A Place with Atmosphere
As the taillights of Chuck Nolan's Mercedes disappeared around the bend in the road, Maureen looked back on the past eight years of her life. During that time, in which most of her college friends had focused on establishing their careers, she was content to be Mrs. Charles Nolan III. Although she probably would have had little difficulty juggling a marriage and a job, her husband, the last of a long line of wealthy and socially prominent Boston Nolans, was a proud, old-fashioned man who considered a working wife an insult to this manhood. What he wanted was a spouse who was capable of running his house, helping him meet his many social obligations and, most importantly, providing him with a son to carry on the glorious name of Nolan.
Maureen, an only child, longed for a large family and was quite willing to be a full-time mother. Since money presented no obstacle, the newly married couple saw no reason to wait before starting a family. Yet despite being married for nearly two years, Maureen did not become pregnant. Anxious to rectify the situation, she consulted a doctor specializing in infertility; yet after running all the usual tests on both her and Chuck, he could find no medical reason why she was not able to conceive. Three years later the Nolans were still childless. When Maureen finally suggested adoption, her husband flatly refused. He wanted a child of his own: a true Nolan to carry on the family name and eventually take over the reins of the family business. No matter how desperately Maureen pleaded and cried, Chuck remained adamant. Finally, after eight years of marriage, the Nolans divorced.
It was an amicable separation. There were no dramatic scenes, no threats, no recriminations and no haggling over the distribution of the couple's financial assets. As part of the settlement, Maureen received a house—not the family estate, but a nice house nonetheless—and a generous allowance on which she could live comfortably for the rest of her life.
But what exactly was she to do with that life now that her marriage was over? How was she to fill the empty days that loomed ahead? She could not very well spend the next forty or fifty years watching soap operas and doing housework. The only way she saw of keeping her sanity was to join the ranks of the modern working women. Yet she knew only too well that she lacked the training and experience necessary to get a good job. Somehow she just could not see herself cashiering at Walmart or taking customers' orders at McDonald's. She would not even eat there, much less work there! Maureen may not be able to tell a spreadsheet from a database, but she did know the difference between good food and what passed for food at most restaurants. Eight years of hosting dinner parties for Chuck's clients, business associates and family had provided her with quite an education.
"That's it," she declared triumphantly. "I'll open my own restaurant. If there's one thing this town lacks, it's a decent place to eat."
Other than the usual fast-food chains and the local diner, there were only a handful of pizza parlors and Chinese restaurants tucked away in various strip malls. If someone wanted a steak or lobster dinner, he or she had to drive half an hour to the Great Steak of Texas in Swanson or forty-five minutes to the Seafood Shanty in Chester Falls.
Maureen knew her culinary skills alone would not guarantee the success of such a venture. What she needed was a partner who could handle the business arrangements while she concentrated on the menu. With this end in mind, a mutual friend introduced her to Floyd Morrison, the owner of a chain of gas stations/convenience stores called the Pit Stop. Placed in strategic locations around the state, each of the twenty-eight stores offered weary motorists a place to rest their feet, fill up their tanks and their stomachs and empty their bladders as well as their wallets.
Maureen knew Floyd had tapped a gold mine with his glorified gas stations and wondered why he would want to branch off into the restaurant business. The answer was simple: he loved good food. A bachelor with neither the time nor the desire to cook a meal for one, Floyd found it more convenient to dine out. However, it was an increasingly rare occurrence to find a meal that was worth its price. He had heard wonderful things about Maureen's cooking and, once he sampled it himself, he was eager to enter into a partnership with her.
"A good location," he told Maureen, "is vital to the success of any business. We'll need to find a building in a clean neighborhood, with easy access and good parking. Of course, in the restaurant business atmosphere is important, too. People are likely to pay twice as much for a meal if it's served in a turn-of-the-century train station or a two-hundred-year-old grist mill."
"I don't think there are any places like that around here," Maureen said. "Most of the buildings along the highway are relatively new. This whole area was farmland until about fifteen years ago."
"What about the Lake Harmony area? I've been told many of the wealthiest people in the state lived there before the Great Depression."
"Those homes are old dinosaurs. Even the owners that survived the stock market crash eventually decided they weren't worth the expense of the heat and maintenance. Not only that, the Lake District is at least ten miles away from the interstate."
"If the food and atmosphere are good, people won't mind the drive. Besides, the property is bound to be a lot cheaper there than in the center of town."
The following day Maureen and Floyd drove around the old Lake District, looking at available properties. To their disappointment, there were few buildings to choose from. Some of the once grand mansions had become nursing homes, real estate offices and funeral parlors, but most had been subdivided.
