Danielsford

Seeing the little town when I topped the hill on the twisting two-lane road gave me a sense of relief. In the almost fifteen years I traveled the highway, twice a week, the town of Sherburne Center had become something of a milestone. It sat at the bottom of the hill only a few miles from Rutland, Vermont and was the last town before my destination.

You can find a typical scene repeated in other small towns and villages throughout much of New England. The tall, white steeple of the church reached above the green maple and oak trees surrounding it. Here and there, hidden by the trees, I could see a rooftop or the side of a building. In autumn the trees were in their splendor, dazzling a person with the color of their foliage.

For some reason, the town didn't look the same as I remembered, but I dismissed the thought. I saw many similar sights in my travels, and I was tired, having driven all the way from Boston.

The road wound down the mountain into the village. At the edge of Sherburne Center, I was surprised when it turned into a dirt trail. Were they repaving the highway? I slowed and prepared to stop for road construction.

A short distance later, a sign appeared proclaiming my entry into Danielsford, founded in 1693. I had never heard of Danielsford, and seeing the sign confused me. Slowing to a crawl, I pulled to the side and stopped. I spent a minute looking around before opening the car door.

There was no roadwork. I neither saw nor heard any construction. In fact, I heard nothing. I climbed out of the car only to be greeted with silence. There were no traffic sounds. The several vehicles I knew were behind me had disappeared. They hadn't passed me, and I knew there was nowhere for them to turn off the road. I had glanced in my rearview mirror as I began to slow down. They were all there. As I rolled to a stop, they were gone.

“What the hell?” I said aloud.

I wondered if I could have been sidetracked, but there was no explanation for the cars behind me disappearing. A knot of fear formed in my stomach as I looked at a town that wasn't supposed to be there. While I wanted to leave, something else kept me from climbing back in the car and getting out of there. I couldn't explain the feeling then and I don’t understand it now, except to say that I felt a need to be there. Though I wanted to turn around and leave, I had to remain.

The houses, and what I assumed to be businesses, were large and drab looking affairs painted in dull browns or lifeless reds. They were an old design, yet I could tell they were of a rather new construction. Given the size of the homes, the windows were strangely small and few.

Similar houses and buildings exist, but not in Vermont. The structures were reminiscent of any of several Massachusetts coastal communities. The whole feeling was one of having driven into the past.

Such a feeling, or impression, isn't unusual in Vermont, or anywhere in northern New England where time seems to have stood still in some smaller towns and villages. The feeling seemed to be more intense in Danielsford. Everything spoke of age while not being centuries old.

On my left sat the sparkling white church whose steeple I saw from the hill. The church building was in stark contrast to the other places. The shining white paint was as out of place as the church.

Mine seemed to be the only vehicle in town. Since entering Danielsford I hadn't seen a car or truck of any kind. I shrugged off the thought. Since seeing the town I hadn't been looking for cars or trucks. Danielsford itself had me transfixed. As I stood there something, a sixth sense or whatever, once again urged me to leave. Yet I couldn't.

I didn't feel in danger, nor was I being threatened by anyone. Up to that moment I had seen no one else. I think the impression came from my being in a town that wasn't supposed to be where it was. Not only did it not belong there, from all appearances, it didn't belong in our century. Those two facts combined should have been enough to make me leave. They didn't.

With my sixth sense shouting warnings and the odd sense of needing to remain, I listened again to the deafening silence. It was almost palpable. The pings and pops of my car's engine as it cooled broke the unnatural stillness and seemed oddly out of place.

From the Common, or park, in the middle of the town came soft, muffled ripping sounds as half a dozen cows tore loose mouthfuls of the tall grass. All else was a quiet that soon weighed on my nerves.

The Common was a large untended area, only being a moderate size field in the center of town, with high grass and four or five large maple trees shading it. The half dozen cows and an equal number of sheep grazed placidly over it. No herdsman tended the animals. They fed on the thick grass and didn't seem inclined to leave.

