the ghost of little elm lake - c. michael · pdf filethe ghost of little elm lake by shelley...

The Ghost

of Little Elm Lake

by Shelley Bingham Husk

Book One of the American Apparitions Series

Based on the true ghost storyLake Pleasant’s Haunted House

Original story appeared inTales from an Adirondack County

byTed Aber and Stella King

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Newport, Maine

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© 2015 by Shelley Bingham HuskALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any formwithout written permission from the publisher or the

author’s representative, except for brief passages quoted for review purposes.

First Edition(CS) – First PrintingISBN-13: 978-0692632208 (Leicester Bay Books)

ISBN-10: 0692632204

Kindle Edition: 2016

Leicester Bay BooksP.O. Box 536

Newport ME 04953-0536

www.leicesterbaybooks.com

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Contents Prologue 1Chapter One -- The Camp Out 3Chapter Two -- The Investigation 8Chapter Three -- Miss Libby 15Chapter Four -- The Archives 23Chapter Five -- My First Fib 27Chapter Six -- The Whisperer 34Chapter Seven -- Rhinelander’s Haunted House - 1818 40Chapter Eight -- The Lake 50Chapter Nine -- Mary Rhinelander 54Chapter Ten -- The Mansion 59Chapter Eleven -- The Book 69Chapter Twelve -- In Plain Sight 74Chapter Thirteen -- Tadpole 79Chapter Fourteen -- Toad 84Chapter Fifteen -- The Perfume Bottle 87Epilogue 93

Lake Pleasant’s Haunted House 94by Ted Aber and Stella King

About the Author 101

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acknowledgementsTo those who believed in my writing from a young age, three educators stand out: Sally Moore, Jim Gilchrist (Mr. G.), and my mentor and dear friend, Brent Pierce. I don't know that teachers truly understand the impact they have on young lives, and most will never know how they may have rescued those lost souls during times of crisis in their young lives. But for these three, I am privileged to be able to let them know the important role they played in lifting me up during the awkward and difficult times of youth. For that, Sally, Mr. G. and Brent, you will always have a special place in my heart.To my dearest of friends, who have known me, good, bad and ugly, and loved me in spite of myself, Susie Roose, Cathy Vick, Cyndi Engstrom, Chris Capretta, Michael Jensen, Michael and Barbi Flynn, Marshall and Michelle Moore, Teri Lyndsey and Vicki Silva.And finally, to my husband, children and grandchildren. You bring joy and love into my life that is beyond words.

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Dedicated to the love of my life, Dale

To my childrenBreanne and Joshua, Jeremy and Nicolette, Brittany and Jacob, Aubrey and Austin, Christian and Gabe

And my grandchildrenCarter, Paxton, Dylan, Dalton, Wyatt, Tristan and

Sicily

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PROLOGUE

THEY SAY IN THE woods by Little Elm Lake, when the

harvest moon is no more than a sliver, if you listen very

carefully, you might hear it. Sometimes, on those warm

autumn nights, when the wind was still and the lake was

calm, I heard it. It sounded like a baby animal calling for its

mama. I always thought the chill coming off the lake was

because it was getting dark. I didn’t know there was

something else out there, until the night of my first camp

out.

Whenever my mom heard it, she’d come running out

of the house yelling, “Paxton, time to come in!”

I was never quite ready to stop fishing. So I didn’t.

Before I knew it, my mom would come running at me with

a wooden spoon in one hand and a clenched fist in the other

and I had no choice but to gather up my fishing gear and

head into the house.

At dinner my dad would say, “Paxton, did you give

Shel ley Bingham HuskPREVIEW

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your mom a hard time about coming in off the lake

tonight?”

I never lied. I told my dad just how it was. “I was just

finishing up my fishing.”

“When your mom calls you in, you don’t wait. You

come right in, got it?”

“Yes, sir.” I said.

Except this time it didn’t end there. I was ten now,

and I wanted to know why I had to come in before dark. So

I summoned up all the courage I could and asked, “Dad.

Why does mom get so mad if I stay out on the lake a little

late?”

It was like he had the answer ready before I asked,

“She just doesn’t want you near the water past dark, that’s

all.”

I knew that wasn’t all. I also knew that was the only

answer I was going to get that night.

The Ghost of Litt le Elm LakePREVIEW

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CHAPTER ONE

The Campout

I FOUND MY SPOT in the tent and unrolled my sleeping

bag. It was my first real camp out. My mom said I could

spend the night at my best friend Carter’s in a tent in their

back yard. Carter had been my best friend since I moved to

Lake Pleasant from Texas, two summers earlier. Carter’s

dad ran the old sawmill for the International Lumber

Company. They lived in a house on the property of the old

Rhinelander estate by the Little Elm Lake. Just about

everyone in Lake Pleasant worked for the paper company,

including my dad. We lived outside the woods on the other

side of the lake. If I could, I would spend all day every day

fishing on the Little Elm Lake.

