See the delicate snowflakes fall,
Falling, falling, falling.
Whitening the earth, awaiting below,
Falling, falling, falling.

See the mounds of glittering white,
Building, building, building.
As they hide the ground from sight,
Building, building, building.

See the ceaseless falling snow,
Falling, falling, falling.
Will it stop, no one quite knows,
Falling, falling, falling.

See the drifts accumulate,
Building, building, building.
My longing for spring will no longer wait,
Building, building, building.

SEE THE DAMNED WHITE BLANKET GROW,
HIDING, HIDING, HIDING.
MY CAR, MY LAWN, ALL I KNOW,
HIDING, HIDING, HIDING.

SEE MY MADNESS, MY URGE TO KILL,
GROWING, GROWING, GROWING,
CROSS MY PATH, AND I’LL DO YOU ILL,
SMILING, SMILING, SMILING.

Will’s bedroom was cast in shadows by the moonlight filtering through the window. Lying next to him was the naked body of a young woman. With her lips slightly parted, she appeared as if she were in a gentle sleep. He face, framed by short blond hair, was at peace. Her body was perfect, fit and trim. He knew she was dead. It was not the first time this happened and he knew, with disgust and resign, it would not be the last.

He had met the woman in a bar. They had returned to his apartment, both intoxicated and undressed for a session of lovemaking, but Will’s desires were much different than the girl’s. Will felt excitement as he entered her then his gaze fell to her neck. Lowering his head to that delicate neck was the last thing he remembered. He blacked out during the thrill of intense feeding. Before the feeding, Will felt an attraction for the girl, and for the short time they were together, he fought to keep himself under control with the fleeting promise of companionship. But as the alcoholic must have his drink, in the end, Will’s desire to feed won out.

Will got out of bed and quickly dressed, then returned to the bed and lifted the woman’s limp form. The body was still warm. He had spread plastic sheeting on the floor and lay the body down and wrapped securely. He next concealed the plastic-wrapped body in an old carpet. Hoisting it over his shoulder, he went to the parking structure adjoining his apartment building sure no one would be about at this hour of the morning. Once he was at his car, he opened the trunk and dropped his load in. He would dispose of it on his way to work.

* * *

These memories departed Will’s mind as he inspected his current surroundings. He lived in the lowliest part of town with the outcasts of society. Sitting on the crumbling steps of an abandoned building, his gaze settled on a line of grim-faced men, shabbily dressed, as they entered a stark brick building. While his eyes lingered on the men, his attention shifted inward, wandering restlessly on reflections between his past and present.

* * *

Will Grant was a member of a group he didn’t think existed. He thought they were only legends, until he awoke in a hospital, a wounded soldier from a World War I battlefield almost eighty years ago. He had joined the vampire ranks. A member of the American Expeditionary Force, he had heard stories circulated about demons attacking the wounded and helpless on the field of battle near dusk, but surely these were just myths borne in Eastern Europe and nothing more.

It was the second Battle of the Marne, with the sun sinking below the haze of battle, Will’s unit was ordered to mount a charge against the German lines. Will ran across no man’s land clutching his rifle when a nearby artillery blast picked him up and threw him to the ground. Although he sustained no wounds, the concussion of the blast knocked him unconscious.

As the countryside shifted to darkness, through the mist and stench of battle crept an unholy figure. With eyes glowing like the fires of hell, he knelt next to Will’s body and turned the head to drink deeply. Then, as quietly as it had appeared, the demonic figure left, in search of more casualties, more food in this harvest of the wounded, and more members for its evil band.

When the stretcher-bearers found Will, they saw his extreme pallor and thought him dead. But Will stirred slightly and was loaded into an ambulance and taken to a hospital.

He recovered quickly and during his convalescence became aware of changes in his nature. The bright sun was like fire to his eyes, felt like it would blister his skin. Only when the sky was overcast, could he leave the shelter of the hospital. He napped during the day and found his mind most active at night. Will was horrified at the thoughts and desires he had when the bloodied bodies of soldiers were brought into the ward. He found himself staring at wounds with blood seeping through the bandages. The realization of what he may have become filled his mind with dread. He had read the famous novel of the last century and knew the legends, but had never fathomed that even legends may have some basis in reality.

One day, a soldier was brought in wounded by shrapnel. His face had been obliterated and his neck torn. Will waited until night then gently removed the neck bandage, and for the first time, began to feed. This was the beginning of his new life; this was the beginning of his hell.

He did not become a demon, wandering the night in search of victims, but then, was no longer an ordinary man. He existed in a twilight world and slowly tried to sort out the reality from the fiction. Will did not fear the cross; he wore one around his neck for a short time after the change. He could travel during daylight but direct sun caused excruciating pain. He still needed food but now required further nourishment. His existence separated the truth from the legendary fiction.

It took years for him to adjust his lifestyle, his method of existence. The specter of immortality crossed his mind as he entered into his new life. He had no knowledge of what his future was, no confidant to answer questions about his existence. He was hungry for blood and sought the solitude of darkness. Will had an instinct for survival that could only be described as animal, detesting his life but fighting to exist.

The years went by in a blur. He lived at the edge of humanity, hunting at night when the need arose. He would occasionally feed on the homeless. They were always dying on the street; no one cared if another lifeless form was found in a gutter or over a heating grate. But there were times he missed companionship, the touch of a woman. Physically, Will had not changed since the day he was knocked unconscious in the battlefield. He stood six feet tall with a trim athletic figure. With a full head of thick black hair and piercing blue eyes, he caught the eye of many an attractive young woman and a few young men. He had no problem leading admirers to his apartment, and then there would be another body that needed to be disposed of, another victim of his blood lust.

Will’s life was in chaos. He had to live his life in the shadows between sunset and dawn. Staying employed was difficult and night-shift jobs did not pay much. He had already been evicted from two apartments, and each time he moved, the apartment he took and the neighborhood grew worse – decaying streets peopled by the refuse of humanity. And he had to eat. A few times a month he felt the desire for blood, which he satisfied with stray animals. He would capture a rat and suck the small body dry. This method of feeding would satisfy his needs for a while, but there were times when he must have human blood. Will would venture out with his desire for human companionship and the need to feed. If he did meet someone and there was a mutual attraction, he would spend a few precious hours of normal life, but in the end he would feed, with disgust for himself and what he had become. His life went on this way for more years than he wished to count, small islands of normality amongst a sea of despair.

With eviction from his latest shabby hotel room, and almost out of money, Will was homeless. He filled his backpack and small suitcase and left what he couldn’t carry behind. He wandered streets of vacant storefronts, on the streets for months; he spent the daylight hours in malls, a library, anywhere to escape the sun, begging, stealing, and trying to survive. With his clothes worn and covered with the grime, he found it hard if not impossible to make human contact. Will continued to feed on the homeless. Near death, he helped them on their way. But he found no pleasure in this feeding. What he hungered for was the companionship before the feeding. Only with a human connection, a fleeting glimpse of what was once normal was the feeding truly satisfying.

