The Children on the Hill(34)

People loved a good creepy story. The need was almost primal: to hear them, have them chill you, then pass them along, embellished with your own details. Fear was a drug, and these stories were a delivery method.

“Some people say Rattling Jane is the vengeful spirit of a woman who was murdered a long time ago, her body dumped at the bottom of the lake,” Skink had told me. “Some say she, like… is the lake.”

As vague as parts of the conversation had been, I’d gotten some good leads. I’d learned which house Lauren Schumacher and her family rented—one of the little cabins out past the winery, in a group of rentals all named for flowers; they stayed in Bluebell. Skink told me that her family had packed up and gone home to Worcester, Massachusetts, sure that that’s where Lauren had headed when she ran off.

And then there was the piece of information I’d found the most interesting: that Lauren had told people she’d met Rattling Jane; she’d been given a wishing stone.

What did Lauren Schumacher wish for? I wondered.



* * *



I PARKED MY van in one of the free public lots, then crossed the street to the clean, wide, brick sidewalk and headed right for the bookstore. It was an old habit: the first stop in any new town was always either the bookstore or the library.

As I walked through the door, I was greeted by a large black standard poodle.

“That’s Penny,” called the man behind the counter as I scratched the dog behind the ears.

“She’s a beauty,” I said.

“And she knows it too.” The man smiled. “Can I help you find anything in particular?”

“Actually, yes. Do you have any books about the area? About the island and its history? And maybe a map?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “We’ve got a whole local section right here.” He came out from behind the counter and led me over to a set of shelves labeled LOCAL.

“If you’re looking for something about the island, I’d recommend this,” he said, pointing to four copies of Chickering Island, Now and Then tucked between The Angler’s Guide to Vermont Waterways and Unexplained Vermont. “There’s a map in it. We’ve also got these.” He indicated the free colorful tourist maps next to the door, which listed all the businesses.

I grabbed a copy of the book on local history and Unexplained Vermont.

I couldn’t help but notice that there, on the second shelf, were three copies of The Helping Hand of God: The True Story of the Hillside Inn.

There had been several printings of the book—one with the movie poster on the cover—but this one had a line drawing of the Inn on the cover. The drawing was all wrong. The building looked like a huge Gothic insane asylum with black windows, shadowy figures behind them.

I turned away and went to the register to pay. I thanked the bookseller, said goodbye to Penny, and grabbed one of the free tourist maps from the rack on the way out. Then I made my way down the street to Rum Runners Bar and Grill, figuring I’d plan my next move over food and a beer.

In front of the bar and grill was a sculpture: a life-size woman with a wooden frame and chicken-wire body. She was draped in little pieces of debris—shells, bottle caps, sea glass, pebbles, triangles of cut-up beer cans that sparkled like fish scales—hung by pieces of thin, flexible wire.

The wind picked up, and the objects blew and rattled.

I sidestepped around the unsettling sculpture and through the open door, heading right for the bar. After a quick glance at the menu, I ordered the Vermonter Burger with award-winning local cheddar, island-grown greens, and maple bacon jam, and an IPA brewed in Burlington to wash it down.

“Interesting sculpture out front,” I said when the bartender brought me the hazy pale-amber beer.

The bartender smiled. She had short, bleached-blond hair and dramatic eye makeup. “That’s Rattling Jane. The most famous resident of the island.”

“Oh?” A trick I’d learned long ago—pretend you know nothing, that you’re walking in cold to every conversation.

“Yeah. She’s our local ghost.”

“Really?”

“Some folks say she was involved with rum-running back during Prohibition. She crossed the wrong guy and ended up at the bottom of the lake. The other story is that her sister killed her.”

That got my attention. I leaned closer. “Her sister?”

The bartender nodded. “She comes out of that water looking for her sister now and then. Grants wishes to anyone who can help her by giving them a special pebble.”

“Wow,” I said, reaching to rub at a little tingle at the back of my neck.

The bartender smiled. “That’s my favorite of the stories, I think.” She leaned forward. “But honestly, between you and me, I think the whole thing was invented as a marketing scheme years ago. You wouldn’t believe the number of visitors we get because of Rattling Jane. Who doesn’t love a ghost story, right?”

I nodded, took a sip of my beer.

“Your food should be out shortly,” the bartender said, heading into the kitchen with a tub of dirty glasses.

“Lizzy!” called a voice behind me. I spun on my stool to see Skink walking in. Great. Was the kid going to follow me everywhere I went?

“You off work already?” I asked as he came bounding over.