I've told you a fair number of legends that center around Benton Academy, I've also told you one or two that center around Benton High School. The School I attend. The story I'm going to tell you now, is a ghost story that is well known to the cadets of Benton High School's Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps or JROTC for short. That is commonly pronounced “JAY-rotsee” for those who were wondering.
This story, like I just said, is well known to the cadets of Benton High School, but has by and large escaped notice of the larger student body. Cadets are encouraged not to tell this story because of the tragic history behind it. And it often paints the program in a bad light. In the end I'm often led to wonder if one young man's quest for glory, power, and prestige did not blind him to the plight of his fellow cadets. And if his boundless ambition did blind him to the dangers. I'll let the reader judge for him or herself and make their own call.
Cadet Captain Sean Murphy was a young man that possessed boundless ambition and dreamed of being a decorated, career army officer. One who would accumulate dozens of medals for both bravery and accomplishments in the military sciences. And his first step on the road of greatness was turning the broken, poorly disciplined armed drill team of the Benton High School's JROTC program into a lean, mean drilling machine.
Sean Murphy had his job cut out for him, the cream of the program had just graduated, leaving behind a crop of swollen, ill trained and ill disciplined cadets behind. The Benton JROTC program was at the time a joke, and Sean knew it, the program was underfunded and many of the students down on the program and the cadets that wore it's ill fitting hunter green uniforms. The staff considered the program a dumping ground for troubled students. And those who came from troubled and broken homes.
The cadets Sean was to drill and mold into his “Dream Team '' were the sweepings of the street. The problem child of the school. The ones the school had given up on and swept into the program in hopes they would be kept away from the general population. Many could not tie their own shoelaces and many only saw the program as a waste of time and barked at the restrictions placed on them. Some did more than bark, some lashed out with their fist and their feet.
But Sean was up to the task. Standing six foot three inches with short cropped back hair and a voice that sounded like a bullhorn he bellowed out orders. Rain, or shine he drilled his tiny band. His broken Irish voice seemed to echo off the brick walls of the school. He scolded and criticized each cadet that broke step and berated the platoon as a whole.
He publicly dressed down each cadet that did not live up his ideals. Often forcing them to do push-ups, sit-ups and one mile ones as punishment for their infractions. The instructors, far from trying to stop this abuse, encouraged it and rewarded Sean with praise, a promotion and accolades. This only caused Sean to double down on his training. He knew the annual drill meet with their biggest rival Yazoo City High School was only months away and while his small, humble platoon had turned the corner and were now marching in step, they were still far, far from the well oiled machine Sean thought they could be.
And so he doubled down on them. Uniform inspections from a once a week thing to almost daily. Sean went to extreme measures to ensure each uniform was worn correctly. Including using a lighter to burn away loose threads of the uniform, while being worn by cadets. Such loose threads were commonly called “Irish Pendants” by Sean. When one cadet questioned this method. Sean had him run twenty three laps around the football field in full BTU. That stands for Battle Tactic Uniform.
In short Sean was a madman who demanded perfection. But this brutal training paid off, by the time of the annual drill competition, he had fielded one of the best armed drill teams the program had ever seen. But then something happened that nobody could have expected to happen. On the day of the meet a rainstorm moved into the region, a blinding rainstorm, a rainstorm that would go down in history as one of the second worst ones ever to hit the Central Mississippi. It would drop a reported twenty three inches of rain and cause flash flooding in all low lying areas.
As Sean watched this storm roll on, his brow knitted in frustration. He had expected Yazoo City to call off the competition due to the weather but they refused instead saying they would move the competition inside their school's gymnasium. Worst of all Clinton, Terry, Ridgeland, Madison, Flowood, Terry and Vicksburg had already traveled to Yazoo City to take part in the competition, since those programs were well funded they simply traveled ahead of the storm and rented motel rooms out for all of their cadets.
Now, any other commander would have called the operation off. The roads between Yazoo City and Benton were indeed passable. Were in flooding conditions and despite reports of washouts between Yazoo City and Benton he ordered his small platoon to board the bus prepared for them. Many took one look at the rain swept road and knew their fates were in the hands of God.
Sean was the last to board the bus. He paused and took one look at the school and sighed as he climbed the bus. The rest is history. According to newspaper clipping I've uncovered the bus swirled out of control once it crossed a bridge. The school bus broke over the guardrail and plunged down into a deep gorge.
All fourteen cadets, their commander Sea and the driver were killed, the swollen stream that ran through the gorge carried away the bus, and the bodies of the fourteen lost souls, and swept them into the Yazoo River. According to legend it was then swept into the Mississippi River and then into the Gulf of Mexico. Regardless, the bodies were never recovered and remained lost to this very day.
Now with the ghost story.
Since that day, people have often reported the sound of phantom feet marching across the blacktop at school. And the sound of a disembodied voice calling cadence. And of a group of phantom cadets, dressed in there 'Class A' uniforms. Lined with ribbons, stand under the roof top, of the waiting area. Often they seemed distressed as they huddle around, trying to keep their hands warm.
And my own account. One Saturday afternoon after cheerleading practice, I was walking to my car. When I heard a faint voice behind me calling out cadence. I looked over my shoulder and there behind me stood two lines of cadets dressed in their 'Class A' uniforms. They were marching in good order but something seemed off about them. They seemed almost stiff, and there skin seemed shallow and their eyes sunken in. And beside them another, still marching beside them still bellowing out orders.
I watched them pass me by, two abreast and then they seemed to vanish into a thin cloud of smoke, I felt a chill pass over me as they passed by. Their eyes glazed over, their eyes reminded me of a fish that had been hauled in on a fisherman's line and left on the banks to breathe its last ragged breath. I will never forget those eyes. Gaunt and hollow, void of light of emotion. Their skin, gray and waterlogged, the sound of their phantom steps echoed in my ear long after vanishing from my sight.
Students are not the only ones to see these phantom cadets as they are drilled even in the after life. One day, not too long ago a group of visiting dignitaries was touring the school when they happened to notice a platoon of what they assumed to be cadets from the school's JROTC program was performing for them a series of drills. The group was impressed with the smartness of the group and how professional they looked.
They watched the group perform drills for a good fifteen to twenty minutes before the group seemed to move on. Later that day, the group of dignitaries complimented the senior instructor on the fine performance. The senior instructor blinked, and in a low voice informed them that no cadets were practicing drill at the time.
I believe that the souls of those fourteen cadets who were killed in that tragic accident remain earthbound because they never got a chance to prove themselves. I'm a cheerleader, and part of the thrill of cheerleading is getting to show off my talents and skills, skills homed and developed over long periods of intense workouts and training sessions. I would feel the same way, if I had died before a big game. But as for helping them. I don't know how to help them move on, I'm sad to say.
There is a long held belief among those who live in Yazoo County that the name of the Yazoo, the name given to the river that flows through it, and who's yearly overflow made it prime cotton growing ground comes from the old Choctaw word that means “River of Death”. I guess that is fitting enough because all the ghost stories and legends I've shared with you center on Yazoo County. This next story was told to me by a good friend of mine. Her name is Lana Edwards. She is one of the few remaining Edward's that call Benton home.
Now the Edward's family, according to local lore, moved into Benton following the Civil War. And many of the old folks in town still consider the Edward's family to be “Carpetbaggers'' that is a largely historical term used by Southerners to describe opportunistic Northerners who came down to the ruined Southern states after the American Civil war, who were perceived by to exploiting the local population for their own financial, political, and or social gain.
I have known Lana since I moved to Benton and I can safely say that she and her little sister, her mother and her father are among the finest people to call Benton home. Lana even volunteered to be Benton Academies hostage one year, I guess that was the year before I arrived here in Benton. Anyway one afternoon, while there was nothing going on, she sat down and told me the following story.
