Ghosts Around the Campfire

by Ron Schwab

  Shortly, the other hunters heard the gun fire followed by the blood-curdling screaming of their companion and the roar and growling of some beast . . . then deathly silence. The remaining hunters, weapons in hands, ventured into the trees in a half-hearted attempt to find their friend. They found nothing and decided to wait until morning to search further.

  At sunrise, they again scoured the surrounding area and found no sign of the lost hunter. One of the men did discover an area of matted grass and broken brush where there had obviously been a struggle. Thick, dry blood caked the grass, but there were no possessions of the hunter to evidence he had been there.

  After the incident was reported to the authorities, other searchers combed the area without success, and ultimately the search was abandoned.

  A year later, other hunters camping near the same spot gathered around their campfire’s warm glow just before bedtime. Suddenly out of the blackness of the night came the cries of a mountain lion intermingled with a strange growling-grunting noise. The sound came closer and closer to the camp and the campers could hear the limbs and brush crackling as some creature approached. They huddled near the fire with rifles at the ready, throwing their flashlight beams to the edge of the trees. Several tossed added wood on the fire to heighten the blaze.

  Abruptly, a huge creature, more than seven feet tall, burst into the clearing. It had the body of a mountain lion yet facial expressions common to the human species. It walked upright on its hind legs like a man, had long, sharp claws, and was covered with fur like a lion. The creature cocked its head to one side, moving its eyes from one man to the other as if trying to identify someone, before it let loose a grunting-coughing sound from deep in its throat, and one of the hunters reported seeing large tears rolling down the beast’s cheeks. Its eyes seeming to reflect disappointment, the creature did an about-face and stomped stiffly and awkwardly back into the woods.

  The men had been too shocked and astounded to shoot or make any other attack upon the invader, and they were not in the mood to pursue it that night. In the morning they found huge tracks which were later confirmed as the hind feet of some member of the cat family, although no track that large had ever been reported in the zoological community. Efforts to trail the animal were futile.

  Since that time, others have reported giant tracks of a cat-like animal in the area, and many have heard the screeching and growling of mountain lions in the surrounding hills, but there have been no other sightings of the creature . . . to this time.

  The Strawberry Patch

  THIS STORY HAS its origins in Jefferson County, Nebraska. The tale is not entirely the writer’s original creation, and several versions have circulated in the county for some years. Charles Dawson, in his book Pioneer Tales of the Oregon Trail, related one variation of the story. Although the story I heard at campfires over the years deviates somewhat from Mr. Dawson’s account, I have referred to his book in reconstruction of the tale.

  In the early 1870s, Jacob Schoenweiss and his wife, Rebecca, immigrated from Germany and traveled by covered wagon to Jefferson County, Nebraska, where they homesteaded a farm northwest of the town of Fairbury. The farm was bounded on the west by the Little Blue River, and on the east by the black, rich bottomland that gave way to rugged sandstone hills streaked with patches of lush native grass. A clear, spring-fed stream meandered through the small canyon near the east boundary.

  The Schoenweiss family arrived in early fall and with the help of neighbors, completed a small two-room sod house just in time to defend against the icy blasts of an unusually vicious Nebraska winter.

  With the arrival of spring, Jacob began breaking ground and planting crops. The family found that food sources were plentiful in the countryside. Besides ample wild game, there were gooseberries, raspberries, and other edible plants. Late in the spring, Mr. Schoenweiss was especially pleased to find that the area along the stream was covered with patches of luscious strawberries.

  One bright June morning when there was a lull in the field work, Jacob and Rebecca set out hand in hand to gather a pail of wild strawberries. Strolling along the stream, they found themselves in the middle of a huge patch of giant strawberries which they began to harvest quickly. Rebecca spotted an area next to an outcropping of sandstone and shaded by scattered clumps of underbrush. She scurried to the spot and discovered the largest, thickest strawberry plants she had ever seen, all covered with enormous blood-red strawberries. She summoned her husband, and excitedly they jumped to the task of picking berries, eating some of the better ones as they harvested.

