The Ghosts of Aquinnah

by Julie Flanders

  Hannah had to find out who she was and what she was doing at the lighthouse. She got up from the bed and went back to her computer to check the ferry schedule and make a reservation. She had no intention of wasting any more time. She was going to go back to Martha’s Vineyard and to Aquinnah.

  ****

  1884

  Stella pushed back the green wool curtain and stared out the window of the Mayhew home at the steadily falling snow that had covered the cliffs in a downy blanket of white. Hearing a groan behind her, she let her hand fall and turned back towards the bed in the corner of the room. She walked to the bed and picked up a cloth from a basin of water on the bedside table before sitting down next to her patient.

  She squeezed the excess water from the cloth and rested it gently on the young man’s forehead.

  “Mamaí,” he moaned, as his hand clasped sheets soaked with his own sweat. He continued to repeat the word as if it were a prayer, never once opening his eyes.

  Stella wondered what he was saying, if anything. Perhaps it was merely the gibberish of a feverish man. But the word sounded a bit like “mammy” or “mommy” to her, and she couldn’t help but think that the man was simply crying out for his mother.

  “Poor thing,” she whispered as she took the now hot cloth from his forehead and soaked it again with cool water. She dabbed at his face and chest before returning the cloth to his forehead. She had no idea what else to do for him.

  She got up from the chair and walked back to the window as the sounds of the fierce wind outside the lighthouse mingled with the soft moaning of her patient. The snow was coming down harder and it was now impossible to see the ocean beneath the cliffs through the curtain of white that covered the sky. There was no way Josiah would be making it back to Gay Head today.

  The keeper’s brick house, which was damp and chilly even on a warm summer day, was freezing now. The winter cold seeped into the core of the cottage and chilled Stella to her bones. Stella shivered at the chill coming through the old window and picked up her blue shawl from the foot of her patient’s bed. She wrapped it around her tightly, grateful for the warmth it provided.

  Stella had knitted the shawl herself but she’d never been able to knit as well as her mother. Her mind drifted back to another shawl of dark blue wool that her mother Alma Hammett had knitted for Stella when she was a child. And to the nor’easter that had swept over the island some years ago and left her family stranded inside their Chilmark farm.

  She and her parents had gathered around the fireplace of their home, snuggling as close to each other as possible for warmth. Stella’s dog Maxwell curled at her ankles, warming her feet with his thick fur. She had wrapped her thick shawl around her and leaned against her father’s strong shoulder as he read aloud from the family Bible.

  Stella could hear the deep and soothing voice of her father Charles as he read the ancient words of the Old Testament. She could see her mother get up from her chair to make coffee to warm the three of them as the fire crackled in the hearth.

  The patter of ice hitting the window of the Mayhew cottage jerked Stella back to the present. She wrapped her shawl tighter around her and returned to the chair next to her patient, who had kicked his blankets off of his body and was now shivering from cold. But he was quiet at least, and appeared to be sleeping.

  Stella pulled the blankets back up and tucked them gently around his shoulders. She listened to the howling wind outside and ached for the parents that haunted her memories. She chided herself for dreaming of the past. Her parents were gone and nothing she did could bring them back. She was a Winslow now, not a Hammett. And she was alone.

  There was no one to keep her warm in the cold. There was no one to comfort her at all.

  ****

  2013

  Hannah leaned against the railing of the Island Home ferry and watched as the town of Vineyard Haven slowly came into view. She wore a navy colored trench coat that she belted tightly over her white jeans in order to shield herself from the wind that was an inevitable presence on the ferry, regardless of the season. She was grateful she had remembered to pull her long brown hair into a pony tail before she left her car on the lower level of the boat and ascended to the upper deck. No hair could withstand the onslaught of the ocean wind during the crossing from the mainland to the island.

  She had slipped on her Indianapolis Colts cap for good measure and now pushed a strand of blowing hair from the rim of the hat. No matter how long she lived in Massachusetts, she'd never be a Patriots fan. The Colts were her team, which was yet another bone of contention between her and Jon. She tried to remember the last time they'd had a conversation that didn't involve some sort of argument and drew a blank.

  Hannah pulled her cap down lower over her face and pushed all thoughts of Jon from her mind. She'd sworn to herself that she wouldn't think about him or their relationship while she was on the Vineyard and she needed to maintain her resolve. His openly scornful reaction to her trip was enough to set her teeth on edge, and she had better things to think about now. She was going to find out who the mysterious woman on the webcam was and she had no intention of leaving the island until she had an answer.

  The ferry moved closer to the island, and Hannah could see the Stop & Shop grocery that greeted visitors as they drove off the boat. The famous Black Dog Tavern came into view, its iconic Labrador manning the docks. Seagulls glided alongside the boat in the hope that a few of the ferry's passengers would toss chunks of bread their way. As the horn sounded to alert motorists to return to their cars in preparation for departing the boat, Hannah took in a deep breath of the salty sea air. It felt good in her lungs.

  Hannah buckled herself into her Honda Accord and, within minutes, left the Island Home behind and drove onto dry land. She drove onto Water Street and quickly made the turn onto State Road, heading towards Aquinnah and the Gay Head lighthouse.

