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An American Shangri-La, a tourist exploring an enchanting vista, and a deadly connection. |
| 4985 words The Devil’s Bog “Wrong colors,” thought Don Wallace morosely, as he and his wife drove through a muted landscape of brown fields bordered by dun colored mountains. They had been looking forward to a much more vivid color palette when they had planned their first New England fall foliage tour, but this year the foliage had peaked in color two weeks earlier than they had anticipated, and a brutal windstorm swept through the area just days before their arrival from Oklahoma. The only color in the White Mountains now lay on the ground. His wife, Kay, had given up trying to cheer him, and was now curled up in the front passenger seat of their rental, taking a nap. They had been driving for some time through forests drained of color. As he slowed at a railroad crossing, Don thought he saw a flash of color to his left. After stopping the car, he slowly backed up. The railroad track to the left of the road entered a grove of the brightest, most spectacularly colored trees he’d ever seen: reds and yellows and golden colors of many hues. Even the green leaves appeared to glow with an inner light, despite the gloomy overcast they’d traveled through all day. It was by far the most beautiful landscape he had seen during their entire trip. After parking the car in a nearby grass covered turnoff, he retrieved his camera bag and a water bottle from the backseat, kissed his drowsy wife on the cheek and left to explore this unexpected treat. “See if you can find a better attitude while you’re exploring,” she said, as he shut the door. At the edge of the woods, he gazed around in awe. Don recognized some of the trees: maple, oak, and gum, but many others he didn’t know. He’d also never before seen this range of arboreal color. In addition to red, yellow and orange, there were also pink, as well as chartreuse and even shiny black leaves. Many of the trees’ branches met over the track, turning much of the right of way into a leafy tunnel. The tracks curved, very gradually, to the right, and were flanked by incredible foliage as far as he could see around the curve. The forest was silent, save for his foot falls on the leaf strewn tracks and what sounded like the susurration of wind in the tree tops, although he could not see the trees swaying at all. He stopped every few feet to compose and take another picture. He eventually noticed the sound of the wind seemed to taper and stop whenever he stood still. Don glanced behind him and was stunned. The railroad ties behind him were now covered with a tangle of shrubs, vines and even trees, all with the bright green of new growth. The overgrowth began about 15 feet behind him and rapidly increased in girth and height until, about 30 feet further back, the rails were almost invisible. The closeness of the growth made it impossible to backtrack, just as it would have been impossible to wander off the track’s right of way due to the density of the trees lining the track. He wondered if he could have accidently gotten turned around while he’d been occupied with his photography. That seemed unlikely, as the track had curved gently to the right the entire time he’d been in the woods. But that was the only possibility that made any sense. He pulled out his smart phone to call Kay, to ask her to honk the car horn to help him get his bearings. But he had no reception. None. Which also meant no apps. No GPS. No compass. He tried to call anyway, and of course got the “No service” response. As Don was putting away his phone, he heard a succession of bleats from a car horn, three at a time, every few seconds for a couple of minutes. He smiled. Sometimes the psychic connection he had shared with Kay for the past decade proved more reliable than did their electronic devices. He felt her presence, even if they were far apart physically; something he’d never before had with any other person. However, he could not tell the location of the car horn; the trees were just too thick. Besides, he had no real choice but to walk in the one direction open to him, although it felt as if he were still walking further into the woods. He squinted down the track. The woods seemed to thin a bit on the right, about a hundred yards down the track. He decided to continue walking to that location, then turn around so he could prove to himself he was not being followed by an enchanted green barrier. Don advanced down the track with an air of false bravado. The sounds of rustling leaves restarted as he began walking. The urge to turn and see what might be happening behind his back was almost overwhelming, but he resolved to walk far enough to prove to himself that nothing inexplicable was occurring. As he proceeded he noticed a marshy area to his right. A lake of several acres was visible through the trees, dotted with a number of islands of various sizes. The darkening sky was visible above the lake. Night would soon fall. With an air of trepidation, he stopped and looked behind him. The impenetrable growth of trees, shrubs, and vines had indeed followed him. As he stared at this impossible sight, he once again heard an ominous susurration, this time from the opposite direction. He turned and saw tendrils erupting around the tracks he’d not yet walked on. This sight filled him with a terror he’d never before experienced. He felt trapped by completely alien