Category: Horror stories

History, Haunts, and Heart Beats

A new form of entertainment has manifested in Fredericksburg, Texas. It is the Fredericksburg Ghost Tours. This new venue is a walking tour of Fredericksburg starting  and ending at the Nimitz Museum (National Museum of the Pacific War). It is filled with interesting, little known stories and histories of many places along Main Street and it’s  alleyways.

Your host/tour guide is dressed in 1800’s attire as he leads you around town, regaling your with stories, not found in the normal Fredericksburg history books. Each account given is tied to a place along the tour and the residing ghosts of that area.

The tour itself is not scary, but rather entertaining and informational. Though the stories are a historical basis for ghosts, there is much humor in them as well. Derrick  Spence coordinates the guides and tours. He has also done the research and compiled the stories shared on the tour. The guides are cheerful,  and they do their best to see you learn a little and have a good time. Daniel was our guide this particular evening, and he was knowledgeable, entertaining and fun.

Be sure to bring your phones, or other cameras and take pictures. It is highly encouraged and if you find you have visitors in your photos  you can send them in to their website at fbgghosttours@gmail.com and they may feature them on their website.

The stops currently on the tour, are just a handful of the many haunted places in town. Your guide will mention a few not on the tour at this time and encourage you to go investigate them on your own.

Tours run Thursday through Sunday evenings with tours at 8:00, 8:30, or 9:30 p.m. It is encouraged to meet at the Admiral Chester W. Nimitz statue at least 10 minutes before the start of your tour, with your previously purchased ticket in hand.

You may purchase tickets online at https://www.fredericksburgghosts.com/ , or call 830-383-3122 and speak to founder Rick Koch or one of his employees, they will be happy to help you reserve your tickets and then pick them up at the Vintage Vault at 406 West Main Street, next to the Amish Market.

My friends and I embarked on the tour at 8:00 this past Sunday evening, October 7th. We had a wonderful time and are ready to do it again with other friends and family who have not gone yet. We were encouraged to take pictures along the route. During the tour we really didn’t see much more than Fredericksburg sites and allies in the dark, but as the guide explained, what you do not see with your eyes, may be watching you, and may not be camera-shy.

They do encourage you to share photos to their page if you think you have caught a ghostly  image, or just a really interesting photo from the tour. They may feature it on their site. That being said, I will share some here and will probably send them in after this  post.

After reviewing mine the next day, I definitely think I caught some images to share. I hope you can see what I see, but you may have to enlarge the photos, that is how I confirmed my sightings.

My best possible sightings were the ones from the Nimitz, Keidel Hospital, and one of the back alley stops.

Here are a few of mine. In all of them, my friends and I see something. Do you? Share your thoughts in the comments. I would love to hear what you think.

Here is the Nimitz. Pay close attention to the dark window on the middle section, just below the window that is lit up, in the first and third photos.

  

 How about a creepy back alley to look down? Look closely, there is more than meets the eye.

And last, here is the old Keidel Hospital building (home to Der Kuchen Laden and Rathskellar Restaurant).  Pay close attention to the large window at the top, above the door. A ghostly pair looks back at you.  Then look at the window to the left of the large window, in its bottom left pane, and also the column to the right of the door, there are ghosts in all of these. Two frames are provided so that you can compare. Most of the visitors appear in the right frame. Honestly we did not see these things as we looked at the places that evening, but then there they were in the pictures.  That definitely gets you thinking and your heart beating a little faster.

Let me know if you see them.  Maybe this is a coincidence, but also in the Keidel photos, there is a very strange water mark in between the two bottom windows. It is quite a creepy creature looking back from the rocks.

There are many other stops along the tour, I just wanted to give you a glimpse.

I hope  I have peaked your interest and you and your friends will come take the tour. The ghosts are waiting to greet you!

