The Great Snapping Turtle Adventure Read online

  “Geez, Charles,” groaned Max. “We can’t take you anywhere.”

  CHAPTER 10

  STUFFED AND SITTING ON the porch of the Vienna Inn, the boys and Fred listened to the Nanticoke River as it quietly lapped against the bulkheads. They listened to the mutter of sleepy ducks and geese, the swish of marsh reeds blowing in the soft, salty wind, and to Miss Marie’s rocking chair as it creaked back and forth over loose floor boards. They listened to the humming whine of giant mosquitoes looking for a sweet bit of human flesh to nip. Slap! Lap. Creak. Mutter. Swish. Hum. Slap!

  And eventually they also listened to the shadowy voice of Miss Marie, as she spun the ghostly tale of the Vienna Inn.

  “Of course, it all began long before my time. Long before I bought this place. Long before I was born or even thought about. I hear tell they first suspected it when a family by the name of Whitney first owned this place about 50-odd years ago. Not like they heard it all over the house, and like they heard it every day, now either. But usually it would make sounds down in the summer kitchen. Just about this time of year. Late summer like it is, when crabs are running good and mosquitoes are still humming about. Got you!” said Miss Marie, with a fast slap to her muscular arm. She placed her thumb to her forefinger and flicked the unlucky insect off into the grass.

  “That’s the only thing I hate about the Shore, the mosquitoes,” sighed Charles.

  “They make me feel itchy all over every time I hear one humming,” said Max.

  “Well, they have one good purpose, as far as I can tell,” said Miss Marie.

  “What’s that?” asked Fred.

  “They keep a majority of the city folk away from our Eastern Shore. Once a city person has been through just one of our buggy summers, they’re quick to pack up their bags and high tail it back home across the Bay Bridge to big lights, few bugs, and air conditioning. Only folks with true Shore blood in their veins are willing to put up with these critters. And even we have a hard time of it!” said Miss Marie.

  “But back to the ghost, ok, Miss Marie?” said Charles anxiously. “’Cause if we start talking and thinking mosquitoes, I won’t be able to sit still.”

  “Poor little guy, of course, let me go on. It was the Whitney family that first suspected something unusual was about. A sound in the summer kitchen, when all other folk were out of the house. Old Mr. Whitney was a real skeptic. He thought it was outside of the house, someone playing him for a fool or maybe just rats rustling about. So, Mr. Whitney bought every kind of rat trap available at the hardware in Cambridge. Then he went to Salisbury and bought some more. But no luck. He couldn’t catch whatever was making that noise. Then he tried bait. He tried bacon, cheese, sausage, butter, and ham, but still no critters got caught. Only thing he ever managed to catch in those traps was his finger, or so the story goes. And that sure didn’t please him none.

  “Anyway, no critter in the traps, but still a sound like the creaking of a rocking chair. Like the way this one of mine is sounding right now.” She rocked back and forth without speaking for a few minutes. Max and Charles could feel shivers of expectation climb up their backbones, bone by bone.

  “Then, one night, Mr. Whitney’s wife, Astor, thought she saw something. It wasn’t much, just a light, but slipping the way a shadow will, slowly up the wall. And there was a slight perfume smell, but not the brand she used. It made her feel a bit creepy, and she indicated to Mr. Whitney, perhaps they should think about vacating this place. And they did, hanging up a for-sale sign the next week. Unfortunately for them, folk on the Shore do talk, and rumors spread, so it took ten years before anybody else considered buying the place. The Tappers from Trappe decided to try their luck at inn-keeping.” Miss Marie slapped her head, then shook her long braid of hair quickly. “I just hate it when those mosquitoes try to nibble my scalp.”

  “Ugh!” groaned Charles.

  “Oh geez,” agreed Max, slapping at an imaginary monster on his head.

  “So, the Tappers bought it,” urged Fred, trying to keep his mind free of bites.

