Over the course of years, numerous wanderers who'd found themselves in the vicinity of Pomeroy's cabin had reported strange things. Dead animals—especially crows—were often found nearby in numbers considered too great to constitute mere coincidence. Passersby sometimes noted that the glow issuing from her hearth, and the smoke rising from her chimney, were oddly-colored. One account, from a ten-year-old boy who'd struck up the nerve to trespass, detailed Pomeroy's strange nocturnal habit of kneeling before a life-sized figure made of sack cloth and bowing with such force that her skeletal body would shake.
When pressed about her interaction with Thomas Prynn, the dead hunter, Ellie Pomeroy told the visiting lawmen nothing that they didn't already know. She did, however, share one thing: She expressed delight at hearing of his death.
This might have been the end of that terrifying season, if not for what happened next.
Constable Edward Adair, one of the three lawmen who'd spoken to Ellie Pomeroy on the 26th of May, was found at the bottom of an unused well with two broken legs on the 2nd of June by one of his colleagues during a town-wide search. He'd been missing for nearly three days when he was discovered at the bottom of the well in a delirious state. Pulled to the surface and treated promptly, Adair would go on to survive—but not without the amputation of both legs above the knee, due to the heavily-infected open fractures he'd sustained in his fall.
Constable Adair had much to say when he was finally nursed back to cognizance. He claimed—under oath—that he had been lured to the well by none other than Ellie Pomeroy. Allegedly, the woman had awoken him in the dead of night with a tapping at his window, and at meeting her gaze, he had felt his control over his faculties relaxed. In his pajamas, he had followed Pomeroy out into the field, citing a deep-seated compulsion all the while. Upon arriving at the well, the woman had ordered him to jump, and as though his body were not his own, he had complied.
It was Adair's view that Ellie Pomeroy was a practitioner of witchcraft—that she possessed what he called “mesmeric abilities” capable of influencing the behavior of otherwise stable individuals. The incident caused an uproar in town, and immediately connections were drawn between these supposed powers and the other mysterious deaths that had lately taken place. Rumors of Pomeroy's eccentricity had always circulated, but in light of these events they found new weight.
Newsom's Landing found itself at the center of a proper witch hunt in a nation where such trials had been out of fashion for some hundred-and-eighty years.
The case brought with it a great deal of controversy. Critics were outraged at the superstitious tendencies of the townspeople in what they considered an enlightened age; others wished to avoid a trial altogether and move straight to execution. One periodical of the time polled the locals, publishing that nearly 75 percent of the town's population were in favor of burning anyone found guilty of “mesmerism” or “witchcraft” at the stake.
After much deliberation, a trial was set for the end of September, 1881. In that time, as was her habit, Ellie Pomeroy stayed out of the public eye. The authorities managed to thwart two attempts on Pomeroy's life in the run-up to the court date, though as the trial drew near, the locals—fearing more mesmeric attacks—grew exceedingly restless.
On the night of September 14th, 1881, a band of men armed with guns and torches murdered Ellie Pomeroy and burned her cabin to the ground. Before a proper investigation could be launched and those responsible charged for their crimes, the mob hid the body, burying it in an unmarked grave. Though Pomeroy's final resting place remains unknown, it is said that the malefactors buried her body upside-down, as had been done to suspected witches throughout antiquity, and that they'd gone one step further in securing the silence of her spirit by driving four nails through her jawbone.
In the three years that followed, Newsom's Landing was abandoned by its inhabitants. Many reasons for this exodus are proposed by historians, though none seem especially comprehensive. The planned trial and subsequent murder of Ellie Pomeroy was big news State-wide, and the town was much looked-down-upon by its neighbors for its superstitious citizenry. Even so, those who left Newsom's Landing in outrage must have been relatively few.
There is vague talk in the histories of those who remained that things went very badly for the town from that point on. Stories of strange, beckoning figures in the woods began to turn up not long after Pomeroy's death. In September of 1882, on the one-year anniversary of her murder, a handful of townspeople disappeared, and still more experienced what they described as “acute confusion”. In September of 1883, still more accounts of such confusion were reported, along with a wave of unexpected and very public suicides.
