Unbeknownst to Karen, on the day that she closed on her new house, the selling agent and former owner threw such a raucous party at the bar down the street that the police came… and joined them until dawn. They sold the house at a considerable loss. Their excitement about getting out of the house fell in line with a long history of such celebrations. A century earlier the white settlers negotiated the sale of the lot where the house now stands from the Native Americans living there. John Dale, the man whose name graced the first deed for the land turned to his attorney as the natives danced away and asked, “Look at those savages! Whooping and dancing – don’t they know those trinkets are practically worthless?” One of the Native Americans, meanwhile, said to the other, “Can you believe those White Devils took that land off our hands?!” “Right? Now we no longer have to perform the ceremony to keep the evil spirits in the ground!” They high fived. Really. The first Dale house stood proudly in the center of town. It burned down in an unexplained fire a year later. Undeterred, John Dale rebuilt the house on an even grander scale: a tall, elegant Victorian. So proud of this second house (he referred to the first house as a “rough draft”) he sent for his wife to come from the capital to live with him. House complete, John Dale carried his newly-arrived wife across the threshold into the new house. A week later she threw herself out the third story turret. And the house burned down a second time a week after that. Historians agree that John Dale was a shrewd, successful business man. However, they disagree as to what stupid stubborn streak drove him to rebuild the house a third time, bigger and more gothic than before. Some say he incorporated arcane patterns into the foundation, or the number of rooms pacified the spirits, but whatever the reason, this time the house didn’t burn down. John, however, joined his wife taking a swan dive out of one of the turrets later that same year. Flash forward through owner buying and rapidly selling the grand, imposing Victorian at the corner of Main and Cross. Taken together, the house sat empty (well, not completely empty) twice as long as any people actually inhabited the place. But the series of owners always insured that the house never fell into disrepair. So, when the relator accepted Karen’s offer, she thought she had won the proverbial lottery. Her friends that had helped her move her furniture and boxes didn’t stick around for the celebratory beer and pizza, several leaving without so much as saying goodbye. Only Louise stayed behind. “Karen, I’m going to level with you,” Louise stated, one hand on her hip, the other on the door knob behind her, “This place is creepy AF.” “Did you really just say ‘A’ ‘F’?” “It applies,” she said. “Look, I love you. We’ve been through a lot, and I’m worried about you staying here by yourself…” “But?” “But there’s no way in hell,” a box crashed to the floor in the adjoining room, “HECK! No way in heck I’m going to stay here with you.” Karen stared at the floor and sighed deeply. Then she looked up meeting Louise’s eyes, “Yeah, good thing I got such a deal on this place – I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep any roommates.” A vase crashed upstairs. “You think?” Louise furrowed her brow. “Was that a vase?” “Sounded like it.” “You haven’t unpacked any vases, have you?” “I don’t own any vases.” “Huh… okay. I’m out!” she said opening the door. A crow sat on the railing of the porch and cawed at her menacingly. “Seriously?” She said with an arched eyebrow. Turning back to Karen, “Toodles, Kar. Don’t sleep with the lights off!” Karen remained sitting on her couch, reflecting in the silence about the fact that the amount of furniture she had would barely decorate two rooms of the Victorian. Maybe, she thought, I bit off more than I can chew with this place. A ghastly shriek tore the silence and startled Karen. None of the crashes, bumps, and now, shrieks scared her. Really, they pissed her off. “Hey, ghost! Shut it!” The house seemed taken aback. The box across the room burst open, loose papers swirling around like a tornado hitting Office Depot. “Oh, hell no!” Karen stood up. “Enough!” she yelled and the papers stopped fluttering around and drifted listlessly to the ground. “Ghost,” she demanded, “You’re going to put those back where you found them.” A mocking cackle echoed through the