Close Encounters with Death
A True Tale of the Creature at the Trestle

By Tom Briggle

Many of my childhood memories have faded. Photographs return me to the place, but dates and circumstances elude me in most of the images. I have some cognizant snippets of my past, remembering visits to amusement parks, playground sports, and some of my high school romances. They are all brief in time, nothing more than a short dream in my memory.

There is a memory that continues to haunt me daily. One of a beast that walked the grounds of seclusion, of sanctuary, of forested protection. There the beast set his attacks on me, nights that will never fade in my mind. They were kept there to be unleashed in my nightmares.

The Trestle, Forged in the Center of Mythical Haunts

There are two towns in northwest Ohio joined directly by a railroad track, Curtice to the west and Williston to the east. A pattern of rural roads connect the two towns sparsely populated with farm houses. Crops are shifted annually from corn to wheat, then to beans. Closer to Williston is Crane Creek that runs north and south. Where the creek bisects the railroad a train trestle was built that turned an otherwise flat land into a mountain of gravel so freight could be pulled over railroad tracks at high speeds.

The land surrounding the trestle is dotted with oddities that set a mysterious tone to the area. A cemetery is within a mile of the trestle. It is the same land that is used to intern my father

trestle. I never saw his face, but a man in the house could be seen in the shadows created by the light of candles. Electricity was available to the man, adding to the curiosity of this house and the odd man that lived inside.

For the most part shutters swung freely on their hinges outside this house. Other shutters were broken or had fallen off. The unpainted boards of the exterior presented itself to the world as an abandoned dwelling. Even the lawn clutter and the uncut grass was evidence that no one cared for the property.

We avoided Candlestick Lane even in daylight, crossing over the creek as we drew near his house. We feared that we would be snatched into the clutches of the man living inside. We feared we would be put in the dungeon that existed in the basement. Everyone was cautious of the man living at the end of the house of Candlestick Lane.

And yet there was a third oddity for the imagination of children that was positioned near the trestle.

Williston, a town of a few hundred residents, has its claim to fame of perceived horror. On the edge of town is the Lutheran Home of Mercy. In our youth we wondered what beings would exist on earth that their only hope for survival was this place of mercy. Around campfires we would share our thoughts of its residents, the most frightening would keep us awake another few moments. Fueling our imagination was the lack of activity. If decent human beings were there, you would see them walking from building to building. You would see them joking and talking as they traversed the grounds. All we were exposed to were the brick buildings, some we imagined had bars on the windows.

Of course we were misguided in our thoughts. There were no demons that scraped and clawed the floors in hopes of escape. This was a sanctuary with saintly caregivers. Nonetheless, there was an unspoken truth that you avoided the grounds, even if it meant walking another half mile around the campus to get to your destination.

These three lands of haunt were always there it seemed. We would avoid our mind’s transgressions if we were visiting the trestle, especially after dark. By themselves -- the cemetery, Candlestick Lane, the Lutheran Home of Mercy, were innocent unless collectively you recognized that their three points formed a triangle, with the trestle in the center of the triangle. Williston may have had its curses but the citizens slept soundly, not knowing of what existed in the woods surrounding the trestle just a few miles from their homes.

A Glimpse of the Beast

What started out as a warm spring day, settling into a beautiful sunset, ended as my first and only sighting of the beast. On other nights I would be chased in fear from his mere presence. On this first meeting I stared into his eyes as we fought to keep our distance.

That night our excitement was high at dusk as our small group of three headed to the trestle. We walked over the freshly plowed fields and trespassed onto the grounds where winter wheat

of a brilliant full moon that night. Anyone walking could easily be seen on the catwalk built for the ease of the railroad workers.

There were no signs of danger that anything was amiss so we devised a game to test our new set of communicators. We split into two groups. I was 11 at the time and needed to stay with
my older brother of 14. Mike was also 14 so he was chosen to go off on his own. John turned on his walkie talkie, and Mike rotated his volume control to the click, indicating he also had power. A quick test was performed and Mike set off on his own. The game was on.

We watched as Mike walked directly into the woods surrounding the valley. The sound of old leaves crushed on the ground and of the replacement foliage on the trees had stopped. There was silence when he reached the summit and was back on the flat surface of the farm land.

We waited for our next conversation over the handset. A couple minutes passed by and the crackle of the handheld stopped. A voice came over the walkie talkie. “OK, where am I?” asked Mike. We didn’t have to guess, we could see his silhouette on the catwalk of the trestle. He waved his arms and spoke again, “Give me a couple minutes while I get to my next spot. It gets harder after this.”

