“Oh, I hope we will see something tonight!” giggled one of the women.
“Well, I can’t guarantee that, but we have had all sorts of odd phenomena. Glasses floating through the air, an ashtray suddenly splitting in two . . . once a tray flew through the air and hit one of us in the head.”
“O-o-o-h. Watch out guys!” said the same woman. “You’d probably be the very one something would happen to, Joe,” she said, grasping her husband’s arm.
“Down here is where something really scary happened,” continued their guide. “A manager who once worked here was in this room and saw a transparent figure that he was convinced was old man John Stone. Bad thing about it was, he saw it just before his own death. All the help thought it had been a sign, a kind of warning.” He opened another door. “This used to be a game room. Stone and his friends were playing poker one night and one of the players, a salesman, accused them of cheating.
“Old John was enraged,” continued their guide, warming to his story. “Swinging his clenched fist”—the assistant manager showed them how—“Stone, with one blow to the head, struck the salesman and killed him. I’ve always heard that his body is buried somewhere beneath this floor.”
Rita shivered. The other guests looked like they wished something would happen, but no spirits put in an appearance, nor did anything else out of the ordinary occur. The tour was drawing to a close.
“One word of warning,” said the assistant manager with a grin. “Remember that when you dine at John Stone’s Inn, you never dine alone. At least that’s what people here in Ashland say.” There was a momentary silence. Then someone laughed, and the others joined in.
“I propose a toast to an unforgettable evening,” said Dwayne, back at their table. He raised his brandy glass, waiting for Rita to follow suit, but she hesitated.
Her lips parted in an amused smile. “Does ‘unforgettable’ mean I’ll see a ghost, honey? If it does, I’ll drink to that.”
As the brandy touched Dwayne’s lips, the oddest thing happened: He felt a firm tap on his left shoulder. “Yes?” he said turning his head. No one was there.
“What did you say, honey?” said Rita, looking up.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud,” Dwayne improvised quickly. He must have imagined that someone had touched his shoulder. That’s all it could have been, but it left him with an uneasy feeling that was not to go away.
The Doughtrys ate in silence. They heard the long, drawn-out whistle of one of the many passing trains, then the sound of the locomotive and the rumble of the cars as they went by.
“A train whistle has an eerie sound at night, doesn’t it?” said Rita.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said her husband. It did, though, and for some reason Dwayne was beginning to feel the faintest sense of dread. Had it started with Rita’s original desire to go somewhere else? Or was it the tap that he thought he had felt on his shoulder? He dismissed these things as foolishness.
Dwayne glanced at his wife and saw her wince slightly and move her hand. “What’s the matter?” he asked sharply.
“Nothing. For a moment I thought I felt something touch me.”
“Like what?”
“A little like . . . well . . . like fingers placed over my hand,” she stammered, flushing with embarrassment at how melodramatic her words sounded.
“That’s ridiculous!” Dwayne said, a little too loudly. He knew he was overre-acting and went on lamely. “Perhaps someone touched you accidentally as they passed our table?”
“I’m sure that was it,” agreed Rita. “Did you know that this inn was built more than a hundred and fifty years ago?” she said, changing the subject.
“Yes. I read it on the back of the menu.”
“It was finished in 1833 by a wealthy sea captain named John Stone. The inn is named after him.”
“Figures,” said Dwayne smiling.
Rita gazed with interest up at the exposed beams. “I know a magazine that runs pieces on early American homes and inns. It would probably buy a story on this place.”
“Snow’s stopped,” announced a new arrival.
Dwayne saw Rita’s shoulders relax, and she leaned back more comfortably in her chair. There was something about her now that reminded him of a lovely, sleek cat lolling in a comfortable spot. He guessed that she had been uptight about the weather and that had started her imagination working overtime. Fingers touching her hand, indeed.
But he, too, was relieved that the snow had stopped. So why couldn’t he rid himself of this crazy sense of dread? If there were really ghosts here, what dire meaning could a tap on the shoulder have? Was it to warn him that his time had come? Even thinking something like that really made him a first-class crazy, thought Dwayne. He sipped the last of his coffee.
Helping Rita on with her coat, Dwayne gave her a little hug. The evening had been pleasant. But he had the feeling that it was not over . . . at least not yet. At the cash register he thanked the assistant manager for the tour.
Dwayne opened the door of John Stone’s Inn and emerged to find that snow was falling again—heavily. Within seconds he could hardly see Rita. She was halfway across the street when he caught up with her hurrying figure. This was almost a blizzard. Could he see well enough to drive back to Boston in weather like this? They heard the sound of a train whistle.
Suddenly, Dwayne squeezed Rita’s arm. “Look! There’s a stalled car on the track and a man trying to push it off. My God! A train’s coming!”
Even with the flakes swirling around them, they saw the snow-covered figure on the tracks pushing the rear of a sedan. A woman screamed. Again they heard the wail of the
