Mystery Mondays: Campfire Story

This story and others will appear in the eGuide “Campfire Stories: From the Chill to the Giggle” coming October 15, 2010. To pre-order your copy at a 30% discount please click here.

Pre-orders are only $3.46. Your eGuide will be delivered to your email inbox on October 15, 2010. At that time, the eGuide will go on sale for $4.95. Order yours today!

Sometimes the best ghost stories are the ones that you tell as if it happened to you. The key to making them super scary is to relate most of the story in a matter-of-fact voice until you get close to the climax of the story. Then, let the creepiness be heard in your voice.


  • Feel free to adjust the time frame to fit your audience.
  • Change the date in the story from October 4th to be the date you’re telling the story.
  • If you think your audience can handle it, have a “helper” sneak away and cry like a baby at the very end. (Caution with that one!)

Cry Baby Creek

Cry Baby Creek

Tulley Creek, just a bit west of here, has been known for years as Cry Baby Creek. Tulley Creek used to flow year-round, but about 15 years ago, the creek went dry. Now, it only flows once a year, on October 4th.

That’s because, when I was young, Shelly Armstrong died at Tulley Creek on October 4th. Shelly had been driving home from work, late one night with her infant son Jack asleep in his car seat in the backseat.

It had been storming all afternoon and Shelly was anxious to get home. The rain had made the dirt road slick and treacherous. The pot holes were filled with water and shoulders of the road were soft. Shelly had her windshield wipers on at full speed but it seemed as soon as they moved the water, the rain blurred the windshield again. Her headlights barely illuminated the road in front of her.

As Shelly approached the old wooden bridge over Tulley Creek she noticed that the creek was flowing much higher than ever before. It seemed that the bottom of the bridge was only a few feet above the raging surface of the creek.

Shelly slowly eased her car onto the bridge. Even above the sound of the rain, she could hear the bridge moan and pop. Just as she was nearly across, the bank on the far side slid into the raging waters below.

Shelly watched, helpless, as the whole bank in front of her gave way, revealing the supports of the bridge. Just as she was putting her car into reverse to back off the bridge, she saw the bridge give way and plunge her, the car, and her still-sleeping young son, Jack into the tumultuous waters below.

The next morning, searchers found Shelly’s body 30 miles down stream. Her car had washed up in some shallows. They searched for three days, but they never found the body of young Jack Armstrong.

Now, people say that if they visit Tulley Creek on October 4th they can see the waters rise and go rushing through the creek bed. And if you go to the site of the old wooden bridge, you can still hear young Jack Armstrong crying for his mother.

I went to Tulley Creek, Cry Baby Creek one year. I was 16 and had just gotten my drivers license. I was too afraid to roll down the windows to listen for the baby to cry, but when I drove away, on my back window there was the imprint of a baby’s hand.

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