A RUNNING HALLOWEEN STORY

With Halloween one day away, I want to share with you a true scary story from my days as a high school distance runner.

The Chair

 

 

“I’m not afraid to sit on it,” Mike said.

            “If you do, I will,” Bruce said.

            I wasn’t so sure.

            On an October night in 1973 we jogged along Treadway Road, a dirt lane that crossed a series of Appalachian foothills and led to the Scotch Ridge Presbyterian Church. The wind whipped dead leaves across our path, and the full moon through the branches of overhanging trees splashed splatters of light around us, like small ghosts. Bruce brought a flashlight in case we needed it, carrying it like a baton. Fortunately, our eyes adjusted well to the darkness. Running up and down hills for three miles didn’t bother us either—we were high school cross country runners.

            We’d known about The Chair’s curse since grade school. Everyone did. I’d heard about the farmer’s wife who sat on it back in the 30’s, lost her mind, and hung herself from the rafters of a barn not far from the church. Then there was the young man who came home on leave from the Army after basic training. On a dare from his buddies he sat on The Chair at midnight and died a few months later from shrapnel wounds on a Vietnamese battlefield. More recently, a kid I knew personally lost his life in a car crash on the very night he supposedly sat in The Chair.

            Most teenagers from the Upper Ohio Valley made late-night excursions to the monument to challenge the curse, but almost all chickened out once they got there. Mike and Bruce had declared their intensions. They were risk takers and loved to compete against each other. Both were All-Ohio distance runners. If they sat on it, what would I do? I tried not to think about it.

            “Did you hear about the mutilations?” Bruce asked as we neared the top of a long and winding hill.

“What mutilations?” I asked.

            “Livestock mutilations,” Mike said. “Farmers are losing cows and sheep along this ridge. Don’t know what’s killing them. Ain’t no bears or coyotes round here anymore.”

            “Might be a maniac,” Bruce said.

            “M-m-maniac?” I stammered, and Bruce smiled, the moon’s glow glinting off his black-framed glasses.

            “Lot’s a psychos in these parts,” Mike said as he grinned at Bruce.

            Now for sure I didn’t want to sit on the Chair. I wasn’t superstitious—just  naturally conservative. Why take unnecessary chances?

“It’s right up here,” Mike said as he slowed his pace to a walk.

We stopped at the bottom of a steep gravel driveway and peered up. The full moon hung over the small brick church like a big eye. Its light dabbed the gravestones on the hillside with ashen strokes. To the left of the church a huge dead tree extended its spidery branches into the starlit sky. Below the tree The Chair waited for us, a black throne, edges gilded by the moon’s glow.

“Let’s go,” Mike said. “It’s almost midnight.” He started up the long driveway at a slow jog, and we followed.

At the top of the hill the wind whistled through the dead tree’s branches. Bruce shone the flashlight on the Chair. Intricately carved ivy vines climbed from its base, up simulated wooden legs and around its back. A scroll unrolled on the seat with a scripture verse from I Samuel 20:18: Thou shalt be missed, because thy seat will be empty.

“Look down here,” Mike said as he pointed to the left side of the base.

I read the inscription. “Alvin Mitchell. Born December 2^nd 1852. Died December 13^th 1873. The guy only lived to be twenty-one years old. Wonder what killed him?”

Bruce smiled and said, “Maybe a maniac.”

Mike laughed. “Or a psycho.”

I didn’t think it was funny. “Let’s see what’s on the other side.”

More than anything, the inscription on the other side of the monument freaked me out—Meet me in heaven. I wasn’t ready to cross over the great divide yet. What if I did die? Would heaven’s gates open for me?

A gust of wind rattled the dead branches above us. Bruce glanced up and said, “Are we gonna sit on this thing or not?”

“Who’s first?” Mike asked.

Bruce and I looked at each other and then at Mike.

“You guys are wimps,” Mike said. “I’ll go.”

He placed his hands on the seat like a gymnast mounting a pommel horse, jumped, and spun. Firmly his rear end landed on the throne, and he raised his arms into the air. “Hey, Grim Reaper, you can’t catch me!” he yelled and then whooped like a chimpanzee.

Mike quickly jumped off, and Bruce declared, “I’m next.”

I didn’t argue.

Using Mike’s technique, Bruce mounted the Chair. He threw his head back and cackled like a madman, the moon flashing off his glasses. “Any maniacs out there? Come after me and you’ll eat my dust!”

After Bruce dismounted, my friends gazed at me expectantly. The wind velocity increased. A loud crack erupted above us, and a tree limb tumbled through the branches and struck a nearby gravestone, shattering into a hundred pieces. My heart leapt in my chest. Was that a sign?

 

This was part 1 of two parts. Check back tomorrow for part 2

 

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