We agreed on a plan and armed ourselves with mop handles, broomsticks, a dustpan and a toilet plunger from the supply closet. Imagining we were ready for anything and could now defend ourselves, the five of us locked arms and walked together in a horizontal line directly in front of the cabins until reaching our fortress. We hid the armaments under mattresses and atop the ceiling joists, confident that we now had weapons and could fight back. Our bravado lasted only another day before giving into fear again.
Often, these college guys donned masks and hid on the side of cabins, waiting for any kids that tried to sneak a leak there.
On one occasion, a camper had waited too long to pee, because nobody else needed or cared to run the distance to the bathroom with him, and he didn’t want to risk going alone. Although relieving oneself on the side of the cabin was forbidden by the staff, this little guy knew he wouldn’t make it to the bathroom in time and didn’t have much choice. His body cramped from a full bladder, he walked stiffly, thinking it might burst. He had to pee right now! He slithered through the front door and moved slowly and cautiously to the side of the square structure, eyes wide open, but unseeing. Soon his extended arms came into contact with something unyielding. It wasn’t a tree or bush but it felt hairy, rubbery and warm. The youngster inched forward, feeling around in hopes of identifying what stood in his way. He sensed movement and then heard a guttural moan emanating from the object. Suddenly, a beam of light flashed across the mask, momentarily revealing the face of an old man with long bushy eyebrows. He had shoulder-length gray hair, raw scars across his face and something looking like a bloody t-shirt hanging from his mouth. The little guy’s scream woke all those campers inside, alerting them that one of their own was in trouble. However, none dared to get out of bed to help. Some pulled their blankets over their heads, cowering in fear, trying desperately to burrow deeper into their mattresses.
After a tense couple of minutes, the door suddenly banged open, startling those inside. The terrified youth fell through the doorway and onto the floor, his pajama shorts soaking wet, a puddle forming beneath him as he sat bewildered and breathing hard on the smooth plywood floor. His fellow eight-year-olds peeked out from their blankets, eyes wide as saucers, focusing on their cabin mate before them. In one swift move, he jumped to his feet, slammed the door closed and ran to his bunk, leaving a trail of urine in his wake. Ten minutes later, a camp counselor nonchalantly peeked in through the front door and asked if everything was okay. Not one of the kids dared to look toward the entrance for fear of seeing a creature in disguise, and nobody uttered a word in the darkness to give away their position.
Sneaking into the ravines bordering the camp in the dead of night was yet another havoc-wreaking ploy used by the counselors to scare us shitless. They would scream, howl, moan, and call out to the campers through the darkness, all the while making loud crashing sounds as they chased one another through the woods. Flashlight beams glowed through the night and on occasion, a red strobe light flashed in the distance, accompanied by the sound of a police car siren. Firecrackers popped to simulate gunfire against unknown creatures.
Some of the older kids snuck into the woods and ravines during the day but dared only to go so far before retreating to the safety of the open area. They reported seeing bodies hung from tree branches, blood splashed on trees, barbed wire with bits and pieces of clothing hanging from the barbs, and a sinister-looking cave on one end of the ravine. One of the explorers uncovered a worn, blue baseball cap from behind a bush with a dirty yellow camp emblem on the front. Another in the same group showed his findings: a yellow Pez dispenser and braided lanyard with an attached whistle, both of which had obviously been there for some time. The discoverer also pointed out that the mouth of the whistle appeared to have bite marks, as if a large feral animal had chewed on it. Traces of blood also remained on both the lanyard and whistle – both found not far from the dark cave entrance. Of course, all of this was food for thought and future nightmares!
The primary purpose of the camp was to provide us inner city kids with a couple of weeks of fun while we communed with nature. Little did we know that it also built character, taught us values, and gave us the opportunity to form friendships for years to come.
It took me another four summers before I began to get wise to the counselors. However, like good illusionists, those mischievous young staffers were slick at the stunts they performed, always leaving some room for doubt, and never letting us kids completely solve the camp’s mysteries. One thing for certain, I learned the value of being a fast runner!
