A must visit for your future travels...

 

 My how the months fly by don't they? This is a re-post of my original 

 visit to the grave site of Twilight Zone creator Rod Serling in Interlaken, N.Y.

A year later, my brother Gary accompanied me on my 2nd trip there. 

It was an easy drive .....it was an hour and a half from where I live in 

Cohocton, N.Y.  If you were a Twilight Zone fan...this trip has to be 

on your 'bucket list' of places to go....it is simply awe inspiring...and 

I must admit, just a bit spooky.  I hope you enjoy the story and the pics...

Visiting Rod Serling.....

I'd been planning the trip for sometime now...an hour and one half from Loon
Lake here in Cohocton....but the drive was well worth the discovery.

Rod Serling's grave site in Interlaken, N.Y.  was an experience, let me tell you.

When I was a mile out, the anticipation grew, I was hoping I would not have
difficulty finding the spot, but the map I had spelled out the location pretty
well.

Driving thru the gate and meandering thru to section G reminded me of many
funerals I have had over the years....the quiet, the peaceful surroundings...
being anxious to get to the right place.  The last turn to section G where he
is buried had some pretty good washouts, but my car handled them easily,
and I pulled over and parked. Grabbing my camera and tripod, I headed up
the slight incline to where the map indicated where he rested....

I found rows of markers with death dates of the 90s', then the 80's...then
I hit the 70's and I knew I was very very close.  Within thirty feet, a grave
that looked a little 'busy' with things around the stone jumped out at me.

As I walked up to the the grave, I was actually overwhelmed.  Here he was.
Rod Serling, master of the short story, creator of the world famous
Twilight Zone, followed by Night Gallery. Wow. I was finally here.

I had followed him and Alfred Hitchcock for years...enjoying their stories
and most of all, their surprise endings to their stories. I have mentioned both
writers on the back cover of my new book Tales Unleashed coming out this
fall. 

As I knelt down to inspect Rod's simple 12 by 24 grave marker...I could tell
that he has not been forgotten. Many who traveled here before me left little
tokens, coins, photographs of Rod.  It's so pleasurable to know that others
have made the journey here before me... just to experience this guy and
the talent that he had. But what a short life, just 50. How much more could
he have written if he had lived to 70, 80 and beyond?

A flag also was present..he served in the Army, WW2. He had received
several medals during service in the Pacific. 

So in the quiet, I sat my tripod, took some photos, spoke a few words to
this man, thanking him for his stories, in inspirations, and for his service
to the country. 
Wikipedia has an excellent long biography of Rod. You should go there
sometime and read it. He had many

many talents indeed.

As you know, Serling was a big smoker...the following explained that
and his death:

Serling was said to smoke 3-4 packs of cigarettes a day. On May 3, 1975, he had a minor heart attack and was hospitalized. He spent two weeks at Tompkins County Community Hospital before being released. A second heart attack two weeks later forced doctors to agree that open-heart surgery, though considered risky at the time, was in order. The ten-hour-long procedure was performed on June 26, but Serling had a third heart attack on the operating table and died two days later at Strong Memorial Hospital in Rochester, New York. He was 50 years old. His funeral and burial took place on July 2 at Lake View Cemetery, Interlaken, (Seneca County), New York.

His grave site is easy to find, and is lot G, plot 1044. He has a simple 12” by 24” headstone.

Contributing factors to his early death included the fact that he was a very heavy smoker,

his favorite being Chesterfield ‘long’ cigarettes. He endorsed the brand and was rarely seen

without a cigarette in his hand, even while introducing some of his TV episodes. 

I wasn't at his grave site too awfully long. I almost felt like an intruder into this

space, a quiet and serene place....you could here a pin drop. 

Thanks Rod. Perhaps I'll go back there another day. If you find yourself in the

Fingerlakes of New York, direct your car to that gate. It's a place that is indeed

where your imagination can abound, where time itself slows to a halt...it's

a place where the Twilight Zone has come to rest. SS

The pumpkin weeps....

 

All living things have a 'soul' if you will....but do they have sensations? You decide. 

from Tales Unleashed.....'tis the season for; 

The Pumpkin Weeps

“Slow down, Jimmy! Carving a pumpkin takes patience, a keen eye, and most importantly, a steady hand.”

Chad Osborn was sitting next to his son Jimmy as the eight year-old boy inserted the knife into the outer skin of the pumpkin they had just purchased a half mile down the road. The knife was not a sharp one—which was probably part of the problem—and Jimmy tried in vain to accomplish a deep cut. Chad knew that his wife would not approve of this whole plan, but under strict supervision, Chad thought Jimmy could at least do the task without taking a finger off.

