Round Island Light, with a little moon added for effect by Tom Clark
Tom’s shot of Round Island Light off Mackinac Island just might be the most Michigan Halloween photo ever. See more in his Night scenes & after dark images gallery on Flickr & head over to Tom’s website to explore his photos.
If you want a spooky lighthouse, check out The Haunting of the White River Light on Michigan in Pictures & happy Halloween everyone!!
Happy Halloween everyone! I know that in 2020, it seems less happy & halloweenish out there, but here’s hoping you can find some safe & enjoyable scares out there!
Mike took this back in 2014 & you can see more on his Flickr!
Today’s tale comes from Michigan’s Otherside, The Ada Witch of Findley Cemetery:
The Ada Witch has been a popular legend in West Michigan for decades. For years, people have claimed to have witnessed a paranormal classic: “the lady in white.” She’s been seen wandering around the area of Findley Cemetery and surrounding roads. But who is this mysterious “lady in white”? Over the years, this entity was given the title of the “Ada Witch,” but it’s nothing more than a nickname. Within the legend, there is nothing to support that she was a practicing witch or anything of that nature. It’s just a dramatic name that makes a good tale….
The legend says a woman during the 1800’s had been cheating on her husband. She would sneak off into the night to meet her lover. Her husband began to suspect she was up to something and pretended to fall asleep one night. After his wife got up and snuck away, he followed her and found her in the arms of another man. Rage welled up inside him and in an instant, the husband attacked the adulterous couple, killing his wife first. The two men fought until they both died from the wounds they inflicted upon each other.
For many years now, people say they have heard the sounds of a fight taking place around the Findley area, only to find no one around. The area at one point must have been open for hunting before it was developed into a residential area. There have been reports from hunters feeling a presence in the area, hearing the ghostly fight, getting tapped on the shoulder only to find no one there and even seeing a ghostly woman in white.
Read on for Michigan Otherside’s account of their visit to the Findley Cemetery and her research into the story.
Tom captured this photo of the not-too-far-from-Ada Fulton Cemetery in Grand Rapids way back in 2007. See more in his Grand Rapids gallery on Flickr.
More ghost & spooky stories on Michigan in Pictures!
Where Wolves Play by Michael Seabrook
He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children.
For he told them tales of the Loup Garou in the forest.
And of the goblin thai came in the night to water the horses.
And of the White Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened
died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline
My favorite Halloween book on archive.org’s Internet Book Reader is Legends of Le Détroit by Mary Carolyn Watson Hamlin, illustrated by Miss Isabella Stewart, and published in 1894 in Detroit by Thorndike Nourse. In addition to Ms. Hamlin’s descriptive prose that really sheds light on what life was like for early settlers in the Detroit area through stories that raise your hackles spark a feeling that Michigan is wilder and more wonderful than you may have known.
I featured this story back in 2015, but thought you all would enjoy Le Loup Garou which is a lot longer than usual. I’ve tried to share the highlights of the story, but you really should click that link to read it all! We begin at Grosse Pointe where:
…a trapper named Simonet had settled near there on the margin of the lake.
His young wife had faded away in the early years of their married life, but as if in compensation, had left the little prattler Archange to wean him from his grief and to cheer his loneliness. And the strong, hardy man, with his sunburnt face and brawny arms hardened by toil and exposure, in his yearning love for his child, learned to soften his rough manners and soothe her with the gentle ways of a woman. Anxiously he watched the unfolding of his “pretty flower,” as he called her, and with a solicitude touching in its simple pathos, he would select the softest skin of the bear to keep her feet warm, search for the brightest wings of the bird to adorn her hat. When she grew up he taught her to skin the beaver, muskrat and deer which he brought home, and to stretch them out on the drying frame near the house. He was wont to boast that no one could excel Archange preparing the poisson blanc (whitefish), poisson dore (pickerel), or give that peculiar shade of brown which is in itself an art, to the savory cochon au lait (sucking pig).
