story telling..tradition and survival skill. Campfires and creepy tales!

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bored2deth

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Feb 27, 2011
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Leaves are changing.. Red, orange, yellow, and brown. That autumn smell is in the air, that tell-tale chill in the breeze. A fire burning, crackling..snapping..hissing! Lets all gather 'round, warm our hands, chase away the chill, and share our creepy, scary tales wether short or tall..true or made-up. For the fright is in the words, and at times a good lesson long forgotten, now recalled. Come and join me, B2D, by the fire..if you dare, take a seat and sip a cider..for tales surely to raise ones hair!

My uncle's ghost.

As a child, I remember listening to my grandfather and uncles discussing things they had seen or experienced. Sharing scary stories around a nights fire. My grandfathers brother, my dear old great uncle, had claimed to have seen the ghost of an old mother sitting in the chair before his bed, singing to him as a child. He described her as ghostly pale, whispy, ethereal. Her voice while soft and kind as any gentle grand, seemed to be all around him. He would awaken some nights, and there she would be, sat rocking in that chair, humming or singing softly. He saw the spirit, he claimed, over the years until he moved away.
 
I worked in a hospital for a few years working the overnight shift while going to Nursing school during the day. I have to preface this by saying I am a firm believer the the scientific method, and also believe there are things in the earthly realm involving the physics of certain energies we won't understand. Some of the things that stand out are catching a brief glimpse of a deceased patient standing in the corner of a room, facing the wall, still dressed in her hospital gown with a feeling of distress permeating the space. While on rounds seeing "black smoke" (like cigarette smoke) rising from a sleeping person in the dark, and answering the call lights from particular rooms that where empty. You could just make out low-level sounds that sounded like human voices, I would just go in and say "knock it off" and it might stop...sometimes not. There is more I could say, patient mortality was common on the floor I worked and I was sleep deprived often and wrote things off to fatigue, but with a strong compassion for those in the process of dying and in post-mortem care may have opened me up to a bit more....and there is a survival aspect of getting through nursing school.
 
waveone said:
This is a G R E A T thread about a dying art.....

Well done
Click to expand...

I hope all whom have a story to share or a tale to tell, will feel comfortable do so. :-) Story telling, before books, scrolls, or even paintings was how history and lore was shared. Ive often spent hours in the company of professional story tellers, swapping and listening. There is much to learn, to share, when we tell tales and swap stories. There is more to survival than fire, than shelter, there is smiles and laughter and captivation of the imagination. :-)
 
There we sat in silence, transfixed. Mother sat rocking, the fire illuminating the source of the soft whistling that came from her nose.

Father had positioned number four between two bread bags full of sand, and now he was playing a razor blade in the flame of a candle.

I couldn't swallow. I don't think any of us could. We used to fight over the crusty end bits of the bread, but not today.

Father had told us number four was fine. He had just been borne with one eye that would not open, but he new what to do. Mother wasn't so sure. There she sat, in her half inflated child's paddling pool that he had thoughtfully provided to catch any mess, rocking, nose whistling, pale.

Then he cut. A black stripe of soot marked a line across the eyelid. He squeezed. They sprang apart but it was too deep. At once a glossy juice came forth. He dabbed it with a finger. More came.

We woke next day to find father clutching number four. He had taped a tea bag over the eye and it seemed to be working. But neither of them looked well.

Next day was supposed to be school, but he was too busy with number four. Mother had relapsed and gone to stay with her parents, so all we could do was watch. We knew it would be fine.

Except it wasn't fine. For the first time ever it wasn't fine. On day five they came, muttering, muttering about urine on tea bags, and with the police. He was gone.

That's what I remember. Our bulging wide eyed innocence and the killing of number four.
 
My great uncles tale, "Headless Joe.."

Written as it was spoken..

I sat at by my great uncle by the fire, studying his old, weathered face. Like grandfather, he was a tracker, a veteran woodsman and he knew the forests and mountains well. His hands were aged, yet calloused and strong, having swung an axe since he was a child. He was a tough, brave man even in his age, having often gone off into the hills and mountains with nothing but a canteen, a cup, and his axe--a heavy double-bit.

