Part 2 The Ongoing Adventures of Volta and Volta Interdimensional Detective Agency

Artemis leaned forward in her chair.

You see? This is why a lot of people find Artemis off putting. Most people find out their conversation partner is potentially a serial killer, they get the fuck out of there. Not Artemis though. No, no, she leans forward. She loves serial killers. Always has. Her favorite movie is a documentary about Jeffrey Dahmer.

“In other dimensions yes. In my dimension no,” Tiger said.”My alternate selves are big into the whole dead body arts and crafts, but that’s never really been my-” He broke off and studied Artemis’s face. “Are you disappointed?” His shock melted into amusement. “Oh my God, you totally are. You’re sad I’m not a serial killer.”

“That’s just-Don’t be-It’s fine. It’s fine,” Artemis sputtered, smooth as ever.

“Are you gonna be okay? Want me to mutilate an animal or something?” Tiger said.

“Just tell the friggin’ story,” Artie said.

“So yes, most of my fetches are serial killers,” Tiger said.

Narrator’s Pro Tips For Players Time. A “fetch” is the popular nomenclature for a version of yourself from an alternate dimension. It’s from Irish folklore. Sort of like a doppelganger except more complicated and a way bigger pain in the ass.

“No worries. Most of my fetches are assholes too,” Artemis said.

“Except Dionysia,” Tiger said.

“Noooo, including Dionysia.” She said.

“You’ve probably heard of my fetches Lion and Bear. They’re the famous ones, but they’re locked up.. Wolf and Bobcat are still at large. But taking little girls isn’t their thing.”

“Apex predators. I’m sensing a real theme here.” Artemis said.

“I guess my mom loved national geographic in every dimension. Don’t your fetches cover the entire Parthenon?” Tiger said.

A rumbling voice rose through the floorboards. Flat, almost affectless. “For the love of God, quit flirting and tell him the rates.”

“So that’s Dionysia,” Artemis said. “So anyway back to your-”

CLOMP, CLOMP, CLOMP. The unmistakable sound of angry Doc Martens climbing stairs.

“Oh good. She’s gonna join us.” Artemis said.

Dionysia kicked open the door from the basement. She wore a heavy leather apron and a pair of goggles nestled in her dark hair. Underneath the apron she wore a Flesh Eaters t-shirt. The Flesh Eaters was a deathrock punk band from the 70’s. Yes, Dia is cooler than Artemis. Dia is also cooler than you.

“$300 a day plus expenses. If we have to go through the shootout nexus point, rate is double for that day,” Dia said. She then turned around and went back downstairs.

Artemis and Tiger sat in silence until they were sure she was gone.

“She’s great. So warm,” Tiger said.

“Like I said. Asshole,” Artie said.

“Guess I should go now. Before she comes back. Do I make a down payment or something?”

“Twelve hundred will take us through the weekend,” Artemis said. “We take USD, credit, debit, yen, euro, pounds, units, bitcoin, dinars, mardi gras beads, krones, yuans, rupees, shekels, pesos, rubles, and zlotys. We do not take drachmas.”

“USD is fine.”

“You could have stopped me.”

“But I didn’t,” He laid $1200 on the desk, next to a bong and a limited edition Breakfast Club alarm clock, only made in Earth 96A5, and took his leave. A minty pine scent and a funny feeling in Artemis’s bathing suit area were all that remained.

Artemis locked the money in their safe. The safe sat behind a framed poster of Solar Babies, the seminal post-apocalyptic roller-blading movie. She then descended the stairs into Dia’s lair.

The Von Blondies blared from an old shitty boombox. Dia smashed away with a hammer, wrestling a hunk of alloy steel into submission. Hammering it flat, for a blade.

Dia stopped hammering for a moment. “He pay?” She said.

“Mm-hm.”

“Where do we start?” Dia said.

“Hold on a second. Let me see the work in progress.” Artie said.

Dia heaved a sigh. She flicked on a work lamp directed at a painted knife handle. C-clamps held the handle steady. Small paint pots and brushes surrounded the work area. The painting on the handle was Mother Guadalupe. Done in bright, vibrant, colors. Intricate and gorgeous.

“I think this is your best one.” Artie said.

“Cool.” Dia’s tone was dismissive, but a rare smile curled across her lips.

