My Grandpa was the King of Storytellers. Ever since I was a little kid, he would tell me tale after tall tale and kept my imagination riding forever high on a wild roller coaster. I can't tell you how many nights I laid awake in bed with the tales of the day running through my mind. Many of his tales were about times he spent growing up and the mischief he and his siblings used to get into.
One story in particular always comes to the front of my mind during the month of October, as Halloween approaches and all the spooky decorations start popping up in neighborhood yards. I always loved Halloween as a kid. The anticipation of that one night of freedom when me and my friends would dress up and roam the streets, going door-to-door to fill our sacks with sugary treats. Later, after our sacks were bursting with our favorite candies, we'd meet up at the foot of Bicycle Hill to divvy up our bounty, and we always ended up trading spooky stories to see who could out-do the other in the fright department. I always had plenty of stories to tell, thanks to my Grandpa.
My favorite story was Grandpa's tale of Boogeyman Bog. In the tiny town where he grew up, there was a slough out past the railroad tracks where my Grandpa loved to fish and go frog gigging. He had a little wooden row boat that he kept out there, tied to a stump on the bank of the slough. During the daytime, he'd often go fishing after school, and on weekend nights his favorite past time was frog gigging. Some nights he'd come home with a bucket full of fat bullfrogs and his Mama would clean them and cut their legs off and dip them in a spicy cornbread batter and fry them up for dinner the next day.
On one side of the slough was Boogeyman Bog. Grandpa always stayed clear of the bog because it was a dangerous place. The ground was soft and covered in spongy moss and grasses, and a person could sink down into the muck and never be seen again. The bog was known to swallow things up - dogs and wild animals, even little children and grown men! Everyone feared the bog, especially at night.
Grandpa had an old miner's hat with a light on the front of it. He always wore this hat when he went frog gigging at night because the light would shine down into the murky water of the slough and he was able to spot the frogs more easily. The bright light would temporarily blind the poor bullfrogs and it kept Grandpa's hands free so he was able to thrust his spear into the water and gig the frogs. One night Grandpa had been out in the boat for about an hour and had about a dozen fat frogs in the bucket when he heard an ear-splitting wail float across the dark water. His first thought was it must have been a screech owl, or a critter in distress. Every hair on his body seemed to stand on end and a shiver ran up his spine. The light on Grandpa's hat shined across the top of the water, back and forth as he turned his head in search of the source of that eerie sound, but all he could see was darkness and a gray mist as it whisped around on top of the slough. It seemed the whole night had gone silent after that frightful noise. He could no longer hear the frogs croaking or the bugs chirping. Even the water lapping against the side of his boat had turned quiet.
Grandpa decided maybe he'd had enough for one night, so he put down his spear and picked up the paddles to row back to shore. As he turned the boat around, he noticed the mist on the water was getting thicker and he could barely see his hand in front of his face. He slowly made his way through the lily pads and across the slimy slough, but it seemed to be taking forever to reach the shore. He didn't remember going out that far into the slough, but maybe he'd gotten himself turned around. The heavy mist was really making him disoriented.
All of a sudden his boat lurched forward and there was a loud thud as it hit something heavy in the water. Grandpa shined his hat over the side of the boat, but he couldn't see the shore. Only tree stumps covered in green algae and lily pads dotting the surface of the slough. He definitely wasn't anywhere close to his jumping-out spot, so he knew he had somehow ended up on the wrong side of the slough. The screeching howl split the dark again and poor Grandpa nearly fell out of the boat in fright. He fell back hard onto the seat and one of his paddles splashed over the side of the boat and dropped to the bottom of the slough. Grandpa was shaking like a leaf and the light from his hat was scanning the darkness in front of him, back and forth across the water in search of that horrendous howl. One sweep of the light to the left and he zeroed in on a dark mass standing about 20 feet from the boat. Grandpa's eyes strained to see through the darkness. Was it a tree or a bush? A rock formation on the shore? The mist was making it hard for him to see through the darkness as it thickened and became more fog-like. The fog rolled over the top of the water in waves, almost like it had a life of its own.
The boat hit something hard again and this time Grandpa felt it tilt to one side and come to a complete stop. Surely he had reached the shore. He pushed his remaining paddle over the side into the water and it hit dirt, so he knew he was close enough to walk out onto the land. Surely once he got out of the boat, he'd be able to figure out where he had landed and make his way out of the slough. Grandpa gathered up his things and put the bucket over his arm. He had just stepped out of the boat when the scream came again, this time much closer than before, and the dark mass shifted closer to where Grandpa was standing. For a second, he was frozen in his boots, not knowing if he should get back in the boat and try paddling away, or if he should make a run for it. The dark mass loomed over him now, even closer than before and it started to take shape as Grandpa stared up into it. It was close enough for him to see it had long arms and legs and was standing upright like a man, but it was larger than a bear and covered in long, gray hair and what looked like thick green worms wriggling all over. He couldn't see a face or anything to define what exactly it was, and the odor coming off it was sickening and just breathing it in was making him gag.
Suddenly, whatever the creature was, opened it's mouth to scream again and one look up into that dark gaping maw of a mouth, with those snaggly, sharp teeth is all it took for Grandpa to get his wits about him and get the heck out of that slough! He threw down his bucket and gear and started running for all he was worth. He could hear the thing splashing in the mucky water behind him, but he didn't look back. He just ran and ran until finally he had reached the sandy beach that would lead him back up into the woods. Grandpa didn't stop running until he'd reached the middle of the forest. He stopped at a fallen log and looked back toward the slough, his light scanning the fog for any sign that the creature was still following him. He didn't see anything. Had he imagined it all? He turned back around and headed deeper into the woods and was just reaching the railroad tracks on the other side when off in the distance he heard the scream pierce the night again, but this time very far away. Whatever it was, had moved back into the swampy bog.
Grandpa lost his taste for fried frog legs that night, and it was a very long time before he went back to that slough to recover his boat and lost gear. He vowed to never go back at night, and only on the clearest of days. He knew he had encountered the true boogeyman of the bog and that it wasn't just some old tale to scare little boys away from the dangers of the bog. He told his story to anyone who would listen, over and over again. It's still a favorite story of mine to tell on cold October nights when we're sitting around the fire. Happy Halloween and steer clear of Boogeyman Bog!
