When Henry Wilson Huntsucker was a little boy he lived in The Big Thicket, a vast area of tangled, often impenetrable woods, streams, and marshes that went on and on for miles. Huntsucker said, “The Big Thicket covered the map of all of East Texas which by that I mean if you pulled out a map of Texas and you looked on the right side of the map all you’d see was a dark green color which stood for forest land. That Big Thicket was greener than the color on the map. It was dark, dank, and mysterious like, dripping with vines and Spanish moss and crawling with water moccasin and ‘gaters and all sorts of creatures so that it was excitin’ just to wake up everyday, and know you was smack dab in the middle of it.
Anyway, on Halloween night, here you were right in the middle of the mighty thicket that’s looming all around you and the camp fires dying down and you just look up at the sky and you see all those stars so shiny and beautiful that you marvel about all sorts of things you’d never understand. Well, every Halloween we’d take the little boys coon huntin’ just to see them run off from all the ghost stories we’d tell. If the truth be known as soon as they run off, we’d pick up and scatter too, because in the dark of night with the fire burning down to coals that glowed eerily in the night and having told all the ghost stories we ever knew, your heart would be beating so awful fast, and you’d be cold all over, but sweatin’ ‘cause you’d be so scared.
Ole’ Larry Bob Neches would tell the best stories. We’d all gather around and Lar’ would wind up real slow-like givin’ all the details that makes stories good and then he’d deliver a pitch that would make your bones shiver. We’d all scrunch up around the bright burning fire and Lar’d start up. He’d say:”
‘There’s an old road called the Ghost Road of Hardin County. It’s ‘cross the old boggy swamp just behind those brambly bushes. Trees grow over both sides offerin’ a natural canopy down that long dirt road, but I wouldn’t go look for it, because I hear those that find that terrible path come back with there hair white all over, and standing straight up too, and their eyes so bugged out that girls run away from them so they never would get married or even get a kiss neither.’
“The kids would all gather even closer then, and a big old wind would come up and blow through the trees and make the whole woods quake and make you think the world was a gonna shake your skin clean off. In the black of night way off deep in the woods in the direction of Big Sandy, you’d hear a train whistle blow so lonesome and long that you’d just sit real still listening to it. One of the older boys would get up and stir the fire with a big stick, makin’ sparks fly up to heaven and ole’ Lar’ would start up again.”
‘The folk’s that come back from Ghost Road tell of seeing a light way off in the distance and the light would be swinging along and getting closer and closer. Some say that light is from the lamp of a brakeman that fell off the train on Halloween day back in ’29. He got his head cut clean off by the train and every Halloween he comes back just waving his brakeman’s lamp lookin’ for his head that he’s never found.
Still other’s say the light comes from a hunter who got lost in the Big Thicket years and years ago. The hunter still wanders through the woods, searching for a way out of the Thicket.
Others say it’s a light shining from the flashlight of a husband looking for his bride. The story goes the couple was honeymooning at the Dove and Love Hotel, which used to be at the end of Ghost Road. A prisoner who escaped from the Angelina jail mysteriously murdered the bride. As I say, the light is the groom’s flashlight that shines while he continues to search for his bride's killer. But the real scary part is that the ole’ prisoner’s ghost is wondering around in the woods looking for someone else to kill. Those that come back all white claim they saw the ghost comin’ right after ‘em and just before he catches them, the bride groom jumps from behind a clump of yaupons and begins chasing that ghost through the woods.’
“After a little pause to let this fearsome story sink in, Lar’ would clear his throat and with an ever so light quiver in his voice, he’d say, ‘Just about the scariest story ever told involves Bully Braggs. Bully thought he’d get a picture of them fellers chasing though the woods so he took his camera and settled in by the campfire to wait for the commotion to begin. Well, ole’ Bully fell asleep and never heard nor seen nothin’. But when he went to get the camera film developed there was a picture of Bully sound asleep by the campfire. It’s plumb creepy when you ask yourself, “Who took that picture of Bully?” It’s ‘special creepy to Bully. Folks have seen him justa sittin’ there staring deep off into space, justa thinkin’. And whenever Bully sees a camera—in a store or somewhar’—he jumps up quicker than lightnin’, screamin’ and a runnin’.
“About that time you’d see the young ’uns stirrin’ about ready to take off. Lar’ would start his next story quick-like before anyone could start runnin’ and curiosity would keep them huddled-up by the fire.”
‘Back long ago there was this ditch-dog killer, by the name of Chug Houndlicker. He was called the ditch-dog killer because he would lie down in a ditch and wait for a dog to come by and jump up and choke that dog until the dog up and died. Chug hated dogs don’t you see because a pit bull chewed off his left foot when he was fishing in old man Gavel’s pond that was posted against strangers fishing in the pond. You would hate dogs too if you got your foot chewed off, whether you was right or wrong ‘bout fishing on posted land. Nobody likes to hop around on just one foot. With just one foot, you can’t play kick-the-can or square dance even.
There was this guy named Gunner Shellachumm who was the best water moc’sin shot in the entire Big Thicket. If he took time to adjust for the humidity, temperature, and wind, he could hit those moc’sins from most a mile with his .22 caliber rifle. He would go down to Slide Creek and pop those moc’sins from way off past the back forty and his ole’ Blue Healer Hound would slide down the slimy black banks of the creek straight into that murky water and pull out those moc’sins. Chug got wind that Gunner and Blue was going to take a short cut over to Slide Creek by way of Ghost Road. They was walkin’ down Ghost Road in broad daylight and Chug jumped out of the ditch beside the road and began chokin’ on Blue. Without ‘ner takin’ time to aim right, ole’ Gunner raised that .22 to his hip and fired—bam. Chug’s right eye popped out of his head and began rollin’ down Ghost road, licitly split. But Chug never seen it. He dropped dead on the ground while his eyeball was still-a fallin’.
Every Halloween Chug comes up out of his grave and goes just a hoppin’ down Ghost Road looking for his eye. If you listen real close, you can hear ole’ Chug hoppin’ and thrashin’ though the wood’s chasin’ after his glowin’ eye.’
“About that time, the coon dogs would be hot on the trial of the ringtail and as they’d thrash through the brush, those boys, thinkin it was ole’ Chug thrashing around, would get up and skedaddle for home. And we’d be right behind ‘em. And that’s the Ft. Knox-gold truth.”
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