It was Halloween.1978. Just after midnight. Anne and I were parked in the Gremlin and we were on the outs, all because she thought I’d been flirting with one of the Starkweather cheerleaders at the McCullough’s party that night. I’d already explained that I hadn’t been flirting with her but rather she’d been flirting with me. That the party had been the band’s first paid gig and we wanted to make a good impression so we’d made an effort to interact with the crowd, both onstage and off. Reminded her that when I was grabbing a drink or heading to the bathroom during a set-break I couldn’t control who came up to me or what they did or said to me. But none of that had gained me any traction. She was cranked about the whole thing, sitting there silently in the passenger seat, arms crossed tightly in front of her as she stared out her window into the night. I took a deep sigh. Happy Halloween, sludge.

I started the car then snicked on the radio. Tuned it to CKRC-AM out of Winnipeg. Bobby “Boris” Pickett’s “Monster Mash” was playing. I gave myself a sour half-smile in the rearview. Felt myself getting angry. Thought about mounting a counterattack. Asking Anne point blank what was up with her slow-dancing the last dance we played—”Stairway to Heaven”—with Wilson Davidson. Stupid Wilson Davidson. All dark and tall and handsome and rich, he was a loudmouthed big-shot college-boy at NDSU and drove a signature orange Corvette. Jerk. I’d watched from the stage helplessly as he’d whisked her giggling self onto the dance floor then pulled her in tight right when I tore into my big solo. I can guarantee that Jimmy Page never played those infamous licks with such passion and fury. So I definitely had some ammo I could use to fight back if I wanted, but I decided not to. Figured I might as well try and salvage the night. Put the car in gear and we headed out to Sutton’s Grove.

Sutton’s Grove. A thick stand of old-growth trees lining the western shore of the lake, accessible only by a long and lonely rutted and graveled road ending at its outside edge. Known by everyone in town, particularly those cursed with artistic or romantic inclinations, the grove itself was beautiful, largely untouched and crisscrossed by a maze of vaguely defined footpaths worn into the lush underbrush, all leading eventually to the waterside. During the day it was a serene and peaceful place to be, but when the sun set it took on a different tone. One that was more solemn. More somber. Some even say more sinister. You see, there’s a dark chapter in the grove’s history. Back in the day, before all the German and Norwegian settlers arrived, it was the site of one of the largest battles ever held by the Indigenous people. Hundreds of them were massacred in a bloodbath that lasted for days and legend has it their troubled spirits have never rested and continue to roam the grove seeking reparation, resolution, and perhaps revenge—especially at night.

Well, that evening as I pulled into the main dirt lot at the treeline and parked the Gremmy I wasn’t thinking much about ghostly Native warriors looking for payback. I just wanted Anne to chill and knew how much she liked wandering quietly through the grove and along the lake and when I shut the car off I could already feel her soften. I opened my door and got out. Walked around and opened her door for her then took her hand and helped her out. The air was crisp and clear and the owls were hoot-hoot-hooting and a silvery full moon was peeking out from behind a phalanx of big puffy grey clouds drifting lazily across the velvet-black sky. We made our way into the woods and found a clearing with a fallen tree that would serve conveniently as a cozy bench for two. We sat down and I put my arm around her and pulled her near. Began to tell her I loved her but just then heard something move sharply off to the left of us. Then a twig snapped and a bush rustled somewhere behind us. Anne began to speak but I shushed her and heard something again. Something different. Something that raised every hair on the back of my neck. Somewhere out there in the darkness I could hear something breathing.

I looked at Anne and saw that she was frightened. She’d heard it too. Then suddenly off in the distance came a tortured and hellish moan that made her scream. I stood up and peered into the forest and in the flickering moonlight made out a tall menacing figure standing about forty feet away from us and that was it for me. I grabbed Anne’s hand and pulled her up from the log and we bolted through the grove, scratching and scraping ourselves on all the branches and brambles and twisting our ankles on the rocky pathways until we burst out into the lot and piled into the Gremlin. I heard one last devilish moan from behind us as I twisted the ignition key and the Gremmy fired and we roared off, away from whomever—whatever—as quickly as three forward speeds and 258 cubic inches of Kenosha-bred horsepower could carry us.

Twenty minutes later when we pulled into Anne’s driveway our hearts were still pounding and we were sweating like racehorses, but the argument was over, neither of us miffed anymore about who might have been flirting with whom. All we could think about was what we’d just seen. And heard. And survived. We talked about calling the cops but agreed they’d think we were nuts or just stupid kids looking for attention so we made a pact to not tell anyone about what happened and we stuck to it. In fact, after that night she and I never talked about it again. Never went to Sutton’s Grove again either. Not even in the daylight.

Time passed—almost ten years to the day—and I had flown home to sludgoville from LA for a Halloween visit. It was Saturday night after Mass and I’d walked across the street to have a drink at the Knights of Columbus Hall and ran into my friend Rick and his older brother Nick along with Eric and Scott, a couple of Nick’s friends. Joined them at their table in the bar and bought everyone a round. I’d walked in mid-conversation and the topic was Halloween. Best and worst. Scott finished the cute story he’d been telling about his daughter’s first Halloween then Nick took the floor. Said his favorite Halloween had to be the one in ’78 and Scott and Eric both burst out laughing. I furrowed my brow and shrugged my shoulders in confusion then asked Nick to tell me the story and he obliged. Told me that on that particular Halloween he and Eric and Scott had all gotten off work at the plant late but didn’t want to call it a night just yet. They thought briefly about heading to the party at McCullough’s but knew it was probably winding down. Brainstormed another nanosecond or two before Eric had the brilliant idea that they should go haunt Sutton’s Grove. That’s right…haunt Sutton’s Grove. Said that he’d recently scored a nickel bag of fresh herbage and had been wanting to try it and thought it might be a kick to take Scott’s Chevy van out there, park it way down at the far end of the road out of sight, then get nice and doobified before splitting up and creeping into the woods where they could rustle bushes and snap twigs and moan and groan and do whatever they needed to wreak havoc and scare the bejeezus out of any other late-night visitors. And so, lacking any better entertainment alternatives, they did exactly that.

Eric and Scott both chortled and snortled at Nick’s recollection as he leaned back in his chair and gave me a self-satisfied grin.

“Honestly it was a blast, sludge,” he chuckled. “A total blast. Hearing the local yokels screaming as they ran out of the woods to their cars like spooked rabbits, cussing and crying and tripping and stumbling all the way. Dude, you should’ve been there.”

I smiled.

“You know, it’s funny you should say that, Nick…”

Peaceful travels…

sludgo