Part One
The town of Derry, Maine has its fair share of legends, stories whispered around campfires, or exchanged in hushed tones during sleepovers. I never believed any of them until the afternoon of November 12th, 1983, when I heard the man dragging chains.
I was fifteen, a sophomore at Derry High. School had just let out and the grey autumn skies loomed over me as I took my usual shortcut home. It was a worn path through the woods, a route my friends and I had used countless times before. But that day, a thick fog had settled, giving the trees an eerie, skeletal appearance.
I was halfway through the woods when I first heard it - the soft, rhythmic sound of metal scraping against the ground. It was faint, barely audible over the rustling leaves, but unmistakably there.
Clang… Clang… Clang…
Curiosity piqued, I paused, straining my ears. The sound grew louder, closer. My heart raced, and a chilling thought crossed my mind: could this be the famed “man dragging chains”?
Derry’s lore spoke of a man from the late 1800s who had been wrongly accused of a crime. Shunned and betrayed by his own community, he was chained to two large boulders and left to die in these very woods. It was said his restless spirit still roamed, dragging the chains that sealed his cruel fate.
I shook my head, chastising myself for being so gullible. Legends were just stories, after all. But as the fog thickened, the noise grew more pronounced.
Clang… Clang… Clang…
I picked up my pace, trying to convince myself it was just my imagination. But then, through the mist, I saw a silhouette. It was a tall, gaunt figure, his face obscured by the fog, and from his hands dangled heavy chains that scraped the forest floor.
Fear took over, and I ducked behind a tree, praying he hadn’t seen me. I watched as he trudged forward, the chains resonating with every step. Suddenly, he paused and turned his face in my direction. I could feel his gaze piercing through the fog, straight into my soul. My breathing grew rapid, and cold sweat trickled down my back.
He resumed his path, slowly dragging his chains, and I waited for what felt like hours before daring to move. The fog began to lift, and the forest was silent once more.
When I finally emerged from the woods, the safety of my home in sight, I looked back one last time. There was no sign of the mysterious figure. I tried to dismiss the encounter, attributing it to an overactive imagination.
But that evening, as my family gathered for dinner, my younger sister Lucy mentioned she had come across an old diary while cleaning the attic. It belonged to our great-great-grandmother and detailed her life in Derry during the late 1800s.
Curious, I skimmed through the pages, and a particular entry caught my attention. Dated October 17th, 1892, it read:
“They took him today, chained him to the boulders in the woods. They said he was guilty, but I know the truth. He was innocent, and they’ve condemned an innocent man. Every night I hear the chains, a haunting reminder of Derry’s sin.”
The realization hit me like a sledgehammer. The man dragging chains wasn’t just a legend; he was a part of Derry’s dark history.
And I had come face-to-face with him.