forces. When the vegetation finally ceased its unnatural growth, he stood on a relatively clear stretch of track less than 2 feet wide. A small stream flowed through a culvert under the track bed from a clear spring which burbled merrily a few yards from the right of way. Terror had parched his throat, so Don refilled his water bottle and took a cautious drink. It tasted pure and delicious. He drank his fill, then topped off his water bottle. Although the barrier of trees hadn’t cut him off from the marsh, he wasn’t about to explore it after dark, so he set about making a rough bed for the night. Don gathered leaves as best he could, until he had a pile a foot high. He burrowed into the leaves and sought to make the best of it. The night would be long, cold, and miserable, but Don told himself he could find his way out of the woods in the morning. He focused on that thought, and breathed a quiet good night to his wife. Kay was worried sick. Don had been gone hours, and it was now dark. She couldn’t reach him on her phone. She feared he was in some sort of trouble, and she believed he’d reached out to her earlier, just before she had repeatedly honked the car’s horn in an attempt to signal to him. As she was pondering what course of action to pursue, a police car pulled up behind her. The policeman blipped his horn so as not to startle her, then approached her car. “Are you all right, Ma’am?” he inquired. “I don’t know,” she replied. She identified herself as Kay Wallace, then told Officer Welby (She’d glanced at his name tag.) of Don’s intention to explore the railroad tracks, and of his current absence. The young policeman’s face grew ever more somber as she talked; almost as if he knew Don personally. “You look even more worried than I feel,” she said. “Is there something I should know?” “The railroad borders on a large bog. It’s a marshy area that can be very treacherous for strangers. Are you certain he went down those tracks? Could he have gone somewhere else?” “I was pretty sleepy when he left,” she replied. “But I distinctly remember him saying he wanted to check out the trees along the train track.” The officer sighed deeply. “You can remain in your car while I call this in.” “You’re going to report a person who’s only been missing two hours?!” “Yes. If your husband did go down the tracks, and wander into the marsh …” He did not complete the sentence. She sat in her car while the policeman talked on his radio. A second cruiser pulled up a few minutes later. As the second officer walked up to her car, Officer Welby introduced him. “This is our Chief of Police, Howard Sterling. Chief, this is Ms. Kay Wallace. She says her husband may have gone down the old NHS spur.” The two men questioned Ms. Wallace as they walked with her to the edge of the woods. They proceeded down the railroad tracks, illuminating their path with their flashlights, until they were stopped by a dense green tangle of saplings, vines, and bushes covering the tracks. It was obviously impossible for any person to penetrate the thicket for more than a few inches. Kay stared at the green tangle blocking the tracks. “I assume we came here so you could demonstrate Don could not have gone down these tracks,” she opined. “No Ma’am. Perhaps he got off the right of way and found a path through the trees on one side of the tracks.” She thought this unlikely, as the trees on either side of the railroad right of way were as closely spaced, and as impenetrable, as was the greenery blocking the track. Chief Sterling then suggested that she come on into Firglas, a town less than a mile further down the road, get something to eat and then check into a motel for the night. “I can’t leave while my husband is out here,” she responded plaintively. “What if he finds his way back to the car; and I’m gone?” “Officer Welby will stay here in his cruiser, all night, if need be.” As he said this the other man nodded assent. “If your husband makes his way back out, we’ll call you immediately. I doubt you can sleep tonight, but you will rest better in a bed than in your car. We can safely search for him tomorrow morning. But I must caution you, several people have disappeared in the Bog, so …” “He is still alive. I can feel him,” she interrupted. “I know it sounds crazy, but he and I have had this connection since we first met. I can sense him. He’s out there. And I would feel like I’m abandoning him, if I left.” “Would Don rather you spend the night in your car, cold, hungry, and thirsty; or well fed and warm in a motel?” the Chief asked. “Okay,” she conceded. “I’ll go as long as you let me know if you hear of him.” With a cold knot of apprehension in her stomach, she followed the Chief’s cruiser into town. She parked her car next to his in front of a local restaurant, The Talk of the Town. “I’ve known the owners all my life,” Chief Sterling told her, as they walked together to the restaurant. “They’ll take good care of you.” He also pulled out a business card for a local motel, wrote something on the back, and then gave it to her. “When you’ve finished eating, ask the cashier for directions to the End Tides Motel and give the proprietor this card. You can stay there free. The city has an account there.” Kay wondered why he was being so generous, but didn’t ask him. She had enough on her mind already. He followed her into the restaurant. A young waitress approached Kay, nodded a greeting to Chief Sterling, and then said to her, “Good evening, Ma’am. Will you be dining alone?” The Chief interjected, “This is Kay Wallace. She says her husband went down the bog tracks a few hours ago and hasn’t come back. I suggested she have some dinner while she waits for him.” Those words had a profound effect on all who heard them. Conversations ceased. The waitress looked as if she were now on the verge of tears, but contained herself and silently led Kay to a table. After she was seated, Chief Sterling came over and bade her a good evening, promising to alert Kay if they heard anything about her husband. She ordered a soup and salad, although she had no stomach for food. While Kay was waiting to be served, she overheard a whispered conversation from the kitchen. The participants sounded agitated, although the only words she could understand were: “But she has a right to know!” Followed by, “It’s not your place to tell her. That’s for someone else!” She feared they were talking about her. When her food arrived she could only pick at it. She soon signaled her young waitress for her check. The waitress still appeared upset. “There’s no charge. Whenever a person …, uh, there’s no charge.” The waitress then quickly walked away. Kay left a generous tip before leaving the restaurant, and then drove to the motel Chief Sterling had recommended. She quickly checked in and found her room. As she prepared herself for a long, sleepless night, she heard a pounding on her room’s door. She opened it, but saw no one, although she heard the soft padding of running feet. At her feet lay a large manila envelope. On the envelope was written, in large loopy cursive: You Need to Read This!!! Kay opened it, and copies of several pages from a magazine called The Ghostbusters’ Quarterly fell from the envelope onto the floor. Kay picked them up, intrigued, and began reading the cover story: The Devil’s Bog A Paranoid’s Fantasy, or the Devil’s own Pact? Our lead article this issue has its origins in a letter we received several months ago. A man, who we will call Paul, wrote such an amazing story we agreed to meet with him. The following is a compilation of information from his letter and from our interviews with him: I grew up a fifth generation resident of Firglas (pronounced Fur-gluhs), a small town just off New Hampshire Route 16. It’s nestled in the southern reaches of the White Mountains, a few miles southwest of Conway. Our town was founded by Irish freedmen who established the community in the early 1700’s. Like most kids, I figured my life was similar to how other people grew up. I made mostly A’s and B’s in school, grades considered average in Firglas. My family attended St. Fechin of Fore Catholic Church. I realized early on that Firglas had more to offer kids than did a lot of towns. We had the mountains just a few miles to the north, a local steam powered tourist railroad, whose whistles could be heard all over town, and the mysterious Devil’s Bog. We kids were forbidden to go there by ourselves, but just knowing there was a spooky area right outside town was a thrill. Some of us kids did notice things that raised our curiosity. For instance, cemeteries in other towns had tombstones with birth dates, as well as death dates, on them. Tombstones in our community’s little cemetery only recorded the date a person died. It wasn’t until I prepared a school report on health care in New Hampshire that I realized just how different our town was from other communities. When I started looking up statistics on chronic illnesses in Firglas versus the rest of the state, I was dumbfounded. Among the people who had lived there for a decade or longer, there was no evidence of any diagnoses of cancer, heart disease, diabetes or even Alzheimer’s. There was also hardly any drug abuse among the residents. As a boy I’d never seen ANY people who seemed infirm, besides among the summer tourists we had in droves. It had just never occurred to me that this was unusual. Nor, after I thought about it, could I think of any Firglas resident who even looked old, even though I knew some of my teachers had also taught my parents when they were in school. To this day, the town lacks either a doctor or a dentist. Firglas has only a minor care center subsidized by the town, used primarily by the tourists who visit the area. I had several long talks about my findings with my teachers, my parents and our priest. They had several explanations for our citizens’ phenomenal health, such as the hardiness brought on by our harsh winters, the combination of self-reliance, community spiritedness, and spirituality we inherited from our Irish forebears, and one thing more. My mentors all attributed much of the healthiness of living in Firglas to special qualities in the city water, which comes from nearby artesian wells. The water is so pure it is not treated in any way. Not even fluoride is added. However, nothing unusual has ever been discovered in the water, despite repeated scientific analyses. After I was graduated from college, with an accounting degree, I returned to Firglas and joined a local firm. I resumed my activity at our parish church, and was eventually invited to be inducted into the Sacred Order of Greenmen, an auxiliary at our church which serves both the church and the larger community. I later realized some of our activities to the community can carry a great emotional price. The legend of the Green Man is vital to understanding the town of Firglas. It was originally called Fear Glas, which is Gaelic for Green