  “Well, not exactly. See the Tappers were leery of what might be happening here at the Inn, and they decided, before they sunk any money into it, they’d have a séance here to see if anyone spoke up. They called in a local woman by the name of Marge who was supposed to be good at communicating with the world beyond. She had her own business out on the highway, reading palms and doing some channeling work on the side.”

  “What’s channeling?” asked Max.

  “That’s when someone can go into a trance, like they’re asleep. When they get in that sleep state, a spirit from the world beyond can come and speak through them,” said Miss Marie. She took a sip of her iced tea and rocked her chair a couple of times in silence.

  “Wow, really?” asked Charles.

  “Some famous people have done it,” said Fred. “Abraham Lincoln’s wife wanted to contact him after he died. She tried to several times through séances.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Some people claim so,” said Fred. “You’ll have to read up on it when we get home.”

  “Now, that’s what I call interesting summer reading,” said Miss Marie.

  “Yeah, beats the school book list,” said Max.

  “Anyway, Marge came in and went into a trance immediately. And from her lips came all this wailing and sadness. She threw up her arms as if she were going to scrape the paint right off the ceiling with her fingernails. The candles they had lit, to create more of an atmosphere, began flickering. Everyone in the room started holding on to each other and wishing they hadn’t come for the séance. Then the wailing stopped and the soft little voice of a young woman started talking. It was a sad tale, I can tell you.”

  “What???” whispered Fred, Max, and Charles.

  “The voice was of a young woman. When she was twenty years old, she had married her best friend. They had grown up together, known each other since meeting on the school playground their very first day of school. Both were age five and the only first graders in the one-room school house. The friendship grew as they grew, and when they were twenty years old, they married. Some said they were a love match made by angels. One year after their wedding, to the very day, a baby girl was born. Everyone said: ‘happiest little family ever.’ And they were successful. They lived in the home of his family, the farm prospered, the baby girl was healthy, growing perfectly. Then the bad times came.”

  “Bad times? Oh no,” Max said.

  “I don’t think I want to know,” Charles whispered. “No, I do. Please go on with the story.”

  “Spring came and the crops were off to a healthy start, growing quickly. It was going to be a good year, a bumper crop year, everyone said so. But by May, it had not rained in a month. Sun burned hot each day. Fields and fields of fresh green crops turned golden, then brown and parched. People prayed for rain. One Sunday, ministers in all the local churches, big and small, preached the Old Testament story about Joseph and the seven-year drought, and all prayed for a change in the weather. It was not too late to replant and harvest a crop before frost.

  “That very afternoon, clouds darkened the skies. By dusk, thunder could be heard in the distance, then closer and closer. Night came early and with it pouring rain, storming winds, and white squiggling lightning flashed again and again.”

  “Thunderstorms scare me,” Max whined.

  “Thunderstorm weather we respect,” Marie agreed. “But sometimes we get silly when it’s been dry and hot with sun burning up all the farm crops. Sometimes people forget to act safely, and so it was with this lovely young mother.”

  “Oh no,” Fred and the boys said together.

  “Standing in the kitchen, the young mother kissed her little girl’s head and handed her to a nursemaid, a woman who helped her with the inside housework. There were many chores in those long ago days. ‘Darling baby, Mamma will be back soon, then we’ll celebrate with warmed milk and sweet molasses cookies. We’ll have a party to celebrate the co
ming of saving rains. Good sweets together in the kitchen, my darling little one.’”

  “The nursemaid said the young mother took her baby girl back once more and kissed her again. The baby began to cry when her mother handed her back to the nursemaid. The baby cried like she knew what the adults did not know.

  “The young mother turned and ran out of the kitchen. She ran outside into the storm. She held her face to the pouring rain, her arms up, and she began dancing in circles, laughing, crying, dancing faster and faster. Some say it was like she lost her good senses. Then she ran out to where the lawn grass ended and the fields began. She was laughing, crying, singing, shouting, so people say.

  “Her husband entered the kitchen from the living room. He looked at the baby in the nursemaid’s arms and she said, ‘Your wife has gone outside. She’s gone outside into the storm. Oh, heavens, she has.’

  “The husband ran to the door. He flung it open and went onto the porch.

