by Ron Schwab
According to my mother, Ellen’s grief-stricken boyfriend had joined the army not long after, and died a hero’s death in North Africa. My mother said that Ellen was buried in the town cemetery, but for some years after the accident, people had claimed to see her wandering from time to time along the canyon’s edge. It was, of course, my mother said, just a sick attempt of some people to frighten others, perhaps a conscious effort to fabricate a ghostly legend. But those stories had long since been put to rest, my mother assured me.
In these enlightened times, of course, no one believes in ghosts. Certainly I do not . . . but I do believe in Ellen Peterson.
The House That Wasn't
A MOURNFUL, GHOSTLIKE wail came out of the blackness from the far north end of the canyon, sending icy shivers down my spine. The sun had fallen behind the chasm rim less than an hour before, but in the last ten minutes a gloomy, gray cloud cover had suddenly moved in and obscured the twinkling stars that had earlier illuminated the canyon floor.
I was bone-weary after hiking and photographing the natural wonders of the Vulture Hills area for the previous three days. It was late fall in the southern Rocky Mountain foothills, but the balmy Indian summer days had lured me into a false sense of security, and I had wandered too many miles from my jeep. When the wind howled again and its frigid blasts suddenly gouged my cheeks, I knew I was in trouble.
The canyon floor could be transformed into a death trap that night, and, in near panic, I gathered my gear and started my ascent up the narrow, winding trail that led to the rocky rim some two hundred feet above. By the time I reached the top, white webs of snow were filling the chinks and crevices in the rocky terrain. I had left my parka in the jeep and had only a lightweight jacket for protection from the onslaught of the approaching storm, and I chastised myself for the sheer stupidity that led me, in pursuit of my amateur photography, to such desperate circumstances.
I had wandered the area for several days without observing any sign of human habitation, but still from my viewpoint of the rim, I searched the surrounding slopes and knolls for some sign of human life, some haven from the life-threatening storm.
Suddenly, through the milky haze, I spotted the faint orange glow of tiny lights, evidently emanating from the windows of a dwelling nestled in a hillside not more than a mile away. I could hardly believe I had failed to come across the structure as I crisscrossed the area in pursuit of subjects to photograph. But I did not wait to contemplate the strangeness of it all and immediately headed for the lights.
It was nearly an hour later when I approached the white frame house. I had been whip-sawed to exhaustion by the unrelenting wind, and as the snow deepened on the trail, my legs had become heavier until I thought I could not lift my feet to take another step. Smoke curled skyward from the small one-story home that hugged the hillside so cozily, and the thought of the warmth that no doubt lay within spurred me onward until, shortly, I stepped onto the sturdy wooden porch. Frantically, I hammered against the door and when it finally gave way, I was aware of the numbness overtaking my limbs as I fell forward and lapsed into blackness.
When I regained consciousness, my first awareness was of the life-giving heat that came from the crackling fireplace nearby. I was stretched out on the soft, carpeted floor near the hearth, wrapped like a mummy in a heavy wool blanket. When I looked up, I met the eyes of a dark-eyed young woman, perhaps nineteen or twenty years old, a few years younger than myself. The smooth, olive skin that covered high cheekbones and the shiny black hair that cascaded to the middle of her back told me Indian blood flowed in her veins. She was an exotic beauty, serenely poised.
Smiling reassuringly, she said, “You will be all right soon. Would you like some coffee?”
I nodded my head affirmatively, unable to speak, so entranced was I by the lovely creature.
When she moved away to fetch the coffee, another voice broke the silence. “You and I share some good luck, friend.”
I sat up and turned my head to meet a ruddy-faced, sandy-haired young man about my age seated comfortably across the room in an overstuffed chair. “My name’s Tom Riley,” he said. “I was deer hunting a few miles south of here before the storm hit. If I hadn’t come upon this place, I think I’d be a goner right now; I’d say the same goes for you.”