Southerns love telling stories, I think it's in our blood. I think it echoes back to the days before radio's, television and the internet. Before we became glued to our phones. Back in those days, the whole family would gather in the summertime on a screened in balcony and lay out covers on the floor. That was before the time of fans and air conditioners, back when the coolness of the night was the only relief from the blistering heat of summer. Often to pass the time stories would be told as each member of the family struggled to fall asleep under the light cotton blankets.
One story that was told to me, and that is the story I'm going to tell to you, was told to me by my late grandmother Katherine Rebecca Edwards. Who heard it from her grandmother. Now, if you were to travel the back roads of Benton you would soon discover that dozens of smaller, unpaved roads often feed into the main roads. These roads are often unmarked and if one was to follow them, one would often come to an abandoned homestead that is slowly being reclaimed by nature.
Its at the end of such a road. Now, I can't tell you how to get there, but I could show you. That one would find an old abandoned homestead that is slowly being reclaimed by nature. The homestead once belonged to my grandmother. We call it the old “Edward Homestead''. But I'll do my best to tell you how to get there. Now if you leave Benton and are driving south like you're going toward Jackson on the highway you'll come across an old, wooden Methodist church. It is called “Shallow Creek Methodist Church '' and was founded by my Taylor C. Edward who was a Methodist Minister. A Historical Marker is located in front of the church. The church is still active and hold's services on the first and third Sunday of each month.
Anyway once you reach that church you will notice an old dirt road that curves to the right. You take that dirt road and it will take you down a winding country lane, you're going to cross a few bridges, be sure to count the bridges, because before you come to the third one you're going to take another right and that's going to take you down another winding country lane. Slow down now because you'll soon pass a collection of old weather worn graves. After you pass that collection of graves, keep your eyes open for another dirt road that leans to the left. A wooden post covered in ivy should be the marker you're looking for. Take that road and follow it.
About a mile or two down that road you should come to an old abandoned house that is covered in vines. Stop your car and get out and look around. A few hundred feet from the house you should see a old stone well that covered in vines
This, well, is haunted. And every night the ghost of a poor Irishman comes from the well and cries out for help. He is trapped in that well, and has remained trapped for the last one hundred and fifty years. Now according to family lore, my great-great-grandfather hired two Irishmen to dig a well for him once his other well went dry. This was before the days of indoor plumbing, back in those days most of the drinking water had to be collected in wells or cisterns and often they went dry in spells of hot weather or when the rains were late. A well that would not go dry was good as gold.
Now one of the Irishmen was a big strong fellow who spoke with a thick as molasses Irish accent. He had a head of fine red hair with a big bushy beard that was red as his hair. He loved to brawl and was often seen drinking in the salons and public houses that lined “Grease Row”. Helping him was a fellow Irishman who was a small, frail fellow. Unlike his friend he shunned the darkened rooms of the salons, public houses, and whore houses and instead read the bible. He was also pious to a fault and attended Mass daily.
Now according to the legend the big fellow often found sport in teasing the little fellow. He often poked fun at his small side, making fun of his pious nature. Now my great-great-grandfather was a generous man by nature and often paid his day laborers more than the other large farmers. While most men were lucky to get seventy five cents a day for their labor and a skilled man could get as much as a dollar twenty five for their troubles my great-great-grandfather was known to pay as much as two dollars a day to his day labors and three dollars a day to his skilled helped.
And so these two Irishmen were paid well for their troubles. And despite the tension between the two they tried to get along and worked from daylight to dust. So the work on the well went smooth, and in two short weeks they had finished the well, but no water did they find and worst of all there was a fault with the sealing, the rainwater that fell into the well bleed into the ground.
Now my great-great-grandfather was shrewd as he was generous. He had paid a fair wage for their labor and had been rewarded with a broken well. Sighing, he informed the two that because they had failed to seal the well properly he would withhold a dollar from each day's wage going forward. Outraged, the men barked at this, but instead of losing his cool, he simply held up his hand and told them that this was only for two weeks, once the fourteen dollars had been repaid he would go back to paying them two dollars a day.
And with that he rode away. Now the bigger, stronger fellow turned upon the little one. It has been his job to mix the concrete that was to be used to seal the well. Thus it was his fault that he was being docked two weeks pay. The smaller man barked back, saying the bigger man was at fault, because he had measured out everything. It was him who was to blame. Soon the two were barking back and forth.
Then something happened, according to legend the small man picked up a nearby shovel and without thinking smacked the larger man upside the head with it. The shove is a fearsome weapon and the edge cleaved into the Irishman's head and split it open. The smaller one, still in raged and driven by some inhuman force, lifted the man that was twice his size up and tumbled him down into the well. And then he took flight. According to legend he took his savings, and boarded a train in Benton and later found employment in the coalfields of Alabama.
Anyway a short time later, people started hearing what sounded like screams of pain coming from the now abandoned well. Some even reported hearing desperate pleads for help. And some reported seeing the phantom shape of a man dressed in dirty overalls and blown out work boots coming from the well on moonless nights.
Soon rumors started going around that the land was haunted and the other field hands, many of them were very superstitious, started to leave. Many feared the wrath of the phantom, and many believed the ghost would only bring back luck, such as crop failures, drought, and milk to sour. Many of them left to find work on the Railroad or the newly opened Brickwork in town.
Now I've never seen the ghost, but I believe the story. My great-great-grandfather would in time go on to open a butcher shop on main street and to this day my family still owns and operates it. But from time to time we'll host family gatherings out on the old homestead. And normally such gatherings would last three or four days. And of course somebody will bring up the story, and the older folks will gather the younger folks around and once more tell us the story of the murdered Irishman I've just told you and warn us about going around that old well.
Again, I've never seen the ghost. But you might if you follow the directions at the beginning of the tale. Just be sure its a moonless night. One that late in the autumn when the trees are bare and the wind is howling across the open fields.
Have you ever asked yourself the following question? What causes a place to become haunted? Or to become infested with demons? That is the million dollar question that is often debated among theologians and paranormal scholars alike. I'm not here to answer that question. I'm here to tell you a story of a building that is haunted. Haunted by the lost soul of a wayward teenage girl who tragically took her own life in a fit of religious fever and my personal encounter with her. But first a brief history lesson.
In the year two thousand two a number of local pastors and religious leaders banded together and pooled their limited resources to form a non-denominational youth ministry called “The Way Cafe” remember this was in the early two thousands and so the name may sound a little corny now. But their intention was to provide a safe place for the local youth of the town to come and hang out and in their words “Hear the Word of God.” But as the old saying goes, and how often I've found that it rings true, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. And over the fourteen years the “Cafe” as the local kids came to call it was in operation it became anything but a youth ministry, it became as my late grandfather once said around the dinner table “Little Sodom and Gomorrah.”
The “Cafe” attracted the wrong kind of attention, some said. Others said it was plagued by poor leadership. Broken kids from broken homes came there to find shelter from their troubles at home. Homeless teenagers came there looking for shelter and guidance. And finally LGBTQ+ youth came there, looking for help. These troubled young men and women, proved fertile ground for the brainwashing techniques the leadership used to control their charges. The leadership was mostly made up of college age kids, that in many cases were not more than a handful of years old than the ones they were trying to help.
One of those troubled souls was a girl who discovered she was attracted to other girls. And was told by one of the youth leaders that that was a sin. And she should be ashamed of herself for liking other girls and she should repeat her ways. The girl came from a broken home. Her dad worked long hours in Benton Brickwork and spent all of his money down at the Mellow Fisherman. A run down bar located on the bank of the Big Black River. And her mother was an addict that often walked the streets to feed her addiction. The girl had come to depend on the “Cafe” For both food, shelter, and a safe place to crash when her father was on a drinking spree and her mother was crashing at a cheap motel with a passing trucker.
