Reads: 25  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic

Written words animate the Silver Screen....

Submitted: September 19, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 19, 2018



The short-stories that should be made into movies can be found in the bewitching book Swamp Lore Campfire Legends written by Sean Terrence Best because these haunting accounts tell the true stories of a prophetic portent of omen concerning a brutal bloody murder that was committed during a stormy night in the scullery of an antebellum plantation mansion in the Old South; an alien abduction in Tate’s Hell Swamp; a harrowing spellbinding at the midnight hour in a desolate lonely north woods lodge when the pine log walls began to talk; and the disturbing history of a former Southern Baptist minister whose faith was shattered when his young daughter, an innocent little girl, vanished from the churchyard playground right before his anguished disbelieving eyes - a macabre unexplained event from the far away time when he was once a proud father that caused him to renounce his faith and drift into a reclusive life of brooding angst hunting down the facts of every ghost story, haunted house, and unsolved missing persons case he could scrounge.  

This mortifying compendium of morbid short-stories also includes the grim narrative of the full Blood Moon during which, to my utter horror, I witnessed an old conjure woman shapeshift into a red-eyed razorback boar hog at Sopchoppy.  There’s also a gripping account of the ghost radio station that once-upon-a-time broadcast a paranormal signal from an abandoned funeral home beside a haunted grave yard behind my grandmother’s old house in Springfield at the fringe of a dark gloomy swamp.  On the other side of the dismal crowding moss-draped cypress of the deep shadow-cloaked quagmire there was a nondescript low iron-gray block building.  You never saw anyone go into or come out of that strange place.  There were no windows, but behind the small suspicious single-story structure was a tall high red & white metal radio tower.  At night an ominous red beacon flashed slowly on and off.  That occult radio station isn’t on the air now.  It’s a lost era of a dreary forlorn past.  It reminded me of an old AM bandwidth.  When I was a child, I would lie awake in the back room at my grandmother’s house late into the grim hours listening to the phantom signal emanating from that eerie radio station on the other side of the sinister melancholy swamp.  At midnight Wolfman Jack would howl his eldritch ululation then play tunes like Witchy Woman, or The Breakup Song by Greg Kihn Band, Swamp Witch Hattie, and of course Gold Dust Woman and The Legend of Wooley Swamp.  My long late nights of lying awake in the dark gazing spiral-eyed at a little green radio dial listening to that ill-omened hypnotic signal, knowing it was coming from just on the other side of the ghoulish swamp, had a profound effect on my murky wandering soul which is psychically transmitted in these short-stories that should be made into movies.

When the sun goes down and the doors of the musty old museum are closed and locked for the night, a solemn change takes place among the creeping obscura where the exhibits wait and watch silent and still as the grave; where the deserted corridors echo balefully with disembodied voices from the mist-shrouded past.

Charlie Daniels said “the Devil went down to Georgia”.  John Anderson said he “left them laying in that red Georgia clay”.  Tanya Tucker said “that Georgia sun was blood red and going down”.  Vicki Lawrence said “That’s the night that the lights went out in Georgia.”

Swamp Lore Campfire Legends written by Sean Terrence Best

© Copyright 2018 Sean Terrence Best. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: