Lost In The Witch Cane

There is a wide ridge in the middle of our property thickly covered with Witch Cane.  Sometimes called Cane, Bamboo, Switch Cane, Owl Cane, etc. but down here they call it Witch Cane. However  you call it, through the middle of this cane thicket is a narrow track made by loggers 70-80 years ago that you can barely see, but if you follow it and get through to the other side, there is a little hidden valley that I discovered was filled with big buck sign. So yes, I took my climber in there after lunch and worked my way as quietly as I could through the thick cane, having to turn sideways and almost on my knee some of the way, but I made it through and set up my stand in a nice hickory tree and waited. That afternoon was bright and sunny and I saw deer after deer but not the big buck I wanted and after a great hunt, I got down out of my stand after dark and headed back.  I found my flashlight and turned it on. Now flashlights are not my specialty and they are supposed to work when you need them and worrying about batteries is not something you think about until you need them.  I turned it on and a feeble yellow glow was all the light I had.  I headed up into the Witch Cane.

I don’t know when I got off the trail but it was pretty quick, all I could see was the faint glow around me and the thick cane. The mistake I made was cutting back and forth trying to find the trail, and suddenly I was completely turned around. I’m carrying the climber on my back, sweating and a little panicky and I decided a straight line was best. I had to come out somewhere. The cane got thicker and thicker as I pushed my way through and suddenly I fell out into a small opening about 5 feet around. I was holding the small flashlight in my mouth so I could use my hands to fight my way, so I fell  almost to the ground and the dim light caught something right below me. Half covered in leaves and dirt was a broken tombstone. Everything went quiet like in a horror movie, and the moon suddenly rose giving a faint light. I brushed the dirt away in the dim light and could make out some faint writing inscribed. I brushed away more, then scraped the moss away with my knife. I could see the word in capital letters on the grave marker. W-I-T-C-H . Witch! I froze, but my mind was screaming at me to run, to get away. I stood up listening. No sound, no wind, nothing. It was deathly quiet.

Then a soft breeze touched the top of the cane, or maybe they moved themselves as it seemed a slight whisper went through them, a muttering stretching out as far as I could hear through the tops of the cane, then I heard it louder coming back, and a slight fog seemed to slowly start forming over the grave.

Unlike the horror movies, I did not wait any longer. I took off wide open, leaving my climber behind. I did not let up until I broke through the can a few hundred yards from my truck. I caught a breath, changed gears and made it to the truck in record time.

If you are looking for a great used climber, I can tell you where to get one free of charge, I’m sure it’s right where I left it.

GraveYard Hoedown

It was October 31^st (Halloween) when the 4 of us Trent, Paul, James and myself passed along the edge

of the Oxford Cemetery just after dark on our way to a Halloween party. As we passed it, we saw many people walking toward the center of the graveyard. An elegantly dressed man was leaning on a headstone and waved at us to stop and I felt compelled to pull over. I rolled the window down and he said “You're just in time to join the party. Come on!” Without thinking we all got out of the car and started across the cemetery with our new friend. He was 60ish with gray hair, a mustache and carrying a pipe in his hand. He looked vaguely familiar but I could not place him.

Less than 50 yards away, in a small fold of land, 8 or 10 men were gathered around a big headstone they were using as a bar and we bellied up to it as they served us a stiff drink. After a few minutes I looked down and read the name on the grave,it said William Faulkner.

A nice fire was burning in front of the grave and many people were already gathered around drinking and talking as a skeletal

Western Band started tuning up, and then the party really started. A real Grave Yard Hoedown! As the people danced, I began to notice their attire seemed from every era. They whirled and danced as the fire grew brighter was amazed to see that I could see through most of them. I, like my brothers realized we were in the middle of a real Ghost Party in the Cemetery but there was a calmness over me so that everything felt normal and I had no reason to be afraid. Several people slapped me my brothers and me on the back that I felt we should know or had known. It was a real ghostly Halloween Party and we were in the middle of it. Our host, whom I now knew was William Faulkner, thanked us for coming and kept the liquor flowing. James and Paul were dancing with a couple of Antebellum beauties, while Trent and I laughed, drank and discussed everything from how the War Between the States was going to what was Hoover going to do about this damned depression. We just toasted everyone and said “Don't worry it's all under control and there's going to be a chicken in every pot.”

We danced, we drank, we partied, I think we howled at the moon and then things started to blur.

All I know is that later, we woke in the car and everyone was gone. The cemetery was dark and there was no sign of our friend, Mr. Faulkner. No one spoke as I cranked the car and started off.

Not far down the road, we passed a young couple walking along the edge of the cemetery with their arms around each other. The man casually waved. It took a minute for it to register on us and for me to slam on the brakes. We all turned around to look again, but they were gone. We had seen many, many pictures of the young couple before. It was my Mom and Dad.

OLD SOLOMON

Old Solomon is the biggest, fiercest, wildest, and most cunning wild hog you will ever see and all the members at the famous Christmas Place are deathly afraid of him ( and they're not scared of much)
He roams our property in the Delta and he has been trapped, speared, poisoned, electrocuted and shot about 100 times but he is still out there watching and lurking in the forest. All of our guest are warned what to do if they see him (which is run) but luckily for us he seems to disappear as the first volley of gunfire starts in the fall each year.
This hog is more than big, he is gigantic. At the top of his sharp razorback he is almost 6 feet high and 10 to 12 feet long. His big head looks like the front end of a Buick, his tusk are at least a foot long and I believe he would weigh 800 pounds. Not 800 pounds like you see in the magazines where someone shoots a big pig wandering through the woods with a pistol or whacks him with a rock. This hog is a lean and deadly killer.. A true predator to anything that gets in his way, and I know from first hand experience.
It was early squirrel season when I saw him. I was walking the old road at what is called the Crossover area when I heard a crash and saw him barreling through the woods at me at 50 yards.
I did not hesitate, I took off like a scalded dog and made it to the first tree with limbs. It was a small sweet gum but sprang up into it as fast as lightning, the shotgun went one way but I scampered up the tree like a squirrel just as Old Solomon hit my boot and shook the whole tree. To the top I went until  I could go no higher and the tree threatened to start leaning over. Unfortunately my feet were barely 10 feet off the ground and the mad giant circled around growling and ripping up the ground.
I was treed and then everything got slow as he stopped and looked at me, just studying me. I looked at my foot, the whole sole of my boot was sheared off, as if by a razor. Just then Solomon turned, rushed the tree and slammed into it, almost knocking me out. I felt the tree give and readjusted. I had to do something quick. I reached in my pocket. Shotgun shells- I threw them at him, he just kept staring up at me, Compass- I know where I am (deep s##t), Map- no, Knife- yeah, right,  Water bottle- he doesn't look thirsty, Snickers Bar- I don't think so, Flashlight- Oh Crap! Old Solomon made another rush and slammed into the sapling again. I held on for dear life but the tree was leaning now.
I reached in my pocket and grabbed the first thing my hand landed on, the Candy Bar. I opened it, and threw it down in front of the huge snout of the creature. He didn't move, we stared at each other. A second later his big head went down, he grabbed the candy bar, looked at me, then trotted off into the woods. I stayed there another hour, found my shotgun, then slunk back to my 4-wheeler and camp.
The moral is, if you run across him, a Candy Bar could save your life.