“Ok, so Tiger said his fetches don’t take little girls. But maybe one of them does. I say we go talk to the ones who are locked up. We can see if they’ve got info on anyone breaking with the pack M.O,” Artie said.

“Sounds like a plan.”

Later Dionysia clicks around on her computer in the “lobby”-the narrator said with extreme sarcasm-while Artemis gave herself what couldn’t even be construed as a hobo bath. She just sprayed herself and her clothes with Febreeze.

She walked into the lobby. Dia sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose. “That sweater is getting fucking dank bro.”

“So are those jeans,” Artie shot back.

In unison they shrugged the shrug of a thousand college freshman boys who hadn’t done laundry for four months and had sniffed a t-shirt’s pits for the third consecutive wear.

“Lion from Earth 66B and Bear from LL are up in Barstow on Earth 2K3,” Dia said.

Artemis pulled out a gigantic roll of drafting paper. Her map of the realities. She unrolled a few feet. The paper is covered with what looked like a topographical map done in various colors. Between the layers are copious notes on the alternate realities. Of course these notes don’t contain anything useful like “Toxic air!” or “Entire planet under water.” It’s just a bunch of stuff Artemis, and I assure you only Artemis, thinks are interesting such as “Chris Evans just a hot barista in Boston” and “cheeseburgers good for you!!!!!!” crossed out and replaced with “cheeseburgers suck.”

“Earth 2K3, Earth 2K3.” Artemis mumbled to herself. She traced her finger over the map. “It’s the one where they call coke Nozz-ola.”

“Anything else?”

“And they kill anyone who wears black,” Artie said.

“Way to bury the goddamn lede,” Dia said. In the grand tradition of cool kids since time immemorial she was wearing head to toe black.

“Need to borrow some of my clothes?” Artie said.

“Yeah,” Dia said. “What nexus point do we use?”

Time for another edition of Narrator’s Pro Tips For Players. A nexus point is the easiest and cheapest way to travel to other dimensions. Nexus points are areas in the universe where all the dimensions bleed into each other. They’re almost always centered around people, though there is one in Yellowstone centered around a very dramatic wolf pack. New nexus points crop up all the time. A nexus point is created when a person and all of their fetches end up in the same place at the same time regardless of what reality they’re in. It doesn’t matter if you live in the dimension where tech hasn’t advanced since the 19th century or a dimension where sentient trees want to eat you. You’re Johnny on the spot. Every single version of you. It is a point in your life that is so important, so momentous that you are drawn to it no matter what is different in your reality. Nexus points create a paradox. Statistically there should be one reality where you’re not present, but that just isn’t the case. The feelings surrounding the moments are so strong they create a rip in the universe. And the participants stay in that moment, repeating it, forever. Not a great gig for them.

People can just sort of stroll through these points if they know where to look. Though some are more dangerous than others. Shootout is the most dangerous for obvious reasons.

“Feast is the closest point,” Artie said.

“Yesssss,” Dia said. “I’m so fucking hungry.”

Dia changed into some of Artie’s most “normal” clothes. Then they loaded up into Artie’s Bronco. They cruised down the highway. Artemis loaded up on road snacks. She was physically incapable of going on a roadtrip without Gardetto’s and Ruby Red Squirt. Meanwhile, Dia was fasting in anticipation of the Feast.

Artemis nibbled on a rye chip with a moony, pie-eyed, look on her face.A look she generally only got when she watched Captain Ass-merica: The Winter Boner.

“Do you remember the no bangaranging our clients section in the employee manual we wrote?” Dia said, sensing Artemis was about to put on her junior high slowdance CD (featuring gems like I’ll Be and I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing) and wanting to nip this thing in the bud before it got out of hand.

“Uh huh. Chapter Jack Nicholson, subsection Chinatown,” Artemis said.

“I thought it was in the Bogart section.”

“Mm-mm.” Artemis poked a button on the CD changer.

“Any thoughts as to why I might bring that up?” Dia said.

“You want to amend it so you can knock boots with Old Man Jenkins?” Artie found the CD she was looking for. She skipped past Angel of the Morning and I Do (Cherish You) to settle on You and Me by Lifehouse.

“You can’t call every client over fifty Old Man Jenkins,” Dia said.