Will was destitute. He thought his life could sink no lower and then the bottom fell out. One night while huddled in a doorway, he was clubbed and robbed of what little he had. He found one of the homeless men who had worked him over and fed but he needed money for food and shelter. He needed help.

* * *

Back to the present, with nowhere to turn, he made a decision he was sure that none of his kind had made before. The men he had been watching shuffled through the doorway and later emerged with a few dollars in their hands. Will needed money so he joined the line. He thought of how low his life had sunk. In movies and books, his kind never seemed to be burdened by material needs, just fed with lust.

Will walked through the door and was handed a form to fill out. He sat down and began to read the questions. They concerned various diseases his blood might harbor. Will had often thought, What is my disease? Now these thoughts surfaced in his brain once again, Just what do I have, and how is it transmitted? If the questionnaire had asked, Have you ever been bitten by a demon from hell? Would he have answered honestly? He thought of the hell he might be unleashing, but it could be that nothing would come from his actions. Maybe the recipient of his blood would not suffer his fate.

* * *

Sarah, age ten, was a sickly child. Born with hemophilia, she had to be careful to avoid injuries; she could not live a normal life. Lately, she felt different, changed. She had new strength, felt ‘normal’, but also had urges she did not understand. The sun was also becoming a problem.

Will Trizma was a writer of ghost stories and mined the local countryside for legends and their settings.  The area abounded in both.  His wife, Joan, acted as his editor and sounding board for his ideas.  At times, the only comment she would make is, “You’re sick.”

Not only did he write ghost stories, but he also dreamt them.  One night he conjured a most vivid story; a story from the future.  But unlike most of his dreams, he could not remember this tale.  The only recollection he had was that it was horrifying.

* * *

It was the evening of August 15, 1949.  The time was slightly before ten as a train made its way toward West Chester.  There were fifteen souls aboard, counting the crew and passengers on this quiet summer night.  The steam locomotive was pushing a caboose and two passenger cars.  The weather had been stormy for days and up ahead the foundation of the bridge spanning Ship Road had been undermined by runoff.  Jim Purvis, making his last run in a fully-loaded fuel truck, slowly crossed the bridge.  As he reached the span’s center, it collapsed leaving the truck astraddle the tracks. Jim could not believe he was still alive considering the load he was carrying.  Although injured, he managed to climb out of the ravine and go seek help.

As the train slowly made its way into a depressed section of track, the conductor, Ben Elliot, sat on the caboose’s platform and began filling his pipe thinking about sharing a late dinner with his wife.  He looked down to light the pipe, and once achieving a satisfactory burn, he puffed contently, and them looked up.  The sight before him made his scream, “Holy sh…!  He never finished the expletive.

The caboose rammed the truck, followed by the cars.  The locomotive cut through the wreck until it reached the truck exploding the gas tank and turning the wreck into a funeral pyre.

* * *

Writing is a lonely profession, and years ago Will sought out a local writer’s group for support and editorial advice.  During the course of a Christmas dinner attended by all the writers, Will and Joan suggested a summer party and volunteered to hold it at their house.  As the day of the party approached, a spouse or two became sick and others were called away unexpectedly on business.

Will and his wife greeted their guests, their thirteen guests.

Their dog, Millie, a lab mix was her usual excited self with the arrival of every new visitor.  Once everyone was there, she settled down and dozed in the sun.

The conversation was lively with all the creative minds present, and as dusk approached, Will was called upon to tell a ghost story.  “Not dark enough yet,” he answered.

Dessert was served, and when there was no longer a hint of sunlight, and with the patio bathed in twilight, Will deemed the time right for his tale and went into the house.  He returned with candles, one for each table, after extinguished all inside lights.  “Now we have the right atmosphere,” he said.  Will began his story and even Millie appeared interested, her eyes reflecting the candlelight.

The weather had been rainy the last few days, and at ten as he began to read, Will noticed a mist begin coming out of the gull bordering one side of his property.  A few guests had asked him earlier about the gully and he answered that it had once harbored a railroad track.

The mist became denser and soon overtook the yard along with the guests.  One by one they all fell asleep, including Millie.  As the wall of fog enveloped all present, fifteen human shapes began to form.  The specters slowly made their way to the dozing, and one by one, entered their bodies.

The next morning they awoke from their deep sleep and knowingly smiled at one another.  Ben Elliot looked around, and Will’s eyes filled with tears.  “We’ve waited sixty years for this moment.”

Millie awoke and growled.  She knew there was something terribly wrong with her master.

It was a quiet, lovely June night. The light of a crescent moon walked across the tranquil surface of the lake as waves lapped its shore. The air was filled with the smoke of campfires reaching skyward, as the smoke of many ancient fires did so many years ago. I sat quietly at this place where an unspeakable evil might exist. It was an evil that I stumbled upon. Or, maybe I was meant to confront the horror on this peaceful night. My thoughts led to the ultimate question. What if evil really exists as a tangible entity, able to be touched and looked in the eye?

Sitting on a picnic bench in camp site 34, with apprehension, I looked toward the lake for any sign of a glow. My wife, my daughters and I have camped here in the past. We have a particular fondness for campsite 34, a tree shaded campsite on the shore of the park lake. Although the tent site was somewhat small and gravelly, we endured the hard ground to enjoy the lake view.

But behind the joy was now a looming fear.

* * *

It began with an innocent trip to Baldwin’s Book Barn, a store which sold old and rare books. Baldwin’s was located in a rambling five-story barn. Set in the bucolic Pennsylvania countryside, it was my favorite haunt. I was in love with books, the older the better. I enjoyed breathing in the smell of old print and paper and wondered at the people who once owned these old tomes. My favorite time to visit was on a spring night when the customers were few. The store manager opened the barn doors to the surrounding fields, creating a natural setting for the store’s many books stacked in old orange crates. One pleasant spring night I parked in the gravel parking lot. I made my way up the rickety stairs, being sure to bend low so I wouldn’t tear my scalp on the low doorframes.

On the second floor, I walked past a door that was always locked, the door to the rare book room. A faint glow emanating from beneath the door had caught my attention, and then it was gone. My eyes traveled to the edge of the door. It was slightly ajar, a fact that had escaped my attention until that glow caught my eye. I entered and found beautiful leather bound volumes with gold leaf. I wandered among the shelves in the room filled with books I could never afford.