She was as light-hearted as the cricket that chirped on the hearth, and her cheery voice could be heard caroling away to the music of her spinning wheel. In the long winter evenings her deft fingers would plait the straw into hats which found a ready sale, and which, added to the sum she gained by her knitted socks and dried corn, enabled her to secure many little articles that her vanity suggested to enhance her charms. For the Canadian girl, in the rude surroundings of her forest home, was as anxious to please and be witch by her toilet as her more favored Parisian sister ; the instincts of the sex still lived in the wilderness. At the corn-huskings and dances on the greensward Archange was the reigning belle, and held her little court of homespun dressed youths fascinated by the magic of her dark eyes, her brunette complexion with its warm glow, her raven tresses and piquante tongue. Many admiring eyes followed her lithe form as she tripped in marvelous rapidity la jig a deux or as she changed into the more graceful, swaying motion of la dance ronde.
Enter the capable young farmer Pierre La Fontaine, whose marriage proposal was happily accepted by Simonet, was building a cabin for his bonnie bride, and apparently driving his fragile canoe along the rippling waters lit up by elfish moonbeams (Ms. Hamlin’s words) as they made wedding plans that included the gift of a red cow from Archange’s god-father. Well…
One evening as Pierre placed Archange on the beach near her home and she lingered, following him with her loving eyes as he swiftly rowed away until he had disappeared and only the faint echo of his Canadian boat song floated towards her, she was startled by a rustling sound near by. Looking up a wild shriek escaped her, for a monster with a wolf’s head and an enormous tail, walking erect as a human being, crossed her path. Quickly the cabin door was thrown open by Simonet, who had been roused by his daughter’s scream. Archange flew into her father’s arms and pointed to the spot where she had seen the monster, but the animal surprised by the light, had fled into the woods. Simonet’s face grew pale as Archange described, as accurately as her fears had allowed her to see, the apparition, and he recognized the dreaded Loup Garou.
Did I mention long?
Simonet worried about the Loup Garou (werewolf), but soon the wedding day arrived:
…Soon after she (Archange) joined Pierre and hand in hand, followed by all the habitants in their holiday attire, they entered the little church of logs hewn square, the interstices chinked in with clay, the roof of overlapping strips of bark. In front of the altar, decorated with flowers arranged by loving hands, they knelt. Father Freshet, who had baptized Pierre and Archange and prepared them for their first communion, now came to unite them in the holy bonds of matrimony. After the ceremony they went to the sacristy and inscribed their names in the registry, then hurried off to Pierre’ s new house, where the festivities were to take place. On the green lawn in front of her new cabin the blushing Archange greeted all her friends. The Seigneur of the neighborhood came to claim the right of premier baiser (first kiss). The refreshments were in abundance and all gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the moment, for the Canadians dearly loved a wedding and kept up its festivities for days.
Whilst the merry making was at its height the dreaded Garou with a rush like the wind sprang into their midst, seized Archange and escaped with her into the forest. All were paralyzed by the sudden, daring deed. But Pierre recovering, started in quick pursuit guided by the despairing cry of Archange, followed by all the men, whilst the women and children said their prayers and gave vent to loud lamentations. Long after the shadows had fallen they returned to report to the anxious, trembling crowd, and their sad, dejected faces spoke of the fruitlessness of their search. The monster had baffled them. But Pierre returned not. He was shortly after found by his friends wandering around and around a swamp, and clutching a piece of white batiste. When questioned as to how he had obtained this clue to Archange, he returned a maniacal stare and with a blood-curdling shriek, would have juimped into the swamp if he had not been held back by his companions, who with sorrowful accents said “La folie du bois.”* He would always return to the same swamp, remaining there for hours gazing vacantly in the weird reflections of its slimy, stagnant waters, until some friend led him home.
At the marriage of his sister, which occurred about a year afterwards, Pierre, always dead to the outside world, seemed to be roused by the preparations. After the ceremony he rushed into the woods as if in pursuit of something. He did not return until nearly sunset when he was seen, with wild eyes, flying hair, his clothes torn as if lay briers, chasing a Loup Garou to the very edge of the lake. All stood petrified by the strange apparition and feared a repetition of Archange’s fate. But the animal, seeing no escape, stood on one of the boulders strewn along the shore and stretched out his arms as if beckoning to some mysterious one. A large catfish was seen to rise on the surface of the water and open its mouth, into which the Loup Garou vanished. To this day no Canadian will eat catfish. The footprint of the wolf is still shown at Grosse Pointe, indelibly impressed on one of the boulders.
