On 18 November in the year 1814, the British had occupied eastern Maine, making bold claims to the district east of the Penobscot River, under the behest of the British Empire. The fierce invasion had embarked from Halifax in Nova Scotia, Canada, and the force had consisted of regiments of British regulars and a company of the Royal Artillery, commanded by the Lieutenant Governor of Nova Scotia, Major General John Sherbrooke.
Fortunately, the local militia was incapable of defending the district, and the few soldiers from the American Army were unsuccessful in their attempt. Thus, the Lieutenant Governor issued a stern proclamation to the populace that if they did not interfere, they would be granted protection as British subjects. The defeats at the Battle of Hampden and the sacking of Bangor had been enough to impose upon the will of the Americans for the nonce.
The towns of Frankfort, Brewer and Orono had their provisions confiscated, but there was something beyond the battlefields or the Americans that the British would ultimately encounter—and be horrified by. I was an actual witness to the ghastly appearance of the being that walks amongst the living, shrouded in the dripping blood of the undead. To the native tribes, she is known as the Skadegamooch.
My name is Walter Cummings, an English soldier from the British Regulars, and I survived the brutal attack of this foul creature. I was the lone survivor of the 89th Regiment out of 250 men who had started the journey with me from Canada. I do not know how I survived and was able to return to the fort where my regiment had been lodging, except to say that my life was spared, not by the creature, but by blind fate. I had been traipsing through the labyrinth of endless rows of thick patches of trees, lost and lorn in my flight from the menacing witch that had pursued me in the forest.
Her terror was unabatable and did not diminish in intensity; she stalked me with such an unremitting ferocity. Whatever evil attacked us was no evil that I nor any other man had ever seen before. Whatever its true guise, it was not from any natural thing created. It was demonic, and it was the harbinger of death. Any mortal man to cross its path would confront its sheer devilry.
I was extremely fortunate to escape the horrendous carnage and live to tell my story intact. Not even the cold days of the bitter winter were more daunting than the Nosferatu that had killed my fellow comrades with savage and ravenous thirst. When I reached the fort at last, I was immediately questioned by my superiors about what had actually befallen me.
Their interest was in knowing where the other men were, and how I survived to return to the fort alone. I was evidently still affected and astounded by what had occurred back in the forest and town of Bangor, and I myself was not even certain of what had transpired, except to state that it was an unnatural force of evil that no man would ever desire to meet.
The fact that the witch had pursued me in the forest did not assuage my angst, and although I was within the protection of the fort, it did not mean that she could not come for me. I did not doubt her immense power and influence upon me, or the ruthlessness of her attacks.
The only thing I knew for certain was that no one would believe my actual version of events disclosed, including the Major General. To candidly acknowledge that it was something diabolical in nature that had killed the rest of the company of men would be interpreted as sheer madness or a fanciful imagination on my part.
On one hand, I was cognisant of the fact that no one would believe me; on the other hand, I knew I had to reveal the horrendous truth in a manner in which my testimony would eventually be credible. When I was questioned, while seated, I could hear her irrepressible murmurs calling out my name clearly, as she tempted me with her feminine persuasion. I had to control my thoughts and suppress her murmurs before the Major General would notice my queer comportment.
I made the conscious decision at that moment to replace the vampiric mistress of the forest with a terrifying wild animal that could be presumed to be from the general area, rather than dare to utter 'vampire'. I had no other choice, since to speak the truth would condemn me to the four walls of a madhouse or worse—to the horrible fate of execution for desertion, I felt. My fate was hanging by a thread and I was uncertain of what course of action would be taken against me.
Although there are sundry cases of men who have been the lone survivors of their regiments in wars, the thought that I was the only one to survive and return to the fort was simply uncommon and rare. This, I felt, was what was disturbing to the Major General and my fellow soldiers.
I was repeatedly asked to describe in precise detail what exactly had occurred to the other men who perished at the hands of that bloody witch. It would not be an easy endeavour for me to make my case, nor appeal to reason.
‘You said that a wild beast, in your observation, had killed the other soldiers who accompanied you?’ Asked the Major General.
‘Yes, sir!’ I replied.
‘What was this wild beast—a large bear or wolf?’
I shrugged my shoulders, then said, ‘To be honest, sir, I don’t know what it was, except to say that whatever it was, it was quick and deadly’.
