My hometown of Benton is surrounded by half a million acres of untouched forest that are rich with game and hold untold natural treasures. Hidden in these forests are dozens and dozens of small deer camps that at most can boost a dozen voting members. The supporting these scattered little camps are dozens of small businesses. I would even say, many merchants even depend on the yearly influx of hunters to balance their books. I say all of this, because I myself am a hunter.
I've been in the woods all my life, I also consider myself an avid outdoorsman. I'm a Life Scout and I'm working toward my Eagle Badge. Now, allow me to mention something else before I continue my tale. There is a proud tradition of warning fables that are passed down from one generation of hunters to another. One fable tells of a young man who had just celebrated his twelve birthday and thus would be allowed to attend his first hunt. Something of a rite of passage here in Benton. According to the legend, the boy's uncle set the boy in the bend of a creek, one of the many nameless creeks that feed into Wilson Creek. Here deer were known to come down from the hills and get a drink of cool water. The boy's uncle was sure her would get him a deer here. The boy's uncle warned him not to stray too far and to keep his eyes and ears open. The boy nodded his head and watched his uncle vanish into the brush searching for his own place to lay low.
The boy though, did not heed his uncle's words and started to wander off in search of a new hunting spot. A few hours passed, and his uncle returned to collect the boy. But the boy was gone, in a panic his uncle started to search for the boy, pacing up and down the creek bank, calling out his name. Frantically he enlisted the aid of other hunters, who brought in their friends and family. Finally somebody contacted the sheriff's office. The sheriff's office brought out some tracking hounds. But the hounds could not pick up the scent of the boy. It was like he just vanished into thin air. The search went cold after a few days and after a week it was called off. Not a trace of the boy was ever found.
Now in this day and age, when everyone has a cellphone that can connect to the internet it's hard to phantom that somebody could go roaming in the woods and never be heard from again. We'll I'm here to tell you that it happens from time to time in Benton. There are some places in the woods that the careless foot of man has not trodden in a generation or so.
Anyway my stories begin during the opening day of hunting season. The air was cool and script, a hard frost had fallen the night before and still clung to the grass. The grass crunched under the heel of my boot. It was cold enough that ones breath turned to smoke in front of them. I was having a rotten time, I had been in the woods some five and a half hours and in those five and a half hours, I had not seen anything save a large dog or wolf. Anyway I was following a small creek, okay it was more like a stream that snaked its way through the forest. I knew this stream would lead me to a larger creek and that creek was known as a popular spot for deer to come out and get themselves an early morning drink.
It was my hope that by following this tiny stream of water, I would encounter a deer worthy of shooting. This might sound cruel, but the harvesting of deer art from here in the rustic south. Anyway, as I picked my way through the undergrowth, pushing away branches heavy with ice, and trying to watch my step as a number of rotten logs dotted the trails, I noticed something. Something that caught my eye.
Sitting on a log was a boy, a few years younger than me. I noticed he was dressed in kind of dated clothing. He had a gun, an older model shotgun by the look of it. And he seemed tired. By the looks of it, he might have spent a very cold night out here in the woods along. Thinking nothing of it, I walked up to the boy and sat down beside him on the log.
“You lost?” I asked him.
The boy nodded his head and just peered at me, his eyes seemed glazed over. The tip of his fingers were a blueish color and he seemed quite speechless.
“We'll then.” I said nodding my head. “I know this neck of the woods like the back of my hand. I'm sure I can guide us out of this mess.” I fully intended to guide this little boy out of the woods. Once we were out of the woods, I would place a few calls. The boy needed to see a doctor. And for a fleeting moment I wandered if an amber alert had been placed for him.
To this the boy just nodded his head again.
Slowly I stood up and brushed off the front of my trousers.