“Jack Edwards,” I answered. “You’re right. I’m afraid I didn’t show good sense wandering out there like this.” I pointed to my camera resting on a coffee table nearby. “I’m a different kind of hunter . . . an amateur photographer.”
“Well,” Riley said, “my guess is we’re going to be here a few days, and you’ll probably get to do more hunting with your camera than I will with my rifle.”
“Who’s the girl?” I asked.
“She says her name’s Anita Joliet. Apparently her father’s dead and she lives here with her mother.” He pointed to a closed door off the living room. “Says her mother’s in that bedroom sick.”
Abruptly, the young woman returned with a steaming cup of black coffee. A few gulps of the hot, black liquid, and my recovery was nearly complete.
The remainder of the evening was spent with Anita and Riley near the fire. I found that Anita was a bright, articulate young woman, knowledgeable on a number of subjects and apparently well educated, although rather secretive. Once, in the course of our conversation I asked her, “Can we be of some help with your mother? Wouldn’t she be warmer out here by the fireplace?”
She smiled benignly and answered, “No. She prefers to be left to herself. She rarely leaves the room.”
I shrugged in acceptance of her statement, but I thought it strange that Anita had not left the room to check on her mother during the entire evening.
That night, Riley and I bedded down on the living room floor and Anita removed herself to what was apparently another bedroom at the other end of the house just off the small kitchen area. Again, I thought it odd that she did not inquire into her mother’s condition before she went to bed.
Riley and I stayed in the house for three days and they were among the most peaceful, carefree days of my life. Anita evidently had more than ample food supplies and she fed us like royalty. The three of us became fast friends, and after considerable coaxing and chiding, I convinced Anita to permit me to photograph her face. It had to be the most photogenic face I have ever seen—a photographer’s dream. I captured her every mood: jubilant, pensive, sad. By the evening of the third day, I was convinced I had fallen in love.
During the day the storm had subsided and the hills were peaceful again, shrouded with the clean, white blanket of new snow. Riley and I agreed that we would depart the next morning.
That night I told Anita “Riley and I will be leaving in the morning, but I will come back soon. May I bring some supplies?”
Her face turned sad, and her lips trembled slightly as she said, “You must not come back . . . ever.”
Riley was in the kitchen and I replied softly, “But I had the feeling that maybe you would enjoy seeing me again. I know I want to see you.”
“It cannot be,” she said. “Do not come back.”
“Does it have something to do with your mother?” I asked. “Let me see her . . . maybe I can help.”
Her face paled and traces of moisture came to her eyes. “No, please. You cannot.”
“All right,” I said, “but I will be back. That’s a promise.”
Later that night, I was awakened when I heard an agonizing moan from Riley’s position not more than ten feet away. I looked over and saw a tiny, stooped figure bent over Riley’s prone form and I sat upright. “What’s the matter?” I said, assuming it was Anita.
The form turned, and I saw it had no eyes, only empty sockets emitting glaring rays of light. It walked towards me, moving into the firelight, and I realized it was a wizened, old Indian woman, crouched like a wild animal moving in on its prey. Then my eyes fastened on the gleaming, red-stained butcher knife in her right hand, and I was seized momentarily by unc
ontrollable terror.
“Mother!” Anita’s voice called out from behind me. “No. He is only my friend. I will not leave you; I will never leave you.”
The old woman was oblivious to Anita’s cry and charged at me, waving the knife wildly, raking my shoulder with its keen edge as I ducked away. Before I could get to my feet, Anita had moved in on the old woman and was locked in a struggle for the knife. I lunged for the woman’s arm, but could not reach it before the blade plunged into Anita’s stomach. She stumbled backward into the fireplace, scattering red-hot embers onto the floor as she fell.
Instantly, the old woman dropped the knife and rushed to Anita, wailing some unintelligible, mournful chant. Suddenly, Anita and the old woman were engulfed in flames; I backed away seeing that they were beyond help. I hurried over to Riley. He was dead, his throat slit from ear to ear.
