By Mordecai Vilecreek, Steamboat Dispatch
Cake, Candles, and Consequences
Now you ask anybody in Brainardsville, even the ones what don’t hold with foolishness, and they’ll tell ya: it ain’t wise to hold a gathering on Sanburn Hill past September.
Not on account of the bears. Not on account of the owls, neither. Folks ‘round here know a different kind o’ trouble calls them woods home once the goldenrod droops and the sumac turns red as fresh meat.
But that’s exactly what come to pass the evenin’ of Miss Tinette Roberts’s seventy-fifth birthday. And not just any ol’ birthday neither. Tinette bein’ the eldest livin’ soul in the township—more stubborn than a jack pine in a windstorm and twice as gnarled—folks turned out proper. Near fifty by the count.
They strung paper lanterns from the limbs of the sickly pines, hauled trestle tables up the hill, and laid out a spread that’d make a county fair jealous. Cakes of every stripe. Five churns of ice cream hauled up in gunny sacks of sawdust. There was music, too—a fiddle, a saw, and two boys from Ellenburgh what could strangle a tune outta anything with strings on it.
“Mind yer plates, folks,” bellowed C.J. Kirby, stompin’ down with a barrel of spruce beer. “Wind’s pickin’ up. Rollin’ off Lyon Mountain like it always does this time o’—”
He stopped short. Frowned. Cocked his ear sideways.
“…Or maybe… maybe not.”
Up by the cake, Bill Miles stood with arms crossed, eyein’ the treeline. The man weren’t easily spooked. Big as an ox and twice as stubborn. “Feels funny,” he muttered. “Like the ground’s holdin’ its breath.”
“Bah!” snapped Mrs. Cora Kirby, settin’ out a dish of pickled eggs. “Ain’t nothin’ but Sanburn Hill bein’ Sanburn Hill. Stop makin’ trouble where there ain’t none.”
If only.
When the cake come out—big as a washtub, frosted with sunflowers and “Happy 75th, Tinette” spelled in crooked pink loops—the crowd circled up tight. The sun’d just slipped behind Lyon’s shoulder, and the sky’d gone bruise-purple.
“Make a wish!” hollered young Marjorie Lapoint, jumpin’ up n’ down.
Tinette, always obligin’, leaned in. Her bonnet tipped forward, catchin’ the candlelight. Fifty flames, flickerin’ in the dusk.
Then—WHOOMPH.
Not a gust. Not a draft. No breeze ever hit like that.
It come like a thing. Cold slammed down from the pines like a fist. Hard enough to slap skirts sideways and knock the napkins clean off the tables. The lantern strings jumped like marionettes in a fit.
And every last candle—out.
Dead silence.
A paper plate tumbled end over end into the ditch. Somewhere, a lone harmonica note petered out mid-wheeze.
From the back of the crowd: “Well… reckon that’s one way t’blow ’em.”
A Chair Left Empty
Now, Tinette? She weren’t rattled. Not even a little. Just set her hands on her hips and drawled, “Saves me the breath. Mighty thoughtful, whoever that was.”
Nervous chucklin’ rippled through the crowd. Folks shuffled their feet. Stared anywhere but the treeline.
“Prob’ly just the front shiftin’,” offered Dr. Guy Kirby, adjustin’ his spectacles. “Barometric fluctuations. Happens all the time.”
Bill Miles spat sideways. “Barometric, my foot. I been in these hills forty-odd years. Ain’t no wind ever carried a sound like that.”
“Sounded… sounded like…” Marjorie Lapoint clutched her Grandma Settie’s apron. Her words trailed off like her voice was afraid to follow where her thoughts went.
Old Anna Kirby, sittin’ in her cane-backed chair with a lap full of crochet, slapped her thigh. “Didn’t I tell ya? Didn’t I say? Y’all gone and forgot the chair.”
Bill stiffened. “Ain’t forgot nothin’.”
“Oh, didn’t ya now? Where’s the empty chair, Bill? Every time y’have a gatherin’ on Sanburn Hill after equinox, you leave a chair empty for the Watcher in the Woods. Y’ain’t invite it, but you acknowledge it. That’s the way.”
