“The name’s Walter Mudd,” he said.
“Glad to meet you,” Dad told him, and introduced himself, Mom, and me.
“So you’re looking for Graymoss,” Mr. Mudd said. “Well, you came to the right place. Everybody around here knows of Graymoss. But nobody’s asked about the place for a long time. You don’t look like the kind of folks that used to come.”
Dad enjoyed interesting situations, and he liked to strike up conversations with people. His philosophy was that each person was different. Each one had something new to talk about. I didn’t always agree with Dad. He was nice to everyone and he was usually upbeat. People liked him.
“What kind of folks were they?” Dad asked Mr. Mudd.
“Couple of ghost hunters came—at least that’s what they called themselves,” Mr. Mudd said. “Then a few years later somebody wrote about Graymoss for one of the state magazines. And five years ago Hannah Lord—she’s president of the Bogue City Historical Society, has been for years—anyhow, Hannah wrote to some TV producer about Graymoss being haunted and how it would make a good TV show.”
“So the producer came?”
“No. Nobody came. He didn’t even answer Hannah’s letter.”
Mom smiled. “How do we get to Graymoss from here?”
Mr. Mudd studied Mom. “Are you just curious about the place, or do you have business there?”
“I’m the new owner,” Mom said.
Mr. Mudd’s eyes widened with excitement. He gave a little hop and glanced across the street where an old-fashioned red-and-white barber polestood in front of a barber shop. It was easy to see that he could hardly wait to hurry to the barber shop and begin spreading the news.
“You take this road about one mile to a cutoff,” he told us, “and turn to the right. About another mile further you’ll see a gate—it won’t be locked—and a drive. The house is at the end of the drive.”
“I understand there’s a caretaker. Will he be there?”
“Old Charlie Boudreau? Oh, sure. Charlie takes his job seriously. He’ll be on hand.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mudd,” Mom said. “I guess we’ll soon be neighbors.”
Mr. Mudd started. “Neighbors? You don’t mean you’re thinking of living there?”
“That’s exactly what I do mean,” Mom answered.
“But … you must have heard about the haunts and the murders.”
I eagerly leaned forward. “Murders? What murders?”
“I don’t have all the details,” Mr. Mudd said. “But over the years I’ve heard plenty of stories about folks seeking shelter in the dead of night and found the next morning dead of fright.”
“They’re stories. That’s all they are—stories,” Mom said. “We have great plans for Graymoss.”
“Like what?” Mr. Mudd actually licked his lips in his eagerness to be first with the news.
Dad spoke up. “Before we make any definite plans, we’ll have the house thoroughly checked by engineers for structural defects.”
“They won’t find much wrong, if anything,” Mr.Mudd replied. “Those old plantation houses were built to last, if they were properly cared for. Cedar and brick. The columns are brick plastered over. Good hardwood floors on the insides. No problems with termites. Needs paint here and there, but …” He stopped and then added, “But there’s no way you can live there. Not with the goings-on in the house.”
Mom opened her mouth as if she were going to argue, but she apparently thought better of it because she said, “We’ll see, Mr. Mudd. Thank you for your help.”
Mr. Mudd stepped back, Mom rolled up the window, and Dad drove on down the road. I twisted around to look back, and there was Mr. Mudd trotting as fast as he could go across the street toward the barber shop.
Dad followed the directions Mr. Mudd had given us, and in just a few minutes we turned into the drive that led to Graymoss. Beyond an ornate wrought iron gate the drive was lined with huge oak trees, their branches dripping with long fingers of the gray
“Glad to meet you,” Dad told him, and introduced himself, Mom, and me.
“So you’re looking for Graymoss,” Mr. Mudd said. “Well, you came to the right place. Everybody around here knows of Graymoss. But nobody’s asked about the place for a long time. You don’t look like the kind of folks that used to come.”
Dad enjoyed interesting situations, and he liked to strike up conversations with people. His philosophy was that each person was different. Each one had something new to talk about. I didn’t always agree with Dad. He was nice to everyone and he was usually upbeat. People liked him.
“What kind of folks were they?” Dad asked Mr. Mudd.
“Couple of ghost hunters came—at least that’s what they called themselves,” Mr. Mudd said. “Then a few years later somebody wrote about Graymoss for one of the state magazines. And five years ago Hannah Lord—she’s president of the Bogue City Historical Society, has been for years—anyhow, Hannah wrote to some TV producer about Graymoss being haunted and how it would make a good TV show.”
“So the producer came?”
“No. Nobody came. He didn’t even answer Hannah’s letter.”
Mom smiled. “How do we get to Graymoss from here?”
Mr. Mudd studied Mom. “Are you just curious about the place, or do you have business there?”
“I’m the new owner,” Mom said.
Mr. Mudd’s eyes widened with excitement. He gave a little hop and glanced across the street where an old-fashioned red-and-white barber polestood in front of a barber shop. It was easy to see that he could hardly wait to hurry to the barber shop and begin spreading the news.
“You take this road about one mile to a cutoff,” he told us, “and turn to the right. About another mile further you’ll see a gate—it won’t be locked—and a drive. The house is at the end of the drive.”
“I understand there’s a caretaker. Will he be there?”
“Old Charlie Boudreau? Oh, sure. Charlie takes his job seriously. He’ll be on hand.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mudd,” Mom said. “I guess we’ll soon be neighbors.”
Mr. Mudd started. “Neighbors? You don’t mean you’re thinking of living there?”
“That’s exactly what I do mean,” Mom answered.
“But … you must have heard about the haunts and the murders.”
I eagerly leaned forward. “Murders? What murders?”
“I don’t have all the details,” Mr. Mudd said. “But over the years I’ve heard plenty of stories about folks seeking shelter in the dead of night and found the next morning dead of fright.”
“They’re stories. That’s all they are—stories,” Mom said. “We have great plans for Graymoss.”
“Like what?” Mr. Mudd actually licked his lips in his eagerness to be first with the news.
Dad spoke up. “Before we make any definite plans, we’ll have the house thoroughly checked by engineers for structural defects.”
“They won’t find much wrong, if anything,” Mr.Mudd replied. “Those old plantation houses were built to last, if they were properly cared for. Cedar and brick. The columns are brick plastered over. Good hardwood floors on the insides. No problems with termites. Needs paint here and there, but …” He stopped and then added, “But there’s no way you can live there. Not with the goings-on in the house.”
Mom opened her mouth as if she were going to argue, but she apparently thought better of it because she said, “We’ll see, Mr. Mudd. Thank you for your help.”
Mr. Mudd stepped back, Mom rolled up the window, and Dad drove on down the road. I twisted around to look back, and there was Mr. Mudd trotting as fast as he could go across the street toward the barber shop.
Dad followed the directions Mr. Mudd had given us, and in just a few minutes we turned into the drive that led to Graymoss. Beyond an ornate wrought iron gate the drive was lined with huge oak trees, their branches dripping with long fingers of the gray
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