Oct 25 22
Behind the Target on highway 8 there’s a wooded area of about 100 acres square. It’s hemmed in on its east and west sides by two residential neighborhoods; the eastern one being a kind of slowly dying 90s suburb (beige stucco, proto Olive Garden architecture) whilst the one to the west, a shifting tract of trailer homes and makeshift bungalows. The north side comprises the southernmost part of the university — mostly storage annexes for ancient files and athletic detritus.
This empty forested region is known as “the dump” named for the amount of trash consistently left along its perimeter and the 6 “faceless bodies” found floating in “the pond” in the Fall of 2006.
The pond is a large, deep pool pretty much in the dead center of the dump; it’s full of alligators and water moccasins. The entire wet mud/sand acreage is populated by a thick density of bald cypress trees covered in Spanish moss.
The theory, as to why it’s never been landfilled and developed, is that the pond is prohibitively deep and conceals a complex water cave system — which makes the land thoroughly unstable.
There’s a shortcut/footpath that crosses through the dump from the Target to the back of the university. Personally we’d never known anyone to have crossed it, even though it’s the fastest way (on foot) to get from the dorms to the shopping complex.
Last October, on a misty, muggy, Friday we hitched a ride to the Target with our roommate. She was going to work so it was only one way. Money was tight, and it was the start of the weekend. Not wanting to waste any funds on a paid ride, we decided to traverse the dump.
In the vestibule, taking in the last bit of air conditioning, we filled our bag with the toilet paper, a six pack and a 40, and made our way outside, to the rear of the store. Bordering the decrepit asphalt lot, was an endless chainlink fence barely holding back a grim, chaotic wave of foliage. Next to some swollen, sinister pile of garbage bags and a yellow and black alligator sign there was a passable break. Without giving ourself time to deliberate, we ducked through.
A path unfolded pretty distinctly, cutting clearly through the generally post apocalyptic Jurassic-ness. The air was rotted and thick — noisy with birds, some sort of clicking insect and distant frogs. Barely any sky was visible through the canopy.
After about 5 minutes of high alert walking, nervously brushing aside vines and errant parts of “webs” we thought it time for our 40. Beer in hand, we continued with relative confidence, sipping and stepping over trash and sticks. We estimated that it would take about 25 minutes to make our way across — more quickly than expected we were in short view of the pond — it was oily and black and didn’t seem to reflect the open, overcast sky above, as much as absorb it.
We stood about 20 feet from the muddy bank. Squinting trying make out any moving shapes; a few sinister surface bubbles but no overt movements. We threw a rotted stick into the water next to where the bank and path merged. Waiting silently — straining eye and ear. No gators. (No bodies.) Nothing except the occasional bird (the frogs were quiet now and there was no more of that clicking sound). Beyond the bank by a rusted car frame, the path curved back into the woods. We decided to run and not stop ’til we passed it.
We sprinted and stopped — generally unsure whether we should feel silly for being so anxious. We took a few gulps and carried on.
“Gimme a beer or I’ll eat your face.”
We looked around franticly, in ducking, self-defensive disbelief — not sure of what we heard or from where. But then repeated, in a high voice that sounded like a ventriloquist’s dummy:
“Gimme a beer or I’ll eat your face.”
Stupefied, we sighted a little “man” — maybe two and a half feet tall sitting on a wide branch above the trail. (He must have been hidden by the trunk of the connected tree.) He was thoroughly pale, shirtless, and wearing toddler-sized, filthy brown overalls. There was a dirty patch that looked like a cartoon frog on the chest pocket. His hands and feet ended with sharp unkept nails. His hair looked something like greasy, white angel hair pasta and hung a little past his shoulders. His teeth were like little shark teeth.
“It’s simple; gimme a beer or I’ll eat your face.”
In one quick obedient motion, we took our bag off our shoulder and reached in and broke off a beer. Then we thought better and held up the other five.
“Nope, I just want the one. Come on throw it up.”
We threw it and he caught it. He drank about half and let out a confident, refreshed sigh.
Then with his red rimmed, yellow-green eyes stared at us unblinking, seemingly enjoying our terror.
“Now this is the rule. I’m gonna let you go but I’m not gone; I’ll be hiding in the shadows of your mind. At some point I’m gonna reappear — you won’t know how or when, but it’ll be like in the reflection of a mirror or in a dream. When I do you gotta share this story, ya know like share my name — spread my legend.” He swept his arm dramatically, implying a large audience. Then he paused, took another long draft and in a voice half casual and half tough: “If you don’t, I’ll find you and when you’re sleeping I’ll eat your face — and worse. Don’t say anything ’til I make an appearance. Got it?”
We nodded senselessly and automatically muttered “wh, wha, what’s your name?”
“Bill; sometimes they call me Bath Salts Bill.”
He looked away like he was suddenly considering more important business. Then grumbled, “get outta here before I change my mind.”