house. Karen clenched her jaw and bit back a curse, then reached down to the cooler next to the couch, opened the lid and removed a firm orange water balloon roughly the size of a grapefruit. Without hesitation, she threw the water balloon down on the hardwood floor. The balloon exploded in a cloud of steam as a shriek that seemed to emanate from every board in the house shook the place. “Oh, I see I have your attention now.” The house was still. “I gotta say, I’m grateful – you have no idea what a pain in the ass it is to make holy water balloons.” A slow clapping sound came from the kitchen. Karen turned to see a middle-aged man in tight black slacks, and an elegant red jacket over his tan vest. Perched on his salt and pepper neatly trimmed hair sat a genuine friggin’ top hat. He slow clapped a few more times as he smirked at her. “John Dale, I presume?” “Sort of…” the man started. “You don’t think the top hat is a little much, do you?” Karen asked. “Really?” he asked removing the hat examining it. “I’m rather fond of it,” he put the hat back on. “You be you, Dale.” “Yeah, see I’m not exactly John Dale.” His voice became sonorous, echoing throughout the room, “I’m the embodiment of an ancient evil manifest upon this plane in the human form of John Dale.” “Ah, okay, that makes more sense.” “Oh?” “I did my research before putting in my offer….” “Hence the water balloon? Nice touch, by the way.” “Thanks.” She continued, “The historical society provided what amounted to a helpful dosier on this pace. One thing that became obvious was that John Dale didn’t exactly leave this place in a… voluntary manner? So, I was a little surprised his form would show up acting – and,” she gestured to him, “looking – like a boss.” He bowed slightly, “Flattery will get you nowhere… well, at least it won’t get you out of here in one piece if you don’t leave soon. Well, soon-ish. I’ll give you…” He looked at his watch, “a month. Does that work for you?” When she didn’t respond immediately, his brown eyes glowed red, “Or do I need to get evil.” Karen crossed the distance between them casually. “Dale,” she started, reaching out and straightening his collars of his jacket, “May I call you Dale?” “Your human voice cannot begin to pronoun—“ “Dale,” she cut him off, “I get that you’re immortal evil, blah, blah, blah, blah,” she showed her teeth, “I don’t care.” “John Dale left through the turret upstairs, you know?” “Well aware.” “And I tossed his wife out before him, yeah?” “Before you burned that place down.” “Thank you for noticing,” he flashed a condescending smile. She returned the smile. “By my count,” he half turned and started pacing the length of the great room, counting on his fingers, “One owner went crazy – institutionalized for the rest of his life. Another shot himself in the stomach and died slowly on that landing there,” he pointed at the stairs. “Eww.” “Yeah, my suggestion,” he turned and whispered, “it hurt more and longer.” Karen rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t forget the Tuttle massacre.” “Killed his wife and kids with an axe before lopping off his own head?” “Impressive, right?” She held out her hand level to the ground and tilted it back and forth. “Like the top hat, a bit over the top.” “And they say I’m evil?!” “Yeah, they do,” Karen said. “And I don’t give a crap.” She crossed to stand directly in front of him, “How many owners, Dale?” His lips moved with the calculation, “25. No, 26 – I almost forgot about Gabe.” He laughed, “he screamed like a little girl. Didn’t last a week.” “Yeah, about that ‘like a little girl’ bit, how many of those 26 owners were women?” “Women? None. Why?” “Because I am.” “My dear,” he donned a patronizing smile, “I’ve killed, maimed, and driven crazy plenty of women.” “Yes, but not any of them were owners. There’s power with my name on the deed.” “You don’t have any clue what you’re getting into.” “That’s where you’re wrong, Dale. I wouldn’t have put my offer in if I didn’t. Look,” she said, “I’m under no illusion that I can get rid of you. You’re literally part of the land – I understand that. But this is my house now and we’re going to be living together.” “You know I’m not alive, right?” “Don’t argue semantics with me. You know what I’m saying.” Dale stared at her, his eyes glowing again, “I take back my offer of a month. You’ve got a week, lady.” “It’s gonne be an exciting week, won’t it?” Karen smiled. To Be Continued…

