By Deb Thomas
This Halloween story for 2021…..is the kind of thing you tell your friends around the campfire. Although it’s haunted me in nightmares for years, I don’t live on the side of the state where events unfolded, and as a result I don’t think about it all that much presently. That is, until I took a recent trip to visit my mom for apple picking. On my way home to Higganum, I was pulled toward roads I hadn’t traveled since high school; roads which were the backdrop of many great afternoons with a long ago boyfriend who loved Colonial American history. Funny how some things just come back to you and to my surprise, many landmarks of houses and barns remained the same. Memories too. There were some roads I wanted to revisit…one where…..a murder took place.
Or, did it?
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Driving Dutch’s blue truck from his parent’s house in our town, to meet him on Saturday afternoon at the docks where the fishing boat anchored— was the usual thing for us every couple of weeks. I would drive about fifty miles south, to Stonington, where we’d have dinner and a movie. He’d graduated two years prior, turning down full scholarships to several prestigious colleges while I was still in high school. Tall, good looking, with a rare degree of assuredness, he was a great boyfriend. He was quite mild-mannered and very kind. A natural math whiz, he was also a mechanical wunderkind; there wasn’t any engine he could not repair. He liked old people and their stories and spent a lot of time with his older family members. It’s what made him a story teller-raconteur; a wicked embellisher of tall tales, too. When it came time for college or working on a fishing boat in Stonington Harbor, he chose the latter and got hired immediately as a diesel mechanic.
The boat on which he worked was a new world for me too; I’d seen the fishing fleet grouped up at the docks in Stonington, but he grew up fishing, sailing and working on engines. He also possessed a comfortable familiarity with the crew and owner. It meant that I got to tag along for a couple of three and four day trips, during school vacations or holiday weekends, with parental permission as I wasn’t eighteen yet– if I would agree to cook. Every minute was a learning experience; it was exciting and I loved every wave we crested and every briny, slippery fish that got caught up in the nets.
One weekend in October he’d surprised me by telling me we were going to a Halloween party in Stonington Borough, at the boat owner’s home, on the Saturday before Halloween. I love Halloween; it’s no secret. He agreed to dress as an early 1900’s undertaker, I would of course, be his corpse bride. At a Norwich thrift shop, I found a dark suit for him with a plain worn white shirt, and a thin black cord bolo, and a wide brimmed gunslinger type hat. For me; a theatrical, velvety red ball gown to which I added dirty looking, rotting gauze bandages around my neck from a nasty, chainsaw accident, ghostly pallor white face makeup and blood (red cake decorating gel) stains. We were so wonderfully gruesome.
Boat owner Remy and his wife Senta were about to give their 200-year-old seaside home some remodeling; and before they judiciously took down walls and tore out fixtures, according to the Historical Society requirements, they turned it into a haunted house. Yes; it was supposed to be a real haunted house. Complete with sawmill in the shed out back, which terrified me. He added, “By the way, did you hear about the killer on the loose today?”
Senta told me it was only gelatin and tinted corn syrup that they used as blood for the sawmill exhibit. But, not before I was told there had been several, um…”mishaps,” with the sawmill in “its day,” and maybe a murder or two. “That’s why it’s haunted,” she told me. Of course.
And, with my particular costume, I was soon asked to pose on the sawmill conveyor. “NO!” couldn’t come out of my mouth fast enough and I hurried out of the shed into their barn — full of ancient tools. To my surprise, a buckboard was standing ready with lanterns and two draft horses; our evening’s transportation for a spooky Borough wagon ride.
Lots of revelers were out on the usually quiet streets; I kept looking back into the blackness that immediately swallowed our lantern light as we went down alley ways. One costumer in particular, came out of the dark dressed up as a deranged hospital escapee, wearing a hospital gown with his head wrapped in gauze; he scared the stuffing out of me. You just don’t forget that kind of thing, you know? He looked too real. Standing at the end of the driveway at one house, he leered at me, as he ran his tongue around his teeth, slowly, disgustingly. I thought I’d seen him at Remy’s house, too. We saw a few southern Kentucky Fried gentlemen types, who were supposed to be sea-captains, along with their widows, lots of ghosts, belles of the ball, and a cadre of vampire folk. But that guy was the only deranged escapee type there. He gave me the creeps.
But, it was getting late. Thanking Senta and Remy for a great evening—it had been a lot of fun — we changed into regular clothes and said our goodbyes around midnight. Dutch drove us home on backroads since a direct route didn’t exist and turned on an 8-track tape of The Moody Blues to accompany us. About fifteen minutes later, we passed a road, and that’s when he blurted out, he’d almost forgotten to check on the farm of family friends who were going away for the weekend. They had asked him the week before, since they knew he worked down that way and by chance was he coming home on Friday night? And, it was just good luck that he remembered when he did. We backed up and then headed down a narrow, hard-packed dirt road. His family friends owned a hundred-year old shingle mill still in operation, and run by a great grandson of the original mill owner. As we went down what looked like an abandoned cow path, I noticed car headlights in the truck’s side mirror-when we turned onto the road; was there a vehicle following us? Or, just another car from a different house?
About a half-mile ahead was a cul-de-sac, but no other dwellings, except the farm up a short driveway. From this point we could easily see the barn and house in the truck’s headlights. We parked for about ten minutes for a kiss or two, listening to the end of the music, then drove ahead. Dutch told me that he and his father had cut lumber for the Williams family at their own sawmill, and in return, they received new cedar shake shingles for Dutch’s new barn. I noted, “Sawmills, everywhere.” But, by this time we were both getting tired; he had worked a full day and we were about 30 minutes from home. Pulling up to the barn door, he got out and said he’d only be gone a few minutes, but to keep the truck running.
