Out of the Mist Read online

  When he passed the hotel, Mason glimpsed a figure on the balcony. Thick smoke curled above the individual, who exhaled perfect curlicues that soon disappeared.

  “Whoa, girl,” he shouted again. “Stop!”

  The person, who was too small to be Mason’s father, stood and looked his way. There was a familiarity about the way the stranger rose from the chair, but Mason couldn't recognize him, not with a hat covering his head and a coat’s collar reaching his chin. Why was the small man bundled as if for a blizzard when the early evening, though damp, was mild? Mason yanked on the reins again. The edge, where the cliff dropped 500 feet to a jumble of rocks and boulders, neared. Surely Chamois would not gallop any closer?

  The mare’s pace slackened. "Good, girl," Mason mumbled. His words were barely out before the animal picked up speed and galloped toward the cliff’s edge once again. Inches from land’s end—so close he felt the earth separate and give way under the animal’s hooves—Chamois came to a full stop and abruptly turned sideways. In one slick motion, the horse hurled Mason toward the horizon.

  July 1927

  Reginald glimpsed Elizabeth, his wife, approaching. He grasped her elbow when she reached him. “Elizabeth, love, I want you to meet an old friend. This is Duncan Dunn. We studied at Dalhousie together. We’ve been talking about old times.”

  Elizabeth extended her hand and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Duncan.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Duncan graduated a year ahead of me. What year was that? 1913? Or was that my year? Age is taking its toll.” Reginald chuckled as he glanced at his old friend.

  “Old age? You're younger than me, Reginald. What are you, 38?”

  Elizabeth laughed. “I think we’re all in the same boat. I’m forgetting everything nowadays as well, and I’m younger than both of you. How long are you here, Duncan?”

  “Just overnight. Catching a ride to Amherst in the morning, then the train to Halifax.”

  Reginald faced his wife and interjected, “I told Duncan how you and I are here for a short vacation.”

  “Yes, Reg is Truro’s sheriff. Did he tell you that? He’s been so busy.” Without waiting for an answer, she continued. “This is the perfect place for a rest. So secluded and quiet. And the weather is beautiful this time of year. We’re going to take a walk through the woods tomorrow morning, if the bugs aren’t too bad. Right, Reggie?”

  “Yes, dear, whatever you want.”

  Duncan glanced at his watch. “Sorry, but I must run. Might catch you in the morning before I head out. If I don't, have a pleasant time and a safe trip home.”

  “Safe travels to you, too,” Reginald said.

  Elizabeth gazed at Duncan and held out her hand once more. “Nice to have met you, Duncan. Perhaps we’ll meet again sometime.”

  Duncan accepted her hand and held it to his lips a second longer than necessary.

  Reginald watched his friend leave. “Haven’t seen him since he graduated. Nice to have run into him. Hasn’t changed much. He always was a wild one.”

  “Wild?”

  “Liked the women, if you know what I mean.” Reginald snickered.

  “I see.” Elizabeth paused. “Perhaps I’ll go to my room and rest up. Finish my book, maybe, if you’re going to play poker.”

  “I’d like to, if you don’t mind. The game starts at ten. I’ll go to the bar first.”

  “Stay as long as you like. I’ll be fine.”

  “Should be over by midnight.” Reginald kissed his wife on the cheek before heading to the bar.

  ***

  Reginald gulped the last of his rum. He glanced at the clock hanging over the bar, surprised it was only 9:45 p.m. He’d already decided to pass on the poker game. For some reason, he wasn’t in the mood. Perhaps he’d had too much to drink.

  "I'm going to head in," he told the bartender. “Put the tab on room 428, will ya?”

  Donning his hat, he headed to the staircase. At the top of the stairs, he stopped to catch his breath and then turned right toward his room. He retrieved the brass key from his pocket and, not wanting to wake his wife, stealthily inserted it into the door.

  At first, he didn’t realize anything was amiss. The moon’s rays shone into the room, enough illumination for him to make his way to the bathroom, yet something made him hesitate. There appeared to be more than one person in the bed.

