The lockdown over the last few years made me realize I needed to remodel my home. I’ve lived here for seven years and, in that time, have updated absolutely nothing. I had grand plans, but work and laziness got the better of me. Until Covid forced me to stay home, that is.
My house is one of the older homes in Fort Collins. The original portion was built in 1869. Three bedrooms and attic space were added in 1907. A renovation took place in the late ’70s, though it wasn’t a complete update. The third bedroom and basement are still in original condition.
The basement was mostly dirt. I started my project down there. I wanted to create a sound room to record in. The weird thing was the basement was so much smaller than even the original home design. I’d never thought about it until I started the renovation, but as I worked on bracing up the foundation in one section, I uncovered a bricked-over doorway. It was done sometime before the home additions in 1907.
I know this because the warning painted on the brick read: Do Not Enter - Blackdamp - July 7th, 1872.
I consulted the local mining coop after a google search taught me about the fun that is blackdamp. They advised I get a Co2 reading of the area and have everything tested, including my water. I did. It’s all fine. No bad air, Co2, gasses, or anything bad to report. I was safe about it.
So I knocked the wall down. After the dust settled, I found a fully furnished room. A desk, chairs, a small couch, and a coat rack stood on a beautiful rug. I’m having the rug cleaned and plan to donate it to the local tribe that created it 200 years ago.
The desk held a diary, along with assorted letters. I thought the diary might be of interest here. I’ve copied it as it was written, so there are typos. Don’t hate me for them. I’ve corrected the spelling but enjoyed the old-fashioned vernacular of the time, so I left it as is.
A warning for those faint of heart, there are some gruesome details.
I have the complete diary, though only feel comfortable posting the first few sections at this time. I will update more soon, but it takes time to copy his handwriting, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t give me the creeps reading this stuff. This is a pretty big house, and I live alone. Plus, I haven’t seen many people since 2020.
Well, here’s the first part.
From the journal of Captain Grady White
May 23, 1856
I’ve crossed into Colorado territory and am, by my estimates, thirty-five miles to the north of Beaver Creek. My horse is well and seems glad to be back on the trail after the delays we met. That was most unexpected, though I’ve made good time since. Supplies are good, and I expect to enter the range after meeting my guide at a camp near the mountains to the west.
My thoughts are filled with images of grand vistas and glorious pine forests. I yearn for the days which are filled with babbling streams teeming with mountain fish. Soon it will be just my guide and me.
Until tomorrow,
Cpt Grady White
May 24, 1856
The camp is disparate from any U.S. military installation I’ve experienced. The guard posts were unmanned as I rode toward the gate. There were sounds of soldiers in the air, but naught could be seen from my vantage.
I had to kick the front gate to get the attention of the guard. He then proceeded to open the entrance without a word to me. For all he was aware, I could have been a spy, or worse!
A private took the reins of my steed, asked me to dismount, then led her off to the stables. He asked no other questions, offered no salute, and just left me standing there, holding my hat, as it were.
After I took the initiative upon myself to search out a person of authority, I came upon a Sergeant. I berated him for his lack of salute to a superior and demanded that he take me to his commanding officer immediately. He had the audacity to look me in the eye and tell me that HE was the highest-ranking soldier at the camp. The Major and Lt. had gone to another post to gather intel and would be back in three days’ time. He was told to have me await their return.
At this news, I was, and I believe rightly, outraged. I am tasked with the exploration of a specific region, not to pander to a camp full of enlisted men that had yet to cut their teeth in battle. I have no interest in staying, though it seems I have no choice in the matter. The Major will be hearing from my superiors, that is for certain.
Nevertheless, I will meet with my guide, and we shall make preparations for the expedition, planning to leave the morning of their return.
The rooms they provided me smelled of cheap whiskey and whores.
Until tomorrow,
Cpt Grady White
May 25, 1856
The arrival of my guide was delayed until the day after tomorrow, so I was apparently destined to be here for three days, no matter the circumstance.
And such as it is, I have determined the best method to deal with the lackadaisical attitude around this camp is to ignore it. None of the men seem to understand my place here. In fact, I have been questioned openly about my true purpose and if it meant the soldiers would soon be moving on to another camp. Most seemed eager to be away from here.
