I'm an avid hiker, always have been, but I may have to rethink the way I hike after this incident.
I've done a lot of hiking in my time. Hiking the Appalachian trail, backpacking through Europe, I've hiked trails on the Mexican borders and watched the lights of Coyotes as they came to drop their “cargo”, and in that time, I've never really felt like I was in danger. I've had some close calls, don't get me wrong, but at no time did I ever wonder if I was going to live through these times or not.
My last hike was the exception to that.
I was hiking in the Midwest when I came across the most beautiful place I had ever seen. I can't say exactly where I was, I didn't really have a destination in mind, but I was somewhere near the Kansas/ Oklahoma border. What I was doing could easily have been classified as vagrancy, but I had the appropriate credentials so that any big bellied Midwestern cop who stopped me knew I was out here shooting photos for Natural World, a magazine that had requested some travel shots. It was pretty cool to get paid for what was essentially professional homelessness, and when I stumbled upon the little dell and saw the grass field, I knew I had found my photo opp.
The grass sat at the bottom of the little dip and I thought at first that I had found a bog or a marsh. When the ground turned out to be solid, I made my careful way through it as I basked in the smell of wild hay and timothy. It was tall, the tips coming up over my head, and I let my hands slide deliciously over the stalks as I walked through it. I was careful to keep my eyes peeled for snakes or any of the various biting or stinging insects that made a place like this their home, but I heard little beyond rustles as the residents took their leave of me.
It was peaceful in the grass, and I lay down amidst it as I breathed in the heady aroma.
I blinked a little longer than I meant to, I guess, because when I opened my eyes again, it was nearly pitch black.
I sat up, not sure what had happened. I had never just fallen asleep like this before, and I was glad when I reached for my bag and found it where I had left it. The flashlight showed me still within the womb of grass, and as I tried to orient myself, I found that I had no clue which way I had come in. The grass went from inviting by day to an aromatic trap by night, and the wind played games with my senses as it rustled the thick sheaves. I made my careful way through the thicket, the moon smiling at me from overhead in its grinning halfness. The stars were cold comfort as they winked down, and the longer I walked, the more certain I was that I was going in circles. The grass field hadn't been that large, an acre or two at most, and as I walked in an unyielding straight line, I felt that I should have come to the other side by now.
Instead, I found a grass hut sitting in a small clearing.
Calling it a hut may not do it justice. It was a woven grass dome about ten feet by ten feet, the bands of grass expertly pushed through to create a curved dwelling that was likely to be dry. I could see smoke coming from the center, and assumed that there must be a little fire hole carved into it. The inside glowed slightly, like a furnace that's getting ready to go out, and the whole thing sat amidst grass that had been trampled flat. Whether by the feet of its inhabitants or not, I didn't know, but something about it looked a little spooky.
It reminded me of the cannibal huts in the old Conan comics, and I hoped the comparison wasn't apt.
“Get yourself lost, son?”
I jumped a foot and nearly dropped my flashlight, turning to see a hunched figure about five feet to my left. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman, and its voice sounded ancient but not threatening. It was hardly four feet tall in its hunched up state, and it looked to be wearing a very old blanket in the fashion of a Mexican peasant in western novel. The sleeves hung over his old arms like a wizard's robe, and the feet that poked from beneath looked to be covered in woven grass sandals. He grinned up at me with his unoccupied mouth, his gums wet and pulled into a smile, and I had to stop myself from shuddering as the silence stretched on into rudeness.
“Sorry, you startled me, sir. Yeah, I must have stumbled into the grass here and lost my way. Any idea how I can get out?”
“Just go that way and keep heading towards the sun at dawn.” he said, hooking a thumb behind him, “but I guess that will be hard till morning. Why don't you stay with me tonight? Theres plenty of room in my little abode.”
I looked at the grass shack and then back at the little man.
He had startled me, but I decided there probably wasn't any harm in him.
I agreed and when he pressed on the side of the grass hut, I realized there was a door set expertly into the side of the hut. I had to marvel at the little creature's ingenuity as he showed me in, and the inside of the hut was no less impressive. The whole thing was set into the ground about five feet, and the roof extended down to cover the dirt walls. The smoke hole was the only opening to the sky and the fire within burned cheerily. There was a pot sitting in the fire, and the contents made my mouth water a little. It smelled like meat and grains and I imagined it was likely rabbit or squirrel, given the man's location. As I sat by the fire, I couldn't help but wonder how long it had taken him to craft something like this? The effort at work here would have taken weeks if not months and the end result was something truly spectacular.
