Challenge Three: Oktoberfest
Remnants of Bygone Eras
The last weekend of October, several years ago, a young woman checked into my small bed-and-breakfast. I was busy preparing for visitors coming out to see the end of fall’s colors.
Jennifer Regent Brown, she signed the register. She wore an old-fashioned, high-necked, white blouse with a long, black skirt and spoke with the polite, formal speech of a bygone era.
“The only room I have left,” I told her, “is connected to another via double doors. Those are kept locked, of course, but I wanted to warn you that it might not be as quiet as some of the other rooms.”
“Ah,” she said with a small smile, “a former nursery.”
“Exactly! How did you know?”
“I’m somewhat familiar with the manner in which old homes were laid out.” She produced a small velvet pouch and paid in cash. When her hands touched mine, they were ice-cold.
Without instruction, she began to climb the stairs.
“First door on the left,” I called after her, though she seemed to know where she was going.
Later that evening, I passed by her room on the way to the linen closet and heard a baby’s gurgling. I tapped on the door.
“Yes?” she inquired upon answering.
“I didn’t realize you had a baby with you. Do you need anything?”
A sad smile crossed her face. “You’re quite mistaken. I have no child with me.”
I looked past her shoulder into the room. Indeed, I could see no one else in the room.
My dreams that night were haunted by visions of a crying baby. Every time I reached out to comfort her, she faded away as though made of mist.
Strangely enough, my bleary-eyed guests reported similar dreams the next morning. Only after they’d finished their pumpkin pecan muffins and coffee and left for drives through the hills did I realize that the quaint woman had not breakfasted with us. I filled a tray and went upstairs.
The door to the woman’s room was open, but she wasn’t there, nor were any signs that she’s slept in the bed. The only thing different in the room was a delicate, silk baby’s bonnet resting on the velvet cushion of the rocking chair.
Despite the sunlight streaming through the window, I shivered. Something told me that there had been more-or less-to Mrs. Brown than met the eye.
I no longer let out the old nursery. On nights when the moon is full and mists move around the valley like ghosts, I walk past that room and hear a woman humming as a baby gurgles. I’ve often stopped outside the door to listen as the walnut rocker creaks pleasantly. On those nights, I pass by, unwilling to disturb Mrs. Brown again and somewhat glad that she’s never left.
The last weekend of October, several years ago, a young woman checked into my small bed-and-breakfast. I was busy preparing for visitors coming out to see the end of fall’s colors.
Jennifer Regent Brown, she signed the register. She wore an old-fashioned, high-necked, white blouse with a long, black skirt and spoke with the polite, formal speech of a bygone era.
“The only room I have left,” I told her, “is connected to another via double doors. Those are kept locked, of course, but I wanted to warn you that it might not be as quiet as some of the other rooms.”
“Ah,” she said with a small smile, “a former nursery.”
“Exactly! How did you know?”
“I’m somewhat familiar with the manner in which old homes were laid out.” She produced a small velvet pouch and paid in cash. When her hands touched mine, they were ice-cold.
Without instruction, she began to climb the stairs.
“First door on the left,” I called after her, though she seemed to know where she was going.
Later that evening, I passed by her room on the way to the linen closet and heard a baby’s gurgling. I tapped on the door.
“Yes?” she inquired upon answering.
“I didn’t realize you had a baby with you. Do you need anything?”
A sad smile crossed her face. “You’re quite mistaken. I have no child with me.”
I looked past her shoulder into the room. Indeed, I could see no one else in the room.
My dreams that night were haunted by visions of a crying baby. Every time I reached out to comfort her, she faded away as though made of mist.
Strangely enough, my bleary-eyed guests reported similar dreams the next morning. Only after they’d finished their pumpkin pecan muffins and coffee and left for drives through the hills did I realize that the quaint woman had not breakfasted with us. I filled a tray and went upstairs.
The door to the woman’s room was open, but she wasn’t there, nor were any signs that she’s slept in the bed. The only thing different in the room was a delicate, silk baby’s bonnet resting on the velvet cushion of the rocking chair.
Despite the sunlight streaming through the window, I shivered. Something told me that there had been more-or less-to Mrs. Brown than met the eye.
I no longer let out the old nursery. On nights when the moon is full and mists move around the valley like ghosts, I walk past that room and hear a woman humming as a baby gurgles. I’ve often stopped outside the door to listen as the walnut rocker creaks pleasantly. On those nights, I pass by, unwilling to disturb Mrs. Brown again and somewhat glad that she’s never left.