John and I talked quietly, tossing stones into the creek. The dense brush behind us and to the other side trapped us in the valley. We made the game more interesting by envisioning a secret mission. In our mission we had to escape. The escape was our path in, directly behind us through the valley with the knee high winter wheat. That would be our quickest way out if we were attacked. After all, in our game we had to survive the mission.

Once again Mike’s voice came over the radio with his question. “Where am I?” We looked around again. Not seeing anyone we started with our best guesses. It didn’t take too many attempts to

There was a crackle from the handheld and John asked again. We heard nothing but crackle even as he turned up the volume. “He must be out of range,” I suggested.

We were both worried for our friend Mike. A 14-year-old should not be walking around alone at night, even with a full moon lighting up the countryside. We looked around, hoping we could see him in the distance. Our only line of sight was the field that spread behind us. Then John spoke to me, “Do you see that big thing in the middle of the field? That wasn’t there before.”

Although it was a few hundred yards away, the moon did light up something on the hill. “Mike, are you on the hill?” John queried into the handheld device. We were back to using our real names as the game was quickly ending. “It looks like you are standing on the hill,” he said.

At that moment the figure on the hill rose to its feet from its crouched position. It was much larger than a man but we hoped distance and the night deceived our perceptions of height. We could sense that it was watching us. “Mike, are you on the hill?” asked John again. I could sense his fear rising as we both stared at the figure on the hill. From this distance we could not discern any features. It was a tense moment for the two of us.

We jumped when the brush and trees rustled behind us. Something or someone was close and coming directly at us with increasing speed.

It was Mike, “What’s the problem?” Without a word spoken we looked at him, then at the hill. He looked up and was now also staring at the large animal standing upright. The beast continued his glare at us but stood there motionless.

We all agreed we had to run but running in the direction of home meant that we would run directly at this creature, standing there and waiting for our next move. He may have even known he was blocking our only exit. We all looked at the trestle and agreed we had to climb to the tracks, get on the other side of the creek, then follow that side home.

We couldn’t wait any longer and put our escape plan into action. We made it through the woods to the tracks, then crossed over to the other side. We ran through the thick brush on the other side and found open field. That side had just been planted with corn so our travel over the farmland was flat. It was built for speed and our legs pumped hard to get home. We looked over our shoulders occasionally and had seen nothing in pursuit. We survived. Whatever it was, it had no plans to eat us that night.

The Second Encounter, the Beast Makes a Sound

A year had passed and John took a job at the local campground on the other side of Williston. He wasn’t 16 yet but was paid under the table to perform chores and work on small maintenance projects. His major duties were cutting the grass and rounding up the camper’s garbage each night.

The summer job was great for him because he was a fisherman. He learned the basics of fishing in the deep waters of Crane Creek under the trestle. The quarry at the campground allowed him to increase his skills and teach himself the intricacies of bass fishing. He had hula poppers for night fishing and jigs with artificial worms for the daylight hours.

He progressed to be pretty good at catching bass. The better he got, the more passion he had for the sport. I was also learning to share his passion. I had a Zebco 202 reel purchased with the rod at the local Woolworth’s. I didn’t have different sets like my brother, but I was anxious to build my arsenal and join him in this great sport.

In the early 70’s, long before giant conglomerates had Internet merchandising there was the early mail order system. A man named Fred Arbogast followed the model set by Sears established in the late 1800s. You could buy just about any lure mail order from Fred Arbogast and his catalog was our bible of fishing dreams.

The day my first order came in my excitement elevated to a point where I couldn’t wait for John to come home. I gazed at the treble hooks attached to the lures and wondered how good it was going to be to catch my first bass. I knew John would have to teach me how to find the right bass locations, how to drop the lure into the location, and how to present the bait to a wary bass so the fish would think it was an easy meal.

Anticipation of John’s enthusiasm was too much, I decided to meet him half way on his walk home. The trestle was the half way point. If he left work at 9 p.m., I would get to the trestle at the same time John did. I knew he would walk on the other side of the creek because it was flatter ground. My thoughts were on fishing and the beast was a distance memory left to a one night encounter. I had little to fear as I set out to meet John.

I would walk, then pick up speed to a jog, then would walk again over the farmland. By now darkness had fallen. I turned a bend in the creek and knew I was within a short distance of the trestle.

