The Ghost Story
Reprinted from a 1912 edition of Pioneer Tales of the Oregon Trail and of
Jefferson County by Charles Dawson.
This
reprinting is an exact
reproduction of the original with the exception of a few nods to more modern
punctuation and paragraph formatting,
solely for the purpose of making the text more accessible to
readers in 2014. Submitted by Stephanie Grace Whitson
Without
attempt to uphold the beliefs of the superstitious, a ghost story is
chronicled. Nearly every community has in its story-lore, some weird tale of
people or things that assumes the aspect of the supernatural. Seemingly, all
people, regardless of their beliefs, relish the relation of such tales; so the
story is submitted on its own merits, just as it was told, leaving the reader
to draw his own conclusions. An old settler gives the story, as follows:
In
the late [18]60’s, wife and I with our bunch of tow-headed youngsters were headed
westward, traveling by ox-team, in a canvas-topped wagon, bound for Nebraska,
in response to the solicitations of my father, who had settled there a few
years previously. Crossing the Missouri river in the early days of spring, at
St. Joseph, we joined one of the first caravans of emigrants going westward
over the Old Oregon Trail. Traveling over the wonderful prairies and through
the rich valleys of eastern Kansas, we had our ideas of the Great American
Desert rudely but pleasantly shattered.
In
due time we reached our destination, and encamped on the tract of land that had
been selected for us, which was a well-timbered and watered body of land, lying
along a spring-fed stream, that ran back into a valley which was flanked on the
sides by frowning bluffs capped by ledges of sandstone. As the first tints of
green began to appear to bedeck the landscape it was a wonderful sight to
witness the unfolding of such picturesque scenery, the like of which we had
never seen before.
Our
new home lay about half-way between the Old Trail and the Little Blue river,
but this is all I will tell you, for ghosts and their haunts should not be too
definitely located, as it might spoil their charms or the veracity, if there be
any.
We
immediately commenced the building of a home, and, with the aid of my relatives
and neighbors, contrived to erect a habitable log cabin, a one-room affair with
a loft above, with a clapboard roof, provided with a mud-and-stick chimney, with
a stone fireplace at one end. Compared with our previous places of habitation
and modes of living this seemed at first to be very primitive and almost
unendurable, but before long we grew to regard this homely little log cabin as
the coziest place it had been our pleasure to reside in.
With
the coming of the warm days of spring, we broke out the little flats of land
along the creek bottom, and planted them with corn, potatoes, melons, etc.
Gardens were made, and we entered into the cultivation of our promising crops,
hoping to reap an abundance for our needs. Nature had by now fully bedecked the
whole panorama with a wonderful profusion of foliage, blossom, and color.
Our
little world seemed to be filled to overflowing with promise and happiness.
Strawberry-time had come. The hillsides were apparently covered with the
patches of red luscious fruit. One Sabbath morning, wife and I, light of heart,
arms in arm, set out to roam the hillsides to gather a pailful of strawberries.
We were soon in the midst of a profusion of strawberries, so plentiful, full
and ripe on all sides of us, that we ran here and there, trampling under foot
many berries, in our greed to secure the nicest ones.
Our
pail was soon full to the brim, and our fingers and lips stained from picking
and eating, till we were forced to desist, for want of further capacity. Then,
feeling the tire of contented satisfaction, we sat down upon a convenient rock,
lazily viewing the surrounding scenery, resting before we would attempt our
home-bound journey.
With
half-closed eyes lying back on the big shaded ledge of stone, my thoughts were
dwelling on the incidents of the short past, in which we had left the comforts
of civilization and had taken up our abode in this the land of promise,
thinking how content we were; and just as I began to conjecture the future, I
was aroused by the exclamation of the wife, who was now pointing across the
rock-walled ravine to a springy spot, shaded by scattered clumps of underbrush.
Brushing aside the sleepy tangles of my eyes, I noted the cause of her
excitement, which I first thought might be Indians. Underneath and in the
tangles of green were berries—strawberries of great size and blood-red color,
rivaling even the choices of the tame ones we had seen in the gardens of our
Eastern homes.
Leaving
our already filled pail, we hastened over to view the wonderful sight. Picking
and eating the first few that we came to, we decided to take some home in my
old hat and in the wife’s apron; so, with many ejaculations of wonder and
surprise, we filled these articles, and as I strode through a thick tangle of
brush in leaving the patch, my foot caught on an object which threw me to the
ground, and on turning over, seeking to arise, I found at my feet the skull of
a human being. Leaping to my feet, I rushed out of the thicket almost
completely unnerved at my ghastly find. Wife witnessing my stumble and
following movements, ran back towards me, inquiring with alarm the cause of
this unusual action. Together we walked back, and I pointed to the eyeless bare
skull that was apparently grinning at us from his mouldy moss-covered retreat
from which my foot had ruthlessly torn him but a moment before.
Proceeding
into the thicket to investigate more fully, we found that underneath the leafy
and moulding foliages of the past seasons which had covered their bodies like
that of the “Babes in the Wood” were the bones of many other persons. In fact,
our strawberry patch had been the burial-ground of the unknown dead. Wife and
I, stilled by the presence of the dead, stood with bowed heads, silently
offered up prayers to Him on high, who alone could give the solution of this mystery.
Glancing
up, I met the gaze of my wife, and with one accord my old hat was overturned
and the corners of her apron were dropped and the berries spilled on the
ground. For we both knew without further questioning, what had caused the
berries to be so big and red.