  When they had nearly filled their bucket, Jacob’s foot caught on a tree root, and he tumbled to the ground, falling flat on his chest. Raising himself on his hands, he found himself face to face with a human skull. Leaping to his feet, he called to his wife who, upon seeing the eyeless, naked skull grinning at her from its moss-covered abode, nearly fainted. Searching further, they discovered that underneath the strawberry foliage and half-buried in the earth were the bones and skulls of many other persons for whom the strawberry patch had evidently been the last resting place.

  Finally, Jacob and Rebecca concluded their search, pausing for a moment in silence and Jacob picked up the bucket and poured the berries onto the ground. They both knew what had caused the berries to grow so big and red.

  Soberly gathering the skulls and bones, they assembled the remains of what they judged would have been twelve skeletons of men, women, and children. They dug a shallow, common grave, deposited the remains, and rolled a large sandstone boulder on top to mark the site. Tired and weary, they trudged home with some sense of satisfaction that they had done their duty by giving the unfortunate beings a decent burial.

  After supper the Schoenweiss family assembled on the small front porch of the house, the parents welcoming the quiet and peace that came after the eventful day. But shortly after the sun had dropped below the horizon, there came a high-pitched shriek or cry, like that of a woman or child in the depth of anguish or despair. The sound was repeated again and again coming from different locations, sometimes from the ash trees surrounding the home and other times from the hills beyond. The frightened children began to whimper and cry. Jacob entered the house, grabbed his rifle, and conducted a thorough search of the premises following the voices from point to point. Finally, he heard the fearful cries coming from near the home. He returned to find his family had retreated to the house and barred the door.

  The cries of the unearthly visitor were repeated throughout the night, and the Schoenweiss family found no peace until dawn’s first light. Night after night, the cries returned, but gradually the family grew accustomed to the disturbance. Neighbors who visited the home also heard the cries from time to time and joined the futile search for their source. Residents of the neighborhood came to refer to the nightly sounds as the “lost woman ghost.”

  Summer passed and Jacob enjoyed a bountiful autumn harvest, and the family would have been extremely happy and content if it had not been for the unsettling cries of the nightly visitor. At his wife’s suggestion, Jacob consented to join his wife’s brother for the winter at his home further south on the Little Blue River. During the long, bitter winter, they returned only occasionally to see if everything was all right, but never stayed overnight.

  When the first signs of spring arrived, the Schoenweiss family moved back to the home. The first night of their return was celebrated by the usual performance of the unseen voice. Although the cries were annoying, since no harm ever resulted, they finally decided to accept the situation as best they could.

  Strawberry time came again and this time, the entire family started out to search the hillsides and ravines for the crimson berries. Their wanderings brought them back to the burial place of the unknown dead. After spending a quiet moment at the burial place, they traipsed downstream. Later they stopped to rest, and the children splashed across the stream and commenced climbing a steep, sandstone cliff on the other side. Watching the children scale t
he cliff, Jacob noticed that the top was capped with a thick, overhanging ledge of brown sandstone. Dark recesses in the sandstone cliff above several protruding shelves suggested ideal havens for wild animals. Scanning the coarse walls, his eyes came to rest on a ghastly sight—the skeleton of a human being sitting in a shallow cave just off one ledge.

  He darted across the stream and followed his children up the side of the cliff. Upon reaching the ledge, they found that the skeleton was obviously that of a woman huddled in a crouched, squatting position with her back against the wall of the little grotto. Jacob speculated that she had taken refuge there only to be found and killed by hostile Indians.

  Tenderly, the family gathered up the bones and carried them back to the burial place where they interred them with the others. The remainder of the day was spent in search for any others that might be lying unburied on the hillsides, but all they found were a few heaps of fire-warped wagon irons and charred wood near bones of horses and oxen. Several arrowheads were collected from the piles of bones.