Can you for a moment, just imagine how much courage it took this teenager to come out. And instead of being accepted for who she was, she was scolded and made to feel ashamed? Can you just imagine how that must have shattered her soul into a million tiny pieces. And then the cold, cruel man took a hammer and started to smash those million tiny fragments into dust by telling her she was bound to hell? The girl felt trapped and so she did what many might have done. She turned to ending her life as a means of escape. She did so by hanging herself with her belt and she hung herself in the bathroom of the “Cafe”.
Anyway I first came across the old “Cafe” building as the local's call it when mom was giving me the grand tour of my new hometown. The building was an old cotton warehouse that was located on Cotton Exchange Street one block over from Main Street and about a stone's throw away from the town's train station.
The building at the time was this abandoned two story cotton warehouse, the “Cafe” was located on the upper level. You had to reach it by climbing up a flight of concrete stairs. Below it was one of the most notorious hell fire clubs in Benton the “Little John and Robin Hood Tavern.” Here the remaining few Klan Members gathered together to drink hot beer on table and complain about the local Democratic leadership that pretty much ran the city. Here over dirty mugs of beer, they talked about schemes to get the Republicans back in control of the city government and debated plots to in time overthrow the mayor, by force if need be and usher in a new golden age for the Klan and bring back its glory days.
Mom pointed the building out to me and told me she used to hang out there when she was my age. She also made the off-handed remark that the building was supposed to be haunted. That last comment really piqued my curiosity and caused me to ask a flurry of questions about the building. Mom really did not want to talk about the place. She warned me though to stay away from it and that the place had been shut-up for ages. Having closed down in two thousand fourteen.
Now I'm not the person who can let something go. So when I was told to stay away from there, naturally I decided I needed to check it out. So one night a few months ago, when mom was out of town on some business trip. If I recall correctly she was attending the annual veterinary conference they hold each year up in Memphis. Anyway with mom out of town I had the free rein to explore the town at my pleasure.
Anyway, it was around twilight when I left my house. The street lights had just come on and the town was settling down for the night. It took about thirty minutes by bike to peddle from the street I lived on, Croft Street to the utmost downtown section of Benton.
The old warehouse stood like a phantom. Light spilled out from the open door of “Little John and Robin Hood Tavern” and onto the uneven brick paved streets. From inside the bar you could hear people joking, yelling and shouting. Behind the bar there is a concrete paved alleyway. To access the cafe you had to walk down this concrete paved alleyway and then you would come to a door. I remember how narrow the alleyway was. And how it reeked, moss grew on the walls of the old plaster building, and then I found it, a brightly painted doorway.
In big, bold, neon letters the words “The Way Cafe” were spelled out. The glass of the door had been broken and billions of tiny shards of glass littered the doorway. Taking a deep breath I carefully stepped into the doorway, I could hear the billion tiny shards of glass breaking and cracking under the heel of my foot. My heart was racing like a steam mill as I slowly climbed the concrete steps.
I remember how narrow the hallway was, I was thankful my phone could double as a flashlight. The air inside the hallway was damp and reeked of mold. On the second landing, I saw the remains of a homeless man's meal. The smell of piss hung around the second landing like a blinding light. Carefully I counted each step, fourteen concrete steps took me from the second landing to the edge of the doorway. Again this door had been broken in, and its shattered ruined lay to the side. Another billion shards of glass twinkled in the moonlight like the stars of heaven above me. If I only knew at that moment the hell that awaited me just beyond that door.
I swear upon the Cross of Jesus, I would have turned around and walked down those steps. But I did not, I had to push on. I'd come too far to turn back now. Now there are two old sayings I'm going to include here before I go any further into this story. “If there is a Heaven on Earth. There also a Hell.” And one my late grandfather said. “When God builds a church the devil builds a chapel.”
I can't explain the first one. But I can explain the second one. Any for good, such as progress or reform, is by the laws of nature inevitably accompanied or closely followed by something bad. And you could sense the evil coming from that threshold. Something told me to turn around and leave. A voice that came from the very back of my head.
I wish I did. But instead I took on step into the inner chamber. I remember, feel depressed, scared, and lonely. The molding remains of a coach sat pushed beside a broken down wall. Somebody had spray painted, in dark red letters. “RIP Butters.” I remember standing there, looking at the old letters. I felt sick. The air was stale and dust hung thick. I could follow my foot prints in the dust that had settled on the floor. I remember the main hallway lead beside some kind of office, the door to this office was locked. But beside it was a board, pinned to the board were dozens of fading photos and calling cards. Neo-Christian Rock Bands it seemed had once been hosted here. A few of the cards reminded me of the Neo-Pagan/Celtic/Christian Rock Bands that seemed all the rage back in the late two thousands.
It was like walking in the ruins of Pompeii. Much remained, though ravages of time had taken its toll. Then something happen from one of the rooms, the ghostly form of a girl around my age appeared. Her skin remembered me of flour and her hair was jet back and her face seemed almost void of any emotion. She was dressed in a black skirt, and a black shirt, with black socks and black shoes. A spike collar was worn around her neck and a few plastic bracelets around her wrist.
Her fingernails, I remember her fingernails had been painted a coal black and had a high gloss finish to them. Her eyes, her eyes were green as emeralds and her lips too had been painted a dark black. For a moment our eyes met each other and in a low tone of voice she said to me.
“Don't try to stop me.” She said as she brushed passed me. I felt a cold gust of wind smack me in the face as the girl walked passed me. I followed her. I followed her, now the stories say she hung herself with her belt. What I saw in the dim light was a cord of old, brown hemp rope that seemed to six feet long. A noose had already been prepared and it was swinging from one of the rafters of the bathroom. I remember watching her walk into the bathroom. The bathroom like the rest of the building had shown signs of decay and ruination.
The walls had been gutted as thieves had taken hammers to them, searching no doubt for copper tubing to sell to the junk yard man. The sinks had been broken. The doors remained unhinged and the smell, oh god the smell. It made me want to wrench. Amid all of this this girl, who like I said appeared to around my age just stood for a moment. A wooden stool, one that had been painted a neon green
“I told you don't fucking try to stop me! None of you bitches care about me, all you want to do is gossip and shit. I'm tired of this god damn life anyway!” She bellowed as she climbed up on the stool and placed the rope around her neck. I was beyond words. It was like I was watching a movie play out. I felt like while the girl was addressing me directly, she was not talking to me. It was like she was talking to somebody who was not there.
A moment later I screamed, and my screams echoed off the walls. All it took was a second for the girl to loose her footing on the stool and for her to fall off the stool. The rope tighten around her neck and I heard. I swear to you on my mothers good name I heard the rope tighten and her neck pop like a cork. She hung there for a moment, dangling lifelessly in front of me.
For several long seconds I watched her dangle there. I was too stunned to do anything. I wanted to scream, but it was like a demon had stolen my voice away from me, the seconds turned into minutes and then much to my horror the girl opened her eyes and peered toward me. Never breaking eye contact she slowly removed the noose from around her neck and slipped down without a sound. She sighed and shook her head.
“Maybe next time.” She said as she peered toward the noose that started to swing in a none existent breeze. She then said something that chilled me to the bone. She turned toward me and in a gentle, encouraging voice said to me.
“Okay its your turn now.” She said. “Maybe you'll go to the next life and face judgment. Or maybe you'll stay here with the rest of us.”
I screamed and ran out of the room. What I saw then shook me, the lobby with the smothering coach was filled with teenagers, all looking rejected and depressed. Some held old rags around their wrist, some just sat there looking down at their wrist that had blood dripping down. The blood pooled in front of them, in their hand they held blood covered box cutters.
I recoiled in horror and then the girl behind me appeared and in my ear she whispered.
“We are the souls trapped here in this place. This is our purgatory, trapped between Heaven and Hell. We are forever trapped here in this falling down building because those who were supposed to help us, failed us and the suffering we caused because we tried to escape enslaved us. We are in a hell of our own making.” She said as she placed an ice cold hand upon my shoulder. I turned around to face her and the smile she gave me will forever haunt me.
