A little night noise would be nice, part 1

There it is. The scene of our 10th anniversary getaway weekend. The Edgewood Plantation B&B on Route 5 about halfway to Williamsburg, just north of the James River.

So scenic, so historical, so eerie.

Like an opening scene on Scooby-Doo, Jocelyn and I arrived to find that we had missed the owners and that they would be away for the weekend. Our room was actually in another building on the grounds behind the house. No problem.

It was late August (five years ago) and the weather was unusually chilly. The overcast sky was high and gray, the breeze was stronger than gentle. We wore sweaters and jeans. After finding the key, left in a hiding spot in case we arrived late, we searched for our room. The outbuilding, so-called servant's quarters, was two stories and our room occupied the entire second floor. Everything was decorated as if the Civil War had not yet occurred. We were certain the servants didn't sleep in a room like this.

We put our bags away and explored the grounds. A flower garden which was no doubt gorgeous in the spring and summer had no blooms and the gray skies made the greens a drab olive. We walked through the garden, passing an archway that split a high hedge. This must be where the weddings take place, we thought.

Jocelyn wore gloves and I kept one hand in my pocket. She gripped my other hand tightly. Beyond the arch was a thick lawn that needed mowing. It didn't look unkempt, just too long. The lawn ended abruptly at the edge of thick woods. The light was not strong enough to see in them. We didn't go near. Here and there the long grass looked as if it had been walked on. The trampled line went to the woods, but there was no discernable trail. They just ended as as abruptly as the lawn.

We followed a gravel path eastward to a large weathered wooden structure, bigger than the house, that we figured was a barn. It turned out to be a mill. It's large dilapidated wheel did not turn despite the rushing water of the stream beneath it. The ground met an opening on the mill's upper floor. I started to step inside the dark interior when Jocelyn jerked my arm. "No way you go in there," she said. "Those boards could be rotted and you'd fall right through." I didn't disagree.

We peered in through a window opening and looked at the assorted neglected and decayed contents that the light allowed us to see. A broken wagon wheel, rusty ploughshare, ramshackle stacks of boards and, just to send shivers through my body, lying there, filthy and one-eyed--looking right at us--a rag doll. I dislike unknown, abandoned dolls. (I blame a childhood viewing of an episode of The Twilight Zone or Outer Limits or Night Gallery that had a doll in it. A doll with those eyes that pop open when she is upright and closed when she is horizontal. A person was holding the doll horizontally and it's eyes popped open to a shrieking sound of strings. I haven't liked them since.)

We walked on, not looking back. The day was waning and we had to get to the restaurant for our dinner reservation.

We approached the locked main house. Three stories tall, old, built in 1849. We were walking west and entered through a gate in a white privacy fence. There was a gazebo. As we turned we were surprised to see a huge old in-ground swimming pool. That's why there was a privacy fence. You couldn't see in or out of the pool area except on the house side where a wrought iron fence served as the boundary. The pool was filled with water and the surface was moving slightly from the chill wind that blew in from the southwest.

Leaves dotted the pool in yellows, reds, and browns. The water was a deep blue green as if it hadn't been treated in a while. We decided to walk around it and check out the gazebo. We spent a few moments sitting on the bench there looking out over the grounds. An old Rolls Royce sat in the front yard as if to proclaim that only the wealthiest hillbillies lived here. And, no, it wasn't on blocks.

The wind convinced us to get moving again. My nose dripped and Jocelyn huddled close, hugging my arm. We continued our walk around the pool. A short springboard was at the far end. As we neared that end of the pool, farthest from the wrought iron gate, I saw it, floating lazily, almost gracefully under the diving board. The frog's body was large and bloated and a sickly green. Legs and arms extended, he rolled and bobbed weightless and lifeless. It felt like an omen. We commented on our disgust and wondered how the animal died.

The huge empty mansion, the dark woods, the lawn tracks to nowhere, the one-eyed doll, the dead frog, the cold August wind, this anniversary was starting to feel like a Stephen King short story in the making.

We left the pool to head back to the outbuilding when the first cat arrived, mewling and hovering near us but never coming up to us. We stopped to try and coax it over. Was it a stray? Then another cat came into view from around the house and did the same thing as the first. Were they trying to talk to us? Were they warning us? Then cat after cat appeared. We walked by another outbuilding that used to be the old carriage house. I counted a dozen cats of all sizes and colors. They were all crying at us, like they needed to be fed. "Enough," I said. "Let's go."

I was ready to go home.

(to be concluded)