"Now listen here, boy.. A man doesnt make an axe, the axe..IT makes the man. The axe doesnt swing itself, boy, YOU swing IT." I looked up at the old woodsman, taking in and memorizing every word. "When you swing that axe, you put your life into what it has taught you, and if you listen close it will guide you..if you dont listen..you will end up like ol' Axe Joe. He was a foolish man, and didnt listen to the lessons his axe taught him. Believed any mistakes he made was fault of the axe, thought he was better than that." My great uncle knew his axe like the back of his hand, he had crafted the handle himself, and could bring the blades fine edge to shave a beard clean. My uncle frowned for a moment, took a deep breath, then continued..

"Ol Axe Joe.. Ol' Joe was a man who liked both his food and drink, and sometimes a little too much drink. Now, we have a saying around here, steady mind is a steady hand.. Joe had a saying of his own, "A wet whistle, is a smiling whistle." I took my uncles meaning, and laughed briefly. "Now, one evening, Ol' Joe and his crew were out felling trees..dozens of them, quick as they could. It was a dangerous time, and growing dark. Ol' Joe, he thought he would ease his nerves and had a drink..and another.." My uncle paused a moment, then continued..

"Axes were swinging hard, and fast! The crew had begun to sing, as they often did, to keep up energy and spirits.." my uncle then, in his deep carrying voice, began to sing..

Swing that axe, swing that axe! Fell that tree!
Swing that axe, swing that axe! Fell that tree!
Chips fly! Chips fly! Fall where they may! Fall where they will!
Swing that axe, swing that axe! Fell that tree!

"Now, in all the commotion, arms tired, backs aching..it was difficult to pay attention.
At this moment, he stirred up the fire with his staff. "Ol' Joe, he took to dancing a jig...bottle of good whiskey in one hand, his axe in the other. He hooted and hollered,
having himself a grand time. He sang loud and danced harder." My uncle shook his head.. "The old fool danced himself up into an axe's path. His head popped off like a cork! Pow! That head rolled right along.." My eyes, wide in disbelief, stared into the crackling fire. "The crew all gathered around, shocked, silent.." No one could think, or speak.

But, then, to their amazement..Ol' Joes eyes opened up, and it began to sing!

Swing that axe, swing that axe! Fell that tree!
Swing that axe, swing that axe! Fell that tree!
Roll head, roll! Roll head, roll! Land where you may, land where you will!
Swing that axe, swing that axe! Fell that tree!

"Ol Joe's body stood up then, and it began to dance a jig. The head sang and the body danced! Folks still say they can hear Joe's song, and the thump of his axe..he is still up there, singing and dancing and swinging..poor ol' Axe Joe!

--

Hope you all enjoy the story! Morale of the story is trust in your instincts, and listen to your body and the tool (axe in this case), that with time comes an understanding between both and tool..axe. If you ever find yourself in the Appalachians, with a good bottle of whiskey, leave it by a stump..a taste for poor Ol' Joe..mayhap he may even sing you a tune..
 
The family went camping in the piney woods. My niece was six or seven at the time.

I told her, “These woods are the home of the dreaded were-chipmunk. It’s a terrible beast, that chipmunk. Sneaky and mean. He likes to sidle up real quiet like, when nobody’s looking, and….BITE you!”

By now the girl was looking nervously at the trees.

“Getting bit is no fun, but it’s not the bad part. Once the were-chipmunk bites you, you start to change. You get shorter….you grow hair all over….you get buck teeth….eventually you start running on all fours….sort of a funny shaped dog…you can’t talk anymore….nobody recognizes you…..pretty soon you look like a were-chipmunk youself….”

The girl was huddled in terror, staring at the forest. “Uncle Raymond? Is that true?”

“No.”

She cheered right up.
 
the semi hypnotic state of staring in to camp fires
allows relaxed and open talking
time to hear about way back when
 
I can remember autumns as a child..chill in the air, leaves falling...my cousins scaring the snot outta me..
 
One of the guys that worked for my father said he was in a junkyard up near my fathers house, with the consent of the owners, looking for parts. He said he stumbled into a clearing and saw a ring of spikes, with baby dolls heads on them. He left pretty quickly.

When my great grandmother was a kid on the streets of Baltimore her and her friends went to the local fortune teller, and ancient gypsy woman. When my great grandmother walked in, the fortune teller screamed at her, telling her to leave, that she was too powerful and more powerful than the fortune teller. This woman made my great grandmother, just a teenager, go down the street she was so upset. My great grandmother was born with a caul and saw all kinds of weird stuff, and had a lot happen to her in her 99 years.
 