My curiosity got the better of me, and I started questioning some of the men. I knew there was an unease about the camp and hoped to get to the bottom of it. It happens more often than you think. A camp can grow increasingly isolated at times, and that isolation can cause strange behavior. The unease I felt from the men of this camp seemed to have a tinge of malice to it. It was as if the men feared something and wouldn’t admit, even to themselves, that they were unable to resolve exactly what it was.
My investigations amongst the men were mostly met with caution. I understand the boys didn’t want to sound off their nuts and risk losing their check. Needless to say, there wasn’t much straightforward cooperation. Until there was.
I happened upon a young man along the Poudre as he was fishing. I introduced myself, and he responded in kind. His name is Corporal W. S. Foster. I shall refer to him as WS. Here is our conversation, such as I remember it, and after some small talk to open the lad up:
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Me: I’ve noticed a...strangeness to the camp.
WS: Strangeness isn’t quite the term I would have chosen. I’d say it’s more like something here just ain’t right. Hell, even the horses know it. They’ll bolt as soon as you let go of the reigns. Don’t matter if they’re in the camp or out on patrol. Something here scares ‘em, and it scares me.
Me: Well, do you have an idea of what it is?
WS: There’s been mumbling about this-n-that, you know, the usual native spirit walkers, skinwalkers, the list goes on. I haven’t seen anything, though I have felt eyes on me. Even out here, where I feel relatively at ease, I know I’m being watched. Well now!
At this point, WS proceeded to catch a magnificent trout. I felt a pang of envy as I had no fishing equipment to join the man.
Me: Well done, fellow. A beautiful specimen!
WS: Thank you, sir. I shall cook it tonight, and I invite you to join me.
Me: Accepted!
WS: So, do you feel it? (He was whispering at this point, eyes darting around but trying to remain calm and collected, lest he acknowledges the presence. I could see the hair of the man’s arms standing on end. He was truly frightened.)
Me: I do not. I don’t sense anything more than I did before. There simply isn’t anything here.
WS: It’s not here, exactly. I can’t shake it. It’s as if there’s a shadow holding over me. I don’t expect you to understand yet, as you’ve just arrived, but you will start to notice soon enough.
I returned to camp shortly thereafter to write this out lest I forget. The last part of the conversation kept playing through my mind. Corp. Foster is a very interesting young man. I would like to have him elaborate on his tale over dinner.
I shall update this record later with any pertinent information he may offer.
Until this evening,
Cpt Grady White
May 25, 1856
I intended to dine with WS Foster this evening, though he has suddenly taken ill. I wonder if the water quality of the river has played a part or if he improperly prepared the fish. Either way, I feel I may have dodged the same fate by being a few minutes late to dinner.
With my evening now free of distraction, I set out to find other soldiers in the camp to discuss the conversation I had earlier.
I met with three men while dining in the mess. The enlisted men Grant, Prowers, and Hackney offered me a space at their table.
I began the discussion with a recap of my earlier chat with Foster. They seemed surprised to hear Foster’s concerns and referred to him as an outsider amongst the troops. His level of education and drive to become an officer intimidated the others. The entire regiment held him in high regard, though few fraternized with him.
Grant started a recollection of a rescue mission he, Prowers, and Hackney had been on the previous fall.
Grant: We was tasked with heading north towards Ft. Laramie. Rumor was strong that there was a few families headed out to Oregon Country and had come upon some sort of hardship.
Hackney: That’s right. So we jumped on our horses and rode hard for the area they was last seen. Figured we’d pick up their trail and have them located in a few days’ time. Plans never work how you want them.
Prowers: Plans. Plans was to get to ‘em and get ‘em to safety. Course plans don’t ever work out. Not once. We rode up there, found the trail, and thought this was almost done.
Hackney: That’s right. We found their tracks and headed west. Came across a campsite that hadn’t been but two or three days old. Nothing out of the usual.
Grant: Right. Then we rode on. Found the next campsite not three hours later. It was a terrible sight, with one wagon abandoned, two dead oxen, and what looked to be four fresh dug graves. Weren’t no sign of natives attacking, nor of any bloodshed.
Hackney: The oxen looked to have fallen over dead. Not shot or killed, just dead. It was the strangest thing. The settlers didn’t even take none of the meat.
