I am going to put a disclaimer here.
All names in the following will be pseudonyms, and I will not be disclosing the company I work for. Though I have asked those related to this story if they were comfortable with me finally disclosing the following events, I do not want to bring anyone else further into this. Thank you.
Legends have been told in many ways.
There are the ancient myths, the mysteries, and the stories that can send a shiver up anyone’s spine. Of course, many of these tales originate from ancient anecdotes passed down through generations and recycled campfire tales used to torment younger audiences, but the following is not one of these stories. Please do not ever think that The Chamógelo is fake.
I became a journalist in my early twenties. I graduated with a bachelor’s degree in journalism from Syracuse University and was so excited for everything to finally begin. My dream career was just ahead of me, I was comfortable financially, and my new job gave me opportunities I couldn’t even dream of; plus, I got to see the world for what it was. Not the prettied-up shit that I wrote in the paper, or the just-out-of-reach narratives of distant countries, never to be experienced by the average citizen. Everything that wasn’t familiar almost felt fictional; which was what made me most excited about being in media. I got to travel to any country I wanted, and thus, I was able to make what was previously fiction into reality. I never stayed in one country too long, and because of this, I was able to visit most of the world before I was thirty.
I covered the stories that no one else would, and, quickly became the go-to guy for questions about horrifying places and disturbing events.
It was taxing, I will admit, but it was my passion.
Upon my arrival back in New York following a long, excruciating assignment in the mysterious Koh Kor Islands of Cambodia, I was looking forward to my well-deserved break from the hauntings, and the exhaustion that came along with jet lag. I stepped into my stale apartment, alone, drained, and ready to sleep for an uninterrupted and unforeseen amount of time, before my phone rang.
It was Michael Lewis. The head reporter, and my boss.
We did the casual back and forth about my travels before Lewis addressed the reason he called. “I was hoping to catch you at the airport, kid.” He began, “So, listen. You know Greece, right? I mean, you’ve been there before and liked it enough…so I’m sending you back! We’ve heard reports of this story about “the Grinner” or something, and it sounds right up your alley.” Michael paused again; this time I spoke up.
“Yeah, sure. Hey, uh, listen, Mr. Lewis, I really can’t do much of anything right now. Can we push it until next week?” I figured that was a pretty plausible request. It wasn’t like he was the one running around from different countries and having to endure all the physical effects.
The response warranted a sigh from me: “Sure kid, does Tuesday work for ya?” I rolled my eyes, “yeah, whatever,” I confirmed rather unprofessionally before he and I said our goodbyes. It was already Sunday when he called.
I did not think about Greece, or much of anything, for the next day and a half. I slept for as long as my body would physically allow, and when I woke up, I began packing.
Late on Monday, I received a plane ticket, and approximately five hundred Euros; the typical protocol for my seedy boss. How he got the money? I never asked. I never wanted to, I just did as I was told.
The more I think about it now, I can see how wrong the whole thing was.
Now, don’t get me wrong here, I love Greece; so whenever I had the opportunity to visit, I always took it. I have a few ties in that country; so if I ever needed a place to stay, I was always welcome. I still am.
My ‘ties’, The Roberts, grew to be my very close friends; always providing for me, teaching me everything I know about their country, and caring for me like one of their own. They were a fairly well-off family, we met through a coworker, and they were completely hospitable whenever I stayed with them in Greece.
Despite all the lavishness I experienced during my time with the Roberts, I knew that I had a job to complete. It was easier to justify leaving for this adventure knowing that I’d have more time to spend with family upon my return.
A typical investigation for me included a few tools: my camera, a notebook, and a guide about the area I was exploring. I’d then go and ask locals about the legend and, finally, I’d go try to hunt down whatever it was that I sought.
Over twenty years of doing this job; I have yet to see anything as horrifying as what I came across then.
I cannot stress this enough. Never go looking for the Chamógelo. I am only telling you my story to try to ward off any other adrenaline seekers.
Please, use this as your adventure, and stay far, far away from that mountain.
When I first entered the journaling field, my boss was infatuated with the idea of someone like me travelling the world as a skeptic and “myth-busting” creepy legends.
For the most part, I was never put in danger, and would often just be sent to prisons, tunnels and asylums around the world. All of which were either heavily maintained by the tourism companies that owned them, or abandoned and left to the devices of drifters and teenagers.
