Steve loved his grandfather, and on the night the old man died, twelve-year old Steve ran away from home in his grief. What he found in the dark Ohio night was proof that not only his grandfather’s spirit lived on, but that some spirits linger on and on and on.
The night his grandfather passed away, little Steve was inconsolable, and in the confusion, he slipped out the back door and into the night. “I wasn’t really thinking about running away,” Steve says. “I just wasn’t thinking about anything except my grandpa.”
Steve found himself among the dark trees of the local woods, unaware of how lost he was. “I started to realize that I didn’t know where I was,” Steve recalls. “I wasn’t sure if it was the darkness or what, but the woods didn’t look familiar anymore.” With only a child’s flashlight to guide him, Steve pressed on through the night, hoping he would come upon some remembered landmark.
“Some of these trees were just huge,” Steve tells me. The forest that little Steve found himself wandering that night was an ancient woodland, older than any other forms of life on the continent and untouched since Europeans came to live there. Among the great stands of ash and oak, little Steve seemed a fleeting shadow.
As Steve became more aware of his surroundings, the woods became more and more terrifying. The trees took on a peculiar menace and every sound, real or imagined, sent the boy’s imagination into dark corners.
Suddenly everything went quiet and still as if the woods were holding its breath. In the distance, Steve could hear what sounded like music. He stopped and tilted his head in the direction of the sound. There was a lone pipe playing somewhere in the woods. Steve turned his head again to locate the sound, but he couldn’t tell from which direction it was coming. Just as Steve was beginning to lose it, the shrill piping ceased and the forest was silent.
Steve was getting tired and, with no idea where he was, he began looking for a place to spend the night. “After everything that had happened that day, I was just ready to fall over,” Steve remembers. Stumbling through the trees into an open clearing, Steve saw what he thought might be a good place to bed down.
The night his grandfather passed away, little Steve was inconsolable, and in the confusion, he slipped out the back door and into the night. “I wasn’t really thinking about running away,” Steve says. “I just wasn’t thinking about anything except my grandpa.”
Steve found himself among the dark trees of the local woods, unaware of how lost he was. “I started to realize that I didn’t know where I was,” Steve recalls. “I wasn’t sure if it was the darkness or what, but the woods didn’t look familiar anymore.” With only a child’s flashlight to guide him, Steve pressed on through the night, hoping he would come upon some remembered landmark.
“Some of these trees were just huge,” Steve tells me. The forest that little Steve found himself wandering that night was an ancient woodland, older than any other forms of life on the continent and untouched since Europeans came to live there. Among the great stands of ash and oak, little Steve seemed a fleeting shadow.
As Steve became more aware of his surroundings, the woods became more and more terrifying. The trees took on a peculiar menace and every sound, real or imagined, sent the boy’s imagination into dark corners.
Suddenly everything went quiet and still as if the woods were holding its breath. In the distance, Steve could hear what sounded like music. He stopped and tilted his head in the direction of the sound. There was a lone pipe playing somewhere in the woods. Steve turned his head again to locate the sound, but he couldn’t tell from which direction it was coming. Just as Steve was beginning to lose it, the shrill piping ceased and the forest was silent.
Steve was getting tired and, with no idea where he was, he began looking for a place to spend the night. “After everything that had happened that day, I was just ready to fall over,” Steve remembers. Stumbling through the trees into an open clearing, Steve saw what he thought might be a good place to bed down.
“It was like a hill, but a really small hill,” Steve says. At 15 feet high and twice as wide, the hill seemed perfectly symmetrical and perfectly suited to Steve’s needs. “In hindsight, I should have realized what it was,” Steve says. “But I just thought it would keep me away from the spooky trees.”
Steve clambered to the top of the mound and laid down. As he studied the stars and moon above him, Steve drifted off to sleep. “I was dreaming about my grandpa and how we had walked these woods together,” Steve recalls. And then Steve’s dream abruptly ended and he awoke to the sound of the mysterious piping. As he rose from sleep and remembered where he was, Steve could hear a heavy drumbeat accompanying the pipe. The music was loud now and growing louder.
Steve sat up and crouched at the top of the hill. In the sparse moonlight, he could just see the edges of the clearing but little else. The music of the drums and pipe were unlike any Steve had heard before. “The drums sounded like they were huge, like war drums or something,” Steve tells me. “And the pipe was just going crazy, man.”
Steve stood his ground and waited. Soon the edge of the clearing began to blur as it filled with shadows. Steve could tell the music and its makers were out there in the dark, standing guard at the treeline. Their shadows seemed to waver and melt in the half-light, but Steve had no idea who or what faced him across the clearing.
“I thought, This is it,” Steve says. “These people have come for me.” Steve waited for the shadows to claim him, but they never came. Instead, the nighttime players clung to the treeline and as their music intensified the ground beneath Steve seemed to change. “I don’t know how to describe it, except that it just kinda melted,” Steve remembers.
The top of the mound began to slide and crumble, and Steve slid down the side to the bottom. The dirt at the top came down after him. “Like something was pushing it’s way out,” Steve recalls with a chill. Trapped between the shadows at the clearing’s edge and whatever was escaping the strange mound, all Steve could do now was watch.
At the top of the mound, a figure slowly appeared, illuminated in a strange green light. Steve couldn’t tell if it had dug its way up or had somehow materialized in the spot. It rose up and seemed to fill itself with a wavering, shadowy substance. Adorned in flowing robes, the figure was capped in an elaborate head-dress of obscure feathered and bony protrusions. Its face was a mask or an eagle or a skull, Steve couldn’t say for sure, but when it looked at him with eyes black and old and awful, Steve knew it had been in this place for a long, long time.
The figure began to make its way down the mound toward Steve. Frozen with fear, Steve couldn’t move, but the phantom merely floated by without regard. In the mound’s greenish glow Steve could see that the shadows at the clearing’s edge were somewhat similarly dressed, but not as elaborately as the former occupant of the mound. There were dozens of them, more than Steve had realized. And just as the floating phantom reached the treeline and joined the others, the music stopped and they vanished.
Left alone in the dark, Steve took off running as fast as he could through the woods, running all night until he found his way home again. Although he spoke little of his experiences to his family and friends, he did tell them about the msyterious mound in the woods. It was his uncle, a retired park ranger, who told him about the Indians who lived there long before Columbus came, about the cities they built and lost, about the strange gods they bowed before, and about the mounds they raised to bury and revere their preeminent dead. Steve tells me that he isn’t sure what he encountered that night – be it ghost or godling – but he knows now that the important things in this life are not always bound by it.
Steve clambered to the top of the mound and laid down. As he studied the stars and moon above him, Steve drifted off to sleep. “I was dreaming about my grandpa and how we had walked these woods together,” Steve recalls. And then Steve’s dream abruptly ended and he awoke to the sound of the mysterious piping. As he rose from sleep and remembered where he was, Steve could hear a heavy drumbeat accompanying the pipe. The music was loud now and growing louder.
Steve sat up and crouched at the top of the hill. In the sparse moonlight, he could just see the edges of the clearing but little else. The music of the drums and pipe were unlike any Steve had heard before. “The drums sounded like they were huge, like war drums or something,” Steve tells me. “And the pipe was just going crazy, man.”
Steve stood his ground and waited. Soon the edge of the clearing began to blur as it filled with shadows. Steve could tell the music and its makers were out there in the dark, standing guard at the treeline. Their shadows seemed to waver and melt in the half-light, but Steve had no idea who or what faced him across the clearing.
“I thought, This is it,” Steve says. “These people have come for me.” Steve waited for the shadows to claim him, but they never came. Instead, the nighttime players clung to the treeline and as their music intensified the ground beneath Steve seemed to change. “I don’t know how to describe it, except that it just kinda melted,” Steve remembers.
The top of the mound began to slide and crumble, and Steve slid down the side to the bottom. The dirt at the top came down after him. “Like something was pushing it’s way out,” Steve recalls with a chill. Trapped between the shadows at the clearing’s edge and whatever was escaping the strange mound, all Steve could do now was watch.
At the top of the mound, a figure slowly appeared, illuminated in a strange green light. Steve couldn’t tell if it had dug its way up or had somehow materialized in the spot. It rose up and seemed to fill itself with a wavering, shadowy substance. Adorned in flowing robes, the figure was capped in an elaborate head-dress of obscure feathered and bony protrusions. Its face was a mask or an eagle or a skull, Steve couldn’t say for sure, but when it looked at him with eyes black and old and awful, Steve knew it had been in this place for a long, long time.
The figure began to make its way down the mound toward Steve. Frozen with fear, Steve couldn’t move, but the phantom merely floated by without regard. In the mound’s greenish glow Steve could see that the shadows at the clearing’s edge were somewhat similarly dressed, but not as elaborately as the former occupant of the mound. There were dozens of them, more than Steve had realized. And just as the floating phantom reached the treeline and joined the others, the music stopped and they vanished.
Left alone in the dark, Steve took off running as fast as he could through the woods, running all night until he found his way home again. Although he spoke little of his experiences to his family and friends, he did tell them about the msyterious mound in the woods. It was his uncle, a retired park ranger, who told him about the Indians who lived there long before Columbus came, about the cities they built and lost, about the strange gods they bowed before, and about the mounds they raised to bury and revere their preeminent dead. Steve tells me that he isn’t sure what he encountered that night – be it ghost or godling – but he knows now that the important things in this life are not always bound by it.
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