CAMPFIRE: Hidden Treasures

At AJ Bell we believe every customer deserves brilliant service, which is just one reason we're rated excellent on Trust Pilot. And we all trust pilots, with their smooth, captainly voices that make you feel like you'd let them land anywhere they like. Sorry, where was I? Right, AJ Bell, rated excellent by sexy pilots. I mean trust pilot. I'm a flight risk! AJ Bell, feel good investing. The value of your investments can go up or down. Step into light-filled living at the Express Byfolding Doors Milton Keynes showroom and experience products that seamlessly connect your home's interior and exterior. From by-folding and sliding doors to windows, entrance doors and glass roofs, all built and installed by Express. Whether renovating, extending or building new, see the quality for yourself at our stunning showroom or visit ExpressByfolds.co.uk Hi, I'm Ashley Flowers, creator and host of the number one True Crime podcast, Crime Junkie. Every Monday, me and my best friend Britt break down a new case, but not in the way you've heard before, and not the cases you've heard before. You'll hear stories on Crime Junkie that haven't been told anywhere else. I'll tell you what you can do to help victims and their families get justice. Join us for new episodes of Crime Junkie every Monday, already waiting for you by searching for Crime Junkie wherever you listen to podcasts. This episode was produced with immersive audio. For the best experience, we kindly recommend you listen with headphones. Shadows lapped on the edge of embers. The dying light was an island, submerged, caught between a mound of ash and the miles upon miles upon light years of space. In slow motion, the amber city was sinking, shrinking. It occurred to Olive, not for the first time, that she was cold. Saturated in clothes, in sweaters and skin, even this close to fire, her warmth expired. The fire cracked, launching a light probe into the night. She followed its trajectory as the spark barely a speck sped up and up through the smoke, slowing down, drifting so far from home, and still so much farther from anything else. The spark went out. Well, who's up next? Matt held out the torch. Before Olive could even refuse, Jake stole the light and pressed it to his heart. I'd like to thank my friends and the Academy for this shining opportunity. The Academy of what? Clowns? And what friends? Ow! Y'all are a bunch of sharks, you know that? Kidding. What's your story about? This story is about a haunted house. What? You can't...my story was about a haunted house. You can't just double dip. No, your story was about a haunted painting. Mine's a proper ghost story. So was mine! Oh, sit down, Matt. Let him go on. I'm just saying. Look, your story was spooky, sure. I won't dispute the facts. In fact, I think you'll find our two tales are as different as life and death. Oh, does that mean someone dies? Technically, if it's a ghost story, yeah. But it's not death you have to worry about. Death is what you should watch out for. What? Shoot, I screwed it up. Uh, it's not death that you have to watch out for. It's death that you... Just get on with the story already. Okay, okay. How about this? If you're ready, gather round and listen close. But that's my line! Shhh. Work smart, not hard. That's what my old man told me. But it was advice he never seemed to have taken. Patrick Loven spent 35 long years as a general contractor, and he'd haul me around from job to job for as long as I could remember. Electrical, framing, plumbing, landscaping, you name it, my dad did it. He worked hard and died the same way. Lung cancer in the end. The man smoked like a damn freight train from sunrise to sunset. I picked up a lot of his habits, including smoking, but quit after he died. Watching someone waste away in those final moments of small cell lung cancer makes those Marlboro Reds lose their appeal. Work hard he did. Work smart he did not. We did all the jobs ourselves. Working smart would have been hiring a few guys to help. I never understood why he said the phrase over and over. Maybe he thought he lived by it, not having to pay subcontractors. When he passed, I inherited the business and decided to put his unused advice to use. After a year or two of the same old jobs, my wife introduced me to a new business concept, architectural salvage. It was a simple concept, but one I'd never thought about. You buy dilapidated homes, make a manifest of the items to be salvaged, and pay a contract crew to dismantle them piece by piece. You sell the usable parts, demolish the house, and auction the land. Smart, not hard. You'd be amazed at how much antique glass doorknobs or restored Victorian banisters get on the resale market. The houses were often cheap too. Most people inherit collapsing properties and don't realize the goldmine they were sitting on. I was glad to help, though. Give them a little more money than they expected, but nowhere near as much as I'd make. My wife found our most recent purchase. It was a crumbling Georgian colonial-style home a few miles outside a corridor in Indiana. 