Today we rejoin Skip on the search for the body of Mateo Ortiz in the river. If you want to revisit the first part, here it is. And now, back to the river…

Bubbles appeared on the surface of the otherwise still river. The bubles intensified and the neoprene-covered head burst above the surface followed by a diving mask and breathing mouthpiece. The diver eyed the closest shore, oriented himself, then rotated until he caught the eye of the Sheriff on the opposite bank. The diver shook his head negative, then dove back under the surface.

Skip sighed, then raised his radio and keyed the transmit button. “My divers are coming up empty,” he said, looking down river towards the bend and in his mind stared further down towards the dam at summer crossing. “Are your waders doing any better?”

Silence for a moment, then Andy’s voice came across, “Negative, Skip. We’re about 5o yards up from the dam and moving up.”

“Okay, Andy, thanks. Let me know if you come up with anything.” Skip would have preferred the waders further up towards him, but he knew if they were any closer they’d stir up the river and turn the divers’ already murky water completely opaque.

Ahead of Skip another head broke the surface of the water, shook his head at Skip and then dipped back beneath the green water. Skip removed his wide-brimmed hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief and replaced his hat.

“Another warm one, eh Jack?”

Skip smiled at the voice. “Lousy day for fishing, Timothy,” Skip said without turning around.

“No fishing today,” Timothy held out his empty hands in front of his King’s Sporting Goods t-shirt. “I’m here for the circus today. Besides, your guys stirring everything up probably has all the fish scared halfway to Healdsburg by now.”

“Can’t be helped. Trying to do a job,” Skip snapped.

“Whoa, Skip, I know it can’t,” Timothy said. “You doing okay?”

“Sorry, Timothy,” Skip rubbed his eyes. “Had a shitty night’s sleep, that’s all.”

“Shabaikai,” Timothy said quietly.

“No goddamn river ghost,” Skip growled, crossing further down the bank to get a better view towards the waders.

“Where’s the limp from, Jack?”

“Twisted my ankle getting out of bed.”

Timothy cocked an eyebrow at him. “Mind if I see?”

Skip stared hard at Timothy for a long moment. “Fine. Sure,” Skip said, pulling up his pant leg and folding his sock down over his boot to reveal the two, dark, quarter-sized bruises.”

“Oh shit, Skip,” Timothy said, “You got bit!”

“So what does that mean?”

Timothy slowly shook his head back and forth, “I’ve never seen that mark on someone breathing.”

Skip absorbed the statement for a moment until they were interrupted Skips radio crackling to life. He stared at Timothy while he raised the radio, “This is Skip. Come again.”

“Hey Skip,” a woman’s voice came across washed out by machine noise, “Julie here. We’re over Austin Creek checking on a grow site. Want us to buzz the river when we’re done here?”

“Yeah, Julie,” Skip replied, turning towards the river. “That’d be helpful.”

“Roger that, Skip. We’ll be there in probably… ten minutes.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

“Nothing today, Skip?” Leslie asked poking her head into Skips open door.

“Nothing today.”

She nodded. “Need anything?”

“Not unless you can do this paperwork for me,” Skip smiled.

“Fat chance,” she laughed. “That’s why you get paid the big bucks,” she said, disappearing.

Skip growled under his breath out of frustration. A frustration, he knew, outsized from the situation at hand because Skip knew that more often than not these drowning victims wouldn’t be found in the first 24 hours, and often not even in 48 hours. The body from the drowning last month stayed under for four days. One of the bodies last year ended up stuck on a rock down by the outflow at the dam and didn’t come up for over a week. So why was he so tense today? Lack of sleep? He thought about his conversation with Timothy earlier. Shabaikai. No, just a bad dream, he thought.

“Hey Skip, are you going to the candlelight vigil?”

Skip shook himself out of his own head, “Yeah, yeah, Leslie. When is it?”

“Supposed to start in about ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes? It’s not even dark…”

“It’s almost 7, Skip,” she replied a little concern creeping into her voice.

“Seriously?” He verified with watch. “How’d time get away from me?”

“You looked a little out of it,” she told him frankly.

He sighed heavily, then got up started pulling on his jacket.

“Are you sure, Skip?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be fine. Besides, it’ll be good for me to meet with the family.”

