by John Brhel
CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
backyard. Challenges and dares were thrown about, and
sometimes, but not always, the jawing and posturing would
lead to one of us hopping the fence and either standing on the front steps of the chapel, or bravely knocking on the
front door, while everyone else pedaled off screaming.
I had said I’d never go in that cemetery and the kids gave me hell for it summer after summer. But one afternoon at
the neighborhood pool, I let my bluster get the best of me and told my crush, Jenny Lynn Johnson, that not only was
I going to go up to the chapel, but that my good friend Ron Oliver and I were going to go inside. I had her attention all day and it felt good. She usually didn’t show up because
she had strict parents, so I figured I could skate by on talk alone. But Jenny Lynn did show up, whether or not at Ron’s request he never did say, as things got a bit dicey that night.
Being thirteen, with about eight of my friends and the
girl that I liked watching, and against my better judgment, I followed Ron in. We walked up the gentle slope that led to the chapel, our friends wide-eyed behind the iron fence. I did my best to avoid stepping on any of the graves, somewhat afraid that some bony Hungarian-American hand would
reach up and grab my ankle. When we got to the stone steps that led up to the porch walkway, Ron had to dig his knuckle in my back to get me to climb.
I had faced my fear to a certain extent, and stood before
the double-doors of the chapel, taking comfort in the
unlikelihood of us finding a way inside, as a thick, locked chain tight against the handles seemed to indicate that the place had been sealed well against vagrants and curious kids alike. But Ron spotted a loose window frame just off to
the side of the main entranceway and lifted it wide open
while grinning at me. It seemed almost like a secret door, it opened so smoothly, and was easy enough to enter through.
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DRACULA'S BRIDE
Ron was about to slip into the large opening he had
made when the telltale screeching of Mrs. Ellsic penetrated the tree line beside us. She had spotted our friends at the fence and Ron and I watched, petrified, as her flashlight
illuminated their flight. Eight or so outlines took off down the road as she shuffled into the street with her broom at the ready. We hid on the chapel porch for nearly twenty
minutes before we saw her head home and her light dim, at
which point we made our way back to the fence to retrieve
our bikes.
We rode away, and had barely left the cemetery
property when Ron tumbled off his bike in front of me,
eating dirt before skidding off the curb and into the street on his chest. My stomach flipped when a broad flashlight
beam illuminated the scene, me included. It was Mrs.
Ellsic! She had been standing behind an oak with her big
silver flashlight turned off, and had jammed her broom
handle into the spokes of Ron’s bike. She must have seen
us coming and had successfully ambushed us. Well, Ron
cussed her out and she cussed him out and I pedaled off,
never looking back, assuming my friend wasn’t that bad off, considering the language he was using.
The next morning, I stopped by Ron’s house and he
was still cursing that old witch. He lifted his sleeve and showed me a nasty, red skid mark on his arm he got when
he hit the cement. The front wheel on his Mongoose was
busted up, too. Mrs. Ellsic had gotten him good and he
was already planning how to get her back. We met up with
some of the other guys later that week and Ron fleshed out his plan. When he revealed what he had in store for Mrs.
Ellsic, I tried to get him to reconsider. But everyone else was egging him on and, as happens with guys that age, I felt I had no choice but to go along with the consensus.
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
A few nights later, the six of us met up and rode our
bikes up to Mrs. Ellsic’s, hoods up, masks on. She still
had a few lights on in her house when we showed up, so
we rode up and down the street a few times until the house went completely dark. We walked with our bikes around the
house and up her back steps slowly, keeping an eye out for any passing cars that might spot us. The heat was sweltering that night, and Mrs. Ellsic had left her doors and windows open, a screen door our only barrier to entry.
Ron popped the door open easily and everyone rode
their bikes inside. We went nuts, hooting and hollering
through the old house, tracking dirt all over the floor.
Knocking over furniture, pictures, anything that was in our way. Soon enough a beam of light shone from the second
floor down to the living room. We looked up to see the old lady scurrying down the stairs, screaming and cursing in her native tongue. It was madness. Caught up in the moment,
we chased her out of her own home and into the woods. We
circled her on our bikes haphazardly, thoughtlessly, as she scrambled away in her blue nightgown, and eventually into
the neighboring cemetery.
While weaving around gravestones, someone must
have run over the old hag’s foot, because she screeched
something nasty—and I’m not sure if it was by design, or
happenstance, but we ended up at the front of the chapel.
She was clutching her big flashlight tight, waving it around as she backed up the steps, scared as I’d ever seen another person. Ron got too close and she coldcocked him with the
light, knocking him to the ground, after which, we fled. As we rode away and back through the woods, we yelled, “Go
home to Dracula,” among other more derogatory slurs.