Man. Images of the Green Man have been a feature of many European churches for over a thousand years. His symbolism of nature’s yearly death-like slumber, followed by the rebirth of spring, can be seen as a metaphor of the risen Christ. Our church, St. Fechin of Fore, was founded by involuntary Irish émigrés who brought with them the customs and beliefs of seventeenth century Ireland. Carved into the stone walls, front doors, and wooden ceiling supports of the sanctuary are several representations of the Green Man. I now believe that, in Firglas, he is something more than Christian symbolism. He also alludes to a primitive force that keeps Firglas alive. A few miles east of Firglas lies The Devil’s Bog. The origins of the name are unknown, but it certainly fits due to how dangerous the area can be. Technically, it is a kettle bog covering some 100 acres, formed when a huge block of ice was buried during the retreat of the glaciers and which gradually melted. Bogs generally are isolated from other water sources and gradually become very acidic from decaying matter. Sometimes they also develop floating islands of peat thick enough to walk on. The Devil’s Bog has proven to be very treacherous, partly due to these peat islands. Some of them are indistinguishable from the brushy shoreline, but have thin spots where a person can break through and sink, never to be seen again. Water from this bog has been proven to seep into the aquifer which supplies the town’s water supply. Many people believe the Bog is the reason for the unique health of Firglas’ inhabitants. I have gradually come to believe the early Irish settlers were attracted to the area by certain qualities about the Bog and that they believed in a causal agent that enables the waters of Firglas to impart such gifts of health to the people who imbibe it. There is evidence some force has, at times, even protected the Bog. You can call this agent the Green Man (as I believe my Irish forebears did), the Bog Devil, a guardian spirit, or simply a natural marvel. Think me crazy if you like, but I believe this spirit, or whatever, also demands nourishment from the bodies of people as the price for blessing the community. In other words, the Devil of the Bog demands human sacrifice. Let me explain. Every year several people are lured into the bog, usually visitors looking at the beautiful foliage. They most frequently are attracted by the display around the railroad right of way, at the point where it enters the area of the Bog. Its beauty serves to entice people into the Bog. I had known that outsiders occasionally died there, but I’d been willfully ignorant of how many. My eyes were opened after I became a Greenman at church. One of our duties, which we engaged in on a rotating basis, was to assist in searching for these lost souls in the Bog, as well as to comfort their loved ones who’d reported them missing. Most of the time we found no bodies. Presumably, any stranger who wandered out into the Bog would likely drown and would become part of the ecosystem. But occasionally a body would be found near the railroad track. The bodies that were found were so dry and shriveled as to look like mummies. They also had round holes and rips all over their flesh. They were not torn apart, nor did they appear to have been gnawed. I do not have an explanation of what might have caused this. My final search was to look for a young man and his five year old son who were reported missing by his wife. We found their bodies along the railroad tracks and brought them out, each in a body bag. Before anyone could stop her, the new widow rushed forward and ripped opened the bag containing her son’s body. His mummified little corpse was hard to recognize as having once being human. I will carry the memory of her screams of anguish to my grave. She killed herself three days later. I decided I could no longer live in a community that tolerated, and even benefited from, the equivalent of human sacrifice. I resigned my job and left town. There is one more thing, although you will certainly not believe me. (Continued on page 8) But there was no page 8 in the copy Kay had. She looked on the floor and under the bed, but there was nothing more. It was maddening! She reread what there was of the story, then thought about what to do. Kay quickly drove to the turnoff where her husband had left her. The police car was indeed still there. She parked, walked over to the patrolman’s window and tapped on it. When Officer Welby rolled down the window, she thrust the partial copy of The Ghostbusters’ Quarterly in his face and demanded, “Somebody slipped this under my motel door. Explain this!” He glanced at the title, almost grimaced, and then said, “Just a minute. I’ll call the Chief. Wait in your car, and I’ll be right with you.” She returned to her car, but paced impatiently. The rookie quickly called to her, “Ms. Wallace, Chief Sterling will be right out.” Kay waited in her car for the Chief. He arrived in 15 minutes, although it felt like hours. He then asked the two of them to sit in his cruiser. “So. Someone decided to let you in on our local superstition,” Chief Sterling said. “I’ve seen this article before, and I know the man who was interviewed. I watched him grow up here in Firglas. A fine young man. He left town abruptly two years ago, then sold this absurd story last year.” “Is there any truth to his claims?” Kay asked. “He took some facts and some of the town’s history, then jumped to