by Ron Schwab
The next morning, the storm subsided and Mrs. Robinson slowly regained consciousness. All she could remember was that she was looking for her lost son, and again she began to wander aimlessly through the hills calling, “Robert! Robert!”
For more than a week, the Robinson family looked for their wife and mother. Finally, they despaired of ever finding her, and, assuming she was dead, packed their belongings and departed to continue their journey west.
Several hours after the departure of her family, Mrs. Robinson staggered and crawled into the clearing where the family had camped. She gazed about blankly at the empty campsite, only half-conscious that this was the place that had been inhabited by her family those past days. Tears rolled slowly down her cheeks as she slipped quietly and resignedly to the ground, her back resting against a large cottonwood tree. She stared ahead with glassy eyes calling again and again, “Robert! Robert!” She never left that spot again.
Summer surrendered to fall and soon the cold snows of winter covered the remains of Mrs. Robinson. The following spring, another group of weary travelers paused at the Robinson site for the night. Discovering some shreds of clothing and the skeletal remains of some poor soul near the cottonwood tree, they dug a shallow grave and buried what was left of Mrs. Robinson where they had found her. As the last shovel of dirt was thrown upon the grave, the leaves of the cottonwood rustled softly, and it seemed that light gusts of wind were striking at the tree, but ignoring every other object in the camp. Then, seemingly from the wind, the travelers heard a voice, “Robert! Robert!” The emigrants decided not to stay the night.
As the years passed, there were other stories about the strange sounds and happenings at the campsite. Always, a voice was heard calling, “Robert! Robert!”
Some twenty years later, Robert Robinson, on his way east, returned to the place where he had last seen his beloved mother. He spent two days at the campsite, walking through the surrounding hills and reflecting upon the happy times when his family had all been together.
Near dusk on the second day, he was fishing in a stream about a mile southwest of the camp. Suddenly, he felt a strange tugging at his shoulder as though someone was trying to attract his attention. A light breeze whisked through the surrounding trees, and he heard a woman’s gentle voice whispering, “Robert! Robert!” As though pulled into a trance, he followed the voice, which eventually led him to the cottonwood tree. For some unexplainable reason, he began to dig at the base of the tree with his hands. He dug almost frantically until he grasped a piece of decomposed bone. His hand sifted through the intermingled dirt and bones until he felt the cold touch of metal on his fingertips. He picked up the object and, cleaning off the dirt, instantly recognized his mother’s gold wedding band. At that moment the wind shook the leaves of the cottonwood and he heard the voice whispering, “Robert! Robert!” Then all was quiet. He returned the band to its bed in the earth and covered the remains of his mother and knew a peace he had not known for years.
The next morning, Robert mounted his horse and continued his journey east. It is not known what became of Robert or his family, but to this day, it is said if you listen on a quiet summer evening in those hills, you will hear, through the rustling of leaves, the soft whisper of the grieving mother, “Robert! Robert!”
Mary Lee
ABOUT FIVE MILES south of the small town of Fairbury, Nebraska is an old, deserted stone farmhouse. It looks like a thousand of other empty farm homes scattered about rural America. Weeds and thistles have taken over the yard, any remaining windows are either cracked or broken, and the roof over the small front porch threatens to collapse with each new windstorm.
A century ago, the old house was the happy, bustling home of the Hans Schmidt family. Schmidt, a hard working German farmer, and his wife, Margaret, had lived in the home for some twenty years. All four of their children had been born in the home, and Schmidt and his wife fully intended to spend the rest of their lives there.
Schmidt’s eldest daughter was seventeen-year-old Mary Lee, a tall, slender girl with long, flowing golden hair. The cheerful, carefree Mary Lee was the envy of all the neighborhood girls, and her warm smile and mischievous blue eyes had melted the heart of many a young man in the farm community. Her formal schooling complete, Mary Lee helped her mother with the many household tasks on the busy farm and with the care of her three younger brothers. It was assumed that she would soon choose one of the many eligible young German farmers in the community, marry, and commence her own household. But this was not to be.
In August, as she approached her eighteenth birthday, Mary Lee went to the county fair with several of her friends. As they wandered through the exhibits, Mary Lee noticed a tall, black-haired, obviously bored, young man taking notes on a small pad. In her open, friendly way, she walked over to the young man and queried, “What’s so exciting?” Showing mild irritation at the interruption, James Longstreet turned, and his dark, brooding eyes met the laughing eyes of Mary Lee. From that moment the two were inseparable.
James was a young reporter who had been assigned the rather trivial task of reporting the progress of the county fair. A quiet, sensitive man, James was of dubious heritage, although his eyes reflected the part-Cherokee blood of his mother. He was a dreamer in a community that did not understand dreamers.
As the friendship blossomed into love, Hans Schmidt nagged and chastised his young daughter for her involvement with the young reporter. Although a basically kind man, Hans Schmidt was also a strict and stubborn one who had other hopes and plans for his daughter.
Finally, early one evening, Mary Lee announced to her parents she intended to marry James in spite of her father’s protests. That night when James arrived to visit Mary Lee, he was confronted at the door by Mr. Schmidt and his shotgun. Schmidt ordered James to leave. An angry verbal exchange followed between the two men, and, in the excitement, the shotgun accidentally discharged, striking James in the chest and killing him instantly.
