Feel free to skip, as this is FAR from Stephen King related, but after reading this groups comments earlier this am about the Monsters either under the bed, or in the closet I felt that some of you might actually believe in what's not there, and decided to write a not so short few paragraphs about something that has been in my head since long before i read My first King story. It requires a bit of backstory, and I'm far from a publishable writer, but hopefully it will entertain. I'm interested in hearing your comments. I was tempted to post it in a blog and simply link to it, but i'm not computer literate enough to figure that out.
The Factually <as factual as internet research can be> published history :
The land was occupied by the Wappo Tribe and their ancestors in prehistoric times. It was part of the historical Mexican Land Grant known as La Jota given to George Yount (1794-1865) who operated a sawmill on the property by about 1839. The mill operated only for a short time, before the land was sold to An Irish family named Moore, who had lived on the land during the 1840s. they later later sold it to the John Morris family in 1878 and they called the property Moore Creek Ranch. John Morris passed away in 1907 and his family sold the property to the Blake family in 1912.
Anita Blake and her husband constructed a cabin and used the land now the State Forest as their vacation property before donating it to the State in 1929. A Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) camp was established at Las Posadas in 1934, and following the close of the CCC program in 1941, the old camp was used as a forestry camp, and rebuilt as a California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection (CAL FIRE) fire station in the early 1950's.
The unpublished history collected from recounts of the history of the area and my own experiences :
This is one story of The lady in white. She watches from the shadows, a protector of the land. One can only ever catch a glimpse, but you need not be afraid, as she would never harm a child unless that child harms HER land.
Anita and her husband lived on the land despite the rumored history of accidents at the mill, and the previous owners' hurry to dispose of it's ownership.
At one time the shell of the stone residence of Anita Blake and her family was visited by campers. It was a hike destination until the early 70's. One day in the late 60's a pre-teen boy decided it would be fun to climb the trees while the rest of the campers were listening to the counselors tell the stories of the family and the history of the land. He was always climbing trees, and his parents were always warning him that "one day you'll pick the wrong one and you'll break your neck". He, being a typical child, continued to climb, but chose his trees carefully. He was always aware of the size of the branches - always picking those he felt were more than able to hold his minimal weight.
The Factually <as factual as internet research can be> published history :
The land was occupied by the Wappo Tribe and their ancestors in prehistoric times. It was part of the historical Mexican Land Grant known as La Jota given to George Yount (1794-1865) who operated a sawmill on the property by about 1839. The mill operated only for a short time, before the land was sold to An Irish family named Moore, who had lived on the land during the 1840s. they later later sold it to the John Morris family in 1878 and they called the property Moore Creek Ranch. John Morris passed away in 1907 and his family sold the property to the Blake family in 1912.
Anita Blake and her husband constructed a cabin and used the land now the State Forest as their vacation property before donating it to the State in 1929. A Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) camp was established at Las Posadas in 1934, and following the close of the CCC program in 1941, the old camp was used as a forestry camp, and rebuilt as a California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection (CAL FIRE) fire station in the early 1950's.
The unpublished history collected from recounts of the history of the area and my own experiences :
This is one story of The lady in white. She watches from the shadows, a protector of the land. One can only ever catch a glimpse, but you need not be afraid, as she would never harm a child unless that child harms HER land.
Anita and her husband lived on the land despite the rumored history of accidents at the mill, and the previous owners' hurry to dispose of it's ownership.
At one time the shell of the stone residence of Anita Blake and her family was visited by campers. It was a hike destination until the early 70's. One day in the late 60's a pre-teen boy decided it would be fun to climb the trees while the rest of the campers were listening to the counselors tell the stories of the family and the history of the land. He was always climbing trees, and his parents were always warning him that "one day you'll pick the wrong one and you'll break your neck". He, being a typical child, continued to climb, but chose his trees carefully. He was always aware of the size of the branches - always picking those he felt were more than able to hold his minimal weight.
