Page 33 of Haunted By the Mountain Man
"Donald Carlson, 67, formerly of Burke, Vermont, passed away March 15 in Tampa, Florida. Carlson was best known as the owner of the Wildfire Ridge Ski Lodge until its closure following a devastating fire in 1995. The fire, caused by faulty electrical wiring, resulted in two deaths and marked the beginning of Carlson's financial decline. He never recovered from the loss of his beloved lodge and spent his final years in relative obscurity..."
Faulty wiring. The official story. The temperature returned to normal as suddenly as it had dropped. I folded the clipping with trembling fingers and tucked it back in the book. Even in death, Carlson had kept his secrets.
I looked around the destroyed lodge, and I knew I'd never want to return her after all that had happened. If I was going to document this place, it had to be now. All of it. Even the parts that might be too dangerous to film.
My ghost hunting equipment was downstairs—EMF detectors, thermal cameras, audio recorders. But after what just happened in Walt's room, after what we'd all heard last night, I didn't want to know what they might pick up. I didn’t want to hear Rebecca and Jimmy. I already knew what happened and hearing them cry out from the beyond might break my heart. And if I heard Walt too?
I still had my camera with me, though. I headed for the east wing—the place where it all happened.
The stairs creaked under my weight, the boards soft with rot. More than once I had to test each step before committing my full weight. This was dangerous, structurally unsound. One wrong step and I'd fall through.
The smell hit me as I reached the top—not just decay and mold, but something else. Old smoke, char, the ghost of fire that still lingered after thirty years. And underneath it, something floral. Perfume. Young and sweet and completely out of place.
Hello Rebecca.
It was worse than I'd imagined it to be. Walls charred black, ceiling completely gone in places, letting in shafts of light that illuminated the destruction. The temperature here was noticeably colder than the rest of the building, even though it was a mild day outside.
I turned on my camera, my voice echoing strangely in the burned space.
"This is Raven from Dark Places, Deep Secrets, and I'm standing in what remains of the east wing of Wildfire Ridge Ski Lodge. This is where the fire started on November 3rd, 1995. Two employees died here—Rebecca Thornton, age 23, andJames Mitchell, age 19. Their deaths only been reported now. They had no one to miss them. No one to report them gone. Except for maybe one person."
As I panned across the destruction, my camera's autofocus kept hunting, trying to lock onto something that wasn't there. In the viewfinder, I could swear I saw shadows moving in my peripheral vision, but when I looked directly, nothing.
The area was completely gutted. Nothing remained but twisted metal that might have once been filing cabinets, ash, and charred beams.
"There's nothing here," I narrated, though my voice shook. "Whatever secrets this wing held, they burned that night. No documents, no evidence, no proof of what really happened."
A sound behind me—footsteps. Young, light, two sets. I spun around but the hallway was empty. Then, clear as day, a woman's voice whispered: "He killed us."
Did the mike catch it? My camera's battery indicator suddenly dropped from full to half, despite having been charged that morning.
"The official report blamed faulty wiring," I said, my knees knocking. I continued to film, needing to finish this for all our sakes. "But there were rumors that it had been deliberately set for insurance money by the former owner. We’ll never know the truth. Everyone involved in the fire, including the former owner is dead.”
I fervently hoped I was wrong and Walt was still alive.
“I find it strange that two young employees, who no one would miss, just happened to be in the empty lodge on the night of a catastrophic fire?"
The smell of perfume grew stronger. Then cologne—something cheap and young, the kind a nineteen-year-old would wear to impress a girl appeared. They were here. I knew it with bone-deep certainty.
"I believe Rebecca Thornton discovered something she shouldn't have. I believe she and James Mitchell came here that night looking for proof of something. And I believe they died because of what they knew or what they were trying to find."
The footsteps circled me now, and I stood frozen in the center of the ruined floor. A touch on my shoulder—gentle, grateful. I almost peed my pants.
"Whether the fire was accidental or deliberate, they were young people with their whole lives ahead of them, and they died in this place. That alone makes them worth remembering."
I took a shaky breath, tamping down the urge to run screaming out of this place. I hoped it wasn’t Walt’s ghost that just touched me.
"I'm grateful to have had permission to document this place this week, to tell these stories before they're lost forever. The owner plans to demolish the lodge soon and plant maple trees. Maybe that's for the best. Some places are too broken to save, too haunted by the past to have a future."
I turned off my camera and carefully made my way back down the treacherous stairs, each step deliberate and cautious. I refused to look back, just in case I saw something.
I was lying about the demolition and maple trees. It was necessary. Rebecca and Jimmy deserved peace, not thrill-seekers with EVP recorders and night vision cameras. I refused to run out of the lodge, but it was damned close.
Walt had looked so fragile when they loaded him into the helicopter. And the fear in Shane’s eyes had been devastating. He'd already lost so much in his life. He couldn't lose Walt too.
I needed to get to Shane's cabin, edit and upload these videos quickly, and if Shane wasn’t back by then I’d go to the hospital. Shane shouldn't be alone, even if he'd never admit it. And Walt needed to know that people cared, that his stories mattered, thatRebecca and Jimmy would be remembered—and maybe, finally, be at peace.
Chapter 9