4,000 square feet of warped walls and squirrel nests, every inch an untapped resource. An old fellow named Barrett Compton was selling it himself and seemed motivated to get it off his hands. The price was about right, but I'd been sure I could badger him down a bit. I called Compton and he agreed to meet me the next day. My wife packed an overnight bag and printed out all the photos the old man had sent over, sticking them in a manila folder. After a two and a half hour drive and a questionable greasy spoon dinner, I kicked back in the motel bed and thumbed through the pages in the folder. I drifted to sleep, already counting the profit from stripping the old house. Early the next morning, I pulled out of the motel parking lot and followed my GPS down the country lanes toward the house. The GPS indicated a right turn onto a gravel lane and I pulled my truck onto the rough stretch of road. Roof peaks bobbed above the treeline ahead of me and I was relieved to have found the place without much issue. As I turned around the last bend of the S-curved driveway, the two-story relic came into view. It stood atop a low hill, dominating the small clearing in the trees. Paint peeling shutters dangled haphazardly from each window. A once stately metal archway had long since rusted and leaned lazily in on itself, thick ivy had invaded and conquered most of the lower floor. On the front steps sat an old man, a black cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. I could smell a combination of tobacco and clove. My dad had smoked the same kind from time to time, usually after a few beers. I think it made him feel dignified. The thought caused a childish grin to spread across my face. Walking up the cobbled path toward the old man, I stuck my hand out and he took it in a surprisingly firm grip, introducing himself as Barrett Compton. When he stood, I felt certain he would topple over in a stiff breeze. He was ungainly tall, over six feet and stood on two thin legs. An oxygen canula ran from his nose to a portable tank he clutched in his left hand. A walking fire hazard, I thought, as I watched him take a deep drag of his black cigarette. His face was lined and hard, eyes set in too deep. It felt like looking into a dark burrow, only to see a set of glowing eyes staring back at you. He smiled at me, but it held all the charm of a dog backed into a corner. We made small talk for about 10 minutes, but I was getting a bit impatient and I wanted to get inside. I tried to walk toward the door, but the old man stood resolutely at the base, idly discussing the weather and asking how my drive had been. He hadn't taken the hint, so I finally interrupted. If you don't mind, Mr. Compton, I'd love to get inside and take a look at the house so we can get a deal together. The old man smiled, his cornered dog smile and took a deep pull from his black cigarette. He dropped it to the ground and crushed it beneath his brown loafers. A pile of the black butts sat scattered around his feet and I couldn't help but think he may meet the same end as my old man. The oxygen mask told me it may well have already taken root. No going inside till the cells made. He grumbled, reaching into his pocket and producing a stack of folded paper. He extended it toward me in a pale shaking hand. I've reduced the price by 20,000. Need the damn place gone today. You'll see that I've signed and dotted all the right spots. There's a notary stamp on there too. Write the check, look over the house and then go to the law office listed on the contract. They'll wrap it up and the whole thing will be done. I looked down at the pile of papers. There was a seller's disclosure, title, deed and dozens of other documents. Each line was signed by Compton and a notary stamp was pressed onto each page. It felt strange, rushed. Look sir, I started. Let's just go down to the lawyers. The old man held up a hand to silence me. Taking a don't. He said before lighting another cigarette. I'm not pissing around with this old day. It's cheaper than I wanted and I know you'll rip this place down. Land of loan is worth more than you're paying. I'm old and I just want this business done. I thought to argue again but something about the old man made me feel small. Weak. I wanted to walk away from the deal and forget meeting Compton but my feet wouldn't cooperate. He just stared me down like a disobedient child. My blood went to ice as I wrote the old man a check. He took it, dropped one final black cigarette on the ground and walked away. I sat on the stairs outside the house for nearly an hour. My phone was buzzing in my pocket and I fished it out to see half a dozen missed calls from my wife. She had expected an excited call by then no doubt but I was still reeling from the uncomfortable meeting with Compton. Hitting the ignore button I put the phone back in my pocket and pushed myself off the steps to head inside. Talking to the old man had left me unsettled and I didn't want to trouble her with it. A set of dull keys dangled from the lock in the front door and I turned it with a great deal of effort. It pushed in and squealed like a dying animal before hitting a pile of moldy plaster on the floor. The air smelled of mildew and old decay. Stray beams of light gleamed