That day he chose just as carefully, picking a branch to sit on that was thicker than his body, one that was thick enough that if it had been hollowed he could have climbed in to it. This tree sat slightly inside the clearing that contained the remains of Anita's cabin, Just close enough that he could listen to the counselors tell their story. When he reached the large branch jutting outward from the main torso of the tree he noticed grooves that we now know once held the ropes for a swing. A swing that Anita herself sat on with her infant child, swinging it to sleep. He casually listened to the counselors talk of her child that was taken from her while still an infant, now buried in the family plot "just over on the knoll". He listened to the story of the passing of the child, brutally taken by something wild, something that dug 3 inch grooves into the door of the Blake cabin, grooves that began nearly six feet off the ground.
Unfortunately for him, the counselor was not a good story teller and made the story seem fake, and made up, at least to him. Lack of enthusiasm for her tale led him to swing his legs and move around the branch yet it never swayed, it never bent or moved. He had confidence in this branch. The next counselor spoke of the lady in white, the guardian of the clearing and of the land ceded to the government by the Blake descendants. He told of a woman who birthed many children, but never had the opportunity to see them grow to maturity. A woman who mourned each death and who refused to return to her family in the city, for to her, that would mean to abandon those she had buried on the knoll.
The little boy scoffed at the idea that Anita Blake still inhabited these woods, protecting the land. He didn't believe in ghosts and he loved to point out the holes in every ghost story he heard. The other children became annoyed when he claimed "it was other missing counselors trudging in the underbrush", when noises were heard while the counselor was talking of the large beast that left grooves in the Blake's door. He made excuses for the large crunching noise, when the counselors told the story of the pony that was mauled on the trail while the Blakes were traveling home after purchasing it for their young daughter. When he declared that the only reason these stories were even scary is that the listeners were "little babies", (actually aged 6-13) the other children began to complain. They enjoyed hearing about Anita and the events that carved a history into the land and the clearing, giving the land itself a soul.
Dusk was approaching and it was time to cut the stories short, finish up, and hike back to camp. Too many delays shushing the boy had forced them to forgo the rest of the stories that they had planned to tell so that they would not have to travel on the dark trails with young children. Not one of them noticed the dark line that had formed where the branch met the torso of the tree, and only one was even looking towards the boy when the branch separated itself. She later said that she had looked towards him because he had become quiet. She commented that he had become still, and that as the branch screamed and fell he had been staring past the ruins toward the creek, silent and unmoving. While in the hospital nursing his broken leg, he asked who had snuck away from the group. He was convinced that the counselors had been trying to teach him a lesson. He was convinced that someone had hung something in the distance, in the dusk, something that resembled the flowing gown of the fabled lady in white. The investigators could find no reason for the branch to have broken, there was no decay, the wood seemed solid, they were convinced that the boy had to have jumped or damaged it in some way. All they found was his name, or most of it, all but the last letter, carved into the fallen branch where he had been sitting. The counselors and the campers had a different belief .... they believed that the Lady was punishing him for his behavior, that she was punishing him for his dis-respect of the forest and the land she still inhabited, the and land that she still treated as her own.
Not too many years later, on a similar hike while passing through the stone ruins of Anita's home another child, this time a girl, showed disrespect to the stories and the family. As they were passing by what was once the fireplace that kept Anita and her husband warm on the chilly nights in this forest, near what is now known as Napa, she began picking up things and throwing them at the few remaining stones that formed the walls of the cabin. She was bored and was not interested in Anita or her children. She was more concerned with the condition of her clothes when she was told she would be sitting on the ground listening to "silly ghost stories" then whether she might anger the spirits of the land. Despite being told to stay with the group, upon exiting the remains of the Blake cabin, she and her friend decided that they were going to skip the "kiddy story circle" and explore on their own. They used the dis-organization of the counselors passing out snacks and of the others choosing seating positions in the clearing to sneak behind the ruins.
She complained to her friend that the overgrown brush was going to "mar her pants" as they explored the portions of the cabin that were "off limits" to the campers. Areas that seemed not to have been visited in many years if ever. As the stories began, their absence was not noted. One counselor actually mentioned how it almost seemed to be going Too well, with little interruptions or questions from the younger children.