  “It was coal shiny black outside. The wind howled and rain was slamming down. Only when lightning flashed, as it did again and again, could anyone see anything. It was only when lightning flashed could he see his beloved wife dancing. He yelled into the darkness: ‘Come back! Come be safe!’

  “The lightning flashed and he saw her looking at him. She was smiling, laughing, waving, then blackness. The lightning flashed again. One last time lightning flashed and he saw her as she was struck. He saw her fall down through darkness, down into burnt brittle grains and onto the soggy ground.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Some of the men standing on the porch kept him from going to her. But the lightning that had hit her was the last of it. And in a few moments thunder was distant over the Nanticoke and booming west. They went to her then. There was no pulse. Her body was still hot but it was hot with lightning heat.

  “The men carried her into the kitchen and laid her body right there.” Marie pointed to a dark stain on the wide floor boards under the rocking chair. “Right there is where she lay. Some say the dark stain you see was the shadow of the body she left behind.”

  The boys and Fred looked at the dark stain on the wide wooden boards and each gasped at the same time.

  Fred whispered, “Horrible.”

  “Horrible,” repeated the boys.

  “The seer, Marge, began crying, like she was the young mother who died from the lightning. ‘I just keep coming to see if my baby’s alright. I just keep coming to get my baby some food I had promised her.’ That was the spirit’s message coming through Marge’s lips,” said Miss Marie. She paused for effect. “‘But I can’t find my baby. I can’t find my little one,’ the spirit said. Then Marge gave a shudder, as the sad young woman disappeared from her body. Only thing left was Marge snoring in her chair as if nothing had happened. Just like she was enjoying a little nap.”

  “Then what happened?” asked Max, his voice squeezed into a hiss of emotion. His entire body was perched on the edge of the porch chair like a bird ready to fly.

  “Well, what happened next was the Tappers from Trappe decided not to buy the Inn after all. It stayed empty for 40 more years, ’til I came along, darn fool that I be, and done bought her. That was about five years back now,” Miss Marie said with a laugh and a funny sigh.

  “Did you buy it not knowing about the ghost? Didn’t people tell you about the ghost?” asked Fred.

  “What do you think?” asked Miss Marie coyly.

  “I’m not sure. You’re a real spunky lady,” said Max.

  “Well, thanks, honey. I’ll cut you a mighty big slice of that coconut cream pie you brought me for such a great compliment,” laughed Miss Marie. “But the answer is no. I’m spunky, but I think even I would have been scared off, had I known about that poor young woman’s ghost. See, I’m not from the Shore, though my mother was born down this way. I was raised in Southern Maryland, down where the tobacco grows, with leaves as big as elephant ears. When I came down here looking to buy the Inn, folks kept their mouths shut. They figured if I was dumb enough to come down to the mosquito haven, I was dumb enough to live in an inn with a ghost to keep me company.” She took another sip of iced tea, then continued. “So, no, no one told me, until after the contract was settled, signed and safely locked in the bank vault. Then, over a couple of glasses of red wine, in a fancy restaurant overlooking the ocean, my real estate agent just happened to mention the possibility of a ghost. I thought the wine had gone to his head and gave the rest of my mind over to a careful study of the waves crashing on the jetty and how a seagull looks almost beautiful when swooping over the spray.”

  Miss Marie rocked her chair a couple of times before she continued. “But then, when I went to open a post office box for myself up town, the postmaster just happened to let it slip about the time Marge had her séance. At the market, on Route 50, the cashier made mention of the fact that some people, by the name of Tapper, never came back to Vienna after the ghost talked. Instead of driving through Vienna, they’d do their shopping over in Hurlock rather than come anywhere near this little town. But the real kicker was when the lady who owns the Nanticoke Resting House told me that she heard wails coming from my kitchen about the same time every year. Always in the summer, when the storm had come up and the lightning bolts had taken the life of the young woman.”

  “Wow!” whispered Charles.

