon on Martha's Vineyard. Then three days after their return to Mariner's Cove, Mitchell announced he was going to Boston to attend a meeting with his business partner.
"I'm sure he'll love your photographs of the Vineyard," Jackie said.
"Are you angry that I took those pictures on our honeymoon?"
"Not at all. Now that I've quit my job, you'll have to work twice as hard to support the two of us until I find another one."
After Mitchell left for his appointment, Jackie got into her car, intending to drive up to Greenport to do some shopping, but Drake House, the former Sussex Inn, called to her, urging her to return. Giving in to the impulse, she turned the car around and headed to Elmwood Hills.
The front door was locked, but the back door stood ajar, pried open, no doubt, by curious teenagers. Inside, Mrs. Fitzgibbon's once well-kept rooms were littered with beer cans and cigarette butts, and graffiti covered the walls.
"What a shame," Jackie sighed. "It was such a beautiful place."
There was a strong smell of dust in the air but no sign of any supernatural entities. Warily, Jackie ascended the stairs and walked up to the second-floor room where she had slept nearly two years earlier.
"Sabine?" she called. "Are you here?"
There was no reply.
"Maybe it was all nothing but my overactive imagination."
She turned to leave, and then she felt the coldness that portended the appearance of the strange, misty cloud. The face of the desolate woman appeared again, only this time it actually spoke to her.
"Leave now! Leave before he kills you, too."
Jackie didn't linger to ask questions. She ran down the stairs and out into the sunlight.
"Jackie," a woman called.
Jackie squinted and put her hand to her eyes to block out the sun.
"Yes? Who is it?"
"It's me, Agnes Drake, Mitchell's grandmother."
"Oh, Mrs. Drake, I'm glad to see you. What are you doing here?"
"You've seen her, haven't you?" the old woman asked.
"Sabine Drake? Yes, I believe I have. Don't tell me you've seen her, too?"
"Oh, yes. Many times. She wanted me to help her, but I didn't. Now she's turned to you."
"How can I help her?"
"She wants you to tell everyone the truth about her death."
"But I don't know the truth."
"I do," the old woman sadly admitted. "Jonah Drake and his younger brother, Homer, left England together and settled in Massachusetts. Jonah worked hard and made a small fortune for himself. Homer, on the other hand, worked only long enough to earn money for drinks.
"When Jonah reached his fortieth year, he married a beautiful young woman from Boston and built a fine house for her. Homer had neither home nor wife, nothing but the clothes on his back. He lived on the charity of his brother, who provided him with a roof over his head and food in his belly. But rather than feel gratitude for his sibling's kindness, Homer resented it. He greedily eyed his brother's wealth and lustfully chased after Jonah's wife.
"Not long after he married, Jonah was found dead of a mysterious ailment. Homer decided it was his opportunity to seize all that had belonged to his brother—even his wife—but Sabine rebuffed him. Homer wanted revenge. Suspicion had already fallen on the widow. People whispered that she had married Jonah for his money and killed him to rid herself of an unwanted husband. Homer fueled the fire, hinting that Sabine had knowledge of the black arts and that she used them to first bewitch her husband and then later kill him. One evening, a group of men led by the town minister went to the house and hanged Sabine as a witch."
Jackie gasped.
"So she didn't commit suicide."
"No. After Sabine's death, Homer inherited his brother's fortune. He married a poor girl from Mariner's Cove, and the two moved into Jonah's house. The woman soon learned that her husband had murdered his brother and was morally responsible for the death of his sister-in-law. On her deathbed, she revealed the truth to her children, who in turn told their children before they died. Thus, the truth was passed down through Homer's descendants."
"Why has it been kept a secret for so long then?"
"No one wanted to vilify the patriarch of our family, a man who has been held in high public esteem for three hundred years. Also, there was the good name of the town to consider. The men who hanged Sabine concealed their crime by declaring her death a suicide. If any of us told the truth, the best families, as well as the local clergyman, would be scandalized."
"What about poor Sabine? Her name has been blackened for centuries."
"It was felt that she was dead, and the truth wouldn't bring her back. But now you know the secret," the old woman said wearily. "It's up to you if you want to keep it or share it with the world."
With their conversation at an end, Jackie said goodbye to the old woman. Then she drove home, where she found Mitchell's Subaru in the driveway.
"I thought you were driving to Boston," she said with surprise.
"I was, but my mother called me on my cell phone and told me my grandmother passed away."
"There must be some mistake. I was with your grandmother. I just left her about ten minutes ago."
"That's impossible. She slipped into a coma during the night and died early this morning."
* * *
Since the decision was left to her, Jackie chose to share Agnes Drake's secret with the world. She wrote a book revealing the truth behind the legend of the hanged woman. With the money made from the sale of the book, Jackie and Mitchell Drake bought the old Sussex Inn and remodeled it as a private home once more.
Jackie was never again haunted by ghostly visitors, for with the truth finally told, the souls of both Sabine and Homer Drake were finally laid to rest.
The Sussex Inn offers two of Salem's favorite things: bed and breakfast!
