Creepy Camille
Horror is embodied in the darkest fear man will ever encounter in his life, for it is the oldest fear of mankind and one that is imbedded deep within the minds of ordinary people. To comprehend the extent of its lingering effects, it is necessary to realize that horror is not beholden to the truth, nor incumbent to its characterization.
For that reason, it cannot be imposed by time. Time is only a mere witness of its evolving occurrences, but it cannot be the actual essence of its abatement. In every person there is evil, as there is good in this world. The question that I pose to the reader is simple in form, what do you call an evil that was thus created by people?
Within the Appalachian Mountains, beyond the old mines of the cobalt moonstones that have remained a vestige of the past is a haunting mystery enveloped, by the marked pathway of engraved footfalls exposed. It is said by the proud, local people of the area that a terrifying spectral being of unspeakable terror lurks within the wide woodlands, with a gripping appearance that spooks instantly, those who dare to enter the darkness of hell, below the fading twilight of those towering mountains of imposition.
The mountains that swallow the souls of mankind and conceal the secrets of a family's madness. These are the real legends of the Appalachians. It is where the daffodils once blossomed, and the strong breeze brushes the nectar, as she gradually walks upon the crackling leaves barefoot, dressed in the familiar garments of crimson blood, from the blanched pallor of her macabre disappearance.
She treads over the wrought soil of the earth composed. Her memory is desecrated sadly, by the cold rigidity of her parent's negligence, and she roams among the encroaching realm of the drear shadows that protrude over the isolated cove at Dragon's Tooth. If you enter these isolated woods, you do at your discretion but know that you enter with the utmost peril. You run the risk of meeting Creepy Camille.
This story begins in the year of 1928, when I was driving my automobile down a lone road that was covered, by the thick patch of fog that was emerging onto the forest ahead. My name is Charles Sunderland, a journalist and native from New York. I had been traveling extensively, through the vast area of the Roanoke County of Virginia. I was expected to meet and interview a surviving Confederate soldier, by the name of Chester McDaniel. Our meeting was to be at his abode that was located in an isolated part of the Catawba Valley, surrounded by a rural enclave of houses that had appeared to be like dilapidated shafts.
The road was connected to the towns and places of Blacksburg, Daleville, Tinker Cliff, and Cove Mountain. The steep rugged area had numerous creeks and trails, narrow pathways that were very conspicuous to the human eye. The native Cherokee and Shawnee had once dwelled in these open lands, with their ancestral spirits.
The whole range of the Appalachian had included the Black Mountains, the Great Craggy Mountains, and the Great Balsam Mountains. It was the home to what townsfolk called the redneck Hillbillies. These particular people were considered actual descendants of the first settlers that had moved into the area centuries ago from Europe. They had taken to the lifestyle of the country outback and its rusticity.
When I had finally reached Mr. McDaniel's residence upon my arrival that afternoon, he was sitting in a bench of a porch with his dog, waiting for me with a keen observation. He was an old man in his eighties tall and lanky in stature, and he spoke with a peculiar drawl that was distinctively noticeable.
He had proceeded to greet me, not with a cordial salutation at first, but with the ominous barrel of a rifle he was carrying in his right hand. I was not prepared at all, for this brazen act of inhospitality, but he quickly changed his demeanor with a smile, as to express and display his ironic wit.
Apparently, he was bluffing and wanted to play a harmless prank on me. Indeed, his strange behavior was an unexpected occurrence. He rose to his feet afterwards, to offer me a proper Appalachian welcome to the area.
"I bet I scared the bejesus out of you, mister! Not often that we get visitors in these parts of the country."
"Most certainly did, Mr. McDaniel. It is the first time that I have ever been welcomed to a home by a rifle. I am Charles Sunderland."
"We countryfolk here are always ready to welcome kindly strangers mister, but one can never tell, when he'll come across a crafty rascal. Especially, with all the critters roaming about Dragon's Tooth."
I was a bit puzzled by what he was alluding too at first, "You mean mammals such as deer, black bears, beavers, chipmunks, squirrels, bats, weasels, hawks, warblers?"