By September of 1884, well, there wasn't anyone left in Newsom's Landing to write about what went on.
In the mid 1950's, the State of Kentucky bought up a big chunk of forest and began planning a State park. Trails were marked, and members of the forest service were brought in to patrol the heavily-wooded spot. In the 80's, with funds in the form of a Federal grant, the Kentucky legislature purchased several hundred more acres of nearby woodland and expanded the park, renaming it Swan Creek State Park and opening a number of new trails to the public. This addition in the 1980's happened to include the ruins of Newsom's Landing, which had hitherto been forgotten by all but a handful of local historians. Off-trail hikers sometimes explore the ruins despite warnings from the park services to avoid them.
...At least, that's what I was able to piece together from the info on the Swan Creek State Park website and its list of historical links. And, believe me, I'd had plenty of time to read all about it on the 5-hour drive to the campsite, between restless scans of Pinterest and Twitter, and sarcastic text messages from Diana reminding me to “have a good time ;)”. Meanwhile, Jared had listened to “Roxanne” by The Police about a dozen times, and had sung emphatically along with every repetition of the titular woman's name.
“Whatcha reading?” asked Jared when he'd tired of the music.
“Just learning more about the lovely place you're taking me.” I set my phone down and fixed him in a narrow gaze. “You know they got up to some witch-hunting shenanigans there in the 1800's?”
“Huh,” he said, coasting into the right lane so that an antsy semi-truck could speed by.
“They were going to put some woman on trial, but she got murdered by townies before the case could go to court.” Folding my hands in my lap, I leaned back in my seat and stared at the dome light over the dash. “And you know what day that happened?”
He shrugged, fingers tapping the top of the wheel in time with the opening to “Roxanne”.
I pulled up the calendar on my phone and held it so close to his face that his stubbled cheek glowed blue. “September 14th.” Clearing my throat, I continued. “Know what day today is? September 13th. You know, I can't help feeling that you did this on purpose.”
He smirked, eyes scanning the signs planted near the highway, which advertised nearby rest stops and restaurants. “Can't say that I did, though that might explain why I was able to request whatever campsite I liked. None of 'em were reserved—I had my pick of the whole park. Come to think of it, I saved a tidy bundle on the campground fees, too. Maybe it's a slow time of year for them because of the witch stuff. Or maybe with kids going back to school the demand just isn't there.” He pointed at a billboard featuring a picture of a hamburger on it that was so zoomed-in I might've counted the sesame seeds on the bun. “Hungry? I think I'm gonna pull off for a cheeseburger.”
“So, you really didn't know about this witch stuff?” I asked, ignoring his question. I paused, staring down at the phone in my lap and recalling everything I'd read about the fate of Newsom's Landing. “There were, like... disappearances around there, you know? After the 'witch', Ellie Pomeroy, was murdered, people started going missing on the anniversary of her death. It happened every year—it wasn't just an isolated thing. Within a couple of years, people abandoned the town altogether. Doesn't that...
bother you?”
“Nope,” replied Jared nonchalantly. “I'm not interested in witches or any of that dumb crap. That was, like, a hundred years ago or something, nah?”
I nodded. “The 1880's.”
“Right. Well, people back then were superstitious as hell. I wouldn't put much stock into their talk of witches. These are the kinds of folk who'd read all kinds of things into the cawing of certain birds, or who would convince themselves a famine was coming due to a misshapen ear of corn.” Another billboard turned up, this one featuring tacos. “Come to think of it, I'm feeling like a little fiesta. You game for tacos, babe? This is your last shot for a good meal before we get to the campsite. Once we're there, we're gonna be eating whatever we packed.”
“Whatever,” I said.
Keeping an eye out for the exit ramp, he turned the music down and sighed. “Why haven't we done this before? Gone camping, I mean?”
It might have something to do with the fact that I hate the outdoors, I thought to say. Instead, I opted for the less bitchy, “Dunno.”