Haunted Lights Of The Great Swamp

The Great Swamp lies just west of the famous Christmas Place. Large parts have been turned to cropland and cut with roads now so that it is not the impenetrable swamp it once was but the remaining parts are dark and full of mystery.  Here, the Haunted Lights of the Great Swamp are still feared by the locals.

In 1885 the civil war was over and the people of the delta were still trying to rebuild their lives by farming. Small farmers ruled the day on small 50-100 acre farms and no one here had the ability or money to have the vast farms that had thrived before the War. Even so, a new bank for these small farmers was built in Tchula. Trade on the river was good and cotton prices were rising. It looked like the beginning of a new and better time for everyone, except that there is always someone willing to try to take what others have worked so hard to acquire.

Three men with fast horses had planned the robbery of the Citizens Bank of Tchula on a late fall Halloween day when a large amount of new money was in the bank to pay the farmers for their meager cotton crop. Entering the bank and filling their saddle bags with cash, the robbers fled south after a brief gunfight that left one bank guard dead and another wounded.  They crossed the South Bridge and the railroad headed towards Yazoo City. Just north of Thornton, they turned into the Great Swamp and headed for their little hideout and a boat on the Black River that would take them downriver under the cover of night, hopefully to disappear forever. The only problem with their plan was the rain.

At the turnoff, a storm hit that had sprang out of the West. Rain hammered down and at first it helped them by covering their tracks and keeping people off the roads, but it did not let up as they wound deeper and deeper into the dark swamp. By the time they reached their camp it was dark and the water in the river was quickly rising. Leaving their horses, they climbed aboard the john-boat, lit a lantern, and headed downstream toward the Yazoo River.

In an hour they were completely lost. The swiftly rising water pushed them into places away from the river and their lantern had been extinguished by the driving rain. All they could do was ride the currents and hope to find way out, then through the blinding rain they saw a light.
They could go no further and headed in that direction until they came to a high spot in the flooded bottom and pulled their boat ashore.  Carefully they moved toward the light and it disappeared. It reappeared moments later and they kept working toward it as it seemed to move just outside of their reach. Deeper and deeper they went with the siren sight of the flickering lights leading them. Their eyes began to glow, they lost all sight and sound, and still they blindly struggled and pulled themselves through the muddy swamp following the deceiving lights, totally lost and condemned to a hellish death.
The boat finally washed away and the money was lost to the great Swamp.  The search party found the horses but the three men were never seen alive again.  The rumor is told that on Rainy Halloween nights, and you are deep in the swamp coming out after hunting,  the rotting, skeletal corpses of the three men can be seen wandering the Great Swamp still following the ghostly haunted lights. Be careful that you don’t join them.

A Night In The Attic

I had seen the old man watching from across the street during the time my brother, Paul, was moving in to the Old Water Valley Hospital that has been converted into a beautiful antebellum style home.

Paul and his wife, Wanda, could not have been happier and I figured like everyone else in town, that the old man was just enjoying watching new life being breathed into the town, but after a few months it seemed that he was there watching the house almost every time I drove by.

One slow afternoon I saw him, parked my car in the driveway and went over to talk to him. He was old, using a cane but seemed fit, but a haunted look was in his eye as he glanced at me and back to the house. I asked him how he was doing and we passed the time for a few minutes until I asked him why he kept showing up and watching the house. He went back to staring at the house for a few minutes and I thought he was not going to answer, but then in a low voice, he started to talk.

“Did you ever hear of the Vincent family that used to live there?” he asked, pointing with his cane at the big house. I told him “No”. He grunted and continued. “When I was a boy, my best friend Fletcher Vincent and his family moved into that house for a few months, that’s all it took, a few months.” He nodded a few times and said “the house looks like it did then and we were a couple of adventurous kids, so when he invited me over to stay the night, we thought it would be fun to sleep up in the attic.” I could feel gooseflesh on my arms as he continued, “We were 12, just 12 years old. Fletch and I played cards, talked about girls and what we wanted to do when we grew up and had a great time. We stayed up late until his Momma told us to turn out the lamp and get to sleep in the 2 cots up there. We did and talked some more until we drifted off to sleep.” The old man turned his head back and forth as if trying avoid a blow and in a raspy voice said  “ I woke up freezing , it was summer but I was so cold and it took me a second to realize all my covers were gone and it was deathly quiet and I was so scared I couldn’t move. Very little light came in the window but I could see someone was in the room with us, just a few feet away, crouching between the beds. I didn’t move, I was too scared to move. Just then I heard Fletcher move, heard him say “Mom?”, A horrible voice went “Ah! And there was a rushing sound and then  a terrible scream. I jumped for the stairs and fell down them, hitting the door and rolling out on the second floor screaming for help.”

Mr. Vincent was there in seconds, I pointed and yelled that someone was up there, and we rushed up the stairs with Mr. Vincent holding a lantern high over his head and holding a big horse pistol ahead of him. Upstairs he was yelling Fletch’s name, but there was no answer,the attic was empty. Mr. Vincent tore the room apart, looked under the beds, in every part of the attic but no one was there. I grabbed his arm and pointed to the bed. In the center where Fletcher had been lying was a huge pool of blood soaking the sheets. It was an awful night and I never saw him again.” I could see tears in his eyes as he finished. “The police, the Sheriff, all the neighbors searched the town, the woods, the whole county and never found anything. The Vincent’s left not long afterwards, they never found him, and they never found a clue as to what happened.” I stared at the grief stricken man until he said, “You tell your brother not to let anyone go up there, he would be better off nailing the stairway shut, but whatever he does tell him to never let anyone sleep up in the attic again.”

Whispers

People say that our little area of the Delta is the most haunted area in the state Of Mississippi. I can only say that I have seen many things that most people would not believe. Some people would laugh and say I drink to much, am too full of tall-tales, or I am just a damn liar. They have never faced the darkness that seems to gather at the famous Christmas Place Plantation.

Many restless spirits roam here. The beautiful and frightening Pond Stand Ghost, a column of Confederate soldiers marching to nowhere, a ghost train that cuts through the night on Halloween, and many others that shed their blood on this ground. One of the scariest and least seen is the ghost we call “The Whisperer”.

Across a big Beaverdam on the south side of the property is a deer stand called The Double White Oak. A long walk down an ancient road leads to a clearing with a gigantic double whiteoak tree at the end of it. The opening is a game foodplot with a stand overlooking it. Several nice deer have been taken from this stand but it is usually the long walk out after dark that can be terrifying.

The first time I encountered this ghost I was walking out on a starlit night after an evening hunt. The moon had just started to rise as I walked along holding my flashlight down in front of me. A whispered voice in my ear said “Hurry”

I stopped thinking it was my imagination. Looked all around as the chills ran up and down my spine and took off walking again. “Hurry, we need to hurry” the voice whispered. I stopped and shined my light all around looking for a source of the low whispering voice. I was scared now and pulled my rifle down to the crook of my arm.

I stepped forward, moving even quicker than before and had not gone ten steps when I heard the voice whisper again. “ Hurry, they’re coming” I didn’t break stride but kept marching. As I hurried through the darkness the voice settled on my ear, crying miserably and begging me to hurry. I was so scared that I did not look back but I could feel the spirit walking beside me, leaning into my ear and in terrible fear and agony whispering for me to hurry, hurry before they caught us.