Ron wanted to stick around her yard to see if she would
show her face. He was even angrier now that he had a welt
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DRACULA'S BRIDE
on the side of his head to go along with his road rash. We practically had to drag him home, since we figured we were down to a few minutes before a squad car arrived, because
of how loud we had been.
Mrs. Ellsic never bothered us again after that. We
started high school that fall and eventually lost interest in neighborhood haunts and vampires. I even ended up dating
Jenny Lynn Johnson for a couple years.
And so, I found myself decades later staring up at
the chapel in that neglected cemetery week after week,
regretting that I never did have a look inside and conquer that silly childhood fear. Plus, Jenny Lynn was single again, after a nasty divorce, and I figured she’d have a good laugh when I told her I had finally found my way inside the chapel at Sunshire Hill.
So, when I’d finished mowing one evening, I headed
toward the chapel. I tried to peer through one of the
windows, but they were caked with grime. I tested the door, but the chain was still tight across it, barring entry. I then remembered the window frame that Ron had opened and
found that it was still loose. With a little jimmying, I was able to lift it and climb inside, but didn’t quite find my footing, tumbling a few feet and landing awkwardly on my
ankle.
I swore at the moderate pain and got back to my feet.
I had built up this elaborate, unearthly image of the place, and found that it was nothing but an empty, dirty chapel
with a few rotting pews. Still, my childhood imaginings had had a lasting effect on me, and as I walked down the main
aisle, trying to make out anything of interest in the near dark, I felt an oppressive discomfort.
I continued f
orward, unnerved by my own footsteps,
which echoed in the hollow chapel. I only passed a few rows
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DRACULA'S BRIDE
before something caught my eye. My first thought was that I had spotted some curtains or draperies in a pew, but then, as I drew closer, I was taken aback, thinking that I had stumbled upon a sleeping vagrant. But as I approached the figure, I saw that it didn’t have the fullness, the roundedness, of a living being, and dreaded what horror lay sunken within
that dusty blue cloth.
When I adjusted what I knew to be a nightgown, I
saw the partially mummified husk of an old woman—her
brown, leathery flesh surrounding a gaping maw. I backed
away, stricken, unwilling to accept the truth of what I had uncovered. It was only then that I spotted a large, dated, silver flashlight, still clutched in her withered hand.
• 103 •
• XI •
mOSS LAkE ISLAND
A motorboat cut through the tannin brown water of
Moss Lake in the early evening, carrying three friends.
Brandon and Cameron sat in the back, taking in the sights
of the Central Adirondacks, while Seth steered the craft
toward a small island that sat nearly dead-center in the lake.
“When you said it would be quiet here, you weren’t
kidding,” said Brandon. They could see no other properties along the perimeter of the lake, and there wasn’t another
soul in sight.
“My uncle likes it that way,” said Seth. He explained
to his friends how his uncle, Albert Beasley, had arrived
in the area in the late 1970s, not long after a rebellion by the Mohawk Indians had been successfully negotiated. Over
the next few decades Albert acquired much of the property
surrounding the lake, setting up his home on the small
landmass in the center.
As they neared the island, Cameron spotted a camp at
the far end of the lake, which until that point had been
concealed by Albert Beasley’s substantial rustic lodge. They were still a distance away, but from where Cameron sat he
could make out some people milling about the far property, and colorful garments hanging from a clothesline.
“Guess we’re not totally alone,” said Cameron.
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
Seth, ignoring the comment, piloted the boat to the
dock, scattering some wading loons. When they arrived,
the three young men grabbed their bags and headed toward
the compound. Mr. Beasley’s home was impressive even by
Adirondack standards. It was a grand, two-story structure
built from local timber, with a green shingled roof that
complemented the surrounding flora. Cobblestone stairs
led up to a porch, with a deck above that.
The front door opened and a sixty-something man
with a black beard came out to greet the friends. “Welcome to Moss Island,” said the man, smiling.
“Uncle Albert, it’s great to see you,” said Seth. “These
are my friends.”
Albert greeted the two young men with firm handshakes.
“Pleased to meet you, boys...”
“You as well, sir,” said Cameron. “The lake is beautiful.
It’s crazy you have it all to yourself.”
“Almost,” said Albert evenly, before inviting everyone
in. Cameron and Brandon both took a second look at the
property across the lake before following Albert and Seth
inside.
After unpacking and taking a tour of the home,
everyone went outside to the fire pit, where they ate prime ribeye steaks and drank beers. They talked about hiking
trails and various urban legends of the northern forests, as the sky darkened until the only light remaining was the fire crackling before them.
The conversation dropped when another fire ignited
across the water, much more intense than their own. With
it came music, laughter, hooting, and hollering. Albert,
who had consumed five bottles of Saranac lager, groaned.
