There's a legend of something haunting the town of Truro, Massachusetts. Rumors of an unmarked grave and a warlock who unleashed something... evil.
Here we are on Cape Cod, around a crackling fire on one of the only beaches on the Cape where fires are allowed: Head of the Meadow Beach, just outside Truro. A pleasant and welcoming place, in my opinion. I shouldn’t spoil a night like this with a story as frightening as the last time The Beast appeared here in Truro... But that's exactly what I'm here to do.
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Artwork: Tyler Grobowsky
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No matter how dark the night…
No matter how fast you run…
No matter what is chasing you…
You’ll be safe if only you can make it to the campfire.
There it is, up ahead, through the trees.
We’re waiting for you, but…
Will you make it?
This is the Camp Monsters Podcast.
There are some places… no matter where you’re from they feel like home. This is one of those places. Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Small towns, little shingled cottages, scattered along miles of shoreline, beaches, grassy dunes, and scrub oaks. Even if where you come from is nothing like this, there’s some combination of history and beauty and peace at work out here that makes visiting feel like some kind of homecoming. But… if you’ve spent as much time at home as many of us have over the last year, you know: even home has its dark places. Basements and attics, musty old spots soaked in shadow that never seem to reveal all the secrets they hold. Cape Cod has those too.
But maybe I shouldn’t tell this story right now. Such a pleasant night, with so many friendly faces around the campfire. And you can’t ask for a nicer setting. Seems like we’re getting in the habit of starting campfire season on the beach. Last year it was that lonely stretch of sand on the California coast, remember? This year, here we are on Cape Cod, around a crackling fire on one of the only beaches on the Cape where fires are allowed: Head of the Meadow Beach, just outside Truro. Head of the Meadow Beach-- even the name is pleasant and welcoming. I shouldn’t spoil a night like this with a story as frightening as the last time The Beast appeared here in Truro.
But then… recently there have been rumours… shadows and sounds in the night that have a familiar ring to those who know the story… And you deserve to be prepared: we’ll have to leave this fire eventually… we’ll all have to walk back through the dunes to the parking lot or down the paths through the thick scrub oaks to the campsites nearby. That’s just what Corey was doing, that night in September of 1981. Walking home from a beach fire just like this one, back to his parents house on the outskirts of Truro.
He’d almost made it, too. Just Corey and a flashlight, casting twisted shadows through the close tangle of brush on either side of the trail. Corey wasn’t frightened. He’d walked these trails all his life, and anyway-- when you’re seventeen and you’ve just left the warm glow of a bunch of friends laughing around a bonfire on the beach, the night never seems as dark and late as it is.
It was just about midnight on a moonless, starlit night when Corey reached his back yard. Well, almost reached his back yard. Jutting out of the bushes beside the path, just before the garden beds and lawn began, there was a pile of stones. A few weeks previously Corey had spent a sweaty weekend helping his father move that pile, one rock at a time, from the spot ten feet closer to the house where it used to be, where their new garden bed was now. It wasn’t a big pile of rocks-- not much longer than you would be if you laid down on the ground. Not big stones, either-- all about the size of your head or so. But heavier than they looked, Corey knew that from experience. And still-- a stone the size of your head doesn’t roll suddenly down the pile unless something large moves it.
And just as Corey walked past the stones, he heard one of them begin to roll.
It was a funny thing, that pile of stones. It had been there, just beyond the end of his back yard for as long as Corey could remember. His mother told him it was what was left of some farmer’s old stone wall. His father thought it was spoil from when the foundation of their house was dug. But when Corey was young, playing in the backyard, he was… he was kind of scared of it. For him that pile of rocks marked a boundary, with the safety of his play yard on one side and the wild unknown beyond it. He’d never climb or play on it. And sometimes, when he was little and in the backyard by himself, he’d stop whatever he was imagining and stare at that pile of stones, because… well he was never sure why. Not a sound, exactly. Not a movement. But as he stared at the stones he’d… he’d become convinced that there was something hiding behind them, right then, in the brightness of some sunny afternoon. Something crouched down there behind that pile of rocks, about to spring out and run toward him.