“So that’s a yes?” Artemis swayed along to the music, clearly not tuned into the conversation at all. Daydreaming about her “so totally not a serial killer guys” crush. No doubt imagining them slow dancing at the Smallville prom, or the Dawson’s Creek prom, or the Gossip Girl prom-any prom where it was absolutely fine for twenty-somethings to pretend they’re still in highschool.

“No,” Dia said. “Because-”

“Shut up. We’re here,” Artemis said.

“Here” didn’t really look like anything. Nexus points never do until you enter them. So “here” was a field outside of Fresno. Only a sign for a shitty fruit stand that didn’t exist demarcated the location of the nexus point.

Artemis threw the Bronco in park and bailed out of the rig. Her speed suggested that maybe she had more of an idea where the conversation was heading than she let on. Dia decided to table the discussion because food, the other great love of her life besides knives, beckoned. They grabbed a couple bags of gear from the back of the truck and moved out.

Both women jumped the fence and marched through the field. A group of children sat in a circle, eating a picnic. Artie and Dia stepped on their sandwiches as they passed. The kids through the sandwiches away and dug out more from their bottomless picnic basket.  One moment they were avoiding piles of cow shit in the tall grass and the next they were inside a grand banquet hall. A viking style mead hall, gave way to Lucky’s Diner, gave way to a particularly contentious Thanksgiving dinner, gave way to a feast of the Gods.

The feast stretched for miles. Every food you can think of and plenty I guarantee you can’t. Bone marrow, Juicy Lucy’s, Croque Moussier. Raw oysters, fresh from the ocean, commingled with lemon wedges packed in ice. The gore of cracked pomegranates spilled from great grey enamel urns. Smoked rattlesnake on a bed of chile rellenos. Deadalive fish, fish kept alive while being deep fried. Chili dogs and garlic fries. Dandelion wine, gin and tonics, and Surge. Lutefisk, pepperoni pizza, rocky mountain oysters, Fugu for the brave, white cheddar striped with raspberry, bird’s nest soup.

Several people sat at a table. Napkins over their heads, hiding their faces from God as they consumed Ortolans. Songbirds drowned in cognac and roasted. Eaten whole.

Dia snaked a plate out from under someone’s fork and dumped the contents on the ground. She then proceeded to treat the feast as her personal buffet. Prime rib, basque lamb shanks, yellowfin tuna sushi, birthday cake, ceviche, tampiquena, caviar, haggis, candied grasshoppers, and fried pickle chips.

Artemis had her eyes glued to the map as they walked, figuring out where they needed to stop to exit into the correct reality. Her face curled in disgust. “We’ve gotta turn here,” she said. “Don’t grab anything off this table.” She carefully squeezed between two tables and avoided eye contact with the impeccably dressed gentry delicately picking at horrifically red meat. Artemis tried not to notice the woman with hair that could rival Marie Antoinette’s. Instead of pearls and ribbons, her hair was woven through with painted human teeth.

Dia eyed the noblemen and women then turned her eyes to her very rare prime rib, then back to the people, steak, people, steak. Artemis dry heaved behind her. Dia briefly considered discarding the prime rib, she could tell Artie desperately DESPERATELY wanted her to, but she said a mental “eh whatever” and kept eating. She would not succumb to peer pressure.

They got past the table then walked parallel to it for a few steps before they exited into a diner. They were, in fact, standing on top of a table. The people eating there paid them no mind. The diner smelled of Mexican food. People ate pancakes and juevos rancheros. Local art dotted the worn out pink adobe walls. They climbed down off the table. Dia stole a pancake off the plate of one of the feasters. She added it to the plate of food she still carried, wiping off her syrupy hands on the jeans she’d borrowed from Artemis. Artemis watched this with a sour look, she’d been planning on wearing those jeans for at least another week.

“Think we should call Ares and Demeter?” Artie said.

“Nah,” they both said at the same time. They both had a “why step on toes, when you can stomp on them?” philosophy when it came to their fetches who weren’t each other.

“You know what we could do though…” Artie said.

Dia smirked. “I like where your head is at. Still got your keys?”

Artie jangled them in Dia’s face.

“Let’s boogie.” Dia said.

The Ongoing Adventures of Volta and Volta Interdimensional Detective Agency Part 1

Part 1

Look. I was only tangentially involved. I just chronicle this shit. So don’t waste time on “oooh I wonder who it is? Who’s narrating this?” I am/it doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you what happened. You’ll believe it or you won’t. You’ll give a shit or you won’t. I could lie and say I don’t care. But I do. I care if you believe. I care that you care. Maybe Cheap Trick should have included a verse on that. I’m just saying I’m not uninterested in where you fall on this whole deal. Alright. Ok. Preamble over. Let’s start this shit. Should I say shit some more?

Our tale begins at the Volta and Volta Interdimensional Detective Agency in sunny North Hollywood California Earth 83B. The agency is your basic rinky dink strip mall joint. Sits between a vietnamese donut shop called Victory Donuts and Freedom Tax Preparers. A taqueria and a nail joint sits in another strip across the street. Every sign except for Volta’s looks like it was made by the same graphic designer in 1998. A dancing car lot wiggle man would not be out of place.

On the inside you have the type of mess that can only result from two fucking slobs living and working together without a clean freak present to mitigate the carnage. Empty fast food cups sit on every available surface. The residents gave up on real plates a long time ago, so cheese encrusted paper plates spill from all trashcans. The two residents are engaged in a disgusting game of chicken to see who will crack first and do some goddamn dishes. They are very evenly matched. Sticky notes spackle the walls. Three foot tall stacks of books are erected all over the floor. This all happened a while ago, but trust me the condition of that office is ongoing.

One of the residents, Artemis, slept on a couch hide-a-bed with an abnormal amount of pillows. She fell asleep in her jeans, she does that a lot. A bottle of Dr. Pepper sat precariously on the arm of the couch. Artemis has dark uncontrollable curls and a lot of freckles. She calls herself a bit of a chubster, but the chubbiness suits her. She likes to wear christmas sweaters with a long grey trench coat. I still haven’t figured out if it’s some weird form of pretension, affectation, or if she just genuinely likes the way it looks.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. Gasp! A visitor. Who could it be?

Artemis jerked awake, spilling flat Dr. Pepper all over herself.

“Aw fuck,” Artemis said. She flailed around on the bed, trying to escape the sheets. “Just a second.”

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

“Jesus! I’m coming.”

Artemis scrambled around, fell off the hide-a-bed, and finally managed to get upright. She pulled open the door partway and squeezed her face in the crack, blocking the worst of the mess. She squinted against the harsh mid-morning sun.

“Volta and Volta,” She said.

“Yes, hi. I’d like to hire you?” The person at the door was a man fatale. He wore guyliner and goddamn if he wasn’t working it. And the man really knows how to do his hair (a condition that is also ongoing, the man has great hair). Short on the sides, long on top, swept back in a semi-pompadour. This guy was basically manufactured to flip Artie’s switches.

“We’ll do it for free,” Artie blurted.

The man furrowed his brow. “What?”

“No. I mean sorry. Can’t do it for free. I don’t know why I said that,” Artemis said. “Why don’t you come in?”

Artemis stood aside so the handsome man could enter. “What’s your name, bro?” Artemis asked. She gestured for him to sit down in the only chair not covered in tented books. She shoved a few piles onto the floor and sat in front of him.

“Tiger. Tiger Vale,” He grinned and showed slightly pointed incisor teeth, not full on vampire, he didn’t file them or anything, but prominent nonetheless. Another one of Artemis’s switches. His name tugged at Artemis, but she couldn’t figure out why.

“And what can Volta and Volta do for you Mr. Vale?” Artie said.

“Well, I see Volta, but where’s Volta?” He said, his grin widening to cheshire proportions.

Artemis ran her tongue across the edges of her front teeth, grinning. Her attempt at a flirty face. “Actually I’m Volta and she’s Volta.”

“My mistake.” He said.

They grinned at each other for, what was quite frankly, a weird amount of time.

“Let’s keep it from happening again. You can call her Artemis. Dionysia is in her workshop, building something deadly. I do the intake interviews.”

“Right,” Tiger said.

“So what can we do for you?” Artemis said.

And thus Tiger launched into his sad sad tale of woe.

“My baby sister, Joanie. She’s twelve. I’ve been raising her since I was seventeen. Our parents are…we aren’t close with them. Yesterday she didn’t come home from school. Then she wasn’t home for dinner. I’ve been out all night looking for her. I can’t find her anywhere.”

“Have you gone to the police?” Artemis said.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Tiger brushed his fingers through his hair. “They’ll think I hurt her. They’ll waste all this time on me and then someone will hurt her.”

“Why’s that?” Artemis said. Though it was really just to buy time to think. Tiger Vale. Tiger Vale. Who’s afraid of Tiger Vale? Tiger Vale Tiger Vale, wherefore art thou Tiger Vale? Lions and Tigers and Bears. Oh my.

“You’re…” Artemis began.

“It’s not what you-” Tiger tried to cut her off.

“A serial killer.”

9 Terrifying Oregon Hauntings (and a Northern California one for good measure)

Shanghai tunnels, a cursed lake, and the oldest missing person’s case in the nation . It’s no wonder the northwest has a deep and rich history of ghost stories. Oregon, with its beautiful forests that people disappear into (sometimes never to return). Oregon with its dark history of stranglers , brutal frontier justice, and cursed towns. Here we will review ten of Oregon’s most terrifying hauntings.

 

1. Crater Lake

Crater Lake is the deepest lake in the United States and that depth contains multitudes. Situated in Klamath County, the Klamath tribe claimed that looking into the lake’s depths would result in “death and lasting sorrow”  and the nearby Modoc tribe had a taboo against going to the lake.  According to Native American legend the lake was the result of a battle between two spirits living in Mt. Mazama and Mt. Shasta. Llao, the spirit of the underworld lived in Mt. Mazama. Skell the good spirit of the heavens lived in Mt. Shasta. After many brutal fights, Skell finally defeated Llao, banishing him to the depths of the volcanic Mt. Mazama, supposedly he caved in the mountain so that Llao would never escape. Legend says only Llao’s head is still visible, posing as Wizard Island in the middle of the lake. Llao’s evil spirit is said to occupy the island, and the lake is a door between our world and the hell-like below-world of Native American legend. 

So from the beginning dark lore surrounded Crater Lake. Crater Lake also has a record of unexplained disappearances and strange deaths. With the first recorded disappearance occurring in 1853 and the latest occurring in 2014 . Rangers at the park have reported seeing campfires on Wizard Island but when they go to check there are no signs of any people or fires. One ranger said she saw ten people standing around a large campfire. She walked toward the site, because the people were camping illegally, but when she reached the site the campers were gone, There was no fire, nor was there any evidence that there had ever been a fire.

Visitors to Crater Lake have also sighted UFO’s, encountered dark beasts lurking beneath the surface of the water, and uncovered skeletons. Look upon the waters of Crater Lake at your own risk, you never know what you might see.

 

2. Haunted Radio Station

KWJJ is a radio station based out of a Victorian era manor in Portland. The radio station  moved into “Wilcox Manor”, as it was originally called, on Halloween of 1957. There have been many reports of apparitions by people who work at the station and people who come to visit.

While Nancy Wilson was visiting her husband, a radio engineer, at the station she saw a woman wearing a 1920’s maid outfit walking down a hallway. Moments later the woman disappeared into thin air. DJ Rick Taylor said he had several encounters with spirits at the station. Rick often worked alone in the evenings. From his booth he is able to see a grand piano sitting in the common area. One night Rick saw a man in a white suit circling the piano. Not playing it, just circling. Rick left his booth to speak to the man, but by the time he reached the common area the man was gone. Rick also reported phantom piano music, lights turning on and off by themselves, and doors opening and closing of their own accord.  Another DJ, Berry Burks, claimed he had encountered the spirit of an elderly man three times. Twice in the attic, which acted as a record library, and once in the main lobby. The old man was always wearing the same clothing and Berry only ever caught brief glimpses of him.

Former manager George Sanders was initially hesitant to discuss the strange phenomena at the station, but eventually revealed he had heard the chandelier in the main entrance shake many times. In his office his pictures would sometimes be hung upside down (seemingly in defiance of gravity). Sanders had interviewed JFK and had an ongoing relationship with the president. After JFK was assassinated in Dallas, Sanders found his signed picture of JFK hung upside down in his office several times. When he tried to figure out how the pictures stayed upside down he was unable to recreate the effect.  His final encounter with the spirits in the station occurred when he found an emblem of the Virgin Mary that kept showing up in his office. No matter how many times he tried to get rid of it or where he hid it, it always returned.  Eventually it showed up again in his desk after he moved to the East coast despite him having gotten rid of it many years earlier. Elaborate prank on a former boss? Or an object sent across the country by a spirit?

 

3. Blackburn Sanitarium

Blackburn Sanitarium was a tuberculosis ward and insane asylum in Klamath Falls. Blackburn didn’t have a strong record of taking care of their patients. Sixty-nine people died in Blackburn.  Blackburn was forced to close but was eventually reopened as a part of the Klamath General Hospital. Both the sanitarium and hospital are closed now. Blackburn has been remodelled into apartments. Residents have experienced disembodied voices, electrical problems, and strange shadows. A paranormal investigator literally bumped into a spirit while visiting the building. When she tried to apologize, to what she assumed was a tenant of the building, she found herself apologizing to an empty stairwell.

 

4. Tillamook Rock Lighthouse

    The fog and mists of the Oregon coast can be lethal for ships who drift too close to shore. After many ships were lost at Tillamook Head, congress set aside a large sum of money to build a lighthouse along that section of the coast. The first step in construction was surveying Tillamook Rock to determine if it was suitable for a lighthouse.  The surveyor, John R. Trevawas, drowned almost as soon as he set foot on the rock. Things did not approve from there.

Construction of the lighthouse was constantly delayed because of the extreme elements. Violent seas, raging winds, and limited rations made progress slow. When the lighthouse was nearly complete tragedy struck. One night the wind was especially strong and the fog especially thick. The ship Lupatia crashed into the rocks on Tillamook Head, killing sixteen crew members. Only the crew’s dog survived.  After that, the construction crew became absolutely determined to finish the lighthouse before another ship was lost, come hell or literal highwater.

There have been rumors of ghost ships slipping through the fog. It is also said that sometimes one can hear the Lupatia’s crew dog howling, mourning the loss of her crew. The lighthouse was decommissioned in 1957. It now serves as a columbarium, or a location for storing the ashes of the dead.

 

5. Fiddler’s Green

On the border between Oregon and California, near Clear Lake Oregon, lies Fiddler’s Green. It is said that if you visit Fiddler’s Green at night you will see strange lights and hear distant fiddle playing. It is also very easy to get disoriented and get lost. According to legend a pioneer woman lived on the Green and was brutally murdered. The men who killed her threw her body down a well and on full moons she rises from the well to play her ghostly tune. Shepherds run their sheep on the Green and several have said they’ve seen a ghostly woman in white. One man said he felt someone caress his cheek and when he turned around there was a ghostly pale woman standing over him.

The military may be responsible for naming Fiddler’s Green. In 1872 a war between the United States Army and the Modoc tribe raged in the nearby lava beds. The US Army camped in the area and may have named it Fiddler’s Green after a poem that gained popularity during the Civil War and was eventually published in a cavalry handbook in 1923.

 

Halfway down the trail to hell

In a shady meadow green,

Are the souls of all dead troopers camped

Near a good old-time canteen

And this eternal resting place

Is known as Fiddler’s Green.

 

Marching past, straight through to hell,

The infantry are seen,

Accompanied by the Engineers,

Artillery and Marine,

For none but the shades of Cavalrymen

Dismount at Fiddlers’ Green.

 

Though some go curving down the trail

To seek a warmer scene,

No trooper ever gets to Hell

Ere he’s emptied his canteen,

And so rides back to drink again

With friends at Fiddlers’ Green.

 

And so when man and horse go down

Beneath a saber keen,

Or in a roaring charge or fierce melee

You stop a bullet clean,

And the hostiles come to get your scalp,

Just empty your canteen,

And put your pistol to your head

And go to Fiddlers’ Green.”

 

It seems safe to say the army didn’t enjoy their time on the Green.

 

6. Scaponia Park

Whispering trees, the sweet song of the river nearby, perfect idyllic isolation. The ideal campsite for getting away from the rigors of reality can be found in Scaponia Park in Vernonia Oregon. That peace may be shattered when a ghostly figure looms in the distance. He doesn’t respond to calls, he seems undeterred by lights shined in his direction. Another smaller figure dances around his feet. This is the phantom horse thief of Scaponia Park.