Dusk was approaching and it was time to cut the stories short, finish up, and hike back to camp. Too many delays shushing the boy had forced them to forgo the rest of the stories that they had planned to tell so that they would not have to travel on the dark trails with young children. Not one of them noticed the dark line that had formed where the branch met the torso of the tree, and only one was even looking towards the boy when the branch separated itself. She later said that she had looked towards him because he had become quiet. She commented that he had become still, and that as the branch screamed and fell he had been staring past the ruins toward the creek, silent and unmoving. While in the hospital nursing his broken leg, he asked who had snuck away from the group. He was convinced that the counselors had been trying to teach him a lesson. He was convinced that someone had hung something in the distance, in the dusk, something that resembled the flowing gown of the fabled lady in white. The investigators could find no reason for the branch to have broken, there was no decay, the wood seemed solid, they were convinced that the boy had to have jumped or damaged it in some way. All they found was his name, or most of it, all but the last letter, carved into the fallen branch where he had been sitting. The counselors and the campers had a different belief .... they believed that the Lady was punishing him for his behavior, that she was punishing him for his dis-respect of the forest and the land she still inhabited, the and land that she still treated as her own.
Not too many years later, on a similar hike while passing through the stone ruins of Anita's home another child, this time a girl, showed disrespect to the stories and the family. As they were passing by what was once the fireplace that kept Anita and her husband warm on the chilly nights in this forest, near what is now known as Napa, she began picking up things and throwing them at the few remaining stones that formed the walls of the cabin. She was bored and was not interested in Anita or her children. She was more concerned with the condition of her clothes when she was told she would be sitting on the ground listening to "silly ghost stories" then whether she might anger the spirits of the land. Despite being told to stay with the group, upon exiting the remains of the Blake cabin, she and her friend decided that they were going to skip the "kiddy story circle" and explore on their own. They used the dis-organization of the counselors passing out snacks and of the others choosing seating positions in the clearing to sneak behind the ruins.
She complained to her friend that the overgrown brush was going to "mar her pants" as they explored the portions of the cabin that were "off limits" to the campers. Areas that seemed not to have been visited in many years if ever. As the stories began, their absence was not noted. One counselor actually mentioned how it almost seemed to be going Too well, with little interruptions or questions from the younger children.
When later being interviewed, the friend stated that she rejoined the group because they had both become bored with exploring. They had tried hopscotch but it was no fun with so much undergrowth preventing the pattern of squares to be clearly drawn, and that she had not felt right using small sharp rocks to write on the remnants of the home with her friend.
As the stories ended they picked up their trash and did a head count before returning to camp. They were one short. Murmers went through the group as they counted a second time and the friend came forward to tell of the prohibited exploration. The children were collected at the head of the trail and while the younger counselors monitored them, the older counselors began to search in and around the ruins. She was found, alive but unconscious in the area of the cabin once used as the bedroom of the Blakes, more specifically, where the foot of their bed would have been.... where Anita had kept the cradle that had rocked all of her children. In her hand was a stone that not long before had been part of the wall. It looked as if she had been trying to dis-assemble that portion of wall, with several other stones freshly removed and piled to the side creating a new path into a portion of the house so overgrown that that season's counselors had not even known it existed. She did not wake when being picked up and did not regain consciousness until well after exiting into the clearing despite the attempts of the nurse that had decided to take the hike with them that day. Later even after being examined by several doctors no-one could determine why she had passed out. No one know how long she had been out, only that she was still out almost 3 minutes after being found. 3 minutes may not seem like a long time, to you an I, but when almost a half of a day is lost to the memory of a young girl, it can seem an eternity. She denied ever remembering what happened between the end of the hopscotch game and being found, and denied ever even touching the rock wall at the back of the cabin.
As the years passed and "safety" became more of a concern to those that owned and ran the camp, it was decided that they would no longer hike to Anita's cabin. The remains were removed and today not even a marker remain. The stories are still told, but now it is a night time hike along the path that Anita and her husband travelled. A trek from the main active campground to a ridge that looks out over the forest and up at the stars. The stories are now told as the campers walk that same path that the beast walked, and where that same beast chased and caught the doomed pony.
My addition to the history :
When I visited the camp as a young girl I heard the original stories, and those of the disrespectful boy, and the wandering girl. My season's counselors told them, not as if they believed them, but as a cautionary tale to respect the spirits of the land, and the predecessors who came before us. I heard the full story of the beast "who was bigger and stronger than a bear" and who had been seen by "several generations" of forest caretakers.