Of course those days were long gone-- it had been years since Corey had even thought of those old fears. But their memory came flooding back in the instant when Corey heard that rock clatter down the pile. He jumped, and instinctively swung his flashlight in that direction. He felt ashamed of himself as he did it. He knew there wouldn’t be anything there. Except a raccoon, maybe.
And for a moment, as the glare of his flashlight hit the stones, he thought there wasn’t anything there at all. Just the pile of rocks, with his flashlight casting jumping shadows around its edges. Shadows always move like that, no matter how still you try to hold your flashlight. But in less time than it took Corey’s heart to skip and his eyes to widen, one of the shadows began to move, in a way no shadow can. It began to move swiftly, silently-- like black liquid pouring from the top of the pile of stones and running down its side. Moving smoothly, like a cat moves. A huge, black cat. Toward him. But the eyes of the thing… its eyes weren’t like a cat’s. Its eyes were black, large and pure black and glistening, without white or pupil. The thing was maybe ten yards away from Corey, and moving fast.
Corey turned to run, with the hot grip of terror around his heart. He cut right across the new garden bed he’d helped to build, and as he ran across the soft, fresh topsoil it seemed to him-- in the bouncing light of his flashlight-- that there was a long, narrow ditch cut into the ground, right in the middle of the garden. Corey leapt to clear it, but as he did he felt something snatch at his legs, and he landed awkwardly, tripped, and rolled from the garden onto the lawn.
And then the Beast was on him.
Corey rolled onto his back just in time to see a flat, dark face, more like a bat’s than a cat, pounce forward into his. He threw up his arms defensively and felt teeth ripping and tugging the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He was dimly aware of other sharp pains in his ribs and legs where the thing clenched him with its clawed feet. He tried to slam the flashlight into it but the Beast was wrenching itself and his arm so violently from side to side that he lost his grip after one or two blows and the light rolled away across the grass. In desperation he threw himself into the animal, rolling with it back into the garden bed and managing to trap it for a moment underneath him. And though he didn’t notice at the time he would later remember a very odd detail from this instant: though the beast was obviously alive and very strong: it was cold-- it felt as cold under him as ice.
At the time, rolling around there in the soft dirt, Corey didn’t notice-- all he could think about was getting away. He rolled again and the thing’s claws lost their grip on his body as it began to slip into the ditch in the garden that Corey had leapt. The thing struggled madly to stay out of the ground, releasing his arm and snapping its jaws open inches from Corey’s face to let out a crazy, high-pitched scream-- like the scream of a cougar but… but articulated, like there was some terrible language hiding just beneath the sound. Momentarily released, Corey scrambled to his feet and dashed across the yard, hearing no sounds of pursuit yet feeling the thing right at his heels. He reached the sliding glass door and threw his weight against the handle. It was open, thankfully, and he lunged through it and wheeled to slam it shut. But the thing was too quick for him. It tangled itself in his legs as he went through the door, just like a cat would do, and as Corey tried to slam the slider shut he could feel the creature’s body in the doorframe, blocking it from closing. He pressed harder and felt the creature’s body struggle and writhe, trying to worm its way inside the house.
And succeeding. Pushing as hard as he could, Corey felt the door close more-- not because he was shutting the creature out, but because more and more of it was wriggling in. He felt the ribcage slip through, and the door slide into the thing’s lean belly… He could hear its claws scratching on the concrete outside, feel it inch its haunches further and further into the house. Any moment it would be through, and up. And then…
Just as he heard the thing’s rear claws grip the inside of the door’s metal frame, just as he felt the animal force its way through, just as he sensed it scrambling to its feet, Corey arched his body over the creature and stretched for the light switch on the wall. He threw the sliding door open as he did so, intending to run back out into the night if the beast blocked his way across the room. He still couldn’t believe the glimpses he’d seen of the creature. When he threw on the lights he half-thought there’d be nothing there at all…
But there it was, crouching on the linoleum in front of him, squinting and hissing terribly in the light. Like a panther down to its long, curving tail, but with that horrible squat face and those glistening, all-black eyes. He didn’t have long to take it in. As soon as the light hit it the thing sprang, and Corey tried to turn his back to take the blow and… and before he started to breathe again he saw the beast dashing off across the lawn, and he lost sight of it in the darkness of the garden.