Off in a corner I noticed a slim volume on a table. The cover was leather with black letters; ‘Folklore of Pennsylvania and the Surrounding Area’. I knew some of the local myths, stories that made the tabloids or the local news when they had space to fill, such as the Jersey Devil rumored to inhabit the Pine Barrens of Southern New Jersey. But this book appeared to be a serious and ancient text. With mounting curiosity I confronted the volume. A ribbon, marking a site of interest, peeked from the bottom of the book and upon being opened, the book yielded naturally to theses pages. With a mixture of awe and curiosity, I inspected the story of the Legend of the Ancients. I sat in a round-backed chair, and with curiosity, soon became lost in the book.

* * *

The story began: there is a legend among the local natives of a group of men they called The Ancients. The Ancients were given this name because, when the first Lenape natives entered the land that would one day become Pennsylvania, The Ancients already inhabited one of the many caves in the area. No one knew their tribe or where they came from and The Ancients offered no information. They were wise old men possessing strange powers. There were four, all men.

The natives avoided their company out of fear and respect. They observed that The Ancients would age considerably over a four-year course. They noticed another curious aspect of their appearance: as they aged their eyes would redden. The Ancients’ eyes reddened to a point at which they would glow. As the visage of their age increased so, did the glow of their eyes, when a curious event would occur. Four members of the Lenape tribe would go missing. Coincidentally, The Ancients, suddenly shed the mantle of approaching death; their faces now appeared almost youthful.

Legend continued that one day Megwa, a young buck who wanted to prove his worth as a warrior, made a discovery that chilled him to the bone and sent the other warriors on a mission to destroy The Ancients. Megwa had a best friend with whom he shared his childhood. They would hunt together and talk about their future and their place in the tribe. His friend, whose name was Sharak, had suffered a grave misadventure as a young boy. Once their camp was attacked and Sharak, then a boy of six, ran from his shelter and was immediately clubbed by one of the invaders. He was thought dead, and placed among the bodies of his family and friends, but he soon stirred. The surviving tribe members nursed him back to health. He regained his strength, became a warrior, and went on to avenge the massacre of his parents killed by the invaders, but he always carried a reminder of that fateful attack. His forehead was indented with a deep crease that became a sign of his bravery and a reminder of his loss.

The time of the glowing eyes of The Ancients came once again and, again, four members of the tribe were missing. One of the missing Lenape natives was Sharak. Megwa felt a deep loss, an emptiness in his heart and a sorrow that would not leave. He grieved for his friend. He did not know where he had gone or what had happened to him.

Everyone knew that The Ancients must have been warriors in the past, for the entrance of their cave was adorned with skulls, the trophies of past battles. One day, not long after Sharak disappeared, Megwa was walking by The Ancients’ cave when he suddenly stopped and peered closely at the entrance. There among the other skulls was a new gleaming skull that he recognized, a skull with a deep gash in the forehead. He reported this discovery to the elders of the tribe and it was decided that The Ancients must be destroyed. The tribe knew they must wait until the eyes of The Ancients began to glow. That was when they were at their weakest, and feared contact with the outside world. With their eyes glowing like those of wild animals, they peered from their cave and would not venture beyond its entrance.

Time went by, but Megwa never forgot his mission, his act of vengeance. One day a member of the tribe reported that the eyes of The Ancients had taken on the red glow. They knew the time would soon come, the special night. The night when the eyes of The Ancients would glow; glow as coals in the night. This was the night they could be destroyed. For once this night was over, they would regain new strength, new vigor as four more members of the tribe would be gone forever. As the eyes of The Ancients glowed their fiercest, the natives crept onto the hill above their cave, and with the earth already loosened from their previous night’s work, caused a deafening roar as the loosened earth cascaded down the hill and covered the entrance of the cave. The Ancients were never seen again.

As time passed, The Ancients’ story became legend. Yet there were times when eerie moans, like the earth itself was in pain, would come from the area of the two hills which the legend had described as the home of The Ancients. As time blurred the story of The Ancients, the haunting moans persisted; credited to the wind howling through the narrow valley between the two hills.

* * *

I carefully closed the book and felt a shiver as I recalled some newspaper accounts of horrible occurrences that happened at Lake Harmony remembering that they took place at four year intervals.

* * *

The latest incident occurred on June 12, 1998. A group of four friends came to the campsite where we enjoyed camping. Pitching their tent, they settled in for a few days of hiking and fishing. It was reported that they were to leave the morning of June 13. The morning of June 13 arrived and the surrounding campsites awoke to find that site 35 was empty. The men were gone, along with their belongings. They were never seen again. They had disappeared with no word to their family or friends. I remembered in the article about the fishermen, an earlier incident was mentioned of a horrifying occurrence that had never been solved.

It was June 12, 1994. A family of four, a mom, dad and two young sons were camping at site 34. On the morning of their departure, no one stirred. Finally, the time to vacate the site arrived and their tent was still standing with all their gear spread around the campsite. A ranger stopped at the campsite and called out, “Time to pack-up and leave”. There was no response. He shouted that he was opening the tent and did so. The poor fellow lost his mind with the sight that greeted him. The mother and boys were there, murdered and horribly mutilated. The father was gone and suspected of the crimes. He was never found.

Out of curiosity and fear, I searched the internet when I returned home to see what areas of Pennsylvania the Lenape Indians had occupied, and if that area included the location of Lake Harmony State Park. The tribe had indeed lived in the area of the park. I also looked up the history of the park. The lake where we camped was man made. A dam was built to allow a lake to form. I remembered that, from our campsite at site 34 we could see two islands. Could those islands have once been the tops of hills? Could these be the hills that were once the home of The Ancients? Was it more than a legend? If these hills were indeed the home of The Ancients and the area had been flooded, then the tons of earth that trapped them would have eventually washed away.

I had these thoughts during the fall of 2001, and could not get the possibilities out of my mind. My mind considered powers unknown, evil unimagined. We were planning a camping trip to Lake Harmony the next year. My wife was to make the arrangements, and unknowingly, chose to camp on the four year anniversary of the last unexplained event.

I could not believe that circumstances were putting me in the one place I felt evil that evil might lurk. How could I tell my wife we should not go because of a legend I read in an old book? I admonished myself, “Get a grip. Too much Stephen King.”

We arrived at our campsite. It was a beautiful June day, yet I greeted our arrival with apprehension. We were camping with friends who occupied site 35. The next morning promised to be a day of adventure.

After a breakfast of blueberry pancakes with berries picked from bushes growing on the edge of the lake, we went boating. The afternoon was spent hiking along a trail surrounded by mountain laurel in full bloom. It had been a truly wonderful day. After a campfire, we said good night to our friends as they went to their tent. It was late and time to turn in. I told my wife to take our two girls and get ready for bed, that I would watch the embers of our dying fire.

* * *

As I sat there waiting, I felt a strange fear creep into my bones as the waves gently caressed the shore. All was quiet; most of the campers were fast asleep. Would anything happen? Of course not; that is the stuff of movies!

The moon illuminated the water’s surface. I was tired, drowsy and falling asleep when I noticed a peculiar glow in the water. The legend is not a legend! A glow rose from the murky depths, two red-hot coals just below the waters surface. Next, the unimaginable. The surface of the water parted and what greeted my eyes was unspeakable. The figure appeared a mockery of the human form. And the eyes, they appeared as two suns. I wanted to look away but couldn’t. Suddenly jets of flame exploded from those orbs of doom and blinded me. Entered my eyes, my brain.

I felt pain; I felt …

* * *

A local newspaper published an article telling of campers killed at Lake Harmony. After four years, the incident was only a vague memory, until …

Nijo London pounded on the door of her small cell – her world now for over a year – until her fists bled. “Let me out!” she screamed although she knew her plea would go unanswered. She stepped back and studied the door covered with dark brown outlines of her fists from past attempts to summon help. She was not sure why she was being held captive, but there were times she was not sure she wanted to know.

Nijo was thirty-five, of medium height and slender, with close-cropped black hair and startling blue eyes. She was slender now because of her imprisonment, but she once drifted up and down in her weight. After each of her two pregnancies, the pounds tended to remain more than being shed.

It had been a year since she last saw the sun. No one would speak to her, let alone answer her questions. But she heard occasional conversations through her door. There was hushed talk of brutal murders. One time she thought she heard the mention of cannibalism, but she couldn’t be sure.

Surely these conversations could not be connected to Nijo; she was a nurse and devoted her life to caring for the sick. But she had vague memories that she didn’t understand; flashes of perception that were more than disturbing. They were horrifying. There was also some connection with these horrors to ancient rituals of healing she had tried to incorporate into her practice. Nijo also recalled the most unsettling consequence of using these ancient rights: the complete loss of memory after she used the power.

* * *

Nijo had been content with her life. Her husband, Jim, was a hard-working engineer and provided a good life for her and their two daughters, Kim, age two, and Heather, age four. She was a nurse, and didn’t need to work, but she loved her profession and could not imagine life without nursing. When caring for the sick, she felt complete. To serve the patients most in need of her skills, she chose hospice nursing, and with that decision she would do a great deal of good but also seal her fate.

The patients she encountered had the most urgent care requirements. They required comfort along the road toward their death. And Nijo provided help along that road with care and compassion. But, deep, inside she felt she was not doing enough to ease the suffering of the dying.

It was shortly after this feeling of inadequacy began that she met Robbie. Robbie, Roberta, was a hospice nurse working at the same agency. She was older than Nijo, blond, tall and had a striking presence of authority whenever she entered the room of a patient. Extremely competent in her discipline, she used all the skills at her command to ease the fears and pain of the dying. It was Robbie’s knowledge of a little recognized discipline that would determine Nijo’s future.

Robbie and Nijo became close friends. One day Nijo asked, “There are times I feel I could do more for my patients. Robbie, your patients seem to possess an inner peace different from those I work with. What do you do for them that I don’t?”

Robbie replied, “I’ve learned to use a healing method called Reiki. When you use this discipline, power comes through your hands as you work with the patient to help heal and provide a feeling of peace. For some patients it works, for some it doesn’t, but in our profession you do what you must to ease pain and suffering.”

Nijo took some Reiki classes with Robbie and began to see the benefits of this mystical approach to helping the dying. However, the success rate was less than she had hoped for, that’s when she asked Robbie, “Is there anything more I can do? Is there another step beyond Reiki?”

Robbie hesitated, and then answered, “There is a force beyond Reiki, but it is dangerous. There are consequences to the practitioner if it is used. You might say, when you use this power, there are debts to be paid. I’ve never had the nerve to pursue it.”

Nijo responded, “If we can comfort the dying, no debt is too much. Will you tell me what this method is called?”

“It is called Mejocuthru. No one knows its origin. Even its most practiced masters seldom use this power. They fear it.”

Nijo asked Robbie, “Who are these masters? How can I meet them?”

Robbie paused, and then said, “I once asked the same questions and was led to a master. But what she told me stopped me from asking more.”

“What did this master tell you?”

“She said that with every use of Mejocuthru you must do the equivalent amount of harm to match the good you accomplished.”

Now it was Nijo’s turn to hesitate. She thought for a while, and then said, “If there is something out there that will help me with my patients, I would like to at least look into it. How can I meet this master?”

Robbie replied, “I shouldn’t have told you about Mejocuthru. It’s dangerous.”

“Look, Robbie, you know the type of patients we deal with. For the most part, their lives are full of pain and suffering, not to mention the emotional strain on their families. I would do anything to help these people. To be honest, I’m surprised you have not used this discipline.”

Robbie thought for a moment and considered how persuasive the master had been against her learning Mejocuthru. She thought the master would also be able to discourage Nijo, so reluctantly, she gave Nijo the master’s address.

* * *

It was weeks before Nijo had time to search out the Mejocuthru master. The workload was unusually heavy and her kids were sick so when she wasn’t caring for her patients she was nursing her children.

One sunny cold Saturday afternoon she asked Jim to watch the girls. “I’ve got some errands to run. Would you mind staying home with the kids?”

Jim looked up from the college football game he was watching and said, “No problem. On your way home, why don’t you pick up a pizza for dinner?” He returned to the game as his wife closed the front door.

She made her way to the address Robbie supplied. It was in the Chinese section of town. She consulted a city map and had no trouble locating the home of the Mejocuthru master. She pulled up in front of the building and was momentarily confused, “This can’t be the right address,” she said to herself. The building housed a Chinese restaurant. In the window of the grimy building was a row of cured ducks hung by their necks, suspended over oriental fruit and vegetables. Above were apartments, but the doorway leading upstairs displayed a different number.

Nijo went into the restaurant and was immediately approached by a waiter who asked in a heavy accent, “Can I seat you?” The room smelled of exotic sauces and spices. Clouds had darkened the afternoon sky, and the room appeared not to absorb what little light that filtered through the dirty front window. The few customers present were seated in the darkness muttering in Asian dialects.

Nijo said, “I was given this address by a friend. I’ve come to see the Mejocuthru master.”

The waiter’s expression changed from neutral to one of malice. “That is not possible,” he said. “Who sent you here?”

She gave him Robbie’s name. A brief look of recognition passed over his face.

“Sit here,” he growled, pointing to the area reserved for take-out customers and disappeared through a beaded curtain leading to the kitchen. Sometime later he reemerged, perspiring heavily. He had the same countenance of anger, but now he also bore a hint of uncertainty.

