My 4th Great Grandfather served in the American Revolutionary War from 1777 to his discharge in 1778. He was a Militia meaning he has to defend local towns from British forces. Me and My Grandfather were scavenging our stuff that we hadn’t use for a while. We went to our ancestor’s house in Massachusetts (My 4th Great Grandfather) to drink beer and talk about friends and family. It was a nice house, there was a fireplace and a casement window.
After Our Talk, My Grandfather got up and went into a room. Returned with a small book which looked like a diary and I was correct. My Grandfather said with a calm town “You know, Your dad doesn’t like to talk about this because he thinks that you will stay up night everyday. If you don’t know what’s this book then it’s your 4th great grandfathers journal during the War.
It was 12 AM right now, it scared me a little bit. My Grandfather read the whole entire journal and after that, I have no words we just said “Goodbye” and went to our homes and I couldn’t get some sleep after that story my grandfather read.
The following is my 4th Great Grandfather Journal,
November 13, 1777, I have been enlisted in the Continental Army. I was a youth when I entered into the service of the military. My elder brother hath perished in the Battle of Saratoga. My friend, William, and myself were dispatched to a hamlet in Upper State New York, a community of roughly two hundred souls.
November 21, 1777, About the time of Thanksgiving, my comrade William was deployed to spend the holidays with his kin in New York City, while I dutifully stood guard over our town. At the stroke of 1 AM, as I maintained my vigil, musket in hand, patrolling the entire township, I discerned a voice that was unmistakably that of my friend William, exclaiming, ‘Hey Arnold, come and behold what I have discovered.’ This, however, puzzled me greatly, for William had ventured to New York City with his family. An eerie intuition suggested that something was amiss, as if his voice had been twisted or distorted in some unnatural manner. Summoning my resolve, I called out, ‘William, where are you?’ Yet, there was no reply.
Then, from behind me, a response emerged, and it sent shivers down my spine. ‘I am right here,’ came the retort, and as I turned to face it, I beheld a grotesque and inhuman figure. Standing at a towering nine feet in height, its emaciated visage appeared as if it had suffered from relentless hunger, and its form lacked the attributes of humanity, including any semblance of genitals. Swiftly, I discharged my musket, aiming squarely at its abdomen, eliciting from it a shrill cry akin to that of a fox. In an astonishing display of speed, it vanished into the night, leaving me confounded and bewildered. I would not encounter it again until the passage of a full month.
As I proceeded to a nearby shop in proximity to the creature I had encountered, a scene of dreadful horror unfolded before my very eyes. There lay a deceased man, likely in the latter stages of his fifties, amidst a pool of sanguineous fluid. The sight was indeed a gruesome and ghastly spectacle to behold.
Without delay, I swiftly mounted my trusty steed and embarked upon a journey to New York City, with the intent to apprise my friend William of the dire events that had befallen.
November 22, 1777, I arrived in New York City and reunited with my friend William. He inquired as to the purpose of my journey alongside him, and I proceeded to recount the entirety of the unsettling events.
Following my account, his countenance took on a spectral pallor, and he hastily concluded his repast. Together, we set forth, making our way back to the environs of Upstate New York, with the solemn intent of launching an investigation.
November 24, 1777, William and I returned to the small town as the clock struck four in the afternoon. The atmosphere was chill, and a serene calm enveloped the surroundings. I chanced upon a woman and inquired if she had ever laid eyes on a creature of extraordinary stature, one that reached nine feet in height. Her response was in the negative. Thereupon, I recounted the entirety of the unsettling narrative to her, and she found herself overtaken by a sense of dread. She kindly extended an invitation for us to lodge at her dwelling for the night.
Later, William and I revisited the shop, where we encountered its proprietor. I queried if he had encountered the enigmatic entity, and to my disquiet, he responded with laughter. My emotions oscillated between agitation and exasperation. Notably, the bloodstains that had once marred the floor were conspicuously absent, as if no vestige of a body had ever occupied that space.
In the evening hours, I took up residence in the woman’s abode. While William slumbered soundly, I gazed out into the wooded expanse through the windowpane. My ruminations remained captive to the troubling events that had transpired. Sleep eluded me, the incident persistently occupying my thoughts. It was during this nocturnal vigil that I engaged in conversation with the woman, whose countenance possessed a captivating charm, her chestnut tresses framing a visage that bespoke youthfulness in her early twenties. We exchanged introductions, and our affections bloomed.
December 20, 1777, William and I journeyed to Valley Forge with the purpose of receiving military instruction under the tutelage of Baron von Steuben, a Prussian military officer of notable repute. Under his guidance, we embarked upon rigorous training regimens encompassing the proper use of the bayonet, the precision of marching in formation, and the swift execution of orders.
The toil was relentless, and I found myself beset by fatigue, akin to the weariness that befalls those toiling in the fields, such as slaves laboring under the unrelenting sun, gathering rice or tending to tobacco. To rejuvenate our spirits, we sought repose in distinct quarters, each of us retreating to our respective lodgings. Thereafter, we would reassemble for further sessions of training.