FIVE – LISTENING POST (2100 HOURS)
After Polack broke squelch once on the radio in response to the CP’s request for a “sit-rep”, he leaned over to poke LG’s shoulder a couple of times with the handset to awaken him. LG nodded and silently unwrapped himself from his poncho liner cocoon. He slowly scooted up to a sitting position, ultimately leaning against the tree behind him. It was so dark that Polack could barely make out LG’s profile. His boony hat was still pulled tightly over his head, its brim bent and wavy from lying on it. Anywhere else, Polack would have laughed out loud.
LG rolled his head and neck around his shoulders and shrugged to work out the kinks. Polack held out the radio handset, which LG accepted, and then placed it against his ear for the next two-hour shift.
Polack relished the idea of getting a couple hours of sleep and wrapped himself in his poncho liner, replicating LG’s rest technique. Once lying down, however, Polack was far from comfortable. Because they arrived late at the position, neither of them had an opportunity to clean out a suitable sleeping spot. Branches, roots, and stones covered the ground and continuously poked their bodies, making for a tortuous night. In the morning, scrapes and bruises were visible reminders of their painful experience. Fortunately, over time, most soldiers became accustomed to sleep anywhere, anytime and under any conditions. To prove that point, Polack was already sound asleep and not the least bit aware of his discomfort.
LG soon felt an eerie sensation while sitting there, unable to see in any direction. Relentless mosquitoes flew Kamikaze missions, seeking out those uncovered areas on his face, neck, and hands. He didn’t want to risk using more bug juice, because the pungent smell would be a sure indicator of their presence. Instead, he slowly lifted his poncho liner, blanketing himself as much as possible, leaving only a small opening for his eyes.
The sounds of the jungle continued to serenade LG, trying to lull him into Never Never Land. It was a struggle for anyone to stay awake in this kind of environment. LG continued to fight it, fully aware that falling asleep might get them – or others – at the firebase killed.
All at once, a distinct popping sound was heard and a small light became visible, pulsating at ground level some four-hundred meters behind them. Polack woke immediately and sat upright, joining LG, who was already fully focused in that direction. The light wasn’t bright enough to lighten their immediate area, but the glow looked like the headlights of a far away locomotive.
Suddenly, the sound of an explosion near the light’s source made them jump. Not loud enough to be a claymore mine or mortar round explosion, a grenade was the most likely culprit.
Polack looked at LG and pointed to the radio handset. LG shook his head negatively indicating that he hadn’t heard anything over the radio about the incident.
After a long pause, they heard a deep thumping from the direction of the firebase, followed by a faint report in the sky. A brighter light appeared, unlocking the darkness below, exposing anything on the open ground between the firebase perimeter and the jungle. The overhead light, with its 500,000 candlepower, hung from a parachute and bobbed in the breeze. As updrafts and air currents manipulated the canopy, the artificial light rays hit the ground and shifted with every movement.
Both men immediately partially covered their eyes, shielding them from the glare to maintain their night vision. It was as if they had stared at a glowing light bulb for thirty seconds and then
turned off the light – they could not see anything except the aftermath white glowing orb in the center of their vision. Had they not protected their eyes, Polack and LG’s temporary blindness may have caused them to miss something important nearby.
The intense brightness of the overhead magnesium flare was still too far away to reveal the two men in their hiding place. Nevertheless, they remained perfectly still. Rays of light penetrated the jungle canopy and flickered across the vegetation. This also meant a company of enemy soldiers could either be heading in their direction or hiding in the dancing shadows, depending upon the viewer’s mental state and level of imagination at the time. The floating candle burned for over a minute, continuously shedding a flickering light as it descended, its circle shrinking as it reached earth.
Both men drew the same conclusion about the earlier light and sound show. A trip flare must have ignited outside the perimeter, and one of the bunker guards reacted by tossing out a grenade near the burning light. The mortar crew then shot illumination rounds into the air to give the bunker guards enough light to do a visual recon of the area. Satisfied that no enemy soldiers existed in the wire to their front, the nearby bunkers signaled “all clear” and the firebase returned to normal.