I don’t think there is any harm in this poor spirit and I would like to know his story. I have tried talking to him over the years but it does no good. We have all heard his desperate pleadings over the years and are used to it now, but occasionally we let someone hunt there and wait to see if the ghost will scare the crap out of them.

The Bell Of The Tchula Lady

It was the hottest part of August when the weird idea to go frog gigging over on the River struck us. I asked Paul Jones what he knew about the frogging over in that area and he told me that it should be good. He had not seen any vehicles with boats over at the landing at night in almost a month. He figured we could catch about as many as we wanted. Paul, Burney and I started planning right then but Paul Jones interrupted us with one of his cryptic final statements. “The River has been channeled but down about two miles there is a double bow where you follow the old River for about half a mile. When you get to it, you can see it is marked on the side by a mile marker, #27. If I was you, I would get in the middle and drift down past the last bow and don’t try to catch any frogs ‘till then.” We stared at him. He didn’t say anything else. Paul Jones has a habit of knowing way to much about the history of this place but when pressed he said “maybe nothing, but do what I say and there won’t be no trouble” That’s all we could get out of him.
A week later we were ready. We had boats, we had coolers, we had lights, we had beer, we had everything we needed. We even picked up a couple of stragglers in Mark Stewart, Mark Rose, Stewart Allen and Terry Cutrere. Two boats to cover the River with me driving one and Burney the other. We planned about a 10 mile drift and then to come back up to catch what we missed on the way down.
Catching frogs is not done with a gig. One man sits in the front usually wearing heavy gloves, 2nd man in the middle holds the light, and the 3rd man drives the boat. You shine their eyes and blind them, pull the boat in tight and grab them. Simple as pie.
The night was black as pitch as we headed downriver floating and talking until we started seeing a few frogs and then split up to cover each side of the river. We caught some, put ‘em in the cooler, missed a few but everyone had a shot at it and we drank beer and enjoyed the night. Before we had gone 1/2 mile the fog rolled in on us and it started getting quiet. Mark Rose in the other boat shined his light high on the bank and we could just make out marker #27 and we floated into the first bend.
You could tell it was the old river as tall timber overhang this part and we let the current pull us forward. The water was low but the river narrowed here. It was spooky but it seemed like frogs were everywhere. We split up and started getting them. We had caught 10 before a frantic bobbing of the lights caught our attention and we eased the motor until we crossed over and found Burney holding a snag waiting for us in his boat.
Both boats shined their light at a mass of old timbers jutting from the bank. The huge timbers were covered by big frogs and I started to tell Burney they could get in to them but he said “Listen” and we all quieted down. It was still in the swirling fog with just the slapping of the water on the boats but You could hear it low and slow, the chiming of a bell coming from the old wreck in front of us. As we listened it quickly got louder. The frogs in front of us escaped into the water as we realized that the sound was coming from the old pile-up. Shining the light we spotted an old marker at the top of the bank. It read The Tchula Lady.
As the noise grew louder a shrill shriek seemed to echo in it that hurt our ears, the blood curdling sound seemed to reach into your soul and it seemed like the fog seemed to swirl in amongst the timbers until it looked like people were moving there. We quickly backed into the middle of the River. I almost had to fight Cutrere to get control of the motor after Paul grabbed his leg to tell him to turn the light downstream and almost caused the whole group to panic and sink the boat. We all took off downriver until the noise faded behind us. Not much frogging was done after that and later when we came back up the river it was done at full throttle hugging the opposite side of the River.
Paul Jones had built a fire on the bank and was waiting for us when we got back to the landing. We tried to tell him about what happened but he already knew. He told us the tale then. “The Tchula Lady was a paddle-wheeler that ran mostly from The Misissippi, up to Yazoo City and then to Tchula carrying supplies and people. During the Civil war it carried soldiers and was ambushed in that bow below Parkers Landing by Union cavalry with cannons and sank with all hands. It caught in a snag at the bend of the River and everyone that made a swim to the bank was shot. No one survived. The ship burned right there and the old timbers in the bank are all that’s left of it. The story is that it is still trying to make the run up river and the ghost don't want to be disturbed. I have heard that the sound of the bell will burst your eardrums or make you lose your mind if you stay and listen too long.” That was the end of our frog hunting expeditions on that River.

The Curse Of The Black Rifle

It was a night like this one. It was cold, misty, wet and miserable and I was glad when I got through Lexington on my way to the camp. I followed the wet road to the old Howard crossroads and took a left. Not much farther, sitting right in the center of the road was a big sign that said “Bridge Out”. I sat thinking about how crappy that was and which way I should go, then turned my old truck around. There was a detour sign pointing back to Lexington that read “Detour 1 mile” I turned and headed back down the road. It was a long way to get around another way and I reached the detour that led in beside an old concrete company. I turned right and headed down the gravel road. I knew this road had to cross the river too and hoped it was safe to cross after all the rain we had been having. A mile down the road I came to the bridge.
I was glad to see that it was a brand new concrete bridge and you could see where fresh red dirt had been pushed into place in front of the edge as I slowed down but the soft dirt made the truck slide and turn almost sideways as I came to a stop. The bridge was covered in ice. I looked at it for a minute wanting to make sure I could safely cross, put the truck in 4 wheel drive and eased forward. The tires just spun in the muck. I put it in all wheel drive but the truck just started sinking. I went forward, backwards and anything I could think of but, like a fool, I was stuck in the middle of the road. I got my cell phone out. No Service. I was stranded.
After trying the truck some more and holding the phone at every angle to get my phone to work, I decided to walk up the road to reach the ridge above me to get a signal. Everyone was already at camp and I knew they would come pull me out even if they griped about it. Two hundred yards after I crossed the bridge it started to rain, then sleet. After another hundred yards I was soaked. That’s when I saw the light.