December 27, 1777, Sometime around 5 AM, I awoke to the urgent voice of William, summoning me to venture outside, for he professed that my beloved had arrived at Valley Forge. Yielding to his plea, I consented, and as I cautiously unfastened the door, the world outside lay silent, the rest of our comrades in deep slumber.
Surveying the surroundings, my gaze fell upon William, who stood alone in the dimness. However, conspicuously absent was my girlfriend, and a disconcerting revelation coursed through me — this was the very creature I had encountered just one month prior.
Gripping my bayonet tightly, I inched the door shut, wary of what lurked beyond. A span of ten anxious minutes elapsed, devoid of any sound but for a distorted and unnerving bark. I steadfastly resisted the impulse to reopen the door, all the while gripped by an escalating sense of dread and fear.
January 8, 1778, William confided in me about a disquieting incident that occurred during the night, some twelve days hence. As he lay in slumber, the creature materialized outside his window, although on this occasion, it refrained from assuming the guise of a beast.
In an attempt to dispel the dread that had settled upon him, William feigned slumber, striving to convince himself that the encounter had been naught but a disturbing dream. The disconcerting nature of the occurrence left both of us in a state of profound trepidation. We find ourselves confronted with a vexing dilemma — should we elevate this matter to the High Command for their counsel and intervention?
January 20, 1778, William and I conveyed the disconcerting news to General John, who expressed a commitment to conduct a thorough investigation in the town we had staunchly defended in Upstate New York. Laden with provisions of sustenance and potable water, we made our way to the settlement, only to find it draped in an eerie stillness.
As night descended, William, General John, and myself embarked on a collective patrol of the desolate town. We had intended to rendezvous with the store owner, who had previously scorned my account, but he had inexplicably vanished without a trace.
Encountering the woman with whom I had shared my time, her visage now etched with deep anxiety, she inquired about my whereabouts during my absence. I apprised her of my sojourn in Valley Forge. She confided that the store owner’s inexplicable disappearance had left her with grave reservations, and she harbored doubts as to whether the same malevolent entity that had claimed the life of the elderly man two months prior was responsible. Remarkably, she bore the news of her pregnancy.
Recognizing the need to offer solace and security in such uncertain times, I extended an invitation for her to accompany us to Valley Forge, where she might find respite and refuge. Without hesitation, we ushered her to the sanctuary of Valley Forge, a haven where she could seek rest and reassurance.
January 23, 1778, Upon our return, the conspicuous absence of General John confounded us; he was nowhere to be discerned. Inquiries amongst the inhabitants yielded a disconcerting account, for they recounted observing him engaged in discourse with an unseen interlocutor amidst the woodlands, his steps leading him deeper into the shrouded forest.
We embarked on a steadfast journey through the woodland, our voices raised in a clarion call for General John. Along this course, we happened upon a cave, its interior steeped in inky darkness. Kindling our lanterns, we pierced the gloom with their luminance.
There, within the cavern’s recesses, a chilling tableau unfurled before our very eyes. Scores of human remains lay strewn about, reduced to naught but skeletal vestiges. Amongst the macabre assemblage, a bloodied handprint, etched with the ominous proclamation, ‘Arnold and William are next,’ leapt out to assail our senses.
A portentous conviction overcame us, and William voiced it with urgency. ‘We must evacuate this dread-filled abyss,’ he declared.
Swiftly mounting our steeds, we departed from the site of the dire discovery, retracing our path until we were safely ensconced within the confines of Valley Forge.
January 25, 1778, Upon our return, we conveyed the harrowing chronicle to George Washington, the laughter upon his countenance serving as an unwelcome reception. He chided us, deeming our belief in the realm of the supernatural or apparitions to be a folly of the highest order. A wave of indignation surged within us, for our assertion rang true, yet his credulity was beyond our grasp.
It was then that we learned of his intent to enact our discharge, the designated date set for March 15, 1778. As the sands of time dwindled within the hourglass of our service, we found ourselves endowed with an abundance of leisure.
2 AM January 26, 1778, We chanced upon an entity that bore the semblance of a deer, yet as its gaze fell upon us, the creature affixed its eyes upon ours, an unsettling communion that endured for an indeterminate span.
In an abrupt and astonishing metamorphosis, the creature swelled in stature, launching an onslaught upon our steeds. By some providential grace, our horses withstood the assault, emerging from the fray with their lives and limbs intact. Yet, the enigmatic entity persevered, doggedly tailing our every step.
We find ourselves in close proximity to the border of New York, to say the least.
January 29, 1778, We tarried in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, seeking reprieve for a solitary night’s rest. To the townsfolk, we divulged the fullness of our tale. Amongst them, a man by the name of Joseph, seasoned by service in the French and Indian War, emerged as a source of wisdom on matters of lore and legend.