Then I was startled by a sound on the other side of the creek. It was a peculiar animal sound, a call nothing like any I had heard in the wild. It started out low with a wheezing sound, then finished with a sound that reminded me of the sound a horse would make as it displays its disgust. The flapping of closed lips as it exhaled made me think that maybe it was a horse. But why would a horse be out here, loose and running wild. There were no stables in the area and horses certainly didn’t run wild in northwest Ohio.

I stood frozen listening to the animal on the other side of the creek. These sounds were much louder than a horse would make. It may have been at the creek bed for a drink of water. I didn’t dare pull back the branches of the trees so I could get a look. I didn’t want the beast to know I was standing there, listening.

It made its sounds for a couple minutes longer. I was frightened, this thing was not an animal indigenous to Ohio. I knew there were animals in this world that were frightening, ending lives with a single swipe of their giant paws. Other animals could swallow you whole. But none of these animals lived in Ohio outside of the zoos.

I listened with intent, trying to remember these sounds so I could explain them to the authorities. Just like before though with my first encounter I would never talk to the police about this. That is, unless I had to speak to them at the hospital. I feared I would have to describe this sound as I was awakened from sedation after being mangled by this beast. Without my severed arm as evidence I would just be laughed off as a child with a strong imagination.

The amazing sounds were subsiding. They were moving away from the creek and more importantly, away from me. As it moved away I could still hear the wheezing on inhale and the flapping of the lips on exhale. The sounds were hauntingly loud even though I judged the distance to be about 50 yards. A feeling of anger came over me, this animal had disrupted my peaceful walk to the trestle. I picked up a decent sized rock and hurled it over the creek into the direction of the sounds.

The sounds stopped. What had I done, I thought. I had alerted it to my presence. The sounds started again, this time they were picking up in Intensity. The sounds were getting much louder as though the beast was running in my direction. I followed my first instinct and took off in the direction of my home, running as fast as I could. I barely remember my feet touching ground as I attempted to generate more speed out of my legs.

Looking over my shoulder would slow me down so I only glanced once. I also realized I couldn’t see very far anyway as total darkness had set in. I was starting to tire. I could maintain this speed in short bursts, but this was a marathon run home. I slowed to a jog.

I doubted that the beast crossed the creek and would be chasing me on this side. If it were running parallel to me on the other side I would have a great advantage because it could not travel quickly through the thick forest there.

With each step I felt more comfortable I had escaped this encounter. I was jogging now getting closer to my home. I would be safe at home. I could feel my panting increase as I slowly overcame fright and realized the lack of oxygen was catching up with me.

I slowed a little more but jumped into the air when I heard a large animal splash into the creek immediately to my left.

It was in the water crossing over to my side, it wouldn’t take long to get to me now. I bolted for home, giving it everything I had. If this thing could run through the forest that quickly I feared I didn’t have a chance to escape. I turned a bend in the creek and saw the road. My last burst of speed hurled me to the raised area that the road rested on. Now I could turn and look, but saw nothing chasing me. I ran to my house a short distance.

There I was relieved to find out my brother was home, and safe. He had picked up a ride home from his boss.

I couldn’t begin to imagine what this beast was. I didn’t want to believe that he was driving me from the trestle, thinking that I was invading his home. My outdoor spirit was too strong but I knew it would not be wise to go there alone. I also knew that I would need an arsenal of weapons to fend off any beast that was there. I had seen him once, and heard him this time. It was not an animal that I would want to face alone and unarmed.

The Beast has a Name – The Dew Man

My brother had the right idea, toting a shot gun as he visited our campground that warm spring night. One thing good about the trestle, it was perfect location in northwest Ohio for the outdoor enthusiast. Small game was prevalent, fishing for bullhead yielded its rewards, and there was plenty of old logs that made great fuel for campfires.

I was 16 now and was glad to be camping there with my friends. They were athletic and adventuresome.

Dave was the captain of the baseball team prospecting for college athletic scholarships. George played second base for the team that had one of the best winning records in the area. They had set up their tent and were preparing the campfire when my brother John showed up. John was his usual self, cracking jokes and making everyone laugh. Craig and I were setting up our tent but put that off to tell jokes around the campfire while John was there.

