Nik Berg recalls a haunting HALLOWEEN drive in Massachusetts.
It’s the time of year for spooky stories. Tales of haunted highways and beastly byways, of which we’ve got plenty at Detour.
This one is personal, and although it happened more than 30 years ago, I still feel the chills like it was yesterday.
My girlfriend (now Mrs B) and I were young, fearless and fuelled by a strong pound/weak dollar on a road trip around New England in the autumn (fall). In a borrowed Jaguar we sought out the towns that took their names from the old country (much like Simon Heptinstall did here).
We drove 2,000 miles through wooded roads whose foliage changed day by day. We ate in diners and stayed in inexpensive motels, took Detours to Niagara Falls and the outskirts of New York City. There were scary moments, such as being pulled over by a shotgun-wielding Sheriff and spending a night in a Connecticut flea pit where our neighbour clearly made her living in nocturnal entertainment. Roxanne didn’t need to put on a red light for us to know exactly what she was up to.
In Salem, we visited the Witch Museum and watched a recreation of the famous trials that took place here in 1692-1693. More than 200 people were accused of witchcraft after two young girls began suffering fits, triggering a mass hysteria. In total, 25 people died, with 19 hanged, five expiring from disease in prison, and one pressed to death by stones.
Seeking somewhere to stay that evening we found ourselves at a small B&B, decorated for Halloween with hundreds upon hundreds of pumpkins of all shapes and sizes. Unfortunately, it was full, but the owner said her friends could accommodate us.
Shortly, a battered pickup truck pulled up, and a wizened old man with flowing grey locks and an immense beard got out. He appeared to be wearing nothing but a set of denim dungarees.
We were invited to follow him home, on a route that took us deep into the woods on a gravel track not suited to a low-slung Jaguar. Finally, we arrived at a clearing and there, on its own, stood a timber-framed house. By now the sun was setting, and the fading light made it all the more eerie. The jangle of wind chimes in a chill breeze didn’t help much either.
Gandalf introduced his wife, who could not have looked more like a witch if she’d walked off the set of Wicked wearing a pointed hat. She showed us up creaking wooden steps to our room. Bare floorboards, a small rug, a bed with a patchwork quilt, and there, in the corner, a rocking chair that we just knew would have a life of its own.
We mumbled excuses about wanting to get nearer to our next destination and departed in a shower of gravel. It was some hours later, in those pre-mobile, pre-internet days, that we finally found a chain motel for the night.
The next day we inadvertently found ourselves back in the same spot, and as we passed the track that we’d left in such a hurry the previous evening, the Jaguar gave out a mighty screech. A horrible grinding wail that came from one of the front wheels.
At the next gas station we pulled in, and I found a stone wedged in the brakes, yet the road we’d been on was smooth tarmac. Coincidence or curse? Either way, we couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Massachusetts.
Nik Berg recalls a haunting Halloween drive in Massachusetts.