“Remember this, Taylor Anna Croft. Though we are trapped here. We still have power over this pass. And we do not take kindly to trespassers who venture into our domain. We have agreed to let you off with a warning this time. But if you dare venture here again. It would be your lifeless body they find dangling from the rafters of the bathroom.” She said as she removed her ice cold hand from my shoulder.
Stunned I quickly rushed through the broken down door, down the concrete stairwell and out the door. Now, I shall try to answer that question. What causes a place to become haunted? I'll put my money on trauma. It's a reason I feel most hospitals are haunted. And to answer the second question, long asked by paranormal scholars and researchers. Can ghosts hurt you? I'll say yes they can. I believe if you're foolish enough to trespass into their domain then they have power over you. I believe their invisible lines all over this word. And once you walk over that line. You are entering into the ghost's domain. Within that domain they hold sway. So yes, they can hurt you. They can even kill you if they want too.
The End.
According to the Book of Genesis, the first recorded murder in human history was committed by Cain who murdered his brother Abel. Setting the stage for men to murder each other for years to come. A foreshadowing to man's own bloody history of conflict with his fellow man. Now, the next story was told to me, by my cousin, Daisy. Who claims the story is true. And there was something in the manner of his speech, something the way he seemed to look over his shoulder, something in the way he held himself as he recounted this story that filled me with a sense of dread.
Few people know that I'm a boy scout. And that right now I'm working my way toward becoming an Eagle Scout. With that being said I've spent a lot of time at summer camps and going on scouting retreats. The story I'm going to tell echo's what transpired between Cain and his brother. I heard this story while sitting around a campfire at Camp Seminole.
Forty years ago, back when the camp was just being built. Back then they used a lot of 'volunteer; labor. In short, scouts who needed some volunteer hours would be drafted into helping haul in building supplies and those that need certain badges would set to work doing such tasks that needed to be done to help earn that badge. In short the camp was built for the most part using scout labor. And the camp is still to this day maintained by using scout labor.
Anyway, it was a few months into construction of the camp. The roads, mostly gravel and still for the large part they are still gravel, had been finished. The main barrack, aka The Lodge, had just been finished. And the trails were still being cut out of the woodland. It was late in the summer, and the weather was hot. Sickness was slowly slowing down progress. The woodland swarmed with mosquitoes, ticks, and leeches. The water had to be boiled before it was fit to drink and the food, mostly canned, spoiled in the heat.
It was hell. Being sent to Camp Seminole was often seen as a punishment. But the work had to go on. And so to boost the dwindling labor force the Andrew Jackson Council sent out a decree demanding that each troop furnish its own contingent of scouts to support the efforts. Each scout was instructed to furnish his own gear and his own tools.
Now among those chosen were two scouts. One was named Abe and the other was named Noah. The difference in them was like the difference between daylight and dark. Abe was honest, upright and true to the scouts' bylaws. Noah was disloyal, seething and something of a bully. Abe came from Jackson, Noah came from Vicksburg. Both were assigned the same tent. And to the dismay of both, they were often given the same field assignments.
Now, the story I was told was this, that both Abe, often called Honest Abe by his fellow scouts for his straightforward nature and was often honest to a fault. Was generally well liked by his fellow scouts. But Noah on the other hand, with his trickery, sulking, and ill manners was shunned. Now the two of them were given the task of hewing a trail out of the thick, tick infested forest of Oktibbeha County.
The trail was to a hiking trail, some sixteen miles in length. Thirty four scouts were assigned to work on hewing this trail out. Now, making a trail is hard work, first you must cut through the undergrowth with hatches or machetes. It's backbreaking work and in the jungle-like forest of Northern Mississippi. It's pure hell. Once you've cleared a path, you have to remove anything in the way, fallen sticks, logs, stumps and such. Then you have to haul in dirt and gravel, the dirt and gravel are normally hauled in by hand, either using a wheelbarrow or a bucket. Your tools, spades and shovels.
Now I've walked the full length of this trail before and about eight miles in it comes to a bend. Here a wooden cross can be found, hammered into the ground. Burned into the wooden surface is one word. “Abe” It was here the lifeless body of Abe the scout I've mentioned before was found, his head split open and his face bruised and batters, his nose broken and his fingers twisted. His shirt and shorts tattered, and oddly enough one boot was missing. His personal gear, his knapsack lay open and its contents laid scattered about his lifeless body, items such as his personal Mess Kit, a simple tin box that contained a tin cup and some simple cutlery. The box is clamped together, and one side can be used as a cooking pan and the other a plate if you've never seen one.
His canteen, empty and drained of water, is a wallet, empty too. Now it's not uncommon for some scouts to carry with them a small amount of money when they go camping at summer camp. Normally twenty dollars is the limit to discourage others from thieving. The money is used to buy things from the Trading Post. That is the name given to the little shop that most camps have. Anyway, also scattered around the ground were personal items, such as a small Bible, a set of prayer beads, and a small prayer book.
It was clear to all that Abe had been murdered and the person who had done the deed had thought to pillage Abe's lifeless body for all it was worth. Personally, I find it odd that the attacker left the knapsack, the Mess Kit and the canteen. That would be worth more than the few crumpled dollar bills the wallet held. Scouts at this time were only allowed to carry five dollars, anyway I ramble.
What happened, most think that Noah and Abe finally came to blows. Putting Noah and Abe together was like mixing Bleach with Ammonia. What happens when you mix Bleach with Ammonia? Well it makes toxic gasses called chloramines are produced. Exposure to chloramine gasses is not a pretty thing. They cause coughing and nausea. Forty years later I still question the wisdom of putting those two in a tent together much less giving them the same field assignment. Anyway it was clear to all that Abe had been murdered and Noah must have been the murderer.
Now, nobody knows what happened to Noah. He just vanishes from the annals of scouting history at the camp. Some people say he hitchhiked out of the woods and caught a ride back to Vicksburg. Others say he might have hung himself deep within the woods, overcome by guilt and driven by remorse. I don't know what happened to him. I told Madeline just that when she sat down and interviewed me for this story.
But I do know what I saw late one August when I was maintaining a trail at camp. Now I belong to Scout Troop 3451 out of Vicksburg. It's a fair size troop with around a hundred active scouts of all ages. Anyway I was the only one from Vicksburg attending camp that weekend and some scouts from 4561 Sharbrough Landing had taken me. It was a work weekend that week and all the troops were busy doing maintenance around the camp. 4561 had drawn the short draw that morning and was sent into the woods to repair some trails.
I remember that day, it was cloudy and overcast with the temperature reaching into the mid one hundreds. In Mississippi it's not uncommon for temperatures to reach as high as a hundred ten at peak summer time. And today was one of those days. It was hot as hell, and I was sweating bullets. I was working by myself, clearing away brush, chopping down weeds, and generally trying to stay busy and keep out of sight of the trail boss who had a hard nose.
When I heard something. It sounded like a cry for help.
The shrill cry seemed to be coming from some nearby bushes. Thinking one of the younger scouts had gone and hurt himself, I laid my shovel up against a nearby tree and went to check it out. A few minutes later, I saw something I would never forget. Laying down on the ground was a scout that dressed in an odd looking uniform. It was like something I've seen before, see at camp there this little museum that shows exhibits of how scouts lived when the camp was being built. One of the exhibits was of old uniforms. And this guy here was wearing a uniform that looked just like the ones I've seen sitting behind the glass display cases.
“You okay?” I called out. Dumb question of course he was not okay, he was laying flat on the ground. I went up to him and I noticed he seemed to be holding his head. I crouched down and gently removed his hand from his head and I then recoiled in horror. His head had been split open. I mean there was a gash running all the way across his head.
“Damn!” I said as I looked down. I then noticed the guys gear was scattered about. “What happened?” I said looking around the area.