Sometimes rodents, small game, and even water buffaloes snagged the tripwires and ignited the flares. The early warning devices were set up within and to the front of the barbed wire surrounding the camp’s perimeter. The nearest bunker opened fire if they spotted an enemy soldier in the flare light. Its occupants fired every weapon, blowing a claymore or two and throwing grenades out to their front. It was a formidable response.
Polack stayed awake with LG a bit longer, both of them listening for foot traffic creeping through the jungle between their position and the firebase. Enemy soldiers had a knack for appearing and then disappearing into thin air. If the enemy had indeed tripped the flare, it’s likely that they’d hear him moving around to probe elsewhere on the perimeter.
LG responded to the 2200 hours request for a sit-rep with a single click on the handset. Polack sighed, hoping that he could get another hour of sleep before his next shift, and laid back down on his uncomfortable bed of brush.
Again, Polack was out within minutes. He fell into a deep state of sleep, dreaming about another childhood night of terror.
SIX – THE CEMETERY
My buddy, Paul, had a girlfriend who lived on a street adjacent to Mt. Olivet Cemetery, and when he visited her, I’d sometimes accompany him. As her house was a few miles away, it always took us about forty minutes to get there on our bicycles.
Once we arrived, Gloria from next door and a few of the other neighborhood kids walked over to join us on her porch. We’d sit on the steps of her small house, which directly faced the cemetery across the street, and often talked about all manner of weird stuff. Once, somebody mentioned a grave stone deep within the cemetery that spewed blood continuously every evening until midnight.
The neighborhood kids all remembered hearing about it but never chose to investigate. They were sure that something evil lurked there and had all warned each other to stay away. Paul and I heard of this bleeding gravestone before, and thought it might be an illusion of some sort, but one that we thought was worth checking out. The group shared our enthusiasm and supported the idea of breaking into the cemetery at night.
Mt. Olivet cemetery, built in 1888, is the largest cemetery in Detroit. Located on the east side of the city, it stands on over 300 acres of grass, gardens, and mostly maple and oak trees. The hulking, 19th century monuments that loomed over the plots are dark and Victorian, their presence at times spooky and intimidating, even during the day.
The main entrance was located on Van Dyke Avenue and Six Mile Road; the grounds spanned outward from that point and ran parallel to Van Dyke on the west and alongside Six Mile to the south. The North border ran alongside a diagonal set of railroad tracks crossing Van Dyke. Paul’s girlfriend lived on Beland, a residential street that also happened to serve as the cemetery’s eastern boundary.
Van Dyke and Six Mile were busy arteries in those days. Both streets hosted diners, factories, retail shops, a new car dealership, a bowling alley, and the northern boundary of the city airport. However, after dark, when the establishments closed for the day, the streets were empty, poorly lit, and still. A creepy aura spread beyond the cemetery fences, spilling onto the streets. Pedestrians avoided walking on the sidewalks next to the cemetery fence, and instead crossed over to the opposite side of the road. Nobody wanted to be near the property after dark and within reach of any ghosts or demons that might attempt to possess them.
Discussing the bleeding headstone for a couple of weeks, we finally agreed that a group would break into the cemetery and investigate this urban legend. In mid-July, darkness didn’t set in until ten o’clock, so we only had a couple of hours to work with and locate this notorious landmark.
We resolved to carry out our plan on the following Wednesday, which was only two days away. The weatherman predicted a clear night and full moon; perfect conditions for us to sneak through the graveyard.