Clustered around it were homes and what I assumed were the businesses. The buildings seemed to squat dark and plain on their foundations but were also, in their archaic way, interesting.

As I watched the livestock, people appeared here and there. They eyed me with what I took from their body language to be a combination of suspicion and curiosity. Two men watched me from the corner of the Common and another stood by himself near a building. I guessed not many travelers stopped in Danielsford and, frankly, as yet I saw no reason anyone should. There was nothing to cause anybody to stop.

None of the three people approached me. I sensed from their stance they weren't very welcoming, but it could have been an incorrect impression created by the shock of coming into the mysterious town.

While they were watching me, I looked at them with puzzlement and a growing sense of confusion. Their clothing was as antique as the town. The three men dressed in clothes that matched the homes. It was an old-fashioned style not seen in centuries. The men wore wide-brimmed dark hats, the brims bent or slouching. Pants were tucked into knee-high stockings, and all wore light shirts with billowing sleeves.

It was as if I had driven into an early American village or an outdoor, living history museum. I placed the look, based on the homes and clothing style to be late 17th or early 18th Century. If anyone was out of place, it was me in my slacks, wearing a light blue shirt, and wearing my loafers.

I stared at the large untended Common, the white church sitting nearby, and the antiquity of the town. Any moment I expected one of them to come and tell me to move my car.

Based on what I saw, Danielsford looked like a Puritan village. As far as I knew the sect never got to Vermont, but I was no more familiar with Vermont history than was anyone who didn't live there.

A few signs hung over the doors of the businesses. The signs were of wood and the names either painted on or carved into the wooden boards. Most of the buildings along the street, those I assumed to be businesses, had no markings of any kind.

One of them stood out from the rest. Like the church, it had been white at one time. It was now a dirtier white with a yellowish tint. Still, the bright color clashed with the muted hues of the rest. I walked across the road, peered in the window and discovered the white building appeared to be a drugstore.

I tried the door. It rattled back and forth but seemed to be locked. I stepped back, almost bumping into a young woman who appeared as if from nowhere.

“Pardon me,” I said, quickly stepping aside.

"Good morrow, sir. The store be closed since Mary Bradbury were condemned," the young lady said. I had not seen her on the street and guessed she came from one of the other shops nearby.

She wore a long green dress that almost touched the ground and a bonnet of the same color. The dress buttoned up the front. It was cinched at the waist, but loose and flowing from her hips down. It looked similar to clothing worn by our pioneer women, functional while not being fancy.

"Condemned?" I asked. Her heavy English accent and the archaic style of pronouncing some of the words surprised me.

The girl moved a couple of steps away and turned. She eyed me from head to toe.

“Aye, condemned, and she were hanged from that tree there, on the Common,” she said. She pointed to a large maple tree standing near the center of the Common, and then turned back. “You be from the outside.”

“I’m from Boston,” I replied, glancing at the tree.

“How strangely do they dress there,” she said. Her eyes lifted to mine. “She were accused of sorcery and witchcraft. I thinkest she did bear no guilt.”

“Where am I?” I asked. Hanging? Sorcery and Witchcraft? It was beginning to sound like a bad ‘B’ grade movie.

She glanced across the street at the Common. Everyone had disappeared. Her expression, once pleasant, turned to one of concern. She took a step toward me.

“It would be most wise good sir if you did hasten to go. Outsiders seldom have come here. A most horrible curse do possess us.” Turning her head to look across the street, she said, “Evil does possess us of a most frightful fashion, good sir. You did come; thus, you be able to leave. Would that I could. Truly, you ought leave lest you be trapped as are we.”

She shot me a quick look, spun on her heel and hurried away. I stood, baffled by her words and warning as I watched her disappear around a corner.

Her style of speech was as archaic as the town. The way the woman pronounced 'closed' was strange. She spoke every vowel, so it sounded like ‘close’ and ‘ed.’

