Ghosts on the Coast of Maine by Carol Schulte

by the southeastern shore of the island, when he came across a skeleton on the edge of the woods. It was wedged between two rocks. The years of ice and snow and weather had disintegrated all identifiable clothing, but a silver ring lying with the bones carried a clue. The ring bore the initials “G.V.” From all appearances, the Canadian had never made it home because a treasure had been found—and he had been murdered upon discovery of it! No wonder Jones had become rich so quickly; his wealth had not been acquired at sea, it had been acquired from the sands of Jewell’s Island.
    Vigny’s murder began to make sense. That was the reason people had been witnessing weird visions in that area, the ghastly shape of a man with blazing green eyes and blood running out of his mouth and chest. Islanders thought perhaps they were seeing the spirit summoned to guard the buried treasure. They had poured fresh lamb’s blood over the spot in an effort to quell the devilish haunt. Now they were beginning to suspect it was the spirit of the Canadian stranger.
    The skeleton find also gave rise to an explanation for the paranormal activities around Elijah Jones’s old place. A voice screaming out in the darkness, and the sight of chairs furiously moving about the kitchen had been experienced. One night a chair actually blew about the room and then burst through a window.
    No one fixed the hole, and the broken window made noises from the house more audible. Neighbors were startled one night by a loud popping noise. Not knowing what to expect, they ventured near enough to see a liquid rushing over the wooden floor. The smell was very strong, very ripe. That was the end of their nocturnal investigation. The morning light induced sparks of courage, so they actually opened the front door and walked over to the soaked floor. Rum was the liquid. It had flowed out of a barrel hidden away in the wall. More barrels were found, and more secret places, whereupon they came to a series of tunnels that led to the shore. Thus was the true nature of Jones’s character revealed and talked about for many years to come.
    As for George Vigny, he is still angry about his untimely death and continues to make his presence known to those who dare trespass on Jewell’s Island.

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE CURSED FARM
    F reeport’s southeast wind blows the sunset sands of a large barren area extending the arm of Thomas Grayson’s curse just a little bit farther. The time is the present. What was once a thriving farm has turned into a Sahara-like desert in the space of about one hundred years. There is no other place like it in the world, primarily because of its young age and also because it still sustains life. Seventy-foot birches and even an apple tree grow out of the sand, although they are so buried that they appear to be small bushes at ground level.
    The curse was kind to the few remaining trees, but it totally wiped out any chance of survival by the last farmer who owned the land. The first farmer was Thomas Grayson. He was of muscular stock from his mother’s side of the family, and he had inherited the long body and intelligent eyes of his father’s side. Like most men of his era, it took him till he was forty years old to have accumulated enough assets to be able to provide for a wife and family. In 1797 he bought a three-hundred-acre farm and married Elizabeth Donaldson.
    Elizabeth died in 1815, leaving behind three teenage sons to help their father till the land. This they did with great energy, harvesting crops of potatoes, green vegetables, and hay. They cultivated the blossoming apple orchard and tended their herds of sheep and cattle. Blueberries and strawberries abounded. In the winter they cut down their choicest trees and sold the lumber to the railroad for a good price.
    A year later the oldest boy went off to sea, and the middle one was about to follow on his heels. There was quite a discussion