through moth-eaten holes in the window drapes. Bulky furniture set covered in heavy canvas tarps. My heart would have usually been filled with delight to see a house filled with antiques but there was no enthusiasm in me. This is where people go to die I thought to myself with a shutter. Why had I thought that? The intrusive words burrowed deep into my brain. It made no sense but lingered all the same. I had explored and stripped dozens of houses over the last few years and none of them had given me so much as a second thought but that house filled me with a sense of dread. I did my best to shake off the apprehension and began to explore the house. Every room was filled to the brim with antique furniture. Each wall was covered with peeling wallpaper, molded pictures, and creeping vines that bulged from cracks in the plaster. The constant sound of scampering animals filled the walls. Pulling some of the canvas tarps away, my mood improved as I discovered relatively intact furniture. Desks, dining tables, wingback chairs, and rockers. Some had seen better days but many weren't outside of the skill for an antiquarian to restore. Even without the architectural salvage the house had already proven to be a good investment. After taking a brief inventory of the furniture I began to open drawers and cabinets hoping to find other valuable items but each sat empty. I entered what I assumed to be the master bedroom and marveled at the regal canopy bed set against the wall. Tattered drapes hung in shreds around the top of the frame. Through the gaps in fabric I saw a closet door. I walked around the bed and turned the brass knob. It rattled but refused to give way. The wooden frame had swollen holding the door solidly in place. I went to my truck and grabbed a small toolbox and headed back inside placing it on the floor beside the closet before digging out a small pry bar. The teeth slid tightly between the door and the frame and I levered it open. A blast of dry pungent air hit me in the face. My nose curled and my eyes squinted as decades old dust flooded into my lungs. I coughed and choked stumbling away from the door. Once I had wiped the film from my face I looked into the closet and a sense of unease washed over me. The rod and upper shelf of the closet stood empty but the floor was covered in dozens of pairs of women's shoes. High heels mainly, colors faded and bits of leather chewed away by vermin. They sat in neat rows only a few toppled by whatever rodent had crawled over them. The tip of each one was scraped deeply down to the dark base leather, heavy grooves shedding the top coat. It looked like they had been dragged over concrete. Compton's wife had quite a shoe collection I thought to myself but she didn't take care of them. But no, that thought felt all wrong. The shoes looked to be in multiple different sizes, some were much wider than others. I could tell they had come from different ears, different decades most likely. Black pumps sat by neon and pastel heels. Some of them even had a hand stitched fashion that looked like they had come right out of the 1950s. I shut the door and felt my stomach constrict into a tight ball. It's just a closet full of shoes I said in my mind. It's just an old house that belonged to an old man who had a closet full of women's shoes. Walking out of the master bedroom my mind reeled. There had been no other personal effects, only furniture. I just wanted to finish my inventory and head home. The dismantling and demolition crew could handle a rest. I was nearly through the entryway and to the front door when I saw a final door that I hadn't opened yet. Hesitantly, I walked over and opened it. A set of dusty wooden planks led down into an abysmally dark basement. A lump bulged in my throat as I peered down. My mind screamed at me to leave the house but I just wanted to finish my inventory and never have to go back to that unsettling place. Forcing my feet into motion, I started down the steps and pulled a flashlight from my belt clip. The LED beam pierced the darkness and brought the mostly empty basement into focus. I breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that there wasn't much there that needed my attention. In the far corner of the basement sat a bulky coal-fired boiler. I'd only seen two of them intact in the past and so my interest overwhelmed my diminishing sense of dread. Moving through the darkness, I approached the boiler and began to examine it. Excited to see that all of the parts were still in place. There were only a few flecks of rust. My mind was already making plans on how to extract it and what restoration specialists to send it to. I knelt and opened the coal door to inspect the inside. Shining the light in, there were still flecks of half-burnt coal. As the beam darted around the interior, something metallic reflected the light into my eyes. I winced for a moment before reaching inside and sifting through the ashes. My hand bumped against something hard. I grabbed it and pulled it out. It was the buckle to a belt, charred and warped from the heat of the coals. I shined the light into the coal door again and saw more tiny reflections. As I sifted