The fellow of course did not answer but only muttered something under his breath. I figured we could piece together what happened later. But clearly what was needed was getting this fellow to the first aid station so they could render some basic first aid before they loaded him up in an old jeep and rushed him to the nearby hospital in Starkville. From there it was either get sewn up and spent a few days or get airlifted to Memphis or Jackson.
“Here.” I said. As I reached down and picked the guy up. I'm not strong by any means. But somehow I managed to lift the guy up on my shoulders and carry him in kind of a fireman's carry. Looking back, yes the best thing I could have done was leave him there and sprinted off and brought back help. But I guess I wanted to be a hero or something. Anyway I'm not the strongest person in the world. I stand about five two and soaking wet I think I might weigh around a hundred fifteen pounds. If I've just eaten. I'm a runt and no amount of outdoor training, hiking and dieting has helped put an ounce of weight on my skinny white ass.
So the fact that my skinny ass arms could lift that guy up at all was amazing. And the fact that I'd managed to climb my ass up that steep hill with him slung across my back was also amazing. The fact that I did not pass out was in itself a small blessing. I think God decided to give me a break that day.
Anyway as I carried him up that hill. I noticed things started to change, through the gap in the tree's I started to notice a dark shadow peering at me. The shadow took the form of a silhouette of a man, and though it was broad daylight and the sun was now shining bright. I swear his form was solid black. I felt a sense of evil coming from that shadow.
Now around my neck hangs a small stone that is around the size of a half dollar. In the middle of the stone is a small hole. People call these types of stones 'Hag Stones' or 'Adder Stones'. According to folklore they are supposed to have magical properties around them. Including the ability to heal a snake bite, or see the disguise of a fairy or witch and in certain cases they are supposed to ward off supernatural creatures that want to bring harm to you.
It's going to sound crazy but I felt safe with that stone hanging around my neck. Like whatever creature that shadow was could not harm or come near me as long as that stone was around my neck.
Anyway, back to the story. Now, it took some fifteen minutes for me to find another scout or to run across another patrol of scouts. See each troop is broken down into patrol's. Each patrol elects its own patrol leader, and a helper. It's the patrol leader's job to keep track of the scouts under his charge.
“Daisy!?” The man in charge shouted. “Where the heck have you been?! I should put you in charge for this?” He bellowed.
I blinked and for a moment I thought it was strange that he should be talking about putting me on a charge, when across my back there was a guy bleeding out of the head. But then, I noticed I could no longer feel him. I could no longer smell the blood that had been dripping down onto the collar of his shirt. I could no longer feel his hot breath breathing on my neck as he struggled to breath.
“I saw somebody in the woods. A scout.” I said pointing to the woods behind me.
Nobody said a word. They all just looked at me.
“I swear to God!” I shouted. I was becoming alarmed at this point. “I saw him, he was bleeding out, it was like somebody had taken a hatchet and tried to slice the poor guy's ear off! What are you all doing? I know one of you guys has his phone on him! Go ahead and call the aid station and get somebody up here now!” I was becoming frantic.
“Daisy, dude calm down.” Another guy said to me, “Chill for a moment.”
“I think it's the heat.” Another guy said. “Dude's been out in the woods too long.”
“I told you man, this trail is cursed. He saw the ghost, he saw the ghost man.” Another said.
“Bruh.” Somebody said at last. “Chill, we're going to get you out of here. We are going to call the camp nurse and she is going to take you back to the aid station.”
“YOU SHOULD BE CALLING THE NURSE ABOUT THIS GUY HERE.” I shouted at the top of my lungs. My shrill, girlish voice echoed through the trees. The group of guys that surrounded me flinched and slowly started to back away from me, and that evil looking shadow was still there.
Finally the patrol leader walked up to me.
“Bruh.” He said. “There is nobody there.” He then turned toward somebody else. “Get Daisy some fresh water and a salt tablet. Have him sit down in the shade too. I think the heat got to him. And somebody phones Mrs. Harris. Get her to get one of her girls up here in a jeep and get him down. I'm pulling Daisy off this work detail.” And that's all he said. Did I mention nobody questioned him. Oftentimes the patrol leader's word was law.
So I'm going to wrap this up now. My gear was collected for me, and I was sent to the aid station. The nurse in charge Mrs. Harris wanted to keep me overnight. She thought maybe the heat had gotten to me. It turns out that in fact I was dehydrated and I was starting to develop a fever. Mrs. Harris got in contact with my mom and said she'll be up to collect me as soon as possible. She also let me speak with her, who told me she loved me, and such, also dad said the same thing. My two sisters, Sue, short for Susan and Lid, short for Linda, said they loved me too.
With that being said I was told to shower, put on a diet of steady fluids and saltine crackers and peanut butter. And told me I'll be spending the night at the aid station. Now that was a plus, because the aid station had fans, and plus you'll get to sleep in a bed. Like a real bed. Up to this point I spent the last five nights sleeping on a cot in a tent in the woods.
Anyway, once night had fallen and I had started to settle down, I tried to put the events of the day behind me. And as I pulled the covers of the bed up to my chin and tried to settle into sleep. I could not shake this feeling that something or somebody was watching me as I snoozed.
So that's my story. Nobody ever told me about the missing scout or the black shadow. That morning around ten mom and the family came. Mom took one look and told dad I was going to Urgent Care. And that is how my ghost story ends. I guess this is the first story I shared with my cousin Madeline. And I think it will be the only one I'll ever share.
The following story was told to me by Lana Edwards, Lana is a Junior at Benton Academy and a long time girl scout who has just completed all the requirements to award her Gold Rewards. The Gold Reward is the highest honor a girl can earn in her scouting career. Anyway she swears this story is true. And given Lana is not the type to make up stories, and given my own paranormal encounters and many other paranormal encounters I've written about so far. I'm going to take her word at face value.
When I was twelve, I was working on my merit badge that required me to spend about three or four alone in the woods. It's not as bad as it sounds, though you are only taking what you can carry with you on your back. Hunger and thirst are your two worst enemies if you don't mind the mosquitoes, snakes, ticks, ants, and leeches. And the other creatures that make the woods their home.
I found it peaceful enough. My campsite was located deep in the hills that surround the camp. I was surrounded by pine trees, and the location I'd chosen was near a creek that was filled with water. Some parts of the creek were deep enough that I could even fish it. So if push came to shove and the rations I'd carried with me ran out. I could if I needed to fish for my supper.
Of course being out in the woods, alone at night is spooky, you hear things, and sometimes your mind starts to play tricks on you. At times like that you gotta just take a deep breath and try to keep your cool. And keep reminding yourself that the sounds you hear outside your tent are nothing more than the sound of nature.
Anyway with that in mind. I did my best to keep calm, you see my first night alone in the woods, I kept hearing this disembodied voice calling out through the undergrowth. The voice seemed strained and seemed to be pleading for help. At first I thought it was just my mind playing tricks on me and the voice was nothing more than the wind blowing through the branches and brambles.
The second night the voice grew louder and it seemed to right beyond the small clearing of my campsite. I spent the better part of that night wide awake. As the voice seemed to grow louder, and louder with each passing second. It also seemed to be growing clearer and clear with each passing second. A clear and audible cry for help seemed to echo through the woods and into the confines of my tent. The voice, I could tell, belonged to a girl around my age, who seemed to be in incredible pain. You could feel the distress in her voice and it was almost soul crushing to hear her loud cries echoing through the brambles, and undergrowth of the forest that surrounded me.
Anyway the third day dawned bright and early. And like always I went down to the creek to fetch some water to boil, my bottle water had lasted only for the first few hours. And so I'd been forced to hike down to the creek and fill an old iron kettle I'd found in the woods with water. Of course I scrubbed and burned the kettle clean before filling it with water the first time. Anyway I'd fill the kettle with water then set it over a fire and wait for it to boil, once it finished boiling I'll let it cool and that would be my drinking water for the day.
