Free Ancient History by CW Hawes Page A

our wet tent, and in the drizzle trekked on to the logging camp. The clouds were low and occasionally touched the ground, giving the road and forest a surreal shroud of white. The towering pines did nothing to alleviate the somber mood cast by the dreary day and even heightened it by obscuring much of the dim light that was available.
    An hour into our day, Garth and I reached the camp. It was situated a few hundred feet off the road, a rusty gate was across the driveway into the camp. The gate was no longer locked and from the look of the chain and padlock, it hadn’t been for years. The “Keep Out” sign was hanging by a bolt in one corner, the paint nearly all worn off. The exposed metal was covered in rust.
    “Who owns this, Ron?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “Sure it’s okay to be here?”
    “Nobody here but us.”
    His face told me that wasn’t the answer he wanted. “When was the last time this place had workers in it?”
    “Don’t know for sure. I think it was ’54. If some company did logging after that, I don’t know about it. Let’s get out of the rain.” I pushed open the gate, the hinges screamed in protest, and I walked in. The drive was mud and weeds. Even some young saplings. Garth followed me.  
    I walked to the building that I remembered was the barracks. The door was gone. I stepped inside the doorway, Garth right behind me. Light filtered in through dirty windows. The floor was littered with animal droppings. The building was a simple frame affair. No ceiling. Just the roof overhead and water streaming down from it in a dozen different places.
    “Not very inviting, Ron. I’d almost rather pitch the tent outside.”
    “Yeah. Let’s check out the dining hall.”
    We walked to the next building over. At least the door was closed. I turned the knob and pushed the door open. The light coming through the grimy windows was dim.  
    “This place looks better,” Garth said. “Still think I’d like to set up the tent.” As if to emphasize his point, a drop of water hit my hand.
    “Sounds like a plan.”
    We set our backpacks down. I took out a flashlight, turned it on, and played the beam around the large room. Long tables and wooden folding chairs. Row upon row of them.
    “When did they log here, Ron?”
    “Mostly the Forties, I think. For the war. And, as I said, I think the last logging was done in ’54.”
    “Why’d they stop?”
    “Ghosts.”
    “What did you say?”
    “Ghosts. Logging stopped after the war. Sometime around ’48 or ’49. In ’52, two brothers from Waupeton were seen getting into a black ’49 Studebaker Land Cruiser Sedan. Their bodies were found here. Sexually assaulted and murdered. Their killer or killers were never found and when logging resumed in ’53, the owners couldn’t keep workers. The men claimed they saw ghosts. There was even a murder. One of the loggers killed a buddy. They’d had a fight earlier in the day and the next morning one of them was dead. The other one said it was the ghost who did it. Of course no one believed him and he was convicted. That was in ’54 and the logging company threw in the towel soon after.”
    “Where were the boys’ bodies found?”
    “They weren’t boys. They were in their late teens or early twenties, if I recall.”
    “Seems odd they weren’t able to defend themselves.”
    “It does, doesn’t it? Their bodies were found in the barracks.”
    A look of relief flitted across Garth’s face.
    “Come on, Ron, let’s set up the tent.”
    We took off our ponchos and pushed a few tables out of the way, then put up the tent. The time was one in the afternoon, but little light filtered its way though the windows. We set up two lanterns to dispel the gloom.
    “Ready for lunch?” I asked.
    “Sure, Ron, although I’d like to get out of these pants. The poncho didn’t help much to keep my legs below the knees from getting wet.”
    “Go ahead and change. I’ll get the Sterno stove going and changing sounds like