Paul and I arrived on our bikes at the rendezvous point a little after 9:30 p. m. and found several of our friends waiting in the shadows along the fence line. Eight of us had planned to go on this reconnaissance mission, but all four girls backed out. They claimed that boys were better suited to climb over fences, fight ghouls, and handle anything else that we might encounter. Ghouls! Hell, I never considered coming across evil spirits once inside. Now I was beginning to have second thoughts. The girls clearly used the female card to stay behind and had no intention of admitting they were just plain scared shitless. The guys, on the other hand, had an image to uphold and didn’t want to appear to be sissies in front of the girls. As a consolation, at least we would not have to put on a show of bravado with the girls not there, and we could just be ourselves doing the deed.
It was time to go. Gloria and her friends offered words of encouragement and well wishes, promising to stay right there until we returned.
It was George, Jimmy, Paul and myself on this mission. Looking up at the towering fence before us, we could see that scaling it would clearly be the most challenging part of this adventure – at least we hoped that would be the worst part. The heavy wrought iron fence – designed to keep intruders out – stood menacingly before us. Each black three-quarter inch square steel baluster had a six-inch long spear-shaped ornament top; its overall height just a foot shy of a regulation basketball rim. Visions of impalement flashed through our brains, giving us pause and second thoughts of aborting the recon. However, boys being boys we would have done anything to look macho in front of females, even if it meant doing something exceptionally stupid that might get us critically injured.
Upper and lower three-inch wide rails ran horizontally along the expanse of the fence, two feet from both the top and bottom, providing stability and strength to the structure. It was designed to make it almost impossible to climb.
After fifteen minutes of brainstorming – as if we fourteen-year-olds were capable of doing so – Gloria returned, carrying two folded wool blankets in her arms. Standing on the bottom rail, I was able to drape both of them over the top of the balusters, thereby giving us a cushion and some protection against the sharp tips. I volunteered to be the first over.
As George was the largest and tallest of the group, we used him as a ladder to reach the upper rail. Jimmy and Paul helped me onto George’s shoulders and then positioned themselves to catch me in case I fell. From there, I stepped onto the top rail, threw myself over to the other side, and slid down the baluster like a firefighter on a pole. This accomplishment resulted in subdued cheers and clapping from those on the other side. It only took a few minutes before the other three joined me.
It was time to set off and find the mysterious gravestone. The four of us walked side-by-side toward the interior; it reminded me of the scene in the “Wizard of Oz” where Dorothy and her companions walked thr
ough the deadly forest – but here there was no yellow brick road to follow, and no beacon to guide us through the darkness ahead.
We proceeded into the cool night air cautiously, keeping within an arm’s reach of the guy next to us, holding onto his shoulder as we crept along. The tall trees soon blocked the rising moon from shining through the canopy, and each step was more precarious than the last. The old, ornate memorial statues would suddenly materialize in the darkness to give us a start. Angels poised in the air with shields and spears caused us to duck more than once. Still, no sign of the bleeding stone.
Hearing, but not seeing, the occasional vehicle passing on Six Mile Road, we changed direction and began shuffling that way. Suddenly Paul let out a muffled yelp and disappeared. We couldn’t make out a thing around us and called out to him, groping about with our arms. The three of us started to panic and were about ready to take flight when we heard him cussing from the ground behind us. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”. We found him sprawled out, and helped him to his feet. Apparently, Paul stepped onto a grave marker that had sunk into the ground. The sudden downward step caused him to lose his balance and fall to the ground. He thought he might have sprained his ankle, and he continued to spit out dirt and grass in between words. His open mouth had crashed into the damp earth as his face hit the ground.
I thought back to that first summer at camp when one of the boys in our group was grabbed by a mischievous counselor in the middle of the night while on his way to the bathroom. He screamed bloody murder, and the rest of us took off in a flash, scared beyond belief and leaving him alone to fend for himself. Luckily, Paul never found out how close I was to repeating history.
We only had another half-hour left before the apparition was said to disappear. We walked out from the copse of trees that had surrounded us and found ourselves stepping into the light of the now risen full moon. The ability to see changed our mood somewhat, but didn’t help to eliminate the eeriness of the graveyard. We walked among the dead, intruding on hallowed ground, our fear of the unknown growing with every second.
When Can I Stop Running? Page 5