Up in the woods a short ways I could see a porch light on and turned in the old driveway. Walking in I could see it was an old Antebellum style home with 4 columns in the front. The house looked neglected with peeling paint but I prayed they would have a phone. The light was from double lantern lights beside the front door that seemed to flicker in the rain. I moved up the steps and knocked on the door. It took a few minutes but finally the door opened a crack and I could see the piercing blue eye of an older man staring at me. He said “Are you here about the rifle?” Standing there cold and wet I thought fast. I said “I’d like to see it but I really need to use your phone too. I got stuck down by the bridge” He stared a minute at me then opened the door and let me in.
I introduced myself as the old man led me through the foyer and into a large parlor that was obviously his den. A nice fire was going in the fireplace even though the room was dusty and unkempt and I took off my jacket to stand near the blaze. The old man watched me warming myself and said “You’re the first person that has answered my ad.” He pointed to a phone on the desk and I hurried over and called the camp. The man told me the address and they said they would be there in less than an hour. I hung up, thanked the strange old man and asked him to tell me about the rifle.
He said “I’ll do better, I’ll show it to you.” Against the wall was a large glass fronted gun cabinet and he took a key from around his neck and unlocked it. He reached in and drew out a beautiful black rifle and brought it over to me. He seemed reluctant but placed it in my hands for me to examine. Instantly the rifle felt right and I looked at the barrel. It was a .300 Weatherby Magnum with a black composite stock and 4 x 10 Nikon scope. Absolutely beautiful. I lifted it and sighted through the scope at one of the lit desk lamps in the room. The rifle felt good, it felt like it belonged in my hand but I knew it was way out of my league to buy. I said “How much do you want for it?” He smiled slightly and said “Like the ad says, make me an offer.” He reached down to the desk and picked up the Holmes County Tribune and showed me the ad with a red circle around it. RIFLE FOR SALE BEST OFFER and his address. I knew it was worth well over $1000 and said that I knew that it was very expensive and I didn’t have that kind of money. He said “How much money do you have on you?” I said “I only have about ten dollars on me.” He smiled and said “Sold”.
While I stammered he pulled a bill of sale from the pile on the desk, signed it, turned and handed it to me. I reached in my pocket, pulled out my wallet and reluctantly gave him the $10 dollar bill.
The old man seemed to relax, put the rifle in a leather gun case and handed it to me. He said “We need a drink and then I’ll tell you a story” He poured two shots of pretty good brandy and we sat in a couple of wing back chairs to enjoy the fire. I held the rifle case across my knees. I was confused and unsure of what to do or say but finally I blurted out “How long have you been running the ad?" He smiled, twirled his drink and said “3 months, you’re the first person to respond.” I could only say “That seems odd.” He nodded his head and said “Now that the rifle is not mine anymore, I’m going to tell you a story. You can believe it or not, I don’t care. The thing to remember is to be very, very careful with Blackie.” His serious mood seemed to affect both of us and I waited for him to start but he was lost in the firelight.
I took another drink of the warming brandy and said “You named the rifle, Blackie?” He nodded again and started his story.
“I named the rifle Black Heart, Blackie for short and bought it brand new from the factory. They even put the scope on it. It's the finest rifle I’ve ever owned and you can hunt anything out there with it.” I felt a new chill go through me with his words, but he took no notice and continued, “I used to love to hunt deer and you can see I’ve taken some nice ones.” I looked at several mounted heads around the room with nice antlers. “I don't know but I think it was evil when it got here, maybe something was burned into the steel or the stock, but it is evil allright. The trouble was that Blackie felt so good to me, that I ended up taking it every time I went out. The other rifles I have haven’t been used since I got it. That black rifle seemed to become a part of me and I took a lot of deer, even a moose with it. Then after several years I found myself wanting to take it with me everywhere I went; reality was that I became obsessed with it or it with me.” My drink was running low and he refilled us without my asking, then continued. "Like I said, I was obsessed and after 5 years of owning it, I would find myself uncontrollably checking on it during the night and it started to affect my dreams.” He paused and took a sip as he stared blindly at the fire, lost in his memories again. “I found I couldn’t leave the house without it, couldn’t go to town or even the mailbox. I would wake up in the middle of the night and find myself oiling and polishing it and my dreams had turned dark and bloody with me shooting people. Friends, neighbors, strangers it didn’t matter, my dreams were filled with blood. Then I woke up while I was driving around and I have no real idea of what I was doing with the rifle in the car. It happened more than once and I don’t want to know. I'm afraid to know."

There had been a rash of shootings across the delta that year with over 10 people shot at night as they walked or stood by a window. It was unsolved and the whole area was frightened of the mystery shooter. I was afraid the confused man believed he was responsible. Most of the people had been shot cleanly between the eyes by a high powered rifle, but this trembling old man could not have possibly done it.
He continued, "I put the ad in the paper after I woke up one night down here in the den with the loaded barrel in my mouth. I think I woke up when I couldn’t reach the trigger with my finger. I put the ad in the paper and haven’t really had any problems lately with my dreams. I had a feeling it was time for the rifle to move on and you’re the one it wants.” He tipped his glass to me and said “Good Luck.” I got up and put my coat on, picked up the Weatherby, thanked him for the drink and headed for the door, He walked with me but stopped me at the door. "I know you think I’m crazy and I hope I am. You won’t have any problems.” I thanked him and left. I have never seen him again and hope he is right. I will say that recently I have been carrying "Blackie" with me more and more often and having some strange nightmares.

The Halloween Hunt

We usually spend most weekends during deer season hunting at our camp on the edge of the Mississippi Delta. These few weekends each year are totally committed to hunting and the camaraderie that goes with it. Every few years though, we make sure to cut our afternoon hunt short. The local people in the area had warned us to be careful at that time and none of them go into the woods on that day.
This is always a Friday or Saturday afternoon when it falls on Halloween. Late in the evening on that day as the sun falls behind the hills and shadows grow deep in the woods, you will hear a bone chilling howl and you will know that the Halloween Hunt has started.
The year we learned that it was real, I had set up at the head of a long wide hollow to hunt that afternoon and Dad was below me a few hundred yards in a big Hickory. Trent was hunting down near the end of it at the Pond Stand and just at dark that afternoon we learned first hand about the Halloween Hunt, the terrifying Hell Hounds and the Wicked Creatures that drove them.
The sun was falling, and the woods seemed empty and lifeless that afternoon and it was right at the time to get down from my stand when I heard the blood curdling howls start. not the baying of hounds but something filled with hate and longing that instantly froze me in my stand. It was so evil and terrifying that I was afraid to get down; and then I heard the cry of the dogs getting closer to me. I could tell it was a pack of dogs but their sound left me with my mouth dry and heart pounding as they poured over the ridge and down into the hollow in front of me.
One terrified deer came by so fast that I could not tell what it was in the fading light, but a few seconds later I could clearly see the enormous black hounds that came after it. They were large and rangy beast that seemed to shine with a greenish glow. Evil looking, gigantic wolf-like creatures with enormous fangs and red eyes caught the deer’s trail and moved as fast as the deer through the woods.
Seconds later a flicker of dark movement behind them and three mere shadows seemed to move purposefully through the woods behind them. Dark twisted shapes with large claws that held whips. I did not move or even dare to breathe. I thought I had been scared before but these shadowy shapes paralyzed me. They passed within 20 yards of my stand and I felt I had escaped death as they moved on. I waited till the howls had moved a mile down the hollow and ran out of the woods to the truck where I hoped Dad waited.
He was out of his stand and had seen the hellish hounds at a distance. He had felt the same overpowering fear as I did and had hurried back to the truck. Trent had heard the awful howling but they had turned before reaching him. Back at camp we talked about the horrible looking hounds but I never mentioned the dark shapes that followed them, but several of our neighbors talked of the rumor of demons that held a Halloween Hunt each year.
Some of the members and guest laugh about it but we don't. Halloween afternoons are for relaxing, drinking and listening to ballgames. We do not hunt on the Halloween afternoons of October 31st.