The Best Haunted Thrill-The 290 Haunted House vs. The Theater of Terror

This year, the Fredericksburg area boasted two haunted houses for our Halloween enjoyment. The first and original for the area was Audelia Delacruz’s Haunted House,also know as The 290 Haunted House, which started at her house in Stonewall some years ago, but has been housed in the large white building on 290 East across from Trade Days for at least the last 3 years. The second, Theater of Terror, was hosted by the Freddyburg Youth Theater and the Fredericksburg Theater Company and took place at the Steve W.  Shepherd Theater or in reality the store-room there on the FTC facility grounds.

First let me say that I do not scare easy at these events.  I am more likely to get spooked walking around in my own house, or outside in the pasture in the dark than I am at a Halloween event. My own imagination and fear of animals that might attack, etc. in the dark are more likely to get me to jump. But that being said, I am always looking forward to the event that might scare me. To this end, I was very excited to attend these two events, just to see if they could scare me.

Both houses are put together by a collaboration of adults and teens/children and participation inside is both as well. One has several years experience of putting on a haunted house production, where the other is in its first year, unless I have somehow missed it in past years. If that is the  case please correct me. The latter has years of experience putting on theater productions. Both have the resources available to put on an exceptional production. Both have smoke, strobe lights, and dimly lit rooms. One also had other lights,  flashing or glowing things to add to the effects as well of lots of sound effects. Each also had a bit of narration.

Here is the major difference, props and costumes. One far out did the other. Any guesses on which one you think it was?

In one house, every participant was well costumed and fully make-upped so that they were the character they were playing and could not be easily recognized as themselves. In the other, this was not the case. I readily recognized several of them, though in costume, not nearly as well as the other house, and make up was little to none other than a bit of blood on the hands and maybe face.

One made full use of props and decorations, and created a unique theme for each room of the house, covering a multitude of creepy specters to incite your fears. There were people, scary statues,  and any number of things that left you waiting and wondering, “is it a real person or not and is it going to move and get me when I go by?” The other house had little difference between sets from room to room, and had almost the same theme in each.

One house also made much more use of the space they had available making the experience last longer, the other was considerably shorter. Sadly, in this second house, I was surprised to already be at the end. A literal, “that’s it???,” moment.

Another big difference was price, $5  for the 290 Haunted House verses $12 for the Theater of Terror.

I do give the participants props for all their hard work during the hours of operation  they made a valiant effort to scare their guests.  Even there when you consider one was a house of family and friend participants that are out to have a good time and provide the community some entertainment, and the other a theater arts group with the same goal, perhaps with a bit of fund-raising thrown in,  there was still a night and day difference between the two.  They do all deserve praise for all the before work organizing and setting these houses up, and now tearing them down.

Now before I tell you which was which  I have a question for you.  Think about the two groups,  which group would expect it to be?

The winner for me, this year was Audelia Delacruz’s  290 Haunted House. To answer the question, did it scare me? No it didn’t scare me, even though I was quite impressed with what all they had done and I did quite enjoy going through. It did make me jump and laugh at myself at least once, and it has done that every year. I will be back again next year.

So now to both groups, I can’t wait to see how you raise the bar next year.

 

 

 

 

Happy Halloween-The Final Fare Cafe’

My arms were full of food which I balanced against the wall as I opened the cooler door and reached in groping for the light switch on the wall inside. As my hand finally made purchase of the switch, someone else’s hand clamped tightly over my wrist preventing me from turning the light on. Stunned I shrieked briefly, dropping my load, before standing there wide-eyed, and still, unable to move and unsure if I should. As far as I knew, I was alone, all of the other staff in the restaurant had gone home, so I had no idea who to expect. After a few seconds I finally gathered my wits, or perhaps lost them, and hollered, “Who’s in there? Let go of me and show yourself.”

There was no answer, but the hand suddenly released me and I yanked my arm back and slammed the cooler door. I knew there was a safety latch inside, and whoever was in there could still get out. Grabbing a rolling-pin off a rack near the door, I waited. Nothing happened, not even a sound. My hands shook, and my wrist still felt the imprint of icy fingers as I braved the door again. I grabbed the latch and yanked the door wide backing away quickly. No one came out. I eased closer and peered into the darkness, seeing nothing.