Never jump out at a friend wearing a demon clown costume, in the dark, out of an adjacent room....got me right in the goonies...
 
I came up with this one on a campout.

Once their was a girl babysiting for her neighbors, While she and the kids were watching cartoons the phone rang. She answered and a voice said "I'm down the block" and hung up. She was rattled by this, but didn't think much of it. Later after the kids were in bed and she was watching TV by herself the phone rang again. "I'm down the street" and hung up. She was starting to get nervous and looked out the window. She saw a blackish smudge through the rain standing in front of a neighbors house. Trying to avoid freaking out she called the police and told them everything that had happened. The officer on the other end said that they would track the caller if he called again. A few minute later the phone rang again. He said "I'm across the street". She hurriedly called the officer and asked where he was calling from, the officer said "Ma'am we don't have time for cranks, there was no call!". Confused by this she hangs up the phone and looks out the window. Across the street there was someone in a dark trench coat and fedora worn so you couldn't see the face. She called the police and said that she thinks she was about to be killed. When the police got their they found.......... nothing. She was gone, the kids were gone, there was no blood, no signs of forced entry, no call history in short, no signs anything unusual or otherwise had happened. The only thing even remotely unusual was there was a trench coat and fedora collapsed on the floor as though the person wearing them had just.... Vanished.

(It varies each time I tell it, like sometimes the hat and coat are on the rack, other times she calls the parents before the police. Also my delivery is better in person.)
 
The Brown Woods .....

I have about 20,000 acres of forested preserves around my area. They see heavy use with the gravel bike paths and single track trails but if you venture off these high-traffic areas you step into areas unseen by humans for years or perhaps generations.
I am an explorer at heart. I go from gravel to single track to game trail to following trails made up of items my eyes see that were left long ago by others. Some are just bottles, some are metal parts and some are just me reading the trees and plants and seeing that the woods once held a road or path. Takes me far off the beaten path often but I can never pass something up once it sets the hook into me.

One day in winter, years back, I ventured deep into an area that holds no trails other than game trails and they are hide busters even for the most seasoned deer. Even in the dead of winter, devoid of foliage, this area was machete territory. It went from narrow ravines to short spans of level areas with old foundations hidden under the frost-flattened overgrowth and is heavily wooded and overgrown. I kept going further until I came to the edge of an area of nothing but brown dead thick woods. Not burned, just dead. Strange. It looked like something sucked the life out of every living thing there. Even the ground looked like it had given up the ghost. I turned the soil on the edge of the area with my machete and nothing but brown. Brown as in dead christmas tree brown, not rich soil brown.

This is a stand of mixed hard and softwood and as I followed the edge of it, there was no easy way to cross into it, even though it was just a step away. As I walked along and scouted an easy entrance, I notice that trees had fallen into natural barriers. It's as if someone put up these barriers yet there were no axe or saw marks to be found and all looked to have fallen on their own, just the right way, to keep it inaccessible.

At this point, I happened to catch a few glimpses of something out of the corner of my eyes a few times. It was when I looked down the edges of the area when noticed them in my peripheral vision. They were inside the brown area. My mind playing tricks on me for sure. I decided to start hacking a trail in with my machete so I could look around and get my senses back while doing it.

Took about 5 minutes to get 15 feet in. These trees were long dead but hard to hack in half even with a 18" jungle machete. Once in, I just stood there looking around. Not a bird was chirping, no squirrels scurying about and dead silence. Not even a mushroom growing anywhere I looked and they love deadwood hosts. As i took a few more steps, I immediately had strange feelings of sorrow come over me. Felt flush and weak. I pulled out my canteen and had a few sips (and a nip from my flask) then decided to continue on. I took a step and went nowhere. Heavy woods tend to get your bacpack hung up on branches so I un-clicked the quick-release buckles on my pack's shoulder straps and it dropped like a sack of taters. Turned around, looked down and around but nothing was stuck on it or close enough to do so. Weird.
More strange feelings flusing over me at this point. I slapped myself across my own face to knock that shit out fast. It's getting close to sunset and I don't need to be feeling creeped out walking out after dark and it is coming fast.