Then
we made a thorough search thereabout for the bones of the unknown dead,
faithfully gathering the bones as they lay, endeavoring to give each skull its
own and full complement of bones. Finally we felt that this duty had been
performed, and the result was twelve skeletons, which we judged were a party of
emigrants, men, women and children. After considerable labor, a grave was dug
and the bones placed within, and filled up with earth and stones covering the
top to mark and protect the grave. Thoroughly tired by our toil, we wended our
way homeward, conscious that we had fulfilled our duty to those poor
unfortunate beings by giving them at least a burial.
After
the supper meal was partaken and we had gathered on the doorstep in the twilight
of the evening, we began to feel content and at peace with all fellow-beings;
then there came an uncanny, weird moan or cry, like that of a woman or child in
the depth of anguish or despair. Listening in awe, I awaited the repetition of
that mournful sound. Soon it came, now in the fringe of trees about the cabin,
then in the waist-high corn. Swift recalling the incidents of that day, I tried
to assure myself that it was not real, that this was but the result of a
befuddled mind, just imagination; but the children now were questioning us as
to the cry, and upon receiving non-committal answers, and perhaps reading our
faces, they grew frightened and began to cry.
To
assert myself and to allay their fears I arose and said to the wife, “Hand me
my rifle and I will go down there and shoot that old, tree-toad, or whatever it
may be.” Leaving the wife and children on the porch, I proceeded to search
about in the growing corn, around the barn and all through the near-by
underbrush, but without result, although I seemed to be following the voice
from point to point. Finally it seemed to be at the cabin. Hastening there, I
found that my family had fled within and had barred the door. Undaunted, I
continued the search, following the clues from when I heard the voice. After
vain attempts which led me to the roof, around and underneath the cabin, I
contracted the same feelings of the rest of the family, and called for
admittance.
There
was not much sleep for us that night, for we could hear the cries of our
unearthly visitor at frequent intervals, till the early dawn of the morning.
Night after night we had much the same experience until we grew accustomed to
it and were but little disturbed. Our neighbors joined with us on several
occasions to find the mysterious visitor, but despite the most exacting vigils
and search, we gave it up, for not one single object or reason could be found
that might be suspected of making the nightly occurring sounds, which the
neighbors dubbed “The Lost Woman Ghost.”
The
summer wore on, succeeded by the bountiful autumn harvests. We should have been
happy and content, but the “nightly visitor” had worn our nerves, so after the
harvest had been gathered, I was only too glad to sanction the wife’s
suggestion that we go and live with my father down on the Little Blue river,
for the winter, as it was too lonesome away up here by ourselves.
We
spent the long winter down there, hunting and trapping, returning occasionally
to see if everything was all right at our homestead, but never staying overnight,
so we did not know if our unwelcome guest had departed or not. With the opening
days of spring, we moved back, for our crops must be planted and tended, and
the first night of our return was celebrated by the usual performance of the
unseen voice. Of course this was annoying, but what could we do? Then there was
no harm resulting, so we settled down, accepting the situation as best we
could. Strawberry-picking time came
again, and we started out once more to search the hillsides and ravines for the
big red berries. Our wanderings brought us to the burial-place of the unknown
party of people that we had found just one year ago. Here we stood for a moment
with bared heads in reverence, swiftly recalling the incidents of their past as
we knew of them, praying that we might in some way learn who they were, so that
their relatives might know of their fate, and as we realized the improbability
of this, we turned away with dimmed eyes, and continued to ascend the hill.
Upon
reaching the top, we sat down upon a large flat boulder to rest. The whole
panorama lay spread out at our feet, and across the ravine to our right was a
hillside almost mountainous in appearance, cut and intersticed by irregular,
rock-filled canyons and gorges, down which trickling spring-fed streams flowed,
the rock-strewn hillside being covered with straggling growths of dwarfed oaks
and hackberry trees, with the hill itself rising high to the blue sky-line,
capped with heavy ledge of brown sandstone, irregularly set, cracked and fissured
deeply with dark recesses underneath the many overhanging shelves, which
suggested ideal retreats for wild animal life.
As
we searched with our eyes every part of its face for some new wonder of
formation, a ghastly sight came to our vision—the skeleton of a human being. On
closer investigation we found it to be that of a woman, huddled in a crouched,
squatting position, back against the wall of a cavern-like place, seemingly as
though she had taken refuge here, only to be found, and had raised her arms to
ward off the blow that had stilled her life.
Tenderly
we gathered up the bones and carried them down to the burial-place, and
interred them with the rest, whom we judged to have been her companions. That
afternoon was spent in the search for others that might be lying unburied on
the hillsides, but the search proved fruitless; our only find bein
g a few
piles of fire-warped wagon-irons and charred wood-work, near which lay bones of
oxen, many having the wooden yokes still around their necks. A few arrows were
found scattered about in these piles of bones, so we knew that this was the
work of Indians.
In
the twilight of that evening I sat upon the broad doorstep of our cabin,
thinking of all these things, the part that we had played and who these people
might be; then came the though, could there be any connection between them and
the ghostly visitor? If so, perhaps it would give me an answer tonight. Though
I waited and meditated long into the night I was in one way disappointed, for
the voice came not—not alone that night, but never afterwards. So to me the
mystery has deepened as they years have gone by. Was this the spirit of the
murdered woman beseeching me to bury her bones beside those we had previously
buried, who no doubt had met a similar fate? I hope so, and if this gave rest
to the Soul, let it be the end.