In a gruff voice, he said, “Follow me.”

The waiter led Nijo through the beaded curtain and into the kitchen where a host of Chinese cooks shouted to one another in their sing-song language. Here the exotic smell of the food was overpowering. Hurriedly, Nijo was shown to the rear of the room to a flight of stairs leading to the basement. The steps leading into the darkness were wooden and well-worn. In the faint light from an occasional bare bulb, Nijo found herself walking through a maze of tiny storerooms containing shelves of cans displaying Asian characters and jar upon jar of spices. One room was reserved for nothing but tea; another for huge bags of rice. He led Nijo to the darkest recesses of the cellar and a rust-stained metal door. He unlocked a heavy bolt and motioned Nijo inside. Immediately after she entered, the door was locked behind her. Her nostrils were attacked by the heavy smell of incense. Behind a single wavering candle flame appeared to be a pile of rags. Then the rags began to move, becoming a solitary figure surrounded by cushions. Even after her eyes had adjusted, Nijo could only make out a shadowy figure.

In perfect English, without the hint of an accent, the specter motioned to the pile of cushions and said, “Come here, child, and sit.”

The voice was that of a woman and was gentle but with an undertone of despair. Now seated, Nijo could begin to discern the woman’s features. Her face was a mass of wrinkles with deep-set slanted eyes, a flat nose and small mouth.

“My name is Maggie Wu,” said the woman. “I have been a prisoner in this room for many years. It is a painful, lonely existence, one I wish I could end, but I am powerless to do so.”

Nijo asked, “Why are you held prisoner? Are these people holding you hostage?”

The old woman answered, “I do not know why I am here. They say I did terrible things, but I don’t recall. I have had visitors, but they were either curious or vengeful. This has been my existence for more years than I can remember. “What brings you here, my child?”

Nijo answered, “A friend of mine and I have been practicing Reiki to help our patients. We are hospice nurses and have had some success in relieving some of their pain, but nothing consistent. I asked my friend, Robbie, if there was some stronger discipline we could use with more power and more certainty. Reluctantly, she told me about Mejocuthru and how to find you. She said there were risks but I would risk anything to help my patients.”

“Would you, my dear? I recall your friend. You must have been very persuasive, for not only did I deter her from using Mejocuthru, but made her swear not to tell anyone of my existence.”

Nijo said, “I was rather relentless in my questioning. Do not be mad at Robbie. Please agree to teach me.”

The old woman reached out her gnarled hands to Nijo. “Give me your hands,” she ordered.

Nijo extended her hands and felt a strange tingle when they were held by the woman.

The woman said, “You have a deep desire to heal. I have never experienced this power in another. Perhaps you could control the power of Mejocuthru. I will tell you my history; then we will see.

“I was a healer taught by healers from the old country. They said I had many natural abilities and revealed to me powers and cures unknown in this country. I did much good for the Chinese community, but I felt I wasn’t doing enough, that there was a further step I could take.”

“I have the same feelings,” said Nijo, “that there is something beyond the Reiki I use.”

The old woman shook her head in disgust. “Reiki is for amateurs, a weak discipline practiced by weak people. Mejocuthru is where the real power lies. With Mejocuthru you can perform miracles. The old masters warned me of dangers, of doing well but of also doing evil. But I accepted the power. I raised the dead. It was only then I realized the power I possessed.

“The old masters said I would perform unspeakable acts if I used this knowledge. After I began to cure using Mejocuthru, the only problem I encountered was the loss of memory after healing. Soon after I raised a young woman from death I was imprisoned and have been here ever since. I long to be free. No one will explain why I am here, but I know I did some good and that is what is important. Those thoughts are what keep me alive.”

Nijo said, “I do not understand how such a great healing tool can do evil. I want to learn. I want to possess this power.”

The old woman smiled and said, “I will teach you. There is a chant you must learn. One that will release the powers of Mejocuthru into the persons you touch to heal the disease that sickens them.

“Come, child. Lean forward and I will whisper the chant so that you may heal the sick.”

Nijo leaned close to the ancient healer. The old woman spoke the chant into Nijo’s ear. When the lesson was finished, the old woman told Nijo, “You are now a Mejocuthru healer. Go and help the sick; the power is yours.”

As soon as she said these words, the old woman’s images appeared to waiver; then slowly fade. Before Nijo’s disbelieving eyes, there appeared a boiling black cloud where the woman had been. Rather than dissipating, the cloud began to fall into itself. It became constantly smaller until all that remained was a solitary black dot hovering above the candle. Then it was gone.

Nijo shuddered and rose from the cushions. She had no idea what she had just witnessed, however, she felt a new sense of power that was pleasurable, that needed to be shared. She pounded on the door to be released. The door was opened by the waiter who had led her to the room. Nijo said, “I am finished here,” and walked past the man. After a minute or so, his eyes began to adjust to the darkened room. The chamber was empty. He searched the small room in disbelief and horror.

* * *

After arriving home, Nijo called Robbie. The excitement in Nijo’s voice was obvious; a flash of fear crossed Robbie’s mind. Nijo said, “I saw her, the Mejocuthru master. She told me her secrets and then…”

“And then what?” asked Robbie.

In all honesty, Nijo had no idea what she had witnessed. The woman had disappeared. Was this part of the associated curse? Nijo quickly steered the conversation away from the old woman. “I can feel the tingle of this new power in my body,” said Nijo. “I feel I must use it soon.”

The opportunity soon presented itself. Nijo was assigned a patient, Mary Littlecroft, age twenty-six, suffering from bone cancer. Chemotherapy did not provide a cure and her right leg was to be amputated. Mary was heartbroken when told the news. When Nijo came to visit, Mary cried, “I can’t bear the thought of losing my leg. I’ve always been athletic – a runner. I know I’ll survive without my leg, that many people with cancer have no hope at all. I know I’m being selfish, but if I lose my leg…”

Nijo tried to console Mary. After a few visits, Nijo noticed something. Every time she came near the young woman, she felt a tingle she knew was the force of Mejocuthru inside of her waiting to be released. Nijo finally decided to use her healing power on Mary.

After lowering the lights, Nijo approached Mary’s bed and quietly said, “I want to try something I learned. I have never used it before. There should be no pain. It might not work, but I’d like to try.”

Mary said, “I have nothing to lose but my leg. Try anything you want.”

Nijo placed her hands on Mary’s leg. Blue-white sparks danced from her fingertips. Mary groaned, but it was not one of pain but of pleasure. Mary said, “I feel something in my leg that is overcoming the dull pain I feel constantly.” As tears welled in her eyes, she continued, “My leg has not felt like this for a long time.” She pushed away the covers and stood; then walked. That was when the flow of tears became a flood. Mary cried, “I don’t know what you did, Nijo, but something wonderful has happened to my leg. What did you do?”

