Mary Dean

Photo found on Google

This is a story as I know it to be true.  It changed me forever.

In 1923, a young woman named Mary Dean drowned in a river.  Conflicting stories recorded her death as suicide, others said that she had fallen overboard and simply drowned.  Shortly after Mary’s death, three ferry boats disappeared on this river, thus resulting in immediate closing down of the boat landing and nearby island.  Several teens have also died while swimming at this boat ramp over the years since Mary died.  All ruled suicides.

The nearby island at one time housed a sanitarium, run by a doctor who owned several dogs, rumored to have killed his only son. There was even a documented report about 50 years ago of two people in a pickup truck parked in this very spot I was going to.  The truck was found empty and the bodies never recovered.  Blood was splattered everywhere, and the investigators found hairs from an unknown species in and around the truck.  They never solved the death investigation.

I was thinking about these things as I turned onto an old dirt road named Caryville Road.  I headed north toward the Chippewa River.  The sun was setting and what light it left turned the sporadic trees bordering the road into dancing shadows that seemed like lanky figures reaching out to grab me.  Some foreshadowing for what was about to come.

The road was rocky and full of deep ruts.  Each rut seemed to grab my tires and forced me to cling to the steering wheel of my Subaru.  The one-mile stretch of road seemed to go on forever, but finally, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I reached the boat landing.

At the boat landing there was a small turnaround with a large section of dense woods to my left and a small, yet still dense section to my right.  In front of me was a dilapidated wooden boat dock gingerly stepping out, before the dock disappeared into the river at the end of this 1.9 mile road.

I climbed out of my car and immediately had an uneasy feeling.  Quickly a fog rolled in and the river-view in front of me was swallowed by the fog and disappeared from sight.  The air temperature noticeably dropped.  I don’t scare easily, but I felt the hairs on my neck stand up, but I didn’t know why.

Ambling toward the lake, I was in search of the aforementioned boat dock.  I was there for a reason, and my mind would not scare me away.  I came alone and questioned if that had been a mistake.  Should I have invited my buddy Mark?  Safety in numbers, right?  I continued forward.  I could hear the water flowing in front of me, but the fog was thick and getting thicker.  I was now surrounded in an uncomfortable blanket of mist.  My vision was limited to about two to three feet in all directions.  Even my feet disappeared in the fog.  I was only a few yards from my car, but couldn’t see it any longer.  I had no sight, only sounds to guide me.

I heard the waves gently hitting the shoreline; I heard a bell from a ship I couldn’t see, and I heard something else.  To my right, I first heard what sounded of a branch snap.  I remember being bordered by trees and tall grass that I saw as I drove in.  Something was close by and I could hear it moving in those trees.  The rustling leaves echoed and made it difficult for me to pinpoint what direction the noise was coming from or how far away “it” was.  I have hiked in the woods many times. I swear a squirrel running in the leaves sounds like a bear, so though I was concerned, I didn’t give it much thought at that moment.

I made my way down the path to what it left of the dock, pulled out my camera and started getting some shots.  I was in darkness now, but the small island across the river provided enough light to get some ‘moody’ shots.  I maneuvered my body close to the ground, stood high, looked left and right, trying to get the best angle for my photographs.

Fog for any photographer provides a perfect backdrop, or feel, for a picture.  I was eating this up.  Shooting the dock, the neighboring town, some tall grass on the shoreline, heck I even found an old fishing pole and rusty can.  All was going well until I heard that noise again.

The cracking of branches again echoed in the night air, but this time I could get a bead on it.  It was coming from my left and appeared to be moving toward me.  I could tell by the heaviness of the twigs snapping that this was not a squirrel.  It was something much bigger.

The fog impaired my vision, but it finely tuned my hearing.  Whatever was out there seemed to be almost circling me as I followed the rustling from my left, behind me, and then to my right, tracking its movement by the breaking of branches.  At this point I was directionally disoriented and was trying to determine what direction my car was in and how far away the car was from me.  Spooked, I decide to head toward where I thought my car was, when I suddenly stopped in my tracks.  I heard a very low, deep growl.  Similar to what a dog makes, but deeper.  The growl was so deep I could feel it in my chest, more than I could hear it.  Again I couldn’t tell what direction the noise was coming from, but whatever made that sound seemed close.  Too close.  I grabbed a large stick lying beside the trail, slung my camera over my shoulder and move quickly toward my car.  I could barely see my car now through the mist, but I had a vantage point and purpose.  The low growls continued as my heart and mind raced.  I still couldn’t judge the distance of whatever made that bone-chilling sound, but whatever it was, it was too close for comfort.

My pace quickened from a walk to a full sprint as I made my way to my car.  My heart was racing and my breathing was short and shallow. I reached for my door handle, quickly jumped inside, slammed the door, and lock it.  Outside my window, I scanned the area in all directions.  The fog made it difficult to see anything, but I continued to scan as I fumbled for my keys.

The low growl was just outside my window.  I could not tell what direction it was coming from.  Finally, a thump on my car door, which not only shook my car but also my nerves.  I locked eyes with the creature that was following me.  I cannot believe what I saw.

Until next time,

Tim (Kilmer)

 

 

 

 

This story is an urban legend based in a small town in Wisconsin.  I have never been there, nor did I see any Devil Dog/Hellhounds that others have claimed to have seen.  Many investigators have been there, and this area is still a popular summer swimming spot for teens and young adults alike.  If you are ever in western Wisconsin, make a stop at Mary Dean or as we now know it, Meridean, Wisconsin.  I know I will.