American Ghost Stories

It had to be a hoax.

After all, it was April Fools Day, 1971, when the call came into the Mobile Press-Register. And what the caller was describing – a creature with the upper body of a woman, and a lower body of a wolf – was just too fantastical, too impossible, too frankly ridiculous to be real. No, no, clearly, it had to be a joke.

But then the next call came in.

And the next one.

And the one after that. And the one after that.

All told, more than 50 people would report encounters with this wolf woman, who they nearly universally described as being both “pretty” and “hairy” (the two don’t have to be mutually exclusive, y’know…). Some saw her skulking through the trees or roaming through their backyards. A few unfortunates encountered her when she was stalking them, before breaking into a full run to chase them down.

The good people of Mobile, AL, were beside themselves. They simply had no idea what to do. They stopped going out at night, choosing instead to hole up at home with all the doors and windows locked. Parents stopped letting their children go out to play. At least one young girl would beg her brother to teach her to shoot the family’s rifle so she could protect herself when the wolf woman charged. Although they’d never comment on it publicly, the sheer volume of sightings demanded that the police open an investigation, but it appears they never uncovered any solid leads.

Then, after about a week, the wolf woman just vanished. Perhaps she moved on to greener pastures, better hunting grounds. Or maybe she got a little too close to one of the cars she was chasing and slinked off into the woods to die from her injuries.

content warning: abuse, murder most foul

Our story tonight takes place on Maryland's Eastern Shore during The War (remember, this is the South, there's only one war that's The War). Our villain tonight made his fortune pursuing the fine and noble tradition of smuggling, and with that he'd acquired all the trappings fitting a person of his means at the time, to include a fine plantation and many, many people that he owned. More on that in a bit.

Now legend doesn't tell us how our smuggler came into possession of a small part of the Confederate treasury, but he did. Legend does tell us that many plantation owners in the area had been given some of it for safekeeping, so I suppose we can assume there was nothing nefarious about his getting some. That he had absolutely zero intention of giving any of it back is another story...

Word went out that the Union army was moving through the area, confiscating Confederate treasure and arresting all those found harboring it. Now, spending time in prison was not going to work at all for our smuggler, so he hatched a plan to hide the loot and get away scot-free. And he knew just the person to "ask" to help him with this - Lizz.

Lizz was one of the women our smuggler had enslaved. She was a bit larger and more powerfully built than the other women on the plantation, so had become more commonly known to our smuggler as Big Lizz (he wasn't terribly creative with names). With her strength, she'd be the ideal person to help hide the treasure.

As it turns out, Big Lizz also knew that the Confederate treasure was with her master. And she made sure that the Union know about it...indeed, she's the reason the army was coming to the plantation in the first place.

So Big Lizz and the smuggler went out that fateful day, venturing deep into the Greenbrier Swamp. He ordered her to bury the treasure in a certain spot, which she did. Then he noticed, oh wait, that spot over there is better...so had her dig it back up, and bury it again in the new hiding place. Oh, but wait, what about over there? All day long, over and over again, Big Lizz would bury the treasure, only to exhume it and rebury it somewhere else. It's almost like the smuggler was torturing her this way because he'd found out that she was a Union spy. Oh wait, he did, and it was.

Finally, satisfied with the last hiding spot, he ordered Big Lizz to dig up a sapling nearby, and replant it on top of the treasure so he'd be able to find it again. Which of course she did. As she finished planting the tree, our smuggler stepped up behind her, drew his sword, and with one terrible stroke, cut Big Lizz's head clean off. (Rude!) He stood by, unfeeling, watching the swamp claim Lizz's remains.

Legend doesn't tell us the smuggler's fate, but it does tell us he never reclaimed the treasure. It's still there, in the Greenbrier swamp. Whenever you have lost treasure, people will try to find it. And on this quest, they have...help.

The DeCoursey Bridge now spans this part of the swamp. It is said that if you drive to the middle of this bridge at midnight, honk your horn 3 times, flash your lights twice, and turn off your car, Big Lizz will come. She rises from the swamp, holding her severed head in her hand, her eyes glowing red. She'll point into the swamp, as if showing you where the treasure is hidden, then beckon you to follow her.

It was October 1903 when the creature arrived in Van Meter, Iowa. It was first encountered by U. G. Griffiths, the town’s implements dealer. He smelled it before he saw it, a powerful stench, like a barnyard in Hell. Then it appeared, a tall sort-of-kind-of-not-really human shaped creature, standing easily at 7 feet, with smooth bat-like wings, racing along the rooftops at breakneck speed. In the center of the creature’s face was a horn, and from this horn shone a brilliant, blinding light that illuminated its way.

