Ghosts Around the Campfire

by Ron Schwab

  Julie grasped Cindy’s shoulders and shook her roughly. “Cindy, wake up! You’re having a nightmare. Wake up! Do you hear me?”

  “I am going to help Cathy,” Cindy said determinedly in the strange voice. She rose slowly and started walking toward the woods.

  Julie grabbed her wrists and pulled her back momentarily. Cindy resisted with the force of a much stronger person. Julie, realizing she could not stop the girl, said, “Wait, Cindy, let me get your coat. I’ll go with you.”

  Cindy paused and turned to Julie, her eyes acknowledging the latter’s presence for the first time. “My name is Ruth,” she said. “Ruth Weston. Yes, please come with me. I need your help.” Tears streamed down the girl’s cheeks.

  Julie whirled to the other girls who were terrified and awe-stricken now, speechless, every one of them, for the first time Julie could recall. “Susan, get Cindy’s jacket will you? And mine, too. It’s rolled up on my sleeping bag.” The wide-eyed girl nodded her head uncertainly and dashed away.

  Singling out one of the older girls, Julie said, “Anne, I’m going with Cindy. I don’t know what this is all about, but we can’t hold her here. You’re in charge while I’m gone. If I’m not back by sunrise, you send someone to the farmhouse down the road for help.”

  Anne, a tall, slender girl of sixteen, anxiously brushed back her short, honey-colored hair. “I’ll do the best I can, Julie, but the girls are all scared to death. Do you think you should go out there?”

  “I don’t think I have any choice,” Julie said. “There’s something going on here we can’t even begin to comprehend, but I have to go with Cindy. You’ll be all right . . . I promise . . . and I’m counting on you, Anne. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Anne said. Turning to the others, she commanded, “Let’s build up the fires girls, and move your sleeping bags in close. We’ll stay together till Julie gets back.”

  Satisfied that Anne had command of the situation, Julie helped Cindy slip her jacket on over her flannel pajamas and then pulled on her own. “All right, Ruth, where are we going?”

  Cindy responded in the woman’s voice, “This way. Follow me.”

  The girl seemed to know exactly where she was going and Julie followed her obediently into the timber. They walked silently for nearly an hour until they approached a small creek that twisted and meandered its way out of the rolling foothills to the north. Julie was astonished at the girl’s stamina; Cindy was not one of the stronger girls in Julie’s troop, and, ordinarily, would have tired by this time. Even Julie, trim and in excellent condition, was ready for a rest after the brisk pace over the rugged countryside.

  “Cindy . . . uh, Ruth, let’s rest a moment.”

  The girl turned around and Julie saw the urgency in her face. “Please,” Cindy said, in the woman’s voice. “We must hurry. It will take another hour to get there and there’s not much time.”

  Unexplainably, a shiver danced down Julie’s spine. “All right, Ruth, whatever you say.”

  With Cindy leading the way, they headed into the hills, following the course of the creek into a rough, uninhabited area Julie had never hiked before. As they moved deeper into the hills, Cindy quickened her pace and soon began to trot ahead, like a hunting dog that had picked up a scent. It was evident they had to be near their destination . . . whatever that was.

  Shortly, the fiery-orange rays of the morning sun crept over the hilltop not far ahead, and Julie caught sight of thick, black smoke curling ominously skyward against pale sky. Cindy raced toward the smoke, and Julie, seized by a new burst of energy, dashed after her. As Julie rushed over the crest of the hill, she saw the smoldering remnants of a light plane and, off to one side, Cindy kneeling at the side of a moaning child.

  “Over here, quickly,” Cindy called. “You have to help her; she’s bleeding to death!”

  Julie ran down the slope, and, as she reached Cindy, her eyes were drawn to the white, silent form beside her—a little girl with golden locks matted to her dirt-smudged cheeks.

  “Her leg,” Cindy said. “We have to stop the bleeding.”

  Julie’s trained eyes appraised the compound fracture with the splintered bone piercing through the skin. A severed artery slowly pumped scarlet fluid from the little girl’s body, draining it of its remaining life.