I stood and stared at the corner, wondering what she meant. The town had a strange feeling, but I attributed it to the shock of driving into a place that shouldn't be where it was. The sensation wasn't one of danger. I wondered what she meant by being cursed, and what she meant by her not being able to leave.

I turned and peered in the shop window. Mary Bradbury sold herbs, pharmaceuticals and elixirs, none of which I expected to see in a modern pharmacy. I studied the jars and bottles, all with names handwritten on each of them. The writing style was odd, and the spelling lax even by today's lax standards.

Turning from Mary’s store, I slowly scanned the street for a grocery. If one existed, I didn't see it. Nor did I see a bank, a clothing store, a restaurant or any business one expects to find in a town.

The young woman’s warning came back, echoing in my mind. I shook my head and returned to the car. Now, other than what she said, I neither felt nor saw anything I could consider a danger. Yet the girl was serious when she warned me to leave.

I climbed into my car, started the engine and drove unhurriedly away, negotiating the rutted trail until I reached the edge of town, where the road again became pavement. Before I had gone a quarter of a mile, I saw several cars in front of me. Where were they while I sat in Danielsford? None of them had come through the town.

I glanced in my rear-view mirror and saw a pickup truck a short distance behind me. I wondered if I had stopped in a strange town that no one else seemed to see, or did I imagine the entire event.

The rest of the short trip to Rutland was routine. I met heavier traffic as I neared the city, which told me I was back in civilization, or what passed for modern civilization. By the time I was in Rutland proper, I felt an odd longing for the quiet and silence of the old town, though the idea of a woman being hanged for witchcraft in this day and age in the United States was a bit unnerving.

Rutland looked old and the part of town in which my business contact was located was an even older section. Compared to Danielsford, however, the part of town was, I thought, state-of-the art.

"Frank," Walt Arnold greeted me when I walked into his office. "Damned near on time for a change."

Walt was a big man of above average height with dark, unruly hair that never seemed combed, and he had bright, intelligent brown eyes. He was about my age and, like me carried a few more pounds than he should.

"I got sidetracked for a few minutes," I said and spent a few minutes recounting my experience as he led me to his office. He listened as we walked, brow furrowed, and shook his head.

"What did you say the name was?”

"Danielsford, founded in, I think it said, 1693."

"And it's close to here?" He settled behind his desk and played with a pencil, rolling it back and forth.

"On the road to Woodstock," I told him. "Where Sherburne Center is supposed to be."

"I have no idea where you're talking about. You didn't get lost?"

"Nope, no way," I said. "It's my regular route. I've traveled that road every week for years."

"Vermont was settled a lot later than 1693. Plus, I don’t think towns then put out signs like that.” He thought for a moment. “Can’t say that for sure.”

I mentioned the young woman and the people I saw and told him about the way they dressed, and her peculiar accent and the strange manner of her speech. I made a failed attempt at trying to mimic her dialect and the way she talked. In the end, I told him how the girl had warned me that I should leave while I could.

He shook his head again. "Vermonters might be fighting tooth and nail to stay out of the 21st Century, but we aren't that backward." He laughed and added, "Most places in the State, anyway."

I frowned, not knowing what else to say. I knew he was right. I knew, too, he was right about the town. It didn't belong. What I didn't know was what the hell I had driven into more than an hour earlier.

“It just seemed so … I don’t know … weird. It was out of place or, hell, out of time.”

He shrugged, losing interest. "I don't know what to tell you. Let's get these orders written up. Business has been better than good. I'm running low on everything." He pulled a sheet of paper from his desk. "You're staying overnight, aren't you?"

"I have stops in Burlington and a couple of other towns. I planned to go up in the morning."

"Good. We'll go get a cup of coffee when we're finished. You can tell me more about the town you found."

"Danielsford," I said. It was a place I would never forget.

“Whatever it's called,” he said. He pushed the sheet of paper across his desk. It contained the long list of supplies he was ordering. I took it and put it in the case I carried. Later in the evening, I would put it all on an order sheet to hand in when I was back in the office.