  When his suspicion registered, he froze. What the hell!

  Reginald coughed, a nervous reaction. Whatever hid beneath the blankets stirred.

  Two figures, once shrouded by linens and darkness, bolted upright. The bedclothes concealed the lower halves of their bodies, but the beam of moonlight trapped the couple in its glow. The light framed the two lovers as though they were meant to be together, like a hurriedly snapped photograph of a recently married couple. Except they weren't a married couple. And they didn’t sport happy faces. One was Reginald’s dearly beloved Elizabeth. It took a few long seconds before he recognized his college buddy, Duncan.

  Tongue-tied, Reginald stared. The couple had apparently lost their voices, as well.

  Reginald coughed again, on purpose, which injected life, albeit sluggish movement, into the shadowed room. Before Elizabeth or Duncan reacted, Reginald reached inside his jacket and withdrew his gun.

  He pulled the trigger. The flashes produced eerie luminescence when he fired two precise shots before the unsuspecting couple were able to jump from the bed or regain their voices. Tears formed in his eyes as the force threw the individuals—first Duncan and then Elizabeth—backward on the bed where they lay as if never disturbed.

  Reginald spewed a thick wad of phlegm to the floor before tossing the Smith & Wesson onto the bed. He visualized the blood of the two lovers mingling as the thick fluid seeped into the mattress. The raw acridness wafted toward him though the smell was probably in his mind. He knew from his investigations into dozens of homicides that the pungent, metallic odour wouldn't fill his nostrils that fast unless he stood in a slaughterhouse.

  He clutched his unbuttoned coat around him before unlatching the balcony door and stepping outside. The full moon hung low in the sky, and, to Reginald's numb mind, it seemed ready to swing down and snuff him out. Stars twinkled mockingly in the sky, their sharp edges piercing his skin and gouging his heart. He leaned against the balcony and, despite the darkness, stared far ahead to where he knew the Atlantic Ocean met the horizon. Below him, the ocean smashed its furious fists against the boulders. To his left, in the distance, Cape d’Or Lighthouse radiated.

  As if possessed, he hoisted himself to the balcony railing, throwing first one leg and then the other over the wide strip of wood. With one final look into the room where his once-beloved wife lay, he let himself topple to the rocks below.

  September 1927

  "Room 428. Up the staircase. Fourth floor and to your right," Ned said as he handed the keys to Mr. and Mrs. Doucette. "It’s a nice room overlooking the ocean, with a balcony. Just remodelled. Checkout is 11 a.m.”

  Marcus smiled at his bride. Gail grinned in return when he grazed her arm, causing goose bumps. "Let's go."

  When Marcus reached for the suitcases, the porter appeared by his side. "Allow me, sir."

  Once in the room, Marcus tipped the porter and closed the door. He smothered his new wife to his chest and gave her a passionate kiss. “It's late, honey, should we get to bed?"

  "You tired?" Gail winked.

  "It is our honeymoon."

  Gail laughed. “Yes, it is. And don’t you ever forget our date of September 12, 1927. I don’t want a husband who forgets his anniversary.” She turned toward the bed and noticed the framed picture hanging on the wall. “What an odd picture,” she said. “Who’d want a picture of an ugly horse like that on the wall, especially in a hotel room?”

  “Never you mind that,” Marcus said as he moved toward his wife.

  An hour later, the two dreamt of their happy future until Gail, who faced the window, stirred when the moonligh
t swept into the room. She blinked at the blinding glare, wishing she’d pulled the drapes across the balcony door.

  “Marcus,” she whispered. “You awake?”

  Not receiving an answer, she rolled over and scooted toward her husband. Just before she spooned into him, intending to lay her arm across his chest, a chilling dampness swept over her. He felt cold. And clammy. Usually Marcus was as hot as a furnace blasting forth on a frigid winter's day. Her arm, having first touched something solid, suddenly slipped into nothingness. Chills flickered up and down her skin as if a foreign object slithered through her body.

  “Marcus!” Gail screeched before bounding to the floor. “Ahhhhhck!”