‘Was it big in stature, from your observation?’
‘That I could not determine completely, sir, but it could have been!’
He was as perplexed as I was. ‘Private Cummings, unless you can give me more relevant information about the attacker, then I cannot know what to do with you’.
‘What do you mean, sir? I don’t quite understand’.
‘You return to the fort with no major scratches, no serious battle wounds that are visible from an attack. Obviously, you are fatigued from the long trip and demonstrate the wear and tear of being in the forest, but there is little evidence that supports your version of the story. I would hate to declare that you are a wretched deserter’.
I rose to my feet immediately to object. ‘Forgive me, sir, but I am no bloody deserter and I can prove it to you!’
I was ordered to sit, and I did. ‘Sit down, Private Cummings! You say you can prove it—how? I would be interested in hearing your explanation’.
‘I can escort you to Bangor, but I would rather not have you or any other man of the British regiments be slaughtered!’
The Major General stared at me. ‘What do you mean by that, Private? Your words confuse me’.
I clenched my fists, attempting to contain myself from uttering the name of the murderess, yet I could not conceal her identity any longer. ‘It was a she...a bloodsucking vampiric witch!’
The Major General was stupefied and incredulous to believe what I had professed in my confession to him. ‘A vampiric witch? Good God, have you gone mad, Private? In all my years of command, I have never heard such rubbish. Do you expect me to believe that fanciful tale of yours?’
‘For God’s sake, it is the truth, sir. You must believe me. I am not lying!’
It was then that one of the Wabanaki, by the name of Ahwesoos, from the local tribes who was assisting the British in the war, interjected, ‘He speaks of the Skadegamooch! He tells the truth!’
‘Skadegamooch? What is that?’ the Major General asked.
‘In our culture, she is the bloodsucker that roams the area from the forest in search of her victims’.
‘Bloodsucker? Do you mean a vampiress?’
‘That is what you call it in your tongue, but in ours, she is the Skadegamooch’.
‘Really? I can’t believe what I am hearing. Vampires do not exist. They are not real. They are only fabricated stories of mythology.’
‘The Skadegamooch is no myth, Major General. She is real’.
‘I don’t believe what you or the private are alleging, but there is one thing that I must discover, and that is the truth. It is my solemn duty. For that specific reason, I shall have you and the private escort a regiment of men to Bangor’.
He looked at me and said in a stern tone, with his authoritative voice, ‘I warn you, Private Cummings, if you are found to be a deserter, you shall be punished in accordance with my jurisdiction. I shall have you shot for desertion or locked up for life in a prison to rot away. Is that clear?’
'Yes, sir!'
The conviction in the Major General was visibly palpable, and I knew that his words were no idle threat to be dismissed so foolishly. He was a man with much influence and prestige to be reckoned with, and I was only a private. I knew of this contrast between us and could not allow myself to be rattled so easily by his authority. Therefore, I was confronted with the dire dilemma of having to not only prove what I had avowed openly in my averment, but to encounter afresh the hideous beast that had almost killed me just recently.
Regrettably, I had no other option afforded to me that was reasonably of my chosen volition or inclination. I was a man that did not believe in supernatural beings, yet whatever had attacked the others was of no natural essence or existence. It was pointless to resist her spell over me. She had haunted me every day since my arrival back at the fort. It was at night that she had terrorised my mind, and I knew as well that she would be there in Bangor.
Nevertheless, I chose to return to Bangor and confront what the Wanabaki native had called with his own admission, the Skadegamooch. It would be a return in which I alone was the sole witness to the massacre that had befallen the other men of my regiment.
This time, I would not be the lone witness to survive her brutal and lethiferous attack. The night for me was spent in the solitude of my barracks, experiencing a sequence of similar nightmares. It was impossible for me to forget the horrific image of the carnage and the guise of the Skadegamooch.
In the last nightmare I was in the forest all alone, scurrying, when the menacing witch had followed me surreptitiously. A wide fog had spread and surrounded the circumjacence. The terrifying howls of the wolves that resounded had begun to irritate my ears. Blood had covered my shirt, as the cold wind had caused me to shiver. There was no one nearby to shout for succour.
