THE STranded

I remember cursing myself for not keeping track of time. It would be harder to find my way back in the dark.

The views on my hike around the Willoughby Mansion Bed & Breakfast were spectacular, and I had not realized how long I lingered out on the trail. It was the kind of escape I had been looking for, away from the hustle and bustle of the trading floor on Wall Street. I left the city without the faintest idea where I go, only that I would venture north, and that I would know the spot when I found it.

The car seemed to direct itself toward the out-of-the-way Victorian mansion perched a small hill in the middle of the Vermont woods. I had noted all the different turns and road numbers along the way, I would need to find my way home soon enough. But I resolved, almost from the moment I arrived, that I would return to this place often.

Now I felt like I might be stuck here. My phone battery was fading quickly, and I had foolishly left without a flashlight. I surely didn't intend to miss dinner or even be outside after darkness had fallen. 

The path wound down the mountain toward a stream I could hear in the distance. I could not remember whether I had passed it or not along the way, so I tried to flip through my pictures on my phone to see if I could spot anything familiar. It was useless, it was too dark to see anything, and I needed to preserve what little power the phone had on the off chance that I might walk back into a place that had signal to place a call.

I can't say that I was worried too much, I was more inclined to be embarrassed at the idea of having to call for help. Another city slicker who wandered into the woods and couldn't find his way out. It wouldn't matter that I had grown up in the Catskills and still considered myself more of a country boy. The news would surely paint me as some ill-prepared clown who got in over his head.

The stream seemed reassuring, a sign that I could find something, even in the dark. Follow running water downstream, and you'll come to something, I thought. But I had to get to the stream first. That's about when I first noticed it.

Up ahead, I could see a faint glow. I admit I thought it was a flashlight, perhaps the owner of the inn out to look for his lost guest. But it was not moving. I could not help but be drawn to it. It could promise salvation from the silly predicament I found myself in, but it also kindled a strange curiosity inside me that I found I had to quench.

As I drew closer to the spot that I thought the light was coming from, it seemed to fade away. Perhaps it was shrouded by the canopy of trees around the trail, or some other obstruction. I kept moving toward the origin of the light. Somehow, it was gone.

But fortune favored me, for I had come to the side of the stream I had heard before, near the old footbridge I had walked past earlier. The innkeeper had told me about the spot before I left, the daughter of a previous owner of the property had died there more than 50 years ago. He warned me of the swift water strewn with rocks below, the ones that had claimed the life of the young lady, cautioning me not to cross the bridge as it was unsafe.

I fetched a glimpse of this bridge now in the dark, as the moon poked from behind the clouds for a moment, it was indeed missing some boards and would not have supported the weight of a small animal, let alone a young man. The trail back to the inn was to the right, I recalled, and turned to look for the way in the darkness.

"He is not coming," someone said, startling me to the point of losing my balance and stumbling on a rock sticking up from the ground.

"Who's there?" I called out, while at the same time dismissing the idea that I had heard a voice at all.

"He is not coming," the voice said again, more somberly this time. It was a woman, she seemed sad and full of despair. I squinted in the dark in the direction of the voice, trying to spot the person speaking.

"Who is not coming?" I asked, unable to locate the source of the voice, hoping that hearing her speak again would help me find her.

"Joe," she answered. "He doesn't love me anymore."

At last a small sliver of the moon emerged from behind a cloud, there was a young woman standing on the bridge, looking at the stream below.

You might forgive me for not remembering the innkeeper's story at that very moment. Even if I had thought of it, I was a skeptic. The woman was a lost hiker or someone else at the inn, out for an evening stroll. One does not immediately jump to the conclusion that you are encountering a spirit or a whisper of the past, especially a fully logical mind such as my own.

I puzzled at her for a moment, unable to think of a response.

"Oh," I said, after an awkward pause. "Maybe he's lost like I am."

"He's not lost," she answered plainly. "I knew he wouldn't come. He told me as much."

Under the dull light of the moon, I could not distinguish any particular feature of the woman, other than that she had long hair and was wearing a dress. I thought the attire odd for a hike, and guessed that she had simply strolled away from the inn for a short walk, hoping to meet her lover from a tryst in a secluded spot.

"The bridge isn't safe," I said awkwardly, I could not gather any other thing to say to her. "Let's walk back to the inn."

She turned to look at me, I still could not get a good look at her face. I walked toward the end of the bridge to get a better look. The woman did not acknowledge my warning about the bridge. She remained in the center of it, and turned her gaze back to the water below.

"I don't want to leave just yet," she said to me. I suddenly was overcome with the horrible idea that she meant to cast herself over the edge into the water some 15 feet below. It was a crisis beyond my ability to handle, I instantly thought of returning with help.

"I can't leave you here, alone," I said. "But it seems like you need help."

"You remind me of him," she said, looking at me once again. "But you aren't from around here."