Hearing the explosion, Mary Lee dashed to the door to find her lover lying dead on the porch. She screamed, then abruptly stopped and moved slowly and silently to the body. Calmly, she sat down on the porch and cradled the young man’s head in her lap. Grimly, she gazed at the pale white face below, and, in that same moment, her own face was transformed into a picture of deep gloom and sadness. Her father moved toward her, trying to explain that the gun had been fired accidentally, but Mary Lee did not seem to hear. Finally, she rose and, without a word, entered the house and climbed the stairs to her second-story bedroom. Her mother followed her to the room to try to console her, but the door was locked and Mary Lee refused to answer.
Later, in response to the family’s call, the county sheriff and other authorities arrived at the home to investigate the accident. The sheriff insisted upon speaking with Mary Lee, but when Schmidt and the sheriff knocked on her bedroom door, she again refused to answer.
Suddenly, a shiver ran down Schmidt’s spine and he was struck with an unexplainable panic. With all the strength he could muster, he rammed the door open and crashed into the room. He was met by the limp form of Mary Lee suspended from a beam, a strip of a bed sheet knotted about her neck and her feet only inches from the chair that had apparently been kicked over when she took her life.
Several weeks after the tragedy, without explanation to neighbors or friends, the Schmidt family vacated the home and community and was never heard from again.
Within the space of one year, three other families occupied the house. All three occupants had a common story. They claimed that the house was haunted and at night they could hear the soft laughter of a young woman moving about the premises.
The small daughter of the last family to live in the residence related that she rose from her bed and went to the kitchen for a drink of water one night. Leaving the kitchen she came upon the glowing, almost transparent, figures of a young man and woman standing hand in hand in the living room. The apparitions approached her and the young woman
bent as if to kiss the child, but the little girl felt nothing but a light breeze passing across her face. Then the forms began to dissipate slowly until the glow was concentrated into two small balls of light which proceeded to float out the open window and into the surrounding trees. The little girl maintained she was not frightened when this took place; that, in fact, the rooms seemed filled with an atmosphere of love and peace. Upon being told of the night’s happenings, the child’s parents expressed disbelief at the story, but nevertheless made arrangements to move out of the house immediately.
Stories spread about the house being haunted, and although most people scoffed at the notion of any ghostly occupants, no one was willing to live there. Over the years, there have been other reports of persons claiming to have seen a spirit couple floating hand in hand over the hills surrounding the house. Many have reported seeing two balls of light glittering from inside the windows of the house, but these could be excused as being the eyes of an owl or other wild creature.
It is even said that if you listen closely on a quiet summer evening in the vicinity, you can hear the soft, contagious laughter of Mary Lee, as she and her beloved James take their nightly stroll through the hills. If you see two glowing objects in the black of night, remember, it may be just an owl; on the other hand, it may not be.
A Child's Love
A TRAGIC ACCIDENT occurred on Crystal Lake several years ago. Nancy and Bill Swanson and their seven-year-old daughter, Sue Ann, were enjoying a Sunday afternoon of boating and fishing on the lake. The Swansons were a happy couple, very much in love, and adored their dark pony-tailed Sue Ann who was always ready and enthusiastic for a family outing on the boat.
Nancy was a devoted wife and mother whose entire world revolved around her architect husband and petite, vibrant daughter. As the boat bobbed gently on the water, she remarked to no one in particular, “I don’t know what I would do without those two.”
Sue Ann, overhearing her mother’s words, clambered to her mother’s side, wrapped her arms around Nancy, and with a warm hug said, “Don’t worry mommy, I’ll never let you be alone.”
Later that afternoon, without warning, a tornado-like storm suddenly swept through the lake area. In his frantic attempt to get the boat lakeside, Bill flooded the motor and the Swansons found themselves stranded in the middle of the lake; the storm’s roar muffled their cries for help.
In a few short minutes, the wind struck like a sledge. The boat was tossed into the air and the family cast like rag dolls into the lake. Nancy, although an excellent swimmer, could barely keep her head above the water as she was bounced in the churning waves. She could see no trace of her husband, but some thirty feet away she could see Sue Ann grasping some remnants of the boat. Summoning all of her strength, she stroked slowly and painfully toward her young daughter. She inched to within a few feet of Sue Ann, and just as the girl reached out her hand to grab her mother’s, the wind hit again with tremendous force, and the waves carried Nancy further away from the wreckage. When she looked again, her daughter was gone.
The next day, the bodies of her husband and child were recovered. Bill and Sue Ann were buried side by side on a hill not far from a large elm tree in the local cemetery. For weeks after the burial, the grief-stricken Nancy made a daily pilgrimage to their graves. Sometimes she would sit by the elm for hours, gaze pensively into the sky, and think of happier days. Her life was without meaning.