No one could hear my unsettling voice plead. Fatigue had worn my feet, and I could not go ahead any longer. My heartbeat had increased with every second that elapsed. When I stopped to regain my breath, I was confronted with the indelible image of the witch that was the Skadegamooch. Her penetrating sable eyes illuminated a mesmerising spell that had prevented me from fleeing.
I was at the mercy of her jagged fangs and deafening screech. That was the last thing I recalled from the nightmare. I woke up with sudden chills and perspiration. After several minutes had elapsed, I knew I had only been dreaming. The thing that lingered in my mind was, what had happened to me before I passed out in the forest, as I sought shelter from her attack?
All I remembered was waking up beside a riverbank drenched in blood, nothing more. Why was I the only one to survive, or worse, why was I spared? I had so many questions to ask, but few answers to solve. We embarked upon the following morning, with the order given by the Major General, who had instructed Sergeant Powers to lead the regiment that would accompany the Wanabaki and me to Bangor.
As to be expected, the Major General was not convinced of my dubious narrative and had implied already that he would not hesitate to not only disprove me, but worse, punish me for desertion. We had taken caution and observance upon the dusty roads of rusticity, knowing that there were still small pockets of American resistance in the general vicinity. I knew the daunting peril that was awaiting us upon the return to Bangor, but I was powerless to avoid the bloodbath that would occur once we had reached the town.
No man could ever imagine such a dreadful being in existence, nor could he assume the consequences of such an evil nature unfolding before him. The devil had unleashed his maiden of horror, seeking to condemn us to the sins of the past. When we finally arrived at Bangor, what we encountered was a grisly gore that few men have ever witnessed ere, except me. There were British soldiers strewn across the gardens of houses, stone dead and unmovable.
They appeared to be stiff corpses and were indeed the transparent remnants of my regiment that had been brutally murdered. The evidence was undeniably cruel and had shocked Sergeant Powers; even the Wanabaki, who had forewarned us of the Skadegamooch, was affected by the horrendous scene.
Nothing could truly prepare the sergeant for what he had witnessed. He ordered the men to search for any possible survivors or present denizens who could be potential witnesses to this macabre spectacle. I knew that there were no men alive, and the Wanabaki had known this tragic circumstance as well.
'I want all men to search for survivors or locals to question!'
'You will not find any survivors, sergeant!' The Wanabaki interjected.
'What are you talking about, Wanabaki? Do you know something that we do not?' the sergeant queried.
'I am telling you, sergeant, that you are wasting your time if you think you will find any survivors'.
He was sceptical and did not quite understand the utterance of the Wanabaki.
'What killed your men was not human but supernatural in origin. It is a nightly devourer of endless blood'.
'Do you expect me to believe that version of your story?'
'Whether you believe me is not important, sergeant. What is important is these men are all dead! If you want to catch their killer, then I can help you. If not, I will return to my people'.
'He is correct, sir. I have seen this Skadegamooch in person!' I stated.
'Are you telling me that an unnatural witch that drinks human blood is the culprit of this massacre?'
I nodded and replied, 'Yes, sir'.
'I can't believe you!'
'I know it sounds strange, but it is the truth. Whatever this bloody thing is called, it attacked us without warning'.
'Now is not the time to deal with foolish stories, private. I have strict orders to adhere to, and I shall execute them at whatever cost permitted'.
I did not envy the position the sergeant was in, nor did I desire to be discredited in my account of the events that had befallen the men who perished. I had no other recourse than to make him believe that there was at least an attacker, and that the possibility of some unknown creature or beast was still behind the murders.
He had no other choice but to proceed with his orders. He was not a facile man to convince, nor was he a firm believer in the preternatural, yet he had to discover the veracity of the horrifying fate that transpired in Bangor. No one was present in the town; no American could be located. It seemed they had either met the same fate as our cadent men, or they had mysteriously disappeared into the enveloping mist of the forest.
Whatever the case, it would have to wait for the nonce, until the Skadegamooch was destroyed. Every inch of the town was meticulously searched, but no sign of the attacker was found. The morbid irony was that we would not have to search far, for the attacker would find us, and it would not be a welcome invitation.
At around ten o'clock that night, the Skadegamooch would claim her next victims and quench her diabolical thirst with a ravenous bite unmatched. A thick patch of fog had encompassed the environs, as a pack of howling wolves was heard obstreperously in the distance, accompanying the stealthy footprints of the nocturnal demon.