"I'm not," I said, attempting to smile. "That's how I ended up out here, wandering around in the dark."

She seemed to be measuring her jump, staring down into the water. I began to panic.

"Just come back with me," I offered. "I want to help. What's your name?"

"Mina," she answered, without looking up. "It is kind of you. I just don't know."

"I'll help you figure it out on the way back," I insisted, trying to sound upbeat and reassuring.

"I couldn't," she said. I wanted to walk out her on the bridge, but I was afraid that approaching her might spur her to jump. I paused to think.

"Then promise me you won't do anything you'd regret until I come back with help," I said. 

"You don't have to get help," she said. She reached up and wiped away a tear. "I promise I won't do anything."

"Are you sure?" I heard myself ask. I felt like her life was teetering on my every word. I felt like any turn of phrase in the wrong direction would spur her to action. I needed to be more careful.

"You're kind to worry about me," she responded. "I just want...I just want some time to think. I promise." She turned to look at me. I could sense that she was smiling, albeit weakly, at me even though I could not see her face.

"Ok," I said. I set off briskly in the direction of the inn.

There were no lights on, which I thought was odd, it could not have been much later than 9:30 or 10 o'clock at night, and yet the building stood as a black outline against the cloudy sky. I hurried to the door, and found it locked.

I would have sworn that I took my key with me, a small chain with a key to the outside door and to my room. I patted my pockets in quick succession, jamming my hands into them in a frantic fury. What a time to be absent-minded. I firmly knocked on the door, preparing my apology for the innkeeper for forgetting my key.

I heard footsteps approaching the door, and briefly glanced behind me for no particular reason. I squinted for a moment, certain that my car should be car over by what once was the carriage house on the property. The door creaked open, forcing me to turn my head quickly to address the person answering it.

It was an elderly woman, perhaps one of the guests, and not the innkeeper.

"I'm sorry," I said with a nervous chuckle. "I forgot my key."

The woman looked at me intently, stopping me from bursting into my tale about the woman on the bridge.

"Your key?" she asked, seeming totally confused by what I had said.

"The key to the door and my room," I added, offering more information to help her understand why I was there. I was hoping she would at least go fetch the innkeeper if she wouldn't let me in.

"You must have the wrong place," she said, reaching up to push the door shut.

"Wait!" I said, confused but still needing to reach someone about the distraught woman on the bridge. I reached up to grab the door before she closed it. Her eyes fixed on mine and met them with confusion and a strange look that almost seemed like terror.

"You..." she said. "You seem so familiar. But it can't be...you."

My mouth opened as I struggled to understand what she was talking about, my mind could not keep pace with her words.

Suddenly she smiled, looked at me knowingly, and said, "I kept my promise."

I must have fainted. I don't recall. My next memory is waking up in the hospital, some hospital in Vermont, I wasn't sure where at the time. I was beyond confused as my eyes fluttered open to the sight of a police officer standing next to my bed.

"Mr. Martin?" the police officer asked.

"Yes," I said. My voice was groggy, I wasn't sure how long I had been out.

I could not tell if I was dreaming as I heard him speak. I had been missing for three weeks. He wanted to know how I survived. Why I was so far from my car, found along a highway nearly 100 miles away. None of it made sense. I explained about the bed and breakfast, trying my best to explain the location. He seemed perplexed.

"Couldn't have been there," he finally said. "That house has been empty for a few years now, since Mrs. Rowan died."

"Mrs. Rowan?" I said.

"Yeah, Mina Rowan. Sweet old lady. Moved back there after her husband died, oh gosh, like 30 years ago. I think she grew up there."

"But I...I was, I mean, I talked to her," I finally managed to say. The officer laughed. I wonder if I had dreamed the whole thing. Once I was stronger, I drove back up to the site of the inn. A crumbling structure stood where the beautiful mansion once was. The pieces didn't fit together, and I was determined for them to stay that way.

"Huh," I chuckled to myself, "what a strange dream."

When I got home, after I had fully put the episode out of my mind as some fabrication or delusion while lost in the wilderness, I found a strange email waiting for me. It was from Mina Rowan's daughter, Jennifer:

"Mr. Martin,

"I couldn't help but write to you after hearing your story from Officer Trent. He laughed off your suggestion that your story could be plausible, but I am not so sure.

"When I was younger, my mother told me a story about when she was terribly distraught, thinking of ending her life, she saw a strange vision of a man standing next to the foot bridge by her house. She said the man talked kindly to her, and helped her feel like people still cared.

"I never gave it a second thought, until I heard your story. I've attached a couple of photos to this email, one of my mother when she was young, and one when she was older."

The email continued on, but I can't honestly say that I remember reading any of it. My eyes hovered over the attachments to the email. I warily clicked on one of them. It was the woman who answered the door that night.