Once upon a time in a very, very small town in the state of Vermont I took a photograph in a little graveyard. The photo is real, but my imagination creates a story in which all the names must be changed from those on the actual gravestones, because there might not be one ounce of truth to my fictitious story. If anyone feels my story is all too close to reality, and they try to sue me, then that would only prove there may be a sparrow’s crumb of truth in my tale. After all, God forbid the truth be told about life in small towns in Vermont! I shall proceed, assuring you this is entirely fiction.
Joe and Jenny were married and then divorced. She got the house because it was built on farmland previously owned by her parents.
Jenny found a new boyfriend, Bob, and that made Joe mad because now Bob was living in the house Joe felt should have been his, and Bob was enjoying Joe’s ex-wife. In a small town,
population 3,000, there aren’t that many single women available, so a wife is a true prize.
In other words, if you are a single woman and you take your
trash and plastic and bottles and cans, etc. to Recycling
yourself, then other women will warn you: “don’t get married, a woman around here is treated like a slave by her husband.” Of course, that doesn’t hold true for the largest city in
Vermont, Burlington, but people in the rest of Vermont
think Burlington is on some other planet.
Joe moved from his police job in the small town,
population 3,000 to a big town population 6,000
and he got promoted to police detective. Other than
being mad as all hell that Jenny got the house
and her new boyfriend, Bob, got Jenny and the house,
Joe was feeling pretty good about himself and his
When Bob was taken to the hospital because he got a cut
on his hand at work, he was taken to the hospital in
the town Joe now worked in, because that was the only
hospital for miles and miles around in this hilly area
of rural Vermont.
Joe was at work doing his police detective duties when
he heard about Bob’s cut hand on the police radio and called the ambulance driver and said, “drive slowly”.
Bob bled to death.
This left Jenny alone, so she sold the house to an old artist named Sally. Sally wanted to put up her art studio sign
on the corner, but the neighbor to the north, Edgar, bullied her and told her she couldn’t put her sign up there.
She was so upset she had a heart attack and was taken to
the hospital by ambulance. Joe heard about it on the police radio, called the ambulance driver and said, “drive slowly”. Sally died.
Sally left the house to her daughter Cindy. Cindy was curious about the possibility of ghosts in the house because she
found out Jenny was taken to the hospital. She didn’t know that on the way to the hospital Joe heard about it on the
police radio, contacted the ambulance driver and said,
“drive slowly”. Jenny died. Cindy was told that she did
not die of natural causes.
Cindy knew one thing: Edgar was buried to the left and next
to him was buried Bob and to the right of Bob was Jenny
and to the right of Jenny was her mother, Sally.
Do they always bury people in order in small towns?
Three of those people had all lived in the same house,
and died in a very short time period of one another.
Cindy started wondering who was repeatedly breaking into
her house. It wasn’t the young fellow who committed
suicide, because the break-ins continued. They continued
after the fellow Cindy called the cat-thief died of
cancer. She only called him that because he claimed he
kept tripping over her cats, and they left paw marks
on his car roof, when he wasn’t complaining about
bird turds on his car roof,
and the cats kept disappearing so she thought
he was selling them for target practice.
Some people she showed the evidence of the break-ins to
said they might be the local police doing it. The only
cop who was familiar enough with the house to be sneaking
in and out was Joe, the cop who had built the house with
his wife Jenny.
We’ll save the details for the next chapter. There are
other suspects. You don’t really want to hear about
Cindy’s mother’s antique doll with her eyes gouged out, etc. Whomever is doing the break-ins, is trying to scare Cindy out. You don’t want to hear about the little flute player statue, who had one finger broken off, until the next break-in
when another finger was broken off.
Beware of small towns in Vermont, and count the ghosts
in each house before you enter, and make peace with them.
if at all humanly possible.