***

Later, we sat outside a little coffee shop close to his plumbing and electrical supply store. Walt slowly sipped the very good coffee. He lit a cigarette, much to the dismay and visible disgust of two patrons at a nearby table. He paid no attention to their whispered comments.

"We've been swamped lately," he said. "I don't know who's buying or where the stock is going, but I'm not complaining. It'll slow down come winter."

"I know," I said. "With this economy, I wouldn't bitch about being overworked."

"Tell me about that place again." He sat back and took a sip of coffee.

He listened again as I described the town in detail, trying to be as accurate as possible. Taking a drag on his cigarette, he let the smoke out slowly. "And you say the highway goes through it?"

"Right through it," I repeated. I was becoming frustrated. "You top the hill on the east side, drop down, and go through the middle of it."

"I've lived here all my life and never heard of the place. Can you find it again?"

"It's on the freaking highway, Walt, where Sherburne Center is supposed to be. There's no way you can miss it." I began doubting myself now. Had I really been in an old town called Danielsford, or did I daydream the entire thing?

No, I said to myself. I had been there. It was too damned real. The rutted dirt road and trails branching off it were real. I could feel my car jouncing through them. The young lady who warned me was there. The town existed. Yet, where did the traffic in front of and behind me go? The cars and trucks on the highway with me were real too.

"Sherburne Center," he mumbled. "You've got me curious. Right now, there's no way I can take off though. Maybe next time we can do it.”

He smoked, sipped his coffee and waved to the waitress for a refill. As she topped off his cup and then mine, he watched in silence.

“It's a deal,” I said.

“No other traffic?” he asked.

“Not during the few minutes I was there,” I said.

He nodded and lit another cigarette. The nearby patrons moved to a more distant table, grumbling about second-hand smoke. He didn't seem to notice or care.

“There's always traffic on that road,” he pointed out.

I agreed. “There were some cars behind me, three or four, when I got there. When I drove out, one was in front of me and at least one behind. I don’t know where they came from.”

“But not when you pulled into the town. Where did they go?”

“I don't know, Walt. All I know is they were there, then they weren't. When I left there was traffic again.” I said.

He took a drag and sipped his coffee. “Where did the other traffic go?”

“I don't know,” I said. Once again, I began to wonder if I had been in a town named Danielsford. “They were gone. No sound of them even.”

“Weird,” he mumbled.

He fiddled with his cup and stared at the cigarette, held between the index and middle finger of his right hand.

“You're sure it really happened?” he asked.

I knew what he meant. He wasn't questioning my sanity, nor was he joking. I had asked the same question and had debated whether I was daydreaming during the event.

“I was there,” I said in a firm voice. “It was real.”

“Easy, Frank. I'm not saying you didn't experience something,” he replied. “All I'm asking is, where did the other cars go?”

I shook my head, sat back and stared at my coffee.

“Maybe it was all a dream.” I shook my head.

He had a point, though I hated admitting it. How could I be the only one to see the town? It wasn't something I could write off as an illusion. The sights and smells were real.

“You don't think so,” he said.

“I don't think so,” I replied.

“The girl. What about her?”

I told him again what she said and made another failed attempt at mimicking her accent.

“The one named Mary was condemned?” he repeated.

“Of sorcery and witchcraft, I think. And she said something about outsiders. She was hard to understand.”

“She warned you to leave.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I felt nothing bad but hell, I was someplace that shouldn't be. None of it made much sense.”

He checked his watch. “I gotta get back to the shop. I don't know what to tell you. You think something happened, and that's good enough for me.”

He dropped some bills on the table and motioned to the waitress. She nodded, and we started back to his store.

“Maybe when I finish my route, I'll go back and try to figure it out,” I said.

“When?” he asked.

“Tomorrow. The day after.”

Walt frowned. “I just can't take the time right now. We're too busy. Damn, I'd like to go with you. Let me know what happens.”

“I'll do that,” I said with a short nod.