By Erika M Szabo, David W. Thompson, and R.A. “Doc” Correa
Stories told by the campfire
There's something about the flames of the crackling campfire
and the darkness beyond the flickering light that stirs a primal fear within
us. As the wind howls through the trees and shadows dance on the forest floor,
our imaginations run wild with all the things that could be lurking out there
in the night. It's a way to confront our fears in a safe environment,
surrounded by friends who are just as spooked.
And sometimes, just sometimes, those chilling stories
contain a kernel of truth, a sinister echo of something ancient and malevolent
that prowls the woods, refusing to be forgotten...
The campfire crackles, sending sparks spiraling into the
inky sky, while its warmth barely holds back the encroaching chill of the
night. Beyond the circle of light, the forest is dark, dense, and impenetrable.
The wind threads through the branches, producing an eerie howl that sends
shivers down our spines, as if the trees were whispering secrets to each other.
Shadows leap and twirl on the forest floor, forming shapes that seem almost
alive, causing our hearts to race with the thought of unseen creatures lurking
just out of sight. We sit huddled close, the orange glow painting our faces,
sharing tales that make our skin prickle. Occasionally, a branch snaps in the
distance, making us jump and clutch each other tighter, as if that might ward
off whatever ancient, malevolent presence that could still wander these woods. Some
of those chilling stories we share by the campfire might contain a kernel of
truth, a sinister echo of something ancient and evil that prowls the woods,
refusing to be forgotten...
The Spider
The sudden discharge of the Colt Python .357 magnum was
totally unexpected. The sinister tale being woven by Sheriff Chester Randal and
the revolver being fired at the climax of it caused the four men sitting about
the campfire to jump to their feet in dismay. After regaining his composure,
Sheriff Randal shouts at the shooter, his new deputy Andrew Jenkins, the fifth
man on this camping trip, “God damn Andy, what the hell!?”
As Andy flips open the cylinder of his revolver, ejecting
the spent cartridge, he replies, “I don’t like spiders!” After inserting a new
cartridge into the cylinder and snapping it back in place, Deputy Jenkins walks
up to what is left of the tarantula he just obliterated, and kicks it into the
fire. Watching the carcass crackle in the flames with satisfaction, he slides
his pistol back into its holster.
Grumbling, the other campers return to their places around
the campfire. As Andy joins them, the sheriff growls, “Jesus Andy, you could
have hit it with a rock or a stick, you didn’t have to nuke the damn thing with
that hand cannon!”
Andy glares at him, stating emphatically, “I don’t like
spiders!”
Sheriff Randal takes a moment, recalling the conversation he
had with his friend on the San Antonio Police Department about his new deputy.
After clearing his throat, he says, “Deputy Jenkins, after reading your resume,
I couldn’t help wondering why such an accomplished officer, the youngest
officer to make detective in that department, would leave the big city police
department for a deputy sheriff job in a Podunk Arizona County. I mean, we’re
camping in the middle of nowhere, not much here but desert sand, and a few
tarantulas, which seem to give you great offense. So, I called an old pal of
mine on the SAPD and asked him about you. He was very professional, never said
anything negative about you, but what he didn’t say, what he was holding back,
that’s what I want to know. So, Andy, tell me what he was holding back.”
“Did he tell you my partner was killed?” Deputy Jenkins
asks.
The sheriff replies, “Yes.”
“Did he tell you how my partner died?” asks Andy.
“No,” Sheriff Randal answers.
Andrew Jenkins says, “Did your friend tell you that I was
there when Travis, my partner for four years, died?”
“Yes, he told me. Though he didn’t go into detail, he did
say that it hit you pretty hard. But that’s to be expected, losing a partner is
as bad as losing a wife,” the sheriff tells him, “But damnit, Andy, that doesn’t
excuse doing what you just did.”
Andy looks at the faces of the other deputies; he can see a
mixture of expressions ranging from sympathy to indifference. Facing the
sheriff, Andy says, “So I take it he didn’t tell you what I put in my sworn
statement, what I told internal affairs at my debrief.”
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Old Man Jenkins
The campsite was much as I remembered, although the brush
was thicker, and the trails were less well-defined. Today’s youth didn’t keep
it beaten down as we once did. There were no video games on the mountain or
reception, either.
We were old hands at camp setup, and
our skills weren’t as rusty as I feared. With our tents up, sleeping bags
rolled out, and the campfire started, we tried our hand at fishing. We didn’t
catch anything big enough—except to use for bait. We settled on hotdogs and
beans over the fire.
“It’s been a while, guys. Anyone remember whose turn it is
for the campfire story?” I asked.
Mac and Smitty turned toward Bear. The man’s eyes shone in
the dim light of the crescent moon, and he hunched up his shoulders. His lips
curled into a dark smile.
“Sure, I’ll go. I’ll piggyback off the old hiker story. It
seems appropriate for where we are. As you know, my dad was the Sheriff then,
and I guess I heard a little more about it than most folks.
“Mr. Jenkins was a sprightly old man. He was as narrow as a
board but wiry, with thick, work-hardened hands like meat hooks. Dad said he
could hold his own in a fight with any man. But he was a hot-tempered
soul. I never heard of him hurting his
wife or kids, but the screaming matches coming out of that old cabin were the
stuff of legends hereabouts.
“This particular night was no exception. It was so intense
that folks clear on the other side of the holler claimed dishes rattled in
their cupboards.”
An owl’s sudden: “Whoooo! Hooo! HooHoo!” broke the story’s
spell. We looked up at the trees, and the great horned owl’s large yellow eyes
glared back at us.
Bear picked up a stick we’d collected for the fire and
tossed it at the large bird. It dropped from the tree and swooped low overhead.