“It’s ok, I’m not going to hurt you,” I said still brandishing my rolling-pin, and slowly reaching around to the switch. This time I flipped it on and as light flooded the cooler, I looked around, seeing absolutely no one, only racks full of food.

I braced the door open and began picking up and moving my supplies into the cooler, keeping a watchful eye. As I turned to leave and reached for the switch, it clicked off, on its own. A coincidence I told myself as I hurried out and shut the door.

I knew no one had walked past me while I loaded supplies into the cooler, but I searched the restaurant looking for the intruder.

The place always took on an eerie silence when it was empty after dark, which I had grown used to, and usually welcomed it after a long busy day. I was always here late preparing things for the breakfast crowd.

The restaurant was a renovated underground basement, beneath an old rock building full of little rooms which had been renovated and filled with stores designed to delight any shopper. Noises like pops, creaks, and whines from the old wood, rock, and metal reacting to temperature changes and wind whistling through old cracks and crevices were normal. In the late hours, the building had a life of its own, with a full chorus of sounds.

I had listened to the old building speak to the night in its usual way as I worked. Sometimes this seemed like being an eaves dropper on a private conversation. This particular evening while I worked, this conversation had seemed even more animated as though some sort of real excitement were being discussed. The wind howled outside, branches scraped against windows, the tin awning above the outside entrance popped and complained as the temperature cooled, and the wood stairs creaked as though they still bore the footfalls of the day. My small noises as I put away cooking pans and shoved boxes seemed loud in the absence of other human noises, but the building seemed as though it were trying to be heard over me tonight. I had become lost in my own thoughts.
If I had been truly present in nature’s conversation on this evening, I would have realized sooner, that the building had gone from highly animated to quiet. It had ceased its conversation, as though in hushed stillness we both waited to see what I would find.

It came in the form of blackness, as every light in the restaurant went out. I moved toward the light switch by the back door where shallow light filtered down the outside stairwell from a street light a few yards away. Just as I reached for it, the light nearest me came on, followed by each light across the restaurant, one by one.

I turned to walk back into the kitchen, watching the lights resume burning; there on the floor in my path set one of the very frying pans I had previously put away. I picked it up glancing around as I did, “Ok, who is here?” I laughed nervously, “Come on, show yourself!”

As the last lights came on, I saw him walk toward me dressed in an old style, gray pen stripe suit and a black top hat. Just for a fleeting second he was there, and then he was gone.

There was the sudden loud crashing of several pots onto the tile floor in the kitchen. I turned in time to see the last of them fall from their shelf as though someone had swept them off from one side to the other. I saw no one there to have caused their descent. I rather cautiously began picking them up and replacing them on the shelf. As I placed the last one back in its spot, another one fell, just missing my head. I tried putting it away several times and each time it clattered past me to the floor.

“Alright, so you don’t want that one up there. How about we just leave it on the stove?” I asked setting it on the nearest burner. As I looked up, I was startled to see him standing next to me. He reached and moved the pan from the front burner to the back, and then took two steps away and disappeared.

I stood still, waiting. Then five minutes after his disappearance, the building resumed it former chatter.

I finished my work looking over my shoulder all evening and then went home. The next day the pan I had left on the stove, had been put away again.

“Thank you to whoever put the pan away that pan I left it on the stove last night,” I said.

“There wasn’t a pan on the stove when we came in,” was the unanimous response.

One of the other cooks stopped and gave me an earnest look, “You met him, didn’t you?”

“Met who?” I asked, not sure I wanted to share the previous evening’ events.

“Dr. Fritz, our resident ghost,” he answered.

I said nothing.

During that day, the good doctor, took a special interest in me. He moved my cup and hid my spatula. Sometimes he would even lay the utensil I was searching for by my side for me to find. I even saw him walk by a few times, as did other staff and even some patrons.