These were primarily marketing schemes to drag bored teenagers and curious adults back to newspapers; and though my stories only made it in half the time, I was having fun.
This being one of my first expeditions, I was ecstatic.
I got to climb a mountain by myself, with only the information I brought with me. Unlike any of the other stories I’d heard; this one was completely fascinating to me. The tale went; “Αν φτάσετε στο σπήλαιο Δαβέλης στο δεύτερο ψηλότερο βουνό και απαγγείλετε αυτή τη φράση, ο χαμόγελο θα κάνει μια σύντομη εμφάνιση που δεν θα ξεχάσετε ποτέ.” Which, in English, roughly translates to; “If you reach the Davelis Cave on the second-highest mountain and recite this phrase, Chamógelo will make a brief appearance that you will never forget.“
I couldn’t wait.
After interviewing locals about this creature, I was met with grandiose stories of terror and despair. I was repeatedly warned not to go to the cave, not even to step foot onto the cursed mountain, but I did not listen. Why would I? Anything that caused the locals this much fear was something I needed to experience. I wish now that I had listened, and will forever resent myself for what I did. But I was just a kid. I had no idea how bad it could become.
I went alone up the mountain.
A very kind tour guide gave me a brief rundown at the base of the mountain before rushing far away from the place as if a curse bubbled at the cracks in the rock. I thought nothing of the fears displayed by the people. I was simply too vain.
They were just cowards.
The hike was treacherous. I was running low on my food supply very quickly; my water had vanished by the end of day three, and I assumed that my death was going to be slow and painful; induced by natural factors and not mythical creatures. Fortunately, though, the guides had told me that once I reached the Davelis caves and recited the phrase, my “greatest wishes would be granted,” and that a large feast would be waiting for me. I really doubted it at the beginning, but the farther I inclined, the more I wanted to believe it was true.
By the end of the fourth day, I had reached the climax of my journey; the great cave that I was destined at the beginning of the journey to approach, and there it was. It was so easy to miss. Only a tiny, man-made footpath marked the entrance to the long trail I had to take to access the cave, which I noticed right away. It was as if it was calling to me.
My mouth began to salivate, and my eyes started running as well. My stomach had already begun to eat itself by the middle of day three, and I knew then why people are so quick to resort to cannibalism.
It was a scary thought, sure, but the way some well-preserved, deceased hikers that I walked by were looking? It was almost too tempting.
As I crawled up the last little trail in my journey, I started to hear something, a sound that would never leave my mind again. In the distance, just above the wind, there was a small titter. I swore I heard it, and that this was not just a hallucination caused by the lack of every basic necessity I needed at that point. That laugh caused a shiver to run up my spine so fast that I nearly fell.
I kept going though. The mountain was not going to overcome me.
I wouldn’t let it.
I could see it. The cave that everyone had told me about.
The sound of the laughter only amplified as I closed in on the threshold of the Davelis Cave, but the feeling of triumph dragged me towards my destination.
I was not going to give up now.
Before approaching, I took a moment to stop and recite the passage, and as the last word left my lips, a smell emerged. It was tortuously delicious, and when I climbed up those few shambling steps, all I saw on the table in front of me was the most delectable food I have ever seen in my life. The thought of how it got there, or why, did not cross my mind; I had found the food I was promised, and though the main goal of this expedition was far more important than an all-you-can-eat meal, I did not stop myself from eating as much of it as I physically could.
The more I ate, I noticed, the more laughter I could hear, and the louder it became. It was no longer a nice giggle, nor a welcoming one; it was the laugh of someone, something who was in all ways, completely insane.
I had never heard anything like it.
My intense hunger prevailed, though, and only when I truly could not eat a single bite more, I began what I came here to do. Debunk the myth regarding The Chamógelo.
The laughter, I can remember, was becoming deafening. My head began to pound as I looked through this enormous cave to see what, or who, I would find.
Normally this would have freaked me out, but after being stranded alone on a desolate, cold mountain for four days, I needed to see this creature. To photograph it. To communicate with it. My stubbornness outweighed my fear, and I felt deserving of this victory.
The roaring laughter was everywhere now, but I pushed forward. I recall having spent nearly four or five hours in the cave before finding what I’d been looking for; five hours of feeling so full I could be sick, so tired I could fall over at any moment, and my head was so sore from this laughter that I nearly turned back. But that was when it finally got to me.