“I want to make a big frown on the face, Dad.”.

“Why a frown?”

“Well,” replied Jimmy, “I can’t be too sure the pumpkin would have a smile on his face after being pulled out of his patch. That was his home, right?”

His dad chuckled. “I guess that’s right, son . . . I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

And so the two continued for the next half hour to make the face that Jimmy had envisioned, Jimmy getting his wish as he put the finishing touch on the pumpkin that made it quite sad-looking indeed.

“Can we put in on the front stoop tonight with a candle inside, dad? I’ll be careful. I promise. And I’ll watch it closely.”

“Okay” his dad said. “We’ll come out at dusk and light it up for a couple of hours before you go to bed.”

And so the plan was in place. Jimmy couldn’t wait to eat his supper, get his homework done, and prepare for the first pumpkin lighting of his young career. Wow, what a night it would be! A couple hours had passed, and Jimmy became increasingly anxious to start the night’s festivities. Jumping on his dad’s lap and knocking the newspaper from Chad’s hands, he asked, “Can we go out front and light it now dad? Can we, can we?”

“Okay son, I’ll go get some matches and we’ll see how that project of yours turned out.” His dad put down his paper, grabbed his son, and they headed out the front door with a shared mission in mind.  

Sitting on either side of the pumpkin, Jimmy and his dad examined the masterpiece they had created earlier in the day. The face wasn’t scary—it looked more sad than angry. Jimmy lifted the stem attached to the top and sat it aside as his dad struck the match and reached down inside to light the small white candle. 

Replacing the top and getting down in front of the pumpkin, Jimmy exclaimed with joy, “Dad, look at it . . . it’s perfect!”

 But Jimmy’s broad smile became a straight line as his face went from joyful to serious.

“What’s wrong, son?” his father asked.

“Dad, look at this.”

Coming around front, his father knelt beside Jimmy and saw what had changed the child’s face.  On either side of the pumpkin, and at the outer corner of each eye, several drops of water dripped down the pumpkin’s cheek. Almost a stream, if you will. “Oh that’s just condensation from inside son. Pumpkins are very wet inside you know.”

“No, dad. This pumpkin is most unhappy that we have ripped it away from its home, and it’s crying. Look at it.” Jimmy started to well up himself, his bottom lip quivering. “We have to take it back tomorrow. It has to go back.”

“Son, nobody’s going to take back a carved pumpkin . . . but we’ll try.” With that, the pair blew out the candle and retired for the evening.

The next day being Saturday, Jimmy and his father placed the pumpkin in the front seat of the station wagon and headed back down the road to the stand from which it came. The old man who operated the stand sat on a rusty old milk can and struck a match to his pipe as the pair approached him.

 “Problem?” inquired the man as Chad and Jimmy placed the carved piece at his feet.

“No, none at all,” replied Chad. “It was nice, but my son wants it returned to where it came from. Can you do that?”

“Well, I’ve never had anyone bring one back before, rather unusual, but guess I could. Can’t give your money back though.”

“Oh no, don’t expect that. Thanks so much, we’ll try and get back next year.”

“Suit yourself,” said the old man as he loaded the pumpkin into a wheelbarrow.

Sitting in the car, Chad and Jimmy reviewed the day that had just passed between them and the pumpkin.

“Do you think that pumpkin felt it when I cut it with the knife dad?”

“I don’t think so Jimmy. Many say that plants can communicate with each other, but I don’t believe that a plant can show any kind of emotion, let alone produce tears. How about an ice cream?”

 As the two drove away, they watched the old man as he moved the wheelbarrow out from behind his stand. Picking the pumpkin up and gently placing it back near another of its kind, the old man walked away with water dripping from his hands. “Boy, I don’t think I’ve ever handled one that wet,” he remarked as he dried his hands with his well-worn handkerchief.

Jimmy’s pumpkin was back home, as Jimmy had requested. Had his pumpkin produced tears after being ripped away from the fertile ground? Had it felt not only the separation, but also the knife that Jimmy had held to produce the frown that now adorned its face? Lots of questions indeed to ponder.

The sun settled two hours later on the old man’s pumpkin patch. Tonight, there would be a new face there, one with a most distinctive frown, and perhaps even a dried tear or two to reflect the moonlight that was yet to arrive.

Coming in 2023......