through the coals, I uncovered a small field of metal items. More belt buckles, rivets from blue jeans, broken zippers, melted buttons. I could hear the beating of my heart in my ears, standing quickly. I turned to leave. Nothing felt right there. I had seen enough and needed to, I don't know, call the police maybe? As my flashlight swept the basement a final time, I saw a final door in the opposite corner of the basement. The door was slightly cracked and I could see the edge of a wooden box framed in brass. My unhealthy curiosity got the best of me and I changed my path from the stairs to the unexplored room. Pushing the door open, I shined my light through the room. There were dozens of steamer trunks, maybe two dozen lined neatly in a cinder block room. I slowly moved through the rows of trunks, inspecting each one. A heavy metal lock was clasped to the front of each. Some still shiny while others had gone over to rust and neglect. Each lock was looped through the clasp of the chest and hanging from each lock was a delicate necklace. Gold, silver, platinum. Some still shone brightly while others had turned as dull as the loop they hung from. My fear renewed as I looked over the room full of trunks. I staggered backward as my mind raced over all of the strange things I had seen in the house. The shoes, the burnt items in the boiler, the necklaces clasped to the locked chests. Nothing there was right. I stumbled backward when my leg connected with something hard behind me. Crashing down, I felt my lower half crash through brittle wood. In full panic, I pushed myself to and aimed my flashlight at the floor behind me. There was a trunk old and splintered from my fall. The lock and necklace that had been attached only moments before sat in the dirt of the floor. Next to it, I saw something I couldn't make out. Leaning in, I saw they were the black butts of clove cigarettes. Just beside them, jutting out of the broken corner of the chest was a hand. Strips of long dried flesh laced the ivory bones together and a tattered woman's blouse rested on the skeletal wrist. I ran from the basement and up the stairs, fighting the urge to vomit. Bursting through the front, I swallowed lungs full of fresh air as I tried to calm myself. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and opened it to call the police, but the signal was weak and the call wouldn't go through. Jumping in my truck, I fired up the engine and headed toward Corde and defined the police station. As I drove, I saw a bright red notification bubble on my text messages and flipped it open. My wife had texted me over 20 times while I'd been in the house. The last one nearly two hours ago. I opened the messages and scrolled through them. Just quick notes, checking, asking how the house was. When I finally reached the last message, my heart erupted in fear. Mr. Compton Caldon said that you bought the house. He's traveling out of state to visit family and wanted to drop off a thank you gift on his way, so I gave him our address. He's outside right now unloading the most gorgeous steamer trunk I've ever seen. Well, what'd you think? What happened to the wife? Is she alive? And what about all those other women? Are they all? I thought you said this was a ghost story. It is a real ghost story. I hope not too real. There's no way. Right? Yeah, maybe. I've got a cousin who works with the red, white, and blues. He and his cop friends trade stories. When we meet up, he passes them on to me. He's mostly just trying to scare me, I think. Yeah, well, he's certainly scared some of us. And that's just one story. There's this other one about a guy who went nuts off some bad bread, started talking to ghosts and stuff and ended up stabbing his wife. Oh, and then there's this gingerbread witch type who turned her son into pies. These are real. Sure. More real than Van Gogh's ghost piece. What's Van Gogh's ghost? Oh, you're smiling. Very funny. I thought so. Yeah, me too. Full Body Chills is an audio Chuck production. This episode was written by Ryan C. Major and read by David Wheeler. Intro Outro written by David Flowers and read by Ashley Flowers, Idris Jones, Kirsten Lee, Nathan Nokes, and Shai Sharee. So what do you think, Chuck? Do you approve? In a world of noise and uncertainty, IG is the investment platform that backs you. Take a Reflexible Stocks, Iso, which gives you the freedom to withdraw funds anytime and replace them in the same tax year, all without losing your £20,000 tax-free allowance. And if that's not enough, pay no commission on your stock shares and ETFs when you invest with IG. IG. Trade. Invest. Progress. Your capital's at risk. Other fees may apply. Tax treatment depends on individual circumstances and is subject to change. Everyone's told a lie, but what happens when one lie becomes a life, a movement, a conspiracy? I'm Josh Dean, host of Chameleon, and I uncover true stories of deception scams so intimate and convincing they fooled the people closest to them. These aren't strangers, they're lovers, friends, and trusted allies. Because the most dangerous cons don't feel like crimes, they feel personal. Listen to Chameleon wherever you get your podcasts.