Now I've always been something of a tea aficionado and one day I dream of working in an anime maid cafe where I can put all the useless information I have about different kinds of teas and how to prepare them to good use. And I'd carried some loose tea with me. Having a cup of tea was my way of rewarding myself for getting through another day in this hellish landscape infested with all manner of creepy crawlies.
Now that day had really been rough on me, and I'd drank more than my fair share of water trying to keep hydrated as I toiled chopping to my campfire going. The first thing you learn when you're camping is to build a fire, you need a fire to boil your water, cook food and keep the occasional wolf or coyote, and even the rare bear. All three call the forest and woodlands of Mississippi home.
But a fire, once started, needs to be fed. And to feed a fire you need a lot of fallen branches, twigs and dried leaves. Fires are greedy things and often need to be fed around the clock in order to keep doing what they do. So by my third day I'd somehow managed to deplete my stockpile of firewood and had spent the better bar of the day searching the forest for more twigs, branches and fallen limbs to burn. That had caused me to become thirsty. As the weather had turned, the temperature was rising and I was sweating like a pig.
Anyway, back to the story, it was late afternoon, the sun was starting to set and I heaved my metal kettle over my shoulder and started to walk toward the creek. I had one more night to spend in the forest and I'd have completed all the requirements for my badge. Anyway I filled the kettle and returned to my campsite and set the kettle on the fire to boil. I then decided I'll go ahead and get a quick bath.
Now, bathing in a creek is rough, don't get me wrong. But my blouse was sticking to me and I felt gritty and grimy and plus my hair felt horrible, since it had been a few days since I washed it. So I decided while my water boiled I'll get a bath and then settle down for a light supper of tuna fish, trail mix and a candy bar for an after supper sweet.
Anyway, I had just reached the deepest part of the creek. And I started to strip off my blouse and my shorts and hang them on a nearby tree trunk along with the small towel I'd brought with me when I heard that same voice calling out again.
“Help me! Please help me! They're after me! There after me! I've fallen, I've fallen and I can't get back up! Please help me!” The voice called out. This time I'd gathered my courage and decided to follow the voice. I followed the voice for a long way, about two miles till at the source of the spring I spotted a girl around my age. She had fiery red hair and a trembling figure. Her uniform struck me though, it looked old and worn out.
“Hey!” I cried out as I started to rush toward her side. I bent down and noticed she wore a forest green skirt and her leg seemed to be badly bruised maybe even twisted. It was clearly broken and twisted at an odd angle. She must have been in horrible pain. Her face seemed twisted as she struggled to breath. Anyway I bent down and took her by my side.
“Hey! I'm Lana Edwards, Troop 3979 Out of Benton.” I said. Its kind of a thing you see among us scouts to always greet each other with our first and last name followed by troop number. That way we could place them in the proper troop or know who to contact. If we ran across a lost scout or in this case a hurt scout in the woods.
“Coraline Upton.” The girl whispered into my ear as she struggled to lift herself up. “Troop 3978 Jackson, Mississippi.” She said as she flopped back down, her chest seemed to rise and fall with each breath she took. I could tell she was almost struggling to breathe.
Now if I was allowed to bring my cellphone with me. I could have made a call and gotten somebody from the main camp up to my position in about fifteen minutes. Okay more like twenty minutes, but one of the rules that they strongly encourage in scout camp is you keep things like your cellphone at home. But, let's be real here. There is about a one in a million chance you might stumble into an area that has cell phone reception and scouts at the camp have no access to power to charge the damn thing. Plus access to broadband? In your dreams.
So what is a cell phone then? A one hundred dollar paperweight. Anyway with no phone and with the sun setting fast, I did the only thing that I could think up. I moved over to Coraline, and I picked her up and carried her back to my camp. I knew tomorrow some staffers would check on us and give us just enough rations to help us make it through the last day and night. And so in my head I started to think of a plan.
“Here.” I said as I reached down and lifted the girl onto my back. “I'm going to carry you back. Back toward my campsite.” I said as I lifted the girl up and picked her up and so I started to carry her back to my campsite. Like I said before I was two miles away from my campsite so like girls we started to talk.
“So Coraline.” I said, taking a deep breath. “You said they were after you? Who's after you?” I said, taking a deep breath as I started to climb up the steep hills and hollows. I was breathing hard, I've been asthmatic since birth and this was really pushing me.
“Some girls from my troop.” She whispered as clung to me, it was odd she was light as a feather. Now I did not have a watch or anything like that on me. But about time I reached my camp the sun had set and the wind was starting to rise and it made a howling sound as it rushed through the trees. And on the wind, I swear and I mean I swear on the old family bible that I heard giggling and laughing. It was a taunting kind of laughter that seemed to make the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up.
“There coming.” She said as she watched as I placed her down inside my tent.
“Nobody is going to hurt you!” I whispered and with that I started doing my best to give what first aid I could. Now I want to be a nurse, I've always wanted to be a nurse, and I plan on enrolling in Nursing courses this coming autumn at a local Junior College. Anyway up to this point I'd taken on every first aid badge course I could and had earned every first aid badge they offered to girls my age. And I had a pretty well stocked first aid kit in my tent.
The laughter grew louder and louder as the seconds passed, I worked at a fever pitch pace. Once I'd done all I could do, I whipped up a little soup, okay it was more like chicken flavored broth and slowly I spoon fed Coraline. I don't know what I was thinking, but maybe if she got something hot in her, she would make it through the night and her strength would be restored a little. I then gave her my sleeping bag and well I noticed she was out like a light. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully enough.
But then I remembered her words. 'There's coming.' and with that I reached down and picked up my hatched and stepped outside the tent. I spent the rest of that night standing guard over the front of the tent while all around me, just beyond the protective ring of my fire the evil laughter seemed to grow stronger and stronger with each passing second.
And that silence.
I must have fallen asleep, I don't remember falling asleep. After the laughter stopped, I must have because when I woke up, I saw the morning sun streaming through the branches of the trees and forming halo's on the forest floor. Birds perched on the withered branches of the forest sung their morning songs of worship and all seemed at peace.
It took me a few minutes to get myself together and then I remembered Coraline. I quickly rushed into the tent and blinked, the tent was empty. Totally void of life. But my sleeping bag, my sleeping bag was still zipped up and you could still see the imprint of Coraline's head upon the pillow I'd placed under her head. I was beyond confused.
Then I remembered an old scouting tale. I'd decided to include the tale here. It's a popular story, told around campfires all over Mississippi. I'd figured including this tale would be a fitting end to my tale and might bring this strange tale into a fitting conclusion.
The Voice in the Woods
A popular Girl Scout Campfire Tale
We've all heard stories about it. Some among us have even heard it ourselves. A voice that calls out for help in the middle of the night. mostly when one of us is alone in the woods. A scared little voice, one begging for somebody to come and render aid. And many times, we've gone out and searched for the source of the voice. And no matter how hard, or how long we searched, we've never found the source of the voice. Well there is a story, one that tells us the origins of the voice.
It seems that long ago there was a girl scout by the name of Coraline, she belonged to local scout troop out of Jackson, her troop number was 3978. Coraline was a shy, petite little girl, and was often bullied and her fellow scouts. No matter how much she tried, she could never really fit in. She was the oddball and the black sheep of her troop all rolled into one. One night, during the summer of '73, Coraline was taking her 'Simple Meal' and 'Rustic Camping' merit badge test. Out here in the brush.
And that's where the road divides. One branch of the story goes like this, there were three girls in Coraline's troop. Their names were Ruth, Sarah, and Ashley. They formed something of an unholy trinity in her life. They seemed to take great delight in teasing and tormenting her. Under the cover of darkness, around the time of the new moon, they were said to have crept up upon Coraline while she was coming back from fetching water from a nearby creek. With murder in there eyes they picked up three large branches and with the speed of greased lighting they struck her all at once. Once in the head, once in the chest and once in the knees.