Then John started in. “You guys know about the horrible creature that lives in the woods around here?” he asked. I didn’t tell them any of the stories as I didn’t want to frighten them. There was also a question of credibility. They would consider me insane if I actually believed the stories I would tell. He fabricated some story about the beast that would come out early in the morning, when the dew was highest on the grass. Then he laughed, “Beware of the Dew Man.”

Now the beast had a name. I no longer had to refer to it as the beast; it would be forever forward known as the Dew Man. But I also wouldn’t tell the stories of my encounters with the Dew Man unless I would relive them in the far future, as on a planned fright night with my children. They could laugh the encounters off as tall tales and I would be fine with that.

As John was walking off that night he fired a Mossberg generated shotgun blast into the air and shouted, “Beware of the Dew Man. Not even this shotgun would slow him down.”

I kept to my word to myself and carried my own weaponry. Craig had a pump action BB gun that would only anger the Dew Man in a direct meeting. I had one of the largest hunting knives any of them had ever seen. I was ready for hand-to-hand combat if it came to that. However, if I were ever again to encounter the Dew Man I would take the first action of business and get the heck out of there. That seemed to save me in the past so it would work just fine for me in the future.

We continued our actions of setting up camp. By now our campsite was set for the evening with the exception of one final touch. I had to light the Coleman lantern and I had the lighter in the tent. I went in and was looking in my backpack when I heard a commotion outside of the tent. By then Dave, George, and Craig were shouting and the commotion continued. All three burst into the tent with Dave making a proclamation, “Tom, Tom, there is something huge out there.”

We all piled out of the tent and stared at the thick brush on the other side of the creek. We each picked up a flash light and scoured the trees looking for anything that moved. While we were doing this Dave and George were describing the sound they had heard. Craig was frozen in shock. I picked up on their fear that they had clearly heard something. By their descriptions it had to be huge.

They said the limbs cracked higher on the trees giving this animal some height and the brush was swept away so easily that this animal had some weight. Could this be my Dew Man? It was closer than I have encountered it in the past. The creek was only 20 feet wide and by their description it was almost at the water’s edge on the other side. But we could see nothing in our search.

We then began our discussion on the sanity of breaking camp. Although after 20 minutes their fear was still displayed, I did not want to give up this great night of camping. I told them that whatever was over there had moved on. They were not convinced.

“Would it help if I went over there?” I asked to an amused trio of outdoorsman. It took some time to discuss my crazy plan, but I was not afraid since I did not hear the sounds this creature had made that night.

I finally picked up a flashlight, hoisted the BB gun to my shoulder, and put the large Bowie knife in its sheath at my belt. “I’ll be back with some firewood,” I boldly exclaimed.

I didn’t want to reveal my fear too as I left. I climbed the gravel rocks on our side of the creek to get to the top of the trestle. I moved silently walking over the railroad ties. I positioned

“There is nothing here,” I said and went about my business of collecting firewood. I had a fear that something was still there, looking and waiting for its right time to pounce on me. I quickly gathered a small amount of branches. After all, the mission wasn’t to gather firewood but to show my friends there was nothing to fear.

Whatever was in the trees had moved on, at least I convinced myself it had. I would find out later it had stayed, possibly within a few feet of my presence.

We had a nice meal of hot dogs cooked over the fire and continued our talk of the sounds that came from the other side of the creek. As the evening progressed fear gave in to laughter and we were content that the camping excursion was actually salvageable.

We talked about a lot that night. Fatigue was setting in so Dave and George announced their intentions to call it a night. They had to be fresh on Saturday as they had a baseball game, an important league game.

They joked that they still made curfew but suggested a different definition for the word. Craig and I talked a few more hours until he started nodding off.

“Good night,” I told him. “I still have some fishing to do. I have to land a large bullhead or giant carp. Let me know if the light keeps you awake and I will turn it off.” He noted that the light wouldn’t bother him in the tent. I was left alone with my thoughts.

Throughout the night I listened to the normal sounds of the woods, I was barely moving at times. When the fire turned to glowing ambers I would pick up a few pieces of wood and cover the heat. Once again flames would work its way through the wood and into the air.

A couple more hours passed. I started thinking that the sun should be coming up within the hour. I sat motionless. A small mole popped his head out of his hole and made his way toward me. As he crawled I noticed the grass had become wet. It was wet with dew. This was trouble, I thought.

There was a loud crack in the trees directly in front of me across the creek. The mole scurried for its hole and the trees erupted into a chorus of leaves being slung effortlessly on large branches. I yelled at the trees knowing that the sounds were coming from the same location I was earlier in the evening.