Griffiths knew exactly what to do. He shouldered his shotgun, (hello, it was hunting season, of course he had his gun,) and opened fire. He could see that several of his shots found their mark, and yet, the creature did not fall. Indeed, it brushed them off as if they’d never been fired and sped along its way.

The very next night, Peter Dunn, the town’s doctor and bank cashier, (what, you’ve never had a side gig?) encountered the creature. Dunn also opened fire, but the creature, unfazed, simply flew away. It did, though, leave behind three-toed tracks in the soft earth, that Dunn had the presence of mind to make a paster cast of.

The next night, the creature woke up O. V. White, who shot at it while it perched atop a telephone pole. This woke up Sidney Gregg just in time to see the creature hop away “…like a kangaroo.”

Over and over again, people throughout the town had their own encounter with the creature. One of the local high school teachers proclaimed it to be an “antediluvian monster.’ And over and over again, many of them would try – and fail – to kill the creature.

Finally, these good Iowans had had enough. When they got word of strange sounds emanating from the abandoned coal mine on the north side of town, they formed a posse and marched off to confront this evil once and for all. As they gathered and the gaping mouth of the mine, they found what they’d been looking for was already waiting.

"Presently the noise opened up again, as though Satan and a regiment of imps were coming forth for battle," said the article in the Des Moines Register. Then with a giant whoosh, out of the mine launched the creature, followed closely by a smaller, perhaps juvenile, specimen.

The night was pierced by the light of the creatures’ horns, the air turned sour with their putrid stench, and the men’s hearts leaped to their throats. They could only watch in horror as the creatures (dare we imagine, mother and child?) flew out into the night. But they would wait, this Van Meter Army, and vanquish the monsters when they returned.

Return they did, as the sun’s rays first breached the horizon. This time, the men’s nerves didn’t break. This time, they stood firm. This time, they opened fire, unleashing a barrage “that would sink the Spanish fleet.” And yet, all of their bullets, all of their shot, had no effect whatsoever on the creatures. Creatures that would only look upon the men with a curious mix of pity and disdain, then slowly make their way back into the mine.

But while they failed to kill the creatures, the men of Van Meter were successful, in a way. For from that night, the creatures, now dubbed the Van Meter Visitor, have never been seen again.

Carl was exhausted. It was getting close to midnight, and he’d started driving before dawn. He thought he would be able to power on to Spokane, but after drifting across the lanes on I-90 – twice – he decided that it would be a much better idea to find a place to grab a couple hours sleep here in Coeur d’Alene. Luckily, there was a roadside motel just up ahead with a Vacancy sign blazing. He drifted into the parking lot, secured his room, and settled into Room #1.

He decided a quick shower to wash off the road funk would be a good idea. That’s when everything began. As the water beat down upon him, he started to feel something. You know that feeling when someone isn’t just watching you, but staring at you?  Staring intently, almost hungrily? Yeah, like that. Strong enough that he jumped out of the shower to confront...whoever. But there was no one there. Yet, as soon as he got back in to finish rinsing off, there it was again.

He finished the shower and made his way back to the bedroom. Along the way, he must have stepped in front of an air conditioning vent, because right outside the bathroom it was cold as ice. Yet one more step, and the temperature was back to normal.

That’s when he noticed his wallet.

He’d put the wallet on the bedside table when he first went in. And yet, somehow, for some reason, it was now lying on the floor next to the bed. After a quick check to make sure nothing was missing (it wasn’t) he put it back on the table and climbed into bed.

Thud.

He looked up, and the wallet was back on the floor.

“Weird,” he thought, He retrieved the wallet and placed it instead on the dresser, next to the TV. Then got into bed, shut off the light, and was deep asleep within minutes.

A sleep that would be broken a couple hours later by the terrible scream of a woman. A scream that for all the world sounded like it came from within his room. But that was impossible, he was very alone…wasn’t he? Alarmed, he jumped up and searched every corner of the room, the closet, the bathroom. Of course, there was no one there. So, he dashed to the door, through it open, and looked about frantically for a woman in distress. That’s when he heard the scream once more.

Behind him. In his room.

His heart pounding, he turned towards the scream. He never did see the woman. But he did see his wallet again. Oh, it was still where he’d left it, by the TV – then suddenly, it rocketed off and landed on the floor yet again. But before he could move to retrieve it, it lifted off the ground, and floated right to him.

It’s funny, he wasn’t tired anymore. Grabbed his things, checked out, and tore out of there as fast as he could.