"I see you've not been to Dragon's Tooth yet. Maybe, it is wise that you don't ask, what I'm talking about mister. In these parts, there are things that are best kept a secret or never known to one!"
I had insisted, "Are you referring to the supernatural, Mr. McDaniel?"
''I reckon that all depends on what you call the supernatural, mister.''
I dismissed his ironic wit for the moment and had concentrated on what had brought me to his residence, my interview. I had mentioned to him that I was a journalist.
The interview would take place nearby his cabin, in front of his porch. I had no real objection and followed him. My general impression of him was that he had appeared to be a loquacious fellow and enjoyed company. I had intended to only stay for the interview.
However, something unforeseen would alter my plans suddenly. I had an intuitive sense that there was a mysterious presage that I had perceived, surrounding my visit. I had learned through my personal experience that people are not always, what they seem to be in appearance and behavior.
''Mr. McDaniel, from my understanding, you were at the battle of Gettysburg?''
''That is true. I was there in the battlefield with my fellow brethren.
''Which regiment did you belong to, Mr. McDaniel?''
''The 9th Virginia Infantry of the Armistead's Brigade, under the order of General Lewis Armistead himself.''
''You were a brave man to have survived that battle and live to tell another day.''
''I reckon so, but we countryfolk from Roanoke County Virginia of the Catawba Valley, are proud southerners that don't bow to no Yankee, pardon my expression, mister.''
''It must have been terrible to have witnessed the carnage that had occurred on that day.''
''I reckon so. There isn't a day that don't go by that I don't remember my fallen brethren. I had to kill many men to survive, but as you can see in these parts of the country, one has got to survive.''
''How do you feel now after all those years have passed? Do you regret anything about that battle?'' I had asked him.
''I sorely regret that General Lee wasn't mighty ambitious to send those Yankees skedaddling after Gettysburg.''
''But you realize Mr. McDaniel, the south would have eventually lost the war.''
He looked straight into my eyes and had reproached me, ''You'll not find any true southerner that will ever say that the war was lost. For if he did, he would be fibbing.''
His wife Almira who I had not met earlier had interrupted the conversation, by summoning him to eat. I could sense the genuine veracity in the conviction of his words when speaking about the Civil War, although I had disagreed with him. His candor was not to be overestimated nor questioned one bit. He had kindly invited me to stay to eat, and I had acquiesced, since I still had an interview to finish.
We sat down together. I did not want to offend him, so I joined him at the dinner table that was prepared by his gracious wife. She was also an elderly person and southern in her attitude. Her straight hair was long and grey, and she was a stout woman with a fair complexion, much like Mr. McDaniel. In fact, she and her husband had represented the old spirit of rustic Virginia.
''People here might be impoverished, white hillbillies that speak their dialect and live in cabins, but we like it that way,'' declare, Mr. McDaniel.
''A quiet life I imagine. It is much different than the noisy rambles of New York.''
''We call our place here hollers.''
''Hollers,'' I asked.
''A holler is a remote area, mister.''
''What would you like to taste? The Misses has prepared some corn bread, biscuits, taters, gravy, stew, dumplings.''
''I'll just take some biscuits with gravy and stew.''
''There is no better stew than the Misses from here to Chattanooga and Huntsville. Every fixing that woman makes is delicious.''
''Excuse my ignorance, but what is a fixing?''
''It is just a portion of food,'' Mrs. McDaniel had replied.
''I understand. I suppose I need to travel more in the south to learn more about southern hospitality.''
''I was looking at your automobile there. That's a fancy one you've got mister. Not the kind to ball-hoot in these parts,'' Mr. McDaniel said.
''Ball-hoot?''
''It means to drive recklessly fast on rural roads mister,'' Mrs. McDaniel had interjected.
''I see.''
It had been a long time, since I had been invited to a good homemade meal, and I was not expecting to be treated as a token guest. After all, I had only intended to spend the afternoon there at their home, then depart. In all my years of doing research and investigation as a journalist, I had never met people quite like the McDaniels.
