Bellmont, Franklin County, NY
August 24, 1841
Dear Dr. Caldwell,
I trust this letter finds you well, though I am sure you must be quite busy with the arrival of fall. We have had more rain these past few days than I can count. Not much for hunting, either. I didn’t see a deer, though I know there are plenty about. The forest seems quiet in a way that’s unusual for this time of year. The wind’s been howling through the pines up near the woods, and I’m beginning to think I know what that sound is—it isn’t the wind at all. I’d swear it’s something else.
Squire’s sculptures have been coming up again. This time not in the usual way. I found one by the shore just yesterday. It’s one of his old works, the one of the fisherman, but it wasn’t how I remember it. This figure looks—well, it looks wrong. The stone is still the same, but there’s something about the eyes. A strange hollow to them, like they’re staring into something we can’t see. The more I look at it, the less I believe it’s just stone.
Dad’s always been a bit of a mystery with his work, you know. He cut out those rocks from the bedrock with his bare hands, shaping them into the strangest things—horses, trees, old men and women, all worked with nothing but a hammer and chisel. It’s hard to explain, but there’s always been something about them that felt too alive. And now, these figures are cropping up all over the place, some on the lake’s edge, others deeper in the woods. I found three on the east side near Thurber Brook yesterday, each one looking more twisted than the last. They almost seem to be following me.
I spoke to Mrs. Jackson, and she says she’s seen them too. She insists the lake’s doing it, or perhaps the woods themselves, but I’m not so sure. There’s talk in the village that these figures are no longer just stone. People are calling them Wendigo spirits, though I don’t know what to make of that. The more I stand by them, the colder I feel. Like they’re pulling something from me. It’s like I’m seeing something that wasn’t meant to be seen, something that ought to have stayed hidden. These figures are not just figures—they’re memories.
I went up past the old William Bell camp yesterday, thinking to check on the trail, and I saw one more—this one was a woman, though her face was twisted in a way that didn’t belong to any woman I’ve known. Her hands were outstretched as if beckoning someone, though there was no one there. I felt something tighten in my chest, and I had to leave. The further I walked, the colder it got.
I don’t know if you’ll believe this, but I wonder if those sculptures aren’t just the work of my father’s hands after all. I wonder if they were never his in the first place. The more I think about it, the more I realize that these statues—these ghosts—are connected to something older, something more terrible than any of us could’ve ever imagined. My father spoke of his dreams when he made them, how they came to him, shaping his hands like the work wasn’t his own. Maybe he was right. Maybe those dreams were stolen by something else, something we ought to have left alone.
I’ll go back to the lake again tomorrow. There are other places where I haven’t looked yet, and I’m beginning to feel as though I must find the rest of them. They might tell me something. Or maybe they’ll take more than I can give.
Yours,
Miss Olive Susan Miles
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?