Carl would tell his story many times, but of course nobody believed him. Well, nobody except for one old man. A man who had spent his own night in these Idaho lodgings. “Boy,” he said, “what did you expect when you checked into the Bates Motel?”

It is interesting to me how often sites and structures that are considered holy attract entities and energies that are anything but. Take, for instance, what was once the St. Stephen Seminary on the outskirts of Honolulu. Before it was a seminary this had been Paliku, the home of Harold Castle. Castle sold the 22-acre estate to the Catholic Church in 1946, for $100,000 less than he’d paid for it. Maybe he knew something was up?

The trouble began one October night in ’46. The young seminarians were in their beds. At the foot of each of the beds was a chair and wash basin. Most of the priests had retired as well, but a few were still at their labors. Suddenly, they heard a tapping on the hillside next to the building. Then it seemed the tapping started moving down the hill, getting louder and louder the closer it came to school.

And then, it came inside.

There was nothing to be seen, of course. Just the constant tapping, tapping, tapping, that let you trace the progress of this entity as it made its way down the corridor. That changed when it finally entered the dormitory, for while the tap-tap-tapping continued, the stainless steel wash basins all came to life, rattling and clanking and jumping. The infernal racket was so loud that it woke all the seminarians up. All, that is, except one.

This one young man slept through it all. But that doesn’t mean the entity left him alone. For as he lay there, his neck began to swell. And not just a little bit. It was blowing up like a balloon. Alarmed by this, and taking into account everything else that had happened, one of the Fathers placed a crucifix by the boy’s neck. At that point, the swelling not only stopped, but reversed itself until the boy’s neck was normal again.

And that’s when the tapping started again.

It, whatever it was, made its way down the rows of beds, stopping where the boy still slept. Without warning, the boy’s body was violently shoved into the bed, almost like it was trying to swallow him. Then he was yanked back out and above the bed, looking for all the world like something was trying to pull him into the air. Then back down into the bed, then back up above it, over and over again.

Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped. And the Whatever it was decided to leave the dormitory.

But not the seminary.

Moments later, a great crashing and banging rose up from the kitchen a floor below them. As the priests ran in, they saw that pots, pans, dishes and serving pieces had all been pulled from their cabinets and tossed about the room. As though a tornado had struck there, though the night was clear. And then…

Tap…tap…tap… The enemy made its way out of the seminary and tapped its way back up the hill. Though it would come back. Over and over again.

The seminary closed in 1970. Today it’s the St. Stephen Diocesan Center, administrative offices for the Diocese and home to the Bishop of Honolulu. Those that work there today say that things still happen there, a malevolent Presence that can be felt in certain parts of the campus. Especially on those nights when the air is clear, and they hear the sound they dread most rise from the hilltop.

The voyage of the Princess Augusta was troubled from the very start. A brilliant square-rigged ship, she’d left Rotterdam in August 1738 carrying more than 300 souls bound for a new life in Philadelphia. It wasn’t long after the ship was under sail that people aboard, passengers and crew, started falling ill. It seems that their water supply was contaminated, spreading disease and, shortly after, death. The first to succumb was the captain, and without his leadership, bedlam would take the helm.

The Augusta became hopelessly lost. Long after she should have arrived in Philadelphia, she was still bobbing about the Atlantic with no land in sight. The food supply ran dangerously low, which spelled opportunity for some more enterprising sailors, little better than pirates at this point, who began to extort money from the passengers in exchange for their allotted rations. By Christmas, of the original 340 men, women, and children who left Rotterdam, only 105 remained.

(Yeah, it was bad.)

Then, on Boxing Day, a miracle! The watch spotted a light on the horizon. It must be a signal fire – land! The ship made all haste for port and salvation.

Suddenly the night was filled with the sounds of a terrible wrenching and splintering. The light of their salvation was one of their doom – it had been lit inland, to lure ships to wreck upon the rocks that surround Block Island, Rhode Island. That is precisely what had happened to the Princess Augusta.

Some of the panicked passengers jumped into the ocean and tried to swim ashore. (Generally not a great idea, especially in a New England December.) The rest clung to the wreck and prayed. Before long, it seemed their prayers were answered, for they spotted a long trail of lanterns making their way towards them. Clearly their rescuers were coming!

Please note, I said it SEEMED their prayers were answered.

Those lanterns weren’t rescuers, they were wreckers. The very ones who had lit the fire to lure the ship to the rocks. They cared not one whit about the survivors, but proceeded to strip the ship of anything of value, then returned home, abandoning the people of the Princess Augusta to the waves and their fate.