“We'll come along now.” I said as I offered my hand to the boy. He took it and it was cold as ice water. Slowly the boy lifted himself up from the rotten log. And like a lost puppy he started to follow behind me. I guided him through the woods, we both walked in silence. Fifteen or twenty minutes passed in this manner, I tried to make conversation, something to break the ice. You know the normal questions like “What is your name?” and “Were you from kid?” but the only answer he gave was silence. Finally I gave up on talking and focused on getting us out of the woods.
Like I said before fifteen or so minutes passed before we reached a clearing. I was pretty happy, the boy was starting to give me the creeps. There was something unnatural about him. Anyway once we reached the clearing, I was sure I could get a signal on my phone and I could place the calls I needed. And so with the end in sight, I turned toward the boy and in a friendly manner I said.
“Hey buddy.” I said nodding my head toward the clearing. “We've made it.” And to my bewilderment the boy had just vanished. I could have sworn he was just standing beside me no more than a few minutes ago. It was like he had just disappeared into thin air. Then it dawned on me, the old urban legend, a chill passed over me and the woods became silent as the grave. I had just seen a ghost.. shivering I stepped into the clearing. I avoid that section of the woods for the rest of the season. And like the old field just north of town, I try to avoid going anywhere near them. Now what you make of this story is up to you? Did I really encounter the fabled 'Vanishing Hunter' or is this just another good campfire story. That is for you to decide.
Just east of Benton is an unguarded railroad crossing. According to legend, one cold, foggy, autumn afternoon a school bus full of children became stalled on the tracks. Before the driver could get the children off the trail, a freight train came barreling through and smashed into the side of the bus, crumbling it up like a sheet of paper. In the blink of an eye, the bush became nothing more than a twisted collection of metal and wire, reaching the wreck, fireman found the mangled bodies of six school children tangled up in the spiderweb of bent medal, broken glass that bus had become. The children ranged from the ages of five to eighteen.
Since then, cars that often become stalled on the tracks, have been pushed off the tracks. People say the ghost of the children who were killed in the wreck have returned to guard the railroad crossing. In order to prevent any further loss of life. This story is a common urban legend, one that is often told around a roaring campfire, in the wee hours of slumber parties and at sleepovers. It was one of the first stories my older sister Kayla told to me when I started collecting stories for this book.
It was also the first urban legend I looked into when I started doing research into the paranormal and was the first case to my short lived career as a ghost hunter. When I turned sixteen, I was given a chore, I was to start the process of getting a learners permit. After a month of reading the drivers manual from front to cover over and over again I was allowed to take the learners permit test, I passed it with flying colors. My sister was very pleased with me and treated me to Wendy's as a reward. The next day she started teaching me to drive.
It was my sister who suggested we check out the old railroad crossing. Since I'll be driving, she felt a little better about being on the road past dark. My sister hates driving at night and dreads being on the road when the sun starts to fall. Plus, she said this would be a good experience for me, a test of my navigation skills on the open road at night.
Anyway a fortnight before Halloween, and since it was spooky season my sister and I decided to break the week by driving out the old railroad crossing. Now the drive itself was enough to put one on the edge of their seat. Because to get to the crossing one needed to drive down a old country lane. A ditch deep enough to hide a man and wide enough to be mistaken at first glance as a tiny river during seasonal rainfall ran on both sides of the road. Beyond the ditch one would find a steep embankment and on top of this embankment one would find tall grass, tall enough again to hide a man. The lane was narrow too, enough for only two cars to pass.
The lane ran past an old graveyard, the tombstones of the graveyard were half consumed by moss. Spanish moss hung from the withered branches of cypress trees that dotted the graveyard. A rusting iron fence surrounded a small plot of land, with a broken gate marking the entrance. As we passed the graveyard my sister pointed to it and told me in a teasing tone of voice that the graves of the children killed in the wreck were all entombed there. She also added that on nights of the full moon orbs of light were supposed to be seen dancing among the broken and half hidden graves.