“I hear the fishing here is killer. At its deepest points, the creek supposedly has some monster fish in it. The weather is set to be good, too, so we can get some hiking done. The park is huge.”
“Think we'll see any of the ruins?” I asked.
“Maybe. You want to look for some? I'll bet there's some interesting shit out there in the woods. We can probably go off the trails for a little ways before we end up lost.”
The thought of taking a long walk in the woods was unappealing enough; the idea of venturing off-trail into myth-tainted woods was sufficient to turn my stomach. “No, that's all right. If we get lost, I'll kill you, and I'd rather not have to do that.”
He clicked his tongue. “Who do you think you're traveling with? I know my way around a compass. I'm practically Daniel Boone!” He nudged the wheel to the right, starting onto the exit ramp. “All right. Next stop, lunch. Be sure to eat your fill! Oh, and you might wanna use the bathroom, too. You won't be seeing a proper flush toilet again for a few days!”
I stared straight ahead, a wry smile spreading across my lips. “Gee, you sure know how to get me fired up for this. Please, keep talking it up!”
Three
By the time we rolled off the interstate and began through the network of narrow roads leading into progressively more forested scenery, I felt sure we were going to be lost. In the way of landmarks we had only rust-effaced street signs and mile markers to go by, along with the occasional abandoned-looking barn or cabin. A powder-fine layer of mist haunted the windshield, and in the miles since it had begun to accumulate, Jared had been slow to clear it. Several times, when the opacity of the damp glass got to be too much even for him, he'd hit the wipers and assure me that this would all “blow over”.
I spent the hour before we reached the park staring out into the mist and admiring the greenery. The start of our trip had been mostly barren fields, the occasional stretch of corn. Now there were trees. Lots of them. We were on the border of a dense wood, and I was taken by the autumnal colors on display—subtle golds, coffee browns, the odd tangerine and cherry here and there. Homebody that I was, even I had to admit that the landscape was gorgeous. Usually, this was the type of beauty I was content to soak up via my desktop background, but as we sped down the narrow forest roads I felt something quite unexpected rise up in me: Excitement. Staring out at the trees, I was a girl again, preparing to jump into a pile of freshly-raked leaves in the back yard.
Jared, with nary a glance at the GPS app on his phone, took each and every turn as though he'd been driving these roads all his life. “We're almost there,” he said, rolling down his window and quaffing the cool, misty air. “Smell that? They don't make air like this where we come from!”
The smell of rain mixed with the sweet decay of the season filled the Jeep. I braced myself against the cool air, tugging on the sleeves of my sweater. “It's beautiful out here,” I said—and I must have said it as though I were admitting some great fault of mine, because he grinned.
“You ain't seen nothing yet! Just wait till we actually get to our campsite.” He took his hands off the wheel, holding them far apart for emphasis. “It's a nice, lush spot. Very remote. We'll practically have the whole forest to ourselves. Lots of deer throughout. Maybe some foxes or something, too.”
“And bears,” I added. “And bobcats. Not to mention witches...”
“Nah. I've had buddies come out this way. They've never seen a bear before. There are park rangers that come around, too, you know? They tend to do a good job of scaring away the bigger stuff. There aren't even that many of them left in this day and age. It's a shame, really. And as for witches...” He turned to me, arching a brow. “I suppose if she's sexy, we'll make room for her in the tent, yeah?”
“You're disgusting,” I replied.
“That's why you love me,” he countered with a laugh. Turning on the wipers, he pointed to something just ahead. “Look, there. We're coming up on the park entrance!”
A large, wooden sign had been hammered into the earth about a hundred feet ahead. It read SWAN CREEK STATE PARK, and featured an arrow pointing to our left, indicating a sharp turn. A small metal sign had been placed beside it, offering a phone number for the ranger's office, as well as rates for camping and parking to be paid at a kiosk deeper in.