“I thought that was just some fool superstition,” muttered C.J. Kirby, scratchin’ his knee.
Anna narrowed her eyes. “And what’s Sanburn Hill think ’bout folks who forget their manners, eh?”
From the dark edge o’ Hollow Hemlock, the pines leaned in closer. Shadows moved wrong—like somethin’ walked there, but didn’t bother with legs.
“…Ain’t stayin’ after dark,” Oscar Chase mumbled, already backin’ toward his pickup.
Mrs. Cora Kirby yanked the tablecloth off like it was on fire. “Help me pack the cake!”
But even as she folded the cloth, she stopped. Frowned. The middle of the cake—dead center—looked wrong.
“Ain’t no one touched this cake yet… right?”
Tinette leaned over. Squinted. “Ain’t nobody sliced it.”
There, pressed down in the frosting… was a handprint.
Too big. Fingers too long. Thumb placed wrong.
It didn’t press from above like a person would. Nah. It pushed up.
When the Cake Goes Uneaten
Ain’t nobody sang no more songs. Ain’t nobody asked fer seconds.
Folks left. Fast. Chairs clattered. Dishpans rattled. The Lapoints peeled out so hard their Maxwell threw mud halfway to Ellenburgh.
Reverend Nolan tucked his Bible under his arm, mutterin’ somethin’ ‘bout “fences between the living and the hungers of the earth.”
Only Bill Miles and Tinette stayed behind to fold the last table.
“That was somethin’, huh,” Bill grunted. Tried to sound normal. Failed. “Reckon… reckon it was just… weather.”
Tinette chuckled, low and dry as a kettle boilin’ off the last of its water. “Sure. Weather. Funny kinda weather leaves fingerprints in frosting.”
Come dawn, Cecil Kirby hiked back up to retrieve the last chairs. What he found set him back a step.
The chair. The one what’d been left behind. It weren’t where it oughta be. Weren’t standin’ at all. It lay on its back. Drag marks scuffed through the grass. Not like someone pulled it, but like it… slid.
Back toward Hollow Hemlock.
Back toward where the treeline gaped wider now, as if somethin’ big—somethin’ hungry—had pushed its way through.
The cake? Still sittin’ there. Untouched. Not a raccoon, not a crow, not even a fly would come near it. But the handprint… the handprint was still there. Hardened sugar holdin’ the shape like a fossil of some ancient mistake.
Cecil stared long. Then longer. Then, with a shrug, spat on the grass, tipped his cap, and left the cake sittin’ right where it was.
“Ain’t my cake,” he muttered.
Back down in town, folks talked. Not loud. Not often. But they talked.
Bill Miles took to keepin’ a salt line round his shed. C.J. Kirby started wearin’ a crucifix whether it matched his shirt or not. Even Dr. Guy Kirby, man of science, carried a sprig of rowan in his glovebox.
As for Tinette? She hung a sign on her front gate. Said:
“Next year: indoors.”
Underneath, someone had penciled in:
“And leave out two chairs.”
Filed for the Dispatch, with Regard for the Truth
(Such as It Is)
Be it known, dear readers, that should you find yourself atop Sanburn Hill come September next, remember this simple fact:
Some guests ain’t never officially invited.
But if you forget to set a place… they’ll pull one up anyway.
And heaven help ya if the cake’s bad.
Letters to the Editor
Steamboat Dispatch — Vol. XVIII, No. 41
October 1, 1923 Edition
“Ought Not to Trifle With Such Things”
To the Editor:
Sir,
I was present at the birthday party atop Sanburn Hill, and while I hold no truck with superstition, I must say what occurred was unnatural by any reasonable reckoning. I seen the pines bend when there weren’t no wind. I heard… somethin’. Not a howl, not a moan, but a kind o’ holler that went straight down the back of yer teeth.