As it moved I could tell it was making its way to the side of the tracks. It then climbed the side and was now standing on top of the metal rails with the heavy wooden ties under them for support. The sounds were loud made by a massive creature. It began walking down the tracks. With each step I heard a loud thump, then a clunk as the large railroad tie was forced up to chatter the metal. The weight of a man could not make those sounds, the Dew Man was here. I called out for Dave, George, and Craig. When they didn’t wake I called a second time. Dave and George slowly came out of the tent this time.

“It’s back,” I said trembling in fear. “It’s up on the tracks and making its way to this side.”

They sat down on the camp stools and listened. Minutes had passed with no sounds from the tracks. It was waiting for something. I looked over and saw that Dave and George were falling back into their sleep. A few more minutes passed and they made their announcement that they were going back into the tent.

When the flap closed the sounds from the railroad ties started again with its thump-clunk, thump-clunk, thump-clunk. Slowly it walked and I followed its progress with my ears. It stopped again.

It sure seemed like a long time for the Dew Man to stand there. I’m certain though it was only a matter of minutes. I didn’t want daybreak to hit with the Dew Man standing there, peering at us with his big eyes. I would rather not see what it looked like. I took action to scare it away by firing the BB gun in its direction. It started walking again, this time it was half way across the trestle continuing its trek to our side of the creek.

“Dave, George, Craig. Get out here immediately.” I cried again. This time Dave and George leaped out of the tent and stood there at its open flap. “It’s coming this way.”

The Dew Man started its walk again. The familiar horrifying sounds started, thump-clunk, thump-clunk, thump-clunk. Their reaction to all of this now showed that they too had to take some form of immediate action. But they remained frozen as the sounds continued, thump-clunk, thump-clunk, thump-clunk. There was a slight pause, then there was the sound of gravel being moved by a large animal. It was on our side and free to circle around behind us.

“Craig, get out here. Now,” I yelled. I heard the commotion in the tent and knew he was preparing himself by lacing up his sneakers.

We all looked at the valley behind us, it was the only escape route past the Dew Man. But first we listened, he may already be there waiting for us in that direction. Where was he we all thought. We yelled once more for Craig making a mental note that he was still stirring inside the tent.

We listened. If it was behind us we would have to go up over the tracks and follow the same route we did on my first encounter. But now I knew it wasn’t afraid of water and would have a direct line to us.

I grabbed for the knife, I needed some comfort and any weapon would help.

As my hand clenched the knife the trees erupted in noise directly to our left side. “Let’s go,” we said in unison and took off. As we fled past the tent Craig burst out and joined us in flight. Although Dave and George were fast runners, Craig and I kept pace in the direction of the valley. We weren’t looking back and covered miles running in a very short time span. We made it to my home safely.

Epilogue

We did return that morning to collect our gear. John accompanied us with his 12-gauge Mossberg. As we approached the campground we could see from a distance that the Coleman lantern was still burning brightly. When we arrived we could see that nothing was disturbed. We gathered our belongings, constantly looking over our shoulder wondering what was watching us.

We didn’t take the time to gather evidence. We could have looked at the trees to see how high up the branches were broken. That would indicate his size. We didn’t look for tracks. As we left we did see some tracks made by a large dog, but this was no dog. Besides, the tracks looked older than a few hours.

I will attest that this story is true as the best I can remember it. A few names were changed but I recall this daily so putting it to an electronic medium was not a difficult task. Even after all these years.

Life goes on.

Toledo is encroaching Curtice and Williston with its urban sprawl. In the area houses are being built and development blocks with new roads are in construction. But the area around the trestle remains undeveloped. This has to do with infrastructure logistics and needed farmland. It is difficult to build a road in that area because the trestle blocks passage. I suspect they will overcome the infrastructure problem some day and a cul de sac will eliminate the need to go over the tracks. The farmers in the area will also see the value in their land some day and sell to the highest bidder.

But I have moved on in life. With all its problems living in the city I feel safer from wild animals. Kids in these times aren’t as adventuresome as we were. I suspect no one has camped at the trestle since our last encounter 30 years ago. The Dew Man may be there still, lurking and waiting to protect his territory. He may even be more aggressive as he sees the world closing in on him.

My imagination gets the best of me.

© 2011 Tom Briggle
All Rights Reserved
United States

E-mail Me:
c/o Tom Briggle
(614) 263-6552
FAX: (503) 213-6438