As I said, read the story in full and if anyone has a shot of the footprint in the boulder, please send it to me!!
Michael took this back in 2010. If you’d like to see some great shots for the Halloween season, check out his Ghosts gallery on Flickr!
More ghost & spooky stories on Michigan in Pictures!
*La folie du bois (the folly of the woods) alludes to the well- known insane tendency which prompts those lost in the woods to go round in a continuous circle, instead of following a direct path which would lead to a clearing.
White River Light Station by cncphotos
Less than a week until Halloween, so Michigan in Pictures will feature as much Michigan spookyness as possible. Today’s story appears courtesy Still on Duty at White River Light on Absolute Michigan:
When Karen McDonnell is alone she sometimes hears footsteps on the stairway of the former White River Light. But she isn’t afraid. She says, “I like the comfort it gives me. It’s like a watchman, just making sure everything is okay before it’s too late at night.”
McDonnell is the curator of an old lighthouse that has been turned into a museum. She takes care of the light and gives tours to visitors. Sometimes early in the morning or late at night she hears what sounds like somebody climbing the stairs and walking around on the upper level. She wonders if it might be the spirit of the light’s first keeper.
When the White River Light opened in the mid-1870s, William Robinson and his wife Sarah moved in. Over the years, the English couple raised their family at Whitehall. Sarah died at a young age, but William remained the lightkeeper for 47 years. When the government forced the 87-year-old keeper to retire in 1915, William’s grandson became the next lightkeeper at White River. William helped his grandson run the light, but the rules said that only the lightkeeper and his “immediate” family could live at the lighthouse. William would have to leave. But he refused, telling his grandson, “I am not going to leave this building.” He was right. The day before he had to move out, he died. His grandson buried him in a small nearby cemetery…
Read more over on Absolute Michigan and learn more about the lighthouse at White River Light on Terry Pepper’s Seeing the Light.
Cncphotos took this last week. See more in their Lighthouses gallery on Flickr!
Happy Halloween, photo by Julie
Happy Halloween everyone! I shared this story a few years ago, but since we’re back up on northern Lake Michigan at a time when the witch of November is rousing, why not share it again? In 1915, William MacHarg & Edwin Balmer wrote a book called The Indian Drum. The whole book is available online along with 53,000+ more books at Project Gutenberg. Chapter I begins:
Near the northern end of Lake Michigan, where the bluff-bowed ore-carriers and the big, low-lying, wheat-laden steel freighters from Lake Superior push out from the Straits of Mackinac and dispute the right of way, in the island divided channel, with the white-and-gold, electric lighted, wireless equipped passenger steamers bound for Detroit and Buffalo, there is a copse of pine and hemlock back from the shingly beach. From this copse—dark, blue, primeval, silent at most times as when the Great Manitou ruled his inland waters—there comes at time of storm a sound like the booming of an old Indian drum. This drum beat, so the tradition says, whenever the lake took a life; and, as a sign perhaps that it is still the Manitou who rules the waters in spite of all the commerce of the cities, the drum still beats its roll for every ship lost on the lake, one beat for every life.
So—men say—they heard and counted the beatings of the drum to thirty-five upon the hour when, as afterward they learned, the great steel steamer Wenota sank with twenty-four of its crew and eleven passengers; so—men say—they heard the requiem of the five who went down with the schooner Grant; and of the seventeen lost with the Susan Hart; and so of a score of ships more. Once only, it is told, has the drum counted wrong.