  Near dusk, the family returned home anticipating again the cries of the unseen voice. That night, however, the voice did not come, and it was never heard again by the family or anyone else in the neighborhood.

  The Lost Ring

  I WAS SIXTEEN years old at the time, shy and perhaps a bit naive in comparison to some boys my age. I tended to be somewhat of a loner in those years, and I guess I have not changed all that much. I was always too much of a dreamer, given to sober introspection and fantasy, never entirely in touch with reality. As for girls, well, I liked them more than a little, especially those fair, Nordic damsels who came from the Scandinavian-settled sections of our county. I had been smitten more than once by a quick smile and a pair of sparkling, blue eyes, but I had never known a girl well enough to be truly in love—not till that brisk, September night on the rim of Swenson’s Canyon.

  I had obtained my driver’s license not long before, and it had become my custom to drive out to the canyon about dusk two or three times a week. Usually, I would park my car on the grassy meadows that covered the plateau above the canyon, then climb up the rocky slope to a cluster of mushroom-like rock formations at the highest point of the sheer canyon walls. There I would soak in the solitude and quiet, lost in the dream world I entered whenever I came to this place.

  This particular September evening, though, was cooler than normal, and a healthy breeze nipped at my ears. The rustling of the fragile leaves of the cottonwoods that covered the canyon floor reminded me that soon autumn breezes would yank away their lives and send them floating to the earth to become part of the decaying humus, another turn in nature’s cycle.

  An unexplainable melancholy took hold of me as I gazed into the chasm’s depths. Tears moistened my eyes, and I felt an overwhelming need to cry, though I had not done so in years. Suddenly, I was startled by a soft, velvety voice from the darkness behind me.

  “Hello. May I join you?”

  I jumped up and turned, surprised to see a lithe, golden-haired girl, no older than myself, emerging from the blackness. She approached slowly but without the least hesitation, like a young woman on a leisurely evening stroll. I looked about nervously for some escort or companion, but she was apparently alone. As she came closer, I noticed the milky, unblemished whiteness of her face, but I was drawn, almost hypnotically, to the cobalt blueness of her limpid eyes. All of my words choked in my throat and I remained speechless.

  Then, displaying a disarming smile, she said again, “May I join you?”

  Finally, I stammered, “Sure. It would be nice to have some company.”

  We sat on the canyon rim for some moments, neither of us speaking. Her eyes seemed focused on some distant nothingness across the chasm. I could not pull my eyes from the wheat-colored hair that whipped about her neck and shoulders as gusts of wind swept over the rim. I felt so at ease with her—like I had known her forever.

  “My name’s Dan Barrett,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you at school. Did you just move here?”

  She turned toward me, offering that open, enchanting smile again. “I’m just visiting,” she said. Her eyes clouded and the smile faded momentarily, before it returned. “Yes, I’m just visiting. My name’s Ellen Peterson.”

  “Have you been here before?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, “many times. I come here every time I get back.”

  “I come here all the time,” I said. “It’s just so peaceful and quiet. It helps me to think.” I pulled my nylon jacket up around my neck to ward of the chill and then was aware, for the first time, that she was wearing only a light, sleeveless blouse with her flowered peasant skirt. “You must be cold,” I said. I started to unbutton my jacket. “Here, put this over your shoulders.”

  “No,” she protested, “I’m not cold. Really, I’m not. I don’t like to wear anything over my shoulders . . . but I do like gentlemen and it was nice of you to offer.” She smiled again and won my heart.

  We must have talked for the better part of two hours, engaging in abstract, philosophic conversation. I savored those rare moments of contact with another dreamer.

  Finally, she announced, “I have to be leaving now. It’s been a wonderful evening.”

  “That goes for me too,” I said. “Will you be staying here long? Will I get to see you again?”

  She answered, “I’ll be here again tomorrow night. I have to look for my ring.”

