Stranger in Town
As I approached the small New England town on that dark and stormy night ....
"Oh, brother," Molly McKeehan groaned and then quickly deleted what she had written. "Have I been reduced to boring clichés?"
With five moderately successful thrillers to her name, Molly had recently quit her job as an insurance adjuster to become a full-time writer. Ironically, since taking that precarious step, the creative process necessary to her craft seemed to have abandoned her.
The thunder rumbled loudly, and the lightning lit up the sky like a pyrotechnic display.
Another deletion. She shook her head, leaned back on her chair, took her hands off the keyboard and let her eyes wander around the study. It was by far her favorite room in the house. She loved the rich hardwood floors, the large over-filled bookcase across from her mahogany desk and the brick fireplace with the stone mantel. Hardcopy editions of her five novels were proudly displayed on the coffee table. All five of them had been written in that room, at that desk, on that same Dell computer.
She raised her hands and let her fingers hover over the home row of her laptop keyboard.
"Concentrate!" she told herself, staring at the blinking cursor on the empty page.
As I rounded the bend in the road and entered the small New England town, I felt as though I were stepping inside a Norman Rockwell painting.
Molly reread the sentence and concluded it was not too bad, although the comparison between a New England town and a Norman Rockwell painting was getting a bit stale. Still, she could always change it later; at least it was a better start than her previous attempts.
The second sentence should have come to her more quickly, but it proved just as elusive as the first. Unable to concentrate on her story, she was easily distracted by the splash of color in her front yard. She got up from her desk and walked to her window. It was the second week of October, and the autumn foliage was nearly at its peak.
"It's so beautiful," she said, marveling at the view from her bay window. "I wonder why so many thrillers and horror stories are set in quaint New England locations, when there's nothing in the least bit threatening about such places."
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she needed a change of scenery, a less familiar, more intimidating setting to inspire her. Consequently, ten minutes later, Molly was behind the wheel of her Subaru Forester, heading south toward Boston. Long before the city skyline came into view, however, the traffic came to a complete stop.
"There must be an accident up ahead. I wonder how long of a back-up there is."
She immediately reached into her handbag to get her cell phone, but after rifling through first one compartment and then another, she remembered answering a call from her agent the evening before and laying the phone on her bedside night table.
Molly waited several minutes before turning on her signal, pulling onto the shoulder and driving to the next exit. Unfamiliar with the area, she followed the cars ahead of her. Before long, though, she found herself trailing behind a single car on a back road. When the driver pulled into a driveway and his car disappeared into a garage, she was alone on the street and hopelessly lost.
With each mile she drove, the sky became darker, not only with approaching nightfall but also with threatening storm clouds.
"A mystery writer's dream: the proverbial dark and stormy night," she laughed, attempting to keep her spirits up.
Then, just as the sun finally dipped below the western horizon, the storm that had been threatening made good on its promise. The rain came down with such force that, even with the wipers on high speed, Molly had difficulty seeing more than a few feet in front of her car.
A tremendous bolt of lightning seemed to split the sky in two, and the following crack and rumble of thunder made the heart race.
"... and the lightning lit up the sky like a pyrotechnic display," she said, repeating the words she had written earlier in the day.
As the storm grew in intensity, the lightning came with strobe-like regularity.
"It's like driving through a car wash," Molly said, trying to see through the pounding rain.
Moments later she drove through a deep puddle, and the water sprayed up on the Subaru's windshield. She hit the brakes and slid on the wet leaves. The only thing she saw when the wipers cleared the last of the water away was the trunk of a huge tree directly in her path. The startled driver had no time to scream, much less take evasive action to avoid the collision.
* * *
Molly's eyes fluttered open to see the morning sun hovering above the eastern horizon. She reached her hand up to her head and winced when she felt the bump on the left side of her forehead. As she forced the door open, she heard the tinkling of broken glass falling to the ground. She stepped out of the car and gingerly stood up. Other than a mild wave of dizziness, she had no difficulty moving.