The commotion of Corey’s entrance and the shouts that he’d unwittingly been making had woken everyone up. Both his parents came clattering down the stairs into the room, followed at a wide-eyed distance by his fourteen-year old sister, Ginny. His folks dashed over to him and immediately started asking questions-- trying to speak over one another until they were both yelling, giving him no chance to answer anything.
As his body shook in reaction to what had just happened to him, Corey broke down completely. He had no time or mind for making up any plausible story. Later he had no memory of what he told them, only that he’d had to wrench it out between sobs and that it was the truth. The whole time he was on fire with humiliation. Something about standing in front of his family crying, telling them a story no one could possibly believe… something about that was the worst part of the whole night.
His mother was concerned, and said she’d heard about a big black dog people had seen around recently that looked feral, and no doubt that was what had attacked him. His father took the flashlight and looked outside, came back in and asked simple, gentle questions about the ditch Corey thought he’d seen in the garden, which there was no sign of now. The questions were obviously tests to determine how far Corey was out of his right mind. His little sister didn’t say anything, but just kept staring at Corey and then out the big glass door into the darkness.
Corey’s wounds weren’t as bad as they’d felt in the moment, but his arm required a few stitches and he had to have a rabies vaccine. The next day his mother marched him down to the police station and insisted that he tell a bored-looking sergeant how he’d been attacked by what she called a “feral dog”. The sergeant wrote everything down, alternately nodding and shaking his head, and said he wasn’t surprised-- cats and dogs had been disappearing from backyards over the last few weeks, and some pigs that one family kept had been attacked. There must be a pack of these feral dogs loose, and all officers had been told to be on the alert.
Then for about a week, nothing happened. That is, Corey came straight home from school and stayed indoors at night, sometimes staring out his bedroom window into the dark backyard and wondering about what he’d seen. He had almost managed to convince himself that his mother was right, that it really had been a wild dog that had attacked him… but then he saw something that changed his mind.
He saw it at school, of all places. Corey was just leaving at the end of one sunny, chilly, blustery day about a week after his encounter. He was passing the school office, on his way to the parking lot, when he noticed that someone had just re-done the display cases that lined the wall there, taking down all the “Back to School” stuff and replacing it with a Halloween theme. Corey thought it was a bit early for that, but no one ever paid much attention to what was in those display cases anyway. He glanced at the closest one as he walked by… and a few steps further on he stopped and came back to it. And the longer he stared, with his hands on the glass of the display case, the faster he felt his heart beat, and the more confused he became.
Inside the case, tacked on the back wall, pinned with other pictures under a stenciled heading that spelled out “Bewitching Truro”... was a photo enlargement of an old drawing. It was kind of blurry, like it had been blown up many times its original size, but there could be no mistaking what it was a drawing of. The long, curving tail. The squat, leering face. The shape of the eyes, the blackness of the teeth. Crude as it was, the drawing was a closer rendition of the thing that had attacked Corey than he would have been able to draw himself.
Corey staggered through the nearest doorway, looking for a place to sit down. He found a chair and dropped into it, and sat for a while with his head in his hands. A voice in Corey’s head asked: “Corey, are you okay?” And he honestly didn’t know the answer. It was only when the question was repeated that he jumped and realized that he was sitting in the entryway of the library. His sister Ginny was standing behind the counter across from him, looking at him with concern. He’d forgotten that she volunteered at the library. Then, just in front of her, he caught a glimpse of The Beast again.
It was much smaller than the enlargement he’d seen outside-- in fact, it was clear this was the original. It was part of a map that made up the frontispiece of a very old book that was propped open in another display case, this one built into the library counter. Corey stood shakily up and crossed to the case for a closer look. He could see from the coastline and the principal roads that the map was of northern Cape Cod, from Wellfleet through Truro and on up to Provincetown. At various places on the map were names, and dates in the early 1690s, and here and there were small, crude, morbid illustrations: a devilish figure peeking out of some trees, a gallows near the center of Truro… and right about where Corey’s house would be, there was an x, and a word that looked like “Woker” or “Woken” written in old script, and a perfect little drawing of The Beast that Corey had seen.
