As told to me by the man it happened to:
Camp Tuscazoar is a rolling 500-acre plot of virgin forest that has been set aside as a preserve by the Boy Scouts of America. Before they came along, however, the camp already had quite a colorful history. The property sits alongside the Tuscarawas River and was home to both trappers and Indians alike in the days of the wild frontier.
Late Fall, 1989, sometime around 9:30pm:
The camp Ranger noticed that one set of hikers had failed to sign out, and their car was still parked in the lot. He got out his flashlight and set off down the trails to find them and bring them back to safety.
Along the way, the flashlight went dead. The Ranger cursed his luck, but being intimately familiar with the entire camp, he decided he would go ahead and keep looking for his missing hikers without it. He knew the camp like the back of his hand, he was quite confident he could navigate the trails in safety.
He reached the trail that lead up to Buzzard's Roost, an overlook that rises about 100 feet above the dam, with a sheer drop to the river below. This is a favorite sightseeing spot for all hikers, and so our brave Ranger navigated his way up the trail to see it they were sitting at the Roost.
He was fairly certain he was nearing the top, but not quite there yet, when he felt a human hand SMACK him in the chest, knocking him to the ground! He put his hands behind him to push himself up... and touched air. He had very nearly fallen the 100 feet off the edge of Buzzard's Roost onto the rocks below at the river's edge...
He shakily got to his feet and went back, only to find his missing hikers in the parking lot, looking equally shaken.
"We were lost, and then this gentleman found us and said he takes care of this place, and he led us back here with an old lantern. When we got to the edge of the forest, the man and the lantern disappeared!" the woman explained.
It is said that a trapper-turned-Indian who went by the nickname of "Icky" lived in the area in the early 1800's, and haunts the trails of Camp Tuscazoar. If you revere the forest and remain respectful during your stay, it's said that Icky will protect you from harm. Our Ranger believes that the ghost of Icky saved his life and brought home his lost hikers that night.
END
Halloween stories (moved from T.E.L.)
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by SweetSophia » Wed Oct 05, 2005 1:34 pm
Okay. here's a folk legend from down south I never heard about until I went looking for stories to overembellish:
In the early days of Tennessee, before the Civil War and not long before the trail of tears, there was a woman. This native american woman was of a particularly curious demeanor; especially when it came to the buisness of her husband, a hunter in their tribe. The hunters would go off on secret missions and pass down stories for hunter ears only.
Once, the curious woman grew fed up with the secrets and decided to follow, disguised in the skin of a mountain lion. While the hunters were telling their secret stories that night, the woman was hidden among the rocks of the cliff. Her particularly skilled husband noticed the fur moving on the rocks and fired an arrow. When they all discovered who it was, they couldn't let their secrets get out. Still, her husband felt guilty and begged them not to kill her. Her fate rested with the village Shaman.
He decided it would be punishment enough to forever bind her with the cougar skin she was wearing, turning her into a half-cat beast. She came to be called the Wampus Cat.
So time passed and civilizations crumbled around her, until a modern day hunter by the name of Brock Phillips took his dogs out hunting in the mountains of Tennessee as hunters occasionally do.
Brock had a deer caught in his sights when his dogs stared howling something feirce. He didn't know why they were acting so strange until he caught ahold of the smell. A deep musky smell like that of a drenched polecat was surrounding his immediate vicinity. He whipped his gun around, but found it knocked from his hands by a paw. Before him was a creature, paws like mangled human hands, slobbering fangs poised at the ready, and beady cat eyes showing the flicker of intelligence that human eyes reflect. Overall, it looked like a cat on it's hind legs and it was drooling over Brock.
Brock tore through the mountain forest with a speed not usually afforded him. He stumbled over rocks, dredged through rivers and bolted through brush, but the smell still lingered not feet behind him. He finally came upon an empty cabin, and shut the door litterally in the creature's face. As he heard it banging on the wood, he did the only logical thing a good southern man could do. He searched the house for a bible and started reading aloud from Psalms. Slowly, the musk and banging ceased and he was able to escape come morning.
In a nearby barn, he found his hunting dog, still traumatized from what happened. He swore never to go hunting in those mountains again.
In the early days of Tennessee, before the Civil War and not long before the trail of tears, there was a woman. This native american woman was of a particularly curious demeanor; especially when it came to the buisness of her husband, a hunter in their tribe. The hunters would go off on secret missions and pass down stories for hunter ears only.
Once, the curious woman grew fed up with the secrets and decided to follow, disguised in the skin of a mountain lion. While the hunters were telling their secret stories that night, the woman was hidden among the rocks of the cliff. Her particularly skilled husband noticed the fur moving on the rocks and fired an arrow. When they all discovered who it was, they couldn't let their secrets get out. Still, her husband felt guilty and begged them not to kill her. Her fate rested with the village Shaman.
He decided it would be punishment enough to forever bind her with the cougar skin she was wearing, turning her into a half-cat beast. She came to be called the Wampus Cat.
So time passed and civilizations crumbled around her, until a modern day hunter by the name of Brock Phillips took his dogs out hunting in the mountains of Tennessee as hunters occasionally do.
Brock had a deer caught in his sights when his dogs stared howling something feirce. He didn't know why they were acting so strange until he caught ahold of the smell. A deep musky smell like that of a drenched polecat was surrounding his immediate vicinity. He whipped his gun around, but found it knocked from his hands by a paw. Before him was a creature, paws like mangled human hands, slobbering fangs poised at the ready, and beady cat eyes showing the flicker of intelligence that human eyes reflect. Overall, it looked like a cat on it's hind legs and it was drooling over Brock.