 

What’s coming up in 2023……a western, a romance, an adventure

in the old west....

 

It’s Dry Gulch, Arizona, the year is 1875. Young rancher Travis

Dawson has just left his father’s ranch after losing his younger

brother Caleb in a horse riding accident.

Forty miles to Tucson, and Travis and his horse Jack have set out to

get away from the memory of that horrible accident.

A robbery along the way…meeting an attractive lady Sarah at the

local mercantile….being talked into a job and place to stay with

the local undertaker Turnball….the last job he thought he would

ever be involved with!

The story is gritty, dust ridden, raw, thought provoking and full of

one surprise after another for the young Dawson.

Travis Dawson, Undertaker….now copyrighted and expected to be

printed and available in 2023!

This is a western that has it all…..watch for the previews on line on

the world wide web…..and get ready for

                                   Travis Dawson, Undertaker.

                                  Authored by Stanley E. Swan

Old man Crenshaw's place....

 

Youngster Jeff loved being on his bike and pedaling around the neighborhood....

except there was one place he tried to avoid. The house where Old man Crenshaw

lived.....it was down right spooky and broken down. From time to time Jeff would

see the old man standing in an upstairs window with a rolled newspaper tucked 

under his arm...what was that about? One day in late May as Jeff made his way 

up the hill and past the house....he stopped the bike and peered ahead to see both

a Sheriffs car and ambulance parked at the bottom of the drive. 

This is story 19 in Tales Unleashed (Amazon) 

Old Man Crenshaw’s Place

When most kids loved riding their bikes to school, Jeffery Adams was just the opposite. His six-minute ride to and from his rural farm house was down an old dirt road, up a steep incline and past Old Man Crenshaw’s place, a dilapidated two-story building that seemed to reach out for him every time he passed it. What was there about this house?  His father had told him many times about its owner, Ebenezer Crenshaw, a cranky old man that had worked at the newspaper for many years. It was rumored that Ebenezer was a conjuror . . . sitting by the light of a single lantern, reading tea leaves and cards, and casting spells on those he didn’t care for. Could it be true? Perhaps. Jeffery cranked the pedals as hard as he could every time he passed the Crenshaw place, kicking up cinders and dust as he would fly by the front porch and walk.

Once, he had seen the man in jeans and tee shirt, with a rolled-up newspaper under his arm, standing in an upstairs bedroom window. This place was creepy, very creepy . . . the kind of creep that sneaks into your bedroom at  night, slithering through that slightly opened window you had left before retiring. 

It was one afternoon after school in late May that Jeffery, on the way home was just coming up to the Crenshaw house. In front of the house was the Sheriff’s car and an ambulance, neither of which had their emergency lights flashing. A deputy stood in the middle of the road, presumably directing traffic to slow up a bit as it approached. Jeffery rolled up to the deputy, stopped his bike, and asked the officer, “What’s going on in there anyway?”

The deputy replied with, “Looks like Old Man Crenshaw has died. Someone stopped earlier in the day for some reason and found him inside. Now move along, son. Nothing else to see here.” 

With that Jeffery started pedaling homeward again. Geez, now Crenshaw’s would be creepy… him being dead and all. What would happen to this place? He pondered that question as he continued the journey home.

A couple of weeks passed. Crenshaw had been buried in the local cemetery not too far down the road from Jeffery’s house, and things seemed pretty normal again in his part of town. One night sitting out front of his house with his dad, Jeffery remarked to him, “You know dad, I saw Old Man Crenshaw one day. He was standing in an upstairs bedroom window in jeans and a tee shirt with a rolled-up newspaper under his arm.”

“Is that so?” replied his father. “Interesting, I heard that as a kid he delivered newspapers all over town. Did it for many years I think. Later on, he was actually employed by the same paper company for many years. Seems like he always had a newspaper on him.”

Two days later, Jeffery and his best friend Will were pedaling around town when they happened to pedal into the Whispering Pines Cemetery. It was the place where Old Man Crenshaw had been buried two weeks before.

“Why are we here?” asked Will of Jeffery.

“I don’t really know for sure,” replied Jeffery. “It’s just . . . I just want to see where he ended up.”

As they rounded the corner in the cemetery road, straight ahead they could make out a newly dug grave with a couple of wilted flower pieces laying on top.

“That must be it!” exclaimed Jeffery as he pushed the pedals to get a little closer.