While viewing one of these vacant lower-level storefronts, Maureen spotted an old home across the lake, a stately Victorian with gingerbread trim, Doric columns, a large front porch and a second-story balcony. For Maureen, it was love at first sight.
"That place is for sale, too," the real estate agent was quick to point out when she saw Maureen staring across the lake.
As they drove out to the house, the realtor began her sales pitch.
"It was renovated in the late 1980s. A new heating system was installed, along with central air conditioning and new water pipes."
"Isn't it just perfect, Floyd?" Maureen asked after viewing the house. "In the warmer months, we can put tables out on the porch. Maybe we can also build a terrace or gazebo beside the lake. And there's a lot I can do with the interior as well. Talk about atmosphere! That huge stone fireplace would add ambiance to any setting."
"I don't know. Sure, the place is beautiful, but it's kind of far from the beaten track."
"It may not be visible from the highway, but we can erect a large sign at the end of the lake road so that people won't miss the turn. Besides, weren't you the one who said that if the food and the atmosphere are good, people won't mind the drive?"
* * *
Maureen and Floyd spent the next several months converting the old place into a restaurant, often working sixteen-hour days. Construction crews tore down interior walls to make more spacious rooms for dining. The second story was made into an apartment for Maureen, who had sold her house to help finance her share of the restaurant. When all the work was done, Floyd had to agree that the results were well worth the time and money spent. The Lakeside Inn, as they aptly named the eatery, was elegant yet at the same time warm and comfortable.
When the construction was finished, Maureen turned to the task of stocking the restaurant with food, beverages, linens, tableware, dishes and glassware. She bought in quantity at a low price, but it soon became evident that the storage room next to the kitchen would never accommodate all the supplies she had ordered.
"Why don't you store the nonperishable items in the basement?" Floyd suggested. "There might even be shelves down there already. Before the days of the large grocery chains and convenience stores, people used to stock several months' worth of canned and dry goods, especially in the winter."
Maureen had never seen the lowest level of the old house; she had been far too busy redecorating the upstairs rooms to take the time to explore the cellar. As she went down the old stone steps, flashlight in hand, she was surprised and relieved to see that it was not a cavernous stone chamber covered with cobwebs and smelling of mildew. Instead, to the right of the stairs was a large family room with tiled floors and brightly painted walls; to the left was a well-lit storage area that included, as Floyd had predicted, plenty of shelves. While she was sizing up the storage area, she discovered a wooden trapdoor built into the floor.
It must lead to another cellar, she thought, wondering if there was anything down there.
Often, people stored produce and wines in special cellars. Or perhaps it was an old bomb shelter built in the Fifties when families lived in fear of an impending nuclear attack. Her curiosity piqued, she pulled on the latch, but the door stuck, its hinges coated with rust. Apparently, no one had tried opening it in years. Maureen was determined, however. She got a crowbar from the garage and, after several minutes of struggling, was able to pry the door open.
Gingerly testing each step, she climbed down the ladder-like stairs, hoping they were not rotted to the point where they would not support her weight. She shined the flashlight's beam into the dark, damp cellar, hoping she would not find Norman Bates' mother sitting in a rocking chair in the corner. Not only was the cellar free of mummified corpses, but it was also absolutely empty, not a dried apple or bottle of vintage wine anywhere.
As she turned back to the steps, somewhat disappointed at not having found a souvenir of a bygone era buried in the old cellar, Maureen felt a cold wind blow past her legs. Goosebumps broke out on her body, and she shivered from the chill.
Where did that draft come from? she wondered. There are no doors or windows anywhere down here.
* * *
As the opening day drew near, Maureen grew more and more nervous. There was so much that still had to be done that she barely got any sleep at night. It was little wonder then that she began to imagine things. On more than one occasion she thought she felt something touch her arm or her leg, only to discover when she turned around that nothing was there.
Despite her jitters, the opening day proved to be a great success. The customers who flocked to the new restaurant were impressed with both the atmosphere and the excellent food of the Lakeside Inn. After the restaurant closed at the end of the evening and the staff left for the night, Floyd and Maureen sat down in the upstairs living room for a celebratory glass of champagne.
"Let's light a fire in the fireplace," Maureen suggested.
"Now?" her business partner asked. "It's nearly 2:00 a.m. I'm surprised you're not dead on your feet."
"I'm too excited to sleep. I want to sit here, enjoy my glass of champagne and watch the fire."
Soon the kindling was ablaze, and the logs started to catch. The aroma of burning wood filled the air, a warm, cozy scent on a chilly autumn night. Maureen laid her head back on the Queen Anne wing chair and closed her eyes.
"What's that sound?" Floyd asked.
"I don't know," Maureen replied, puzzled. "It sounded like an animal. Maybe a stray cat got inside and can't find its way back out."
