It was the last weekend before Labor Day and our small team of thrill seekers; George, Charlie, Margo and I decided to share one more adventure before going back to college. We grabbed our backpacks, tents, cooler and sleeping bags, then headed to the Oregon coast for a weekend of beach and surf camping. We knew of a perfect little spot not too far from Port Orford where the woods meet the beach and the weather-beaten rocks tumble down the cliff to the sand.
We stayed up all night sitting around the campfire, telling ghost stories, each trying to top the other with an even scarier story. I started with an old favorite; a story of a lonely ghost wandering along the ocean’s edge on a moon lit night, searching for her husband, long ago lost at sea. George told the one about the man with a hook for a hand, scratching on the car door, two lovers oblivious to him, as they sat making-out in their parked car, windows steamed over, and passion making them ignorant of the dangerous man outside. Eventually the stories moved toward the supernatural, like the Amityville House, vampires finding new victims for their coven, and stories of dead pirates protecting their buried treasure.
The fire burned down. The air got colder. The stories seemed to become more disturbing. The characters appeared more sinister and the events more probable. Our minds began to play tricks on us. Our ears heard things that weren’t there, noises behind us, up the cliff, and down the beach. Our eyes caught a glimpse of things in the shadows, just beyond the ring of fire. Daylight could not come soon enough.
“Do any of you guys believe in ghosts?” Charlie asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question. The smoky campfire, the unfamiliar noises in the woods, the wet smell of the fog in the air; my immediate answer was a yes.
“I heard this story from some friends of mine who bought an old Victorian house in Missouri,” Charlie continued. “They bought the house real cheap and really loved it. But then they started hearing noises in the hall and the upstairs bedrooms. One night they woke up to find a woman standing beside their bed, with a hatchet, ready to swing towards them! They turned on the light and she was gone.
After that happened, they started asking around and found out the house was said to be haunted…apparently, a long time ago another family lived in the house and they had a daughter about 25 years old. The young woman was crazy…bipolar they say…and tried to kill her parents with an axe. Her parents sent her to an insane asylum where she died a couple of weeks later of a laudanum overdose. Ever since then, she haunts anyone who sleeps in her parent’s room.”
Charlie took a deep swig of his beer. A sudden cold breeze blew thru the campsite. The camp fire had burned brightly while Charlie told his story, but now, with the cold breeze, the fire struggled to stay alive.
“We need more wood”, George said as he threw two more logs on the fire. Embers glowed red as sparks rose into the air and floated skyward. Outside our circle, the fog, rising up from the sea and now surrounding us, blocked out the stars. The glow from the embers quickly faded. There was no glow from the moon either. The only light came from the fading fire, lending an eerie glow to the smoke as it drifted heavenward.
How could one not believe in ghosts when everything around you felt alive and powerful and sinister in the deepening darkness? I quickly turned my head and looked behind me, feeling a presence that did not seem real. There was no one there; everyone was present and gathered together around the fire. No one wanted to go to their tent and be alone in the dark. No one wandered off to pee. I shuddered as a chill ran up my spine.
“There’s something crawling up my leg!” shrieked Margo. She jumped up and began stomping the ground. Dirt, rocks and leaves flew all around her. She tripped over her camping stool. Everyone stood up, ready to flee if necessary. “Get it off me!” Margo was like a woman possessed. She was frantic; hands in the air, eyes wild with excitement, twirling and screaming; finally something fell out of her pant leg.
We all saw it. It laid there on the ground…frozen with terror. George grabbed a rock. Charlie grabbed a stick. I hid behind George. There was movement. Its’ fuzzy chest rose and fell with deep, desperate breaths. Gasping for air, searching for strength, four fuzzy legs pawed at the sky as it tried to roll over. We all backed away. We gave it lots of room. The fire’s reflection glowed from two tiny little eyes. It took a minute of composure, and then we all laughed. But it was a halfhearted laugh, one ringing with our nervousness and relief.
It was a baby chipmunk…drawn by the glow of the fire, it was just looking for a warm place to spend the cold night. The frightened animal scampered back up the rocks, toward the woods and up the nearest tree.
Margo, shaken but quiet, grabbed a soda from the cooler and popped the top. Still on edge, we all jumped - though just a tiny bit. To relieve the tension and bring some sense of normalcy to the fire, we opened packages of chocolate bars, marshmallows and graham crackers. As we roasted our marshmallows, we talked about how silly we were being, and how the mind can play tricks on us all – especially with the help of lost babies and Mother Nature.
There was no more talk of ghost stories that night.
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