It was the first time that I had ever been in this area of the country, and it made me feel somewhat uncomfortable. Access to good roads leading to their home were extremely hard to find. I was eager to continue the interview about his days as a former Confederate soldier, but he was more interested in discussing life in the Appalachians. He spoke in depth about his infancy with a fond affection and how he had enjoyed hunting with his father.
''I would spend as a boy with my daddy hunting varmints, such as boomers and whistle pigs. I would shoot one of them with a pokestoke, or a single shot.''
''What are boomers and whistle pigs, Mr. McDaniel?''
''Those are what you northerners call squirrels and ground hogs.''
''I wonder what else is out there in those woods that are waiting to be snatched. When is the last time you caught a whistle pig?''
'There're different breeds of them. Been a while.''
''What about a wolf?''
''I ain't seen one in a coon's age, everhow I reckon that in a right cold morning, you must see one howling about beyond yonder blue. Nowadays, it's chancy. I would tell my Camille that you don't go messing, with those nasty critters.''
''Camille? Who is she?'' I had enquired.
He paused then had answered, ''My daughter.''
''Where is she?''
''She's no longer with us, the living mister.''
''I am so sorry to hear. I give my condolences to you. How did she die? How long ago has she been dead?''
''Dead...she's not dead, mister. She's just gone. She got up one day and left to never return to the cabin.''
''Where to?''
''That I reckon only the Appalachians really know. I like never went to sleep that night. I knew what I'd done and boy it like scared me to death, that younging was a devilish girl.''
''Devilish, what do you mean by that?''
''I mean she was possessed by the devil himself.''
''Possessed. You mean physically?'' I asked.
''Everwhat you wish to call it, we here know all too well about the devil's tail and Dragon's Tooth.''
''I don't believe in superstitions, Mr. McDaniel.''
''That here sounds mighty quare to the folk here. You best be afeard; cause Camille is no booger. She's a real menace, if you find her.''
''You speak as if she is still alive. Is she then, Mr. McDaniel?''
''I don't chew my cabbage twice. I rather not have to encounter her again. We're Christian folk here mister, and we follow the teachings of the lord. We don't do the devil's work.''
His words were more of a stern admonition to heed. In spite of that, I was curious to learn more about his daughter Camille. He was reluctant to continue the conversation about her. When I had wanted to know more, he told me it was better that we discussed the events of the war. Thus, we did and once we had finished, he thanked me for coming and sent me on my way. There was a certain urgency in him that I was not keen on detecting at first.
All that I knew was the fact that he was rather skittish to talk about Camille. Whatever had happened between them, only he could know the truth, I thought. It was apparent that whatever act that was committed by her was despicable and evil to him. To imagine a father casting out his daughter and forsaking her to a dire condemnation was unfathomable. I had wished him well and had bid my farewell from the McDaniel's cabin.
It was close to the late afternoon, and I did not get far in my departure from the area. As I was driving just a mile away, I ran into a road block suddenly that was not there before. Someone had intentionally put it there I suspected, even though I did not have solid evidence to prove that theory of mine. It was hard to believe that it was just there by casual incidence. I had decided to try another dirt road, but I got lost in my useless attempt.
The mountains were steep and rugged, with thick trees, creeks, trails and narrow pathways imbedded. Eventually, I had ended up before a lone cove within an enclave, uncertain of where to go next. I got out of my automobile and was forced to search by foot for the nearest exit road.
Amid the trees and cliffs, I sought my route, but to no avail. I knew that the main road had connected to the towns of Blacksburg and Daleville. I did not know was how far was that road from where I was at. While I was standing before the cove that had a sign saying Dragon's Tooth, I had discovered a cave. I had come across the famous Dragon's Tooth that Mr. McDaniel had told me. There I had heard a deep breathing coming directly from inside.