bizarre conclusions. The story’s so absurd I won’t even comment on it.” She thought for a moment. “Sir, you said he mentioned some facts. What portions of the article are factual?” “I will not comment about that story. I just told you that.” “Sir, I heard you. Tell me this, then: how many physicians practice full time in Firglas? I know most towns your size have five to ten doctors.” The Chief avoided her gaze. “We don’t have any, full time. But ...” “I see … Sir, how old are you?” “What difference does that make?” “Please just answer my question.” “I am sixty-eight,” The Chief finally admitted. Kay looked at him, astounded. “You are sixty-eight?! You look maybe forty years old! But you say the article that was slipped to me was ridiculous?” “I said absurd. I meant his premise was absurd,” he responded. “How many tourists get lost in the Bog?” “I wouldn’t know off the top of my head, Ma’am.” “For God’s sake!” she exploded. “My husband is out there, and you’re stonewalling me! Just give me a guess.” “Maybe five to ten.” “Each year?!” He nodded yes. She hesitated before she spoke again. “And of that number, how many are rescued, alive and well.” He finally looked in her eyes. His own were glistening. “We have never found anyone still alive.” Kay looked at him, stunned; then started weeping quietly. Kay’s husband found scant comfort in his improvised bed, but by curling up in a fetal position and covering himself with leaves, he’d managed to at least keep from shivering. Suddenly he had such a stabbing pain in his gut, he cried out. He knew he was going to be sick. Don rose to his knees, but before he could get to his feet he doubled over and retched, repeatedly and agonizingly. His vomitus smelled like sewage and rot. After another round of puking, he got up, groaning, from his hands and knees, and shakily reached for his water bottle to wash some of the fetid spew from his mouth. When he unscrewed the lid, the contents emitted a stench much like his vomitus. With a sense of dread, he shone his phone’s light on his clear water bottle. What had been pure spring water was now a murky black. He upended the bottle and poured out a thick, disgusting sludge. “My God,” he croaked. “I drank that. What was really in that water?” At that moment his bowels started gurgling ominously, but before he could pull down his pants, thick gouts of diarrhea erupted from him, soaking his legs and clothes. Another round of vomiting then began. As he lay moaning in this noxious filth, Don attempted to wipe some of the splatter from his mouth with his arm. His arm felt odd. He trained his cell light on his forearm, and to his utter horror, saw huge, blood filled blisters. A quick examination revealed buboes forming all over his body. “Oh, my God,” he wailed. “I’m being eaten alive!” Don collapsed to the ground. His phone slipped from his hand and landed on its side; the light illuminating the area immediately in front of him. Through the thickening fog of his vision he detected movement. Hundreds of bright green tendrils were rapidly springing up around him. They quickly covered Don and pinned him to the earth. After a brief pause, dozens of thick brown vines, shot through with reddish streaks, crawled up to him. The vines ended in sucker disks an inch across. They then reared up, rather like cobras about to strike. Each disk was vibrating, as with excitement at the prospect of feeding. One of the disks turned directly into his line of sight, and revealed a mouth resembling that of a lamprey, with dozens of teeth in concentric rows. At that moment, a major artery in Don’s brain blew, plunging him into blessed unconsciousness and, very quickly, death. The carnivorous vines drove their disks into his flesh and began to feed. “NO-O-O-O!” Kay suddenly screamed. “Don’s gone!” she sobbed. “He’s dead! I can’t feel him anymore. He’s gone!” he sounded stilted, but didn’t know what else to say. “I want to be there. I must!” She moaned. They told her the search party would meet at 8:00 a.m. After a tearful goodbye, she sadly drove back to her motel. By the time Kay returned the next morning, a search and rescue group had already gathered, made up of policemen and men she assumed were the Greenmen from the church. Chief Sterling approached her as she was nearing the group. “The brush cutter is about to start down the track. Two spotters will be able to see your husband, if he’s near the tracks. If they find him, the engineer will blow his air horn.” Within 15 minutes she heard two long blasts from the air horn. The Chief’s face fell. All the life seemed to seep out of Kay. A Greenman led her gently to a folding chair where she sat, staring at nothing. After a short space of time the Chief lightly touched her shoulder and said gently, “They’re back.” She watched as a solemn cortege walked up the railroad tracks and out of the woods. Behind two policemen were four Greenmen carrying a litter, which bore a body bag. They stopped in front of her. One of the two policemen opened a leather satchel and brought out a camera, a man’s watch and two rings. “Are these your husband’s?” he asked. Numbly, she nodded in the affirmative, then said, “Please. Put him down.” “Don’t open the body bag, Ms. Wallace. He would not want you to see him like this. Please,” he practically pleaded. She knelt, sobbing, and as she held Don’s body, encased as it was in the body bag, a distant church bell began to toll. |
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