The branches of the cedar trees swayed back and forth with the ominous birr, and the twigs below crackled, as if someone was treading upon them unannounced. The temperature abruptly dropped considerably, and I sensed her cold breath coming from the direction of the nearby forest. The Wanabaki perceived this also, with his keen sentience. Sergeant Powers noticed our odd behaviour and queried:
'What are you two thinking? I want to know'.
'We'd better make a fire. She is coming', said the Wanabaki.
'Who in bloody hell are you talking about?'
'The Skadegamooch!'
Unfortunately, the sergeant did not heed the Wanabaki's stern admonition. He simply discarded his words, and he would deeply regret that fatal decision to not light a fire as was suggested. He ordered the men to advance boldly towards the forest to investigate, but the fog was too thick for the men to see clearly what was advancing.
Thus, the inevitable transpired. Once the men reached the forest, a swift burst of a powerful force grasped them through the fog, with a deadly aftermath. It was the Skadegamooch. She violently attacked the men, killing them all and sucking their life within minutes. It was a vivid slaughter. The audible screams of the men were haunting, followed by a strepent screech I had heard before. I was aware of her capability and sinister craving, but Sergeant Powers was not.
All he knew was that his men were being murdered. The culprit was the unnameable, something he could never fathom, nor defeat with mortal ingenuity.
'What in the bloody hell is going on here?' He vociferated.
'You were warned, sir. For God's sake, light the fire before it is too late and we perish under her merciless thirst!'
'I'll put a bullet in her head before she kills me', the sergeant brashly uttered.
'You cannot kill the Skadegamooch with a bullet or a thousand bullets, Sergeant Powers!' the Wanabaki declared.
He lit a fire, whilst the men were being murdered. 'Fire is the only thing that will destroy her!'
Immediately sensing the Skadegamooch advancing towards us, he gave the sergeant and me a torch lit with blazing fire. It was not enough to destroy the evil one, but it was enough to make her halt her celeritous attack and flee from the fire for the rest of the night.
In the end, after the mist of clouds had dissipated and the Skadegamooch disappeared, we were then reduced to three individuals: Sergeant Powers, the Wanabaki, and me. None of us, the survivors, could have predicted that we would lose a whole regiment in one night.
I was not even certain that the others or I would be spared her wrath, not meeting the same terrible fate as our fallen men. The thought in my mind was to destroy the Skadegamooch, but Sergeant Powers wanted to capture her. Neither the Wanabaki nor I thought it was prudent to attempt such a daring plan of provocation.
'I want that thing, whatever it is, captured and taken back to the fort to be executed. We cannot allow it to go free any longer'.
'Pardon me, Sergeant Powers, how do you expect to capture the Skadegamooch?' I asked.
‘This time we shall be the hunters and that thing the prey, private’.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Tonight, we shall prepare an ambush! She will be captured this night!’
‘Sergeant Powers, you do realise we are only now three men. We have lost a whole regiment in one night. Would it not be wiser to return to the fort alive? You have already seen what has happened to the men’.
‘I am fully cognisant of that fact, private. Nevertheless, we shall not leave Bangor until we apprehend her’.
He looked at the Wabanaki and asked his opinion, ‘You are from these parts of the country. What do you recommend we should do?’
‘I think you should prepare yourself for death. You can return and save your life, or be bold enough to defy your death’, said the Wabanaki.
‘Which of the two options do you think I should choose, Wabanaki?’
‘We Wabanakis do not fear death or the Skadegamooch’.
‘Neither do we, the British!’
The night before the ambush was one of silence and dread. We worked in near darkness, the flicker of lanterns casting elongated shadows on the frostbitten ground. Sergeant Powers paced relentlessly, his eyes gleaming with a wild obsession, mumbling plans under his breath as we stacked hay and prepared torches, each soaked in oil.
The Wabanaki, in his quiet way, moved like a shadow, marking trees with strange symbols I could not decipher, whispering chants I dared not interrupt. I watched him smear what looked like crushed herbs and the sap of pine along the perimeter of our trap.
'What is that for?' I finally asked, my voice trembling despite my attempt at calm.
'To confuse her senses', he answered without looking at me. 'She is clever, but nature has its ways to blind even the wicked'.