Grant: The wagon was in good condition. It could have made the remainder of the trip. Still had a full set of supplies and even rifles, powder, and plenty of rounds for the Colt 1855. I still have that one. Figured after what we went through, I earned it.
Prowers: I kept two revolvers. Pretty sombitches, ain’t they?
Prowers laid two Colt revolvers on the table for me to inspect. He looked at them like they were his children.
Grant: That wagon train doesn’t need them anymore. Lest not that we could figure.
Hackney: I still wake up sometimes with the sounds of that night in my ears. Horrible. If there was something that would wipe away the memory of what we seen and heard that night, I’d give anything.
Prowers: I didn’t see nothing. You talking like everything was out in the damn daylight, but it was so goddamned dark, even the fire couldn’t cut through more than a few feet of it.
Hackney: You know what I mean, you prick. What about the blood? Remember seeing the blood?
Prowers: Sure. Could be from an animal. Could be another one of their oxen. Or a deer. Who knows?
Grant. That wasn’t an ox. Didn’t scream like an ox, and ain’t no ox I ever heard knew how to say “Help Me” before what sounded like choking on their own blood. You keep ignoring that part.
Me: So what was it? What did you see?
Hackney: We lit torches and went to find the source of the blood. It was running everywhere. There were rivers of the shit. Thick, black rivers of blood just running across the ground, like we were in a goddamned slaughterhouse.
Grant: Except there were no bodies. None. We searched the entire area and found...nothing.
Prowers: So I said, “To hell with this,” and my horse and I found a nice clearing about 1/4 mile away. Lit a fire, set up my bedroll, and went to sleep. Woke up with the sun and found these two looking like they’d seen the damned Bell Witch or something.
Hackney: That’s because we seen it.
Me: What did you see?
Grant: We saw...something. It was tall, with the head of a bear or a lion but without the skin. Just a skull. Its body was thin, malnourished. It was wearing some sort of trousers, but they were just about rotten clean through.
Hackney: I’ll never forget those claws. They looked like knives hanging from strips of white flesh.
Grant: I stood there, staring at this thing as it made its way closer to me. I couldn’t move from fear.
Hackney: I pulled out my sidearm and squeezed off a shot. Clapped it straight in the eye. It howled. I felt my life being drained outta me from that sound.
Grant: And then it was gone.
Prowers: I still think they’re full of shit, but something spooked ‘em real bad. Grant wouldn’t talk. Hack was mumbling about needing to get back to camp, that there weren’t no settlers out there waiting for rescue anymore.
I didn't complain, but I knew returning without any sign of them settlers wasn’t going to please our superiors none too much.
Hackney: We waited until that afternoon to head back up to the camp from the night before. The camp was in a state. Blood everywhere. We couldn’t find any bodies, but we did find two more wagons. They were tipped on end, standing straight up in the air.
We hollered out to anyone in the area but got no answer.
Grant: The wheel was spinning in the breeze. Just the one wheel. The others were still. I went and grabbed onto it to stop it. When I let go, it started spinning again, only faster. Then it stopped. Started spinning the other way.
Something must have been turning it, but I couldn’t see anything.
Hackney: It was strange. I asked aloud if someone was there, and the wheel stopped. All this wind rose up around us, and I coulda sworn I heard my name being called out. I backed away from the wagons and tripped over a tree fall. Got a good four inches of broken branch stuck into my side. Next I knew, I was stumbling towards a horse, then woke up on the trail back here.
Prowers: He near killed himself on that branch. We rode back fast and made it in just over 12 hours.
Hackney: Any longer and I’d be dead. The camp surgeon got me fixed up. Took me a month before I could climb onto a horse again. Two before I could do it pain-free.
Grant: We made our report, such as it was and were laughed at. The major laughed at us. In our faces. Haven’t been sent out since. Been eight months sitting around this damn camp.
Prowers: I still think these two found a stash of whiskey on one of them wagons and dreamt the whole thing up.
I thanked them for their time and for the story. I don’t know what to make of their tale, but it’s all in the report they filed. The sergeant was good enough to bring it to me later this evening. He wasn’t happy, but he obeyed orders.
I look forward to leaving this place.
Until tomorrow,
Cpt Grady White