Half an hour later, Skip stood on the bank of the river in nearly the same spot he was in earlier in the day watching the family and friends of Mateo Ortiz holding candles in the gathering darkness, singing hymns, and crying. He was heartened to see his deputy Eddy tight in with the family. When the group finally started to break up, Skip made sure to shake the hands of everyone present. Eddy stood close and translated Skip’s words to Mateo’s wife. Skip spoke serviceable Spanish, but was grateful for Eddy’s fluency.

“Are you coming to the potluck at Saint Hue’s, Skip?”

“I don’t think so, Eddy. Are you?”

“I was planning on it.”

“Good,” Skip said, patting him on the back. “Thanks, Eddy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With the last light gone, Skip waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He moved down closer to the water. The moon, just off full, reflected off the still river. From the clearing of the beach, Skip turned upriver and admired the surrounding forest bathed in moonlight. Behind him he heard splashing of footfalls in the shallows. Turning, he saw a figure moving towards him through the shadow of an overhanging tree.

“Hello?” Skip asked.

The man didn’t reply. He came out of the shadows and the moon bathed his familiar face in the silvery light. Skip recognized Mateo Ortiz instantly – his features unmarred by the drowning.

“Mateo,” Skip started, “hablo Ingles?”

The man looked at him then nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said.

“Do you know where you are?”

Mateo thought for a moment, then looked around him. “In the river.”

“Do you know how you got here?”

Again, Mateo thought for long seconds, looking down at the water. “I chased a ball… then…” he looked up, meeting Skip’s eyes, “my leg was grabbed.”

“Grabbed?”

Mateo nodded slowly as the water behind him began bubbling violently, the luminescence of the moon on the water brightening unnaturally. Before Skip could warn him, the head of an enormous snake rose out of the water behind Mateo. Made of water, golden glowing eyes like embers, fangs dripping with water, the serpent lunged forward hitting Mateo in the torso and driving him over into the water.

“Mateo!” Skip yelled, reflexively drawing his gun as the man disappeared beneath the water and the unnatural glow dissipated and the splashing stilled. Silence fell again on the river and on the shore.  Skip stared hard at the spot trying to process what he just had witnessed. He heard a splash across the river. A fish, he thought. Then another splash a little further down. And another splash. Skip looked up and saw a figure across the river splashing slowly towards him. Up river, another splash and Skip turned to see another figure on his bank splashing slowly towards him.  Behind him another splash much closer. Skip spun, again drawing his gun, and came face to face with the bloated, drowned face of Mateo. He didn’t speak this time, but opened his mouth and uttered a baleful moan. Skip staggered backwards in the sand, managing to keep his presence of mind to holster his gun and reach for the flashlight on his belt. He turned it on, shining it at Mateo’s drowned figure and revealed nothing but water. He turned the beam towards the figure upriver and the yellow light fell on sand and disturbed river. Across the river the beam shone on the trees that came down to the waterline.

“What the hell?” Skip tried to catch his breath as he climbed to his feet. Again, he shone the light around him along the banks. Nothing. He backed away from the water towards the line of trees separating the beach from the clearing, parking area, and the road.  He didn’t turn his back until he reached the trees where he finally turned and started hurrying towards his Explorer. Behind him he heard a high plaintive cry: “Mis hijos!”

One of my favorite parts of being a Boy Scout – and there are a lot of them – was the campfire ghost stories. One of the Scoutmasters, Mr. Cain, told the absolute best ghost stories. For years he spun tales that always amused and spooked us. He’d always tease us that someday he’d tell us the story of the Blue Ridge Mine… I was lucky enough to be on the trip where he actually told the story of the Blue Ridge Mine, and damn if I can’t remember any details of it – except I remember listening with rapt attention and being terrified. In fact, there are very few concrete details I could tell you from any of the stories he frightened us with. And maybe that’s the point – the best campfire ghost stories are experienced, not remembered for their particular details.