We walked a few minutes in a kind of blackout, then ran, ran like there was a murderous, otherworldly, humanoid creature in the woods behind us.
We never told anyone.
Last night we had a dream where a little, pale, stringy haired man was tapping at our window and waving a small sharp fingered hand.
🎃
This empty forested region is known as “the dump” named for the amount of trash consistently left along its perimeter and the 6 “faceless bodies” found floating in “the pond” in the Fall of 2006.
The pond is a large, deep pool pretty much in the dead center of the dump; it’s full of alligators and water moccasins. The entire wet mud/sand acreage is populated by a thick density of bald cypress trees covered in Spanish moss.
The theory, as to why it’s never been landfilled and developed, is that the pond is prohibitively deep and conceals a complex water cave system — which makes the land thoroughly unstable.
There’s a shortcut/footpath that crosses through the dump from the Target to the back of the university. Personally we’d never known anyone to have crossed it, even though it’s the fastest way (on foot) to get from the dorms to the shopping complex.
Last October, on a misty, muggy, Friday we hitched a ride to the Target with our roommate. She was going to work so it was only one way. Money was tight, and it was the start of the weekend. Not wanting to waste any funds on a paid ride, we decided to traverse the dump.
In the vestibule, taking in the last bit of air conditioning, we filled our bag with the toilet paper, a six pack and a 40, and made our way outside, to the rear of the store. Bordering the decrepit asphalt lot, was an endless chainlink fence barely holding back a grim, chaotic wave of foliage. Next to some swollen, sinister pile of garbage bags and a yellow and black alligator sign there was a passable break. Without giving ourself time to deliberate, we ducked through.
A path unfolded pretty distinctly, cutting clearly through the generally post apocalyptic Jurassic-ness. The air was rotted and thick — noisy with birds, some sort of clicking insect and distant frogs. Barely any sky was visible through the canopy.
After about 5 minutes of high alert walking, nervously brushing aside vines and errant parts of “webs” we thought it time for our 40. Beer in hand, we continued with relative confidence, sipping and stepping over trash and sticks. We estimated that it would take about 25 minutes to make our way across — more quickly than expected we were in short view of the pond — it was oily and black and didn’t seem to reflect the open, overcast sky above, as much as absorb it.
We stood about 20 feet from the muddy bank. Squinting trying make out any moving shapes; a few sinister surface bubbles but no overt movements. We threw a rotted stick into the water next to where the bank and path merged. Waiting silently — straining eye and ear. No gators. (No bodies.) Nothing except the occasional bird (the frogs were quiet now and there was no more of that clicking sound). Beyond the bank by a rusted car frame, the path curved back into the woods. We decided to run and not stop ’til we passed it.
We sprinted and stopped — generally unsure whether we should feel silly for being so anxious. We took a few gulps and carried on.
“Gimme a beer or I’ll eat your face.”
We looked around franticly, in ducking, self-defensive disbelief — not sure of what we heard or from where. But then repeated, in a high voice that sounded like a ventriloquist’s dummy:
“Gimme a beer or I’ll eat your face.”
Stupefied, we sighted a little “man” — maybe two and a half feet tall sitting on a wide branch above the trail. (He must have been hidden by the trunk of the connected tree.) He was thoroughly pale, shirtless, and wearing toddler-sized, filthy brown overalls. There was a dirty patch that looked like a cartoon frog on the chest pocket. His hands and feet ended with sharp unkept nails. His hair looked something like greasy, white angel hair pasta and hung a little past his shoulders. His teeth were like little shark teeth.
“It’s simple; gimme a beer or I’ll eat your face.”
In one quick obedient motion, we took our bag off our shoulder and reached in and broke off a beer. Then we thought better and held up the other five.
“Nope, I just want the one. Come on throw it up.”
We threw it and he caught it. He drank about half and let out a confident, refreshed sigh.
Then with his red rimmed, yellow-green eyes stared at us unblinking, seemingly enjoying our terror.
“Now this is the rule. I’m gonna let you go but I’m not gone; I’ll be hiding in the shadows of your mind. At some point I’m gonna reappear — you won’t know how or when, but it’ll be like in the reflection of a mirror or in a dream. When I do you gotta share this story, ya know like share my name — spread my legend.” He swept his arm dramatically, implying a large audience. Then he paused, took another long draft and in a voice half casual and half tough: “If you don’t, I’ll find you and when you’re sleeping I’ll eat your face — and worse. Don’t say anything ’til I make an appearance. Got it?”
We nodded senselessly and automatically muttered “wh, wha, what’s your name?”
“Bill; sometimes they call me Bath Salts Bill.”
He looked away like he was suddenly considering more important business. Then grumbled, “get outta here before I change my mind.”
We walked a few minutes in a kind of blackout, then ran, ran like there was a murderous, otherworldly, humanoid creature in the woods behind us.
We never told anyone.
Last night we had a dream where a little, pale, stringy haired man was tapping at our window and waving a small sharp fingered hand.
🎃