At the height of the great storm of December, 1895, the drum beat the roll of a sinking ship. One, two, three—the hearers counted the drum beats, time and again, in their intermitted booming, to twenty-four. They waited, therefore, for report of a ship lost with twenty-four lives; no such news came. The new steel freighter Miwaka, on her maiden trip during the storm with twenty-five—not twenty-four—aboard never made her port; no news was ever heard from her; no wreckage ever was found. On this account, throughout the families whose fathers, brothers, and sons were the officers and crew of the Miwaka, there stirred for a time a desperate belief that one of the men on the Miwaka was saved; that somewhere, somehow, he was alive and might return. The day of the destruction of the Miwaka was fixed as December fifth by the time at which she passed the government lookout at the Straits; the hour was fixed as five o’clock in the morning only by the sounding of the drum.
The region, filled with Indian legend and with memories of wrecks, encourages such beliefs as this. To northward and to westward a half dozen warning lights—Ile-aux-Galets (“Skilligalee” the lake men call it), Waugaushance, Beaver, and Fox Islands—gleam spectrally where the bone-white shingle outcrops above the water, or blur ghostlike in the haze; on the dark knolls topping the glistening sand bluffs to northward, Chippewas and Ottawas, a century and a half ago, quarreled over the prisoners after the massacre at Fort Mackinac; to southward, where other hills frown down upon Little Traverse Bay, the black-robed priests in their chapel chant the same masses their predecessors chanted to the Indians of that time. So, whatever may be the origin of that drum, its meaning is not questioned by the forlorn descendants of those Indians, who now make beadwork and sweet-grass baskets for their summer trade, or by the more credulous of the white fishermen and farmers; men whose word on any other subject would receive unquestioning credence will tell you they have heard the drum.
Read on at Project Gutenberg.
View Julie’s photo bigger and see more in her Holidays slideshow.
See 700 more Halloween photos in the Absolute Michigan photo group and more haunted, Halloween fun on Michigan in Pictures.
Nightmare at Muskegon State Park II, photo by otisourcat
When legends are way back in the past, they aren’t as scary. This one isn’t, and the fact that many of the sightings take place in my own backyard make me reluctant to share it. So, reluctantly, via Steve Cook’s Michigan-Dogman.com, I give you a Dogman tale from Oceana County, Michigan in 2005. Italics are the notes from Cook to the witness’s account.
Most dogman encounters are very brief, and usually rather benign. Very few witnesses have ever had more than a single encounter (a fact which makes most of them quite grateful). Our next event is unique in that the witnesses shared repeated encounters in a very narrow window of time. All of these events took place in Oceana County in Michigan’s Lower Peninisula. The contributor wishes to remain anonymous.
“The first incident happened while I was home alone. I had moved my bed into my closet to further open up my room. My dog was in there with me and we were getting ready for bed. Then my dog began to growl, which was very unusual. He never growls. I had maybe heard him growl or bark twice in his entire ten years of life. This growl was so fierce and mean that it actually made me scared. He was looking up at the ceiling and his hair was standing on end.
Then I heard it. It was loud, like something big was walking across the roof. There was snorting and light growls, so at first I feared that a bear had wandered into the area. I tried to keep my dog quiet, but he was shaking and going wild. There was a lot of scratching, like something was trying to dig through the roof – then it was gone, suddenly and without warning. A few minutes later my uncle arrived, I rushed out to tell him the story, he looked around but found nothing. He tried to pass it off as a raccoon. Let me tell you – there is no way on earth that a raccoon could have caused that reaction from my dog or made that much noise.”
A few weeks later, the witness had convinced herself that her uncle was probably correct. She had a friend spending the night, and they decided to camp out in the yard. They built a small campfire in a firepit, and were sitting next to it talking. Hearing a sound, they looked toward the woods. Just beyond the light cast by the fire…
“Something was walking out there. The features were canine; legs were shaped like a wolf, bushy tail, everything. But, it was way too tall to be a regular dog or even a wolf, it stood a bit higher than a deer and it was very thin. I only caught the back end of it walking behind a lilac bush, but it was enough for me. I calmly told my friend that we needed to go inside. I told her to walk slowly, since I live in the middle of no mans land, I know that wild animals are attracted to fast moving objects, and the last thing I wanted was to get up close and personal with whatever that thing was.”