"I'll go down and have a look," Floyd volunteered.
"The noise is coming from below. The cat must be in the basement," Maureen suggested, following closely behind Floyd.
But the noise no longer sounded like an animal; it sounded human.
"It's coming from down there."
Maureen pointed to the closed cellar door. When Floyd bent to lift the latch, he smelled the acrid odor of smoke.
"Something's burning down there. Quick! Get the fire extinguisher!"
As his partner stood ready to combat the blaze, Maureen threw open the cellar door.
"What the hell?" Floyd muttered.
There were no flames, no smoke, no fire—just the cold, damp stone walls and the packed earthen floor.
* * *
During the next few weeks, Maureen continued to be plagued by cold drafts and the odd sensation of being touched by unseen hands. Often, late at night, as she slept in her upstairs bedroom, she heard the faint sound of children crying.
"I think this place is haunted," she finally admitted to her partner one evening. "I don't think anyone else has seen or heard anything; at least no one has spoken of it. But you were here opening night. You heard the crying. You smelled the smoke. Please tell me I'm not imagining it all."
"Don't worry. You haven't lost your mind," Floyd said, trying to comfort her. "I've been checking into the history of this place. The existing house was built in 1903. Before that, this was the site of the Lake Harmony Home for Orphans, which burned to the ground in 1896. That old cellar must have been part of the original building. That would explain why we smelled smoke when I tried to open the door. There's probably been no ventilation down there for over a hundred years."
"I was right. This place is haunted by those poor orphans," Maureen said excitedly.
"Wrong. I went to the library and read through the old newspaper accounts. All the children and staff members got out safely when the building caught fire. Look, I can't explain the strange noises and the weird sensations you're experiencing, but there's bound to be a logical explanation. I don't think they're caused by anything supernatural."
Maureen did not share Floyd's opinion. Her belief that the inn was haunted was subsequently confirmed when she learned that she was not the only one to encounter the spirits. Several of her employees and customers admitted to feeling odd sensations and cold drafts and to hearing strange ghostly cries. One cook even claimed to have seen a spoon, suspended in midair, tapping out a drum-like rhythm on an empty coffee can.
Word soon spread throughout the town that the Lakeside Inn was haunted. Yet rumors of paranormal activity did not hurt business. In fact, some people came to the restaurant, hoping to encounter a ghost. Even Floyd had to admit something out of the ordinary was taking place at the old house in Lake Harmony, when he himself experienced indisputable evidence of unseen forces.
"What do you think we should do about it?" Maureen asked him.
"What can we do about it? You don't want to call in a bunch of paranormal investigators, do you? Or ask the church to recommend an exorcist? We'd be laughed right out of town."
"I know that. But do you think we should move the restaurant to another building?"
"Why? You said yourself this place is perfect. It really isn't such a unique situation, you know. There are actually a lot of old buildings around the country—restaurants, inns, hotels, theaters—that claim to be haunted, and rather than hinder business, the suspicion of ghosts actually helps it."
"I'm not worried about business dropping off. We don't know what's causing these disturbances. What if someone should get hurt here?"
"Has this ghost—or whatever you want to call it—ever appeared threatening in any way?"
"No. I don't know why—maybe I just can't get that old orphanage out of my mind—but I believe that we're being visited by the ghost of a child. I've seen cans of tomato sauce stacked up like building blocks and oranges rolled across the floor like rubber balls. But whenever I get close, I feel that burst of cold air rush past me, as though the spirit is running away."
"It sounds like it's more afraid of you than you are of it. I really don't think this specter poses a threat to anyone, but I'll leave the decision up to you. You're the one that's here all the time. If you feel you're in any danger whatsoever, we'll close the place up and look for a new location."
"You must think I'm a masochist to want to go through all that hard work again!"
"What hard work?" he laughed. "I enjoyed every minute of it." When the laughter died down, he added, "You have to remember, I spend my life going from one gas station to another. This place is the closest thing I have to a home. Pretty pathetic, isn't it?"
"No. I feel the same way. I was never really comfortable in the house I shared with Chuck. He filled it with expensive artwork and modern furniture, all intended to impress his business associates. That house had all the warmth of a dentist's office, but this place makes me feel so cozy, so content. You know, even if the ghost of the Headless Horseman rode through the main dining area, I doubt I'd want to leave here."
Having made the decision to stay, Maureen also resolved to make friends with the unseen occupant of the house. One afternoon she drove to a nearby mall and bought a shopping bag full of Fisher Price toys, which she then scattered around her apartment. That night after the restaurant closed, she went upstairs and saw the toys being played with by invisible hands. However, all activity stopped abruptly once she entered the room.