Ginny was still staring at him. “That book,” he said hoarsely, pointing through the glass to where the book was propped open amidst various other old objects on a vaguely Halloween-ish theme, complete with fake cobwebs and plastic spiders. Ginny waited for him to say more, and he waited in frustration as the words slowly formed in his bewildered mind. “Can I?… Can I check it out?”
Ginny looked slowly down at the yellowed, leather-bound, obviously antique book in the case, then back up at Corey. “That book? That’s on loan from the historical society. It’s very valuable.” Corey sputtered, but before he could begin a desperate explanation of why he needed at least a closer look, Ginny walked to a shelf behind the counter and came back with a book in a plain brown-canvas cover. “But this is the reprint they just came out with, if that helps.”
Corey snatched it from her, then flipped through the first few pages. There it was again, the map with the creature, right across from the page that displayed the publication date, 1702, and the title: “A True Account of the Infamous Occurrences lately transpired at Truro, Province of Massachusetts: With Diverse Testimonie and Accounts.”
Corey took the book home with him, had a quick dinner and then... then travelled back in time, back to the hysteria that had gripped the Cape, and the whole of the Massachusetts colony, back in the 1690s. The book consisted of stories-- in difficult old Puritan English-- of local Cape Cod people experiencing supposed witchcraft: seeing objects move of their own accord, or catching sight of their neighbors flying through the air in company with strange figures.
But the last section of the book was the one that caught Corey’s attention. It was the transcript of the trial of a man named Constancy Woken. The name had already been referred to in many of the earlier accounts-- it seemed this Woken character was considered a sort of a ringleader of sorcery in the area. Specifically, it was said, Mr. Woken would be seen at night, walking in the lanes and paths around Truro, always in the company of a creature that the book described: “like unto a wild-catte of great size, but of a blackness so compleat as to render it almost of one piece with the night.” Whenever and wherever Mr. Woken and his beast were seen, strange and frightening occurrences would begin, and persist for weeks or months. Woken’s devilish creature would make off with livestock and even attempt to seize people if they ventured too far from their houses after dark.
It wasn’t until the trial was concluded and the sentence was passed that Corey realized that Constancy Woken had not been an active participant at his own trial. He couldn’t have been. The charges had been leveled and the case tried... over a dead man. Mr. Woken had died in his lonely cabin outside Truro some months previously, and the disturbances that had happened since were blamed on his actions from beyond the grave.
Mr. Woken was duly convicted, and the sentence that was laid on him was for his body to be removed from the churchyard and re-buried-- as the trial transcript put it-- “in the farthest corner of the farthest field yet cleared to the east of the hamlet called Truro, under a large heap of stones, that he may no longer make shift by night.” A further passage had been added to a later re-printing of the book in the 1750s, noting that Mr. Woken’s Beast-- also called the Beast of Truro-- had re-appeared several times over the decades since the trial. The passage went on to claim that “every time this fell creature began to appear, it was found that rocks had been shifted from Mr. Woken’s grave, either by beast or man or some other power.”
Corey put the book down gently, very gently, in the little pool of light the lamp cast on his bed. He crossed to his bedroom window and looked out, let his eyes adjust until he could just barely see the… the pile of stones, at the edge of his backyard, where he had first seen the creature. The pile of stones that he and his father had moved a few weeks ago, about the same time people began blaming a “feral dog” for their missing pets… and in front of the pile was the new garden bed, where the stones used to be… hadn’t his mother been complaining that something… something kept digging up that new bed, that the soil always seemed to be disturbed? She blamed squirrels going after the bulbs she’d planted there, but…
But as Corey stood, staring out into the night, he thought he saw a movement. Out by the shadows in the shape of the rock pile. A movement, and a brief gleam. A gleam like… like the reflection of the light from his window on a pair of big, black, glistening eyes. And then Corey made a decision.
