Chapter 6

Leaving town I drove south. I planned to catch the Turnpike and head home. When I reached the Massachusetts Turnpike, I turned west and drove into New York State. There I took a northerly route.

I drove aimlessly but with a purpose. In the back of my mind, I had the feeling both Danielsford and the specter I assumed to be Mary Bradbury were New England phenomena. Maybe if I stayed outside New England, I would be free of her. Another part of me warned that I couldn't count on it. The third, and most annoying, part said I would never find the answer by avoiding the problem.

Another question popped into my head. Where was the other woman, the one from the Common? What happened to her, the woman who attacked and ripped me to pieces in my dreams?

If the woman I saw was Mary, what changed? Did her being there mean she was out of the coffin, and how did it happen?

I continued driving north and tried to put the mounting number of questions to the side. Every day brought more of them, but few answers.

If the Reverend had the answer, I doubted he would bury it in the pages of his journal. On the other hand, did he not realize the answer when he found it? If Mrs. Putnam knew, why hadn't she given it to me? I suspected her husband knew, or at least thought, an answer lay in his journal. Maybe he didn't know what it was and, perhaps, did not think he needed the answer. He had not opened the coffin and Mary never came after him.

She wasn't the woman who appeared in my dreams. She was similar in appearance to the woman from my nightmares but was a few years younger. From a distance she also looked a bit shorter. Her sudden appearance brought up another question: Were they both after me? Was I now trying to outrun two of them?

When I stopped driving, I was in Whitehall, New York, close to the Vermont border and an hour from Sherburne Center where it all began. I considered pointing my car west, intending to get as far from New England and the two spirits as I could.

Instead, I found a place to stay. Rather than run, I wanted to bury myself in the papers and find the key to, I hoped, fix the mess I had somehow created. A the very least, I wanted to try to drive them out of the 21st Century and out of my dreams.

I spent the evening reading, and then re-reading, the pages. If there was a clue, I didn't see it.

"Son of a bitch," I snapped and went back to the beginning.

Most of the papers had been typed, making them easy to read. On the downside, they were single-spaced which meant I had a lot to read.

Late in the evening I put them away and gave up. I had read the journal three times. For the most part, I focused on the various conversations the Reverend transcribed to paper. I skipped the descriptive sections dealing with the town's appearance. Descriptions of the village and its buildings didn't seem relevant. Besides, I had been to Danielsford. I knew what it looked like.

Either I missed something, or Mrs. Putnam failed to give me all the papers. I wondered if she overlooked some of them. Could they have been lost or misplaced? I made a note to get in touch with her again and ask if any could be missing.

***

I was out of the motel before eight in the morning. Fair Haven and Castleton, Vermont passed on my right as I followed the four-lane highway into Rutland, where I stopped for breakfast. As I ate, I remembered Mrs. Putnam telling me to find Danielsford. Locating the town I assume held the key to ridding the world of Mary Bradbury. However, how could I find a town that I understood had vanished by now and which appeared all over New England, apparently at random, at what we presumed were three-year intervals?

Was there a pattern to its appearance and, if there was, how could I find it? Were there others like me, innocent people, who had blundered into the place and paid for it with their lives? I had as much chance of finding the information as I did the town itself. I found myself with even more questions and no answers.

After breakfast, I drove east, following the road to Woodstock. The same road brought me to Danielsford. Based on what I understood, the town would be back to wherever it went until its next scheduled appearance. I felt some anxiety at finding out whether we were right.

Sherburne Center greeted me, leaving me with mixed feelings of relief and disappointment. Part of me hoped Danielsford was still there, while the larger part of my being was glad it wasn't. I parked and entered a small store. Two men stood near the counter. They nodded amiably but watched me with what I sensed to be suspicion.

It’s an attitude typical of native small-town Vermonters. It is particularly noticeable if the person is from the outside. To a native Vermonter, outside is anywhere other than Vermont.

In addition, I have since learned even natives of the state are classified. A true Vermonter comes from pioneering families—those who first settled the area. Next are those whose families date back a couple of centuries. Newcomers can trace their ancestry a century or so in Vermont. Then there are the outsiders, who are looked upon as invaders. They weren’t born in Vermont and will never be accepted. Whether it’s all true, I can’t say. It’s what I was told.

I had parked right in front of the store and my car bore a Massachusetts plate on the front. The license plate identified me right away as someone especially dangerous. Vermonters, the real Vermonters, view people from Massachusetts with suspicion and concern. We and our views are not to be trusted.

I wandered through the little store, wondering how I could ask the questions I needed to ask without sounding ridiculous. They weren't difficult questions; it was asking them I found hard. Would the men consider me a nut? If someone posed them to me, I would almost certainly think the person had a screw loose.

"Can I help you?" the clerk, or owner, asked.

"This is Sherburne Center?" I asked.

"That it is," he replied.

"I came through here a couple of weeks ago." I let the rest hang unsaid and waited for his reaction.

The man studied me. "Do you need something?"

"I don't recall this town being here."

His eyes narrowed. "We've been here since the town was founded and named."

I chuckled, hoping it sounded genuine. "Maybe I was daydreaming. I remember a place called Danielsford or something like that."