Safely back inside, they talked about what they had seen. Whatever it was had seemed more curious than threatening. Later that same night, that assessment would change.
“…we were having a cigarette out my window, and my friend dropped hers. She put a chair up to the window and crawled out. She walked a few steps, paused, looked back at me. “Did you hear that?” she asked. I hadn’t heard anything, but apparently, she had heard rustling from the field beside her. Then we both heard it, a very close and very loud snarl. It was like nothing I have ever heard before and hope to never hear again. No animal that I know of sounds or looks like that. “
Lots more available from The Legend of Michigan’s Dogman including a 1961 encounter in Big Rapids that includes a purported photo of the Dogman! There’s also a DVD you can purchase that’s pretty cool. Best of all, proceeds have raised over $60,000 for charities, primarily those involved in domestic animal rescue, rehabilitation, and placement in permanent homes.
Wikipedia explains that the Michigan Dogman is a cryptozoological creature first reported in 1887 in Wexford County. Sightings have been reported in several locations throughout Michigan, primarily in the northwestern quadrant of the Lower Peninsula. In 1987, the legend of the Michigan Dogman gained popularity when a disc jockey at WTCM-FM (Steve Cook) recorded a song about the creature and its reported sightings.
You should also check out Linda Godfrey’s writings about the Dogman from her books including Weird Michigan, and also my buddy Rick Brauer’s movie Dogman and Dogman 2: Wrath of the Litter.
Muskegon County borders Oceana to the south, and has had its own Dogman sightings. View the photo bigger and see more of otisourcat’s Muskegon photos.
Happy Halloween everyone! More ghost stories & haunted tales on Michigan in Pictures!
Just Another Pretty Face, photo by Gary Tucker
In the spring of 1712, the English sent a war party of Fox & Macoutin to try and take Fort Pontchartrain in Detroit from the French. Over 1000 were massacred by tribes loyal to the French near Windmill Point at the mouth of the Detroit River on Lake St. Clair, effectively destroying the Fox nation.
My new favorite book, Legends of Le Détroit by Marie Caroline Watson Hamlin with illustrations by Miss Isabella Stewart, details the episode. If I were you, I would click over to the book right now and read it there – it’s not nearly as long as Tuesday’s tale ;)
We’ll join the story…
Years after the dreadful massacre which converted the beautiful spot called Presque Isle into the grave of the Fox nation, a stone mill was built there by a French settler, who came to reside with his sister Josette, undaunted by the ourrent traditions which peopled it with the spirits of the departed warriors. Jean was a quiet, morose man, different from the laughing, careless, pleasure-loving Canadian, — for rare were his visits, to the fort, and it was noticed that he never lingered over his cidre, nor spoke to the smiling, piquante daughters of the habitants.
…Josette was much older than her brother, and by dint of thrift and economy had saved enough to become a half owner in the mill. … Naught disturbed the monotony of their lives ; each day was but a repetition. The river flowed calmly on, the birds sang their songs – for nature has no moods, they belong to man alone.
At last Josette fell sick. Jean attended her as carefully as he could, and like a prudent man, would frequently ask her to whom she would leave her interest in the mill. Irritable from suffering, she became annoyed at his importunities, accused him of taking care of her for the sake of obtaining her money, and told him ‘she would leave it to the devil.” Jean tried in his clumsy fashion, to soothe her. He sent for some of his kindred to reason with her, but they only infuriated her the more, and she solemnly declared that not one of them should have her share in the mill, but “she would sooner leave it to the devil.”
Josette recovered, however, and with that perversity born of stubbornness, would not relent. A few months afterwards she was found dead in her bed, having died suddenly. That same night, whilst the candles threw their dim shadowy light in the room of the dead, a furious storm arose, lashing the waves against the shore, the winds howling fiercely around the point, the black clouds chasing each other across the lowering skies, as lurid gleams of lightning and deafening reverberations of thunder, made all the habitants shudder while they crossed themselves and told their beads. All at once there came so tremendous a shock that it seemed to swallow the island. The old stone mill was rent in twain. A pungent smell of sulphur filled the air, and a fiendish, laugh was heard loud above the raging storm from the shattered ruins. The arch fiend had come to claim his share.