"No pain. Nothing broken," she declared.
The same could not be said for her car, which she could clearly see had been totaled.
"Now, what do I do? There obviously isn't much traffic on this road. If there were, someone would have found my car by now."
Again, she thought about her cell phone lying on her night table. Damn it! Why hadn't she taken the time to return it to her purse?
The imagination that had fueled her five novels made her dwell on the worst-case scenario.
"I'm in the middle of nowhere; it could be days before anyone finds me. I might die before ...."
Although she was a confirmed feminist who took pride in her financial independence, she reacted like a stereotypical damsel in distress: she cried, and cried, and cried some more. Finally, she gathered her strength, her nerve and, most importantly, her sense of humor.
"This isn't The Blair Witch Project," she said, reaching for her handbag. "I'm not about to wander around the woods in circles. I have a road to follow."
Molly tried to decide whether to head south or north.
"If I go back the way I came, it will take me hours of walking before I come across a town. On the other hand, if I keep heading north, who knows where I'll wind up? I don't want to turn this little adventure into The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon."
She was about to begin walking south when she heard a dog barking to the east. Her spirits rose.
"Where there's a dog, there are usually people."
Thankful that she had worn her Reeboks rather than heels, she left the road and headed toward the sound of the animal. She soon discovered a second road which ran parallel to the first and once again chose to head south. It proved to be a wise decision. Within ten minutes she saw a group of houses and a tall church steeple.
* * *
Molly was hungry and thirsty, and her feet were beginning to hurt, but she smiled brightly when she saw the wooden sign proclaiming WELCOME TO OAKLAND.
An Irish setter came from one of the yards and ran toward her with its tail wagging.
"Hi, girl," the writer said, petting the dog's silky, red coat. "Was it you I heard earlier?"
The dog barked and wagged its tail, as though replying to her question.
"Here, Penny," a man called from the front steps of a nearby Cape Cod. "Don't worry. She doesn't bite."
"Are you referring to the dog or to me?" Molly laughed.
The man crossed his lawn and walked toward the road.
"You're a stranger in town."
"Yes. In fact, I don't even know where I am."
"You're in Oakland," he informed her.
"I gathered as much from the sign. I was on I-95 headed toward Boston, but the traffic wasn't moving. In short, I took a detour and wound up in a wrecked car by the side of the road."
A large black bird flew down, perched on the welcome sign and let out a shrill caw.
"Quote the raven, 'Nevermore,'" Molly joked.
"I don't believe that's a raven," the man said. "It might be, but I think it's a crow."
"In that case, I'll quote the Crow, 'I guess it's not a good day to be a bad guy.'"
A look of incomprehension on the young man's face prompted her to explain.
"You know, The Crow? The movie? Brandon Lee as Eric Draven?"
"I never saw it."
Molly's stomach growled and she was reminded of her predicament.
"Is there a bus stop or train station nearby?" she inquired.
"There're no bus or train routes in Oakland."
"Someplace where I can rent a car?"
The man shook his head.
"A phone I can use?" she asked hopefully.
"Sorry, we don't have any phone service or electricity."
"Right. That storm last night must have downed the wires. Well, in that case, is there a restaurant or diner where I can get something to eat? I'm famished!"
"No, Oakland doesn't have either."
"What the hell does Oakland have?" Molly asked in frustration.
"People, birds, cats, dogs," the man replied, patting Penny her head. "Why don't you come inside and I'll make you a sandwich or something?"
Normally, she would not have dreamed of going into a house with a strange man, but her options in Oakland were limited.
"Thank you," she said, deciding to accept his offer and hoping that by the time she finished eating, the power and phone lines would be restored.
Thankfully, the man, whose name was Craig Parry, was not a serial killer or a rapist. After getting to know him during a two-hour lunch, the worst Molly could say about him was that he was a Yankee fan.
