The Monadnock Haunting: A Short Story

We left the house on Fisk Street for a few days’ getaway to where she and I met. Good old Peterborough, NH. Home of 12 Pine, Harlow’s, and lots of good friends. We were especially looking forward to seeing John and Amy. John and I grew up in Lunenburg and he introduced me to my wife, as a kind of self-amusement. But alas we were compatible, the relationship has stuck for 25 years, and many have lost bets on that matter.  So going back to the place we met seemed the perfect place for us to take a break from the emotional stress of her mom’s sudden passing. Unfortunately, John and Amy were traveling in Switzerland with their former Belgian exchange student and his family, so we’d miss a big reason for coming to Peterborough. No matter, there were other friends to reconnect with, and just being there would be therapeutic.

We had to cancel a Peterborough reservation I made because of schedule complications. The Monadnock region has been a popular summer vacation destination for generations so getting a place to stay on short notice was gonna be challenging. When we finally got on the road, we searched everything but found there was no room at the inn in Peterborough except for a creepy basement Airbnb room hosted by “Joe”, who surely was sharpening his axe for some unsuspecting guest.

I finally found a spot at the Monadnock Inn, a quaint looking old place down the road a piece in Jaffrey NH. When we arrived at 8 pm, we found a late 1700s New England inn that must have been nice in its day but was kind of ramshackle. We were one of only two cars in the gravel lot. The front light was on, the door was open, nobody there to greet us, but there was a second-floor room with the light on. I thought I saw someone peeking thru the drapes. After ringing the front desk bell a few times and calling for someone, it was clear there was nobody manning the fort. I thought maybe whoever was in that second-floor room might come out and shed light on the situation, but nothing. I told Kati to wait in the lobby while I searched the place for life.

This place was grimy beyond belief. The only discernible life was the ancient mold that bore witness to centuries of guests that must have graced its circuitous hallways. Each room had a name, which is never a good sign. Were they the names of people who died there? Visions of corpses in dresses sitting in rocking chairs behind the locked doors were spinning in my head. The doors that I did manage to open, revealed unmade beds and evidence of those that left abruptly. I finally found a room on the 3rd floor that looked presentable. Newish paint job on old walls, a decent queen bed and a functioning but small bathroom. It was late so we decided to drag the luggage upstairs and stay. I plopped myself on the bed and checked my text messages while Kati began exploring.

While I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, I thought heard a muffled whisper that said “welcome”.  As if that were not jarring enough, the ancient mold was quickly infecting my sinuses causing me to sneeze, cough and my eyes to itch uncontrollably. Twenty-five years vacationing at my wife’s family’s 170-year-old home on Cape Cod, educated me on the power of mold. Within 24 hours of each visit, like clockwork, my sinuses fill, my eyes itch and water, as the infestation saps my energy and makes restful sleep nearly impossible.

I remember Kati’s mom recounting stories she heard from her great aunt about the ghost of Mrs. Perry, the housekeeper of the sea captain that built the house in the 1840s. The strange creaks and bumps heard at night was her spirit wandering the rooms of the old house. Years ago, a favorite pastime of mine was scaring my young kids, nephews, and nieces with stories of Mrs. Perry’s ghost. I was pretty convincing.

To this day I must confess to having some strange dreams at that Cape house. Being a deck hand on a 19th century whaling ship or walking thru the cemetery down the street, with dead relatives pointing out the gravestones of their friends. I just chalked it up to the phlegm filled Benadryl-fueled fever sleep that was my normal routine each night there.

But I wonder if maybe the ancient mold that permeates the horsehair plaster walls of old homes, could be kind of a catalyst for haunting. I mean mold is a living organism that feeds off biological material like horsehair. Maybe even the dead skin cells and hair follicles that sloughed off its long-passed residents? Mold spores never actually “die” and can come back to life once exposed to moisture. Science tells us some mold spores can remain dormant for hundreds of years. So, add a little summer humidity and human activity and that mold springs back to life, infecting the lungs and sinuses of its victims.

These thoughts were racing through my mind as Kati came back from her exploration and announced that the Monadnock Inn was too creepy. This coming from someone who isn’t easily creeped out. Given that we already paid in advance through Travelocity, we pondered whether we could gut it out for a night and move on in the morning. That is of course if we made it to morning and I didn’t die of ghoulish asphyxiation, or the mad caretaker didn’t come out of the attic to murder us in our sleep. We both agreed it was time to get out while the getting was good.

We dragged the luggage back down the three flights of stairs got in the car and headed out. We still needed a place to stay so I got back on my phone to find lodging and there was nothing available in this pretty remote part of southern NH. I grew up just south of the border in central Massachusetts so worst case, we could drive 40 minutes and be in a city with some normal hotel options.