I did not know, if I was listening to an animal or a person in some form of distress. The thought of it being an animal had made me become cautious. For some unknown reason I was drawn to the cave and had decided to get closer. As I did, the breathing had intensified. I went back to my automobile and had grabbed my pistol which I had always carried, in case of being assaulted or robbed.
Afterwards, I had returned to the cave, and the breathing was still active and profound. I thought to myself, who could be behind the unusual breathing? I would not have to wait any longer for the suspense to reveal to me, the horrific nature and encounter with Creepy Camille.
I could sense that whoever or whatever was inside of the cave was observant of my presence. That was an eerie presentiment to fathom, nevertheless, I was very cognizant of that strange realization. I began to walk backwards instinctively, holding my gun in my right hand. I was prepared for the worse, since I was not certain of what was lurking inside the cave.
Thereafter, a wild thing came rushing abruptly, and it had tried to attack me. It had knocked me to the ground, before scurrying away into the trees barefoot. I had managed only to see its devilish sable eyes and raven hair, but it was enough to spook me into a rapid chill.
It had seemed to be human, a woman disheveled and wild. Immediately, I had entered the cave to discover that somebody had been living inside, under such atrocious conditions. Then, I had left the cave and followed the tracks of the wild woman into the woodlands, hoping to locate her. I had searched and searched, but she was nowhere to be found. Who was this solitary woman, and why was she living there all alone unattended?
Whoever she was, she was definitely not pleased that I had stumbled onto her. As I had walked, I thought for a brief moment, could this wild woman be Mr. McDaniel's lost daughter Camille? If so, then I had solved the mystery of her whereabouts. Yet, it did not answer the question, what had truly happened to her to have caused the ire of her father and consequently, her exile? It was a cruelty to punish one for their mistakes or sins, especially when no man was entitled to play God.
After being unable to find her within the vicinity, I made the conscious decision to return to my automobile and to the home of Mr. McDaniel. Perhaps, he could direct me to another road out of the Appalachians. Fortunately, I was about to return, but what I would discover upon my return would be shocking and disconcerting. It was approximately 5 o'clock, when I had reached his cabin again.
He was inside, when I had knocked on the front door. He had answered it with a puzzling look on his face, as if wondering why I had returned. His reaction naturally was not confusing to me. It was to be expected. I was more concerned with him helping me get back onto the road than what he had to say to me.
''Mr. Sunderland, what brings you back to my cabin? Did you forget something?''
''I got lost on the road, Mr. McDaniel. For some apparent reason, the road I came was blocked off. You wouldn't know why?''
''I reckon I don't quite know.''
''Could you please take me onto another road?''
''It's getting mighty late to be out in the Appalachians mister. I reckon it would be better, if you stayed the night and I could take you then tomorrow early in the morning, rise and shine. We'd have to go up the road a piece to get on the main road. Mister, it's good that you aren't plum crazy''.
''I would rather we go now, but if you think it's best to wait, then I am willing to spend the night here.''
We went inside the cabin, where I was greeted by Mrs. McDaniel. She was happy to see me and had prepared me my room. When we were seated at the table, I had mentioned to them both that I had stumbled onto a cave in the area known as Dragon's Tooth, where I was attacked by a wild woman.
The mere mention of her was enough to startle and unnerve them into a celeritous consternation. I could see that clearly in their reactions genuinely emoted. They began to ask me particular questions about what I knew or saw. I had told them in my narrative, how my encounter with her had occurred. They were eager to hear more details that I could elaborate.
I, on the other hand was eager to know, if that woman was indeed their estranged daughter. The truth would be to me a disturbing revelation that would explicate the unspeakable outcome. The McDaniel's dog started to bark and had alerted us of her presence. The commotion had stirred the night abruptly, with a blinding wrath. It was a haunted precursor to the arrival of Creepy Camille.
Through the ominous woods she had appeared undaunted, like a ferocious wind unleashed by the devil. The dog that was sensitive to sound and movement undoubtedly, could perceive that she was coming in our direction. The McDaniels also had the same perception, and they were aware of her diabolical presence, but there was nothing that would save them tonight from her ire.