For years afterwards when a northeast storm blew from the lake, making night hideous by its echoing peals of thunder, it was said that a hairy figure, with a horned head and forked tail tipped with fire, his mouth and eyes darting forth ruddy flame, could be seen in the mill, trying to put together the ruined machinery to grind the devil’s grist. And the lonely wayfarer to Grosse Pointe would see the marshes around Presque Isle all illuminated by flames, called by the hab- itants feu-follet (Will-o’-the-Wisp), which would try to inveigle the unhappy traveler and bring him to help grind the devil’s grist.
View the photo background big and see more of Gary’s haunted photos at that link.
More ghost stories & haunted tales on Michigan in Pictures!
Moon and Clouds, photo by eyesontheskies
He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children.
For he told them tales of the Loup Garou in the forest.
And of the goblin thai came in the night to water the horses.
And of the White Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened
died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline
My new favorite book is Legends of Le Détroit by Mary Carolyn Watson Hamlin, illustrated by Miss Isabella Stewart, and published in 1894 in Detroit by Thorndike Nourse. In addition to Ms. Hamlin’s descriptive prose that really sheds light on what life was like for early settlers in the Detroit area, it’s especially appropriate to kick off how I’m going to enjoy the week of Halloween, with stories that raise your hackles spark a feeling that Michigan is wilder and more wonderful than you may have known.
As the first of several spooky tales from Michigan, I offer Le Loup Garou which is a lot longer than usual. I’ve tried to share the highlights of the story, but you really should click that link to read it all! We begin at Grosse Pointe where:
…a trapper named Simonet had settled near there on the margin of the lake.
His young wife had faded away in the early years of their married life, but as if in compensation, had left the little prattler Archange to wean him from his grief and to cheer his loneliness. And the strong, hardy man, with his sunburnt face and brawny arms hardened by toil and exposure, in his yearning love for his child, learned to soften his rough manners and soothe her with the gentle ways of a woman. Anxiously he watched the unfolding of his “pretty flower,” as he called her, and with a solicitude touching in its simple pathos, he would select the softest skin of the bear to keep her feet warm, search for the brightest wings of the bird to adorn her hat. When she grew up he taught her to skin the beaver, muskrat and deer which he brought home, and to stretch them out on the drying frame near the house. He was wont to boast that no one could excel Archange preparing the poisson blanc (whitefish), poisson dore (pickerel), or give that peculiar shade of brown which is in itself an art, to the savory cochon au lait (sucking pig).
She was as light-hearted as the cricket that chirped on the hearth, and her cheery voice could be heard caroling away to the music of her spinning wheel. In the long winter evenings her deft fingers would plait the straw into hats which found a ready sale, and which, added to the sum she gained by her knitted socks and dried corn, enabled her to secure many little articles that her vanity suggested to enhance her charms. For the Canadian girl, in the rude surroundings of her forest home, was as anxious to please and be witch by her toilet as her more favored Parisian sister ; the instincts of the sex still lived in the wilderness. At the corn-huskings and dances on the greensward Archange was the reigning belle, and held her little court of homespun dressed youths fascinated by the magic of her dark eyes, her brunette complexion with its warm glow, her raven tresses and piquante tongue. Many admiring eyes followed her lithe form as she tripped in marvelous rapidity la jig a deux or as she changed into the more graceful, swaying motion of la dance ronde.
Enter the capable young farmer Pierre La Fontaine, whose marriage proposal was happily accepted by Simonet, was building a cabin for his bonnie bride, and apparently driving his fragile canoe along the rippling waters lit up by elfish moonbeams (Ms. Hamlin’s words) as they made wedding plans that included the gift of a red cow from Archange’s god-father. Well…
One evening as Pierre placed Archange on the beach near her home and she lingered, following him with her loving eyes as he swiftly rowed away until he had disappeared and only the faint echo of his Canadian boat song floated towards her, she was startled by a rustling sound near by. Looking up a wild shriek escaped her, for a monster with a wolf’s head and an enormous tail, walking erect as a human being, crossed her path. Quickly the cabin door was thrown open by Simonet, who had been roused by his daughter’s scream. Archange flew into her father’s arms and pointed to the spot where she had seen the monster, but the animal surprised by the light, had fled into the woods. Simonet’s face grew pale as Archange described, as accurately as her fears had allowed her to see, the apparition, and he recognized the dreaded Loup Garou.