Then I remembered we were five minutes from Rindge NH and the Woodbound Inn, scene of my Lunenburg high school senior class day event in 1978. All 180 of us hung out together eating barbecue, consuming smuggled beer and other contraband, and generally enjoying each other’s company. I called the inn directly and the women who answered had one of those gravelly heavy smoker voices. She laughed when I told her about where we were coming from. She hears that a lot apparently. The Woodbound Inn is also a very old place but definitely in better shape than the place we just escaped from.

Of course, the first room they gave us had neither a working TV nor a lock on the door, so they gave us another which was of course on the third floor. What is it about the third floor? When I went to turn up the air conditioning, Kati said we might be better off shutting it down and opening the windows because the central HVAC might just accelerate the mold into my sinuses. Sounded reasonable so we stuck the fan in the window. It felt like my life had made no progress from the 1960s and 70s when that’s how we cooled our house in the summer.

Even with that solution, the ancient mold in that early 19th century inn knew I was there. Like clockwork, the sinuses, the eyes, the coughing whipped me into a fever frenzy. I beelined it to the Benadryl which I topped off with a couple stinky valerian root capsules for good measure. Maybe I could get to a deep enough state of unconsciousness to sleep through the pain. The last thing I remember was staring at the silhouette of the box fan spinning at high speed.

The next thing I remember was getting out of bed and walking down to the lobby of the inn looking for a late-night snack. The woman at the desk who had just checked us in now had bright green hair.  I remarked that I didn’t remember her with green hair when we checked in a few hours prior. She seemed puzzled as she explained that her hair had been that color for years and she doesn’t remember checking me in at all. When I told her my name, she couldn’t find it in the registry. How odd I thought. I know I’m staying here but she insisted I hadn’t checked in.

Maybe I dreamt that I checked in at the Woodbound Inn but I’m really dreaming in the grimy bed of the nasty Monadnock Inn? Damn, why did we stay there? I tried to get myself to wake up but no dice. Maybe if I just book a new room here, I can dream that I’m sleeping which might trigger me to wake up from this increasingly creepy situation.

I asked my green haired friend if she could book me room for the night and she said “No Vacancy” three times in a row as it was some kind of incantation. Then she told me the whole property had been booked for the David Stafford wedding. David Stafford? You got to be kidding me. I haven’t seen him in decades. Dave and I were thick as thieves from kindergarten through junior high. As we got to high school, he was part of the few different groups I hung with. I don’t remember him having a girlfriend in those days, so I was happy he was getting married, even if it was his early 60’s.

Just then, I heard “Feenz” from behind me. I recognized that voice. It was my friend Vac, looking like he did in 9th grade with the Italian white boy Afro, skinny and shirtless under blue Jean farmer overalls. “Stafford’s getting hitched. I’ll see if I can get you on the guest list. Foghat is playing at the reception”. “Foghat, really?? The “Slow Ride” and “Fool for the city” Foghat? I asked. I remember seeing them with Vac in 1976 at the Wallace Civic Center in Fitchburg.

What a shindig. “I’m in,” I shouted. “Gonna have to see if they can fit you in. Lotta people here”, Vac said. I still couldn’t get over how young Vac was, and I was looking around for a mirror to see my young self but there were none. As quick as Vac was there, he vanished, and I found myself being escorted down a long dark hallway by someone whose face I couldn’t make out in the shadow. But I remember hearing Fool for the City coming from outside. I remember wanting to hurry to get wherever I was going so I could get on Stafford’s wedding list. But as I quickened my pace, the shadowy dude behind me tightened his grip on my shoulder to hold me back.

So, the methodical slow walk down the dark hallway continued with Foghat getting louder.

“I get off on main street, step into the crowd

Sidewalk under my feet, yeah, traffic's good and loud

When I see my inner city child, I'll be walkin' on a cloud.

Well I’m a fool for the city.”

My anticipation was building just like the singer anticipating arriving in his city. We finally emerged into a sunlit screened porch, and as I turned around, my shadowy tour guide had vanished. No matter, the porch was hoppin’ with people, drinks in hand boppin’ to the tunes. Some of the faces looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t put names to them. I looked down and a beer was in my hand. How’d that get there? Another hand on my shoulder, and I turned around to Nancy standing before me smiling, looking just like she did in 1978. Again, I looked around for a mirror, but no luck. She said, “Follow me and I’ll get you signed up for the big celebration.” “Wicked cool”, I answered. Where the heck did that come from? Can’t remember last time that expression came out of my mouth.

As soon as I said the words, Nancy was gone, and I beamed into a huge nighttime bonfire with the party goers in masks dancing around it. The biggest full moon I’ve ever seen was lording over the bacchanalia. As I worked my way into the fray, everyone I bumped into said something like “Hi Jim, great to see ya” or “Feenz, welcome to the party”. But when I asked their names, they all just laughed and walked away. Everyone knew me, but I knew nobody.