With an amazed voice, Nijo said, “I learned a new healing discipline. You are the first person I have tried it on.”

To that Mary said, “You have a gift, a healing gift. Thank you so much.”

Nijo was unsure what to say. She had no idea her experience with Mejocuthru would be so positive so quickly. Could this power reverse the cancer or just provide momentary comfort? Nijo said good-bye to her patient, and then walked to her car. She felt a strange emptiness and decided to take a walk along the darkened streets before she returned home. It was something she needed to do. She put her nursing bag in her car and then began walking. After a few steps she blacked out and did not come to again until she was sitting in her car. Not knowing what had happened, she felt uncomfortable about the blackout. Nothing like this had ever happened before. She went home, kissed her husband, and played with the girls after dinner. It was still early when she told Jim, “I’m drained. I think I’ll go to bed early.”

“No problem,” answered Jim. “I’ll put the girls to bed soon and then maybe read for awhile.”

The next morning Jim leafed through the local paper. The rag was a joke in the community. The stories they published were often confusing, and occasionally, made no sense at all. As he read the paper, Jim was known to often shout, “Doesn’t anyone proof-read this stuff? It’s a joke.”

As he sat at the breakfast table, a small article caught his attention. As Nijo entered the kitchen, he said, “Listen to this. Last night someone leapt out of some bushes and struck a young woman in the leg, breaking it. It was near where you saw a patient yesterday. You better be careful in that neighborhood.”

“That’s strange,” said Nijo. “It’s such a quiet community.” She began to cook breakfast and quickly forgot about the article.

Over the next few weeks, Nijo used her Mejocuthru powers on patients whose lives were so full, yet were racked by pain and the specter of death. Every time she practiced this ancient right she blacked-out. Blacking out was the side effect she associated with her healing.

Then the event occurred that would change her life forever. She had a patient, a young woman of thirty, pregnant with twins and found to have colon cancer. She needed chemotherapy, and without it, would surely die. But the therapy would destroy the twins. Nijo was assigned the case. Her patient, Julie, refused the chemo.

“I could not go on with my life if it would cost the lives of my babies,” she told Nijo.

Nijo could feel the stress Julie and her husband, Jonathan, were under. She kept her powers in check, hoping for some miracle, until she realized she was their only hope. The tingling had also begun, more intense than ever before.

Then one day she went to visit Julie and could tell the end was near, probably a matter of hours. Nijo felt a compassion she could not overcome. She needed to do something to save this young family. She needed to use her powers. Sitting next to Julie, she put one hand on the woman’s head and one on her belly, while she recited the Mejocuthru chant. Feeling a power she had never experienced, she continued to chant with a voice that soon filled the house.

Jonathan became concerned and entered the bedroom. He found Julie sitting up in bed, resting against the pillows and smiling as she clutched her belly. He next gazed at Nijo. She had a vacant stare, walked past him and left the house.

Nijo had used the full force of her powers. She remained in a trance for months after the healing. Little did she realize that the consequence of using so much power would destroy her life and that of her family.

When Nijo returned home after the healing, neighbors reported hearing ungodly screams coming from the home and called the police. They arrived, but it was too late. Nijo sat amid the carnage that was once her family. Veteran officers were sickened by what they saw. After a short trial, Nijo was committed to an insane asylum. This was where she returned from her blackout.

* * *

There was a recent nursing graduate, Debbie, who was assigned to Nijo’s wing in the asylum. Being new, she had not yet developed the thick skin necessary to deal with some of the patients. She had been told to never talk to this particular patient, told she was too dangerous. One night she approached the cell with dinner, and instead of just leaving it, said, “Here’s dinner,” out of force of habit.

Nijo ran to the door. No one ever spoke to her. “Thank you,” Nijo replied.

Debbie said, “I was told not to talk to you. I’m sorry,” then turned to leave.

“I’m not insane,” answered Nijo, “just confused. I’ve been confused for a long time.”

“Why are you here?” asked Debbie.

“I’m not sure, but you are the first nurse that has talked to me. I have a special healing power and am no longer allowed to use it.”

“What sort of power?”

“There is a chant I know that can cure anything you wish to cure. It may cause you to blackout, but it would be a waste to have it die with me. Could I tell you about it?”

Debbie listened to Nijo’s story about the old Chinese woman and the chant she learned. She then asked, “Could you teach me how to use this power? I want to help the sick, that’s why I’m a nurse.”

Nijo leaned close to the small opening in the door of her cell and revealed to Debbie the chant. Debbie immediately felt a tingling over her entire body. She knew something had happened, and then said, “Thank you, Nijo. I know I can do well with what I feel.”

But Nijo never heard Debbie’s thanks. Her body separated into countless particles, yet remained united in their intelligence. Her body became a dark boiling cloud which soon concentrated into an indigo point and disappeared. This was the dark, the evil consumed by the power of the owner to heal. This was the balance. Nijo felt herself drifting, leaving the Earth behind; searching for the next level as her being dissipated in space.

Not far from my home in southeastern Pennsylvania, the small towns yield to a rural countryside. Heavily timbered, with a sense of remoteness, the area has always been one of legend and mystery. The story you’re about to read is one of the legends generated by this atmosphere. For those curious enough to seek out the location of this tale, the signposts are in the story. A map of French Creek State Park is all you need.

* * *

My name is Will Trizma, and like most writers of the macabre, I am constantly on the search for material to weave into a piece of horror, spending time driving down back roads seeking scenes and atmosphere for my stories.

One warm October day, with the foliage a kaleidoscope of rich color, I went for a drive and chanced upon what I thought was a goldmine, but now I’m of a different mind. But, as you can see, a story was created.

My wife and I were soon to go camping at French Creek State Park beginning on Halloween night. Our two daughters would not be coming; they were grown and busy with their lives. Accompanying my wife, Joan, and I would be our dog, Millie. Her disposition is gentle but she is always aware of strangers or something out of the ordinary.
My wife is a high school teacher and gone most of the day. I spend my days home writing. But when my muse fails, I drive the rural roads taking notes on settings that I may be able to use in a story. It was one such drive that inspired the tale you are reading.

I was driving along highway 23, just east of Elverson, when I saw a roadside store I just had to explore. It was a small building, faded white in color, and above the door was a sign proclaiming, General Store, in equally faded gold letters with a green background, looking like something out of the 1950’s. I parked in the small graveled lot. Along one side of the store was a good-sized garden with the last tomatoes and peppers of the season. A series of vines snaked through the garden with butternut squash waiting for the frost of fall to turn them into a golden brown. I smiled, thinking that the bounty of this garden was the source for produce for sale in the store I was about to enter.