Finished with her tuna sandwich and apple cider, she put on her jacket, picked up her handbag and thanked Craig for his hospitality.
"You're going somewhere?" he asked with a note of disappointment in his voice.
"I'm going to see if any of your neighbors has a car. Maybe I can bribe someone into giving me a ride to a place that has a working phone."
"Hold on," he said. "I'll take a walk with you."
When they walked out the front door, a raven—a lifelong Poe fan, Molly insisted on thinking of the black bird as a raven—flew past them.
"Shades of Alfred Hitchcock," she said, another movie reference that seemed to go right over Craig's head.
This time she did not bother to explain.
Oakland, she soon discovered, was a typical New England town, although smaller than most. There were dozens of picturesque houses but no businesses of any kind—unless you considered the church a business.
About a block from Craig's house, there was a young woman hanging up laundry in her yard. A little girl, most likely her daughter, was playing nearby.
"Excuse me," Molly yelled to her. "Do you own a car?"
The woman walked over to the road and introduced herself as Barbara Vining and the child as her daughter, Abby.
"A car? No. I don't. Why do you ask?"
"I'm looking for someone who can drive me to the nearest place with a phone."
"She's a stranger in town," Craig explained, although Molly suspected the woman was well aware of that fact.
"I'm sorry," Barbara said, taking her daughter's hand. "I can't help you."
"Thank you anyway."
As the mother and child turned back toward their house, the little girl looked up at Molly with her large, waif-like eyes. The writer smiled at her, but the smile froze on her lips when she saw the doll the little girl carried: its tattered dress was singed black and its head was a melted lump of plastic.
"Oakland is certainly off the beaten track," Molly said, as she and Craig continued walking.
"It's peaceful here," the young man added.
As they approached an intersection, they came upon an attractive woman who was sweeping her walkway.
"Hi, Craig," she called. "You're coming this afternoon, aren't you?"
"I wouldn't miss it," he replied.
"You can bring your friend. We'll have plenty of food."
"Thank you," Molly said, "but I'm not staying. I'm ...."
"She's a stranger in town," Craig said, cutting off her sentence.
"A stranger! Really?" the woman exclaimed. "Do you think that's a sign of good luck or of evil?"
"Oh, I'm sure Miss McKeehan's visit is a portent of good luck," he quickly assured the nervous woman.
Then he turned to the writer and explained, "Nina is getting married today."
"Congratulations!" Molly said.
"Thank you. Are you sure you can't make it? It's going to be a big wedding. Everyone will be there," the soon-to-be bride gushed happily.
Since Molly's search to find someone with a car failed to yield any positive results, there was a good possibility she would still be stuck in Oakland in the afternoon.
"Maybe I can make it after all."
Weddings—especially big weddings—meant friends and family from near and far. Surely, one or more of the people attending Nina Van Doren's wedding would have a car.
No sooner did the woman go back into her house than a raven flew past her door.
If there was ever an omen of ill luck, that's it, Molly thought with a shiver.
After walking for more than a mile, Molly finally admitted defeat. No one she met had a car. Most likely those that did were at work.
"This is the end of the line," Craig announced.
There was no sign; however, the absence of houses was proof that they had reached the Oakland town limits.
"I guess I'll be able to make Nina's wedding," Molly sighed.
"We best be getting back then. I've gotta get my suit on."
"Oh! That reminds me. I have nothing to wear!"
"What you've got on is fine," Craig said. "We're not very fashion conscious in Oakland."
When Craig walked down the stairs, wearing his suit, Molly had to agree with him. His outfit looked like it dated back to the Great Depression.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
As they neared the white steepled church, Molly headed up the walkway to enter the building.
"Wait," Craig called. "You can't go in there."
"Isn't this where the wedding is to be?"
"No. Nina is getting married at her house."
That's odd.
Molly assumed in a town the size of Oakland, the church would be the center of most social activity.