"It's okay," she said calmly, although her heart was pounding with excitement. "No one is going to hurt you. I bought these toys for you. Go ahead and play with them."
As Maureen got ready for bed that night she started to hum an old lullaby, one her grandmother had taught her years earlier. Something touched her hand again, but this time it lingered briefly.
"Goodnight," she whispered to her unseen guest.
Every night thereafter Maureen encountered not one but several ghosts playing with the toys. Apparently, the spirits were no longer afraid of her. Sometimes she would sing to them; other times she would read them stories from a children's book she had bought at Barnes & Noble. These songs and stories seemed to comfort the ghosts, and Maureen no longer woke in the early morning hours to the sound of their crying.
* * *
By the end of its first year of operation, the Lakeside Inn had become one of the most popular restaurants in the state. Not only were the prices reasonable and the food delicious, but also Maureen was in the habit of treating paying customers like welcome guests. Several times each evening she would walk among the diners with a tray of chocolates. She would stop at each table, offer the guests a piece of candy, ask how they liked their meal and express the hope that they would return to the inn in the future.
One night while making her rounds, she stopped at the table of an elderly gentleman who, since he was dining alone, was eager for conversation. Maureen instructed the waitress to bring him a cup of coffee and a slice of apple pie on the house, and the man asked the owner to join him.
"You've done a remarkable job with this old place," he complimented her. "I remember how it looked when I was a boy. It was quite an impressive mansion; it's a shame no one ever lived in it for very long."
"Why is that?" Maureen asked with interest.
"There were rumors that the place was haunted," he replied, and then quickly added, "but I'm sure that's just superstitious nonsense."
"I don't suppose you know who was supposed to be doing the haunting?" she asked hopefully.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. People claim it was the ghosts of the children who died in a fire that gutted the old orphanage that used to stand on this property."
Maureen's heart raced.
"I heard about that fire. I also heard that no one was injured when the orphanage burned down."
"That was the official story. But, you see, ma'am, it wasn't exactly true. A man named Decker ran the orphanage, and he was by no means the most honest man in these parts. He received money from the state and county agencies for food, clothes and medical care for all the kids here, but he only took care of the ones that were likely to be adopted, the 'normal' ones. The others, the ones most people didn't want, the ones that had physical or mental problems—well, he didn't see any reason to waste his funding on them, so he fed them barely enough to keep them alive and pocketed the rest of the money."
"How could he get away with that?"
"Don't forget; these events took place back in the 1800s. There were no social workers or child welfare inspectors ever sent out to check up on Decker. Of course, he didn't want any outsiders seeing the kids and causing trouble. So, if there were any visitors or prospective parents around the place, Decker would simply lock those poor kids in the cellar. On the day of the fire, some of the wealthy women from the Lake District were holding their annual picnic for the orphans. Most of the kids were down around the lake eating and playing games when they noticed the flames coming from the back of the building. The adults ran in and rescued the few kids still inside, all except the ones in the cellar because no one but Decker knew they were down there."
"How do you know all this?"
"My grandfather was one of the firefighters that helped put out the blaze. When the flames were finally extinguished, he and his fellow firemen sifted through the smoldering rubble and found the trapdoor to the cellar. They opened it and found the bodies of five children who had died of smoke inhalation. Each one of them had some physical or mental disability that made Decker consider them 'undesirable.' Those poor little kids were naked and half-starved."
"Why didn't any of this make it into the newspapers?"
"Decker's brother-in-law was the richest man in town. He had all the politicians in his pocket. In exchange for the authorities' sweeping the matter under the rug, the brother-in-law agreed to finance the construction of a new facility about thirty miles north of here. Decker himself went away and never came back. The firemen who found the bodies of the dead children were pretty upset, but what could they do? The orphanage was gone, Decker was gone and all the kids had been relocated."
Not all the kids, Maureen thought with tears in her eyes. Some of them are still here.
* * *
The following years were good ones for Maureen Nolan. She and Floyd Morrison married and became the proud parents of three beautiful children. Their business became so successful that they had to relocate the restaurant to a larger building on the other side of the lake. However, they remodeled the old house again for use as their family home.
Despite the many demands placed on her time, Maureen continued to frequent the restaurant in the afternoons—weather permitting—and pass around the tray of chocolates to her luncheon guests. However, much of the day-to-day operation of the new Lakeside Inn was delegated to the head chef, for Maureen wanted to spend her evenings at home with her husband and children. It became a long-standing custom in the Morrison home for the mother to read to the children before bedtime each night. Afterward, she would sing a lullaby and patiently wait to receive her goodnight kisses—not only from the three children she could see but also from the five that she couldn't.
This is what Salem considers a place with atmosphere—not to mention a catchy name.
