Ghosts Around the Campfire

by Ron Schwab

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  The Legend of the Hand

  The Weeping Wind

  Mary Lee

  A Child's Love

  The Big Cat

  The Strawberry Patch

  The Lost Ring

  The House That Wasn't

  The Interrupted Sleep

  Girl Possessed

  Pawnee Drums

  The River's Call

  The Friendly Face

  The Claw

  The Hazing

  Coyote Woman

  McDowell's Tomb

  The Uninvited Guest

  The Guardian

  GHOSTS AROUND THE CAMPFIRE

  Ron Schwab

  Ghosts Around the Campfire

  by Ron Schwab

  Leafcutter Publishing Group, Inc.

  PO Box 6105

  Omaha, NE 68106

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Ron Schwab

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews—without written permission from its publisher.

  ISBN: 1-943421-09-9

  ISBN-13: 978-1-943421-09-1

  Introduction

  A GLOWING CAMPFIRE; a still, dark night—they still trigger boyhood memories of Boy Scout camping trips and assemblies at summer camp when weary young men gathered around the blazing fire at day’s end to join in loud singing and watch corny skits, and finally, as the flames died down to smoky coals, to listen to an offering of some new ghost story, or, many times an old favorite.

  Kids seem to want to be frightened, and after the campfire story, we usually were, looking over our shoulders uneasily as the light slowly faded away, wondering what phantoms might be lurking in the woods outside the campfire ring. The owl’s soft hoot became the moan of a lost ghost; the rustling cottonwood leaves became the footsteps of some wandering vampire in search of his evening meal. We knew that the spine-tingling story was a fabrication of someone’s imagination—or at least we thought so—but it added another element of adventure to our sojourn in the wilderness.

  My father was a Scoutmaster, and scouting was a way of life for our family when I was growing up. In my high school and college days, I spent most of my summers working at Boy Scout camps for our local council, and the campfire program was my stock in trade, the ghost story, my special forte.

  Years later, I would encounter young men I had met as boys at summer camp and few remembered that I had been the instructor who taught pioneering skills with knife and axe and rope, or later, the camp program director. But, invariably, they recalled that I was the “guy who told the scary ghost stories.”

  When I had children of my own, I followed in the footsteps of my father and served as Scoutmaster of a troop of rambunctious boys. I am not a particularly warm person—perhaps a bit stuffy, to tell the truth—but I think my storytelling was important to establishing whatever rapport I had with my scouts, and I take no small measure of satisfaction from the encore requests I now receive from grandchildren and their friends.

  But storytelling is not for boys alone. Girl Scout campfires and school events have been my forum on many occasions.

  More important, however, are the stories themselves. They are really meant for ears, not eyes, and I hope the reader will seize upon opportunities to retell them to his or her own audiences on dark, spooky nights when the spirits roam the campgrounds, or halls, or wherever they may be dwelling for the moment.

  Anyone can tell a ghost story. True, some storytellers have a natural talent, an enviable flair for captivating an audience with a ghostly tale, but even a shy, soft-spoken individual can spin a spell-binding narrative upon applying a few simple techniques. Foremost is selection of a good story. Certain stories will simply not be effective when told during daylight hours, no matter how skillful the storyteller. The mood created by darkness can be all-important in those cases. Some stories will be extremely suspenseful and interesting when told around a fading campfire in the middle of dense woodlands, but the same story will fall flat when delivered in a huge meeting hall. A good example of this is “The Legend of the Hand,” which appears in this book. Mood is critical to the successful telling of this story, for it demands darkness and an outdoor setting. It is especially recommended as that final bedtime story before overnight campers traipse off to their bedrolls—that is if the leader is prepared to stay up the night for those who inevitably seek out his protection when they imagine a visit from the subject of the story.

  A good storyteller will also have a repertoire of stories that will enable the teller to match the tale to a particular audience. Most stories have amazing flexibility. With a change in gender here and there, addition of gory details in some instances and deletion in others, they can be adapted to almost any group.

  Nonetheless, the inexperienced storyteller should make the tale selection with special care. If the audience consists of ten- and eleven-year-old boys or girls, use a short story, not more than ten minutes, or risk losing the audience to restlessness and boredom. A few of the more romantic stories in this book, although ‘G-rated,’ would likely not be suitable for some younger audiences. Good selection takes no great skill, only common sense, a conscious effort to relate to the persons who are going to be hearing the story.

  Atmosphere is critical. A ghost story told in a brilliantly lit banquet hall is doomed to failure. Darkness is the ally of those who specialize in the stories of the supernatural. Man seems to equate darkness with death and mystery, and, of course, these are ingredients of the typical ghost story.