That evening I found myself alone again. I was cleaning the stove which still had hot food on it when he appeared in a rage and threw the pot and its contents at me, and I barely had time to dodge the mass of it. I tried to ignore this and just clean it up, when he shoved another thankfully empty pot off the shelf above onto my head.

As I stood up from cleaning his mess, I realized there were several other ghosts walking the premises. Each wore white gowns that tied shut in the back and they appeared to be searching for someone or something. He was watching them too, looking distraught. Occasionally it seemed they spoke to one another in passing; mumbled voices I could hear, but not understand.

As I worked, they all disappeared again, and it was only him and me. He sat with his head in his hands at a corner table, ignoring me, which I welcomed. I finished my work and left that night.

He greeted me and some of my staff early that next morning with a glass bowl crashing at our feet as we entered the door. Several of the other ghosts were with him. He moved from one to the next to the next as though observing them. At least it was a slow day, but I noticed that these other ghosts, appeared to be patients still dressed in hospital gowns, perhaps whom the good Dr. lost some many decades past, and they seemed to account for his mood.

Some of the patrons observed theses ghosts walking right through tables as though nothing was there. Others would lie down on the tables as though sleeping and simply disappear. None of our regular customers seemed anything but intrigued by all this, leading me to believe I was the last to know of our paranormal friends. The dishes crashing in the kitchen, only mildly startled any of our customers.

I was sure they thought we were really having a bad day back there, and I supposed we were. A bad mood day for the ghost doctor resulted in our subsequent hardships. Before the evening was over I had to get stitches from the cut a large chef’s knife had left across my arm when it sailed through the air at me. Luckily the last of our customers had left just before this happened. Perhaps a courtesy he afforded us.

I have found that the customers come here because they are fascinated with eating where the dead still walk the rooms.
Why do we all still work here? Why not find another job you might ask? The question is, why leave? The good doctor is temperamental, but he hasn’t lost a patient in 100 years, which makes us relatively safe, except minor mishaps of his moods. And the ones he lost are still walk the floors of a century old renovated hospital morgue, known as The Final Fare Café.

Happy Halloween all! Hope you have a fun and safe night!

 

Day 187-Focus Challenge 2-Writing Scenario to Story Premise

Fiction Writing Exercises for Stimulating Creativity Writing #365daynovel

From a simple scenarios form the basis for a story. Your job is to come up with three story premises for the scenario. Be creative and try to avoid the most obvious premises.

Chosen scenario:

  • A man and a woman are sitting across from each other at a small table in a dimly lit restaurant.

Premise 1:

A young, attractive couple sits together in the same dimly lit restaurant night after night. She has long auburn hair and bright green eyes, he had crystal blue eyes and thick dark brown hair. They are the picture of health and beauty. They are always deeply engaged in conversation. Just simple things that seem so very day-to-day, yet they exude excitement and wonder as they talk. They seem to never notice anyone around them, they are totally in a world all their own.

Young lovers, most would assume, happy and engaged in each other’s interests.
They talk only to each other, and look only at each other. The locals are used to them. no one ever talks to them or approaches them. They are allowed to carry on alone, uninterrupted, and almost unnoticed. Rarely is anyone ever seated close to them, so they continue in their own way. It is best this way.

Then strangers come in. Some don’t give them more than a passing glance. Some notice that something is different about this striking couple, others are attracted to them wanting to engage them in conversation. Their excitement for life seems to bubble over needing to be shared. It is like an energy that flows from them in quiet waves that invigorate the senses of anyone close by. They draw others in without even a glance or word to them directly. They have a unexplainable attraction to those who don’t know.

Locals watch, pitying those that fall under their spell. Those that join them at their table appear to have a wonderful evening with them, but when the restaurant closes, this beautiful couple is the last to leave, and somehow they always leave alone. Their new friends, what of them? The rumors  among the townsfolk speak of untold horrors, and these new friends are never seen again.