As she turned toward the street, she saw the door to the church open slightly. Every instinct told Molly to stay, to open the door of the church and go inside. However, Craig took her arm and gently pulled her away.
"Let's get to Nina's wedding."
"Where is everyone?" Molly asked when she saw there were no cars parked in front of the Van Doren house.
"They must all be inside," Craig replied.
"How did they get here? There are no cars."
"Come on," he said, ignoring her question. "We don't want to be late for the ceremony."
When she walked through the front door, Molly was amazed at how quiet the room was. The atmosphere was more funereal than celebratory. There were dozens of people, seated and standing, who were staring silently at a spray of flowers in front of a makeshift altar, at which the couple was to be married.
Upon closer examination, Molly noticed that no one in the room was dressed appropriately for a wedding. On the contrary, they looked as though they were going to a masquerade party. Both men and women were dressed in vintage clothing, some dating as far back as the mid-1800s.
"What's going on?" she asked Craig.
"Nothing," he replied innocently, as though he noticed nothing out of the ordinary.
"Isn't he here yet?" Nina's voice echoed down from the top of the staircase. "What's taking him so long?"
Molly saw a sudden movement in her peripheral vision. She turned to see a shadowy form ascend the staircase.
"What's that?" she cried.
But Craig, like the other guests, was silent and still as a mannequin. Not even the sound of a gunshot roused him. Molly was the only one who headed toward the stairs to offer assistance. On the landing, she saw the same shadowy figure, and as it passed her, she noticed its head had no facial features. It appeared to be nothing more than a cloud of thick, black smoke in the shape of a man.
She ran into the bedroom, as much to escape the fleeing shadow as to investigate the source of the gunshot. When she opened the door, she found Nina Van Doren lying on the floor with a spreading red stain on the bodice of her bridal gown.
"Help!" Molly screamed, kneeling beside the bride. "Someone call 911," she cried, forgetting the lack of phone service in Oakland.
When she raised Nina's veil to check for signs of life, she nearly fainted from fright at the sight of the eyeless sockets of a fleshless skull. The last thing Molly noticed before she ran from the room was the rust colored stain of long-dried blood on the wedding gown that was yellowed with age.
"There's a dead body in the bedroom!" she cried as she ran down the stairs.
The sentence was punctuated with a shriek of terror when she noticed the room full of skeletons, all dressed in their burial clothes.
"No!" she shouted in denial when she noticed Craig Parry's Depression-era suit among them.
Molly ran outside the house into the gathering darkness, seeking escape from the horrors inside. She looked one way and then another. Where could she go?
A raven swooped down and landed at Molly's feet. It then took flight and headed toward the church with a loud caw, as though beckoning her to follow.
"The church! Craig didn't want me to go there. Maybe he had a reason."
The raven perched above the entrance, waiting.
Molly bravely walked up the stairs, reached out her hand and opened the door.
* * *
"Molly."
She heard her name being called as though from a great distance. All other sounds were muffled and indistinct. She felt a cool rag on her forehead and opened her eyes.
"Can you hear me?" an unfamiliar voice asked.
"Y-yes."
"She seems to be all right," a uniformed man pronounced, "but we should take her to the hospital and have a doctor check her out to make sure."
Molly, who was slowly coming to her senses, realized the man was a paramedic.
"I ... I'm fine," she managed to say.
"You ought to have a doctor examine you," a middle-aged woman argued.
As Molly stared at the woman, a name came to her mind.
"Carol? Is that you? What happened?"
Relief shown on the woman's face.
"You gave me quite a scare. We were having coffee, and you were telling me about the trouble you've been having coming up with a plot for a sixth book, when suddenly you fell to the floor."
As Carol explained the events leading up to her phoning 911, Molly examined the room. It was her kitchen.
"But I was entering a church. The raven ...."
"See?" Carol said to the paramedics. "I told you something was wrong with my sister. She's been going on about ravens and skeletons and dead brides."
The paramedic chuckled.