I made a mental note to get some pictures during the day time, knowing the magazine would love to see it.
“So, what brings you this far into the grass field?” he asked, taking the lid off the pot and stirring it with a spoon.
“I was just hiking,” I said, the warm interior making me feel sleepy all over again, “I take pictures for magazines and write travel articles, and I sort of stumbled across your field on my way between places.”
The man ladled some of the pot's contents into a bowl, and as he handed it to me, I was amazed to see that it was also made of woven grass. He lifted a gourd jug to his lips and sipped before picking up his own bowl, and when he offered it to me, I found it was full of spring water. The bowl was full of stew, and the meat went well with the roots and things he had mixed with it. It was a little bland, but filling and he seemed to chew over what I had said as much as the meal.
“Taking pictures, eh?” he finally said, the words a little muffled as he chewed at the gristle, “are you some sort of reporter?”
“Not really. More like a journalist I guess. I write articles for Natural World, it's a magazine for outdoorsmen and hikers and the like.”
The fella, I suppose by then I had started thinking of him as a little old man in my head, nodded as he sipped at the broth of his soup.
He was quiet for a little bit, the fire crackling between us the only sound in the hut, before he asked his next question.
“What sort of stories do you write for your magazine?”
I had been crunching at some of the vegetables that hadn't been cooked all the way, and swallowed them a little too hastily as he sent his next pondering at me. I coughed, reaching for the gourd as the water sloped down my face, and managed to worry them down. The old man's ponderous way of talking and long bouts of silence were a little strange, but I found him to be an agreeable diner host.
“Usually local pieces. Lore or tourist spots that the readers might be interested in, beauty spots they might want to take in, interesting points of order in the area, local legends and things. Anything really to get people buying magazines.”
“What about Urban Legends?” he asked, his smile returning as he lowered his bowl. The glint of fire light off his gums made the effect all the more grizzly. I coughed again, but it had nothing to do with the remains of wild carrots and roots.
“Sometimes, if they're especially interesting. Readers always like a bit of local color.” I admitted, like it might be a dirty secret.
“Well, it just so happens that the grass field you're sitting in is a little piece of local history. I could tell you about it, if you'd like.”
My excitement was at odds with my unease by this point. This was one of those situations that prickles that ancient part of your brain, the one that stopped your forebears from getting eaten by predators. That being said, the story was already starting to come together in my mind. Sitting in an honest to god hut and hearing a story by firelight by a native was the sort of thing urban legends were made of. To be living one was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and not one that I was going to pass up. My editor was going to absolutely have a fit when I sent him this, and I could already smell the bonus check.
“I'd love to. You don't mind if I use it for a story, do you?”
“I'd be delighted,” the old man said, and when he leaned forward, his wrinkled old face looked like a jack-o-lantern in the dancing firelight.
The hut took on a shadowy cast as his head blocked some of the light, and the effect was impressive.
“This field was once called Fairy's Rest. It was said that on summer nights, you could see the fireflies dancing through the stalks, and the travelers who witnessed it thought they must be fairies holding a revel. An old hermit lived out in this very field, in this very hut in fact, and he acted as a sort of medicine man. He brewed cures for most things, helped people who needed tonics and tinctures, and was well loved in the community. Some people said he was a warlock, a trickster who was in league with Satan, but the locals knew him to be a fine enough sort and generally left him to his own pursuits.”
I found myself leaning in a little as he spoke, the smoke stinging my eyes some as it wafted up from the crackling depths of the fire.
“The little town of Maverick got a new preacher man one spring, and that was when the trouble started. The new preacher was one of those fire and brimstone sorts, a “suffer not a witch to live” disciples who had set his sights on the old hermit for some reason. He chastised the people of Maverick, asking how they could claim to be godly while allowing an agent of Satan to live in their midst? He told them that God would surely punish them for their inaction if they continued to let him live so close to their town, but the people were not so quick to act. They didn't mind having the old man so close to town, many of them benefited from it, but the preacher was persuasive. It took some time, but he finally convinced them that the man's very existence would spoil their relationship with God and they made a plan to go and oust him.”