The next day was Saturday, and Corey begged out of a trip to visit his aunt and cousins in New Bedford. He waited until his parents and sister were in the car and away, and then he went to the backyard. The sun was mid-morning bright, and the shadows were few and pale… but as he walked toward the pile of stones Corey felt just like a little kid again, sure that something was waiting for him behind that pile, crouching and hiding, about to run out and grab him.
Of course nothing did. There was nothing there. Corey’s first plan had been to simply shift the stones back onto the garden bed, back where they belonged, but he’d soon seen the futility in that. How would he explain it to his parents? No, they’d just think he was losing it, and send him to a doctor while they moved the rocks right back off the garden again. No-- he needed proof. He needed to find… something… something that would convince them that this was a site they shouldn’t have disturbed, that putting the rocks back was the right thing to do. So Corey started to dig.
And kept digging. Through the few inches of rich black topsoil he’d helped his father spread, down to the sandy stuff that had made farming so difficult for the early settlers who had tried it in this region. It was heavy going. Heavier than it should have been, it seemed to Corey. Something seemed to bind the sandy soil together to resist his shovel, until the moment when he managed to gather enough dirt to throw a shovelful out-- then the soil would turn sandy again, and slide back into the depression he’d made, practically filling it. He wished he’d asked someone to come and help him… but what could he have told them? “Hey, could you come to my backyard tonight and help me dig up a wizard?” After hours and hours of work, he swore he’d moved enough dirt for a hole three times the size of the one he’d made. But he kept at it.
And he found nothing. Occasionally he’d pause in panting hopefulness over something that appeared in the latest load from his shovel-- and inevitably it would be a small stone, or a little bit of broken old shell such as you’d find all through these dunes. As the day wore down into evening and the hole became truly large, Corey began to give up hope and worry about how he’d explain what he’d done.
The light was fading, his family would be back soon, the hole was over six feet deep, and wide enough to keep it from collapsing in on him, and he hadn’t found a thing. If Constancy Woken had been buried here… apparently he hadn’t stayed buried. It was time to admit defeat and fill in the hole. Corey snatched his shovel out of the ground where he’d driven it in frustration, and was about to climb out and start filling when he noticed something odd about the dark little gap left in the ground where his shovel had been.
The dirt hadn’t fallen back into the hole when he pulled the shovel out. In fact it seemed… the little gap seemed deeper than it should have been. Corey poked at it with the shovel, and the little gap widened into a small hole, falling down into darkness. He’d brought a little flashlight out as the evening deepened, and now he grabbed it and leaned forward over the hole, shining the light down to try to get a better view.
At first he saw nothing. Just darkness. No dirt floor or sides of a burial shaft, no inside of a coffin, nothing. No, that… that wasn’t true. He saw the dust, swirling in the light of his flashlight, swirling against the blackness of the void. And then as he leaned a little bit closer he thought he saw… something. A shape, beginning to outline itself against the light. A shape like… like a human silhouette. It was so dim, he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining it. He shifted his light to shine more directly down into the hole, stooped a bit to get a better view. Somewhere down there, far off, like it was at the bottom of a well, he thought he saw… a silhouette like the outline of a man, even darker than the blackness of the hole. Like a man lying on his back, way down there. And Corey squinted his eyes and wondered what that meant. Three hundred years… three hundred years since Constancy Woken had been buried… how could there be anything but bones left for Corey to find?
And as he stared and shifted his light a little, Corey thought he saw something glint down there. Glint like… like metal? Or… no… glint like eyes. Like big, black eyes. And then something down there… began to move.
Corey must have cried out. He must have fallen back and stumbled, and landed sitting on the bottom of the hole he’d dug, staring at the little gap he’d broken into the earth. He doesn’t remember these things happening, but they must have happened because the next thing Corey remembers is sitting there at the bottom of the hole and watching in horror as something flashed quickly out of the little gap. Something black and hairy, something like a paw but… but more like a human hand. Something that began to dig, to dig ferociously at the edge of the little gap, that began ripping the earth down into the pit as the gap widened, and widened-- and then Corey turned to scramble away as the gap grew large enough for something… for something truly terrible to climb out.