I climbed two well-worn stairs and entered an earlier era. Behind two rows of fully stocked shelves was the counter, and behind the counter stood a man who had to be eighty if he was a day. He called out, “Hello, young fella. What can I get for you?”

He wore a white apron full of the stains from his labor. Lean and tall, with a ring of white hair and about three day’s growth of whiskers, he was the type of proprietor I would have expected in this encounter.

“I’m just looking around,” I said to the old man.

The store was the sort that existed before the supermarket came into existence. To my right was an ancient refrigerator case holding cold cuts and cheese. I walked the two rows of shelves. There was soup, canned vegetables and a host of other products. But where a modern grocery store might have ten brands of the same product and a vast quantity of each, here there was only one brand with four or five available. As a guy, I thought this made shopping a lot easier. The shelves to the far left held products for the local sportsman. Ammo and fresh water tackle lined the shelves. After drinking in the atmosphere of the store, I wandered up to the counter. I really wanted to talk to this old fella and get more of the feel for this area to perhaps use in a story.

On the counter was a cardboard display of beef jerky. I took out a sleeve and laid it down.

“That’ll be seventy-five cents,” said the old man. “You from these parts?”
“No, just driving around,” I answered.

“Must be on vacation driving around in early afternoon.”

“No, not on vacation,” I said.

“Young fella like you out in the middle of the day must be unemployed.”

“No sir, I’m a writer. I’m always working, maybe not making much money, but always working.”

“What’cha write?”

“I write horror stories. This area of the county is full of ghost stories and legends. When I’m between stories, I ride around looking for atmosphere and leads I can use.”

“What’s your name?”

“Will Trizma,” I replied.

“Ain’t never heard of you. I do enjoy a good ghost story, but never heard of you.”

“That’s one of my problems,” I answered. “Not enough people have heard of me, but I’m working on that. Right now I’m looking for inspiration for a new story.”

“What’s your new story about?”

“That’s the problem; I’m stuck. I’ve found plenty of atmosphere, but no story line.”

The old man leaned forward, “You want a story?” He looked over his shoulder, although we were the only ones in the store. “I first heard this story from my grandpa.”

“Sure,” I said full of anticipation. “I enjoy hearing the local lore and set my stories in locales that really exist, although they’re just stories.”

The old man’s voice grew soft, “This is a story, or maybe not. I don’t know and never had the nerve to check it out. It’s called The Legend of French Creek, although it dates from way before the state park existed.”

I pulled a small pad and pen from my shirt pocket. “Mind if I take some notes?”

“Hell no. Most around here know the story – it’s no secret.”
He began his story.

“Grandpa first told me this story when I was young. Wanted to scare the hell out of me, I suppose.” Starts back in the late 1700’s with some people that weren’t welcomed in this neck of the woods. They came from England. Some kind of pagan cult called Drubids.”

“Do you mean Druids?” I asked.

“Ya, something like that. Anyway, they wanted to be left alone so they built a house way out in the woods. There was men and women, but no children. Young, they was. Maybe eight or ten of them.

“Seems the locals, being of the religious type, didn’t take too kindly to these pagans. Then the trouble started. Farm animals turned up missing, some cows and sheep. The locals suspected treachery by the pagans, but they kept their peace. Then, within two weeks time, three children went missing. A group of townsfolk paid a visit to the pagans. The heathens said they knew nothing of the animals or children disappearing. But the locals thought they were acting suspicious.

“This all happened in the spring. Then came the massacre.

“It was the night of the summer solstice. The nearest residents to the pagans reported a red glow in the forest that night. Some of the local men, well armed, went to investigate. They approached the pagan camp and saw the men and women dancing naked around a fire. There was a pile of cut up carcasses, no one could tell what they were, being thrown into the fire.

“One of the men, nervous I suppose, shot into the air and the pagans made for the cabin. The story goes that the men surrounded the cabin, and then someone threw a blazing brand onto the roof. The cabin caught fire. Screams could be heard coming from the house. Some of the pagans tried to escape through the door and windows, but they were shot and fell back into the inferno. The men of the town remained until the house collapsed. By morning, it was just a smoking ruin. They left and said little of what they had done to anyone outside the community. Some of the curious would visit the site of the pagan compound. And as time passed, the story faded but was not totally forgotten.

“It was in the early 1920’s when a new preacher came to town. During the late summer the townsfolk said they would build him a house. He walked not far from the church and saw a level area with little growth. Apparently, the damn fool picked the site where the pagans’ cabin once stood.

“The house was built before winter set in and the congregation spent the remainder of the year and half of the next worshipping, led by the new minister.

“Then the night of the summer solstice arrived. No one knows what happened but the minister’s house burnt down that night with him in it. The church caught fire and burned to the ground too.

“Eventually, during the depression, the town died and the area returned to wilderness. Here’s where the legend takes over, my young friend. All the buildings were consumed by the forest except for the minister’s. The concrete slab that served as its foundation is still there, along with some burnt up debris. The forest won’t touch that rubble, so the legend says, because the pagans still dwell there underground. I don’t know exactly where it is, but it’s somewhere on the perimeter of French Creek State Park. Folks say it’s still there, easy to find along one of the popular trails. Some say they get a strange feeling when they hike past the rubble on the day of the summer solstice. No one goes there that night. Campers all stay snug and warm by their fires or in their tents.”

“That’s a great story,” I told the old man. “Maybe I could use some of it in a story. But first, I’ll try to find the ruin you mentioned.”
“Don’t know if you should, mister. All legends have a bit of truth. I wouldn’t want to cause you any harm.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

I shook his hand and left the small store, my mind full of ideas. I kept in mind the details he gave me about the location of the minister’s house. With our impending camping trip, I thought the coincidence was perfect for me to do some research. If I could locate the site I could use the surroundings to give my story a realistic bent.

* * *

Two weeks later, we were packing for our camping trip. Millie appeared to be as excited as we were, seeing her food and toys packed up and taken out to the van.

We set out on the afternoon of Halloween full of anticipation in leaving our daily lives and spending a weekend in the wilderness with our pup. After finding our campsite, we quickly set up camp and Millie, attached to a long lead, sniffed the forest floor. That night, seated by a roaring campfire with Joan, my imagination ran wild. I pictured Druids descending on our campsite, with us captured for their human sacrifices. Of course, nothing happened. The entire night passed, uneventful.