One night, perhaps six months after the tragic accident, a young college professor was strolling along the lake shore not far from this very place. The sun was just setting and the full blackness of night had not yet descended. Daniel Baker was a handsome, blonde man who had also known sorrow. Although not yet thirty, he had been widowed as the result of an automobile accident that claimed the life of his wife, leaving him the sole parent of two small children, Jeffrey, five, and Elizabeth, three. The lonely English teacher often walked along the lake at night to be alone with his memories.
Pausing briefly this particular evening to look out onto the placid lake, he was jolted from his meditation by the cries of what sounded like a little girl coming from the middle of the lake. The lake was eerily calm, however, and there was not a boat in sight. Shortly, the cries became softer and gradually faded away. “It must have been a bird,” he mumbled softly.
Then his head jerked as if an electric wire had been touched to the back of his neck. The shock was followed by a vision in his mind of a beautiful, raven-haired young woman. The woman was sitting peacefully under a tall tree, her eyes filled with pain and loneliness. Just as suddenly as the image had appeared, it disappeared. Daniel continued on his walk, uneasy and discomfited, haunted by the woman’s image and the cries he had heard.
He returned home, relieved his babysitter, and tucked his children safely into bed. He slept little himself that night, unable to erase the image of the woman from his mind. A logical, practical man, Daniel rejected any notion of spirits or unearthly forces at work and convinced himself that his imagination had been overactive that evening.
For a full week he resisted the compulsion to take another walk along the lake. Finally, however, he surrendered to his impulses and went again to the place where he had experienced the strange occurrences a week earlier.
This time, the sky was overcast and the night unusually dark. He walked along the lakeshore, and he could hear the splashing of the waves against the rocks as the gentle breeze stirred the waters. He stopped abruptly when he again heard the cries from the lake. Suddenly, the cries stopped and beside him a voice whispered, “Please don’t let my mommy be lonely anymore.” He turned and saw nothing; again he felt a jolt in his neck and the vision of the black-haired woman came alive in his mind.
He struggled futilely to sleep that night, the ghostly experiences torturing him as he sought an explanation.
Late the following afternoon, leaving the University, Daniel did not drive directly home as was his custom. For some reason, which he could not explain, he drove in the opposite direction from his home with no particular destination in mind. For nearly an hour he drove aimlessly, without purpose, until he came to a small cemetery. On impulse, he turned onto the narrow, gravel road that wound through the cemetery.
Driving slowly up the sloping road, he found himself drawn to the far end near a large elm tree on top of a hill. When he reached the tree, he stopped, got out, and his eyes were drawn to two fairly recent grave sites as evidenced by mounds of dirt not yet fully covered with grass. Curious, he walked over to the graves, paused, and read the names on the small stones: William Swanson; Sue Ann Swanson. The names meant nothing to him, but he was disturbed by the fact that one of the graves was that of a small child. Finding himself strangely reluctant to leave the place, he finally pulled himself away, and in a state of melancholy and depression, drove home.
The following evening, Daniel was again drawn to the lake, but this time as he approached the place of his earlier experience, he saw a woman sitting on the soft grass near the lake shore. Drawing closer, he was shocked to recognize the woman whose image had so abruptly visited his mind on the earlier occasions. He stopped and almost turned to leave, but felt as if someone was tugging at his hand and leading him toward the woman.
When he was close enough to touch her, he said haltingly, “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to intrude,” and backed away.
Startled, Nancy rose to face Daniel and responded with hesitation, “Please stay.” Together they sat down.
For some moments they sat there in silence. Daniel spoke first and introduced himself. Nancy responded, “I’m Nancy Swanson.” Upon hearing the name, Daniel thought of the two graves. Soon they were talking quietly and easily as if they were long-time acquaintances, sharing the tragedies and joys of their respective lives.
The following evening they met again and talked for hours, but Daniel said nothing about the strange events that seemed to conspire to bring them together. They were alone no more.
The Big Cat
> THIS STORY HAS its roots in a Native American legend. According to the legend, a portion of southeastern Nebraska lying north of the Kansas line was taboo to several tribes of Native Americans. The land was said to be sacred and those who entered rarely returned to tell about it. The Native Americans claimed that the Great Spirit had designated the mountain lion as guardian of the sacred land, and that those who ventured there would meet their death at the claws of the lion. Furthermore, the spirit of those who died in this manner took on the form of the lion, and the violators of the sacred land, instead of entering the happy hunting ground, were destined to walk the earth as huge lion-like beasts.
Whether the legend has any validity or not is unknown. We do know that there were confirmed stories among the Pawnee of warriors who had traveled into the sacred land and escaped. Apparently in all instances, however, they were seriously injured and maimed by giant mountain lions. One reported being attacked by a huge lion that walked upright on its hind feet like a man.
In any event, this is one of the few areas of Nebraska where mountain lions are rarely heard and seen. Hearing one of the creatures is unforgettable. Sometimes the cries or screeching of a mountain lion at night will be mistaken for a woman screaming.
One night, a group of hunters were camped at a wooded site near the Little Blue River. Just before midnight, they were awakened by a screeching or screaming noise in the woods, and, at first, thought it was a human voice crying for help. One of the hunters, however, recognized the ungodly racket as the cry of a mountain lion, and grabbing his rifle, dashed into the woods for a shot at the animal.