Snatching up Riley’s coat, my camera and other personal effects immediately at hand, I rushed out the door and moved away from the house as it was consumed by flames.
It took me the remainder of the night and part of the next morning to make my way back to the jeep. I drove to the county seat and reported my experience to a disbelieving sheriff. He was a kindly old gentleman, but he said, “Son, there aren’t any houses up there. There haven’t been any up in that country for years.”
“Please, Sheriff,” I said, “just come with me. I’ll show you. I’ve got some film, too, that will prove it to you later.”
Reluctantly, the sheriff drove me back to the hills. With his four-wheel drive truck we were able to get closer to the site of the house. The warmth of the afternoon sun made the remainder of the journey easier going, and in a matter of a few hours, we returned to the hillside I had left the night before.
But there was no fire, no smoldering embers, only a few scattered, snow-covered boards and the remnants of a crumbling brick foundation.
“This is the old Joliet homestead,” the sheriff said. “The place burned down twenty-five years ago.”
“But the house was here last night,” I protested. “I met a young woman here. Anita Joliet . . . that was her name.”
“There was an Anita Joliet,” the sheriff answered. “She lived here with her mother years ago. Her father was a Frenchman who married a Sioux woman. After the old man died, the daughter came home from college to stay with her mother. They say the old mother was crazy with fear that her daughter would leave. The daughter had a boyfriend who wanted to marry her, and the story is he came to the house one night for a confrontation with the old woman. Nobody knows exactly what happened, but the house burned down with the three of them in it. But Anita Joliet wasn’t here last night. You can bet your boots on that, son.”
“I’ll have some film that says otherwise. I can’t explain what happened to the house, but I’ve got some proof the girl was here.”
The old sheriff shook his head and we started to walk away from the house when I saw an object amidst the snow and rubble some distance away from the old foundation.
“Sheriff . . . over there,” I said. He followed me to the frozen heap. “This is Tom Riley, the man I was talking about . . . the one who was with me in the house.” We looked down at the grotesque frozen corpse of Tom Riley.
That evening, under the watchful eyes of the sheriff, I developed my film, fully expecting to provide evidence that would support my version of Tom Riley’s demise. My effort was futile. The film was blank. Then I remembered: they say you cannot photograph a ghost.
The Interrupted Sleep
IT WAS NEARLY ten years ago when a group of Scouts camping near Brawner Creek had an experience they will never forget. As darkness settled on the clearing, it seems that three or four of the boys sneaked away from camp with the idea that they were going to circle around the campsite and move up into the hills behind the camp. There they intended to let forth with some howling and other eerie noises for the devious purpose of frightening some of the greenhorn campers.
As they made their way up the steep hillside, one of the boys caught sight of a cave-like opening in an outcropping of sandstone not far off the trail. There are few boys who are not excited about the prospects of checking out a cave, and, in a few moments, the Scouts scrambled up a ledge that formed the porch-like entrance into the opening.
Shining their flashlights into the cave, they could see that it was not more than twelve or fifteen feet in depth and high enough that they could enter by stooping only slightly. As they peered in nervously, one of the flashlight beams came to rest on a rotting crate-like box at the far end of the cavern. Several of the boys were ready to leave at the sight of the box, but their more venturesome leader goaded them into remaining to investigate their discovery.
When they stepped cautiously into the cave they were greeted by a hideous flapping and screeching, and they fell to the floor as they were engulfed by swarms of furry bats frantically escaping through the cave’s entrance. When it was quiet again, they rose, unharmed but scared half to death. Their leader, undaunted, moved toward the wooden box with his terrified companions crowding in close behind. Only when they were near enough to touch it did they realize they had come upon an old, decaying coffin.