And like a sack of rocks she dropped to the ground. They say then they all ganged up and killed her, they also say they hid the body in one of the many rocky caves that dot the 'Band Lands' the area just north of camp. And that the voice you hear late at night is her calling out for help and Justice.
When I tell people I've seen a mermaid in Walesheba Creek, people often just chuckle and say I've been out in the woods too long. The more uncharitable souls will tell me it's time for me to finally settle down and find me a life because I'm just seeing things. But I tell you, that there is a mermaid that lives in the Walesheba Creek and she is a real man eater. Now I've only encountered her once, and that was way back in two thousand and fifteen. I was fifteen years old then, and fancied myself an avid hunter and fisherman. I also fancied myself as something of a fossil collector.
You see, a long time ago, thousands of years ago this whole region used to be the floor of a sea or so the old folks have told me. Indeed that is what makes the soil of this region so rich. And well being the floor of the sea it makes sense that over the course of thousands of years a lot of fish died and their bones settled on the floor of this massive sea, that the passage of time and the layering of silt and such on top compressed them down and turned them into fossils. Now I'm no college professor and I've never attended a fancy university.
All that I know has come from one source, and that is my deluxe edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica. When the Russians cut us off from the Internet and the Chinese finally buy out Google, the few remaining sets of those encyclopedias would be worth their weight in gold. Mark my words.
Anyway it was a fine, cloudless Summer’s day in the year two thousand and fifteen. I decided to check out Walesheba Creek, mainly because word was that the recent Spring rains had uncovered a treasure trove of fossils and people were picking up all manner of things. Anything from shark teeth to petrified wood. Some were even claiming to find small traces of gold. That alone was enough to get my blood boiling and for me to get my gear together.
But the icing on the cake was this, now according to one local fisherman who had claimed to have seen it with his own eyes, there was a massive treasure trove of lost Confederate gold had been uncovered by the spring rains and he intended to secure that cache come hell or high water. I would like to note at the time he was drunk as a skunk. Looking bad he had to be drunk, because only a drunk man would brag about uncovering a cache of gold worth millions of dollars.
Now where was I? Oh yes, Walesheba is nothing much to look at, at least it's not from the highway where I started from. You see when it runs under the highway it's really nothing more than a tiny stream. Hell I've seen ditches hold more water than it holds when it runs under the highway. But if you follow that tiny little trickle of water East toward the hills that ring this town, you will soon find that tiny streams seem to widen and cut through massive gullies and hollows.
It took about half an hour of trekking along that stream till I first started to notice its true might. I think I covered half a mile that first thirty minutes into my hike. As I walked I passed dozens of tiny houses, most of them looked like old wooden cabins, buildings that belonged in the mountains and not in the hill country of Central Mississippi.
Then it happened, as if in a blink of an eye I entered into a different world. As I followed the stream I came to a deep gully. I remember the slopes of the gully were covered with thick patches of river cane. Where before I could catch a breeze, how I could barely breathe. Sweat rolled down my chin and my breathing became hard and laborious . The sun beamed down on me, there was not a cloud in the sky and worst of all thirst started to settle in. Yes, even though I was walking next to a stream, thirst had settled in.
Now before you go jumping on your high horse and say 'Well Joe. You had a source of fresh flowing water now more than a few feet from ya. Surely you could have bent down and drank from that stream and that would have been one less of a problem you had to deal with'. Yes before you say that, let me tell you something, the water in this creek is not fit to drink, it is not fit for either man or beast. At least I don't think it is, I've never been brave enough to try it.
Anyway I kept following the streaming, growing more dishearten with each step I took. So far my hunt had been a bust. I had seen neither hair of any fossil since starting my search. And I was getting pretty tired of being an all you can eat buffet to the clouds of dark dotted mosquitoes that seemed to dart around me, and plus I was getting sunburned and the idea of dying of thirst in the deep woods was not all that appealing .
Nevertheless I pressed on and soon I came to a wide open space. The gully had given away to a wide open space. I remember whistling through my teeth as I peered up at the rock face that greeted me. I will always remember that rock face, it must have been at least ninety feet and straight down too. And the surface was smooth as velvet. A rock climber dream if you will, but I was no rock climber.
Anyway as I shifted my eyes from rock face to the stream I noticed, much to my amazement I spotted a woman, she appeared to be around my age, and well she was beautiful, her hair was the same color as the Sun, no it put the Sun to shame. It was more like the color of wheat. And her face was perfectly formed oval with eyes that seemed to twinkle like the stars in the night sky. And her eyes, they were perfect almond shape, and their color, as blue as Sapphire.
And then the cherry on the ice cream sundae, she was nude, she wore no top, and her perky, perfectly formed breast set my blood boiling. I remember she smiled at me, and I caught sight of her teeth, they were as white as pearls and perfectly formed. I found myself starting to rush toward her. I dropped my gear and rushed toward her. She smiled and then slipped off the rock she was sitting on, like an otter she slipped into this deep pool, that was so deep I could not see the bottom.
The pool was a perfectly formed circle within this canyon I found myself standing in, the water was a deep, deep blue color kind of like the color of the ocean or the sea and like I said so deep you could not see the bottom. I was just about to join her for a swim when something told me to stop.
I don't know why, but I noticed that instead of a pair of legs she was flipping a tail, a tail that looked like a fish tail. And the moment I stopped was the moment a sudden and dramatic change came over her, she went from smelling to snarling, I then noticed her hands, her hands seemed like fins. And then her teeth. Her teeth grew sharper and started to look more like fangs than teeth.
And her eyes, her eyes went from peaceful blue to a red, a red color that reminded me of blood. And her hair, her hair went from golden to greenish with tints of blue woven in.
I turned upon my heel and I started to run. I ran, like my life depended on it. I dared not look behind me. I did not know what that creature was, and I was not sticking around to find out. And so I ran, I dropped my gear because it was slowing me down. And once I reached my old truck, I pushed my foot down upon the petal and burned up the highway.
And that is my story. If you doubt me, you can always go down and see for yourself. I'll go with you as far as the bridge and I'll point you in the direction you need to travel. But that is far as I'm willing to go. Cause I think that creature or woman is still there. Waiting for her next meal.
When I tell people that the Sunflower Grocery Store is haunted, people around Benton tend to give me something of a sideways look. But honest to goodness the store is really, bloody haunted. In fact I would go as far as to say it's crawling with ghosts. My name is James Donald Bell, and I'm a part time Courtesy Clerk at Sunflower Grocery store. Before I move on with my story, I should tell you a little about what a Courtesy Clerk is and what they do. A Courtesy Clerk is a person who is responsible for ensuring customers have a positive shopping experience while shopping at Sunflower Grocery Store. We do this by checking out customers, bagging their items and keeping the store tidy by cleaning up any spills that might have happened and reorganizing the many displays found throughout the store.
Now, I'm sure you're asking yourself what makes Benton number one, and really the only place to shop for groceries haunted? Well, for starters there is an old urban legend that is floating around town that the old owner and general manager of the store, a guy called Tim Rogers,once caught two guys shoplifting back in the day. Some say this took place in the sixties, some say this took place in the seventies, some even say it took place in the early eighties or so. Anyway, according to the story, Tim Rogers cornered the two guys late one evening and demanded them to hand over whatever they were trying to steal. When the guys refused, the story goes, Tim Rogers then reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his pistol that he always carried with him.
According to the story I heard from William Potter, I heard that night he was armed with a Colt Single Action Peacemaker and well he blasted the two guys here to kingdom come. I mean he shot them graveyard dead right there on the sales floor. And no, nobody ever brought any charges against Mr. Rogers for the murders and he never spent a second of his life behind bars for that. Nobody dared to. And before you ask me the reason why nobody ever dared to bring charges against Mr. Rogers or why he never faced any jail time at all, it's because he had big political pull in this town when he was at the height of his power.