Premise 2:

A young couple in their teens sits together in a dimly lit restaurant trying to blend into the atmosphere of romantic lovers. The environment around them is strained as they practically will themselves to appear as completely enthralled young lovers, hoping that no one will notice them from anyone else in the place.

They hide in the darkest booth in the far back of the restaurant, praying that creature that killed their parents won’t look for them here. They don’t know what it is or where it came from, only that it is after something that their parents knew and now it seeks them since it did  not find what it was looking for in their house or glean the information from their parents.

They are hunted by the  police as well because they neighbors reported the murders and only saw them running from the house. They have no money, no car, and no  place to go, and it is only a matter of time before they are found. Somehow they must escape the creature and the  police until they can figure out the truth about what has happened and find the only person they can trust to help, and old friend of their father’s. But even this man is shrouded in mystery and they must walk in shadows until they can be sure if he will be their salvation, or more of their doom.

Premise 3:

An innocent couple is tucked away in the far corner of a romantic restaurant enjoying their meal, talking of an upcoming vacation when an explosion rocks the neighborhood sending the high-rise hotel next door crashing into the restaurant. They manage to flee the bay window table they are in, just as the building dissolves around them and they are trapped beneath the rubble. A section of the building remains where they are all trapped, but many are injured and the structure that is left won’t last long. Now they are in a race against time to get help and to find a way out, helping as many others as they can.

Roger is an EMT and Miranda a nurse, and they must use all their skills to survive, even as warning on Roger’s radio warn of another impending attack in more buildings in their area.

Ok, this was my writing exercise for the #365daynovell course I joined yesterday. This is day 2 of my challenge. Let me know what you think of my story premises from this exercise. The exercise was supplied by Writing Forward.

365daynovel.com/gigijb

 

Day 176-Halloween-The Harpist’s Wife

Happy Halloween! Today I am sharing another one of my ghost stories with you. I wrote this one some years ago as well, but it is all my own.  It was inspired by years of playing in the local cemetery behind my grandmother’s house, with my cousins while I was growing up.  It was published about 3 years ago on  Yahoo Contributor when I was writing for them, before they closed down the site, so there is some chance you may have seen it before. If you have, enjoy it again, if you haven’t, than welcome to the world of:

The Harpist’s Wife

It was a cold, dark, rainy, windy, night with lightning flashing and thunder rumbling loudly, and yet we were still there. We were stupid, foolish teenagers. We knew we shouldn’t be there; it was crazy and dangerous. We knew the stories were true, but we just had to see for ourselves. The legend said that if anyone went out to the cemetery on a night like this, one of them would not return from the Harpist’s grave, yet we still went. We had to know for ourselves. Call it dumb, invincible; know it all teen age pride and morbid, curiosity. We were six, when we went there that night.
Legend was that if anyone ventured into the cemetery on a night just like this one, you would see the Harper, hear him play, and watch as once again, he murders his wife, who smashes his harp in a jealous rage. Because the harp truly was his first love, in his will he left his full estate to the harp’s protection. It was to be enshrined atop his grave, in the most shatter proof glass, held together with thick steel, plated with solid gold. Lights shone upon it from either side, that it might shine like a god of the music world, he perceived it to be. He wanted it there, where he was sure, even in death; he could reach up and play it. And many say he plays it often. Many have heard it, and tell stories of reliving the night he murdered his wife with one of its broken strings, severing her throat. But each time there have been new witnesses to this crime, there has also been a new victim. His wife still tries to escape him, but for this there must be a trade, a soul for a soul. She must possess a mortal in order to flee from him.
So there the six of us were, standing in the stormy, dark night with only the light from the harp and the lightning waiting like lambs to the slaughter at the foot of the Harpist’s grave.
The thing about legends is that sometimes there are parts of them that people know, but are too afraid to speak of, so they only tell what they think will scare others away.
At precisely, 2:13 a.m., the harp began to play, and the harpist appeared at its side, an ordinary looking man, slender with shoulder length dark hair. Soon his lovely wife appeared, a vision of beauty with long flowing red hair, which surprised us, because every recounting of this story described her different, but always beautiful. They both were dressed in the finery of the late 1800’s. We watched as they began to fight. The real harp never moved from its shrine, and its music continued to play, as a vision of it fell to the ground. The Harpist scrambled to protect it, as she chopped it with an ax. Several times he narrowly escaped harm himself, crying in anguish as his precious harp broke into pieces.
She stood back weary and exhausted, dropping the ax to the ground, smiling. The Harpist plucked a long thin, sharp string from among the wreckage, and rose to face her. His hands wound tightly around the ends of the string until they began to bleed. Her smile faded, and she began looking for a place to flee for safety, it was then, they became aware of us watching.
She ran toward us wildly begging for protection, for a place of refuge. We scattered in different directions trying to get out of their path. I ran, my heart pounding, I could hear her footfalls behind me and her voice beseeching me to save her. I screamed that I could not help her because she was already dead. I stumbled over a low headstone, and fell and she fell upon me, and then we were one.
I felt her fear and my own, as she urged me to run, but I had broken my ankle in the fall and could only hobble. I cried for help from the others, but they would not come near because they had seen us become one, and they were afraid, but watched from the shadows.
I stumbled away as quickly as I could, but the Harpist overtook me, and I felt the bite of the string around my neck, cutting into my flesh. I could neither scream nor fend him off, though I tried. He over powered me. I felt my blood flowing down my neck, and my life slipping away.
In my head I heard her voice, “Thank you for setting me free, I am so sorry it had to be you.” Then I felt her fade away, and my world went dark.
When I awoke, the Harpist was once more playing his harp as though nothing had happened. My friends and the traveler were crying and screaming as they ran from the cemetery, leaving me behind. I called to them to wait, but they didn’t seem to hear me. As I started to follow after them, my foot caught on something on the ground. It was then that I knew what she had meant. Below me lay the body that once was mine, on the ground.
As I looked up, the Harpist beckoned to me. “Come my dear wife; let the music of the harp bring you peace, at least for a while.” I tried to walk away, but I found I could not leave the cemetery.
This was the part of the legend, no one would pass along. This was why no one described her the same way twice. Because each time she succeeded in freeing herself, she passed on her legacy to the one who took her place. This I now know, because for now until the next legend seekers came to the cemetery, on a stormy night, I am the Harpist’s wife.

Day 175-Hook Arms’ House- a Pre-Halloween Treat

Well with Halloween being tomorrow, I thought I might share one of my ghost stories with you. I wrote this one some years ago, based on a story that was passed around by high school students when I was just a young child. A place on an old country road dubbed Hook Arms house due to these rumors actually existed, but has long since been torn down.

This story was published once on Yahoo Contributor when I was writing for them, before they closed down the site, so there is some chance you may have seen it before. If you are from my small town,  you have probably heard the original rumors before, but now here’s the whole story. Hope you enjoy a good spook story. Happy All Hallows Eve Eve. I will have another original ghost story for you for tomorrow.

 

Hook Arm’s House

In the 1970’s, a series of unfortunate events, hurled a small Hill Country, rural town, into a ghost story, never forgotten.

Because of the trouble that ensued at the time this story broke, I am not allowed to tell you exactly what road, what town, or even any real names that are in any way connected to this tale. It has taken more than 30 years, to restore the peace around this area, which can only be kept by keeping thrill seekers away. He is now, just a forgotten legend, and for everyone’s safety, that is best. But, I haven’t forgotten, thus, I share his tale.

He returned from the war, with a hook in the place of his left arm, and adopted the name, Hook Arm, whether he wanted it or not. He lived alone in a meager two room shack that stood 100 yards off the county road just outside of town at the end of a short country lane, lined with trees. A grove of trees stood behind the shack as well, and one large and very old tree stood just to the left of it, giving shade to the small abode.