While some folks may find amusement in these tales, I caution the community that such happenings are not fit subjects for levity. There are things in these woods older than our fences and thicker than our blood. My own grandmother told us—leave a chair, say a name, show respect. Simple manners for them that came before us.
Folks what scoff now may well find their sheds rattlin’ in the night come November.
Respectfully,
—Cora L. Kirby, Brainardsville
“Pure Foolishness… Mostly”
Editor,
This letter pertains to the so-called “Uninvited Guest at Sanburn Hill.” I been readin’ this paper since I was knee-high and never before has it published such a combination of gospel truth, half-wit superstition, and downright entertainment.
Was there? Yes. Heard it? Yes. Did my hat get blown clear off my head and land in Marvin Lapoint’s potato salad? Also yes. Was it a Wendigo, ghost, Watcher, or some such woodland fiend? Nah. What we got was a combination of a cold front, poor cake craftsmanship, and folks too quick to jump at their own shadows.
That bein’ said, I did NOT retrieve my hat. Ain’t set foot near them pines since. I got my limits.
Yours in common sense,
—Bill Miles, Lower Chateaugay Lake
“Something Touched My Elbow”
To Whom It May Concern,
Ain’t much for letter writin’, but since your paper asked fer “accounts from the field”… well, here’s mine.
I felt somethin’ touch my elbow durin’ that incident. Plain as day. Cold. Thin. Not a branch. Not a person. Turned round and nothin’ was there but that saggy ol’ pine stump shaped like a man crouchin’.
Won’t pretend to know what it was. Won’t pretend it didn’t happen, neither.
You folks print what you want, but as for me? I ain’t goin’ up Sanburn Hill past August no more. Ever. Period.
Sincerely,
—Oscar Chase, East Bellmont
“We All Need to Calm Ourselves”
Editor,
It pains me to see grown adults descend into this foolishness. I was present, yes. The wind blew, yes. The candles blew out, indeed. But I am astonished—nay, scandalized—by how quickly my neighbors abandon reason.
It was a weather event. A pressure drop. Localized microburst. Nothing more. This talk of handprints, shadows, Watchers, and birthday hauntings is unhelpful and encourages backwoods hysteria.
Furthermore, I would ask the Dispatch to refrain from printing letters that lend undue credence to rustic superstition. We are a modern township. It is 1923, not 1623.
Rationally yours,
—Dr. Guy Kirby, DDS, Brainardsville
“I Seen It. I Sure Did.”
Dear Editor,
I seen it. I ain’t ashamed to say. Seen it plain.
There was a shape right out in them trees. Tall. Bent. Not a man but man-shaped, if you get my meanin’. Looked like it was made of sticks what’d forgot how to lay down proper. And it had… I dunno how else t’say it… an attitude.
Don’t believe me if you don’t want. Don’t matter. But if anyone else’s birthday’s comin’ up, don’t expect me to come if it’s on Sanburn Hill.
Yours in truth,
—Marjorie Lapoint, Age 11, Brainardsville
“It Took the Chair”
Sir,
I went back up Sanburn two mornings after the party to haul the folding chairs down. Found one missin’. The drag marks was clear as day. No person made ‘em. No person could.
Chair was gone. Still is. You can check my barn yerself.
Not sayin’ what took it. Not sayin’ anything, matter of fact. Just lettin’ folks know. Do with it what ya will.
Sincerely,
—Cecil Kirby, South Chateaugay
“A Polite Reminder”
Editor,
Reckon it’s worth remindin’ folks: Ain’t no shame in leavin’ a chair empty. Not for the Watcher, nor the Hollow Folk, nor the long-legged shadows. Ain’t invitation—just manners. Same as leavin’ a plate fer the hired hand, or water fer the traveler.
Ain’t about believin’. It’s about respect.
Yours with neighborly advice,
—Mrs. Anna Kirby, Brainardsville (Still alive, despite your predictions)
Editor’s Note:
The Dispatch thanks all correspondents for their submissions. As always, the truth lies somewhere between the pine roots and the sky. We advise readers to mind their manners, mind their fences, and mind the shadows cast longer than the objects what made ‘em.