  Julie knelt and ripped away part of the little girl’s blouse, quickly tying the strip of cloth above the pulsating wound, tightening it with a stick until the blood flow ebbed.

  “I can’t leave this on long,” she said, “but this will stop the bleeding until we can get something applied directly to the wound.” She felt the little girl’s head and took her pulse. “She’s still alive . . . terribly weak . . . but I think she’ll make it.”

  “Thank God,” Cindy said. “And you . . . I can’t thank you enough.

  Then she pointed further down the slope, where Julie caught sight of two other figures sprawled on the ground: a man and a woman. She moved down the rubble-strewn hillside toward the pair. A glance at the young woman told Julie she was dead. The man, stretched out not far from the woman’s side stirred, however.

  “He’s unconscious,” Julie pointed out matter-of-factly, “but his breathing seems normal. Looks like he took a bad blow on the side of his head. You seem to know these people . . . who are they? And Cindy, your voice . . . I still don’t understand what this is all about . . . how you knew about this accident.”

  Cindy’s eyes were calm now, her face serene. “This is Ralph,” she said, and, pointing to the girl, “that’s Cathy. Take care of them for me.” She slumped over and collapsed in a heap on the ground. Julie slipped over by her side, taking her head in her hands.

  Shortly, Cindy’s eyelids fluttered and her eyes opened. “Julie,” she said sleepily, “where are we? What are we doing here?” It was Cindy’s own squeaky voice, the voice she had always known. Recoiling in shock, she said. “There’s been an accident. Where are the rest of the girls?”

  “They’re back at camp. Someone should have gone for help by now. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  As if in confirmation of her statement, she heard the roar of a helicopter in the sky. Julie stood up, waving frantically, and sighed in relief when the aircraft moved toward them and she saw the friendly hand wave in response. While she waited for the copter to land, she took another look at the little girl. She seemed stronger now.

  Cindy returned from the creek with a wet rag to place on Ralph’s forehead, and Julie returned to his side when she heard him moaning. When his eyes opened, his first words were, “Ruth . . . where’s my wife? Ruth—”

  Julie looked over at the dead woman. “I’m sorry, Mr. Weston, she didn’t make it . . . but she saved your daughter’s life before she left.”

  Pawnee Drums

  HANK HAD ALWAYS claimed a lost Pawnee burial ground was located in the Flint Hills where our Scout troop camped several times a year. Grizzled, leathery-faced Hank had been a Scoutmaster since before most of our parents were born, and over the years he had earned a reputation as a teller of tall tales. When it came to the outdoors, Hank knew his stuff all right but he was not beyond stretching the truth a little to make things a little more interesting.

  It was in the summer of 1956; I was thirteen then. The troop was camped at our favorite Flint Hills site. The campfire had burned down to a bed of red-hot coals that cast an orange glow against the night’s blackness. For the benefit of some of the troop Tenderfeet, Hank had just related the story of the Pawnee burial grounds, noting casually, but meaningfully, that some of its occupants had been known to roam the area around the campsite. He also admonished the boys to listen carefully for the sound of the soft, rhythmic tom-tom beats that were often heard after dark on hot, still nights. Some of the younger boys looked wide-eyed and apprehensively over their shoulders, and someone tossed a few logs on the embers to rekindle the campfire’s flame.

  Hank sat near the fire, surrounded now by some of the boys who had edged their way closer as h
e, in his own imperturbably sober way, had offered a few ghostly tales from his vast repertoire. He himself looked like a solemn old medicine man as the fire cast eerie shadows on his bronzed face.

  I was full of the cockiness of a boy embarking on his teens that summer and was a bit contemptuous of what I saw as adult pomposity. Somebody ought to take the old boy down a notch, I thought. I nudged my best friend, Harvey Willits, and nodded toward Hank.

  “Hey, Hank,” I said, “you’re always talking about that old Pawnee burial ground whenever we come out here. How come you’ve never shown us where it’s at?”

  Unfazed, Hank drawled matter-of-factly, “I told you, the place is haunted. Now, your folks are trusting me to look out for all of you boys, and I’m not about to take you to a place like that.”

