THE STEAMBOAT DISPATCH
A New Terror Stalks Upper Chateaugay—Visible Only in the Corner of the Eye—Reports of Axe-Blows in the Night
“The eye sees not itself, but by reflection, by some other things.” — Julius Caesar, Act I, Scene 2
Let it be said at once that the editors of The Steamboat Dispatch are not in the habit of lending credence to every wild tale that floats down from the tangled and accursed fastnesses of Upper Chateaugay. Nor do we encourage idle speculation upon those figures that may or may not lurk in the dim peripheries of our collective vision. And yet, when three separate reports—filed by persons of impeccable standing and possessing no known proclivity for the bottle—describe the same unearthly visitation, we are compelled, by duty if not by caution, to set the matter before the public.
For the past fortnight, strange disturbances have been reported in the thick forests beyond the Narrows, along the western shore where the land slopes upward into the Shatagee Woods. The accounts vary in detail but agree in their chief particulars: an unseen force, vaguely man-shaped, has been seen felling trees with ghostly precision—an apparition of some bygone lumberjack, cleaving timber with an axe that makes no sound, save when it does.
THE FIRST REPORT: A CITY FELLOW WITH A WEAK CONSTITUTION
The first documented sighting came from one Henry Langridge, a visitor from Albany, described by those who know him as a man of nervous disposition, prone to palpitations, but no liar. Mr. Langridge had been enjoying an evening of quiet contemplation upon the porch of the McMartin Lodge when he caught, in the corner of his eye, a movement amid the dusk-thickened trees.
“There stood a great bearded fellow, clad in some manner of old-time flannel, swinging an axe of remarkable size. I turned to regard him directly, and—devil take it!—there was nothing. But as soon as I looked away, there he was again, chopping at a pine as if his life depended on it!”
Mr. Langridge, understandably shaken, called for his host, only to find that the specter vanished the moment another witness was summoned. “If not for the ringing echo of his axe-blows in the hills,” Langridge insists, “I should have doubted my own sanity!”
THE SECOND REPORT: A SEASONED GUIDE IN NO MOOD FOR FOOLISHNESS
Had this been the only report, we might have dismissed it as the misapprehension of a city-dweller unaccustomed to the eerie acoustics of the northern woods. However, we must now introduce the account of Lucius “Old Lute” Bunker, a guide of long repute who has spent more years in the woods than some men spend in the world.
Old Lute, having been engaged by a group of summer boarders for a fishing excursion, had settled in for the night on the back side of the lake when he, too, perceived the sound of an axe at work. Thinking some fool was chopping firewood at an ungodly hour, he strode into the trees, only to find—nothing.
“And yet,” Old Lute recounted, “as soon as I turned my back, there it was again—whack—whack—loud as any damned thing, but coming from nowhere! I flung my lantern round in all directions—nothing but empty woods. Thought maybe it was a trick of the echoes, but no man ever split logs with echoes, I tell you that much.”
Old Lute, a man not known for excessive flights of fancy, was so disturbed by the experience that he swore off making camp in that particular section of the lake, declaring, “I ain’t sleeping where trees fall when there ain’t no hand to fell ’em.”
THE THIRD REPORT: A STEAMBOAT PIRATE’S NIGHT OF TERROR
For our third and most unsettling account, we turn to the disreputable but highly observant company of the Chateaugay Lake Steamboat Pirates, whose knowledge of the lake’s moods and mischiefs is unrivaled. One such rogue, a fellow who will be identified only as “Dory Pete,” claims that he and his associates had occasion to anchor their craft in a sheltered cove near the mouth of the Chateaugay River.
“We was drinkin’—but not much!” he protested at once, anticipating doubt. “Just enough to keep the mosquitoes off. And then, I tell you, we heard it—like some great gallows-faced brute splittin’ cordwood in the trees. But when we looked, there weren’t a soul there!”
Pete insists that the invisible lumberjack took umbrage at their intrusion. No sooner had they dismissed the strange noises than a tree, uprooted by no hand, came crashing down near their moored vessel. “Just missed the stern!” Pete swore. “We pulled anchor and got out. Whatever was out there didn’t want company.”
THEORIES AND CONJECTURE
What, then, are we to make of this spectral axe-man?
Some whisper that he is the shade of one Baptiste LaRue, a French-Canadian timberman who met his end in the woods some seventy years past, crushed beneath a felled pine while no one was near enough to hear his dying cries. Others posit an even older origin—some bygone Mohawk spirit of the forest, aggrieved by the incursion of loggers and trappers, waging a war of terror upon the living.
Certain irreverent parties (chiefly among the Steamboat Pirates) have suggested that the Phantom Lumberjack might be no more than a cunning prankster, a flesh-and-blood woodsman making clever sport of jittery summer tourists. We might entertain this notion, were it not for the corroborating reports of trees toppling in the absence of any known force, and the fact that no prankster yet conceived has been capable of vanishing instantaneously from all angles of vision.
FINAL WARNINGS AND RECOMMENDATIONS
It is the official position of The Steamboat Dispatch that until further evidence can be collected, discretion should be exercised when venturing into the backwoods of Upper Chateaugay, particularly at dusk. Should any reader experience the telltale signs of a bearded man seen only from the corner of the eye, or hear the dreadful echoes of an axe where none is visible, it is advisable not to call out or seek explanation.
As the old guides say, “Some things in the woods are best left be.”
We throw down the gauntlet—if any man of science, metaphysics, or firm constitution wishes to investigate the matter, The Steamboat Dispatch shall print his findings forthwith. Until then, let us agree that some hands swing an axe from beyond the veil, and that there are those who chop wood in the night who should not be disturbed.
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?