As soon as I felt too weak to continue, the room I entered next was the room that I had been searching for. This was the room of The Chamógelo.
Please, if you are already convinced not to go to these caves; stop reading; because if this doesn’t change your mind, maybe you deserve to be its next victim.
What was once likely a very beautiful young woman, was now nothing more than a terrifying husk. The elongated body of this thing exposed a terrible austere that I hope never to have to see again. Its naked frame had the physique of a woman, but the figure of this creature was non-existent. Its breasts had been torn off and discarded somewhere in the rotten-smelling room, and the hands of the thing were fingerless; bound tightly, with knives protruding from the cavities of its knuckles.
After a moment to take in the looming creature, I knew I had to leave. I was naive and stubborn, and usually, I could withstand scary things; but this beast was unlike anything I had seen before. My decision was confirmed when I caught sight of its terrible face. A face that could not have been replicated by anyone in fear of death just from the sight. The eyes were hollowed out, leaving only two black holes with decaying sclera dangling from the empty sockets in place. The nose, well, there was no nose at all. It looked like this creature was completely without such a feature, it was wrong to look at. But that mouth, that fucking mouth, still haunts my dreams every night. The phrase “smiling from ear to ear” would be an understatement for this creature. Its mouth was pinned to the side of its head by corroded safety pins; there were no lips, just a giant depression in its face, pinned up to appear smiling. The skin around this makeshift maw was creased and rotted; inside hid countless rows of razor-sharp, bloodstained teeth; fragments of skin and bone hanging from between certain teeth.
That was all I allowed myself to take in before turning around and running back out.
But it saw me.
It saw me and chased me on those legs that I could only have assumed would break under any strain, let alone a disturbing, bounding gallop.
I thought I had more than three hours to run out of this area, but when I rounded the corner, I saw the table where I’d had my feast.
The disorientation of the situation was over-shone by utter horror when, atop the table, where I assumed to be the remnants of a meal, were nothing more than rotting bones and decaying human flesh; similar to the shreds of skin between the teeth of the creature. I looked down at my hands and saw that what I’d assumed were condiments caked onto my fingers, was, instead, a thick layer of coagulated blood.
I had eaten humans.
Forgetting that I had to escape, I began to yell and sob, gagging as soon as my body could react to what was happening. The creature was still behind me, though, and was approaching fast. Before I had time to start running to the door, that door that was not even two feet away, I fell, and The Chamógelo landed on top of me.
I thought this was going to be my death, and sometimes, I wish it was. I assumed that I was going to end up on the table of meat and death, just like the people I had eaten. The creature loomed over me, its mouth curled up into a smile, the laughter ceasing for a moment. Licking at its rotted lips, it leaned down, and through a deep, gargled tone, the creature was able to mutter four words. Words that, at the time, instilled in me, a primal fear, and that would soon make much more sense.
“What a wonderful smile.”
It sat up, drool dripping from its agape hole onto my face, my consciousness wavering, and soon failing. The creature looming over me was the last thing I saw. Those words, the last thing I heard.
According to the Roberts, I returned six days after I left. That creature kept me in its grasp for two more days, and I have no recollection of a second of it; probably for the best. After the ordeal at the mountain, the family took me back into their arms; though disappointed in me for not believing them. They healed and nurtured me until Micheal Lewis arrived later in the next week to bring me home. I will never forget the face of that man when he saw me again. He looked scared. Scared of me.
The creature had mutilated me in that cave.
I was not in any pain when I woke up, but I still cannot bring myself to look in a mirror without hearing that insanity-induced laughter, or those few muttered words that will forever haunt the shadows of my mind.
I am writing this, sitting in my darkened office, with the screen on my computer as bright as it can be to avoid catching a glimpse of my mangled face. I wish so much that I’d listened to everyone’s stories closely. That I could take back my naivety before trekking up that cursed mountain and doing this to myself.
Please do not go and try to find The Chamógelo in Greece. The creature might not spare your life as it did mine. I cannot have anyone else meeting the same fate as the table of human decay, or, selfishly, the fact that I can no longer look at myself. I wish you the best of luck if you are a traveller, and I do hope you go and solve some myths out there. But if you ever hear a story about the Chamógelo, the Grinner, or any other variation of such; do not investigate. It could cost you your life. Or your sanity. I still hear that distant laughter every time I shut my eyes.