And I mean that, and no I'm not pulling on your leg. He was a big time Free Mason and was well connected with the political machine of this down, he had friends in high places. In fact what I heard happen is right after he shot the two guys, he ordered a few of the late night guys to haul the bodies out back and throw them into the trash dumpsters outback. He also ordered the guys to soak the floor with bleach to get up the blood, and to soak the bodies down with bleach too for good measure. That is of course just a silly urban legend, but it's also one you don't go around repeating if you want to keep your job if you work here.
Now Tim Rodgers has passed on now, he's either singing with the saints or burning with the sinners. But his two sons, Archie and Kevin still own the place and they enjoy the same political pull their daddy had in this town back when wealth and power of the Rodgers family even overshadowed the Potter Clan.
That is not the only murder or death that transpired here at this humble little Grocery store. Back in the late nineties there was this guy who used to be the produce manager at the time. His name was Roy Summer, now Roy Summer knew that his wife was cheating on him. But, he just flat out refused to believe a word of it. Until one day, when we were coming home from work, he stumbled upon her in bed with this guy called George Spring. Anyway, according to what I heard first hand from a old guy who knew Roy Summers personally, Roy Summers into his wife cuddling George Spring, and George Spring was just laying in this man's bed, nestled between his sheets and blanket and looking as smug as the cat who had just caught the canary. Both were as naked as the day they entered into this world.
George had his work shirt and trousers and white underwear tossed on the ground and Ruth had her dress, panties and bra resting on top of George's shirt and work trousers. Anyway Roy saw this and flew right off the hand rails and told them both to leave. George being the brute of a man he was rumored to be and something of a bully is reported to have retorted.
“Oh, just go to Hell, you limp dick piece of shit.” Before turning Ruth over and going back to down on her. Roy, still raging mad, stormed out of the bedroom and into the hallway, he then tore the hinges off the hallway closet before reaching in and getting his hunting rifle. He then loaded his hunting rifle with hollow point bullets and walked back into the bedroom. He aimed the barrel of the rifle down at George, and held his aim for a few solid minutes before he dropped the barrel and stormed out of the house, still holding the rifle in his hand.
What happen then? According to the story I was told, he drove back to the store, and entered through the back gate, he then walked to the middle of the backroom, he then placed the muzzle of his hunting rifle under his chain, flipped the safety switch, took one last deep breath, closed his eyes and that was that, he blew his brains right out the top of his head and scattered them along with pieces of his skull all around the room.
So let just take a moment to recap this shall we? We have two possible murders that took place here and one confirmed suicide. What a charming place to work right? But wait it gets better, no less than three, that right three people have died here from a massive heart attack, as if they were alive when they walked through those sliding doors and were cold and wrapped in a body back when they went back out. Now I've already told you about the former green grocer manager Roy Summers who blew his brains out in the back room. And I know that happened because I've seen the bullet hole. Hell, I've touched the bullet itself.
The second guy was this fellow called Charles Edward Lee, and one day he just dropped graveyard dead from a massive heart attack, now here the thing, a few days before he dropped dead as a doornail from this massive and totally unexpected heart attack, he started telling anybody and everybody who would listen to him that he was seeing these black, humanoid shadows moving around the store early in the morning before the store opened to the public for business, or late at night when the second shift was closing up for the night and the third shift was coming on.
Of course nobody ever paid him much attention. In fact, as sad as his death was, for he died a widower and indeed it was tragic because he left behind a young son, the store remained open and people kept shopping, They even shopped while he was laying on the cold, sales floor taking his last few ragged breaths. The next death happened oddly enough on Superbowl Sunday. A woman dressed in her Sunday Best was reaching for some milk in the dairy case when she too dropped dead from a massive heart attack. Her death happen mere feet from the place Charles Edward Lee took his final breath.
A bunch of guys who were there, said they too reported seeing those same, solid black, humanoid shadow figures moving around the store that very morning and some even said they spotted them moving around the store a few days after the woman passed.
The third and final death happen about two and a half years ago before I started working there. You see there was this man, his name was Charles Thompson Nelson. And he loved this store like a mother would love her child. He was fond of saying that he started off at the very bottom of the ladder just like us and through his own pluck and grit he pulled himself up the ladder till he reached the level of co-manager. At time of his death he was even co-owner I think. Anyway, that old man loved this store.
This store was his glory, his sunrise and his sunset. Even after he 'Retired' and handed the reins over to somebody else he would still show up and spend all day going through the backroom. Pulling out four wheeler and six wheeler carts full of stock, just to see what would go out and when that was done he would spend the rest of the day shuffling pallets around. He would often eat his breakfast here, his lunch here and even his dinner. I think the poor, old bastard even slept in the old break room that was located atop of the hot deli. What happen to him? Well from what I heard his heart just gave out on him. He came in here one morning. Got his normal breakfast from the hot deli, three smoked sausage links, three fried eggs, grits, two slices of toast, two slices of thick bacon and four freshly baked and glazed donuts and gallon of chocolate milk to wash it all down and then he went up to the old break room to read the morning paper and enjoy his meal and he never came back down.
They found him slumped over one of the old desk they have up there, his face planted in the remains of his grits with a piece of half chewed up bacon still hanging out his mouth. What a way to go. What a hell of a way to go, well at least he did not die hungry. Anyway, what ties him in with the other two, is a few days before he passed he kept telling everybody who would lend a ear that he was seeing shadow people dance on the walls of the store and he even mentioned seeing the ghost Charles Edward Lee in the dairy cooler and he once mentioned to a co-worker that he spotted the ghost of Roy Summers peering straight at him.
So let add all this up now, you have two possible murders, one confirmed suicide, two possible murders, and three deaths by heart attacks. Now, what about my ghost story? Well that simple enough. One night, I was working the four to closing shift. That four in the afternoon to nine at night when the store closes. Anyway I remember it had been a long day. And I ready to go home. It was a Saturday night and they had called me in at seven that morning because one of the other guys had called out and it had fallen to me fill his slot. And since I was closing that afternoon, I had to work from seven that morning till around nine o' clock that night.
So yes, it was a pretty long shift. But it also had been a profitable shift. See Saturday morning are prime time to get tips. Tips you ask? Yes you see in the south it is common to give a dollar or two to the guys who load up your groceries. So on average you can carry out twelve customers and load them up, collect your tip and fetch a few stray shopping carts an hour. The average tip was two dollars, that is twenty four dollars an hour. Plus eight dollars an hour. The normal wage for a new hire.
So yes, very profitable, and with tomorrow being Sunday and my shift for Sunday being seven till two when church rush died out. I was already looking toward another profitable shift. But first I knew I needed to sleep. Well I needed to get a quick bite to eat, shower and then hit the bedroll because six o' clock would come pretty early.
Anyway my normal closing duties were over and done and all that remained was to make my way through the darkened store. Now the stock crew was off on the weekend so the store was totally dark, pitch black darkness. And it was kind of creepy. Then it happened. As I was passing through the back room. I felt somebody reach out and pull on my ponytail. Well they yanked it hard.
I then spun around and there standing within inches of my face was the ghost of a man, a man that was missing half his head. His eyes seemed hollow and void of life. Dark, black streams of what I'm going to assume was blood streamed down his face as he groaned an unholy groan. I nearly peed in my pants.
I spun around to beat a hasty retreat when I found the narrow hallway of the back room blocked by three other ghosts. One looked like an old man, the other looked like a woman, and the last one well I can't place them. But they seemed to reach out, like they wanted to touch me.
I know at that moment I pissed my pants. Because I took the only natural choice left for me, I broke open the doors of the meat department. And like a bat out of hell I flew straight to the front door. And once the front door was locked, I flew straight to the newly opened McDonalds.. and then straight home.. The next day, I stuck to the front.
I still work there, I'm working the closing shift. But now I carry around my Rosary beads with me. And I don't tend to linger more than I need to in the backroom and I've given up going to the break room. That’s where that old man died. So yes, come to Sunflower for all your shopping needs. You will find a home bargain and maybe even a ghost or two.