The next morning we planned our first hike with Millie. The Orange Trail passed behind our tent. It was an easy trail with moderate sections, ideal for Millie, my wife and I. After packing a lunch, we set out in late morning with Millie taking the lead, full of excitement. We walked the trail for a little more than two miles when it meandered toward the perimeter of the park. After another half mile, Millie’s excitement on this adventure changed dramatically. Our pup began to growl and pull away from the direction we were going, not wanting to continue. We pulled her along and her growl became a whimper of fear, something we’d never seen her exhibit. Another fifty feet and there it was. I was sure it was the site of the minister’s house described by the old man in the store.

As Millie pulled back on her leash, we approached the destroyed structure. There was the concrete slab about thirty by twenty feet with charred posts sticking out from points in the foundation. A rusted bedspring was the only sign of furniture. A few decaying pipes punctured the concrete slab. What was unusual was the lack of vegetation surrounding the slab. No trees had invaded the immediate area. Only weeds and forest litter marred the land.

We stood there, with Millie pulling in any direction away, Joan said, “What a curious place out here in the middle of nowhere. And why is Millie acting so strange?”

I had yet to relate to Joan the story the old man told me. As we continued on our hike, I told her. We both noticed that the farther we walked along the trail, the more Millie returned to her pleasant disposition.

I knew I had to return to these ruins on summer solstice to investigate.

* * *

I formulated a plan. I would have Joan drop me off the evening of the summer solstice, which would be a Tuesday night. Joan was hesitant, but gave in after I told her it would help me with a story I was working on. She knew I was going through a dry period. An hour before dusk, I would set out on the Orange Trail with a pack containing a sleeping bag and whatever I might need for the night. Appearing to be just another hiker, I would make camp near the ruins and see for myself if there was anything to The Legend of French Creek.

The night of the summer solstice was rapidly approaching and my feelings ranged from that of stupidity with this pursuit to fear of spending the night alone deep in the woods.

The morning of June 21st found me packing my gear. I would not build a fire, so I included a can of beans, bread and a can of SPAM©. My wife entered the bedroom and wrinkled her nose as she saw the SPAM© going into my backpack. She does not appreciate this brick of pork-flavored heaven as I do.

“So you’re really going through with this crazy plan,” she said. Joan had been trying to talk me out of going for some time now. Her arguments only strengthened my determination to see it through, but also added to my occasional thoughts of what a stupid idea this was.

Seven o’clock that night we set out on the forty-five minute drive to the park. Along the way, Joan would continually ask, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I responded, “Yes,” although it was not as firm a ‘yes’ as I intended.

We entered the park and stopped along the circular road near our former campsite. I got out, shouldered my backpack, and said, “I guess I’m ready.”

Joan replied, “I know you won’t reconsider. Please be careful. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon.” We kissed, and she drove off. My writer’s mind was already on hyper drive. And this was the last time I saw my wife, I thought.

I walked the Orange Trail toward the ruin. The smell of campfire smoke filled the air. Alone on the trail, with thoughts full of horror and mayhem, I pressed on. As I approached the site of the burned structure, the sun was a giant orange ball peaking through trees racing toward the horizon. An open space across the trail from my quarry caught my attention. It was there I would make my camp.

The forest was darkening now, and becoming chilly. I climbed into my sleeping bag and leaned against a boulder to begin my vigil. Cutting the SPAM© into slices, I made two sandwiches and opened the beans. Saving some SPAM© for my morning meal, I consumed my dinner.

The forest was dark now, but I dare not light a light. I concentrated on the ruin taking note of the sounds and the feelings of dread I encouraged my mind to pursue. I tried to remain awake, but the warmth of my sleeping bag and a full stomach made me drowsy and I soon fell asleep.

What happened next I wanted to credit to a dream, but I know it was real.

The blackness of the forest became full of a milk-white vapor, although above, the sky was full of stars. There was no wind, yet the mist came rapidly from different directions and formed a shell of white around the concrete slab. Soon the vapor took the form of a house, becoming a solid structure. Windows, now present, glowed bright red and I could see figures dancing within. The door of the house opened and there appeared a group of naked males and females horribly burned, their bodies smoking. I wanted to look away, but could not. Their obscene presence came toward me. They lunged at me. Their hideous laughter screamed in my ears. Now the horrors surrounded me. My mind could not take any more. I lost consciousness and dreamed of daemons and devils surrounding me in an attempt to capture my soul.

I awoke the next morning with a feeling of dread, not wanting to open my eyes. The ruin was the same as it appeared the night before, although the debris on the forest floor leading to my campsite appeared disturbed. I looked down, and to my horror, my sleeping bag bore handprints burnt into the fabric.

I packed up my gear and headed down the trail to meet my wife and return to the comfort of my home, never wanting to return to French Creek again.
* * *
I tried to put the horror of that night clear of my mind, but it wouldn’t happen. I felt I had brought something back from that gruesome night and could not escape its presence. So I switched gears and embraced the event. After some research on the Druids, I worked my experience and new-found background into a few stories that I managed to sell.

Nearly a year had passed since that dreadful night, when Joan announced, “I think we need to get away. How about a short four-day vacation?”

“Sounds great, but it better be cheap,” I said. “You know money is tight.”

“Camping is not expensive,” she answered. I’ve reserved a site from June 19 to June 22.” She saw my face grow deathly pale, and then quickly added, “A site at Rickett’s Glen.”

“I thought you were talking about French Creek. I’m never going back there again.”

Rickett’s Glen was one of our favorite campgrounds. I quickly warmed to the thought of getting away. The park had a large man-made lake, and we always camped at the water’s edge making good use of our canoe. The only downside was that Millie could not accompany us.

Leaving the house that June morning, I felt great anticipation at the chance to relax and unwind. Just lately, the writing had not been going so good and the words that were produced didn’t satisfy me. I looked forward to returning home and plunging back into my work.

Once camp was set up, we decided to take a hike and see a few of the waterfalls the for which the park is famous. The air was cool for June, and I anticipated a stress-relieving walk. As I packed some snacks into my backpack, my hand brushed against an outside pocket I seldom used. There was something small and hard inside. I unzipped the pocket and reached in, withdrawing something that set me shaking. It was a Druid talisman. I knew from my research exactly what it was and its blasphemous purpose. The crude fetish was in the form of a naked woman with prominent breasts and an obvious cleft between her stunted legs. I had seen a drawing of a statue exactly like this in a book of ancient Druid curses and spells. Its specific purpose was to summon Druid spirits to its possessor on the night of the summer solstice. After a year, I was still to be haunted by these demonic specters. I had to dispose of this totem, and soon.

“I think I’ll take a canoe ride before dinner,” I told Joan after quickly forming a plan.

I pushed the canoe out, jumped in, and paddled toward the center of the lake. When I was far from shore, I reached into my pocket, retrieved the crude statue, and hurled it into the water. I was now free of the talisman and free of its purpose, or so I hoped.

Tonight would be a very long night.