Shouting over the din, I asked someone in a goat mask whose voice I vaguely recognized, that it was great seeing Dave Stafford getting hitched.  But he seemed confused. “Dave ain’t here man”. Right out of Up in Smoke, the quintessential movie from Cheech and Chong. I started belly laughing asking “Tommy Chong” is that you?” “Naw man, you got the wrong guy. You’re the guy”. “Too bad, I thought you were Tommy Chong”, I replied to which he shot back, “Naw man, I’m definitely Tommy, but it ain’t Dave that’s the guest of honor. It’s you.”

“You’re joking,” I asked stunned. “Nope it’s you man,” he chuckled. “What the F----?” I said out loud and no longer smiling. He just walked away like the others. That hurts. Dissed by Tommy Chong. But if this is some inside joke, I don’t get it and it’s starting to get a little weird. The bonfire was growing, and a squadron of goat masked bouncers started tossing furniture in. The super moon seemed to be expanding, pulling the dancers, and the fire towards it. Then soft chanting began. “Give us the guest, give us the guest”. The goat bouncers dropped their furniture, started staring right at me. In fact, everyone was staring at me as the chanting got louder. I’m thinking, this might be a dream, actually a nightmare, and maybe I’ll wake up. A dream or not, I’m ready to get the hell outta dodge. Ok everyone is walking towards me, and just before I started my sprint, I felt two hands on my shoulder and a voice that shouted, “Just follow us.”

I couldn’t see their faces, but I think there were two men and a woman. We booked it outta that freak show where I was apparently the honored guest. All I could hear was the soft rumble of footsteps and my pounding heart and breath. “Take a left”, the girl shouted and the forest we were about to enter turned into a long dark hallway, not unlike the one I travelled just a while ago.  Now the eight pairs of running feet were echoing in the dark hallway. “Take a right” one of the male voices shouted, barely audible over the echoing footsteps and the rising volume of “Hotel California” blasting from the invisible band outside.

“In the master’s chamber, they gathered for the feast.

Stab it with their steely knives, but they just can’t kill the beast”.

Was I headed to the masters’ chambers and was I the beast? I had no idea but somehow, I had faith in the three shadows guiding me through the hotel.

“In here” the female voice said. I recognized that voice. It was Becky. In an instant I was sitting in a comfy chair in a living room with a small table, a lit candle and what looked like a glass of wine. There was no light in the room save for the candle, but I could finally make out the faces that have been guiding me away from the bonfire zombies. It was Becky, Danny, and Dave. They were all looking like 18 or 19 years old like they did all those years ago. Somehow, I felt safe. Danny said “We’re so glad we got to you in time”, to which I replied, “I wasn’t sure I could keep up with Dave leading this pack.“ Dave was the fastest dude in our high school. A member of the football and baseball team where we were both teammates for several years. Then Becky chimed in, “We don’t have a lot of time to explain, but you have to drink that wine in order to get out of here.“ I thought to myself, “Where is here?” Are we at the Woodbound in or some devil worshiper camp? I had so many questions, but I reached for the glass of wine and before I drank it, I gave them all one last look and said, “It’s so great to see you all. I hope we can see each other again”, to which they all replied smiling, “You will someday, now drink.”

Down the hatch it went. As soon as I finished, I woke up in a lounge chair in our suite at the Woodbound Inn. Katie was shaking me, “Wake up Jim, wake up. How did you get out here?” I looked around and the dawn was peering thru the curtains of our room. I said, “I have no idea. I guess I must’ve been sleepwalking, but I never do that. Hey, did you hear anybody in this room last night?” to which she replied, “Of course not that but it must’ve been one hell of a dream you had”. I shook my head, back-and-forth rapidly to clear the cobwebs out, and replied, “Maybe the most lucid dream I’ve ever had in my life.“

What’s strange is the only people I recognized in the dream other than Vac were my 1978 high school classmates, who had sadly passed on from this life. Nancy, Becky, Danny and Dave were all taken too soon but there they were. In the flesh in their prime, saving me from an awful fate, even if it was only a dream. But one thing is for certain, I couldn’t get out of the Woodbound Inn fast enough.

Whatever I drank in the dream, it didn’t cure my allergies to this ancient mold. My eyes were still watering, and it took half a box of tissues to get to some semblance of relief in my sinuses. I thought again about the fact that some mold never dies. It’s almost immortal. I just read an article about some 46,000-year-old worms preserved in the Siberian permafrost that scientists brought back to life by adding a little water. Had the air and sweat we aspirated into the Woodbound Inn 45 years ago, been somehow preserved in the mold spores that haunted me last night? That sounds crazy, so I kept that thought to myself.

Whatever. I was just glad to be leaving the Woodbound Inn and looking forward to fresh air and the biological self-correction of my respiratory system on the drive to Peterborough. I made sure our next accommodations were at a place that was built at least within the last 50 years. Just as we were walking out the door, I heard a soft bump behind me in the corner of the room. As I looked back over my shoulder, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the empty wineglass given to me by my ghostly friends.