The Three Ghosts of Chipman House
by Elizabeth on March 09, 2025
Long before it was Chipman Inn, the grand house standing at the heart of the village was a private residence, its halls filled with the lives of those who passed through. From the days when letters arrived by stagecoach to the evenings when cigarettes burned low in smoky, laughter-filled parlors, to today's family friendly bed & breakfast (with a strict no smoking policy), the house has always been a place of warmth, company, and—always—cats.
Three, in particular, never left.
Their portraits still hang in the house, regal in their attire, dressed as if they might step out of their frames at any moment to oversee the goings-on. And perhaps they do.
The Matriarch—Lady Ashworth (“Ashes”) (born June 20, 1837) Of the three spectral felines, Ashes is the eldest and most revered. Born in the era when the house served as Ripton’s first post office, she carried herself with all the dignity of a creature accustomed to important affairs. A smoky gray-and-amber tabby with striking golden eyes, Ashes was said to have been a constant presence in the parlor, sitting atop the wooden desk where Daniel Chipman, the town’s first postmaster, sorted letters.
She was more than a mere observer. Townspeople swore that she had a habit of pressing her paw onto certain letters, as if giving her own judgment on their contents. Some said that the mail she approved always reached its recipient in good fortune, while those she knocked to the floor held secrets best left unsent. Whether this was superstition or not, no one dared shoo her away.
Even now, guests reading in the parlor have reported feeling a small weight settle beside them, though nothing is there. Others have found their letters or postcards ever so slightly shifted from where they left them. And on still, quiet evenings, there are whispers of paper rustling when no one is in the room—as if Ashes is still sorting through correspondence, deciding which letters deserve to travel onward and which are best forgotten.
The Hostess—Cecilia (“Cinder”) (born November 1, 1894) By the time Cinder was born, the house had long since ceased its postal duties. It was a different kind of home now—one run by a widow named Harriet, who welcomed traveling physicians and boarders to stay as a way of making ends meet. Guests arrived in sturdy boots, bearing heavy satchels and the air of men who had traveled far. But whatever weight they carried, they found solace in Harriet’s quiet hospitality, and in the graceful presence of the small, dark-furred cat who moved among them like a hostess of quiet authority.
Cinder was a socialite, a little lady with deep gray fur, amber eyes, and an affinity for fine company. She was known to greet visitors at the door, weaving between their legs before perching on a windowsill, observing the evening conversations with keen interest. Some claimed that she could tell which guests would stay for only a night and which would return. Others said she had a habit of leaping onto the laps of those with troubled hearts, offering silent comfort.
Her presence is still felt today. More than one guest has reported a flicker of movement near the windows, as if something small and shadowy is watching the world outside. Some have left a seat empty at breakfast, only to find the chair mysteriously warm, as if someone—or something—had just been there. And on rare occasions, a guest sitting alone in the parlor may feel the barest sensation of a soft tail brushing against their arm, just before the fire crackles and shifts.
The Enchantress—Persephone (“Penny”) (born August 15, 1950) By the time Penny arrived, the house belonged to the Meachums, a lively and well-loved family who filled its rooms with the sound of clinking glasses, laughter, and music from Middlebury alumni who gathered for drinks and cigarettes. The parlor was no longer a place of solemn affairs—it was a place of warm, boisterous company, of intellectual conversation and late-night toasts. Penny fit right in.
A long-haired beauty with a plume of a tail and a knowing gaze, she was the undisputed queen of the house. She draped herself over velvet chairs, chose the finest laps as her resting place, and seemed to have a particular fondness for those with a drink in hand. More than one guest found their cocktail ever so slightly displaced when they looked away, and if Penny was displeased with the company, she would simply leap onto the mantle and stare them down until they reconsidered their presence.
To this day, guests who settle into a cozy chair with a glass of wine may find their drink ever so slightly moved when they look back. Some have even sworn they’ve seen a faint impression in the cushions, as if someone—something—has just risen. And in the mirrors, more than a few visitors have caught a glimpse of a fluffy, silvery shape watching them, just before vanishing as quickly as a wisp of cigarette smoke.
Three Spirits, One Home Though decades and even centuries have passed, the three ladies remain. Ashes, ever the postmistress, still oversees correspondence in the parlor. Cinder, the perfect hostess, ensures that guests feel welcomed—or warned. And Penny, ever the socialite, lingers near the sound of laughter, never one to miss a lively evening.
So if you ever find yourself at Chipman Inn, and you feel a small weight at the foot of your bed, or the softest brush of fur against your leg, do not be alarmed.
The ladies are simply making their rounds.
And I suppose that’s why, despite being an old, old house in the woods… we don’t seem to have a mouse problem.