My final day at camp that year I decided to visit the knoll, Still a frequent hiking destination for campers. My grandfather had died earlier that summer and being the age I was, I was still learning what it was like to have someone I knew pass. It was a breezy day, not so much cold, but windy enough that Kari and I needed to wear our jackets for the trek. As we approached the gate the wind was strong enough to bend branches, but the second the latch was lifted - all became still. As we entered Kari mentioned that there were no "sounds of the forest". No birds, bugs, wind ... just silence. We read the tombstones, and the large pillar that was placed at Anita's final resting place. We placed the flowers that we had collected on our journey to the knoll at the middle of the small circle of stones marking the smallest of the graves. I could feel the air around me as if the air itself had substance. Our surroundings could not have been more still and quiet if we had been indoors, and yet we were at the top of a knoll in the middle of a nearly 800 acre forest. After reflection I realized that the entire time we were within the fenced graveyard we barely spoke, it was if we were afraid our voices would carry so far that even a whisper might be heard back at camp almost a mile away. As we exited the cemetery and I turned the latch to seal the gate, the wind came back almost suddenly. The sounds of the forest were there as they should be, there was even a bird flying across the path from one side to the trees on the other. I felt as if our brief visit within the gate had separated us from the rest of the world. As if the tattered remains of the fence protected the knoll from all that was 'Now'. A place where the forest and even the time had stopped moving out of respect for the final resting place of the lady in white, where her monument stood, still protecting the children she had born, and those children that still visited the place that she loved.
< For story effect - the ridge described was changed from what was actually just a large open clearing used for archery because I couldn't come up with a flowing description of an overgrown field. All other details including my accounts of my experience at the Knoll are as true as they can be when based on stories heard over 35 years ago, and dependent on the memory of an 8 year old child at camp >
As the years passed and "safety" became more of a concern to those that owned and ran the camp, it was decided that they would no longer hike to Anita's cabin. The remains were removed and today not even a marker remain. The stories are still told, but now it is a night time hike along the path that Anita and her husband travelled. A trek from the main active campground to a ridge that looks out over the forest and up at the stars. The stories are now told as the campers walk that same path that the beast walked, and where that same beast chased and caught the doomed pony.
My addition to the history :
When I visited the camp as a young girl I heard the original stories, and those of the disrespectful boy, and the wandering girl. My season's counselors told them, not as if they believed them, but as a cautionary tale to respect the spirits of the land, and the predecessors who came before us. I heard the full story of the beast "who was bigger and stronger than a bear" and who had been seen by "several generations" of forest caretakers.
My final day at camp that year I decided to visit the knoll, Still a frequent hiking destination for campers. My grandfather had died earlier that summer and being the age I was, I was still learning what it was like to have someone I knew pass. It was a breezy day, not so much cold, but windy enough that Kari and I needed to wear our jackets for the trek. As we approached the gate the wind was strong enough to bend branches, but the second the latch was lifted - all became still. As we entered Kari mentioned that there were no "sounds of the forest". No birds, bugs, wind ... just silence. We read the tombstones, and the large pillar that was placed at Anita's final resting place. We placed the flowers that we had collected on our journey to the knoll at the middle of the small circle of stones marking the smallest of the graves. I could feel the air around me as if the air itself had substance. Our surroundings could not have been more still and quiet if we had been indoors, and yet we were at the top of a knoll in the middle of a nearly 800 acre forest. After reflection I realized that the entire time we were within the fenced graveyard we barely spoke, it was if we were afraid our voices would carry so far that even a whisper might be heard back at camp almost a mile away. As we exited the cemetery and I turned the latch to seal the gate, the wind came back almost suddenly. The sounds of the forest were there as they should be, there was even a bird flying across the path from one side to the trees on the other. I felt as if our brief visit within the gate had separated us from the rest of the world. As if the tattered remains of the fence protected the knoll from all that was 'Now'. A place where the forest and even the time had stopped moving out of respect for the final resting place of the lady in white, where her monument stood, still protecting the children she had born, and those children that still visited the place that she loved.
< For story effect - the ridge described was changed from what was actually just a large open clearing used for archery because I couldn't come up with a flowing description of an overgrown field. All other details including my accounts of my experience at the Knoll are as true as they can be when based on stories heard over 35 years ago, and dependent on the memory of an 8 year old child at camp >