Dearest Guest,

On the evening of February 14th, at 6:30 PM, midwinter breaths stir the air. The skies, lightening in the season’s move toward spring, set the tone for a night like no other—a night where the veil between worlds thins, and the flicker of candlelight reveals secrets not of this realm.

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The dining hall, nestled deep within the Vermont woods, glows with a muted, amber light, calling to you through the chill. The air, crisp and cool, carries the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves, with the distant cry of a great owl echoing through the trees.

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As you cross the threshold, the warmth of the evening envelops you like a heavy cloak, and the soft glow of candle flames greets you. Before you lies a banquet both rich and tempting, crafted from the last gifts of the season. The scent of fresh loaves of bread crackle with warmth, their crusts shattering at the lightest touch. Aromas of spiced apples, roasted root vegetables, and the unmistakable bite of cloves and cinnamon fill the air, weaving together a tapestry of flavors.

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On the table, pies and tarts glisten under the soft light—apple pies, brimming with autumn’s lingering sweetness, and delicate pumpkin tarts, their creamy custard cradled in fragile, golden crusts.

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The air itself hums with the promise of each bite, caramel and toasted sugar mingling with the earthy richness of the meal. As the night deepens and the fire crackles with a soothing rhythm, you’ll find yourself drawn closer to the hearth, where shadows stretch and pulse with life.

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Ghost stories are whispered by the fireside—tales of spirits who walk the night, their presence felt in every flicker of flame, every breath of wind. The very walls seem to exhale, alive with the weight of forgotten souls, while outside, the great owl calls once more, his voice an eerie echo through the skeletal branches.

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A feast awaits you, abundant and rich, caught between the cozy warmth of the hearth and the unknown whispers just beyond the firelight.

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