  When two shadowy figures arose in the bed, a gunshot echoed in the sudden darkness. She covered her ears and screamed again. “Marcus!”

  Marcus jumped from the bed. “Gail, honey, what is it? What's the matter? Calm down.”

  Gail’s hands flew to her mouth. The bodies in the bed rose to lengthen into vaporous, wriggling serpents and slithered across the wall. As if rooted to the floor, she couldn't budge. She wanted to move. It was only a few feet to the door—only a few feet to escape from the spectres. They were after her—those flat, eel-like creatures.

  Marcus grabbed her, crushing her tight to his chest. Sobbing, she clung to him and pressed her face against him. Why weren’t they racing to the door? She gathered the courage and looked up at his face. “We have to go. We have to get out of here.” She squirmed, but he held her tighter. Nervously, she glanced around the room.

  “Shhh, shhh. You must’ve had a bad dream. It’s okay now. “Shhh.” Marcus patted her head to calm her down.

  “No, it’s real...they were there—bodies in the bed...dead bodies...holding onto one another...wouldn't let me go...thought it was you.” She pointed at the bed, trying to catch her breath in between her rushed words.

  Marcus glanced at the bedclothes askew on the floor. “Honey, there's no one there. Wait, let me get the light. See, just you and me.”

  “No, Marcus, there were two people in that bed with us. Two dead people!” she shrieked, clinging to him again. “You must have seen them; you had to have seen them! And one I touched. It was horrible, so disgusting!”

  “Shhh, honey, shhh. Let's get back to bed. It's late.”

  “No. No. I absolutely...no, I won't sleep in this room. There's something here. I can feel it. A presence. An eerie presence. Spying on us. I can smell the blood. Can't you smell it?”

  “No, Gail, I can't. Calm down.”

  “I know what I saw. I know what I heard. I'm out of here, with or without you.” Gail wrestled out of his arms and, naked, headed to the door.

  “Okay, okay. I'll go to the front desk and see if there's another available room.” Marcus pulled on his pants. “Wait here. I'll go see.”

  “Oh, no you're not. No way. I'm coming with you. You're not leaving me alone in here.” Suddenly realizing her nakedness, she grabbed her robe.

  They made their way to the lobby. After ringing the desk bell several times, Ned emerged from a door behind the desk. He rubbed his bleary eyes and suppressed a yawn.

  “There are ghosts. I saw them.” Gail blubbered. Her arms flailed. Marcus half-heartedly corroborated his wife’s statements.

  Ned glanced from Gail to Marcus. “Ah, yes. Room 428.” After a pause while he searched for words, he continued. “That’s our best room. There’s no such thing as ghosts. Not in this hotel. You are the first guests in that room since it was remodelled.”

  Gail, despite her frenzy, glimpsed the recognition that washed over Ned's face. “You know something, don't you? I don’t care a fig what you say. There's something about that room, isn't there?”

  Ned glanced away.

  “Gail, hush.” Marcus put his arm around his wife.

  “He knows something. Something about that room. It's haunted, isn’t it?” Gail glared at Ned. “I want another room. I’d leave this hotel for good, but it’s too late to go anywhere else.”

  “No, ma'am, there are no ghosts. The hotel—the room—isn't haunted. I know no such thing.” Ned leafed through his book, turned around, and pulled a key from the slot. “Here, room 202. I'm sorry for your bad experience. This room is on the house. I’ll refund your money in the morning. Let me help move your bags.”

  “That's quite okay,” Marcus said. “We can handle it. Come on, Gail, let's get moved so we can get back to sleep. Morning will be here before we know it.”

  “I'll wait in the new room while you get our stuff.”

  “If you like, you can leave your things there till morning,” Ned suggested.

  “No.” Gail shot more daggers at Ned. “I want our stuff out of there now. You hear me, Marcus? Now!”

  Marcus and Gail headed to the stairs. Gail, out of breath when they reached the second floor, said, “There's something fishy. He knows something’s wrong. Why else would he give us a free room?”

  “Oh, Gail, he just wants to keep his guests happy.”

  Marcus unlocked the door to room 202. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a few minutes with our belongings.”