Its silent wings carried it to its next perch nearby, where it continued its
haunting serenade.
“Why did you do that? Isn’t that bad luck?”
“No,” Mac said. “You are mixing up your old wives’ tales. It’s
worse. Owls mean death is coming.”
“Now, who is the superstitious one?” I asked.
“Probably just smelled our hot dogs and hoped we’d share,”
Bear said. “Still, it is interesting as that was the first thing old man
Jenkins heard on his fateful night.”
I glanced at my cell phone, but it had no bars.
“See, old Jenkins,” Bear continued, “he enjoyed a little nip
of moonshine now and again. But it didn’t much like him. I don’t know what the
cause of the ruckus was that evening, but you can be sure some “corn squeezings”
were at the root of the trouble.
“Misses Jenkins, the sweetest lady there ever was, by all
accounts, had enough of the old man’s shenanigans. She told him to get out and
stay out. Jenkins never knew what was good for him, so he headed up the
mountain, bottle in hand. He tried sleeping it off in the old mill but said an
owl wouldn’t shut up. Kept him awake most of the night. He passed out in the
wee hours only to have a flock of ravens wake him at dawn.
“Jenkins told my dad he knew something wasn’t right. He
could feel it in his bones and raced home. The scene when he got there was
beyond description. The blood began on the front steps. The floors and walls
inside were covered with it. Dad said he’d never seen so much, even at
community hog killings. I’d like to tell you they caught the murderer, but it
never happened. My dad retired, but it’s the one case he never forgot.”
I suspect we all had a restless sleep that night. My dreams
were unnatural, dark, filled with haunted shadows, and too real by far. A
shriek from the river jolted me awake. A woman’s scream of horror, only broken
by moments of insane laughter. I slipped on my boots and crept towards the
sound.
Peering from behind an old oak, I spied an old woman
knee-deep in the water. Her gray hair was greasy and matted to her skeletal
head. Her dress was of a style long out of fashion. What was left of it anyway,
as it hung from her in tatters. She raised her face to the heavens and
screeched again. The sound sent shivers down my back. She was washing something in the river, and I
stretched my neck to see. It was Cathy’s favorite dress—covered in blood! She
turned towards me and cackled, then smiled with pointed yellow teeth. She
raised one shriveled hand toward me, pointing at me with long, yellow
fingernails.
“Death comes for us all,” she said. I woke in my sleeping
bag, drenched in sweat.
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Rosie's Revenge
Jack leaned
closer to the fire as its orange glow leapt eagerly onto his face, painting a
lively tapestry where the years of his life were etched like well-worn roads.
It was one of those nights when retired cops got together with young officers
to have fun and to share their stories with them.
“Tell us a
story, Jack,” one of the new cops said.
Jack’s eyes
sparkled with excitement; he basked in the attention of the eager faces turned
toward him, their hungry eyes fixed upon him, like fledglings waiting for their
first taste of flight, and their breaths hung suspended in the crisp air,
caught in a moment between reality and the world his words would summon.
The fire blazed
brightly, embracing them like a cloak of mystery and wonder. Shadows danced
across their faces, and Jack basked in their craving for a tale so chilling it
might creep into their very dreams and set every nerve alive with fright and
intrigue.
“Oh, I have
many stories for you,” Jack cried, reveling in their hunger as he rubbed his
hands with glee. “There’s the one about The Lurker in the Woods, or maybe you’d
like a spine-tingler about The Ghosts of Black Bear Lake?” He paused, drawing
out each delicious moment of longing in the pregnant silence, savoring the
suspense as any fine craftsman might, until he felt the very air quiver with
expectancy that only a bone-chilling story could satisfy. “But I think the best
story for tonight,” he said at last, dropping his voice to a whisper, “is the
tale of Rose.” His eyes sparkled with promise, and he let the words hover,
taking root in each listener’s imagination. “It’s a story,” he continued,
wrapping them in mystery, “about a haunted truck stop diner, where Rosie
finally had her revenge.”
The group
shifted closer, captivated and wide-eyed.
“You see,” Jack
said, stretching the suspense like an elastic thread about to snap back, “Rose
was a young waitress in that truck stop diner on Route 19 twenty years ago, as
full of life and dreams then as you all are now. She was full of life and had a
smile for everyone. But fate had a darker plan.” He paused and sighed, allowing
the gravity of his words to seep into their imaginations, much like ink
spreading on thirsty parchment. “One night, under the cloak of darkness, she
was brutally violated and murdered during her night shift,” he continued, his
voice barely above a whisper, heavy with the burden of tragedy. “Fred, the old
cook, went looking for her because he thought it was taking too long to take
out the trash. That’s when he found her mutilated body left carelessly by the
dumpsters. Her heart, liver, and kidneys were missing.”
Jack looked
around the circle, making sure every face was drawn tight with dread and
intrigue. “I was just a young officer back then, green and eager, when they put
me on the case. But the investigator,” he said, a note of bitterness creeping
in, “he was convinced Fred did it. I knew better.” Jack leaned closer to the
fire, feeling the heat of its memory burn as brightly as it did that day. “Everyone
knew better,” he repeated. “Although the investigator insisted, there was no
evidence that would’ve proven Fred’s guilt.”
“Not long after
Rose’s murder,” Jack said, his voice curling like mist in the dark, “the
strangest things began to happen in that diner. Chairs scooted across the floor
when no one was near them. Music played from the radio that didn’t even have a
plug in its socket. Everyone freaked out, and the owner was close to having the
diner closed,” he said, and shivered as he recalled the memories. “But we all
knew who it was: Rose’s ghost, refusing to leave.”
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