The Messenger

A lot of strange things happened the first couple of years that we moved onto the old Plantation in the Delta known as The Christmas Place.
One of these strange things persisted for a year before we found a way to stop it. Thankfully we were able to stop it before someone got hurt.
We took possession of the grounds and the caretakers house in the early fall and busied ourselves with learning the land, getting ready to deer hunt and remodeling the house so we could have a camp. Dad had even hired a bulldozer to clear all the old roads and fields.
It takes us almost two hours to drive there on weekends and on this particular weekend I was the first to arrive and Dad pulled in right behind me. It was easy to see that someone had left a note for us on the back door.
Grabbing my rifle and bag I headed to read the note and go inside with Dad. The note was hanging on a little nail and simply said “RESTORE THEM” in faded block letters. We read the note and took it inside to mull over. The paper was dirty notebook paper and there were no other markings front or back. We thought it was a joke or maybe the former owners were mad about us getting the property. So started what seemed a bizarre set of messages that we would find on our door most weekends. “FIND THEM” ”REPLACE ALL” and stranger ones that made us think that we might really have a serious problem. “DEATH” “REVENGE” “BLOOD SOON” All words that kept getting more sinister as time went on. The last message we received simply said“DIE".
The messages had steadily become more insistent and frightening until finally one weekend we found the back wall covered in blood. It was time to end the charade and find out who was behind it.
I set up in the barn that Wednesday evening and waited through the night with no messenger seen but that Thursday was a different story. It was misty and foggy that night and I would have missed it except for a slight swirl in the mist that revealed a dark figure standing in the backyard as I watched that night. I eased the shotgun up and moved silently from the barn toward the rear of the house. I was almost too late as the shrouded figure had left our door and headed toward the woods. It was hard to see in the swirling mist but in the open woods I could see him clearly as he headed up a narrow valley. I was scared but the shotgun gave me a sense that I could control the situation. The man made no sound as I followed him and I thought that he could surely hear me as I closed the gap between us.
He seemed to disappear as he reached a giant oak rearing out of the side of the hill and when I reached it I could see a large hole going down under the roots and knew that he had entered there. I shined my little flashlight then and could see boot tracks heading down into the dark hole. Maybe it was some hermit living under the ground. I was frightened, this was just too eerie. I wasn’t going to go in a cave in the middle of the night. I would explore the area in daylight and got out of there as quickly as I could.
The next morning I followed the little creek up to the hollow near the big tree. It was open and flat in the center except for a small mound that I thought could be an old Indian Mound. Fifteen feet away the huge oak grew out of the side of the hill but there was no opening under it as I poked my head under the roots to look. There was no evidence that any kind of opening had ever been there and no tracks except mine. I knew what I had seen the night before. I walked back and forth up the little sand ditch and saw no tracks except for deer. I went back and poked the area under the tree with a large stick but there was no give in the dirt and the opening was gone. I was totally confused and sat down on the little Indian Mound to think of what else to do. That is when I found it. I thought it was a piece of concrete jutting up but it had writing on it. I wiped it and realized that it was limestone and the writing was part of a date. I poked around in the leaves and soon realized I needed a shovel. Later I had dug up 16 broken and battered headstones that had been buried there for almost 70 years. The dates of death were from the late 1800’s and the newest was 1901. When the family plot was abandoned, some new owner had made sure the cemetery disappeared. Someone clearing the land had taken a dozer and pushed the headstones into a pile in the bottom of the hollow, covered them up and reset the land to pasture or crops all those years ago. I think the dozer we had clearing the roads might have reawakened some restless souls. It took us awhile but we reset the tombstones against oak trees on top of the ridge and I think we got it right. The messenger has never returned.

True Stories To Come

Right now I am working on the finishing touches of some more true stories that have occured at or near the famous Christmas Place. The first involves the old abandoned military base on our south border. It is remote and mysterious and there is a terrible secret hidden there.



The second is about the old mill. It is falling in and no one is allowed to go inside. It lies against Black Creek down on the Hillside Refuge and most people believe that it is haunted. I do too.


The last story involves the old covered bridge that we fish off of sometimes. It is creaky but the bridge is still solid. What happened there on a warm Halloween night will positively chill your blood.

A Sound Of Leathery Wings

It was two years ago during our Youth Hunt at the famous Christmas Place Hunting Club in the Mississippi delta that I was involved in one of the strangest and most frightening episodes that I have ever witnessed.
That weekend we had about 15 kids, boys and girls, participating in our Youth Deer Hunt for does and it had been a great Saturday. Half of the kids had taken deer and we enjoyed a real celebration that night. The children ate hearty with fresh deer steak, roasted wild hog, bright yellow corn on the cob with butter and all the trimmings you can imagine.
After supper the members had a roaring fire built for the kids to gather around for creepy ghost stories and to roast marshmallows. The air was cool and still while an orange gibbous moon peeked over the woods and shone down on the backyard as the tired kids made their way to the fire, I got up, managed to quiet them and started to get ready to tell some Ghost Stories before we went to bed.
A few clouds half covered the strange looking moon as I called them in close and they pulled up chairs or plopped on the ground around the fire. Even our two dogs, Camo and Triggger had lain down close to the fire as if they wanted to hear the stories too.
I wanted to start with the old story about the Whipporwill and then tell some of the strange stories that involved the Christmas Place. I began to talk.
I had not told much of the spooky story when we heard a rhythmic whooshing sound,a flapping that grew louder and louder. Whoosh, Whoosh, Whoosh, slow and heading straight for the group of campers. It was a leathery sound that sent chills down my spine as I stopped talking.
Everyone there turned to look for the source of the strange sound and all chatter suddenly stopped as we looked into the sky to try to see what it was. The dogs stood and waited also, and a low growl began in the two dogs throats.
A loud cracking of limbs, then a flutter of leaves and dead branches fell from the huge Pecan tree that stood just outside of our little circle of light, more cracks and snapping in the tree and it became quiet.
Still no one spoke as we gazed up into the blackness of the limbs. The dogs had moved between the tree and us and their hair stood up as they growled menacingly.
I shook my head and realized it was probably a giant owl or maybe a turkey had been pushed from it’s roost and it had landed in the tree above us. I smiled and spoke loudly as I tried to restart my story.
Out of the darkness from the height of the tree a strange laughing cackle started and a chalky scratchy voice cut across the night, “HEH, HEH, HEH, I LIKE GHOST STORIES”
Every person there and the dogs, broke for the back door of the camp house. Several of the men grabbed up a kid or two and threw them onto the back porch. I stopped there and tried to gather any of the small kids I could and get them into the house before they were trampled. My heart hammered in fear as I helped get them inside and suddenly it was quiet outside. I could hear yells and screams from inside but it seemed that Burney, Paul, Mark and I were the only ones watching to see what horror was going to land on the ground beside the fire.
A loud fluttering noise in the big pecan, a couple of small branches fell and then we heard the sound of the large wings flapping and gathering speed. The whooshing sound started and in the moonlight we could see a black figure with enormous wings slowly flapping it’s way toward the dark woods across the night sky.