—The Editor
“A Chair Gone Missing—Or Something More?”
By Miss Penelope Hardsnapp, Senior Correspondent
The Chateaugay Chattermouth Journal
It is often said that life in the North Country is quiet, dignified, and above all—predictable. One rises, tends to one’s affairs, waves courteously at one’s neighbors, and expects, within reasonable certainty, that one’s chairs remain where one left them.
Regrettably, this natural order of things has recently been upset in no small fashion.
As many readers are no doubt aware—inasmuch as absolutely no one has ceased speaking of it—the curious incident atop Sanburn Hill during the 75th birthday festivities of Mrs. Tinette Roberts has given rise to a most unsettling mystery. The sudden extinguishing of the birthday candles by what certain parties insist was a mere gust of wind (while others contend otherwise) was, it seems, only the opening act of a larger and rather more peculiar drama.
Namely: a chair is missing.
Yes, dear reader, a plain folding chair of unremarkable design but increasingly remarkable reputation has failed to return from the evening in question. Its absence, though seemingly trivial, has nonetheless captured the collective imagination of the township to a degree that borders on feverish obsession.
The Facts as We Know Them:
- The chair in question belonged to Mr. Cecil Kirby, who transported it—along with several others—to Sanburn Hill for the Roberts celebration.
- While the remaining chairs were recovered the following morning, one was not.
- Drag marks—described by multiple sources as “deep, clear, and disturbingly straight”—were observed in the grass leading from the site directly toward the edge of Hollow Hemlock, a wooded area of some folkloric notoriety.
- The chair itself was nowhere to be found.
A Chair of Interest
Efforts to recover the missing item have been met with frustration and, in some cases, an almost superstitious reluctance. Mr. Kirby, when questioned, stated flatly, “It’s gone. And that’s the end of it.” He then declined further comment, citing, as he put it, “a shortage of interest in playin’ hide and seek with furniture.”
A stroll through the community confirms that this missing chair has taken on the qualities of legend. At Hoy’s General Store, customers now half-jokingly inspect their own chairs before sitting, lest one of them also decides to “go walking.”
Mrs. Anna Kirby, matriarchal authority on all things both practical and preternatural, remarked with characteristic bluntness, “When folks forget to mind their manners, sometimes the hill reminds ‘em for ’em.” A sentiment cryptic in tone but, according to local consensus, difficult to dismiss outright.
Theories Abound
Naturally, opinions on the matter vary, often falling along the usual philosophical fault lines of the Chateaugay community.
- The Practical Camp contends that a local prankster—likely a youth emboldened by the proximity of October—seized upon an opportunity for mischief and spirited the chair away under cover of darkness. When pressed for suspects, most agree it “has the fingerprints of an Adams Chase production,” though Mr. Chase, when confronted, simply laughed and remarked, “If I’d taken it, I’d be sittin’ in it.”
- The Supernatural Camp holds that the event was, to quote Mrs. Gladys Willet, “a plain and simple reminder from the Hollow,” the Hollow in question being Hollow Hemlock, that unsettling cluster of pines long associated with uncanny happenings. According to this line of reasoning, the missing chair serves as a sort of… payment. A tax levied upon the living by whatever keeps its own counsel in the deeper parts of the woods.
- The Metaphysical Camp, represented by the always-earnest Rev. Nolan, proposes a less materialist but no less unsettling theory: that the chair is not merely lost, but unmade. “Taken,” he mused at Wednesday’s Rotary luncheon, “not into the forest, but into the margin between the world and what waits beyond it.” His remarks, while met with polite applause, notably coincided with several members excusing themselves early.
A Developing Situation
Perhaps most troubling is that this is not, apparently, the first time a chair has gone missing in the vicinity of Sanburn Hill. Our archives reveal a letter to the editor, dated October 7, 1892, referencing a “settee most peculiarly absent after the quilting social.” That settee was never recovered.