“Those goddamn witches!” said Albert, startling Brandon and Cameron. Perplexed by the strange and sudden
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mOSS LAkE ISLAND
outburst, they looked over at Seth for a reaction, but he
simply stared into the fire.
Albert continued. “I offered them a shitload. Everyone else took it happily and left. But not them. No matter
how much I upped my offer, they wouldn’t bite. I’ve
been dealing with ‘em for years. They’re not your average
hippie-dippies, guys. They call themselves witches—I’m not even kidding. They drink and run around topless— liberated, ha—chanting their nonsense.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad to me,” said Brandon,
grinning.
Albert grunted. “It’s not like you think, kid. These
chicks are f’ing crazy. It’s bad enough they howl all night and cause a general ruckus—I call the sheriff on them all the time. No, they really take this whole ‘witch’ thing seriously.
They drowned my goddamn dog last summer. Couple years
before that they poisoned my caretaker. Nearly killed the
old guy. All in the name of some phony nature goddess.
Cops never do anything about the nuisance. Must be under
their ‘spell.’”
The three friends sat in silence as Albert carried on
with his tirade. When he was done, he grunted a goodnight
and stumbled away from the fire and on into the house.
“Is that all true?” said Cameron to Seth.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, c’mon,” said Brandon, standing up from the log
on which he was seated. “Your uncle’s screwing with us,
dude.”
“I think Albert’s just mad they won’t sell,” said
Cameron. “I wouldn’t sell either. This place is amazing.”
“It’s not a joke,” said Seth. “Our family owned this
land for a hundred years before the state seized it, then the Mohawks occupied it…”
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
Brandon pulled a pair of binoculars from his backpack
and looked out toward the camp. “Dude, check it out,” he
said, chuckling. He passed the binoculars to Cameron, who
saw a group of women who looked to be around their age,
in the glow of the fire. They were dancing, all of them nude from the waist up.
Cameron’s jaw dropped. “Holy shit…”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Brandon,
his breath heavy from the alcohol. He looked over at a
rowboat laying on the grass, next to a wooden canoe.
“Let’s go,” said Cameron. Seth had promised them
an epic vacation in the Adirondacks—Brandon had wanted
nothing but “booze and babes.” And they had been slightly
disappointed to find out they would be staying on a rinky-
dink lake in the middle of nowhere, far from the more
popular Adirondack destinations. That there were women only a short row away intrigued the 21-year-olds. Also, that they were naked.
“Hold up, guys,” said Seth, getting close to his friends.
“Didn’t you hear a thing my uncle said?”
“Yeah, I heard there’s half-naked, drunk chicks across
the lake,” said Brandon, smirking.
“They’re dangerous, though.”
Brandon and Cameron, two fit men in their early
twenti
es, both snickered at the idea that these young women could pose any sort of threat.
“Sure, dude,” said Brandon.
“My uncle will be pissed,” said Seth.
“He’s probably passed out already,” said Cameron.
“We’ll go hang out and be back in a couple hours. He’ll
never even know.”
Seth continued to warn his friends, but they walked
to the shore and pushed the rowboat into the dark water
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
of Moss Lake. He stood at the edge of the water as they
propelled slowly toward the other camp.
Cameron and Brandon, luckily, hadn’t drunk enough
that they couldn’t row in a straight line, and they advanced slowly toward the shore, fumbling with the oars from time
to time, laughing the whole way. As the pair drew closer,
they got a better view of the women dancing around the
fire, their breasts bouncing as they gyrated and waved their arms to the sky. The two friends were mesmerized as their
boat touched the far shore.
“Hey, ladies!” yelled Brandon, drawing the attention
of around a dozen attractive women.
“Who are you?” said one of the women, breaking off
from the group and approaching the young men.
“We’re staying over there,” said Cameron, pointing
back at Mr. Beasley’s island.
“Are you pagan?” said the woman, eying the two
curiously.
Brandon laughed. “No. Are you? ”
“If you’re friends with him, you’re not welcome here,”
she replied.
“Hey, we just met the guy,” said Cameron. “His nephew
invited us here for a vacation. We’re only staying a couple days.”
“Is that so?” The woman paused, looking Brandon and
Cameron over. “Okay, you can come up. I’m Rebekka.”
She led the young men to the fire. Other women
approached and greeted them, with no apparent sense of
modesty regarding their nudity. A striking, raven-haired
brunette named Kait offered them cups of homemade
wine, which they eagerly consumed. Many of the women
had cringed at the mention of Mr. Beasley, and gently
prodded the men to divulge further information about the
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mOSS LAkE ISLAND
wealthy, older man.