"It sounds to me like she was talking about things to put into her next novel."
"I hit a tree with my car," Molly stubbornly maintained. "I wandered into a town called Oakland where I met a man named Craig Parry. He tried to help me find a way out of town, but there were no cars or phones. We went to a wedding, where I hoped someone would have a car. There was a ... a thing, a black smoke-like ghost who shot the bride, but when I examined the body I saw that she had been dead for a long time."
"That sounds like a wonderful start for your book," Carol declared.
"It's not something I made up; it really happened!"
"That's impossible. I've been visiting here since Tuesday. We went shopping yesterday, we went to your book signing the day before and we went ...."
"I was in Oakland!" Molly shouted. "I was driving to Boston. There was heavy traffic, so I took an unknown exit. There was a terrible storm, and I slid into a tree. The car was totaled, so I had to walk ...."
"Your car isn't totaled," Carol said. "Look and see for yourself."
Molly stood and although she was momentarily unsteady on her feet, she managed to walk to the window unaided. Her sister was right: the Subaru was in the driveway with not so much as a scratch on it.
"I could have sworn ...."
But the proof was before her eyes. She had never left her home.
* * *
The doctor at the hospital emergency room gave Molly McKeehan a clean bill of health.
"All the tests came back negative," he said. "Although, for your own peace of mind, you might want to schedule a complete physical with your family doctor."
When the two sisters returned to Molly's house, Carol announced that she was going upstairs to bed.
"You ought to get some rest, too. It's been quite a day."
"I'll be up in a minute," Molly replied. "I want to check my email first."
With her sister upstairs in the shower, the author went to her study and turned on her computer. After weeding through the deluge of electronic junk mail, she read correspondence from her editor, her accountant, a friend from college, her publisher's secretary and her aunt in New Jersey.
Although she accepted her sister's account of the day's events as fact, a nagging doubt still lingered. She opened her browser, googled OAKLAND, MASS and discovered there was a town named Oakland in Massachusetts. However, it was located south of Boston. Whatever doubt remained was gone. She could not have traveled to a town named Oakland, since there was none within the general geographic area.
Molly was about to shut down her computer when, on impulse, she typed in the names CRAIG PARRY and OAKLAND. Surprisingly, the search produced an obituary. A ninety-year-old man named Craig Parry had died in 1932 and was buried in Oakland Cemetery.
"It must be a coincidence!"
She next typed in the name BARBARA VINING. According to a fourteen-year-old obituary from The Boston Globe, a Barbara Vining and her daughter, Abby, died in a house fire in Taunton. Finally, with trembling hands, she typed in NINA VAN DOREN. The archived newspaper article stated that the woman had been murdered on her wedding day, shot in the heart by an ex-boyfriend. Like Craig and the Vinings, she was buried in Oakland Cemetery. It was reading the date of Nina Van Doren's death that frightened Molly most. The poor bride was tragically killed exactly ten years earlier.
"Today was the anniversary of her death," she gasped. "I have to go to Oakland Cemetery. I won't be able to sleep until I know the truth."
She grabbed her purse and car keys, and despite the approaching storm, took off into the night.
* * *
The following day the Massachusetts State Police found Molly McKeehan dead behind the steering wheel of her Subaru Forester. She had lost control of the vehicle during the heavy rain and crashed into a tree.
Her sister, Carol, although stricken with grief, still managed to hold herself together long enough to make the funeral arrangements and attend her sister's burial at Oakland Cemetery.
* * *
"Hi, there!" Craig Parry called when he saw Molly McKeehan emerge from the church. "Glad to see you again."
"Nice to see you, too," she replied, bending down to pet Penny, who was wagging her tail.
"So, it looks like we're to be neighbors." he informed her with a boyish grin.
As the raven flew above her head, Molly followed Craig down the street to her new home. Along the way, people came out of their houses to welcome her.
She was no longer a stranger in town.
Salem is "strange" in any town.
