“Are there Minutemen here—and if so, can you give us a really clear number?”
No answer that time; instead, the simple but ominous: “They...knew...”
There is a volley of additional inquiries, but the spirit box bears nothing conclusive; apparently the brief exchange is all that could be mustered.
The group’s leader finishes with a solemn “Thank you”—which is met by a very audible and clear “You’re welcome.”
After a silent walk back up to the building, the group departs, car lights splashing arcs over hundred-year-old stone walls and against even more aged trees. The Manse once again sits dark at the end of its tree-lined lane, its windows lidless eyes, its double chimneys and attic gable the only protuberances from its boxy silhouette.
Concord, Massachusetts, is worth a visit in and of its own right. The beautiful and bucolic New England town is rich with history: It is the home of Walden Pond State Reservation (where Henry David Thoreau spent two years writing his pivotal Walden), the Minute Man National Historical Park, and Louisa May Alcott’s Orchard House (the setting for Little Women). Also consider taking a meal at the Concord Colonial Inn—which is said to have some resident ghosts of its own—just down the street from The Old Manse.
The Old Manse is open for tours on select dates throughout the year. The property grounds are open year-round, dawn to dusk. For detailed information, visit www.thetrustees.org/places-to-visit/metro-west/old-manse.html.
THE HATCHET MURDERS
THE LIZZIE BORDEN HOUSE, FALL RIVER, MASSACHUSETTS
The Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast Museum where controversy still continues as to Lizzie’s guilt or innocence.
Sheets of rain wrapped the car, obscuring Phil’s view of Interstate 95, and drops fell with a staccato rap on the roof of the new Chrysler van as Phil and Marcie made their way from Wareham to Providence. Marcie wiped mist from the inside of the window beside her. “It is really bad, Phil. Why don’t we stop and spend the night somewhere?”
“It isn’t that far to your sister’s now. We can be there in another two hours, if the rain lets up.”
“And if it doesn’t? Phil, the radio just said this storm is the edge of a hurricane. The Fall River exit should be coming up soon, let’s turn off there.”
“And stay where? I don’t know anything about Fall River.”
“For some reason the name sounds familiar,” said Marcie. We could try a B&B. That would be a pleasant part of our trip.”
“Marcie Rollins, only you would think of making a funeral trip pleasant.”
“Well, we don’t need two funerals. Ours, from having an accident in this downpour, and my brother-in-law’s, too.”
“That’s true. Does Cindy need you tonight?”
“I don’t really think so. Bob’s sisters are there at the house.” Another barrage of rain pummeled the van, and the headlights of other cars became more difficult to see between the rivulets of water on the windows. “I’m going to give her a call on the car phone and tell her about this weather, Phil. Isn’t the Fall River exit coming up?”
“Yes. I’m going to take it.”
The answer at the first B&B was not encouraging. “We don’t even have that small room left, do we Amy?” the owner asked his teenage daughter. She shook her head. “People leaving the interstate to get out of the storm, I guess.”
“Do you have any suggestions?” asked Phil.
“There’s the one at 230 Second Street,” suggested the girl. “Of course they’re nearly always full up, but you could try them.” She suddenly giggled and said, “If you don’t mind staying there.” Her father gave her a reproving look.
His directions were clear, and a few minutes later they were peering through the rain at the front of an austere two-story frame home. Narrow as it had looked when they drove up, it went back farther from the street than they had realized and was actually quite spacious.
“You’re lucky tonight,” said George Quigley at the desk. We usually have reservations a long time ahead, especially during the month of August, but these people,” he tapped a name on his register, “I’m sorry to say they’ve had a death in the family and had to cancel. We can give you their room. It’s the guest room, the one where Abby Borden’s body was found.”
“Bad weather out there tonight, isn’t it,” he commented, shaking his head. “How about some cold cider for you, or milk and our homemade cookies? We have pears, too, of course.”
“Milk and cookies sounds great,” said Marcie, placing her suitcase beside the stairs. “Wasn’t the way he said pears strange,” she said to her husband after their host had left for the kitchen.
“I didn’t think about it one way or the other.”
The milk and cookies appeared almost instantly and the Rollinses sat down on a black horsehair sofa.
“The furnishings of this house are just remarkable!” exclaimed Marcie, reaching for a cookie.
“Oh, do you like them? We researched to find authentic pieces from the 1850s,” said Martha McGinn, one of the owners. “Some of the furnishings were either originally in the Borden house or are very similar in style.”
“Oooh, look at this cookie. What a strange shape,” exclaimed Marcie.
“Don’t be rude, honey. It must be for Washington’s birthday,” said her husband.
“In August?” exclaimed Marcie.
“Hatchet-shaped cookies are one of our specialties. And, of course, August is special, too. Since today is the fourth, we have had our anniversary reenactment of the hatchet murders of Andrew and Abby Borden. I’m sure you’ve read about the famous crime.”
“A crime here,” Marcie said breathlessly.
“Now, we understand if that makes you nervous, Mrs. Rollins,” said Kathi Goncalo who worked at the desk, “and we have a list of other bed-and-breakfast places.” Phil could hear the moan of the wind and rain beating against the windows, and he had visions of driving through it to discover that accommodations were nonexistent. Of course they could drive back to the highway to one of the chain motels. “We really are not nervous,” he said with a smile.
“Well, sometimes people are. Especially with the history of