As I listened, I found myself watching the shadows on the wall of the hut. In the dancing light of the fire, I could almost see the mob with their torches and pitchforks as they made their way to the grasslands to smoke the poor old fella out. At their head was a man in a tall hat, his torch held aloft as he led them to their work. I wondered if maybe water was all that was in that gourd, but the old man's story had me hooked.
“Well, they came to the grassy patch, but no matter how much they searched, or how deep they went, they couldn't find the hermit's house. It should have been impossible, but the longer they looked, the more furious the preacher became. He told them that this was proof of the man's misdeeds, and that Satan himself must surely be hiding the old warlock. Finally, he took a torch and set the tall grass ablaze, sending smoke into the sky as it burned. They burned the patch flat, down to the soil, and when it was done, they rode back to town triumphant.”
As he told the story, the smell of the fire was replaced with the acrid smell of a wildfire. I could just imagine someone trapped in that hellish blaze, their house burning around them as they sat inside, knowing there was no escape. Had the hermit tried to run through the burning grass? Had the smoke gotten him before the flames did? I coughed, reaching for the gourd again, and the old man seemed to revel in my discomfort.
“Well, imagine their surprise when the spot was reported to have returned a week later? They never found the old man, but it was said that smoke could be seen coming from the grass field. It was also said that people started going missing. Anyone who was involved in the burning either went missing themselves or saw a member of their family disappear. Most times it was children, but sometimes a spouse or a cousin would suffice. Eventually, the people of Maverick told the preacher he wasn't welcome anymore, and forced him out of town in the hopes that the old man's spirit would be appeased.”
He sat back from the fire then, watching me as I leaned in closer, the fire hot against my face as I fell deeper into his tale.
“After that, they called this place Ghost Grass, and those who venture in sometimes never come out again. Travelers, Hikers, local kids who don't heed their parents warnings. They all fall victim to the Ghost Grass, and the vengeful old soul who resides there. He doesn't take them all, though. He still leaves a few, the ones he lets live so they might spread his story. Those who come here without invitation, however, learn better than to meddle with things outside their kin. The people of Maverick still remember, and they always will.”
I leaned back as he finished, letting the implications sink in.
Was he claiming to be the vengeful spirit of the grassy field, or was he just messing with me? Suddenly I had never felt less tired in my life, but when he suggested that we turn in for the night, I agreed without argument. Where would I go, after all? The people who had come to find the old hermit had never discovered this place. What were the odds of me stumbling out again with only the moon to guide me?
I lay in the shadows of the hut, the fire burning low as the old man lay on the opposite side. He never snuffled or tossed, just lay there like a stone as I shivered beneath my blanket. I didn't want to sleep, didn't want to drop off with this thing so close to me, but I felt my long day of hiking catching up with me. I fought against sleep, trying no to fall into its web, but eventually the matter was settled for me, and I came awake in the morning like a diver breaking the surface.
The hut was dark, but I could see the sun through the smoke hole.
The old man was nowhere to be found, and I saw little else to do but pack up my bedding and leave.
I got some pictures, kind of wishing the old man was here so I could include him, and left the hut behind me.
I found my way out of the grass just as he had suggested, and after a single look back, I set off west, just as I had for the last week. The woods were behind me, and the flatland I found myself in was dotted with farms and fences, crops and cattle, and a dark snake that stretched its way across the ground as far as the eye could see. The road appeared once I broke a hill, and I followed it for most of the day. I saw a sign around noon that told me Maverick was two miles up the road, and when the outskirts came into view, I was glad to be back in civilization.
I stopped at a local diner to write this down and send it to my editor, wanting to get it all while it was still fresh.
I don't know why I was worried about missing a detail, because I don't think any of the night before will ever leave my mind.
The people of Maverick are very familiar with the Grasslands and the legends that surround them. The woman at the Desert Flower Dinner where I sit now shuddered when I told her about the night I had. She said I was lucky to be alive, luckier than Billy Register and his friends, at least. When I asked who they were, she pointed to a bulletin board by the door. There hung three missing persons posters baring the faces of three high school kids that had recently gone missing.
Thinking about what meat might have been in that pot I ate from makes my stomach flip, but I suppose it's too late for regrets now.
So if you find yourself traveling the footpaths of Oklahoma and you come across a field of tall, lush grass, be very careful.
They might hang your missing poster on that board next, should you become the next victim of the Ghost Grass Hermit.
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