  “Now, come on, Hank,” I said. “You can come up with a better answer than that.” Harvey and some of my friends giggled, but Hank shot me a peculiar, almost hurt, look that told me I had better stop right there.

  My sleep was fitful that night which was highly unusual for me, because I had always found sleep in the outdoors to be easy and deep. It was not all that hot, and I was clad only in my jockey shorts, but it seemed like I was waking up about every half hour or so and each time my back and chest were sweat-soaked, the back of my neck moist and clammy.

  Finally, about two o’clock, I awoke and crawled out of my sleeping bag. It was lighter now, the stars having broken through the cloud cover that had darkened the hills the night before. Suddenly, I jerked upright at the sound of a soft, steady, drum-like sound, apparently coming from the little valley southwest of the camp. My eyes darted around the campsite to see if anyone else had been awakened by the sound, but the camp was deathly quiet and apparently no one else had been disturbed by the noise.

  Hank was sound asleep off to the far edge of the camp under a gnarled oak tree. My first instinct was to dash over and awaken him, but I remembered my skepticism of the night before and thought better of it.

  The drumming was becoming noticeably louder, rising in a crescendo like the soundtrack of some African movie. Everyone else in the camp appeared to be unaware of the terrible racket. I pulled on my dirty blue jeans and slipped into the buckskin moccasins I always wore around camp, and found myself walking down the grassy slope away from camp toward the valley that lay less than a mile away. In spite of my outward bravado, I was not ordinarily one who would have wandered away, but for some unexplainable reason, I was serenely calm and unafraid as I drew nearer to the rumbling drums.

  Shortly, I stepped out onto a flat, open meadow, and my eyes were drawn immediately to the brilliant, shimmering light radiating from a small area at the far end. As I walked across the meadow, I could make out the outlines of the crude pole platforms upon which rested the Indian dead: women, children, and warriors. The entire area was lit up like a football field, but the source of light was not evident. The drummer was the only animate thing in the burial ground, seated cross-legged near the center, hunched over the tom-tom in front of him, surrounded by the earthly remains of his tribesmen who had joined the Great Spirit.

  Still unafraid, I entered the burial ground and approached the tom-tom beater. I stepped directly in front of him and the drumming stopped. The man remained bent over the tom-tom, however, his eyes fixed to the earth. Perspiration glistened on his narrow, bony shoulders; a single feather was anchored in his snow-white hair. Then slowly he lifted his head to meet my gaze.

  “You have come,” he said softly in precise English.

  The old man was an emaciated version of Hank. His dark eyes, craggy nose, and angular jaw unmistakably those of our gentle Scoutmaster. But the Indian was too ancient, too withered, to be my leader.

  “Yes, I have come.” I said.

  “You did not believe,” said the old man.

  “No. I did not believe,” I admitted.

  “Your name is Jeffrey,” he said. “I am known as He Who Walks.”

  “Why did you call me here?” I asked.

  “I am looking for my son,” said the drummer. “He died in a battle with the Sioux many moons ago. He was a great warrior and killed many of our ancient enemy before he died, but his Pawnee brothers were unable to recover his body and return it to our people for burial appropriate to his great station. I have searched many moons for the remains of my fallen son so that I might return them to join his family in this place.”

  “I am sorry,” I said.

  The old Indian nodded his head solemnly. “Now go,” he said, “I must join my people soon. May the Great Spirit walk with you.”

  “Good bye,” I stammered and walked away quickly.

  Reaching the foothills again, I took one last look back at the luminous burial grounds. Abruptly, the light disappeared like a television screen just turned off, leaving only the empty, grassy meadow.

  When I rushed breathlessly back into camp some minutes later, I spotted Hank sitting on top of his bedroll, his back leaning against the oak, calmly puffing on his long-stemmed pipe. I moved over to him, taking a place at his side.

  “I noticed you were gone,” he said quietly. “Have trouble sleeping tonight?”

  I nodded my head affirmatively. “Hank,” I said, “that Pawnee burial ground is down there in the valley, isn’t it? At the south end of the meadow.”