"Danielsford?" He glanced at the two men. Both were a few feet away listening to the exchange. "Never heard of it."

Something about his look caught my attention. I knew he was lying but decided to continue.

"An old looking town," I said, "with buildings that don't belong around here. The people spoke with a strange accent, too."

"Here? Or did you mean near here?"

"Right here. The road came through here. It was an old wagon trail."

"Are you sure you're in the right place?"

The conversation was going nowhere. I shrugged, mumbled that maybe I was wrong. I bought a pack of cigarettes, although I had quit smoking years ago, and then headed for my car.

The two men came out and ambled past me.

"Down the road a piece," one said. He continued on without stopping. "Follow us."

They climbed into a newer but well used white pickup. The man who had spoken slid into the passenger seat. A moment later, they drove away, headed east. I started my car, intending to follow but trying not to act rushed. In the doorway, the clerk or owner watched. Opening the pack of cigarettes, I stuck one in my mouth but resisted the almost overpowering temptation to light it. After a minute, I backed out and drove away.

At the edge of the little village, the men pulled off the road. I parked behind them.

"You mentioned Danielsford back there," the passenger said.

"I guess I made a mistake."

"You didn't," the driver told me. "It was here. Don't ask me to explain."

"I was asking," I said, "because something is going on. At least one man has died since the town showed up, and I might be the next."

"The bitch in the church.” The driver spat out the words. He shot a glance at the passenger.

"Mary Bradbury," I said. "That's her name."

The passenger nodded.

"The town appeared, and you knew about it,” I said. “Where did you go?"

The driver shuffled his feet and chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Like I said, I can't explain it. We were there, but we weren't. I mean, hell, I don't know what I mean."

He looked to his partner for help.

The passenger took up the explanation. "We were still there, but everything was different. It's as if, I guess, we were ghosts or something for those couple of days. Then, after three days it all changed back to normal."

"So you could see the people in the town?" I asked.

"All of it—and hear them. We couldn't talk to them or nothing, but we could watch them."

"Why's the guy who owns the store—"

"Dunno," the driver said. "We've only talked about it amongst ourselves. That might be his thinking."

The passenger nodded.

"The church," I continued, "came from a town in Massachusetts. Somehow, it went along when Danielsford left. I think the ghost or whatever it is killed a friend of mine in Rutland. Now, she's after me."

"The church didn't look like it belonged," the passenger agreed.

I had gotten tired of the small talk but now the questions I wanted to ask seemed less relevant. They were in the town but were invisible, as was the entire town of Sherburne Center. Danielsford was confusing enough without this new development. The Reverend and Mrs. Putnam were able to interact. What was different in Sherburne Center?

"What did you hear about Mary Bradbury?" I asked.

"They thought she was a witch." the passenger answered. "They found out she was innocent, but they already hung her. She put a curse on the town.”

"I heard about the curse."

"I guess it worked," the driver said. "The town keeps coming back. The residents are stuck until somebody fixes it."

"How do you fix it?" I asked.

The two men looked at each other. The passenger spoke first. "Somebody needs to give her a Christian burial."

"At least," the driver added, "that's what they think."

I felt my upper body sag. "Which I guess means getting her back in her coffin."

The passenger shook his head. "That might be a tall order. What happened that she's after you?"

I told them the story from the beginning. They listened, shaking their heads as I explained.

"Should have stayed out of the church," the driver said.

"Yeah." I wondered aloud why Putnam hadn't taken care of the funeral. "You never saw me in town? I was in the Buick parked by the Common."

I motioned toward my car.

"Nope," said the driver.

The passenger shook his head. I still didn't know the names of either man, and they did not indicate they planned to introduce themselves.

"Never saw you," the passenger said. "But what happened in town is like we told you."

We talked for another minute or two. I had learned something that could help me. The woman in the coffin, Mary Bradbury, had to have a Christian burial. I put aside the obvious question: How did she get out of the coffin?

Danielsford would appear again. When it did, all I had to do to rid myself of the problem was find the town, find Mary, put her back into her coffin and have a burial service. Capturing a rogue elephant barehanded sounded easier.

I could wander all over New England searching for Danielsford. Would it make any difference if I found the village? I didn't know. The people in Danielsford couldn't defeat the curse. Somehow, after they hanged Mary, they discovered they had killed an innocent woman. When they did, they tried to make amends. Apparently, their amends weren’t enough.

Why hadn't they given her the burial she wanted? It was another missing piece an increasingly confusing puzzle. Being a Puritan town, I knew they had a minister. Whatever happened to prevent her funeral and subsequent burial resulted in the curse keeping them in a sort of limbo.

“Well,” the driver said, “good luck. I hope you figure it out.”

“So do I,” I answered.

We shook hands, and they turned toward the truck. I watched them climb in, start the engine and leave.

In my car, I sat and stared at the paved road. The last time I came through the town, where I now sat was just about where it turned into the dirt wagon road. The sign announcing Danielsford was only a short distance east of my location, and the hag from the Common stood beside it. I could imagine the sign there. Today, it was empty of any sign or raggedly dressed woman.