Private Cummings, my hands shook as I tied the last bundle of hay, the air so cold it felt as though even the night itself was watching. The sky was thick with pregnant clouds, and the smell of impending snow mixed with the iron tang of old blood. Every noise—the crunch of footsteps, the caw of distant crows—made my heart jump. Sergeant Powers barked at us to stay vigilant, though even he looked haunted by the ghosts of what had passed.
For a brief moment, I caught the Wabanaki staring into the darkness, his face unreadable. 'She is near', he whispered finally, the words settling over us like a curse. And so we waited, torches gripped in our hands, sweat and fear mingling on our brows, as the night stretched endlessly before us.
With the dawn of the sun came the cold and bitter morning. We were able to find a few labourers who were travelling through Bangor, and former slaves, to assist us in the burial of the deceased soldiers. They were paid for their utilitarian service and were allowed to continue their journey forth without any major interruption or imprisonment.
The snow had begun to fall upon the northern landscape, covering it in wintry snowflakes over the once bloodied ground. The awful stench of the blood was still manifest and fresh. It served as a stark vestige of the premonitory semblance of evil that had cursed the town, and it was not to be the last drops of blood poured in Bangor.
Sergeant Powers wanted to capture the Skadegamooch, and he had devised a plan. Even though we had discussed this plan, there was no guarantee of success nor the capture of the Skadegamooch. This ineffable witch was no foe ever seen or combated, yet we knew that she had to be stopped. I did not agree with Sergeant Powers’s plan. I acquiesced because I had no other choice. I was merely a private of conscription.
The Wabanaki did not believe we could capture the Skadegamooch either. I wondered deeply in my conscious thoughts whether we, the British and the Americans, were the monsters for having robbed their lands, rather than this foul creature of the night that hunted us.
He could have easily deceived us and led us to our deaths from the beginning; instead, he chose to assist us in destroying the wandering Skadegamooch. For what reason? When I asked him, he responded with a sharp remark, ‘I shall help you destroy the Skadegamooch, not to please your general or save your life. I shall help you be rid of her, for the sake of my people’.
‘You are a trustworthy man, Wabanaki. I admire your candour and bravery. It is a shame that the Americans and we have mistreated your people for decades. For that, I hope you can forgive my people. I know I don't speak on behalf of the Americans, but if Britain can regain her former colonies again, you shall have your tribal lands under your control’.
‘For years, those words have been hollow promises unfulfilled’, he declared, demonstrating his discontent and distrust.
I did not doubt his loyalty to the cause, but I was intrigued to know what his particular reason was for participating in this search. He had sided with the British during the war against the former colonists beginning in 1812. That was something I had questioned before the trip to Bangor.
If there was a unique trait he would always display, it was his keen insight. Among the three still standing, he was the only one who knew the area well enough to guide us effectively against our known enemies, including the Skadegamooch. He knew the familiar scent and the trails of the forest. He also knew when the Skadegamooch was nigh and skulking.
I have not yet revealed to the curious reader the complete description of the Skadegamooch, for there are no ordinary words to describe her wicked wantonness and terror. All that is pertinent are the distinct details of this account, which I disclose with my discretion.
When I do, you will regret me doing so. Therefore, know that amongst the living, the undead exist. Perhaps it is we mortals who are truly the vampires? When night fell, the peculiar fog resurfaced. The snow had halted before twilight arrived. It was very cold and damp, and the anticipation of the Skadegamooch had penetrated the core of our accumulating anxiety and garments.
We hid behind the giant stacks of hay we had gathered, although it was futile. The Skadegamooch was cleverer than us. She was awaiting us like a piercing wolf. Fire was the only way to destroy her. It was the assumption or the manner in which the Wabanaki legend foretold of her eventual demise. We had successfully driven her away the previous night using fire. Bullets were ineffective against her. There was not much we could utilise against her.
I was somewhat worried that the fallen snow would impede our rapid movement or the inflammable fire. The fog began to blur our vision directly. We were obviously at a clear disadvantage, but the hay had resisted the melting snow thankfully. All the while, as we hid, Sergeant Powers was occupied with the capture of the Skadegamooch. Unfortunately for him, he would not live to capture his intended prisoner, for he would perish before we could save his poor soul.