  “So, there I was, the proud owner of an inn that needed about a year’s worth of repairs, just to have its rooms in good enough shape to rent, and a live-in ghost in its kitchen to boot.” Miss Marie stood up stiffly. “Here, let me get that dessert for you boys. I suspect you’re feeling just a mite bit hungry now.” She crossed the porch toward the kitchen.

  “But what about the ghost?” asked Charles.

  “Oh, she and I get along just fine now. We’ve come to a nice understanding. I told her one night that her baby was fine. That it just needed a little loving. So, now she doesn’t go looking in the middle of the night for food to feed it, like she once did.” Miss Marie opened the screen door and slipped in. She stood looking out for a minute and then continued, “Of course, you can hear her most every sweet, summery night rocking in her rocker, down in the summer kitchen. Sometimes if you listen real careful, you can just barely hear scraps of the lullaby she sings, ‘Hush little baby, now don’t you cry.’” Miss Marie hummed the rest of the old lullaby as she went to get their dessert.

  “Oh, wow!” said Charles. His eyes were as big as they could get.

  “I may be tired, but I don’t think I’ll go to sleep all night,” said Max, shaking his head.

  “Well, we’ll see, won’t we,” said Fred.

  “Did you hear the ghost when you stayed here with Mom?” asked Charles.

  “No, not that I recall,” said Fred.

  “Could we possibly check out of here and into some other place, Fred?” whined Charles.

  “No, afraid not. I already paid for our room. But more importantly, I don’t want to hurt Miss Marie’s feelings. Besides, the ghost sounds friendly enough. Just a poor, lonely, loving mother.”

  “Actually, great-grandmother,” corrected Miss Marie, coming out with the big creamy pie, a bowl of ice cream, and a frosty pitcher of homemade lemonade.

  “How’s that?” asked Fred.

  “Well, about a year after I had moved in, I had a most unusual visitor from Elliott Island. One evening as I was sitting on this porch, rocking away and snapping some beans, a truck pulled up. This ol’ gal gets out and comes straight away up the steps and onto my porch.” Miss Marie put the dessert tray down on a small table in front of Fred and the boys. “Then, before I could say ‘How do ya do?’ she up and says to me, ‘Are you Marie?’ ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said back, nice and proper. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘My grandmother is your ghost!’”

  “What?” said Fred and boys all at the same time.

  “Well, that’s about what I said. I guess my eyes were about as big as your eyes are now.” Miss Marie started cutting the pie and continued f
ixing their dessert as she talked.

  “She told me that the baby in the house had been her mother. Shortly after the lightning bolts, her father had sold the farm and moved to another place, across the Nanticoke River, up to the town of Mardela Springs. He bought a fine big house there and continued to farm some, but not as big as before. Instead he got interested in the mineral springs in Mardela, which the town was named for. Around the time of the young woman’s death, it was real popular for people to visit mineral springs.”

  “Why?” asked Max.

  “Well, folk believed just by drinking those minerals, you could heal what ailed you.”

  “Just by drinking some water?” asked Charles.

  “Yes sir. ’Course, some folk also liked to sit and bathe in the mineral water. That was a popular remedy, too.”

  “Sounds pretty silly!” said Max.

  “Well, it may, but some very famous people were quite taken by the idea of mineral cures. In fact, George Washington was very fond of the springs down in Berkeley Springs, West Virginia. He went there often for his cures.”

  “Fact of the matter is,” added Fred, “many people still go to Berkeley Springs for that same cure. They go to bathe and drink the waters. Some folk swear by those waters.”

  “That’s wild,” said Max.

  “Wild, but true,” said Miss Marie.

  “But to get back to the story,” said Charles, as he quickly took the slice of pie Miss Marie handed him.

  “Well, the sorrowing gentleman decided to cash in on the popularity of mineral springs, and he built a huge inn for people to come and vacation in. From far and wide, folk would come to Mardela Springs. They’d stay in that inn and take the cures of the healing waters. That’s how this little girl grew up, and even though her daddy never remarried, she was able to find lots of nice ladies to be her pretend-momma. But it wasn’t good enough.” Miss Marie began pouring out the ice cold lemonade.