They debated the merits of strategic retreat, until the sound of some the bats returning startled one boy so much that he stumbled and fell backward over the coffin. When he crashed against the old pine box, it splintered and crumbled like dry clay before their eyes, exposing the white corpse of the man who had been encased within. Dressed in black with sharp, angular features and dark, slicked-back hair, the corpse fit every boy’s vision of the classic vampire. In any event, they did not wait to become better acquainted with the occupant of the cave. This time, their fearless leader led the boys out of the cave, down the hillside, and toward the sanctuary of their camp and the welcome light of its fires.
Upon reaching the camp, they breathlessly related their experience to the Scoutmaster who, unsuccessfully, tried to convince the boys they were victims of their own imaginations. In the morning, he said, they would all go to the cave and he would put their fears to rest.
The Scouts slept restlessly that night and there were plenty of volunteers to keep the fire going. Several times high-pitched, awful screaming echoed through the hills, and even the outdoor-wise Scoutmaster was unable to identify the sound.
Shortly after sunrise, the boys led the Scoutmaster back to the cave. On the slope below the entrance, one of the Scouts spotted a young doe stretched out on the grass. Gathering around the animal, they could see she had been dead only a short time, for rigor mortis had not yet set in. There were no signs of violence on the poor creature, with the exception of two puncture-like marks on her jugular vein, and a small smearing of blood around the tiny holes. The Scoutmaster’s face turned pale and he said nothing, but the boys could sense that he was shaken and less confident now.
When they finally reached the cave’s entrance, they found the cavern empty. The remnants of the coffin were evident on the floor at the rear of the cave, but the body was gone. They agreed no further examination was necessary.
After they returned to camp, the Scoutmaster admonished the boys not to speculate on the cause of the doe’s death. He pointed out that a rattlesnake or a mountain lion, or any number of wild creatures, could have made the marks on the animal’s neck, and he chided the boys for permitting their imaginations to run away with them. Nonetheless, the Scoutmaster did not bring his troop back to camp at any of the sites along this stream again.
Ever since that night, there have been recurring stories of mysterious animal deaths in this area. Most cases have been reported by farmers who have lost a calf or a lamb to some type of wild animal or creature that drains its victim of its blood and leaves the remainder of the carcass untouched. Investigations by the sheriff’s department and health authorities have never uncovered an explanation of the deaths. So far, there have been no reports of any attacks on humans.
Whether the incidents have anything to do w
ith what the boys claimed they saw in the cave that night, no one can say.
Girl Possessed
CINDY RANDEAU’S HYSTERICAL screaming brought the camp to life. Some of the other girls shrieked and others squirmed deeper into the security of their sleeping bags. Julie Wilson, the girls’ attractive, young Scout leader, scurried to Cindy’s side.
“Cindy! What is it?” she asked.
Cindy, a rather fragile-looking girl of thirteen was sitting upright on top of her sleeping bag, staring with wide, glazed eyes into the blackness of the surrounding woods, apparently oblivious to Julie’s inquiry. Beads of sweat dotted her cheeks and forehead although the mid-August night was unusually cool. The girl had all of the classic symptoms of shock, Julie noted, instinctively placing her hand on the petite girl’s clammy forehead.
“Cindy, are you sick?” Julie asked. “Don’t you feel well?”
Cindy, her lips trembling, but uttering no sound, continued to stare silently as though some scene invisible to everyone else was unfolding on the fringes of the camp. Most of the other girls were gathered around Cindy and Julie now, gaping with fear and puzzlement at their friend.
Suddenly, Cindy began to speak—or at least a voice came from her lips . . . a voice unrecognizable to Julie and the girls. “I have to get help for Cathy,” the voice said. “She’s bleeding terribly . . . and Ralph, he’s unconscious, and hurt badly, too. We have to get to them . . . now!”
It was the voice of a mature woman with a rather low, almost mellow tone, in sharp contrast to Cindy’s normally high-pitched voice. The words were precisely articulated, again absent of Cindy’s youthful mumbling and contractions.