  There is also a decided advantage to telling the story in the outdoors, perhaps in a thickly wooded glen or some other secluded place beyond the security of four solid walls. Around the campfire, a story is most intriguing when the fire is nearly burned out and there is little light remaining. If the story must be narrated inside, the lights should be dimmed, even turned off. A few well-placed candles or a kerosene lantern can contribute greatly to the eerie mood in such instances. The proper atmosphere will counteract many deficiencies in the story itself or the manner of its presentation. Given the proper environment, the imaginations of the listeners will lift a considerable burden from the narrator.

  Personalization of the story will boost the credibility of the ghost. The listeners should be made to identify personally, in some way, with the story so they can see themselves as participants, or, at least, potentially so. Sometimes a storyteller can accomplish this by presenting the story in first person, as an experience that actually happened to the teller. Almost any story can be adapted to this type of narration and many persons find it easier to tell a story in this manner.

  Others create identification with the story by setting it in the locale where it is being told. For instance, a Boy Scout troop happens to be camping near a lake, and the story setting is near a lake; the events in the story, of course, occurred at the very lake where the Scouts happen to be camping. This always raises the possibility that the ghostly apparitions still frequent the place and may well be encountered by one or more of the listeners before the night is over. Always be alert for ways to personalize and for methods to bring the story closer to the audience.

  Dramatization always helps. A competent actor can certainly do much to enliven any narrative, especially the ghost story, but one does not need to be a card-carryin
g thespian in order to make a successful presentation. The most important thing is to know the story well enough to tell it in one’s own words. A ghost story should not be read to the audience; it should be told. A polished performance is unnecessary and, in fact, some hesitancy, or a pregnant pause, on the part of the teller may add a touch of realism and spontaneity. Most persons have on occasion told a bedtime story to small children. A ghost story may be told in the same way, and since the story is all-important here, the typical audience will not miss the dramatic touches that might have been addressed.

  Nevertheless, the ghost story offers ample opportunities for the amateur actor who wishes to embellish the tale with some sound effects at appropriate intervals. A scream in the night; the low, mournful howl of the werewolf; some whispered dialogue—these things can contribute greatly to any good story. But not all storytellers feel comfortable resorting to these techniques. Those who do need little coaching; they will know instinctively when to quicken the pace of the story, when to slow down the tempo. They will know when a change in volume will bring an audience reaction and when intense dialogue may best convey the story.

  The reader should not overlook the possibility that he has the latent talent to offer a story in this manner. An aspiring storyteller should experiment and test, always seek the outer limits of his dramatic ability in an effort to create a better story.

  Good reading and good story telling. May the ghosts be with you.

  The Legend of the Hand

  I LOVE THE Rock Creek campground with the clear stream rolling over its stone bed and creating the constant, gentle babble that lulls one to sleep even at mid-morning. I visit and picnic there as often as I can—but never at night. Not since the camping trip I made with my old scout troop when I was thirteen years old. I remember what happened that night as if it had happened yesterday.

  It was a typical hot, humid, almost suffocating, July evening, and I still vividly recall the eerie stillness as we sat around the campfire. Whenever we camped, the evening campfire was a tradition, and as we would watch it burn down to a few dying embers, our Scout leader customarily related stories about the history and background of our particular camping area. One story he told at the Rock Creek site, and the events that followed left an emotional wound that never fully healed.

  The tale our leader told was of a small band of Spanish Conquistadors who had wandered north from Mexico exploring this part of our country long before it was settled by the white man. Apparently, as dusk settled in at the end of another scorching July day, the wanderers happened upon the place now called the Rock Creek campground and agreed to stop for the night. As might be expected, the soldiers were sweat-soaked and bone-weary from ceaseless travel. They were irritable and hostile and few spoke as they built the fires for their skimpy meal.

  Later, as the men sat in somber silence about the fires, the quiet was ended abruptly by a man called Garcia. The dark, giant of a man, with a dusty, scraggly beard, stomped boldly into the middle of the camp and roared, “My ring! My ring! Some thief has taken my gold ring!”

  Then he turned and glared at a slight, beardless young Spaniard squatting alone near a small fire at one corner of the camp. A shy, soft-spoken man, Juarez tended the horses and pack animals for the band.

  Garcia bellowed, “My gold ring was in the leather pouch on my horse. You are the only other man who has been near that horse and are the only one who could have stolen the ring.”

  In a single motion Garcia drew his gleaming Spanish sword and marched across the camp to face Juarez. The young Spaniard, too terrified to speak, bolted upright and started to flee for the horses, but was tackled and thrown to the ground by several other companions. They dragged him closer to the fire.

  Garcia kicked a log toward the trembling, fear-stricken Juarez, who was pinned to the ground, and ordered, “Place his arm on the log.”

  No one dared question an order from Garcia, and Juarez’s right arm was positioned across the log as directed. Without another word, Garcia lifted his sword, and, with a single sweep, brought it down across Juarez’s arm, severing his hand from the arm at the wrist. Juarez’s screams shattered the night air and sent shivers like an icy, winter wind down the backs of the on-looking Spaniards.