Within ten feet of the spot, Jeffery slammed on the bike’s brakes and dug his feet into the soft ground. On top of the grave amongst the brown flower pieces was one rolled-up newspaper, its ink starting to run from the rain since the interment. 

“What is it with the newspaper?” asked Will.

“I’m not really sure. But I’d bet you a million dollars his obituary is in that edition. I’d bet you a million dollars . And I know one thing for sure—it’s his last newspaper.”

 And so Old Man Crenshaw had gone on. His newspaper delivery days were long past him now, and his abandoned house would sit and continue to wither away in the months and years ahead. Someday, when someone would buy that house and start renovating, do you know what they would find in those walls? Yes, one of the best old stand-by insulations ever invented: newspapers. 

Discovering Dr. John....

 

So a young man, wondering in the woods in the back of his mom's property discovers an

old rusty, broken down vehicle.....that discovery would send him down the path to his

life's work.  It's story number 12 in Tales Unleashed (Book Stand Publishing)    

Discovering Dr. John

At fifteen years old, Chad Gillmore was a whiz in math and science. He couldn’t read enough about the wonders of the world around him. At age eight his mom had presented him with his first chemistry set, and night after night, Chad would be in his room conjuring multiple solutions and pretending to be the one that would make that next discovery.

Chad knew that he wanted to pursue an occupation in medicine, but he didn’t know why. His father, who had passed away when Chad was only an infant, was a laborer, and his mom worked two jobs in retail shops not far from home. His mom suggested to Chad that if he wanted to pursue a job in the medical profession that he should seek his education in the military, as there would be no feasible way she could afford him a six- or eight-year college program.

Having just moved to a small house in Alloway, Chad and his mom enjoyed the rural pristine twenty acres that surrounded their modest home. Romping through the woods on a bright summer day gave Chad time to think about what was next, for both himself and his mother.

It was a Thursday after school that Chad decided to head out into the woods to explore new territory that he had yet not invaded. With a backpack on his shoulders and a wave to his mom, he was out the door.

Up the gully to the top of the hill, Chad made his way among clumps of maples and pines, flushing out a couple of grouse as he went. When he broke over the crest of the hill, Chad made a discovery which was most unusual in this setting of greenery and rock. Twenty yards in front of him was a car. Well, more of a truck than a car. Shaded in colors of white, blue, and rust, the vehicle sat among the weeds and small trees, resting from its past years work. Chad ran to the vehicle and slowly circled around it, taking it all in . . . wow, this was a find indeed.

Chad dropped his backpack, pried open the front door, and eased himself into the front seat which was covered in leaves and debris. A key was in the ignition, the dashboard was rusted and covered with dirt. Cobwebs were in every space of the interior, proof that few had entered before him.

Peering into the back, Chad saw what looked like some sort of stretcher, rolled up and rotten from the elements which he presumed had battered it for decades. There was something soothing about this car. It had a peaceful feeling to it, a feeling of good deeds being done and pursuits being realized. Chad couldn’t quite understand it. It was strange, yet inviting, to his spirit.

After a brief rest, Chad reached for the key in the ignition and tugged it slightly . . . and to his surprise the key slid out. He tucked it into his right jeans pocket. Jumping out of the front seat, Chad pushed the door firmly, but the door was inches from exacting a firm closure. Chad noticed some type of faint lettering on the door and started rubbing off the years of dirt and grime that masked it. Within a couple of minutes, Chad backed away from the door and read,

Dr. John Sullivan
Dispenser of Fine Medicine
Main St. Alloway

Wow. A medical car, used, abandoned and placed here for its final rest.

Chad touched the door and whispered in a faint breath that only a passing robin might have heard, “I’m going to carry on your work Dr. John. Thank you for the healing you did. Your key will be in my pocket until I start my own work someday. Thank you.”

Chad grabbed his backpack and headed for home, contemplating whether he should share the discovery with is mom. Maybe tomorrow . . . but not today. Chad knew that he would re-visit the car in the weeks ahead, and that Dr. John might speak to him about what his future chosen profession might bring.

And so a few years later, Chad with his interest in science and math, did indeed enter the medical profession. By way of the U.S. Army, Chad received his training and spent almost twelve years in service to his country and his fellow countrymen as a highly skilled nurse. During his time away, his mom did pass away, and Chad kept the house, renting it to local folks who could watch after it while he was away.

One week while home on leave, Chad revisited Dr. John’s medical vehicle which hadn’t moved from its original spot. Chad smiled as he ran his hand over the most rusted part of the truck’s hood.