Similarly, in 1911, the final record of the Sanburn Hill Bandstand notes it “collapsed without provocation,” and while the official report blames rot, locals at the time whispered (though they dared not print) of strange sounds heard the night prior—“like scraping, dragging, and a voice made of cold.”
Whether these prior incidents are relevant or merely examples of the region’s penchant for overactive imagination remains, as always, unclear.
In Conclusion
For now, the chair remains missing, its whereabouts known only—if known at all—to the shadows beneath Hollow Hemlock. Meanwhile, life in Chateaugay continues as it always does: quietly, diligently, and with one eye nervously watching the treeline.
Should anyone happen upon a lone folding chair—gray, canvas seat, scuffed left leg—please return it to Mr. Cecil Kirby. Or, failing that, simply leave it facing the woods, and walk away without looking back.
The Chattermouth Journal will, of course, continue to monitor this story as it develops.
—Miss Penelope Hardsnapp
Senior Correspondent, Community Mysteries Desk
🗞️ CHATEAUGAY CHITCHAT: The Side-Eye Column
“If You Didn’t Hear It from Us… You’ll Hear It Anyway”
🚨 LITTLE MISS LAPOINT’S LATE-NIGHT CONFESSION 🚨
Well, well, well. Dear readers, if you thought the Missing Chair Affair of Sanburn Hill couldn’t get any more peculiar, then brace yourselves—because it seems the youngest member of the Miles clan has gone and stirred the pot.
According to multiple sources (all of whom claim to be merely innocent bystanders at the Hoy’s General Store bread shelf), Mrs. Settie Miles’ grand-daughter, Miss Marjorie Lapoint, age eleven, has confided a troubling sighting to at least three adults and one skeptical cat in the days following the birthday debacle.
What Did She See?
Per her own account, Marjorie awoke “right round two, maybe three” the night after the chair disappeared. Her bedroom window, as readers surely know, faces north toward the timber ridge where Sanburn Hill slopes down toward Hollow Hemlock.
And there—“plain as anything”—she claims she saw a figure.
Not a person. Not entirely.
“It was tall. But all wrong tall. Legs too long. Head kinda sideways. Looked like if someone folded a scarecrow wrong and it kept standin’ anyhow.”
The figure, she reports, was “carrying something over its shoulder.” Something long. Something shaped like… well… a folding chair.
“It was just walkin’. But its knees bent backwards. And its feet didn’t touch the ground. Not like walkin’, not like floatin’ neither. More like slidin’, but pullin the dirt up behind it.”
It Gets Worse.
Miss Lapoint further reports that the figure paused directly beneath the pine snag near the back lot of her grandparent’s property—(yes, the very same tree where the lightning struck back in ’17)—and then, quite alarmingly, turned its head fully backwards toward her window.
“I ain’t sayin’ it saw me. I’m just sayin’ I know it knew I was lookin’. And then it set the chair down. Facin’ the house.”
The next morning? No chair. No tracks. Just a circle in the frost where the grass looked pressed down flat—“Like somethin’ sat there. All night.”
Family Response: Mixed at Best
When approached for comment, Mrs. Miles stated curtly that her grand-daughter “has an imagination that ought to be taxed.”
Mr. Miles, her stalwart grandfather, meanwhile, remarked, “If somethin’ come t’sit and watch, it was probably after my prize tomatoes, not the child.”
We shall note, however, that by the following evening, Mr. and Mrs. Miles had moved Marjorie’s bed to the opposite side of the house.
Coincidence? Or precaution? Readers may form their own conclusions.
Other Witnesses?
Interestingly, two neighbors—who asked to remain unnamed but are well-known to the Chattermouth’s editorial staff and to each other, though one really ought not be visiting the other’s porch at that hour—reported seeing a “light flickering under the trees” around the same time in question.
Whether the light was lantern, firefly, or something less explainable remains a matter of heated debate at Hoy’s coffee counter.
Is the Chair Really Gone?
As of this writing, the chair remains missing. But as one particularly dry-witted customer at the general store was heard remarking:
“Far as I can tell, it ain’t the chair that’s the problem no more. It’s what’s sittin’ in it.”
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?