Once one passed the graveyard one would come to an old iron bridge. Folks of an older generation often called this bridge 'The Hanging' bridge. Because according to legend a number lynching's were carried out on this bridge by vigilante groups. Once we passed the graveyard and the bridge the area opened up a little. It was still rugged, as it cut through a thicket of woods. As I drove down the poorly paved road. My headlamps spotted a number of roadside memorials. Simple wooden crosses with a stuffed bear or a bundle of plastic flowers tied around the center. A mute testament to the perils of the road and haunting enough on their own.
Finally after a thirty minute drive we reached the crossing. The moon was almost full and the wind made a whistling sound as it passed through the trees. I looked over at my sister and gave her a look. She responded with a smirk as she reached down and pulled out two small canisters of baby powder. That another part of the urban legend, according to street lore you are suppose to pour at least a canister if not two of baby powder or bath powder to the bumper of your car. That way you can see the imprints of the tiny helping hands. And since I was the ghost hunter of the group, my sister had elected me to be the one to sprinkle the powder on the bumper.
Reluctantly I reached down and unbuckled my safety belt. Tossing it to the side I then reached over and took the canister of baby powder into my hand, once the canister was in my hand I pushed open the drivers door and stepped onto the road. Quickly I closed the door behind me. A chill hung in the evening air. And fitting enough a fog was starting to roll in. A sliver of moon was just starting to appear above the trees and from deep within the forest I heard the sound of coyotes starting to pack up. Their howls traveled through the chilly night air and made me pull my hoodie a little tighter around me.
A few minutes later I returned to the safety of the car, after of course giving the bumper of the car a generous coating of baby powder. I locked my door and fastened my safety belt around me. My older sister then turned to me and smiled.
“That was quick.” She said, smirking a little.
“I don't fancy being a midnight snack for a hungry coyote.” I said trying to return her sass with my own brand of sass.
“Your not much of a snack sis.” She quickly responded.
At that I turned around and eyed her for a good minute. The urge to roll my eyes was strong. Kayla has a country girl sense of humor and at times I think she forgets I'm her little sister, often or not she treats me like I'm her daughter. And I'm going to come out and say it, in the confusing world of hormones, boys and school and all the ills being a teenager brings, she is my true north. She is the second mother to me. And so it's a bit refreshing when she teases me in an odd way.
“I don't think either of us would be much of a snack.” I finally said after pondering my response for a few minutes.
A pause followed and soon we all broke into a gale of laughter. It seemed our little exchange it seemed had broken the tension that had been building since we left. There's something magical about having a big sister, in a way it's like having your best friend and worst enemy all rolled into one person. Anyway with the baby powder in place I put the car in neutral and removed my foot from the accelerator pedal. And then I turned toward my sister.
At first nothing happened. Then the car started to move, as the seconds ticked by the car started going faster and faster. My jaw hung open when I looked down and noticed my speed gauge was reading thirty miles an hour. And before I knew it, we had been pushed up the grade and over the crossing. Finally panicking I put the car into park as the gauge was now reading seventy miles an hour. I threw on the breaks and both my sister and I lurched forward.
“That was something.” My sister said as she shifted her weight around and peered toward me.
I in turn peered toward her and we both made a nod of the head. A few seconds later we reached down and unhooked our safety belts. Then gathering up our courage, we pushed open the doors of the car and stepped out into the inky darkness. Gathering up our courage we stepped toward the bumper. Then using our phones as make-shift lanterns we shone the beam of light onto the bumper. It was then we noticed dozens of tiny hand prints had formed upon the pumper.. both Kayla and I exchanged a knowing look as he looked over our shoulders at the old railroad crossing. Then in the wind we could hear a strange sound. It sounded like children crying and wailing. Without giving it a second thought we jumped into the car and zoomed away.
This is the last ghost story of Ghost Stories and Urban Legends of Benton. There were a number of stories I wanted to include in this collection but could not because of the cost of printing. I'm sure those stories will appear in the sequel to this collection Ghost Stories and Urban Legends of The Yazoo Delta. A collection of ghost stories centering on the Yazoo Delta at large. This story was told to me by my mentor Lily Potter the older sister of my best friend Jamie Sarah Potter.