…I do wish I remembered more about the Blue Ridge Mine, though…

The seven boys and their Scoutmaster sat around the blazing campfire roasting marshmallows and making smores, the fire casting their shadows across the four dome tents beyond.

“Tell us the one about the haunted cemetery!” Ryan requested

“Stupid,” Jacob countered, “All cemeteries are haunted. Duh. I wanna hear the one about the family that moved into the abandoned mortuary!” he said, neglecting for a moment his perfectly-browning marshmallow, which promptly caught on fire.

“Ha!” Aiden pointed at Jacob’s immolated marshmallow. “No! Let’s hear about the ghost ship!”

“Last trip you promised this trip you’d tell us about the Lost Dutchman’s mine!” Logan pointed out.

“No, no, no, Mr. Granger, Tell us about the ghost submarine,” Ethan countered.

“How about the ghosts that come up from the sea at low tide?!” Tyler asked and promptly bit into his smore.

“All good suggestions, boys,” Mr. Granger started. “But seeing as we had a great hike in here today, I want to tell you boys a really special scary story.”

“Are there dead bodies?” Aiden asked.

“Shut up!” Ryan admonished. “Let him tell it!”

Mr. Granger waited patiently for the boys to settle down before he said a word. And they did calm down – there was a ghost story at stake here. And a special one? After a moment, all six boys sat peering at Mr. Granger with rapt attention their eyes lit by the dancing flames, the only sound the popping and crackling of the fire.

“When I was back in scouts we went on a backpacking trip to these very mountains. A lot has changed, of course – GPS, satellite phones, Ryan’s sleeping bag that’s the size of my water bottle!” Ethan shoved Ryan just because. “But a lot hasn’t. It’s still the same idea: we packed everything we’d need on our backs, and we’d pack it all back out. That first day started a lot like today’s hike, but instead of Aiden and Jacob leading the pack like they did today, it was me and my best friend Jesse.

“Jesse was a small kid for his age, but he just never stopped. It was like he tried to make up for his size with his drive. That day it was all I could do just to keep up with him. We’d outdistanced everyone by a good mile – something none of you are going to do, alright?” he said pointing around at each boy in turn. “We had made it up to the ridgeline that we’ll see tomorrow afternoon. The view was gorgeous, I was exhausted. I could see the trail dip back down into the forest. So I yelled for Jesse to stop for a minute, I needed to take a break. When he did I asked him, ‘Jesse, what’s going on? You’re always a fast backpacker, but this pace it’s… it’s unsustainable. What gives?’ Jesse stared out at the forested valley below us and didn’t say anything for long minutes. Then he finally said, ‘Dave, I have a feeling I’m going to find my purpose out here this trip and I just want to get to it.’ I told him that sounded really mysterious and vague, but also to just, you know, slow the heck down!” the boys laughed at that.

“But he didn’t slow down, and I had no idea how far ahead of the rest of the group we’d gotten. Really, I was just trying to keep Jesse in sight. When I finally noticed that the sun was started to get a bit low, it dawned on me that we’d moved so quickly and covered so much distance, but we never saw the campsite we were going to be staying at. Clearly, we’d made a wrong turn somewhere and now we were lost and the sun was setting and we didn’t have time to backtrack before it would get dark. I called for Jesse to stop and I told him my concern. We both agreed the best thing to do with the fading sunlight would be to pitch our tent right off the trail and then we’d get up at dawn and backtrack to find the others.

“We didn’t build a fire, but went to bed just as night fell so we could get an early start. But we didn’t know how early a start we’d actually get…”

“Oooooh,” Logan cooed theatrically. A chorus of “shut ups!” and accompanying shoves and even a charred marshmallow descended on Logan.

Once again, Mr. Granger waited for the boys to settle back to attention before he started up again. “We were awakened a few hours later by a noise outside. As I said, we pitched a tent, but we didn’t have a rain fly on – kind of how we’re all set up tonight. And, like tonight, it was a full moon and at that time the moon shone down into our tent. We heard scratching outside the tent, like something was pacing just out of sight. You could hear the soft crunch, crunch, crunch of something big and heavy trying – and failing – to be as quiet as it could. It was definitely stalking us.