“Why does your little brother always have to tag

along?” I asked.

“My mom said we can’t camp outside,” Carter took

out his flashlight, “if Tadpole can’t come, too.”


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We didn’t really mind, because it gave us someone to

pick on and get us stuff from the house when we needed it.

This particular night was one of those warm, autumn

nights. The moon was a flicker of fire; and the sky was the

darkest blue just before midnight. Me, Carter and Tadpole –

that’s what we called Dalton because he just started

growing – were eating junk food and making funny

pictures with our flashlights against the sides of the tent.

Tadpole was playing with some kind of puzzle box.

“What’s that,” I asked him.

Tadpole never looked up. He just said, “It’s a puzzle

box my dad got me when he went to New York City last

week. You have to find the trick to open the secret

compartment.”

Carter pointed his flashlight at the box and said, “Just

a stupid toy. He’ll never figure it out.”

Tadpole hated being treated like a child. “Yes I will,”

he said. “You’ll see.”

Carter looked outside the tent. “It’s dark outside,”

Carter said putting the flashlight up to his face, “the perfect


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time for a ghost story.”

“I don’t know,” Tadpole whined climbing into his

sleeping bag for safety.

“Yeah,” I begged, “do you have a story?”

“I’ve been saving this one for the right moment.”

Carter said, shoving some popcorn in his mouth. “Have you

ever heard of Mary Rhinelander?”

Tadpole snuck his hand out of his sleeping bag and

grabbed a piece of licorice, “Who is she?”

“You mean, who was she?” Carter said, pointing

towards the woods for effect. “She lived on this property a

long time ago, kept prisoner in the burned-out old mansion

by the lake, by her rich, jealous, husband.”

Tadpole pulled the sleeping bag up around his face

and Carter continued, “The strange part is, that whenever

anyone talked to her or got too close to her, they turned up

dead somewhere on the property. I heard that Mary

Rhinelander’s ghost haunts this area. She could be here

right now.”

All of a sudden, there was a noise outside. We heard it


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clear as the night sky. Tadpole screamed, “What’s that?”

We figured it was nothing, so we took the opportunity

to get revenge for having to entertain the little tag-a-long.

We signaled to each other to put the flashlights under our

chins and said in unison, in our scariest voices, “It’s the

ghost of the lake.”

That fixed him. He went straight to the bottom of his

sleeping bag, crying. We laughed so hard we almost wet

ourselves. When we could stop laughing long enough, we

told Tadpole we were joking. But he was a big baby and

wouldn’t come out of his sleeping bag.

I figured I’d better fix it, or we’d be in deep with

Carter’s mom. “Hey Tadpole,” I explained, “it’s only a

baby animal crying out for its mom. I hear it all the time

when I’m out fishing. You must hear it too, living so close

to the water.”

Tadpole came up out of his sleeping bag rubbing his

eyes, “I guess so. It’s just that this is my first camp out.”

“Mine too,” I said. “But you know there’s no such

thing as ghosts. That’s just an old made up story” No


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sooner had I finished my sentence when it happened again;

and Tadpole went right back into his sleeping bag.

It was the same noise we heard before. Only this time

it sounded a lot closer, and different. It didn’t sound so

much like a baby animal as it did like a real live person.

Only not so live, kind of hollow, like crying into a tin can;

and it wasn’t on the lake, it was close. Very close.

The sounds of crying and whispers got louder and closer, and closer.

By now we were all trembling with fright. Whatever it was, it was right next to the tent. It was whispering, but I couldn’t understand what it was saying.

I was too scared to talk, so I got Carter’s attention, pointed to my flashlight and turned it off. The front flap of the tent moved like something was trying to get in. Carter turned off his flashlight, we held our collective breath, and whatever it was disappeared.

We grabbed Tadpole, sleeping bag and all and ran into the house. We slept inside that night. Only no one slept. Our first camp out was a bust. All night we babbled, “What was it?”


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“Had to be the wind.”

“Wind can’t talk.”I was sure we hadn’t slept at all, and before we knew

it, the sun was up.


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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Shelley Bingham Husk was born and raised in Southern California, where her love for words began at the age of four.Her poetry and libretti have been commissioned by the California State PTA, composer Brent Pierce, artist Alan McMurtrey and novelist Michael Jensen. Shelley recently received

the Filmed in Utah Award for her screenplay "The Last Straw" starring Corbin Bernsen.Shelley currently resides in Utah with her husband Dale, where she continues to write and produce films; is working on books two and three of the "American Apparitions Trilogy"; and is on the board of directors for the Park City International Film Festival.

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