Did I mention long?
Simonet worried about the Loup Garou (werewolf), but soon the wedding day arrived:
…Soon after she (Archange) joined Pierre and hand in hand, followed by all the habitants in their holiday attire, they entered the little church of logs hewn square, the interstices chinked in with clay, the roof of overlapping strips of bark. In front of the altar, decorated with flowers arranged by loving hands, they knelt. Father Freshet, who had baptized Pierre and Archange and prepared them for their first communion, now came to unite them in the holy bonds of matrimony. After the ceremony they went to the sacristy and inscribed their names in the registry, then hurried off to Pierre’ s new house, where the festivities were to take place. On the green lawn in front of her new cabin the blushing Archange greeted all her friends. The Seigneur of the neighborhood came to claim the right of premier baiser (first kiss). The refreshments were in abundance and all gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the moment, for the Canadians dearly loved a wedding and kept up its festivities for days.
Whilst the merry making was at its height the dreaded Garou with a rush like the wind sprang into their midst, seized Archange and escaped with her into the forest. All were paralyzed by the sudden, daring deed. But Pierre recovering, started in quick pursuit guided by the despairing cry of Archange, followed by all the men, whilst the women and children said their prayers and gave vent to loud lamentations. Long after the shadows had fallen they returned to report to the anxious, trembling crowd, and their sad, dejected faces spoke of the fruitlessness of their search. The monster had baffled them. But Pierre returned not. He was shortly after found by his friends wandering around and around a swamp, and clutching a piece of white batiste. When questioned as to how he had obtained this clue to Archange, he returned a maniacal stare and with a blood-curdling shriek, would have juimped into the swamp if he had not been held back by his companions, who with sorrowful accents said “La folie du bois.”* He would always return to the same swamp, remaining there for hours gazing vacantly in the weird reflections of its slimy, stagnant waters, until some friend led him home.
At the marriage of his sister, which occurred about a year afterwards, Pierre, always dead to the outside world, seemed to be roused by the preparations. After the ceremony he rushed into the woods as if in pursuit of something. He did not return until nearly sunset when he was seen, with wild eyes, flying hair, his clothes torn as if lay briers, chasing a Loup Garou to the very edge of the lake. All stood petrified by the strange apparition and feared a repetition of Archange’s fate. But the animal, seeing no escape, stood on one of the boulders strewn along the shore and stretched out his arms as if beckoning to some mysterious one. A large catfish was seen to rise on the surface of the water and open its mouth, into which the Loup Garou vanished. To this day no Canadian will eat catfish. The footprint of the wolf is still shown at Grosse Pointe, indelibly impressed on one of the boulders.
As I said, read the story in full and if anyone has a shot of the footprint in the boulder, please send it to me!!
View eyesontheskies photo bigger an see more in his Astro slideshow.
More ghost & spooky stories on Michigan in Pictures!
*La folie du bois (the folly of the woods) alludes to the well- known insane tendency which prompts those lost in the woods to go round in a continuous circle, instead of following a direct path which would lead to a clearing.
Rochester Hills Stonewall Pumpkin Festival @ Van Hoosen Farm, photo by Mike
When black cats prowl and pumpkins gleam,
May luck be yours on Halloween.
~Author Unknown
I’d like to wish all of you a happy & safe Halloween. Watch out for those little ghosts & goblins as you’re out and about, and here’s hoping that you get to feel some of the magic of pretend tonight!
View Mike’s photo bigger and see more in his Rochester Hills Stonewall Pumpkin Festival 2014 slideshow. Also be sure to follow Mike at StormchaserMike Photography on Facebook!
More Halloween through the years from Michigan in Pictures.
Michigan in Pictures 