  “Your ring? I would have helped you look if you would have said something. Did you lose it here?”

  “Yes, I lost it somewhere around this very spot.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow night,” I said. “I’ll help you look for it.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she squealed. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” She bent over and brushed my cheek with her soft, moist lips, just briefly and innocently, but from that moment, I was hopelessly and eternally in love with the fair-skinned nymph.

  As we rose to leave, I said, “Where’s your car?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Well then, let me take you home or wherever you’re staying.” It occurred to me then that in two hours I had learned nothing about the girl, her family, or her background.

  “I’m just going down the road a ways,” she said. “I love to walk. Please don’t worry; I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “Okay,” I said reluctantly, “but I wish you’d let me take you home.” She scampered away and disappeared into the darkness before I could object further.

  I saw Ellen again the next night, and for some time, we searched in vain for the lost ring. Again, we talked openly and without restraint, but she always deftly skirted my inquiries about her home and family. Our parting was much the same and we agreed to meet there again the next night. I promised to bring a brighter lantern, hoping that might help. Tears welled up in her round eyes when she talked about the ring, and I could see it meant a great deal to her. That was enough for me. I would do anything I could to help her find it.

  That third night, I was afraid she would not come again. She was late and there was a light cloud cover, so it was pitch black when she suddenly appeared on the canyon rim.

  “Hi, Dan,” she said, bouncing over to me and throwing her arms around my waist as naturally and spontaneously as if she had known me for years. Her head was tilted up so that her laughing eyes met mine, and, impulsively, I kissed her lightly on the lips—the first time I had ever kissed any girl. She pressed her fingers gently to my cheek. “That was nice, Dan,” she said. “I’ll always remember that; I hope you will, too.”

  There was an ominous finality about her remark and I was seized with a moment of panic. Turning quickly to the task at hand, she said, “I can’t stay as long tonight. Can we look for the ring now?”

  Obediently, I turned on my lantern and commenced what I was certain was going to be another fruitless search. As I walked along the rim, I moved perilously close to the edge of the sheer cliff. Another step or tw
o and I could drop someone hundred feet to the canyon floor. Then I noticed a little dirt-filled crevice, narrow and wedge shaped, widening and opening as it worked its way out of the edge. I bent down and began to clean out the matter that filled the narrow end of the wedge, and, shortly, my fingers tightened around a thin, metal band. After removing it, I rubbed the ring clean against my trousers and then I turned my lantern beam on it. Yes, tarnished as it was, I could make out the letters “E. P.,” one letter engraved on each side of the smeared ruby. But the class year: 1944 . . . that would have been fifty years earlier.

  Perplexed, I called to Ellen, who was searching down the slope with another flashlight I had brought. “Ellen, I think I found it. But I thought you said it was your ring.”

  She hurried up the incline, falling to her knees several times in her eagerness to reach me. Without a word, she grabbed the ring from my hand, clutching it possessively, and moved it closer to her eyes, studying it seriously before she lifted her head again and her eyes met mine. Big tears rolled down her cheeks, and I was overwhelmed by the happiness I saw in her face.

  I moved toward her to take her in my arms, but as I reached out, she turned quickly and rushed away along the canyon rim, escaping into the darkness. Somehow, I knew from that moment, I would never see her again in this life. Part of the mystery of Ellen Peterson was answered for me not long after that last night together.

  One evening, as I was especially overcome with a sense of loss and despair, I approached my mother in the living room of our home and asked if she had ever heard of an Ellen Peterson.

  “Yes,” she said, “Ellen Peterson was a young farm girl who met a tragic death not long before my parents were married in the early 1940s—Mom knew her, I think. According to my mother, Ellen and her boyfriend had quarreled one night at Swenson’s Canyon. In the course of the argument, Ellen returned her boyfriend’s class ring and he, in turn, had thrown hers angrily on the ground. When she rushed to pick it up, she slipped and plummeted over the cliff’s edge to the rocks below.”