A horse thief met his brutal end in Scaponia Park in the late 19th century. He was the victim of frontier justice at the hands of a lynch mob. The horse thief was a drifter who was accompanied at all times by his small dog. One night an angry mob caught the thief. They lynched him and then shot his dog. The mob buried the man and the dog together in the same hole and left them to molder along the banks of the Nehalem River.

Campers say they see a spectral man and his dog, wandering the park, together forever in the afterlife.

7. Lafayette Pioneer Cemetery

The city of Lafayette has burned to the ground twice. Once more and the hung witch’s curse will finally be laid to rest. Sometime in the late 1800’s the town of Lafayette accused a local woman of being a witch. She confessed to her crime by uttering a curse. She said the town of Lafayette would burn to the ground three times. Another version of this story claims that after Richard Marble killed a local store owner he was hung and his grieving mother cursed the town to burn.

Many who have visited the Lafayette cemetery reported feelings of dread and unease. Ghost hunters have visited the cemetery several times. They claim they’ve seen a ghostly woman standing at the edge of the cemetery and feel that they were being followed. In 2002 a woman took a video in the cemetery and said she could hear someone saying “Run home.”  Some people have been chased out of the cemetery and others have scars from lacerations they received after visiting the cemetery.

The local newspaper the New Lafayette has published several stories denouncing the curse but doth the newspaper protest too much? It’s clear that many locals believe in the curse and the cemetery receives visitors from all over hoping to see the ghost of the Lafayette Witch.

8 Fort Stevens

At Fort Stevens, in Hammond Oregon, one soldier’s service never ended. Witnesses say they have seen a ghost in a WWII soldier’s uniform wandering around the fort. When they follow him, he disappears around a corner and then seemingly into thin air. Other people have reported seeing a soldier stalking through, what is now, the museum. People also often have spirit orbs show up in their photographs.

The fort was built toward the end of the Civil War and wasn’t decomissioned until after World War II. It is the only US fort that has been attacked by an outside enemy since the war of 1812. The Fort Stevens post cemetery inters more than fifty soldiers. Strangely the graves face north to south rather than east to west, going against a 4000 year old military tradition. Perhaps this is why those who have made Fort Stevens their eternal resting place are less than restful.

 

9. Malheur Butte

In french, Malheur means bad luck or misfortune. Malheur Butte was named after the nearby Malheur River, so named by french fur trappers because of a Native American attack that left most of the trappers dead or injured. Malheur Butte has a reputation for being a meeting place for witches. An older gentleman, who lives in the nearby town Vale, said he had heard rumors of the witches since he was a young boy. His parents always told him never to go to Malheur Butte at night. Being an adventurous sort of fellow, he went to the butte anyway. He said that he often saw robes flapping in the wind and women cackling.

People say they have been chased from Malheur Butte back to their car. People have also claimed to have seen imps or sprites capering through the area. In her book, Ghosthunting Oregon, Donna Stewart said that Malheur Butte would be an ideal site for hauntings. Apparently areas with nearby water, different types of natural minerals, and natural energy all make an area more likely to be haunted. Malheur is near a river, has lots of natural minerals, and is an extinct volcano, so it has lots of natural energy. Perhaps witches use these natural forces for their rituals, or maybe the locals just have very vivid imaginations about bad luck butte.

 

10. Oregon State Hospital

5,000 souls call Oregon State Hospital their final resting place. The unclaimed cremains of these people remained undiscovered for nearly forty years. Photographer David Maisel found 3,500 corroded cans of ashes in an abandoned building at Oregon State Hospital. It has come to light that the hospital has lost 1,500 canisters over the years. The remains were collected between 1883 and 1970. Long ago the hospital had a reputation for abuse and neglect. Patients were abandoned by their families. Left to rot in substandard facilities and never claimed once they died. It is perhaps no wonder that visitors have reported sounds of wailing in the hallways, cold spots, and doors closing on their own.

 

 

Werewolves Vs. Greasers

This is the space where I will be talking about the craft of storytelling, my great love of all things creepy, and my obsession with superheroes.  It is where I will discuss all types of stories. Ghost stories, comic books, films, books, and TV shows. The only thing I like more than delving deep into the specifics in any given story is talking about storytelling concepts and methods in the abstract. I love genre fare but I also have a spot in my heart for great performances in non-genre works.