Brock tore through the mountain forest with a speed not usually afforded him. He stumbled over rocks, dredged through rivers and bolted through brush, but the smell still lingered not feet behind him. He finally came upon an empty cabin, and shut the door litterally in the creature's face. As he heard it banging on the wood, he did the only logical thing a good southern man could do. He searched the house for a bible and started reading aloud from Psalms. Slowly, the musk and banging ceased and he was able to escape come morning.
In a nearby barn, he found his hunting dog, still traumatized from what happened. He swore never to go hunting in those mountains again.
The awakening of the mind gives way to a world of possibilities.
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SweetSophia - MSFer
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by Kuroken DB » Sat Oct 08, 2005 10:46 am
A story from P.S. Gifford:
This is a story my mother told me late one rainy night when I was
all but a wee little child. She told me that her grandmother had
told her the same story when she was a similar age as I was…
As my mother sat on my bed she appeared more serious than I had ever
known her to look…I will try to remember every little detail that
she shared with me…There is a lesson here for all of us.
"There was a fellow named Alfred Wentworth…He was a farmer in the
heart of the dales in Yorkshire. Now, Alfred was a big strong
powerful man who was not afraid of anybody alive…But anybody who was
dead scared him almost to death himself...
One fateful night Alfred was walking down the old country lane on
his way home from the public house…It was late Friday night/
Saturday morning and he had enjoyed many pints of Yorkshire ale. All
at once a terrible storm came as if from nowhere, Alfred pulled his
woolen coat a little tighter about him, and his cap a little more
snugly onto his head, and began to look for an appropriate place to
take shelter until the storm weakened.
But at the first place he came too Alfred did not even slow down. It
was an old, long since abandoned laborers house, and legend had it
all through Thirsk that it was haunted by a terrible spirit…
About a mile further on, the storm had only gotten worse, when he
came across an old abandoned church. He had walked passed it in
daytime a thousand times, and had never once considered venturing
inside. Yet tonight its crumbling walls beckoned him…
It was at that moment that lightning struck, and just for the
briefest moment his way was illuminated. He made it to the churches
old door just as the thunder crashed in the heavens, seeming to
shake the ground beneath his feet.
It was as dark as dark could be in there, yet it was dry, and surely
he reasoned the storm would soon break…He found a seat at the very
back of the church and stretched out…
It was then that the lightning once more struck, and Alfred saw to
his horror that he was not alone in the church. There were people
sitting in fact at almost every pew. They all had there heads bowed
as if deep in prayer, and they were all dressed in white!
Alfred's mind quickly decided what they must surely be.
"Ghosts sitting in their shrouds! They must have come from their old
graves to keep dry!"
Alfred jumped up and raced down the aisle in a complete terror,
screaming as he went, and right smack into one of the ghosts…
The ghost looked up at him and went BAA-A-A.
After the storm broke he continued his walk home, laughing at how he
had taken shelter with the sheep…"
With that my mother chuckled, reached in and kissed my brow and
wished me sweet dreams…
The end.
This is a story my mother told me late one rainy night when I was
all but a wee little child. She told me that her grandmother had
told her the same story when she was a similar age as I was…
As my mother sat on my bed she appeared more serious than I had ever
known her to look…I will try to remember every little detail that
she shared with me…There is a lesson here for all of us.
"There was a fellow named Alfred Wentworth…He was a farmer in the
heart of the dales in Yorkshire. Now, Alfred was a big strong
powerful man who was not afraid of anybody alive…But anybody who was
dead scared him almost to death himself...
One fateful night Alfred was walking down the old country lane on
his way home from the public house…It was late Friday night/
Saturday morning and he had enjoyed many pints of Yorkshire ale. All
at once a terrible storm came as if from nowhere, Alfred pulled his
woolen coat a little tighter about him, and his cap a little more
snugly onto his head, and began to look for an appropriate place to
take shelter until the storm weakened.
But at the first place he came too Alfred did not even slow down. It
was an old, long since abandoned laborers house, and legend had it
all through Thirsk that it was haunted by a terrible spirit…
About a mile further on, the storm had only gotten worse, when he
came across an old abandoned church. He had walked passed it in
daytime a thousand times, and had never once considered venturing
inside. Yet tonight its crumbling walls beckoned him…
It was at that moment that lightning struck, and just for the
briefest moment his way was illuminated. He made it to the churches
old door just as the thunder crashed in the heavens, seeming to
shake the ground beneath his feet.
It was as dark as dark could be in there, yet it was dry, and surely
he reasoned the storm would soon break…He found a seat at the very
back of the church and stretched out…
It was then that the lightning once more struck, and Alfred saw to
his horror that he was not alone in the church. There were people
sitting in fact at almost every pew. They all had there heads bowed
as if deep in prayer, and they were all dressed in white!
Alfred's mind quickly decided what they must surely be.
"Ghosts sitting in their shrouds! They must have come from their old
graves to keep dry!"
Alfred jumped up and raced down the aisle in a complete terror,
screaming as he went, and right smack into one of the ghosts…
The ghost looked up at him and went BAA-A-A.
After the storm broke he continued his walk home, laughing at how he
had taken shelter with the sheep…"
With that my mother chuckled, reached in and kissed my brow and
wished me sweet dreams…
The end.
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Kuroken DB - Forum Browser
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