Wilson Creek is a clear, cold and swift moving creek that begins in the hills of Haunted Hollow and ends at the Big Black River. Some of the oldest homes in Benton are located here, back before the town had running water, people would use the creek for all their washing, bathing and drinking. The houses of this neighborhood number one to a hundred and fifteen. The cottages are mostly one story brick cottages, with black slate roofs with screened in front porches that sit only a stone's throw away from the brick street.
My best friend Robin, my partner in crime, my ride or die girl and I were having a sleep over at her house, we were twelve at the time and had been best friends since we were babies. Robin lived at One hundred and ten Wilson Creek near this marsh that was supposed to be haunted. Now there are two main rumors that center on the marsh. One is that deep in the marsh there is supposed to be this tree that was cursed by the satanic cult, the cult was supposed to have offered a litter of kittens to Satan in return to bringing the tree alive. The tree is supposed to eat people, the cult was supposed to have worshiped the tree and even brought kidnapped children to the tree so the tree could feast upon them. The souls of the children were supposed to be balls of light people often report dancing over the reeds and rushes.
Another rumor was an old witch was supposed to live deep in the marsh. Her house was supposed to be made from scrap pieces of wood she hawked from the discarded piles around town, mostly from the sawmill or Brewer’s Hardware. With a roof of weathered, rusted tin. She was said to have an oven that was an old iron drum can that was filled with firewood. She was supposed to be the only surviving member of the same Satanic cult that planet the tree. The walls of her tiny dwelling were supposed to be littered with occult symbols and Latin phrases used to summon the demonic.
Now it was almost midnight. Robin and I had just finished our second horror movie for the night. The rest of the house was asleep, and instead of turning off the lights and rolling into beds we were wide awake. It had been a fun filled day, Robin and I had spent the day, a fun filled day in Metro Center, the biggest enclosed shopping mall in Mississippi. We had ransacked the sales racks of Belk's, Claire's, Rue 18 and Pascagoula a beach theme shopee.
We had returned a few hours before sunset. Just enough time for Robin's mom to pick up two large pizzas, an extra large cheese bread and a big pop from Pizza World, a local pizza restaurant that has been a Benton staple for generations. They were the best pizza place before Pizza Opened up and to me they would remain the best Pizza Place when Pizza Hut closes. Anyway, we picked up the pizza and side and rented a dozen horror movies at the local BlockBuster.
Robin and I then did what most teenage girls do when staying over. We shared the latest rumors and gushed over the latest gossip. We painted each other's nails and did our hair. We munched on pizza and scared ourselves silly by watching horror movies and telling spooky ghost stories. And so the hours slipped through our hands like grains of sand at the beach and before we knew it was midnight. Now, I'm Episcopalian and Robin's Roman Catholic. And part of me staying over was Robin and I had to attend Eight O' Clock Mass down at All Saints, our towns Roman Catholic Church and then turn around and attend Eleven O' Clock Mass at St. Mary's Episcopal Church.
I guessed our folks thought we would have sinned enough the night before that we needed to attend two services. Anyway we had only eight hours to go before the bells of All Saints would chime and summon the faithful to prayer. And so as the old family clock struck the witching hour. Robin and I gathered our things. It was early February and the weather outside was foggy, cold and a bit rainy. With that in mind Robin and I dressed for warmth, comfort and movement.
Once we were dressed, Robin and gathered a few things, each of us carried a messenger bag that held a bottle of water, some dried fruit, a small first aid kit and a tiny sewing kit. Both Robin and I were seasoned scouts. And so we always carried the basic supplies with us. And of course we had our phones on us. Both phones were fully charged, though belonging to teen girls were low on credits no doubt.
