A paranormal tale of Southern Maryland
The most famous (infamous?) paranormal tale in Southern
Maryland relates to our accused witch, Moll Dyer, also known as the “Winter Witch.”
However, most dark paranormal stories from the area originate over one hundred and
fifty years after her fateful demise in 1697.
The war between the states in Southern Maryland is truly
where brother fought brother. Add in a brutal prisoner-of-war encampment, a
graveyard desecrated by a marauding army, lighthouses bearing witness to sunken
ships, and the screams of passengers meeting their watery deaths, and you have ample
ingredients to entice the otherworldly.
The timeline of Blue
Dog Hill is hard to nail down. Some have called it the oldest ghost story in America,
dating to 1700. The story (also known as Peddler’s Rock) occurred on Rose Hill
Road in the historic town of Port Tobacco, Maryland. It involves the love of a
man and his dog. What could be less disturbing and more human, right?
The man was a soldier, freshly returned home after serving
his country. Young and unmarried, the soldier was reunited with the dog he’d
loved since childhood. The man’s name is lost to time, but we will call the man
Charles and our devoted bluetick hound (better known than her master),
appropriately enough, Blue.)
The long overdue reunion between man and dog went as such
things often do: Blue barked violently as Charles walked up his friend’s driveway.
The friend cared for Blue in Charles’s absence, but now his best buddy had
forgotten him. Charles’ eyes misted over as Blue growled and circled him. She
sniffed and stared as Charles held out his hand. She jumped joyfully into
Charles’s arms when his scent touched her nose. He struggled to retain his balance
under the weight of the large hound. After that, Blue wouldn’t let Charles out
of her sight.
Charles’s friend ushered him inside and presented him with a
small box.
“This is from your uncle. He brought it over for you about a
month before he passed away. Said there wasn’t no sense in giving Uncle Sam a
cut that he didn’t earn, and you’ve done enough for this country.”
Charles ripped off the tape and opened the box. Inside was a
stack of $100 bills and legal documents. Charles got teary-eyed recalling the man
who’d practically raised him.
“Can you get the crew together to meet at the tavern tonight?
They all knew him, and I bet they all have stories. He touched a lot of lives,
especially mine. I wish I could’ve gotten home when he passed, but tonight,
we’ll have our wake in his honor.”
Alcohol flowed, and lies were told out of respect for a man
they held in high regard. As the night transitioned into the wee hours of the
morning, one by one, they bid Charles adieu and left for their homes. Charles guzzled
the remnants of a warm beer and slid from the barstool.
“C’mon, Blue, time to go home,” he scratched the sleeping
dog between her ears. They walked the lonely dirt road toward home, Charles’s
military swagger now a stagger.
“Hey, stop right there!” The voice came out of the thick
woods beside the trail.
“Who...?”
“Never mind who we are. Just empty your pockets, soldier
boy. We want to see that wad of hundreds you’ve been flashing about.”
Charles heard the click of a gun’s hammer as two men
materialized from the shadows. Burlap bags with cutout eye holes covered their
faces. Charles reached into his pocket and withdrew the cash.
When the taller man reached out to snatch the money, Charles
grabbed for the barrel of the man’s rifle, but alcohol threw off his balance. The
thief retaliated by smashing his fist into Charles’s face. The other man joined
in the fun. Blue jumped into the fray, biting the aggressors several times.
When Charles fell backward, his head landed on a rock, and he was still—his neck
broken.
Blue renewed her attack, and the thieves focused on her. She
fought bravely to defend her friend and master but was no match for the
concerted attack. The taller thief smashed the butt of his rifle across the
center of her back. As she curled up at her master’s feet the following
evening, the pair of rogues met at the familiar tavern. The small bar allowed
eavesdropping among the patrons. The thieves listened as two of Charles’s
friends discussed their concern for him.
“I’m sure Charles is fine. Probably still sleeping it off.”
“Or maybe he ignored us knocking on his door because he
wasn’t up to another night of partying.”
“Tell you what, we’ll walk the trail back to his house when
we leave tonight, just to make sure.”
The thieves exchanged glances when Charles’s friends spoke
of legal documents and a farm deed that Charles was rumored to carry—sewn into the
lining of his coat. They drained the last of their beverages and stood as one,
then hurried down the same path Charles had followed the night before. They
needed to hide the body—after they searched it. Untold riches might be hidden
in the clothes of the dead man.
“Served him right anyway,” the tall man said. “Him and his
damn war about broke us. None of our wares are worth nothin’ no more with no
trade. Who’s gonna buy ’em? The other broke folks around here?”
As they turned the corner in the trail, there was a strange
bluish glow where Charles had fallen. Thinking someone was there with a blue
glass-domed lantern, they crept forward. But neither man nor lantern confronted
them.
Blue stood with her front paws on Charles’s chest, growling
defiantly, still protecting her friend, her alpha. Her blue-and-black-ticked
coat emitted an eerie blue radiance in the moonlight. Her eyes burned with a
yellow light as she stepped toward them. The murderers stepped backward as both
of their bladders voided. The standoff continued for several minutes... or so
it seemed to the men. They took another step backward, and Blue charged, saliva
dripping from her grotesquely elongated teeth.
A man smoking a pipe on his porch a mile away heard the echo
of their screams, and it’s said that, in the dark of a still night, they can
still be heard.
Charles and the two murderers were never seen again. But
many have reluctantly told the tale of wandering the dark forest trail and
sighting a bluish spectral dog guarding her best friend’s resting spot, most
often on a night in February when the dire deed is said to have occurred.
February is just around the corner. Care to take a walk? I
think I’ll sit this one out.
David W. Thompson
https://www.david-w-thompson.com
David is a multiple award-winning author,
Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of
the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers
Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking,
hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.
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