It was one of my earlier experiences with ghost hunting that occurred one summer at Springdale Summer Camp. There was archery, boating, swimming, hiking, nature hunts, all kinds of great things to do. And it was also when I met one of my first professional ghost hunters, Wildman Willy.
They called him that because he lived in a shack a few miles from the camp in a shanty and was known to give out unearthly howls in the middle of the night we could hear all the way in our bunks. But after meeting him, I knew the reason why – The camp was haunted, and Willy knew this.
Willy was a bit intimidating to get to know at first, as he has a mangy beard down to his belly, a crazy gleam in his eye, and a stench that was downright appalling, and would randomly shout out curses to the air, but now with years of experience under my belt I knew these things can happen to a serious ghost hunter plagued by daemonic forces.
Willy informed me that there was a source of all the haunting that occurred at Springdale, and one day when the rest of the camp was off on a hike we decided we would go and stop the infection plaguing the idyllic summer retreat once and for all.
As is typical of preparing for any ghost hunt, steeling ourselves with the liquid was essential. Willy had a quantity of jugged juice he referred to as “The Devil’s Piss” that we quaffed heavily from before setting out down the hill toward camp. We took a jug with us and passed it back and forth, Willy already apparently being harried by undead forces began slurring his speech and staggering uncontrollable.
Soon we came to the area where Willy claimed the source of the plague had begun – the outhouses of Springdale. How obvious, I thought, that these ghosts would congregate around such filth. Willy motioned toward an underground tunnel, shouting that the bodies of fallen campers had been stored there by the restless dead.
As soon as I entered the small room where Willy had indicated, the door slammed shut behind me. The ghosts were apparently already at work, and I strengthened my resolve with a few pulls from my tub of holy water, and took a step forward.
Willy was right. There were dead brown and black bodies littering the room, mere husks of their human forms, rank with the stench of death and festering with insect atrocities. The only source of light was a single hole cut into the ceiling of the wretched sacrificial room.
All of a sudden things went black, the light source cut off and I heard a scream. Willy must have been claimed, as the screeches were unearthly and disturbing in nature.
Blood, liquid, and some sort of foul-smelling dirt began streaming from no discernible location accompanied by the sound of the sky tearing apart, forming a storm of supernatural forces around me and drenching my person – I was under a phantasmagorical assault!
The only way to stop such a paranormal form is to make the sacrifice that these poor other fallen souls must not have known – the way to defeat a spirit storm is to take the essence of it into you and purify it.
Knowing what must be done, I began rubbing the rank mist upon myself and taking it into my persona orally, gobbling and slurping up the ichor of death painfully as the disgusting odor filled me. After the spirit was defeated, I blacked out.
I never saw Wildman Willy again, but the camp was purified of its sins. Ghost hunting has many unique takes, and I hope that I was able to lay the rest the souls of the many poor individuals who met their fate in the outhouse sacrificial room at Springdale Summer Camp.