Anyway once we were packed up, Robin and I gathered our courage and made our way out the front door, Robin made sure to lock the front door behind her. Her father was a bit of a hard knob when it came to doors being locked and unlocked. I don't think the man had a trusting bone in his body. Then again he was a policeman and had seen things neither of us could phantom. Anyway once the front door was locked, Robin and I started off on our quest to test our courage.
Now it took us almost a quarter of an hour of almost running to travel the distance from Robin's front porch to the outer edges of the marsh. A light rain had started to fall. Exchanging looks, Robin and I nodded our heads and started to push into the marsh. We were too afraid too search for the tree, so we decided to search for the witches hut. Once we pushed past the first wall of reeds, rushes and cattails we found, much to our amazement somebody had constructed a walkway through the marsh. Okay it was more like somebody had placed dozens and dozens of plastic pallets down. I remember once a long time ago the local merchants had reported an increasing number of pallets vanishing from behind their stores. My family owns a small store and most of our stock came in cracks, but from time to time we could get a few pallets in. Those pallets cost around five dollars a pop. If we returned them, dad would refund the five dollars, if they were lost or stolen that was five dollars lost. Dad always watched those pallets like a chicken watching her eggs. And when one or two ended up missing he would rant and rave for days.
But back to the story, that walkway extended deep into the marsh. It was narrow, and I had to follow closely behind Robin who was the one holding the lantern. Soon beads of sweat started to roll down our faces as we pushed deeper and deeper into the marsh. And soon the marsh gave way to a clearing. In the midst of this clearing there stood an old shack.
The shack was just that, a shack. The walls were made from old rotten boards. The roof was made of rusted tin. The door was nothing more than an old, tattered plastic tarp. Empty whiskey bottles hung from trees. An old iron barrel sat in front of the door, the barrel glowed red hot. Bones littered the area in front of the shack. Gathering our courage Robin and I drew nearer to the shack, then we caught sight of something that made our blood run cold. Hanging from one of the trees was the body of the dog. A small lap dog. The dog's fur was matted with blood. Its eyes had been cut out of its head and two nails had been driven into its eyes. A pink collar, with the name “Sofia” had been nailed to the tree.
Lily and I shuttered. We knew the dog, the dog belonged to a friend of ours. Her name was Linda Perry, Sofia was Linda's best friend and she treated the dog like a princess. She was always bathing her, cuddling her and just generally spoiling her. Sofia had gone missing a week or so ago. Linda had been heart broken. She often broke down crying when she ever saw another dog that looked like Sofia.
“That Sofia.” I said taking a deep breath.
“What the fuck?” I remember Robin saying as she peered toward the butchered remains of the once beloved house pet. “Whoever did that was a monster.” She added.
I nodded my head in agreement. Then because we were young and foolish we crept inside the shack. By the light of the lantern we saw things chilled us to the bone. An old card table, savaged from the town's dump, sat in the middle of the shack. An old Mason Jar sat in the middle, the mason jar was filled with blood, dark, crimson blood. Bones lay scattered about on the table. Homemade knives lay scattered about. The whole place reeked of death. Turning away from Robin I vomited on the floor. I was all too much.
As I tried to recover, I noticed in the corner of the room a bed. Or what appeared to be a bed. The gray woolen blanket was crusted with dirt and sweat. Beside the bed was an old plastic bucket that smelled like piss. Beside the bucket was what appeared to be a stone altar. Resting at the foot of the altar was another butchered animal. A morning dove if I remember correctly. It was all too much and I felt myself about to vomit again when Robin reached over and took me by the arm. She looked like she had seen a ghost.
“Lily!” She shouted. “We gotta get out of here. NOW!” She said as she pointed toward the open space she had I had just come through. “I heard something in the woods.” And with that she and I took off running. We ran like our lives depended on how fast we could reach the safety of her house. We did not stop to look back. And once we reached her house we locked the doors, made sure all the doors were locked and we vowed never to speak of what we saw there again.