Hook stayed mostly to himself, haunted by the memories of war, and the family he had lost. In the beginning he did nothing to warrant the fear people had for him and his hook, but then one summer, quite by mistake, that all changed.

A family with a little girl, about seven, moved into the cabin in the field, across the county road. Neighbors immediately warned the family to stay away from the man who lived in the nearby shack. They told terrifying stories of Hook Arm, though he had never harmed anyone.

The girl often rode her bike down the county road. She would waive to Hook Arm tending his garden, and he would wave back. One day, she fell from her bike, around the curve just out of sight of her house, but still close enough for Hook to see her from his garden. He went to her. Her legs were scraped, she was crying, and could not ride her bike like she was. He carried her back to her house, walking her bike alongside him. Her parents were afraid, and thanked him, but quickly sent him away, warning the girl to stay away from him.

In spite of her parents’ warnings, the little girl was not afraid, and would ride down to his house to visit him, bringing him biscuits and things she snuck from her mother’s table. They became fast friends. He would often tell her stories of the little girl that he had lost.

One day the little girl arrived at his house, with a basket of muffins, and found that he was not home. Wanting to leave the muffins anyway, she left her bike leaning against the big tree at the side of the shack, and tried to find a way in. She wandered around the back of the shack and fell into an old, shallow hand dug well, when she stepped through its rotten plywood cover. That evening a storm came and the well quickly filled with water.

It was after dark and raining when Hook Arm returned and he did not see her bike leaning against the tree.

The little girl’s parents became alarmed when she did not return home before dark. They enlisted the neighbors to search the road for her, but did not find her or her bike.

From his kitchen window, in a flash of lightning, Hook Arm saw the bike leaning on the tree. He went out into the storm with a flash light, looking for his little friend. In the back yard, he found a piece of her torn dress on the collapsed plywood well cover. Shining the light into the well, he could barely see her face beneath the water. He knew she was gone. He laid in the mud, and stretched out his arms, barely able to reach her and drag her to the surface.

When he laid her down, he saw that there was a large gash in her head, and her leg was broken. He knew then that she had been knocked unconscious and drowned. He picked her up and carried her all the way back to the road. He wailed so loudly that his anguished screams were heard by the search party out looking for the girl. When they saw Hook Arm carrying her, they attacked him, assuming the worst. He tried to explain that he had found her and was too late to save her, but their fear turned to instant blame, and the neighbors became an angry mob. They chased Hook Arm back to his house, where he tried to barricade himself in, but they broke in and beat him until he could no longer fight back. Then they hung him from the large tree in his yard, left him to die, and set fire to his shack.

The storm became tremendously vicious that evening. When morning broke, his body was gone from the tree, never to be found, though the noose still hangs there, and his house though scorched and blackened still stands.

According to legend, he bargained with the Devil, who set him free, and allowed him to seek revenge on mankind for hating him. Many mysterious deaths occurred, including one by one each of the neighbors who helped to hang him.

The story made headlines, causing countless groups of fun seekers to travel to Hook Arm’s House to see where this happened, as well as to see if they could glimpse him roaming the grounds. Often an old, soaking wet, disheveled man, with a hook arm, and a bent neck, twisted from hanging is seen walking the dirt road leading down to his shack.

Almost all who return tell stories of running for their lives from a wet, dirty man with a hook arm but even more have gone, and never returned.

Occasionally, the missing thrill seekers are found brutally beaten and hanging from the tree by the house, while others appear to be drowned in the old well. The trees on his land are scarred with slashes from his hook, left behind from when he exacted his revenge on his attackers. But for each new person he catches, a new slash appears on one of his trees, and to date, there are many.

Often Hook Arm is seen tending his garden next to be blackened house. It grows beautifully ever year. He waves at passers-by; be sure to wave back, but don’t ever stop!