But Corey hadn’t gone a step or two before he was knocked off his feet. Not by the blow he’d been half-expecting but by… by a sound. A sound that seemed to come from everywhere. A sound that filled the night and echoed in his head. It was… a voice. Words… in a language he didn’t know, but a voice that seemed somehow familiar. The fear left him. Everything left him, and he lay there with his face in the dirt and felt… calm. So calm. So relaxed.
When the words stopped he rolled over and took a deep breath, then sat up slowly feeling stunned and sleepy. He could remember what had just happened to him but he couldn’t believe it. Not on a night like this. Not in his own backyard.
And what was Ginny doing here? He was sure she hadn’t been here a moment ago, when everything was terrible. Now here she was, laying branches over a hole-- over the hole in the ground, and making small signs with her hands as she did so. Then she stepped over to Corey and crushed some leaves and twigs under his nose-- something that smelled very strong and strange and pleasant. She crouched down in front of him, and as his mind began to clear a little she smiled and shook her head, and gave his cheek something a bit more than a playful tap with her palm.
“You were just supposed to put the rocks back,” she told him. “They have to be replaced by the hands that disturbed them, otherwise He won’t rest. Once we figured out what you’d awoken… huh, if I ever dreamed you’d dig, I’d never have left you alone. Didn’t you read the book I gave you? I thought once I led you to that you’d move the rocks back and be done with it.”
Corey had no idea what was happening, but stuttered out his worry about what their parents would say if he’d just moved the rocks-- ruining the new garden bed and all. Ginny looked at him with amusement in her eyes, which suddenly seemed much older than his-- much older than her fourteen years. “And how do you intend to explain the giant hole you just dug?” she asked. And just then his parents-- both of them-- came out of the back door and into the yard.
But the predictable exclamations of surprise and confusion and anger had barely left their throats when that overwhelming feeling of calm stole over Corey again. His parents must have felt it too, because their protests trailed off and they grew quiet. Corey leaned back on his elbows and listened while Ginny sweetly explained to them how nothing would ever grow in this garden; and how natural and beautiful those rocks had looked just here, where they used to be; and how he, Corey, had intended a nice surprise for them by staying up all night to move the rocks back. It seemed so clear and sensible the way she said it-- of course! Obviously! Corey nodded and smiled when his parents thanked him in advance and he watched them walk quietly back to the house…
And somehow the dirt and rocks all made their way back over that hole before midnight, although Corey never understood how he and Ginny could have done all that so fast…
That was the most recent time The Beast got loose here in Truro. Forty years ago. But forty years is a long time, and a lot changes. Corey’s family doesn’t own the house anymore, and that old pile of stones has always had a way of getting itself disturbed. And recently I’ve heard there’s been some sightings of… well, people say it must just be a big stray dog. It has to be. There’s no other reasonable explanation. Still, I hope Ginny and others like her are still around…
Look at the time. These beach fire permits expire right at midnight, so I guess we’d better get what’s left of this fire out. Hope you brought a flashlight. It’s a long walk through those scrub oaks back to the campground, and without a good strong light those shadows just jump right out at you. Let’s hope it’s only shadows that do.
Camp Monsters is part of the REI Podcast Network. Special thanks to you, for listening and subscribing and telling your friends, and to Yeti for sponsoring these episodes. The Yeti Tundra cooler meets the Interagency Grizzly Bear Committee standards for bear-resistant containers when used with extra-long shank Master locks. So if you and your friends are carrying a properly-locked Tundra cooler when you cross paths with the Beast of Truro, REMEMBER TO DROP THE COOLER. It’ll be fine. You can come back for it later… if you come back at all.
Nick Patri brings these monsters to life with his engineering and effects prowess. Paolo Mottola and Joe Crosby, our Executive Producers, are out there beyond the firelight, patrolling the darkness, keeping us safe. Chelsea Davis is our Senior Producer, which means she makes the fire and the s’mores and battles the creatures all at once. Kiersa Berg is the best Podcast Production Intern we’ve ever had. This episode was written and performed by yours truly, Weston Davis. Thank you very much for listening, and we’ll see you next week.