The well-kept asphalt entry road attested to the spot's remoteness. Jared hung a left and coasted towards the parking lot, which looked roughly the size of a football field. To my surprise, it was completely empty. From every side, the forest encroached upon the lot; stubborn old trees bumped up against the staggered streetlights on the perimeter, and towered above the staff kiosk in a conspiratorial knot.
Letting up on the gas, Jared coasted into a spot directly across from the little shack and threw the Jeep into park. “It's a real bitch trying to find a parking spot around here, isn't it?” he said with a wink. Positively giddy, he pulled the keys out of the ignition and hopped out of the car, shielding his face from the mist with the back of his arm. “Be right back.” He began jogging towards the kiosk.
The kiosk was tiny—there was probably only room enough for a single person inside and essentials like a desk or chair were not a guaranteed fit—and it was fronted by a dirty, scuffed-up window like a bank teller's station. Jared leaned towards the glass and tapped it gingerly. After a careful study of the interior, he returned to the Jeep and hopped back into the driver's seat, palming the dampness from his hair. “Eh, there's no one there. Maybe he stepped out to take a shit or something. Let's give him a few minutes.”
I turned, craning my neck over the back of my seat to survey the wide, empty lot behind us. “Uh... how do you figure? There aren't any other cars here. Do you think they're closed?”
“No, they aren't closed,” he replied. “I paid the campsite fees ahead of time—reserved our spot for the next two days, specifically. I'm sure of it. I just need to talk to someone to get a sticker for our car. It's a little tag that lets the rangers know we're camping here. That way, they won't tow it.”
“Well, there was a phone number listed back there for the ranger's office, right? Maybe we should call them instead.”
Jared mulled it over, then nodded. “Yeah, worth a shot. The number was posted in that little window. Just a sec.” Exiting, he returned to the kiosk, phone in hand, and began punching in the number before retreating back to the Jeep.
Three rings later and there was a reply. It was quiet enough in the car for me to hear the ranger's voice on the other end.
“Swan Creek ranger's office, Thompson speaking. How can I help you?”
“Hi,” began Jared. “Sorry to bug you. My name is Jared Delapore. I, uh, reserved a campsite for the next two days and just arrived. Trouble is, there's no one in the kiosk here.”
A pause. “You're camping over the next two days?” The ranger had a gruff voice, sounded like an older guy.
“That's right,” replied Jare
d. “All paid up and everything. I just wanted to make sure y'all knew I was here. Do you guys do those parking stickers?”
“We do,” said the ranger, “but you won't need one. Not this weekend. I don't expect anyone else is going to be out there. What kind of car you driving? I'll make sure it stays put.”
“It's a silver Jeep, Ohio plates.” Jared provided the plate number. “So, we're all good, then?”
“All good, Mr. Delapore,” replied the ranger. “Unless you'd like to reconsider, of course.”
“Reconsider what?”
The ranger spared a curt laugh. “Listen, I don't want this to come off the wrong way, but you've caught us at kind of a strange time. We're under-staffed, probably won't have anyone working the kiosk till Monday, maybe Tuesday. What's more, patrols for the next two days are going to be brief. This time of year is always slow for us, so the State ends up slashing hours. You understand.”
“Sure, yeah. Why is it so slow this time of year, though?”
The ranger declined to answer, instead continuing. “You're set to have the woods to yourself these two days, but I've got to warn you that—should you end up in trouble, you're gonna be hard-pressed to find help. I can't recommend you stay out here. If you want, I can issue you a refund, and maybe you can come back next weekend when we've got more staff available. How's that sound?”
Jared's laugh came off as somewhat callous. “Yeah, that sounds swell, but I'm afraid I can't just come on back next week. This isn't my first camping trip, so I'm not too concerned.”
“Right.” The ranger was silent for a time. “I trust you'll behave yourself, then. If you make a mess of those woods, it's going to be real easy for us to narrow down the culprit, under the circumstances.”
“Scout's honor.”
“All right, then you have a good day.” The ranger slammed the phone down.
“The hell is his problem?” Jared stuffed his phone back into his pocket and stewed for a few moments.
The Splendor of Fear Page 2