It was an overcast and rainy afternoon as we drove across the Confederation Bridge from New Brunswick into Prince Edward Island. My (irrational) fear of bridges was amplified the entire 12.9 km stretch, but I knew that just over the bridge, awaited our charming little bed & breakfast retreat.
When we first planned our epic East Coast road trip (that had us visiting four provinces and two states in nine days), the PEI bed & breakfast was the first accommodation we booked. It was supposed to be a traditional style B&B on a working family farm. The room was located in the old family home, hot breakfasts would be served family style in the dining room and tours of the farm property and animals were encouraged.
The images of romping happily in the green fields with large dairy cows were promptly shattered when we arrived.
Through the thick fog and rain, we managed to find the house on our second attempt, having turned away the first time, certain it could not be the correct location. A large for sale sign was propped up on the front lawn.
What? The house is for sale?
And the house itself appeared smaller and older than the images posted online.
Where is the farm?
Triple checking the address, we knocked on the door.
After a few moments, a short older woman with disheveled clothing appeared, looking as if we disturbed her.
Oh no, maybe this is the wrong house.
Without cracking a smile, she opened the door for us and pointed to the long narrow staircase. Our room was at the top of the stairs. We were in the right place.
The house itself was as described, albeit smaller, darker and quieter (save for the creaking floorboards and steps). That's when we realized, there was no other family in the house. Where is everyone?
Note: We only link to products and services that we have either used or would use, all opinions expressed are our own. Some may be affiliate links, with which we may receive a small commission for purchases made.
The old woman was it. We told her about our dinner plans that evening (delicious PEI lobster at a local harbor restaurant), so she wouldn't "accidentally" lock us out, and without a word, she just nodded in agreeance.
We carried our overnight bags up the narrow steps and opened the door to "Anne's Room".
Like the house, it was smaller than the photos had implied.
There was one "double" bed (that just barely fit the both of us side by side), and our feet dangled over the edge. Sitting on rusty springs and old wheels, it squeaked loudly with each small movement.
As the name and the photo suggested, the room's theme was Anne, of Anne of Green Gables fame, but what was not expected, was the dozens of terrifying dolls that lined the desk across from the bed. In order to get some rest that night, we covered or turned them around to face the other direction.
What have we gotten ourselves into?
There was one other room in the house available for rent, the "Cow Room", seemingly in honour of the dairy cow farm on the property. The bed in this room was smaller, which is why we opted for the other, but not sure which dolls would be more frightening to wake up to.
As we unpacked, the rain outside subsided into a mist and we decided to explore the grounds. From our bedroom window, we could see long farm building in the back.
The property was indeed a farm, or at least it once was. The barns were all aged and shut, no animals on site. This had not been a working farm for quite some time. But why would they continue to advertise the property as such and encourage farm tours?
After we gorged ourselves on lobster (and potatoes, and wine, and dessert) for dinner, we made our way back through the dark roads and to the house. Luckily we were able to get in, but had to feel our way in the dark back to our room. We had not seen or heard from the old lady since we first arrived.
The only noises in the house were those that we made. Seriously, what is going on here?
It was a long and relatively sleepless night. The shared bathroom was down the hall, but neither of us had any intention of leaving our room until day break.
Sunrise brought with it another overcast morning, and we packed up and dressed early, hoping to make an excuse and leave without breakfast. We loaded our bags into the car and came back into the house to say good bye. That's when the old lady appeared for the second time, this time emerging from the kitchen.
She was surprised to see us up so early and though we explained that we needed to leave, she insisted we stay for breakfast. She disappeared again and avoiding the dining room, we explored the adjacent living room. It once could have been cozy, with it's country furniture and knick knacks, but something dark and creepy overshadowed it now, as if it had been left untouched for decades. Spread among the Knick knacks and behind (what we presumed to be) family photos, were funeral pamphlets.
What? Why have information pamphlets to local funeral services in your house? And why so many?
That's when she appeared again and lead us into the dining room. The large dark wood table was set with two plates, two cups and a platter of mini muffins. As we sat down at the table, she disappeared behind the door to the kitchen and returned with a pot of coffee.
The "special casserole", she said, was almost ready and we needed to wait. Our nerves got the better of us as we sipped on the thick coffee that tasted as if it had been sitting out for hours.
Where were the rest of the family? What made the casserole so special?
She re-emerged with a large casserole dish, hot from the oven. Through the uncertain mixture of yellow and green, I could see what appeared to be pieces of meat.
As a vegetarian, I politely declined and reached for a muffin instead. My other half, unfortunately, plagued by the East Coast need to be polite, scooped a portion onto his plate. Liquid ran from the spoon as he did. Whatever it was, it did not appear to be cooked thoroughly. The old woman then sat at the head of the table, leaned back into her chair and smiled.
As we took polite bites of the food in front of us, she watched us as we ate.
Neither of us can be sure what was in that casserole (or that muffin) but we both felt sick almost immediately.
Just as the awkward silence began to envelop us, a strange man emerged, coming down the stairs.
Wait, what? There was another guest somewhere? Was he staying in the Cow's Room?
Overly cheerful, he asked for a cup of coffee and chatted with the old woman. When she left the room to fetch him a cup, he turned to us and smiled creepily, commenting on how lovely she was and how nice it was in the home, that he could stay forever.
It was eerie and seemed staged. As soon as we could, we took the opportunity to say good bye, thank-you and left. Though it can never be proven, we often joke that the old woman fed us the remains of either the previous guests or her family. An online search today has no record of the home or farm.
Note: This true tale is also part of our book: 20 Travel Tales in 200 Words: True Travel Tales of Misadventure, Humour and Heart, While Travelling the World. Click here for more.
Comments