The Sweet Smell Of Death

The famous Christmas Place lies half in the Mississippi Delta and half in the steep bluffs that stand above. It is over 2000 acres of farm and timberland. The history of the land is old with many strange tales and occurrences recorded from the time of the Indians, through the Civil War and up to today. I guess any property rich in history attracts stories like these, but what I am about to tell may be part of the answer to the reason that more than a few people have disappeared on this land never to be seen again.
Near the East end of the property is a large block of land covered in kudzu. Part of it was in fields years ago but it is completely covered in the kudzu vine now. Very little timber protrudes from the vines leaving a large opening in the woods. Toward the back edge of this open area a huge ravine about 200 yards wide cuts across the opening. This sheer drop off and gulley is covered with kudzu also but out of the middle of this ravine a small sharp kudzu covered hill rises steeply like a island, and at the top is a thick stand of what looks to be mimosa.
I had often thought over the years that it would be a perfect spot for a big buck to spend his days just watching and waiting ‘till dark so it could move. A perfect bedding area. This thought came to me one day in the spring and the thought that he would have shed his antlers there came to me also. That afternoon, I had some free time and made my way there with the 4-wheeler, made my way across the kudzu fields and parked at the edge of the steep drop off. I found deer trails there and worked my way down into the thick vines at the bottom of the huge gulley and worked my way up the steep slope of the isolated hill.
I stood at the edge of the mimosa thicket and looked around. The view was great in the sense that you could see anything move within 300 yards from where I stood and reinforced my belief that this is where the biggest buck on the property spent his days. I could see a quick moving storm heading my way and from where I stood, I could smell the sweet, strong smell of the thick mimosas. I worked my way into the thick grove of trees.
The smell was overpowering and almost sickening. I looked at the trees and realized they were not the mimosas I thought but some strange look-a-like. I guessed they were some family of the tree but now am not so sure.
I looked for antlers there and worked my way through the thick grove. Strangely, I did not find any deer trails or signs of life there. I circled through several times and then suddenly found myself on my knees, not realizing how I had fallen. The thick smell was all around me and I tried to clear my head but a minute or two later I was lying on my back almost unable to move. The cloying smell seemed to make it hard to breath and I knew if I could just take a nap, go to sleep for a few minutes, I would have the strength to get up and head back to the camp.
Lying there I could feel vines move around me, seeming to wrap me up gently and slowly pulling me into the soft earth. Lightning shot across the sky and I tried to get up but the vines seemed to be steadily wrapping around me, moving me, pulling me into the soft earth.
When I woke again, the rain was falling heavily. I was drenched as I came to. The first thing I noticed was that I could breath easily again, the sickening smell of the mimosas was gone. Looking around I saw that I was entangled, wrapped in layers of vines and my legs were half buried in the ground. The rain fell harder and I managed to work my pocketknife out and cut myself loose. As I cut, the vines holding me began to retract back into the soft ground. A few minutes later I was free and staggered off of that horrible little hill and back down into the ravine. Later, I got up the other side and onto my 4-wheeler, then back to camp where I spent the remainder of the day having a few drinks and reflecting on my narrow escape.
I spent part of the summer studying the hill from a distance. Maybe the large gulley around it was manmade and had held water 500 years ago. Whatever was there had been forgotten by modern man. I worked my way to the base of the hill and spent a lot of time cutting a wide circle around the hill with a jo-blade and when the kudzu died in the fall I went back with 2 cans of gasoline and set the hill on fire.
I will keep an eye on it but I will never go back on top of it again and I will always fear the sweet smell of mimosa in the woods.

A Delta Ghost Hunt

It started as a lark, a chance to scare the kids and have a spooky adventure. What it ended up as was one of the strangest and most unnerving experiences of my life.
A local (and very big) farmer known as Mr. Cunningham owns farmland or farms vast acres of land all around our property known as the Christmas Place. We get along well and one afternoon I met him on the gravel road beside our camp and we ended up talking for a few minutes. He mentioned that he had bought the old Belden Place and since I was an appraiser and ran the very cool Deer Camp Blog, I might want to go over and look at the old plantation home with it’s impressive wood work and fireplace mantles. He said it was about gone but it must have been a beauty in her day. He told me how to get there and later that afternoon I traveled the mile down the road, turned into an old road marked with a coke can on a limb, and made my way back into the base of the bluffs. I could see where field roads led off of the main road and that Mr. Cunningham was already getting the fields on the old plantation in order. I was surprised by what lay at the end of the road.
The yard was grown up in Cedars and Magnolia trees but the house itself was magnificent from a distance. It looked like the old haunted antebellum homes in movies. Getting closer I could see the worn appearance, missing windows, rotted porches and state of neglect of the old home. Still the lines and big columns were impressive. I closed the car door and went inside. Most of the rooms were empty, there was a couch, old piano and a few wooden chairs scattered around the big parlor. The fireplace had been used frequently, and there was some wood on the floor. I went up the wooden staircase (it was solid) and checked the bedrooms. Large and at one time luxurious, it gave me a feel for the old South. I never felt spooky or eerie or nervous. I love the wonderful architecture of these old buildings and it was a shame that it had been reduced to a haven for mice and other creatures. As I left, a plan emerged in my mind of something fun to do.
I called our farmer and asked him if it would be OK and he agreed. I got Burney and he helped me get flashlights for all the kids, I told them all that we had a big plan for that night. We had an early supper and as it grew dark I told them that we were going on a Delta Ghost Hunt.
Driving up to the old house that night was fun. Burney and I told the kids awful tales of murder and death ‘till they were almost scared and excited out of there minds. We broke them up into ghost hunting teams, started a small fire in the fireplace and turned them loose. They chased each other, they screamed, they hid, they screamed, they ran, they saw and heard ghost everywhere, did I mention they screamed?
We cooked marshmallows in the old fireplace and had a ball. No one caught a ghost, but we had a great time. We rounded them up after they ran through the house a few more times and Burney led them back to the truck. Through the window I could see flashlight beams everywhere and yes they were still screaming and hollering. I started making sure the fire was completely out.
That is when I felt the cold. Like a wave it hit me and I knew someone was looking at me. I shined my light all around and listened. No noise except the kids outside. I shined my light up the stairs and there was an older woman there glaring at me. She screamed “Get Out” as I panicked and started backing out. I could see through her and her anger seemed to hammer at my senses. I took a quick photo and ran out the door.
I did not tell anyone except Burney what happened later that night and no one outside had heard the shrill scream that she yelled at me.
The old house is gone now and I wonder if the ghostly woman on the staircase still haunts that spot.

A Christmas Ghost

Christmas at the famous Christmas Place Hunting Club is always filled with laughter, hard hunting and the sharing of good times with family and friends. This is usually the heart of the rut and the expectancy of big bucks is always in the air. This is a great place to enjoy hunting but sometimes it can take a strange and unexpected turn.
Not a half mile from the camp, I had located a large knoll that had some very good buck sign on it. The area had the look of an old houseplace with the large oak trees, some flowers growing here and there and lots and lots of cedar trees. Large scrapes covered the hill and large hooks were all over the cedars there. Late that afternoon which was two days before Christmas; I set my climbing stand on the SE corner of this area with a clear shot on the trails leading up to it and a good lane to catch a deer slipping across it. My setup was perfect and as the holidays came closer I was anxious to get to this new stand.
That morning the wind was completely wrong and I had hunted in a different area with no success. The wind shifted that afternoon and by 2:00 PM I was in my tree relaxed and waiting. I did see a couple of deer that afternoon, a four point and a couple of does but no shooter. At 5:30PM it was pretty dark and I carefully worked the climbing stand down the tree, turned on my flahlight and started back to the truck.
I worked up and along the center of the knoll and as I walked up a trail, I became aware of a slight glow in front of me about fifty yards away. I could not tell what it was, but knew it was not supposed to be there. I turned off my flashlight and silently moved forward through the woods until I could clearly see.
In an opening near the road a Christmas tree was shining. I could clearly see candles on the tree and presents underneath. There was movement and two children darted up to look at the packages. They were laughing and talking while they played with the wrapped packages. I then became aware that a woman was seated in a chair near them while a man moved behind her. She was pretty and pointed to different areas under the tree for them to look as she laughed and talked to them. The man stood behind her with his back to me and then a quick movement of his arm and tinny Christmas music sounded from a phonograph. The people, tree, and wall all were slightly transparent and all I could do was watch from 20 yards away.
One of the children looked up and saw me, then both children waved at me. I do not know what you would have done, but I raised my hand and waved back.
The man and woman both looked at me then and that is when I saw the side of the mans' face. It was burned and blackened and seemed melted down the side. They stared at me for aminute as I just stared back in wonder. anger seemed to flood the mans' features and in a second the light went out, and they were all gone. I stood alone on the edge of the clearing.
Who were these strange ghosts and what is their story? I do not know their tragic story yet.

