Haunted Camp-Out and Walking Beside the Dead

Here’s the irony.  For the first Halloween in anyone’s memory, it will be more frightening to see someone without a mask than someone with one. But, let’s pretend that this is a normal year just for the sake of the stories. 

Halloween brings out the ghoulish in us.  It is a night we choose to laugh at our fears and dismiss those shadows that appear at the edge of our vision. It is a night when putting on a character mask can transform us into something other than our everyday selves. Just for a night, we love to frighten and be frightened.  

Halloween has never been my favorite holiday. In another episode of this podcast I recounted a fight on Halloween evening and I confess to some pranks that make me wince to this day. Don’t get me wrong. I am as charmed as anyone else by little kids dressed up as superheroes or fairytale characters. I am also completely on board with the adult party costumes like “Sexy Witch” or “Sexy Alice in Wonderland” although I find “Sexy Jabba the Hut” less than appealing.  To each one, each one’s own. (One thing I do find horrifying is transforming traditional sayings to make them “gender neutral” but that is a story for another day.)   

It occurs to me that an inordinate number of these little writings involve me being frightened.  While I hope that these stories touch some universal feelings, this just might be one of those “I don’t believe I’d have told that” situations. I guess if the chicken feet fit, I just have to wear them. 

As I have said before, I am a bit wary alone outside in the dark.  If I have to retrieve the faithless Bailey the Beagle from the back yard after about ten p.m., I shine the flashlight to search out creatures lurking behind anything larger than the hummingbird feeder. I chalk it up to too much imagination and my Uncle Bubber who, when we lived beside him on Leroy Street would, on his way home, tap on the window to my room and make the worst face he could with his nose pressed against the glass. 

In the seventh grade, I was a Boy Scout in Troop 123 sponsored by Unity Presbyterian Church.  On a late September Friday in 1960, the troop set up camp in the Spratt bottom lands beside the Catawba River. It was the ideal place for a campout because the fields near the river were rich in Indian artifacts. Arrowheads, spearpoints, shards of pottery and other artifacts were turned up every time the fields were plowed. We searched the fields during the day and came together in the afternoon to compare our treasures.   

As the sun dipped below the tree line, each patrol kindled its campfire to life and we cooked our evening meal of hot dogs on sharpened sticks. When the coals burned low and shadows gave way to full night, we gathered around one of the fires to talk about the day and listen to ghost stories told by Scoutmaster Godfrey Nims. I have never seen a copy but I am convinced there is a Scoutmaster’s Manual titled Scary Stories to Convince Scouts not to Wander off into the Woods at Night. 

On that clear early fall evening no one slept in the tents.  We crawled in our sleeping bags and settled under a three-quarter moon and a star-rich sky.  Scouts were spaced out in a row along the bank of a small creek and my friend, Chuck Hancock, was to my right. I was almost asleep when Chuck put his nefarious plan in motion. 

He had secreted a ski mask in his pack.  The mask was black with white circles around the mouth and eyes. He quietly put the mask on, leaned over me and shook my shoulders. When I opened my eyes, all I could see were the white circles staring me down. My reaction was to go for the eyes.  I clinched his face and neck in a death-grip and he struggled for a few moments before he could choke out the words, “It’s me!  Let go!”  I was not quick to relax my grip.  I was startled, then frightened then angry. There was no more sleep that night as I awaited another attempt on my sanity.  I learned later that Chuck had, when I had a grip on his face and neck, feared for his life. 

High school freshmen are ruthless when they find a weakness that is entertaining to them. My best friends were no less merciless. In 1962, my cronies, John Morris, PK Harkey and Chuck all lived a couple of blocks away, just across Unity Cemetery from our home on Leroy Street.  We would gather at one of our houses in the late afternoons and spend lots of summer nights just hanging out, playing a rough version of “Capture the Flag” and even learning how to play bridge from PK’s mother*.  

While I had no problem walking through Unity Cemetery during the day, when we were at one of their houses and it was time to go home at 10:30 or so, I had a decision to make.  I could walk the long way to my house or I could take the much shorter walk on the dark road through the middle of the graveyard. 

I never explained why I always walked the less stressful three blocks where there were streetlights and paved roads and no tombstones. I went down Tom Hall Street and turned onto Unity Street between the Presbyterian Church Manse and A. O. Jones Middle School. Staying on the Armory side of the street away from the cemetery, I just had to turn onto Leroy Street and I was home free. I didn’t explain why, but the guys knew. 

For a while they didn’t mention my longer walk but once someone mentioned it, the harassment was on. They should have been ashamed of themselves for the hazing they gave me when they realized I was avoiding the cemetery. They should have been…but they weren’t. I have yet to hear an apology from any one of them. Thank goodness I haven’t held a grudge for the past 58 years. 

One particularly dark evening, after some unseemly language at my expense, I felt pressured to make the dreaded walk through Unity Cemetery. I left my tormentors behind in P. K.’s yard on Tom Hall Street and crossed over to the road through the cemetery to begin the daunting, quarter-mile journey among the old tombstones. 

That night there was a gibbous moon to emphasize the white of the grave markers and just enough breeze to rustle the cardboard-like leaves of the big magnolia trees rising out of the oldest family plots. I walked past the stones marking the graves of the Harris family, my mother’s people, but they were not a sympathetic lot and provided cold comfort.  

Certain that the guys were watching me for any sign of fear, I put on my best swagger and avoided the temptation to scan for whatever might be lurking in the dark. Whistling doesn’t help, no matter what people tell you and, anyway, it is impossible to whistle with a dry mouth. There was no looking back. Everyone knows that if something is following you, it will not chase you unless you turn around and look.  

Thankfully, the three were not taunting me and I tried to walk with the appearance of fearlessness but my auditory nerves were working overtime. I could hear every dog bark in the distance, and every heartbeat in my chest. About one hundred yards from Leroy Street and safety, I heard a low, barely audible moan and then another from a different direction. I was sure something moved at the edge of my vision. I began to walk faster but the moan came again, and it was little louder. Despite trying to retain my dignity, I was breaking into a run when the attack came.   

Screaming like the demented lunatics they were, all three friends launched themselves from behind the gravestones and came screaming at me. They grabbed me and after much flailing I realized who they were. It was my turn to use some terrible language. I would repeat it here but there might be children listening. 

Three of us thought the prank was hilarious.  I was not one of the three.   

One little addendum:  Have a safe and Spooky Halloween. Don’t look for me, I’ll  be cowering in the corner.  

*You may remember Mrs. Harkey who taught Biology and Chemistry at Fort Mill High.