A terrible, horrifying thing happened to a group of people on a dark Halloween night in a deserted house in the countryside near Troy in 1963.
Yes, terrifying. And it’s a true story. I know because I was there.
Princeton, population 84, was my hometown back then, and that’s where this story started. I attended the only church in town and went to high school at Potlatch, three miles away, where I was a senior and too old for trick-or-treating.
I, and a few other teens who attended the church, complained to our parents.
“There’s nothing to do in this tiny, boring town.”
My mother suggested helping her hand out treats to the few trick-or-treaters who came to our house.
“How exciting,” I said. “Wait until my friends at school hear about this. They’ll be so jealous.”
S
o she took up the problem with her women friends at church, and that’s how the Great Ha lloween Treasure Hunt was born. The young people of the church would follow clues to an exciting treasure, the pastor’s wife (who I’ll call Mrs. Wilson) announced to the congregation the next Sunday.
I was skeptical until she shared the location — an abandoned farmhouse owned by her relatives. She described it as “spooky.”
My mother volunteered me to help run the treasure hunt — or stay home to hand out treats. Halloween came, and I found myself driving from Princeton to the farmhouse.
Mrs. Wilson and a number of other church women already were there, hanging Halloween decorations and setting out plates of cookies and other snacks. She handed me a map marked with locations where she wanted clues placed: fence posts, an old root cellar, a charred stump. The last clue directed the seekers back to the farmhouse where, in a dark corner of the attic, the treasure waited.
I’d assumed I’d be volunteering with other teens from the church, but it was just me. Mrs. Wilson sensed my disappointment.
“Come with me to the attic and see something really scary we did,” she said. “In fact, I hope it’s not too scary.”
I followed Mrs. Wilson, a very large woman, up the narrow stairs. Where the staircase took a sharp turn to the right, she paused to rest, breathing heavily.
I had to admit it was spooky: lit by a single, low-wattage light bulb; dark shadows; real spider webs; creaks from the old building as, outside, occasional gusts of wind railed against the structure.
A grotesque figure sat in a rocking chair at the far end of the attic. The hairs on my arms stiffened. These church women had done good.
“See that, at his feet?” Mrs. Wilson asked. “He’s guarding the treasure.”
A small wooden chest sat between the creature’s old work boots. Moving closer, I made out the words “Treasure Chest” on a piece of paper taped to it.
The women had stuffed a large pair of men’s dirty work pants and a faded shirt with rags and filled brown gloves with cotton to imitate hands.They placed a laminated monster mask over a Styrofoam wig holder and added a black wig topped with a stained baseball cap, mounting it atop the dummy’s body.
In that creepy attic, on that deserted farm, on that dark Halloween night, it was indeed scary.
Mrs. Wilson asked if they had gone too far. I told her it was perfect.
I left the farmhouse and hurried around outside placing clues. I figured it would take the treasure hunters an hour or so to find the final one: “The treasure is in the place you started and you must go up to find it. But beware — the treasure is guarded.”
Soon the kids — grade school and junior high — arrived. Mrs. Wilson blew a whistle to get their attention and divided them into teams of three, passing out flashlights and maps. She held up a toy cap gun and fired it, yelling, “Go.”
The kids hurried off, talking and giggling about the dark woods, monsters and the treasure. I told the women I’d check on them, but I had no plans to help the noisy little buggers running around outside. I just needed to escape the boredom inside the house, where the women were chatting in the kitchen. I could not wait for this night to be over.
I walked around outside, listening to the faint squeals as the treasure seekers found a clue and headed to the next one.
I found myself at the back of the house and, looking up, saw faint light coming from a tiny window on the attic level. Poor old monster, I thought; he’s up there all alone.
I smiled — but not for long.
I made my way back into the farmhouse through an unlocked back door. The stairway was to the right, hidden from view from anybody in the kitchen.
That attic setting would be scary for those kids. But it could be scarier. A lot scarier. A Halloween to tell their children and grandchildren about.
I went up the stairs as silently as I could. The dummy sat motionless in his rocker. I inched closer and froze as a floorboard creaked beneath my foot. Muted sounds of women’s laughter drifted up the staircase. They hadn’t heard me.
I stared at the dummy and realized that I, a skinny teenager, could just remove the stuffing from his clothes and slip right in without taking off my own, just my shoes.
And so I did.
I sat in the rocking chair for about half an hour before excited yelling indicated the approach of the first group.
Showtime.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Two girls and a boy paused at the top, eyes adjusting to the dim light.
All eyes inspected me.
“Must be a dummy monster the women put up here to scare us,” the boy said. “Look, the treasure’s between his feet. Let’s grab it!”
Their fear gone, they hurried toward me, then froze as I exhaled like a monster coming to life in a horror film.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t like this!”
“Don’t be scared — it’s just a dummy, and they must have added sound effects up here. Let’s grab the treasure —”
I cocked my head in their direction, groaned, pushed my feet to make the rocker move backward — and heard one of the loudest screams ever.
“IT’S ALIVE!”
They roared down the stairs, screaming and stumbling.
Underneath the monster mask, I grinned. An unforgettable Halloween for them.
The commotion downstairs continued until Mrs. Wilson’s voice rose above the din.
“It’s just a dummy stuffed with rags. It is not alive. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Heavy plodding on the stairs.
My conscience flickered. Should I take off the mask and shout, “Scared you”?
Or.
Mrs. Wilson appeared at the top of the stairs, breathing heavily. She took a step toward me, shining her flashlight on the mask. I remained motionless.
“See?” she said, turning toward the three heads peeping over the top of the stairs. “It’s just a dummy.”
“But it moved and groaned and —”
“Nonsense. That is just your imagination playing tricks on you. Come on, I’ll take the mask off and show you it’s only a —”
I turned my head toward Mrs. Wilson, groaned as if in agony and pushed myself slowly out of the rocker.
“No! No! No!”
The words erupted from the woman in a high squeal. She dropped the flashlight, screamed something unintelligible and rushed the stairwell almost before the three screaming kids could turn and hurtle down ahead of her.
Alone now in the quiet attic, I wondered: Had I carried this Halloween prank too far?
I got out of the rocker and walked to the top of the stairs. I heard hysterical sobbing from the children and moaning and gasping from Mrs. Wilson. But no talk of an ambulance or anyone needing medical care.
Time for damage control.
“It’s just me — Andy,” I shouted down. “I didn’t mean to scare you so bad.”
It suddenly was silent downstairs.
Still in full costume, I slowly descended and stood at the entrance to the kitchen where I was met with cold stares from the women and awe from the children.
“Sorry,” I said. “I guess I got carried away with Halloween.”
“I’ve never been so scared in all my life,” a wide-eyed girl said. “It was so cool!”
“I think you should go home,” Mrs. Wilson said, still breathing heavily.
I arrived home to learn Mrs. Wilson had phoned ahead with a full report.
“This could have ended very badly,” Mom said through gritted teeth. “Very poor judgment on your part.”
My father, silent and cold as cement at midnight, just stared at me.
I was grounded for a week with loss of driving and TV privileges. Depressing, yes. And all because I tried to give a bunch of kids a memorable Halloween.
But the next day at high school I had redemption. Word had spread.
“Coolest Halloween stunt ever, Bull,” I heard, over and over. “Wish I’d been there.”
And many years later, I shared this Halloween experience with my grandchildren. They loved it.
Grandpa’s Halloween stunt. Best ever.
Bull, a native Idahonian, worked for the Lewiston Tribune from the late 1960s into the ’80s and continues to freelance from his home near Eugene, Ore. He enjoys a good story, especially scary Halloween stories. He may be contacted at andybull253@gmail.com.