  Hank’s eyes softened. He wasn’t one to talk much, but his eyes always told you when he understood. “Yes. It’s down there, Jeff. So you found it, huh?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Only a few have ever been privileged to see it,” he said mysteriously.

  “Hank,” I asked, “do you have a son?”

  “I had a son,” he said. Traces of moisture gathered at the corners of his eyes. “He was lost in action in World War II. It was during the Normandy Invasion. They never identified his body. We were never able to bring him home; we don’t even know where he was buried.” He wrapped his thick arm around my shoulders, “But don’t concern yourself about it, Jeff. I’ve had a good life. In a way, the boys of this troop are all my sons, and in a lot of cases, I’ve had more impact on the lives of the boys of this troop than their own fathers have. Yes, in some ways, I suppose I’ve found my own son right here in this troop.”

  I learned a lot about what made Hank tick that night.

  The River's Call

  “I WANT TO warn each of you to stay away from the river after dark, and after everyone is sacked in for the night, I would strongly suggest that you do not go outside the camp area. There is a legend about this river, and whether you believe in ghosts or not, there is no reason to take unnecessary chances.” Those were the words of the guide who was leading our church youth group on a canoe trip down the Big Blue River.

  According to the legend, there was a beautiful young Indian maiden called Spring Bird who lived in a Pawnee village not far from here. She and a warrior called Elk Man were very much in love and planned to be married.

  A week before their marriage was to occur, Elk Man was killed in battle with the Sioux. When the war party returned to the village leading Elk Man’s rider-less pony, Spring Bird was so overcome by grief she ran hysterically from the village. Her father followed her to a bluff that overlooked the river and found her standing there, and when he called to her, she turned toward him with out-stretched arms. As he moved to console her in her grief, the little bluff began to cave away. He rushed to grasp her hands and pull her to safety, but she was carried into the river beneath toms of rock and dirt.

  As the years went by, warriors of the tribe and even white settlers, some of whom were supposed to be extremely strong swimmers, drowned mysteriously in the river. Some members of the tribe insisted they had seen Spring Bird strolling in the woods along the river before several of the tragic accidents, and one small boy even claimed to have seen the maiden lead one unfortunate victim over the bank’s edge.

  Some twenty years after Spring Bird’s death, one young tribesman maintained he was walking in the wood
s one evening when he encountered a young Pawnee maiden whom he had never seen in the village before. The young man described her as the most beautiful young woman he had ever seen, and according to elders in the tribe, his description of her conformed to that of Spring Bird in every detail.

  The young woman was flirtatious and charming, and he was totally smitten by her. She invited him to come with her to the river to enjoy the lovely view and he went with her willingly. As they neared the river, he caught sight of a friend fishing on the bank’s edge and called a greeting to him. When he turned, the young woman was gone, leaving no sign she had ever existed.

  The tribe’s medicine man told the youthful warrior he was indeed fortunate; the maiden had doubtless been Spring Bird and she would have led him to certain death in the deep, swift current of the river.

  The guide told us that the story of Spring Bird’s ghost is only a legend, and, if Spring Bird’s lost spirit does wander thought the woods, her magic spell was probably no more than that any young woman is able to cast over a young man. Nevertheless, he warned us again to stay close to camp and, under no circumstances to go near the river.

  The Friendly Face

  THE MAN’S FACE was not deformed or grotesque–-not even ugly, for that matter. But every time Karen thought of the face, shivers raced down her spine and she broke out in a cold sweat. Rugged, Germanesque features characterized the face. She was struck especially by the firm-set jaw line and deep-set eyes sheltered by thick, dark eyebrows. The long sharp nose seemed out of place on the full, rounded face and gave it a rather solemn quality in spite of the pleasant smile that seemed to be perpetually engraved there. There was really nothing about the face, she reminded herself, that should frighten her . . . but it did.

  Without fail, every night for a month now, the face had visited Karen Nelson in her dreams. It was a face without a body—or without a head, for that matter—more like a Halloween mask floating in the air, suspended on some invisible strings. But unlike a mask, it spoke to her, always delivering the same message in the same breathy, whispering voice, “I have missed you so much, Karen. Please come visit me soon.”