  Garcia stooped to pick up the severed hand, but evidently it had been lost in the turmoil of the moment. He turned to Juarez and met glassy eyes filled with hate.

  Juarez’s face was ghostly white from shock as blood spewed from the open wound at the end of his arm. He gasped, “Garcia, you will not live the night, and the curse of my hand shall be upon all who come to this place.” He struggled to get up, reaching for Garcia with the hand that was no longer there and then he fell forward, sinking to the earth with his face landing in the fire. At that precise moment, a sharp gust of wind whistled through the camp. The surrounding trees shook and the leaves rustled and, abruptly, the stillness returned.

  Juarez was dragged to a spot about fifty feet south of the camp and was buried near a small oak tree. Later, as the soldiers nervously rolled out their blankets in preparation for sleep that would surely be uneasy that night, a small golden object fell from Garcia’s blanket. He stooped and picked it up. He had found his ring.

  The next morning, the soldiers rose one by one to get ready for their journey. All, that is, except one. Garcia would never rise again. He was stretched out on his blanket with a look of indescribable fear frozen on his dead face, his eyes bulging from their sockets. The only signs of violence were bruises and the faintest outlines of bloody fingerprints on the flesh about his throat and neck.

  The Spaniards wasted no more time and quickly readied their mounts and hastily departed from the spot, leaving Garcia to provide a meal for the black, ominous vultures that soared ever-closer from the sky above.

  Our Scoutmaster said there had been recurring stories about people who claimed strange happenings at this campsite. It had even been said that others had died there from some type of strangulation, although no such stories had ever been proved or confirmed. Others were said to have seen a single glowing, fluorescent-like hand floating about the camp or in the surrounding trees at night.

  Needless to say, we knew that our leader had come up with another one of his tall tales and we went to bed laughing and joking, although perhaps a bit nervously, about the legend of the hand.

  Eventually, the last of the campers dropped off to sleep. I slept soundly enough until I was awakened by the low howling of a wind that suddenly swept through the camp. Then I felt a slight thumping pressure moving up my chest, as though a small animal were crawling on my blanket. Suddenly, something grabbed my throat and began to squeeze firmly. My first thought was that someone was playing a prank and I struck out. I hit nothing. The pressure became suffocatingly greater. Just as I was about to black out, I was able to choke out a coughing and rasping sound that awakened my friend in the next bedroll. He looked toward me and started screaming again and again, hysterically. The pressure suddenly eased and finally stopped.

  My friend’s screaming brought our Scoutmaster and other campers tumbling from their bedrolls to see what was wrong. My friend insisted that he had seen a glowing hand grasping my throat. Our leader maintained that the Scout was having a nightmare because of the campfire story. No one could explain the bloody fingerprints and bruises on my neck, however, and for some reason, our troop never camped overnight at Rock Creek again.

  The Weeping Wind

  THE OREGON TRAIL winds through Jefferson County, Nebraska, and in the mid-1800s many settlers passed through the area on their way west. In 1869 James and Mary Robinson and their two small children, Robert, eight, and Catherine, six, pulled their covered wagon off the trail for the night.

  Shortly before sundown, Mrs. Robinson asked her children to pick mulberries from a grove of trees a short distance from the wagon. As the children approached the grove, a doe and her fawn darted across their path and, as boys will do, Robert chased after them in pursuit. Catherine
skipped on to the mulberry grove and began picking the ripe berries, sampling her harvest as she slowly filled her pail. Darkness began to set in, and when Robert did not come to help, Catherine returned to the wagon with her berries, complaining to her mother that Robert had not done his share of the chore.

  Several hours passed and Robert still did not return to the wagon. His parents became increasingly apprehensive when they noticed lightning in the sky northwest of their camp and heard the low rumbling of thunder that confirmed a storm would arrive before the night was out. They built up the fire and, hoping that the light would be seen by Robert, and, leaving Catherine with the wagon, the parents set out to search.

  Overcome with fear for her son’s safety, Mrs. Robinson wandered unthinkingly into the rolling hills southwest of the wagon, calling repeatedly, “Robert! Robert!” As the angry wind signaling the approaching thunderstorm whistled through the hills, the panic-stricken Mrs. Robinson’s calls became screams and she ran and stumbled wildly over the rocky slopes moving ever further from the family camp.

  In the meantime, Robert walked casually into camp with the collection of toads and snakes he had gathered during his exploration of the surrounding countryside. Mr. Robinson returned shortly thereafter just as the first drops of rain began to fall. The family called again and again for Mrs. Robinson, but she was now too far from the wagon to hear their anguished summons.

  As the full force of the raging storm struck the hills, Mrs. Robinson struggled to the top of a ridge and now, some three miles from the camp, she could barely make out the flickering of the fading campfire flames. Recovering her composure momentarily, she started in the direction of the camp when a bolt of lightning flashed from the sky, striking a small tree not far from where she stood. The electrical shock ripped through her body sending her tumbling down the hill into a small ravine where she lay unconscious.