  Hannah was happy to be moving “up island,” which was actually to the south of Vineyard Haven, because it was as far as she could get from Oak Bluffs and still be on the island. She had no desire to be anywhere near the town that contained far too many memories of her parents. While she'd always loved the Aquinnah area, she wasn't nearly as familiar with it as she was with the towns of Oak Bluffs and neighboring Vineyard Haven. The southern tip of the island was removed from the crowds and noise of the towns and therefore much calmer, which was exactly what Hannah wanted.

  Hannah drove along State Road and passed the overlook of beautiful Vineyard Sound. She could hear her father insisting they pull off and take photos of 10 year old Hannah in front of the view. No matter how many times he’d been to the island, he was always the tourist, and drove her mother and grandparents to distraction with his insistence on stopping at every tourist attraction the island had to offer. Hannah could hear her mother chiding him and quickly blocked the voices from her mind.

  She considered stopping at Cronig's Market to get some supplies and food for her stay, but changed her mind as soon as she saw the store's crowded parking lot. In spite of the fact that Memorial Day was still a few weeks away, the island was already bustling with visitors in anticipation of the summer season. Hannah wanted no part of it.

  Hannah had booked a room at the Hammett House, a bed and breakfast about ten minutes away from Aquinnah in the neighboring town of Chilmark. She had read up on the house before making her reservation, learning that it had originally been built in the early 1800s by the Hammett family, who were sheep farmers. The house had now been restored and painted a beautiful shade of pale yellow. The Hammett House was surrounded by rolling green farmland lined with charming stone walls, and its secluded country setting made it a perfect destination for honeymooners and anyone else looking for peace and quiet. It sounded like heaven to Hannah.

  Within a half hour, she had arrived at Hammett House and checked in to her room. She quickly unpacked her bag and hung up her clothing before sinking down onto the four poster antique bed and running her hands over the b
lue and yellow patchwork quilt that covered it. The room was a perfect combination of past and present, and of 21st century comfort mixed with 19th century charm. Hannah was tempted to curl up on the bed and stay there, but she knew she couldn’t waste time. She hadn’t come here for a vacation.

  Hannah splashed some water on her face and removed her cap long enough to run a comb through her windblown hair. She grabbed a bottle of water from the room refrigerator and a granola bar from her backpack, and headed back outside to her car.

  She opened her windows and let the cool sea air engulf her car as she drove the winding road up to the cliffs. The sun was just beginning to sink towards the horizon, and Hannah knew she only had a few hours left to search for her mystery woman before nightfall. She hoped to find answers at the Gay Head lighthouse itself.

  The parking lot next to the stairs that led to the cliffs overlook was crowded when Hannah arrived, and she considered herself fortunate to take the last empty space. Getting out of her car, she turned and stared at the stairs and the webcam that looked down on them. She wondered if someone was watching her now from the comfort of their home, just as she had watched the mystery woman from her Boston apartment.

  Instead of going to the overlook, Hannah bypassed the crowds milling around the restaurants and shops and headed for the red brick lighthouse. She knew the lighthouse was open for tours during the early evening hours, and she hoped to find a tour volunteer to speak with. All of the overlook businesses were closed during the hours she had seen the woman at the cliffs, but she knew that lighthouse volunteers and maintenance workers could be found at the cliffs at odd times. With luck, someone else had seen her mystery woman and knew her identity.

  Hannah walked into the interior of the lighthouse and found a young man arranging brochures on a wooden table next to the door. He wore the standard Vineyard apparel of jeans and a faded hooded sweatshirt, and his long, stringy brown hair was pulled back into a thin ponytail. Sporting a Boston Red Sox cap and rectangular glasses, the man turned to look at Hannah as she walked through the door.

  “Hi,” he said, not even trying to be subtle as his eyes ran from Hannah’s face to her feet and back again. Apparently pleased with what he saw, he held out his hand and smiled. “Are you here for a tour?”

  Hannah resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the once-over she had received. She was used to being admired by men, and she knew she had received an excellent combination of genes from her white father and her black mother. With her tall and willowy frame, she had often been told she could have been a model. Her large brown eyes and high cheekbones added to her unusually good looks.

  She smiled back at the man and shook his extended hand. “I’m not, but thank you. I just wondered if I could ask you a few questions.”

  “Sure. What about?”

  “Do you know if there have been any historic reenactments up here recently? Maybe some sort of show or festival?”

  The man put down his brochures and shook his head. “No. We never have that sort of thing on the Vineyard as far as I know.”

  Hannah knew that too, but she figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.

  “I’ve always thought those things were cheesy myself,” the man said.

  Hannah couldn't help but laugh at his undeniably Vineyard attitude. “I don’t disagree,” she said.

  “Why are you asking?”

  “I saw a woman up here recently that looked like she was wearing clothes from the 1800s. I thought she might be part of a reenactment troupe.”

  “If she was I’ve never heard anything about it. And I’m here almost every day now that we’re gearing up for the summer.”