When the howling of the wolves was heard, the Wabanaki and I sensed her diabolical presence anew. It was the only time that Sergeant Powers would ever see her briefly. A swift force of a strong gust of wind brought her to us. There before us, standing erect, was the frightening Skadegamooch, with her long raven hair in a black gown drenched in crimson blood, dripping from her vampiric fangs.
Her pallid skin was covered with dried moss. Her hoary eyes illuminated through the patch of mist. She grabbed the sergeant and tore his heart out, killing him instantly. Then she devoured the heart before our eyes, as we witnessed this macabre display of inhumanity.
It seemed we would meet the same fate as Sergeant Powers. The Skadegamooch stared into our eyes, expecting our fear. Her thirst compelled her to kill us. The Wabanaki had made a scarecrow to trick the Skadegamooch, and it worked.
He had put the scent of human blood on it. She lunged at it, and when she did, he threw his fire at her and the scarecrow. He told me to do the same, and I did without hesitation. Quickly, the fire began to burn the witch, as she screeched in agony. In the end, she was reduced to specks of sizzling ashes that the wind carried away. The clouds of mist vanished, and the howling wolves ceased to echo.
The ashes of the Skadegamooch still smoldered when the first light of dawn touched the blood-stained snow. The forest, once deafening with howls and shrieks, now lay deathly silent, as though mourning the evil that had been burnt away. The Wabanaki and I stood there for a long moment, breathing heavily, staring at the charred remnants.
I knelt down, my gloved hand trembling as I sifted through the ashes, half-expecting her to rise again, to prove that true evil is never so easily destroyed. But she did not return.
The intimidating forest sang her plaintive dirge. It was over, and the Skadegamooch and her gripping spell were gone for good. That appeared to be the case. The Wabanaki perceived something strange in me, as we awoke and embarked the following day back to the fort. We were the only survivors to return. The harrowing struggle with the Skadegamooch had abated, but mine had just begun.
We buried Sergeant Powers’ mutilated body in silence, no prayers, no final rites. He was a man of war, and war had claimed him. As we finished, the Wabanaki placed a small totem on the grave—a protection, he said, for his spirit’s journey.
So many men had succumbed to her terrible terror and lost their lives unnecessarily. For me personally, the vivid encounter with the Skadegamooch would alter my life forever. History would not recall the massacres, yet I would never forget. The journey back to the fort was slow and heavy. I could feel something stirring within me, an itch beneath my skin, a gnawing hunger I did not understand. At dusk, as the sky blazed red.
When we arrived at the fort nearing the crepuscule that resurrected the darkness, he said his farewell. He departed as I entered the fort, where the Major General was expecting me.
He said to me, 'You feel it now, don’t you?' He asked quietly.
I said nothing, but my silence was answer enough.
'She marked you', he continued. 'You carry her curse. You are no longer just a man'.
He looked profoundly into my eyes and uttered, ‘Do what you must do. Let them know who you really are, Private Cummings’.
I was startled by his foreboding words. ‘Since when did you know?’
‘Since the very beginning. Have you forgotten, I am a Wabanaki. Go now’.
'Is there…is there a cure?' I asked, though the answer was already written on his face.
'No cure', he said. 'Only acceptance or denial of the truth'.
I shivered, not from the cold, but from the weight of his words. As the fort’s silhouette rose in the distance, the Wabanaki placed his hand on my shoulder, his gaze piercing mine. 'This is not the end for you, Private Cummings. It is only the beginning',
And with that, he turned and disappeared into the woods, leaving me alone with the setting sun and the dark hunger coiling within me.
He left, and I proceeded to enter the fort then, as it had been opened. I would never see the Wabanaki again, but I would sense his kindred presence, as he would sense mine. I was now of a special kind of species that knew the raw scent of death and blood.
What I had failed to mention before was the important fact that I purposely omitted: I had become a nocturnal Nosferatu afterwards, unwillingly. For decades, I would roam the forests of America, cursed by the witch that had converted me into her vile servant. I was mortal in the day and a monster at night. I learnt to accept who I was and what I had become.
I would walk with the living and the undead. There are numerous accounts of vampiric creatures throughout the countless folklores of Europe and America. If I had revealed to the reader that I was bitten by the Skadegamooch previously but had survived to live amongst the living and the undead, would the reader assume I was not mad?
Would it not be madness to believe in such superstitions, or are there really vampires and witches that exist beyond their legends, but the world does not even know of their absolute horror?
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