We all rose to our feet. Mr. McDaniel went for his rifle, while Mrs. McDaniel for her cross. I stood in awe of the situation, incredulous to the events that were unfolding before my eyes.
''What is going on, Mr. McDaniel?'' I asked.
''No time to be yeller, for she's a coming, son.''
''Who?'' I had insisted.
''The devil's daughter?''
''You are not making any sense. Who is coming?''
''Camille, my daughter!'' He had ejaculated.
''Why?''
''No time to be yapping son. You've better grab a rifle like me and be ready mister. She's a coming I tell you.''
''Who is she coming for?''
''For all of us!''
''Then it is true, the wild woman in the cave is your daughter, Camille.''
''Yes!''
It was the sober confirmation at last that I had pondered, and that Mr. McDaniel had attempted to avoid. It was not only perturbing to grasp, but it was even more sickening to accept. How could a father cast her daughter off for so many years, or ostracize her to the Appalachians so harshly? Whatever had caused him to do that would eventually bring his and Mrs. McDaniel's doom.
The wind had caused the shutters to flap back and forth. Ultimately, it would shatter the glass of the windows completely. The table had shaken as well, as the other furniture inside the cabin. Silverware was tossed to the ground, and the walls were pounded. Mrs. McDaniel began to pray in the name of Jesus, while Mr. McDaniel held firm to his rifle in anticipation. I could only just watch, as the terror had incremented by the passing minute.
''What does she want?'' I asked Mr. McDaniel.
''Son, she wants our soul!'' He had declared.
''How do we stop her?''
''There's nothing we can do but hope that the good lord spares our souls.''
''She is human like us,'' I said.
''Son, she may appear to be human, but she's the devil's daughter,'' he had replied.
''You should have never gone to Dragon's Tooth,'' said Mrs. McDaniel.
I could see the immense intensity in the eyes of Mr. McDaniel, as he made that foreboding utterance to me. The dog had continued to bark even more, and the wind blew even louder. Suddenly, through the front door that was opened Creepy Camille had entered. She had stood before us barefoot, dressed in a white evening gown, covered in the dripping blood with soot and grime of the Appalachians.
The only thing that could be seen of her face, were her piercing eyes that had demonstrated her insanity. Whatever hell she had originated from, she was no apparition at all, for she was human in stature. Her deep breathing and appearance had discomposed me for a moment, until I was able to regain my composure; despite the unbelievable occurrence that was transpiring.
It was then that Mrs. McDaniel was calling on her daughter to forgive them for what they had done to her. Mr. McDaniel had told Camille to leave the house at once, but Camille had other plans. She came for the souls of those that had condemned to her eternal exile. She had lunged at Mr. McDaniel, as he tried to shoot her unsuccessfully. They struggled on the floor, until he had succumbed to her scratches and pounding. Mrs. McDaniel seeing what had happened to her husband tried to run away from her daughter, but she did not get that far. Camille had caught her, as she reached the door and exacted the same punishment that she had done to her father.
Within a matter of minutes, they both had laid dead on the floor, victims to the vengeance of their lunatic daughter. Just when I thought I would be her next victim, she had spared my life. She had looked at me for a moment, then she left to return to the shelter of the Appalachians.
Verily, I do not know why she had decided to spare me, and I did not meet the same fate, as her self-righteous parents. Perhaps, it was because I was not involved in her forlornness and banishment, or perhaps it was only a mere coincidence that I did not consequently perish upon the day.
Whatever was the reason, the result was that I had lived to tell of this horrid tale of sheer fright and disbelief. After returning to New York, I thought about Camille and her cruel misfortune. If she only had received treatment and unconditional love from her parents, she would have not been ostracized or deemed evil.
I do not deny that there is evil in this world, but Camille was the product of the evil of her parents, not of the devil. She was wild, due to the fact that I had discovered afterwards, to a mental illness that had afflicted her since her tragic birth. She was not diagnosed in time or cured. Thus, she was forever to roam the endless Appalachians, as Creepy Camille.
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