“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.
“I only work mornings. Clean up the sites before new campers come in. Clean the bathrooms. Cut the grass. All the glamorous jobs. The owner, Steve, he’s my uncle.”
“Nice,” I said. “There are worse summer jobs.”