It was December and the real snow still hadn’t arrived. So technically it was still stick season, which is every Vermonters most or least favorite time of year. Madeline decided that she loved the bare trees, the musty smell released as she walked her dog in the woods, and the fact that she had to wear a giant cozy sweater literally everywhere, all the time. It could not have been more different than Texas.
But the thing she loved most was the almost complete lack of tourists, and therefore far fewer visitors at the inn. Well, living visitors. In addition to Simeon, it turns out there were several other spirits who were less inclined to be seen but had no problem being heard. Madeline had become used to the sound of kids running up and down the hallway above the kitchen, as well as the occasional sound of ringing bells in the downstairs parlor.
It seemed like after a completely chaotic introduction, most everyone was settling in for the winter. Madeline still hadn’t been able to get a day off, but at least things had gone from a soul-crushing torrent of tasks to a busy but manageable daily routine.
One spirit, however, did not get the memo. There was something going on in the carriage house that even Michael’s penetrating logic could not explain. After sharing a tiny space for three months with two cats and two dogs and one queen bed, Madeline and Taylor made the executive decision to move her out of the owner’s quarters and into a room in the carriage house. That decision came with supernatural consequences: angry stomping, objects thrown and broken, and cold spots. But the very worst happened one evening, just as she was drifting off to sleep, Taylor felt cold breath on her neck as someone whispered “I wish I was still alive.”
There was so much sage burned in her room that night that it seeped through the cracks in the doors and windows, filling the area outside with a scent that the neighbors thought was a new and exciting strain of weed from Texas.
Nervous but undeterred, Taylor kicked up both her research and her interrogation of Simeon about anything or anyone that could have resulted in such an angry presence. Other than the vague rumor about a Revolutionary War-era killing they read about in the fireplace book, there was not a lot of official information.
“I’m really ready to have you here for the holidays.” Madeline lifted her glass towards the camera on her laptop. Michael echoed the gesture from Texas, on the other end of their almost nightly virtual happy hour video call. “The carriage house situation is weird, and everyone-including the ghosts-are nervous.”
“I’m gonna need Taylor to quit posting about the ghosts on her blog,” Michael said. “I don’t think talking about that is very good for business. Especially since they probably don’t actually exist.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Madeline took a very long sip of scotch-her new drink of choice. “Maybe we can be a haunted destination inn.”
“Not a good business plan,” Michael replied.
“Well, how about this one-Mark Barnes is bringing his cousin here next week to start the metal-detecting project. Maybe we can be an archeological dig site.” Madeline took another drink. “I talked to Donald next door and he said that some kids had played with detectors around their property and didn’t come up with anything. But who knows…”
“Who knows,” Michael replied. “Ten more days until I’m there for two weeks. Try not to complete our financial ruin before I get there.”
“No promises,” Madeline blew a kiss at the screen. “Good night.”
—-
Mark Barnes sat at his dining room table, leaning over the set of tattered papers spread in front of him. There were copies of copies of deeds and property plot maps, notebooks filled with the cramped handwriting of several generations of the Barnes family, and the most important of all: a 256-year-old, hand-drawn map of a farmstead with the words “Major S.” and “3K”, along with three circles and a little drawing of a bear.
It had been four generations since his great-great-great-(great?-)grandfather had discovered the map in an old trunk of military memorabilia that had been stashed in the attic of his family’s home since, well, probably the Revolutionary War. Inside the trunk was a jumble of uniform parts from several campaigns and eras, papers, and battlefield souvenirs. But the most interesting find-the small map now on Mark’s desk-was found inside the pocket of a coat belonging to one Marcus Jones (his many times great-uncle), who according to military records had been killed in an unfortunate accident involving a mule, a musket, and a cask of wine just after the Battle of Bennington.
The contents of the map remained undeciphered until his grandfather figured out that “Major S.” was most likely Major Stephenson, a local farmer who led a renegade militia raid on the British during the Battle of Bennington. The most interesting fact about Major Stephenson’s time with the Green Mountain Boys was a scandal in which the payroll-along with one of the most decorated soldiers-for the company disappeared under mysterious circumstances. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this was a treasure map. Stolen treasure, to be sure, but who would care after all these years? Even the finder’s fee would be more money than he’d ever make selling real estate in this backwater of the state.
He gulped the last of his wine, and realized that after all of these years, the answer-and the treasure-was within his reach. The plan was simple: his “cousin” would find some small but valuable trinkets-maybe a button or two from a military jacket-and immediately turn them over to Madeline to have valued. Then when enough trust was gained, he’d have the freedom to search the basement and grounds with more independence. The only things standing between him and his goal were two city women who were in way over their heads and a pile of stones.
I deserve this treasure, Mark thought. After all, he was the one who put it all together: obviously Marcus knew where the payroll was, made a map, and died before he could return to claim the horde. The bear remained a mystery.