Joseph beckoned me into his cabin, nestled amidst the sylvan outskirts of Williamsport. Here, in the quietude of his abode, he arranged a parley betwixt myself and the Native Americans, whom he identified as Ojibwe Indians. Remarkably, Joseph possessed the gift of translating my words into their tongue, and their responses into English.
It was amid these exchanges that they imparted to me the name of the malevolent entity we had encountered - a Wendigo, by their reckoning. The Indians conveyed that the slaying of a Wendigo availed two methods: a well-aimed shot to the heart, or the infliction of death through fire. William and I, burdened by the capriciousness of our marksmanship, elected the latter course of action, consigning the creature to the cleansing embrace of flames.
February 15, 1778 - February 16, 1778, I returned to Valley Forge and imparted to my beloved the course of action I had charted. Her countenance radiated with enthusiasm, bidding me farewell with a heartfelt ‘Good luck.’
On the ensuing day, William and I labored to fashion torches, a strategy to confront the elusive entity should we encounter it anew. As fate would have it, our paths once more converged with Joseph. He pledged to dispatch a cadre of Native Americans to accompany our mission, their purpose to aid in the relentless pursuit of the Wendigos. And this, dear friend, brings me to the most cherished segment of our narrative.
March 1, 1778 Sometime around the seventh hour of morn, I was stirred from slumber by a familiar symphony of barks, harkening back to those eerie echoes of four months prior. With stealthy resolve, I roused the Native Americans, Joseph, and William from their repose. Swiftly, we readied ourselves, seizing hold of our trusty torches, resolute in our intent.
In relentless pursuit, we embarked upon the chase, hot on the trail of the elusive Wendigo. As the creature materialized before our eyes, we hurled our flaming implements in unison, igniting a chorus of anguished cries that reverberated through the air, threatening to rupture the very confines of my eardrums.
Then, in a surreal tableau, I bore witness to the gradual dissolution of the Wendigo’s corporeal form, vanquished by the searing blaze. Profound gratitude welled within me, a sentiment I readily extended to Joseph and the Native Americans for their invaluable tutelage in the art of the Wendigo’s demise.
March 10, 1778 Subsequent to the departure of the Native Americans, accompanied by Joseph, William and I made our way to the township in Upstate New York. Venturing into the wooded expanse, the very locale where General John’s presence had last been witnessed, I espied a recently excavated depression in the earth.
Drawing nearer, our grim discovery unveiled itself – the lifeless form of General John lay supine within the pit. The spectacle that met our gaze was one of unimaginable horror, a testament to the inhuman brutality inflicted upon him by the Wendigo prior to our triumph over the loathsome creature.
March 15, 1778 We received our honorable discharges and were dispatched to our respective homes. I journeyed back to the heart of Massachusetts, where I sought to unburden my soul by recounting the harrowing chronicles of my service to my family.
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Meanwhile, it grieves me to relate that William’s sojourn in the urban labyrinth of New York City had taken a grievous toll upon his sanity. He was committed to a wretched institution for the infirm of mind, a place where tales of mistreatment at the hands of the attending physicians weighed heavily upon my conscience. The plight of my dear friend weighed heavily upon my heart, and I harbored a profound sense of sorrow on his behalf.
In the year 1786, I undertook a poignant visitation, an opportunity to commune with William for the final occasion. It was a melancholic farewell, for in the year 1788, he departed this realm, his tormented spirit released from the bonds of earthly suffering.
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For those who may peruse these words, I commit them to paper on this day, the 4th of October, in the year 1822. A span of 44 years has elapsed since the nightmarish ordeal befell me. The specter of those dire events still haunts my thoughts, a disquieting presence that time has failed to diminish.
I must extend my profound gratitude to Joseph and the Native Americans whose valor led to the demise of the creature. Yet, even as I draw solace from their triumph, I cannot fully quell the apprehension that one day, the malevolent entity may rise once more from the abyss.
Alas, I am compelled to acknowledge that my days are numbered, for infirmity has taken hold, and my journey upon this mortal coil nears its conclusion. The prospect of bearing witness to any potential resurrection of the fiend is beyond my grasp, as I stand on the precipice of my own impending demise.
Furthermore, in August of the year 1778, my son entered this world, a joyous arrival that transpired shortly after the calamitous incident we had weathered. Regrettably, the fates conspired to keep us apart for countless decades, a prolonged separation that weighed heavily upon my heart.
As time unfurled its tapestry, I received tidings that my son had embarked upon his own journey, entering into the sacred bonds of matrimony and siring offspring. His valor was tested in the crucible of the War of 1812, a conflict that further etched the indelible mark of service upon our family legacy.
Yet, in the year 1814, the specter of sorrow descended upon me once more, as my cherished wife departed this earthly realm. Her absence leaves an irreplaceable void, and in the present moment, as I inscribe these lines, my eyes are awash with tears, for the ache of her absence lingers evermore.
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Ad there you go, this has been in my memory for 30 years. My grandfather is at the ripe old age of 102. I still think about how brave my 4th Great Grandfather and his comrade killing the wendigo.