A Strange and Evil Place

This is the last of the absolutely, positively, 100% TRUE WEIRD TALES about the strange Christmas Place that I have put up for Halloween this year. Happy Halloween Everyone!

Blair, MS> Immediately, after we bought the famous Christmas Place, the local people laughingly told us not to wander off the main roads. They said that the rumor was that strange rituals had occurred in the darkest part of the woods and that they were haunted. We paid no attention to the superstitions as we have tried to walk and learn every part of the property. Trying to learn the remote backside of the property was especially difficult. Crossing the Beaver Dam to get to the back part of the famous Christmas Place is tricky. A narrow road leads down the side of a steep bluff, crosses a dam widened for a tractor, then the road winds back up another steep and treacherous bluff until you reach the top of the ridge. This is tricky and dangerous even if you are on a fourwheeler and not much scouting is done in the area.
We have a few fields there that we hunt, but we mostly stay on the main paths on top of the ridges. The area is wild and treacherous. Most people let the deer come to them if they hunt over there. Not me! Hell no! I decided to do some serious scouting in the deepest part of the area. I was going to find that monster buck or die trying. I did not know that I had made a decision that would affect me from now on.
Early in the morning, I made the treacherous journey across the Beaver Dam, wound my way back in behind what we call the Secret Field, parked, and made my way into the woods. I followed deer trails and creeks, explored ridges and valleys to get to the unknown area. Then the idea was to try to make a big circle that would lead back to my fourwheeler.
Deep in the woods I found a good ridge of oaks mixed with old cedar trees that was loaded with hooks and scrapes that really got my attention. Slowly walking I found a narrow split in the ridge and followed a deer trail that led into dense brush and thorns. Pushing my way through, I found a narrow hidden ridge running at 90 degrees to where I was before. Eureka! Or Ah-Hah! I thought and eased down the cedar filled ridge.

Big hooks were everywhere, but I noticed that many of the trees had strange markings on them. The further I went, the more strangely marked trees there were. Then I started to notice that spaced along the ridge were strangely constructed wood figures and odd piles of stones. I stared, trying to understand who would have made these markers and why. They seemed hauntingly familiar.
Moving on, I saw more and more of these along with hundreds of the trees marked with strange writing. Finally I reached a large grassy clearing that had a huge pile of large rocks in the center. I moved out into the clearing and stepped up on the rocks. Looking around and feeling slightly alarmed and amazed, I could see all the woods around the clearing were filled with stick figures, the strange piles of rocks and the trees marked with the mysterious writing. It was quiet and still as I surveyed the clearing. My heart pounded in my ears, but there was a feeling of age here, that no one had been at the spot in a very long time. The stick figures were rotted and many covered with leaves or overgrown.
Looking downward, I saw a long flat rock in the center of the huge stone pile. The rock looked exactly like a table, but had a narrow channel worn or cut down the center. This channel and most of the top of the rock table was covered in moss and discolored, but you could tell it was man-made for some reason. I studied it in the quietness and the thought came that it was stained with dried blood.
I stepped closer to investigate while my mind and eyes took in the whole scene. Someone bound, helpless and pleading, and a huge knife plunging into their chest as hooded figures chanted black rituals around the outcropping. Fires burned as the moon lit up the rock just before the knife slid into the helpless victim. Blinking and gasping, I staggered back and landed on my rear beside the table.
A strange rock was half buried there and mesmerized I pulled it out of the rubble and stared. The rock told me all I needed to know. My heart was beating wildly as I scrambled up and quickly moved out of there. No one had been to that spot in years, but my whole body screamed to me that I was in the wrong place and to get the hell out of there.
I left the evil place and have never returned.

Ghost Writer- Wandering Jack

I have traveled many miles to be here late this night to write on Rex’s Blog. He and his dog are fast asleep at home and tomorrow he will wonder how I came here and why. He does not really understand my reasons; but the truth is that I just want to tell a little of my story for your reading pleasure and to put a little of my life and thoughts down in print.
The people that live along the edge of the Delta call me Wandering Jack.
I am a Vampire.
My name is not important, Jack works well and I actually like it.
Rex keeps his stories short, so I will give a very quick sketch of who I am and how I came to the so-called famous Christmas Place.
In 1856 I was hired as the overseer for the plantation and actually lived in the house they call The Witches House. My job was to insure the success of the farm. The cotton had to be planted on time and harvested. Land had to be cleared. The mules, cattle and other animals had to be fed and taken care of, and the slaves had to be kept happy and comfortable. My life changed when a young woman arrived from Europe to stay at the big house that the Parkers had on the hill.
We fell madly in love and with my share of the harvest; we planned to buy our own land and start a plantation together. What I did not know was that a vampire had marked her as his own and even though she had escaped, he was following close behind.
I was attacked late one night returning from Tchula near the old covered bridge that crossed Black Creek. Riding an old mule, that suddenly balked at the bridge, I was jerked from my saddle and felt the monsters fangs drive deep into my throat. I was helpless in his grasp and died within a few minutes. Death would have been merciful, but the vampire wanted retribution and his revenge gave me this hellish half life.
When I finally awoke, I was in a shallow grave and several days had gone by. The thirst for blood was beyond anything imaginable and I admit that I killed many men and women before I was able to control the bloodlust and learn what I was. The beautiful lady I loved had disappeared that night and I have never seen or heard from either of them again.
The advent of the Civil War helped hide me, but the local people knew and feared my shadow. As time went on I learned how to stay hidden and began a search to stop the overwhelming desire to drink fresh blood. Years and years of trying different animals’ blood and now I have finally been able to perfect a serum to do this. The blood comes from an unlikely animal, the white-tail deer.
I collect the blood about once a month and take it to my underground home that is hidden deep in the woods of the Christmas Place. I do not bother anyone and spend my time studying history, botany, chemistry, philosophy and biology, but occasionally the desire to speak with people overwhelms me in my forced isolation and Rex has become one of my favorite people since our meeting one morning in a story he calls The Collector.
I linger near their camp, enjoy the stories they tell around the campfire, and rejoice in their successful hunts. I am always somewhere near this fine group of hunters so do not fear me if we should meet in the darkness. Unless, I have not had the serum from the deer blood and I am hungry....

Voices

Dark Hollow, MS> You can hunt anywhere you want on the famous Christmas Place if you are stout enough, tough enough and brave enough. You can hunt anywhere on the property, anywhere except one strange area that is off limits.
Rex and Mark had scouted this spot and found a lot of deer sign, had even taken digital pictures, and then had almost dragged Hershel to the area to have a look. It was a really good spot located at the rear of the property where 40 acres was not hunted because it was so steep to get into. It was a hard area to get to and hard on his legs but the digital pictures of the hooks left by a gigantic buck fired him up and he had gladly accepted Mark and Rex’s offer to put a stand up for him. They had even opened up a trail and tied a rope so he could get down the steep side of the hollow safely.
This gigantic crater is almost 300 yards long and almost circular. It is also about 300 feet deep as if a giant meteor had slammed into the bluff a million years ago and had finally healed over.
Hershel Howell sat back in his stand waiting for the deer to show up. The day had started cool but was warming up quickly and he shook off a sleepy feeling.
He studied the leaves and bark of the trees around him, watched for deer movement and settled himself for a good hunt. Looking around, he realized that he did not recognize the tall group of trees scattered in the center of the bowl and the peculiar shape of the bark. He concentrated on a large tree about 30 yards from him and he studied on it. Tall, light colored trees almost like a Silver Maple, but studded with strange knots. The more he looked at it, the more it seemed to take shape in his mind, until at last he realized that he could make out what looked like eyes staring at him from the tree knots.
Smiling at the odd shapes, he again scanned the small opening that he was hunting.
As the wind silently moved through the trees, he thought he heard his name being whispered very softly. He turned to see if someone was there. The area was quiet and empty. He knew he was just imagining things.
Arriving before day, he had slowly wound down the steep trail to the bottom, eased up a trail to a low ridge and slipped through a gap that opened up into a flat filled with buck sign and where his stand was located. He was perfectly camouflaged and alert, waiting for the big buck to run his scrape line.
The small ridge he had slipped through completely circled the spot. The large, strange trees filled the bowl, but left a small circular little meadow in the exact center. Very strange, but the famous Christmas Place was known for strange things. The stand was at the west edge of the clearing in two oak trees. He pulled his compass to check direction and the wind but all the compass did was spin around and would not work.
Another whisper caught his attention. Louder this time, it was his name being very softly spoken. His first name and then he heard his full name again from another direction. He sat up as it seemed like the trees around him were repeating his name. All noise had stopped. No birds sang, No squirrels chattered. It was deathly quiet except for his name being repeated. Suddenly scared, he looked around and it seemed that it was a little darker in the hollow than it was before, and it seemed that the trees were a little closer together.
His name was being repeated softly over and over, until he knew that it wasn’t a bad practical joke. His eyes were drawn to movement and fear rushed through him as he locked on the knots of the trees around him and realized that they had opened and hundreds of eyes were staring at him and a slight movement of the limbs seemed to beckon for him to move closer.
Fear made him almost jump from the deer stand. He took the safety off his rifle and flew down the ladder. Quickly he ran towards the little gap that led out of the bowl. Panic set in as he tried to follow the path that led back to the road. Limbs brushed him raking at his back and face. The strange trees seemed to grab at his arms and legs. The trees did not seem to be where they were when he had arrived before day. He dodged and twisted until he hit the trail again and with legs pumping, he escaped through the gapped opening.
Birds sang, and squirrels moved around him as he caught his breath and moved his shaky legs toward the camp. Sweat covered him and his legs throbbed terribly as he leaned against a large white oak for a minute to rest. Looking back at the rim of the hollow, it now seemed haunted and dark, and he thought he could just barely hear his name still being whispered. The whispering voice now seemed edged with anger and violence and called louder as Hershel headed up the side of the bluff to his fourwheeler.
He never hunted there again. The stand is still there but no one is allowed to hunt in there. It is off limits and he forced the camp to set that area aside as a refuge with no one allowed to scout for deer or to go into the area.
I checked some of the digital pictures we had taken there and zoomed in on them. You can see the knotty spots that he mentioned and you can laugh it off, and you can come hunt all over our property, but you can’t hunt there..

Blue Moon of the Scarecrow

I must have walked by the old scarecrow at least 100 times. I have even clowned around and had my picture taken with the funny dummy that seems to guard the old fields at the edge of the delta, but that night coming out of the woods it struck me as strange and slightly scary.
It was bow season and I had hunted up in the Crossover area at the top of the bluff. The blue moon was rising as I turned on my flashlight and headed back to camp, (a blue moon is commonly known as the second full moon in a month) and I had to pass right by the old scarecrow at the base of the hills where it turned from bluff to delta. This area is known as the cornfields because of the narrow strip of row crop land that used to separate the bottom land from the hills. We took the old cornfields and put them in CRP and now the old scarecrow is in a thick area of young trees and 8 ft. high Johnson grass tied on a tall pole. Even so, the old ragged scarecrow has always been a welcome site to say hello to and we left it just as we found it.
He is dressed in a bright (but faded) plaid shirt, old torn jeans tied with rope and a worn straw hat. He is made up of a couple of old burlap bags sewn together and stuffed with straw and bound with rope. His head and face are a piece of workman’ leather sewn on, with the face lopsidedly painted there with a wide grin in red paint. My image had always been of a happy-go-lucky jester.
It was a low red moon shining as I finally came to the edge of the old field that night and I was eager to get to my 4-wheeler and back to camp. I had my flashlight on, not because I really needed it but have always been taught to use it coming out of the woods for safety. My mind was on dinner, who got a deer, and the nice buck that I had let go.
When I got even with the scarecrow and spotted him through the high grass, I said “Good Evening, Mr. Scarecrow! Hope you will keep an eye on that big buck for me tonight.” I walked on.
A slight movement caught my eye and I turned to look at the scarecrow again. I would have sworn I saw the head slightly turn and the arms raise up from it’s side. Instant fear froze me for a second and I stood studying the scarecrow through the grass. Had a bird or coon jumped and moved the straw man? I finally walked closer, pushed the weeds aside, and looked at the scarecrow. In the gleam of my light I saw nothing out of place but an eerie feeling was still rising in my stomach and I felt the hair on the back of my neck tingling. I stood my ground and looked all around with my light and said. “Sorry to disturb you, old friend” “Time to get to the house” I turned and walked away, but found myself watching the figure out of the corner of my eye. I even found myself looking behind me as I walked the 75 yards to my 4-wheeler. Once there I could not find my key.
Forgetting the scarecrow I feverishly looked through all my pockets. I thought for a minute. I must have dropped it at the scarecrow. I did not relish the idea of going back; in fact I was really nervous about doing so. I knew that all superstition was silly but at the Christmas Place, things are sometimes not what they seem. I shrugged off the feeling and went back shining my light on the ground looking for the key. Soon I was in the high grass carefully looking for the shine of metal. The scarecrow became secondary and truth is that I was not scared anymore and was concentrating on finding the key. A glint as I turned and it took me a minute to realize what I was seeing.
The scarecrow was gone and hanging on the wooden cross-beam that held him up was the 4-wheeler key.
I did not tell anyone the story and wonder whether the Blue Moon played a part in the strange night. To this day the scarecrow still stands on his part of The Christmas Place during the daylight hours, but I do not know where he goes at night.