A short time later the good people of Block Island did affect a rescue, bringing all those still alive to safety, welcoming them into their homes. Many would continue on to Philadelphia, while others would live out their lives on Block Island.

Sometime during her ordeal on the rocks, someone – and nobody knows who – set the Princess Augusta on fire. As the last of her passengers reached dry land, she was fully engulfed. As she burned, she became loose of the rocks, drifted back out to sea, and slipped beneath the waves, ne’er to be seen again.

For a little while, anyway.

Max was in a hurry. It was his first day on the job, and while being a custodian at Chicago’s Lincoln Park Zoo might not be his dream, he could do a lot worse. He knew that an older member of the team was waiting to train him, so he did not want to be late. Still, in spite of his haste, he couldn’t help but notice all the people running around the park dressed up in old-time clothes, like it was the Civil War or something. Imagine his surprise when he found that the man waiting for him was dressed the same way.

“Oh, hey, I’m Max,” he said, “I think you’re supposed to show me around, or something?”

The man turned his gaze on Max. “Call me Jonathan” was all he said, before turning and walking away, towards the lion house. Max hurried to catch up.

“Um, I like your costume,” Max lied. “So, what’s up, some sort of ghost tour, or something?”

Jonathan’s eyes slid towards him. “Sure, kid. Something like that,” he said.

“Lame.” Max thought to himself. “Grown people believing in ghosts. I hope they don’t try to make me do that.”

The pair made their way into the service areas beneath the lion house, tidying things and locking things up. As they went a little further, though, a weird thing happened. As Jonathan passed beneath him, the ceiling lights began to flicker.

“Looks like it’s about to go out. Where do you keep the bulbs?” Max asked. Jonathan nodded towards the supply closet. Max quickly swapped out the bulb for a fresh one, and the light shone steadily again.

Until Jonathan walked beneath it once more, and the flickering started again.

The same thing happened at the next light. And the next. And the next.

Max was starting to freak out at this point, but was not going to let it show. “Um, my uncle is an electrician. He could probably fix that, I could call him.”

“Sure, kid. You do that.” Jonathan replied.

Finally they pulled up at the women’s restroom. “One last stop, then we can move on to the next building.” Jonathan said.

After making sure the room was empty, Max went to work cleaning things up. He pulled open one of the stall doors, turned to grab his supplies, and….the door slammed shut.

“Weird,” he thought. Then opened the door again. Only to have it slam shut once more.

Again, he tried to open the door. This time, it was jerked right out of his hand before slamming closed. Then, without warning, the doors of all the stalls started opening and slamming in rapid succession.

Max stopped pretending to be cool. He let loose with a string of words that absolutely cannot be repeated in polite company. He started to run out of the bathroom, but pulled up short seeing a very nonplussed Jonathan just standing there, watching.

“Are you not seeing this???” Max yelled. “How are you not freaking the f*** out????”

“Watch your language,” Jonathan snapped. “Son, didn’t anyone tell you about this place? This used to be the Chicago City Cemetery. 30,000 people were buried here. When they built the park, they moved the stones and most of the bodies.”

“But,” he continued, as he started to fade away, “12,000 of us are still here.”

Content Warning: Terrible things happening to kids

Legend tells us that long ago, in the area that is today known as Fernandina Beach in the Spanish colony of Florida, there was a girl. Now, that there was a girl in the settlement in and of itself wouldn’t be terribly remarkable, but there was something about this particular young woman. Something that made her…different. And while we might (MIGHT) celebrate our differences today, in that day and time, different wasn’t good. People don’t understand different, and what people don’t understand, they fear. And so, they feared her. It wasn’t long until the whispers started about her, and not long after that those grew to shouts – “bruja!”

“Witch!”

And so, she was arrested. Legend doesn’t give us much detail on her trial. Perhaps they stripped her, and searched her body for a witch’s mark. Perhaps she was tortured with any number of methods to get her to confess. We simply don’t know. The outcome of it all, though, Legend does tell us. For when it was all said and done, she was led into the forest where her life was ended. They buried her body under the very tree she hung from. Then tried very hard to forget her. But it seems that while her body died, her Spirit still lingers.

And she’s, understandably, pissed.

Time passes, and change came to the woods where our young woman lies. A school was built adjacent to her woods, because of course it was, and her story was resurrected. Today they call her “Wiccademous,” although that’s certainly not her name.

A path in these woods will lead you to her tree. A most curious thing happens, though, as you approach her. The stable ground you walk upon suddenly isn’t so stable anymore. The closer you get to her grave, the more violently the earth quakes beneath your feet. Almost as though she’s warning you to Go Away. You might want to consider listening to her. Some folks haven’t, and…well…