I grab my headlamp out of my pack and put it on then put my pack back on and decide to venture in just a little further as long as I'm this far into it. Every step I took conjured up a different bad feeling. It was like a gaunlet of every bad feeling a human can experience in a lifetime all condensed into a few steps. I had this instant overwhelming feeling that I need to leave and need to do it now!

I'm was a bit disoriented now and it's getting real dark fast. I pulled out my needle compass to get my bearings and find it is pegged on South and stuck. Spent a few minutes with it and it unstuck but was bouncing around from North to South. I figure my belt knife or watch was attracting it so I unsheath the knife and remove my watch but that needle was still bouncing around.

Really getting dark now so I try to retrace my steps to find where I hacked my way in with my machete but not able to find it. I turn on my headlamp to guide my way. Batteries are cold and not throwing a lot of light. Kind of feel like I'm walking in circles and every few feet I see there are piles of rocks and the ground seems to have settled and sunk under them. Graves? I slap myself again and tell myself that these areas were mined years back. Probably just what they look like, poor rock piles.

I see another "something in the corner of my eye. Turn to look and is like a shadow moving around beyond my headlamps beam. It's cold and breath wafts up into the beam so I lost sight of it. Really freaking out now and it's now night dark. Breathing heavy, tinitis is going full blast and I think I hear someone talking but I don't understand what they are saying. Then I start hearing faint crying and groaning.

I see another something off to the left, then right and ahead. I'm backing up slow and remove the headlamp so I can see without the fog of my breath in the beam. They were shadows moving from tree to tree up off the ground beyond my flashlights beam. The left one was getting closer as was the one ahead but I can no longer see the one to my right. I'm in full panic. I'm backing away to the right when suddenly something brushes up against me. I spun around with my light in hand and see nothing but the exact spot I entered into this place.

I then ran about 50 feet as fast as I could away from the brown area and turned around. Breathing heavy, heart pounding, eyes wide open and scared sheetless! I saw nothing and although I was scared white, the feelings I felt in that place were gone. Like blowing out a match, gone!

I thought ..... What just happened to me? What did I see in there? Was it all in my head? What was holding my pack and WTF brushed up against me!? Did those things guide me to where I entered in? What did I just experience.

It was a 1.75 mile walk back to my car parked at the trailhead, all thru the woods at night. Didn't feel, hear or see anything the entire walk back. I started my car and was making the turn past the woods entrance and I notice a large black dog standing at the corner right at the entrance to the woods. Just staring at me. It had no collar, I could see it was breathing heavy by the moisture of it's breath and it's eyes burned red in my cars headlights. It then turned and disappeared into the woods.
 
My dad told me this story:
When my dad was a young man, he loved to hunt and fish. He was from Cabbagetown in ATL, and back then, there were still wild areas available to hunt and fish.
He always wanted to hunt an area near where he lived, but was told by many to stay out. All the old timers said it was haunted, and that the fish and game there were scarce and not worth the effort. Being young, he scoffed at the idea of a whole forested area with streams as being haunted and figured the old timers were telling him the tale so he wouldn't invade their area.
One morning he awoke with the itch to hike into the "haunted" area and scout around for fishing spots, squirrel and rabbit spots, etc.
as he entered the area, he noticed right away the absence of normal "wood" sounds, no bird song, no small game scratching around, etc.
He kept going in deeper, and begin to hear a sound like a fiddle being played. He thought maybe someone was camping and and decided to play some music.
As he got closer to the sound, he noticed the absence of any signs of humans, eliminating the "someone camping" idea. He then began to think that maybe the old timers were right, and that he was hearing the fiddle of a ghostly player.
He continued to explore, and the sound was coming directly overhead. He observed two oak branches rubbing together, producing the sound of a fiddle being played.
He continued his explorations and found several good spots for squirrel and rabbits, and found an excellent fishing spot for bass and bream.
As he returned, one of the old timers asked him had he been at the haunted forest. Dad replied that he had and would not return because the place spooked him. The old timer just laughed and said that he and told him so.
The next week dad took his 22 rifle out and a cane pole to the site. He told me he landed enough fish and small game that he had to stop early because he couldn't carry it all out. It remained his little secret area for about 3 years until a developer bought the property and bulldozed everything flat.
 
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