“Thanks, Dr. John, for the inspiration. When I get home soon, we’ll get you out of this lonely place you’ve been a prisoner in, and get you fully restored.”

Chad’s find out in the woods so many years before had now seen him come full circle. He smiled lightly as he walked away from the vehicle, knowing that someday, not in the too-distant future, he’d be driving it through Alloway, on the road and among the houses to which it had been so familiar.

A walk in fog.....and time.

 

Welcome to my new followers....literally world wide by means of the world 

wide web. Little did we know years ago...such mass communications would 

ever become reality....but it is here...and a bit unsettling as well!

You'll find several interesting stories here on my blog....from the unusual 

to romantic...to unsettling in some cases....but don't be alarmed... they are

only just stories right? 

Ever go walking in the fog? Just for kicks maybe? You might rethink that

idea after reading the story below....thanks for stopping and have 

a great day!  SS 

 

Settle in and enjoy story #3 from Tales Unleashed.....

A Walk in Fog and Time

Is it possible to move through time? Is it possible that certain events are destined to repeat themselves, never coming to completion? Yes, yes indeed, it is possible. The story below is one of those events. Possibly a tragic event that would not allow the participants ever to have rest . . . read on, then decide for yourself.

The twilight was settling in quickly now. As I peered out the kitchen window, the impending darkness was bringing with it a thick fog bank, a result of the late afternoon rain and cooler temperature. The trees on the hillside beckoned me to take a walk among them, so I grabbed a light jacket and headed out the back door, paying little attention to the wet grass that clung to my scuffed-up oxfords. I’d been up and down these hills behind the house so many times, it seemed that I knew every tree, ditch, rock, and gulley that made it so friendly. As I made my way up the hill through the oaks and maples, their leaves rustled gently as the fog continued its downward spiral. I sat to catch my breath, feeling a bit faint from my fast ascent. No hurry, I thought. Sit and absorb the moment.

Sitting on a stump I knew so well, I watched the fog gain intensity . . . rolling down the hillside and enveloping me with a force I could actually feel through my thin summer jacket. I pulled up the collar around my exposed neck as the fog tried to invade my naked skin, giving me a chill that was unusual for this time of the year.

I listened intensely thinking that I was hearing a voice from further up into the woods, but I couldn’t imagine anyone else being out here at twilight. Zipping up my jacket to the top, I again headed up the hill, stopping every fifty yards or so to give listen.

Still, a faint voice, muffled by the fog, was descending to my ear . . . a man’s voice, soft-spoken, but authoritarian to some degree. I continued on and within a few moments I had crested the hill enough to look down into a bowl in the terrain. The man’s voice was slow and deliberate. The words spoken, I could not make out, but it was clear he was speaking to someone or a group. I moved between the large oaks, trying to hide behind trunks as I moved closer to make my discovery. And there before me, maybe a hundred yards ahead in the fog, were four figures cloaked in long grey capes with very large sleeves, almost choir robes. They all wore hats. The three shorter figures I presumed to be women, had bonnets tied at the chin, and the taller figure wore a wide brimmed, pitch black hat. He had in his left hand a seven-foot staff which towered above all four of the figures. Who were these people?

I moved closer . . . trying to look through the now very thick fog which was cloaking my view. Within another thirty yards or so my position had changed and my neck strained as I peered around the tree which hid me. On the ground in the middle of the group was a wood box, looking to be three feet long—perhaps a storage box for valuables, or a child’s casket.

All of a sudden the taller figure looked my way, sensing that he was being watched. I froze, hoping his eyes would not pierce the thick fog veil which surrounded me. He looked down at the book he had in hand and continued his speech to the group.

I’d had enough. My flight sense told me it was time to move away.

Slowly I backed away from the solemn scene, retreating back down the hill, my mind quickly trying to understand what I had just witnessed. The forecast was for clearing weather overnight, and tomorrow I would return to the bowl to see what I could find. In the meantime, I went to my encyclopedia and started to scan through examples of period clothing worn through the ages. When I got to the page of Quaker clothing my jaw dropped. Yes, this was the type of clothes these figures had on, right down to the length, cut and color. Now I had to know more.

The next day, the weather had cleared and I made my way to my local historian’s office. She was a gal just shy of being a hundred and she would know about my house, my town, and my hill. Sure enough, upon inquiry, she told me that Quakers indeed were some of the first settlers here. She asked me why I wanted to know, but I was not ready to relate to her my story of what I had seen.