But, when he was in the barn, I caught a slight movement on the porch at the house. Transfixed, I saw someone come out the front door and, a light came on briefly and then was quickly shut off again. The only thought I had; the owners came home early. Yet, something wasn’t right. If they were home, why didn’t they turn on the outdoor barn or driveway lights, knowing Dutch was coming to check on their animals? And, why not call out to us? They surely knew the blue truck. Just as I was about to lay on the horn, he came out of the barn waving his hands in front, hurrying to the truck, putting his finger to his lips for me to be quiet, and to stay there. He reached the door and eased it open to go behind the bench seat and in an instant, drew out his hunting rifle. He whispered for me to get down; that both horses were dead, and he also saw—what looked like a body. He saw disbelief in my face and solemnly told me, “This is no joke,” just when I was going to ask him about the killer on the loose.
I stifled the urge to yell out; it was almost too much to process at once. I was in a kind of shock as he said next that he was going into the house, and if I saw anyone else but him coming out of the house, to put it in drive and get out of here. I told him, “But I DID see someone coming out of the house and he ran into the woods.” There was no time to think; he reacted instinctively, shouldering the rifle. “No!” I yelled at him, “LET’S GET OUT OF HERE! DON’T GO! and ——he took off for the stairs of the porch.
With the truck running, I slid over to the driver’s seat and turned the truck around, flashing the headlights for the briefest time on the woods where the person had run. It must have occurred to my resolute boyfriend that nothing good was going to come of this, and almost immediately, there he was, jumping off the stairs, coming back as fast as he could to the truck.
Was this the workings of my very clever boyfriend and his friends to scare me half to death? It would be just like him to drag out the whole evening’s entertainment due to me loving Halloween so much.
Except, the person running into the woods was the same deranged looking person I’d seen on our wagon ride around town.
Impossible, yet I knew what I saw. And, there had been those headlights behind us… Whomever it was could have easily run into the woods while we were parked.
No time to waste, I spun the wheels in the gravel, then floored it down the narrow driveway to the hardtop. We drove in silence to the highway; I’d already decided we were going to the State Police in the next town ahead.
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2021: Already dark by the time I parked on the same cul-de-sac on Shingle Mill Road, coming home from mom’s, I remembered that long ago night with clarity. The hardest thing to think about after the passing of almost fifty years is—I once had a boyfriend who was brave enough to go after someone, with a potential murderer on the loose, who left me alone in his truck. I’ll have to ask him about that, one of these days when we next meet up more about the “killer on the loose,” as I never did tell him about …..the guy licking his teeth at after the party. I still have so many questions. Like, who was the dead person in the barn?
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Within minutes I was on the “55 Connector” highway, heading north to exit 92–the Wescott Road exit, and blazing a path to the State Police Barracks in Danielson. We told our story, and after some questions and coffee for each of us, I called my mom to tell her we were delayed in getting home because we saw an accident and went to the police station to report it. She said with great relief— to drive safely. As long as I was at the front desk at Troop D, I was not in trouble for being out that late.
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2021: Still thinking back to that time, much later, we learned that the man running into the woods happened on the shingle mill farm by complete accident; he was however, a true escapee from Norwich State Hospital. He’d stolen a car and drove that particular night, down a road destined to cross our path. It had been a big news story. Dutch and I rehashed details of that night when we got together again briefly before he moved to the west coast, and I got married. What a night.
After all this time though, I’m certain – it was the same man I’d seen while we were in Stonington Borough on the wagon ride through town. His head swathed in bandages and the way he licked his teeth when he looked at me; I will never forget that face, never forget that leer. But, how did he go to Stonington first?
One last thing—since that time, he’s been paroled; he’s out there, still. And here I am sitting at the end of Shingle Mill Road, on Halloween—in the dark, and, oh good grief, my car’s “Check Engine” light just went on… I have to go.
But, just as I begin to turn around, lights in my rearview mirror, I see headlights pausing at the turn onto the road…..and my car is not….
….going to…….start. My husband had warned me that it was time for a new battery. Crap. Why now?
It’s dark, and I’m alone, and cannot reach my cell phone in my bag in the back seat. And OH NO!…now….someone is running, running towards me, on the road….
…he’s wearing… torn and dirty clothing…and he has a hat or a scarf? Or something around his head, and he looks…
….he looks….familiar.
STAY SAFE OUT THERE!
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
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Disclaimer: Of course. It’s Halloween-I made this all up! Except…the leering guy at a Halloween party. Once upon a time—he was there. There was also an escapee long, long ago. Oh, and the part about the Shingle Mill–that’s true. But, nothing was reported to the State Police in Danielson.
Also, I did have a boyfriend who worked on a Stonington, CT commercial fishing boat; The Stormy Weather, II. Stonington’s historical fishing fleet is the stuff of legends, but due to environmental changes, is sadly not what it used to be. Support your local fish suppliers though; they work hard for your gustatory enjoyment.
For more Halloween stories about Mystic, CT area, and the Eastern side of Connecticut, here’s a book to look into from Donna Kent, paranormal investigator: Ghost Stories and Legends of Eastern Connecticut: Lore, Mysteries and Secrets Revealed (Haunted America).
Photo credit: free access internet obtained
