Louise Woods (Part Two)

Here is the conclusion to Micah's Halloween story about the Whitley family. For part one, see here. Enjoy.

The cool air began as a breeze following a brief thunderstorm in the fall of 2003. The sun had gone down nearly two hours before and the fire had found new life with the addition of dry logs from underneath a tarp by the cabin. At least 20 children and several adults sat around to listen to Jimmy tell one of the tales of terror that his grandfather used to tell. A drip, drip, drip fell on his head from the sky above. “The rain began to fall,” he’d begin. “It was a night just like tonight.”

Jimmy had inherited the gift that his grandfather had used for so many years. He had studied Grandpa Whitley year after year and had perfected his delivery through the use timing and sound effects. His grandfather, still alive, stopped telling stories a few years back when he decided that it was time to pass the tradition on. He was nearing 90 but in great condition both physically and mentally. He still had a great sense of wit and his spirits were always high. He never missed a trip to Louise Woods. It made him feel closer to Louise, and it was time with the family that he cherished.

Grandpa Whitley spent most of his time to the many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Sometime he would venture to the lake for some alone time. Most believed that he sat there on his old rocking chair that sat on the dock and reflected on the great family tradition. In the last few years, there was always one grandchild assigned to watch him from falling into the lake.

As Jimmy told his story of an escaped patient from a psychiatric hospital that had run a terror in the woods of northern Wisconsin, the children began to huddle together. One descriptive murder after another, the fear in their eyes grew. The fire was beginning to die out and that usually signaled the end of the story telling. Jimmy, like his grandfather before him, always brought the story closer and closer to the camp ground until the end when it would conclude with the killer was just beyond the woods. Jimmy, like his grandfather before him, preferred the use of leaving bodies behind in the trees to be found by unsuspecting campers. It was a narrative technique that always left the children looking up as they walked back to their tents and cabins after the telling of the story. Occasionally, the now grandparents of the children listening to the stories would leave dummies in the trees. It became a game that would end in getting the dummies down and finding loads of candy.

Jimmy finished. There was complete silence aside from the occasional crackle from the diminishing fire. A scream rang out from a little girl sitting next to Jimmy. Jimmy spotted a red drop on the girls arm. He felt another drip on his shoulder. As he touched his shoulder, he wiped away what he thought was a bird dropping. A smear of crimson red on his fingers. He jumped. The kids screamed.

“This isn’t funny!” exclained Jimmy. The kids were still screaming in terror. One of the children was completely still, looking straight up into the trees. His face was as white as paper. While the other parents were trying to calm the children down, Jimmy spotted the small child staring up into the trees. He looked up. Nothing. He couldn’t see anything except the swaying of the tree. “What do you see?!” he asked the child.

The child had no answer, but it was clear he was watching something horrific. Jimmy grabbed a flashlight. It wouldn’t flip on. He jabbed it a few times. It flipped on. He aimed it upwards quickly and turned it off. Jimmy grabbed the still child and handed him off to his wife. “Get the kids out of here, now!” The other parents grabbed the children and ran for the cabins. Jimmy was the only one left. He closed his eyes for a moment.

The other parents grabbed the children and ran for the cabins.

As he opened them again, another drop of blood landed on his face. He turned the flashlight on again and looked up. He began to shiver as he looked up. He stared for what seemed an eternity, the struggle for emotion churning inside. Then a voice came from the tree line.

“Your stories were getting boring, Jimmy” said the familiar voice. “I haven’t been this bored in 30 years,” he continued.

“Kent?” asked Jimmy.

“I thought it was time for them to be together again. Grandma has been so lonely up here. I think she’s in good shape for her age though. Look at her,” he suggested politely. Then, he shouted, “Look at her!”

Jimmy looked up. He saw the severely decomposed body of his grandmother hanging in a net wearing the same clothes she had been wearing the day he last saw her in 1971.

“I had in her in an airtight box under the dock. She’s always happy to see us. But I think she needed grandpa and I think you needed a better story. Everyone is a winner, Jimmy.”

As the tree swayed, Jimmy could see something else hung in the tree. Just to the left of Grandma’s body, he could see the bloodied body of Grandpa Whitley. Eyes eerily opened, staring at his long lost wife.

“It’s our secret Jimmy,” said Kent before running back into the woods.

That was the last year of the camping trip. Kent was never found. Since that year numerous people have gone missing while camping in the northern woods of Wisconsin. Officially, they are considered missing persons. But unofficially, Jimmy Whitley knows what happened to them.

Albert Whitley, patriarch of the Whitley family, had a dream. He dreamt of a family tradition that could be passed on and on for generations. That dream died with him, but his horror stories will live on through the real life terror of his demented grandchild.