Later that morning I retraced my steps to the bowl. The birds were singing. One lone turkey scratched for food as I entered the oaks that led to the bowl. I located the spot at which I thought I had seen the figures hovering over the small wooden box. The immediate ten feet of ground there was completely bare. There were no leaves, no twigs, no grass . . . just rich black earth. I had seen many times before spots in the woods that would be scratched by turkeys as they sought their daily feed, but this spot was beyond that. Not wanting to leave the ground looking so bare, I gathered a handful of leaves and twigs and covered the spot, trying to blend it in with all that was around it. The spot felt very lonely and strange, even with the mid morning sun now finding its way onto the site. I left the bowl and found that tree stump I had sat on the night before in the fog.

What had I seen last night? In the fog, a group of four in the forest standing around a small wood box. I had to think I had somehow been lost in time, or perhaps they had been lost in time. My conclusion was that I had witnessed a Quaker burial, but how could that be? It made no sense at all to me.

Now I’ll have to give serious consideration about going back to that same spot again. I won’t give up on the hill, it’s a fantastic place . . . but I know I will not return there in the twilight, and definitely not in the fog.

What did Julie VanBuren experience that day?

 

It's story number 24, page 91 from 

Tales Unleashed.

A Skate on Strange Ice

At age nine, Julie van Buren loved playing in the shallow McHenry Creek, just behind her house in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She would sit on the bank of the creek with her mother and toss stones into the water; on occasion they would launch a paper boat, set it in the water and watch intently it as it slowly made its way southward. 

Winter time was just as much fun. Her mom would let her skate unattended on the very shallow creek which had a few pools of water less than ten feet across and less than nine inches in depth. It was a safe and gleeful place that had entertained many families over the years. 

Today was a beautiful sunny day in February of 1954. Julie laced up her skates and shoved off from the bank onto the frozen surface of McHenry Creek, its ice lightly covered with fresh snow from the night before. Julie’s smile was ear to ear as she pushed herself around the frozen pool. The scarf wrapped around her neck barely kept the cold air from creeping under her collar. As Julie completed her fourth or fifth trip around the ice, she dropped a glove and quickly turned to retrieve it. She didn’t know why she even had the gloves with her today—it was cold, but the sun was warm, and they were tucked in her coat and out of the way. Julie arrived at the spot where the glove laid, and as she reached down to pick it up, something beneath the ice caught her attention.

She sat down, moved the glove, and brushed away the light snow with her left hand. As she peered down through the ice Julie was startled to see a young girl’s face just below the surface. It was a young face, perhaps about her same age: rounded, highlighted by chin-length blond hair with curls on the forehead. The eyes were closed, and Julie thought it resembled a Halloween mask. The face was pale with no color and no movement whatsoever.

Julie was startled and tried to get up quickly, but lost her balance and fell back to the ice. She struggled to get away from the face that she had just seen. She made her way quickly to the back door and went to the kitchen to report to her mom of her ghostly encounter. Her mother assured her that it was just her imagination, but she persisted and the two returned to the creek and the spot that Julie had told her about. They found nothing.

The next few days passed with little being said about the incident by Julie or her mother. On the fifth day, her mother’s curiosity had gotten the best of her, and while Julie was at school, she went to the local library to do some research.

Finding some Lancaster history books she started thumbing through the pages of gathered materials looking for anything out of the ordinary. One story in particular jumped off the page at her. The headline from 1928 read: Lancaster girl Ruth O’Brien still missing.

Reading on she discovered that the young gal had disappeared in February of that year while playing in light snow. A total search of the area, including local waterways, had shed no clue. Along with the article was a pencil sketch of what Ruth looked like at the time of her going missing. Julie’s mother copied the article and the sketch and took it home, it was something she wanted to study further as time allowed her. 

Three days later young Julie discovered the article and the pencil drawing at her mother’s desk. Picking up the picture and going to the kitchen, Julie said to her mother, “Mom, where did you get this drawing? This is the girl that I saw in the creek last week. Remember me telling you?”

“I’m sure it’s just coincidence, honey,” said her mother. “That little girl lived here a long time ago.”

Julie’s mom decided to call the sheriff the next day, just to report what Julie had seen. The sheriff, getting on in years, chuckled and said, “There have been numerous other sightings over the years of young Ruth, but nothing has ever come of them.”

And so, Julie’s sighting in McHenry Creek would be the latest to be lodged with the local authorities.  

 The girl Ruth, who had vanished almost three decades ago during the month of February, had just made another brief stop near Lancaster.