  1938

  Sally, the chambermaid, hesitated before room 428. She pooh-poohed the tales about the hotel and room 428 in particular. A murder and suicide about 10 years previously was common knowledge around the area. There was nothing odd about it, just an explicable happenstance sparked by jealousy, rage, and despair. The weirdest and scariest stories were the ones about guests who woke up in bed to find bodies beside them, except they weren’t real, of course. They must have been ghosts, for what else could they be? And then there were bodies that fell from the balcony and disappeared. Not to mention other mysterious tales generated by the rumour mill and gossip gone amuck.

  There were few jobs in Cape Chignecto for a 56-year-old woman, and Sally was elated when hired as one of three chambermaids at Ocean End’s Hotel. A few ghosts wouldn’t stop her.

  She tiptoed over the threshold. Her eyes darted about the room. “Get hold of yourself,” she mumbled. “It’s just another room to be cleaned for the next guests.”

  Sally stripped the bed and gathered the soiled towels. She scrubbed the tub and sink and placed clean, folded towels on the rack. To others, those were mundane chores, but Sally took pride in her work. If she did a job, it was going to be done right, whatever task it might be.

  Later that day, Harry, the manager, accosted Sally in the laundry room. “Sally, did you finish with room 428?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His eyes narrowed and his tone of voice held rebuke. “I sent a guest up there earlier. He came back in a huff, said it was a mess.”

  “It was spotless when I left it, sir. What’s the problem?”

  “It’s a mess, I told you. I just went up there myself. Get back in there and clean it up.”

  Sally glared at her boss. “But it was neat as a pin when I left.” She couldn’t help but notice Harry’s face suddenly pale, just before he turned away.

  “Get it straightened up. Now!”

  Sally climbed the staircase, shaking her head and muttering. She didn't know what was happening, but she didn't like being accused of not doing her job. By the time she reached the fourth floor, she gasped for breath and rested for a few seconds. She hesitated again before the locked door to room 428. The last thing she wanted to do was open the door, but she’d lose her job if she didn’t.

  She fiddled with the key before the door opened. She stared in disbelief when she saw the disarray. It would take her hours to put it back to order. What on earth had happened?

  Dirt had been trampled on the carpet, leaving large footprints. Empty dresser drawers lay toppled in a heap. Pillows had been ripped apart, and a few straggled feathers floated in the breeze from the open balcony door. Dirty towels and linens lay strewn about the room. She gritted her teeth and sighed. “This is what I’ve heard before. The ghosts in the beds. The unexplained disorder. Harry knows this mess isn’t normal. It’s the appari
tions that have come. Yes, siree, them ghosts have come.”

  Then her practical side took over. “I’ll show them,” she muttered. “This room will be back to normal in no time.”

  1950

  Clyde MacDonald stared at the deceptively calm water. The ocean fascinated him—how it spewed its guts one day and rolled in as soft as a baby’s breath the next. Ocean’s End Hotel was similar, its usual serenity disturbed by periodic machinations of strange apparitions that haunted the place.

  Business had been slow for years, and word of sightings and unnatural happenings hadn’t helped. Fewer and fewer people wanted to stay at Ocean's End Hotel. Over the years, he’d lost workers, as well as guests. Once the number of guests slackened off, it was necessary to fire staff. He couldn’t afford to pay the help when money wasn’t coming in. Even his trusty manager, Simon, left.

  Cape Chignecto was situated about half-way between Eatonville and Advocate Harbour, both 20 kilometres away. Why his ancestors had built such an establishment at that locale never ceased to puzzle him, though the nearby residents must have been elated. The MacDonalds originally settled in Eatonville, established by the Eaton family in 1864, and several years later Freeman MacDonald built Ocean’s End Hotel high up on Cape Chignecto. Eatonville’s population at its peak, when his grandparents resided there, would have been about 350 souls, but the village had been almost abandoned by the 1930s, with the last year-round resident leaving in 1943. Advocate Harbour still thrived—somewhat—and boasted residents who fished for a living. Those folks, however, didn’t frequent his hotel.