Contains eerie folklore imagery, implied death, mild psychological horror, and unsettling rural supernatural themes. Suitable for mature readers who enjoy quiet dread, cursed objects, and atmospheric Adirondack ghost stories rooted in local legend.
🍂 Campfire Story for Kids: “The Mooncalf’s Mittens”
Told in the smoky air of Chateaugay Lake, under a sky full of October stars
Gather ’round, little pinecones. Get your marshmallows toasted, your cocoa stirred, and your toes tucked in your sleeping bags—this is a true story that’s been passed from cousin to cousin and echo to echo, up here near the old ruins of Popeville Forge.
Long ago, before phones, before cars, and before the snack stand at Alfie King’s had even one single candy bar, there was a sweet old lady named Mrs. Amelia Blow. Now, Mrs. Blow had a gift—and not the spooky kind. She could knit wool mittens faster than a porcupine can sneeze.
Every winter, like clockwork, she made exactly twenty-seven pairs of warm, thick, cozy mittens. No more. No less. That number was sacred to her. She’d stack them by the window before the solstice moon rose, all lined up like good little soldiers, the red ones in front, the charcoal-dyed ones in back.
But one winter… something went wrong.
🧦 The Missing Pair
Right around the time the first frost made the lake groan like an old bear rolling over in its sleep, Mrs. Blow noticed that one pair of mittens was missing.
They weren’t stolen. They weren’t under the bed. They weren’t in the stove or being used by squirrels for sleeping bags. They were just… gone. And on her knitting bench, where that last pair had been, she found a single thing:
A hoofprint.
Not like a deer or a moose. This one was ash-gray, burned into the wood like someone had stepped on it with a foot made of smoke and charcoal.
That night, the wind changed.
👻 The Thing by the Brook
From that point on, anyone who wandered near the Thurber brook—just a trickle of water between the ferns and the old icehouse—claimed they saw a strange creature crouched beside the water. It looked like a calf, like a baby cow, only… not right.
Its legs were too long in the back. Its eyes were big and blue like marbles left out in the cold. And the creepiest part?
It muttered math problems.
“Six times four is twenty-four…”
“Eight times eight is sixty-four…”
“Seven times eight is fifty-six… six times nine is… hmm…”
And while it mumbled, it chewed on the moss growing on the side of the icehouse like it was bubblegum. Nobody knew what it was, or why it was so obsessed with numbers. But folks started calling it the Mooncalf, ‘cause it only showed up when the moon was full and the mittens were missing.
💨 The Men Who Laughed
On All-Hallows-Eve, a group of loudmouths—Bill Peabody, J.L. Drew, and a fellow named Hector—decided to go see this Mooncalf. They brought nets and snacks and a flashlight made from copper wire and stubbornness. “We’ll catch it,” they said. “We’ll make it knit its own mittens!”
They walked off into the woods, whistling.
They didn’t come back.
Only their fishing sack came back—caught in a tree branch—and inside it was that missing pair of mittens. Singed. Crispy. And turned inside-out.
🧣 Mrs. Blow’s Farewell
Mrs. Blow was found the next day, sound asleep in her rocking chair, snoring with a smile. All twenty-seven pairs were back by her window…
except one.
So now, every Halloween, folks around Chateaugay Lake leave one sock out on their porch—just one!—so the Mooncalf doesn’t come knocking with its long legs and tricky math.
But some say, when the wind howls and the lake ice creaks, the Mooncalf returns. You might catch a glimpse of it by the brook, drawing numbers in the mud with a stick, chewing lichen like it’s taffy.
And every year, some poor soul finds a tiny mitten by the water’s edge—soft, handmade, with the initials A.B. stitched in red thread.
🌲 The Campfire Warning
So now, listen up, campers. If you ever find a mitten on the ground in the woods—especially one that smells like smoke or whispery math—
DO NOT PICK IT UP.
And whatever you do…
Never try to knit twenty-seven pairs of anything.
Just knit twenty-six, smile politely, and leave one spot empty by the window. That one’s for the Mooncalf.
Because even monsters need warm feet.
🎃 Moral of the Story?
Always be kind. Always share your mittens. And never trust a creature who chews on lichen and knows multiplication.
THE END. (Maybe.)
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What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?