We drove through great washes of red, orange, green and yellow towards a B&B called, the White House on windy hill....
The "drive through," bank in Conway had a digital thermometer, but I didn't have to read the number to know the temperature was dropping in New England. The decidedly icy notes that crept into the wind prompting some trees to turn their foliage red, began doing the same to folks faces.
Migrating geese knew the score weeks ago, taking to the air in well co-ordinated, "V" formations. Hunters no doubt lay in wait.
The white house on windy hill was a typical wooden construction of long flat planks, many windows and an open porch with rocking chair. From a bay window at the front there were wonderful views of purple hued mountains.
Grassy pastures surrounded the building like a clearing in the forest. Then, after the grass, where cows grazed alongside deer and wild turkeys pecked at dawn, the green abruptly stopped.
Beyond the grass were miles of tightly packed trees so dense that passing between their silvery trunks it immediately became night.
In contrast, everything above was a paintbox of vibrant colour.
Blotches of colour continued over hills and far into the distance, only diminishing through perspective, or darkened by the cast of long shadows from above.
Chestnut, oak, sycamore, poplar, aspen, elm, hackberry, birch, hickory, cottonwood, cherry and of course, maple offered an enticing pattern of variation.
The lady who lived alone at the white house did several jobs. Apart from renting three bedrooms she did accounts, was a community fire officer on call and every October on Friday and Saturday, she became a spook. That is, she dresses in a ghoulish costume and frightens children half to death.
Before the snows arrive to coat Mount Washington and the surrounding hills, making them, "the White Mountains," the ski club allows the chair lifts to operate. Groups of children and adults sit in rows of two or three and ascend Cranmore Mountain at dusk in the hope of a chilling experience.
The "Ghoullog," as it is known involves the village community dressing in horrific outfits and placing themselves at strategic points at the mountains summit. They lay in wait until dark to strike. The lady from the white house is one such ghoul.
So on Saturday 13th October 2007 following directions from the Welcome Centre, we took the Black Mountain road towards the White house on windy hill.
Things began going strange around 6pm as night fell. Two children in checked shirts were picking berries by the roadside. It was so cold. As they flashed by, I noticed they had abnormally contorted heads. "What the Hell? Did you see those kids, Malsie," I asked worredly.
"They're just pumpkin people," said Maria, looking relieved herself.
As the road became narrower and the houses fewer, we took a sign for "Windy Hill" to the top of a gravelly drive.
It was now very dark, and, as we approached habitation there appeared to be a large outhouse building of grey, brown wood. The white house mysteriously appeared on our left as if from shadows.
There was one small porch light on at the white house. We sat for some time deliberating. Glancing around articles were catching my eye. Old farm machinery, a pitchforks prongs, a scythes edge, a rusty hanging chain.
Someone had heard the car.
Another light came on.
We exitted the car with our hand luggage and proceeded to where the light shone.
We of course, knew nothing of the, "Ghoullag," or our hosts vocation each October.
As we peered though small panes in the door, all the lights went off.
A silhouetted hand with long fingernails rose up to the window and a dark form moved suddenly to the panes.
There were no eyes, just a long, boney nose.
Maria screamed. Her bag dropped on the gravel with a crunch.
The door began to creak open.
AAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
echoed around the hills.
"WELCOME," came a polite voice.
But it was too late, Maria was already in the car and I was not far behind. We were off to the Marriott and bugger the cost.