“’Are you hearing this?’ Jesse whispered to me. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘What are we going to do?’ ‘Don’t worry,’ Jesse said, ‘I’ve got a plan…’ But before he could tell me what the plan was, something enormous smashed into our tent right between us! I grabbed for my pocket knife and cut a hole in the tent wall and managed to wriggle through it into the night. Free of the tent, I backed away to the trail with my socks and boxers and terrified. The tent, now collapsed writhed with Jesse and the… thing wrestling in the canvas. ‘Jesse!’ I yelled. ‘Run, Dave! I’ll keep it occupied. Just run!’

“And I did. My wool socks didn’t do anything to protect against the rocks and sticks on the trail, but I didn’t feel the pain as I sprinted with everything I had back down the trail. In the distance I hear a piercing howl and I knew the creature had broken free of the tent – now it would be coming after me! I worried about Jesse, but I knew if I didn’t keep running we’d both die up here. So, I swallowed my fear and my aching feet and my searing lungs and I ran and ran and ran. I was sure I could hear the thing’s breathing getting louder as its unflagging stamina would easily outpace me running blindly through the forest in socks. But I kept running and running and running until, whoa! I missed a step and fell hard, sliding off the trail. I started rolling down the steep hill. Unable to even slow my descent I covered my head and just kept rolling and rolling, plummeting down the dark hillside, praying I wouldn’t hit a boulder or tree.

“But I didn’t. With a thud that knocked the wind out of me, I crashed into a tent! ‘What the heck?’ I heard from in the tent. I still had the wind knocked out of me and I was bruised all over so I couldn’t move or respond. But I heard the tent zipper and a light beam fell on me… it was my Scoutmaster! Somehow my run and fall literally dropped me into where they’d set up camp. Everyone asked where Jesse was, and I told them all about the thing that crashed into the tent and how Jesse yelled for me to run and I did, and the fall… I don’t know how much of it all they believed.

“Until the next day when we all ventured up the trail to find Jesse – in the daylight, of course. And we found the tent right alongside the trail like I said. The canvas was shredded by massive claws or teeth or both. But there was no sign of Jesse. Some blood, but not enough to have been fatal. The rangers were called in and they did a full search with dogs and helicopters and it lasted weeks until they finally had to give up. They never found Jesse.” He paused, then continued more quietly, “They say, up here in these hills when the moon is high like this you can still wake up in the middle of the night and hear a lonely voice of a boy calling, ‘Run! Ruuuuuuun!’” he dragged out the vowel, then more quietly, “’Ruuuuuuuuuuuun.’” And in barely a whisper, “’Ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuun….’”

“OR HE’LL GET YOU!” the assistant scoutmaster burst out of the darkness and yelled, grabbing Ethan by the shoulders from behind. All the boys screamed which turned into raucous laughter and teases of “You were scared!” and “Was not!” “Was too!”

After a few minutes, Mr. Granger said, “Alright, boys, let’s get ready for sleep. We’ve got a long day ahead tomorrow.” Eventually Ryan and Jacob headed for their tent, followed closely by Aiden and Tyler heading for theirs. A few minutes later, Logan and Ethan got up and headed for their tent.

“I’m going to turn in too, Dave,” the assistant scoutmaster announced, standing and stretching.

“Nice entrance, Paul,” Dave told him.

“Thanks. You coming?”

“Yeah, I’ll be along in a few.”

“You’ve got your flashlight?”

Dave clicked on his black flashlight and shone it in Paul’s direction.

“Cool,” Paul said, yawning and heading to their tent.

Dave stared contemplatively into the dying fire with the last scout directly across from him. Finally the boy spoke, “I liked the ending better this time, Dave.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s way better than what really happened.”

“’He stood on the edge of the cliff and it gave way beneath him’” Dave recalled.

“You can still go with that ‘they never found his body’ part.”

“Well, Jesse, we didn’t.”

“’And on nights like these,’” Jesse intoned dramatically, “’They say he sits among scouts at campfires!’”