  “Have you seen anyone dressed strangely? This woman was small, tiny, really, and she was wearing a long dress and a bonnet. She had a big shawl or cape around her shoulders.”

  The man shook his head again. “I haven’t seen anyone dressed like that. But maybe the woman you saw is a Mennonite. Or she’s an Amish person?”

  Hannah had wondered the same thing. But somehow she knew that wasn’t the answer.

  “She was walking up to the overlook in the dark,” she said, trying another tact. “Have you had any nighttime events lately?”

  “Nothing but the usual sunset activities. Everyone pretty much disappears as soon as it’s dark up here.”

  Hannah could tell the man was starting to regard her with suspicion.

  “When did you say you saw this woman again?” he asked.

  “Oh, just the other night. I was hanging around after the sunset. Sometimes I like it up here in the dark.”

  She knew now the man was no longer just suspicious, he almost certainly thought she was crazy. No one would like being at the cliffs in the dark of night.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Why are you trying to find this woman, anyway?”

  “I’m just wondering if she’s okay. She looked upset when I saw her, like something was wrong.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask her yourself?”

  Hannah knew the man would find her insane for sure if she admitted to only seeing the woman over a webcam.

  “I just lost track of her in the dark. You know how it gets up here, especially when it’s foggy. But I’m sure it was nothing.” She flashed her best smile and reached forward to take one of the brochures off the table. “I’m sorry to bother you, thanks for your time.”

  “Not a problem. You sure you don’t want a tour? The view from the top of the lighthouse is amazing to see.”

  “No thanks. I’ve already been up there lots of times. And you’re right, it is amazing.”

  Hannah ducked out of the lighthouse and walked quickly back towards the road. She could almost hear Jon’s mocking voice in her head. What exactly did she hope to achieve by this foolish quest? Did she want to make people think she was crazy?

  The crowd at the overlook had grown as the sun moved closer to disappearing into the sea, and the sky had become a tapestry of purples and pinks surrounding the orange glow of the sun. Hannah climbed the stairs, her eyes purposely avoiding the webcam looking down at her, and bought a cup of coffee to go with the granola bar she had taken from her bag before leaving the Hammett House. Taking a seat on a nearby picnic bench, she noticed a man and woman holding hands as they walked towards the overlook. The man carried a young girl on his shoulders, and she rested her chin on his head. Hannah swallowed a lump in her throat and looked away as she sipped her coffee.

  The granola bar and coffee were both long gone by the time the sun finished its slow descent and the crowds left the overlook and returned to their cars. Hannah remained at her table, determined to wait and see the mystery woman when she returned to the cliffs. Hannah knew she would return. She could feel it.

  But she was wrong. The workers at the various restaurants and shops closed up and left for the night, and Hannah saw the young man at the lighthouse return to his car and do the same. The overlook was now silent except for the waves crashing to the shore beneath her.

  She pulled her trench coat tighter around her as she shivered in the cold wind and waited. No one came.

  Hannah glanced around at the shrubs blowing violently against the white fences and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. This was not a safe place for anyone to be alone in the dark. Feeling like a fool, Hannah blinked back tears. She knew that both Jon and Sarah had been right. This was lunacy.

  She got up from the table and pulled a flashlight from her backpack. Following the flashlight beam, she quickly made her way back to her car. Hannah felt safer inside the locked car and decided to wait a bit longer. But no one came.

  Finally giving up, she turned on the ignition and drove back to the Hammett House. She was grateful to find the lobby empty as she walked inside, as she had no desire to speak to anyone and no interest in forced pleasantries. The night’s chill clung to her bones, and the travels of the day had caught up with her. She was exhausted and wanted nothing more than a good
night’s sleep in a warm bed.

  Hannah walked into her room and turned on the overhead light. Instinctively, she knew the room was different than it had been when she left. Someone had been there while she was gone.

  She slowly set down her backpack and glanced around the room, seeing nothing out of order. Perhaps the maid had simply been back after Hannah had left for Aquinnah. But why would a maid return to a room where the guest had just checked in that afternoon?

  Hannah’s eyes zeroed in on the bed and the quilt, where she saw a sheet of paper set against the array of pillows at the top of the bed.

  She walked to the bed, expecting to find an advertisement for the inn’s services, or perhaps a breakfast menu. But she could hear her heart beating in her chest as she picked up the paper. Before she even read the words on the page, she was certain that the paper had nothing to do with the inn.

  Her hand started to shake as she held the page in her hand. It was an old and yellowed newspaper clipping, an article from The Boston Globe in January of 1884. The headline screamed out news of a shipwreck that had happened off the coast of Gay Head two nights before. The City of Columbus had run aground on the shelf of rock known as Devil’s Bridge, and at least 100 people had perished.

  Hannah put the paper back onto her bed and sat down next to it. Who would come into her room and leave this for her to find? Was the Hammett House involved in some sort of presentation that was being held on this wreck? Perhaps someone had merely dropped the clipping. But why would that someone have been in her room and standing next to her bed?

  She picked up the bedside phone and called the Hammett House’s owner, Grace Pease. Pease answered almost immediately.