The Cannibal Albinos Of Ghost Mountain

The Nest Let me explain my strange Internet journey yesterday.

We were thinking about ordering pizza from a place closer to the new house to try it out. I figured, okay, lemme look online right quick, see if I can’t cobble together some reviews, the menu, whatever.

I stumbled upon a thread in a Topix forum which started off as a topic devoted to, yes, Frank’s Trattoria, but eventually devolved into a discussion of how another local pizza joint has fallen from grace. It was interesting because the thread talked about how some waitress had dropped pizza on the floor but still served it to the customer, and then a guy popped into the thread that I think was the owner masquerading as somebody else and he was kissing his own ass up and down…

Anyway. Point being, I started taking a look at this local Quakertown forum, and hot diggity fuck, it is very active. People left and right talking about which local politician is a child molester, why the police chief is suspended, why a local bar owner tried to punch out some EMTs — all kinds of crazy rumor and madness, like a watercooler for insane motherfuckers.

Oh, but then, then came this thread:

Sasquatch Sighting. (Yep, there’s a photo.)

This is getting good.

I mean, it’s nonsense, of course. That doesn’t look like a goddamn sasquatch. But it makes for an interesting read of all the people who rise to the sasquatch’s defense, as if he wouldn’t rip off their arms and drop hot steaming yeti-apples into the gushing stumpholes.

Finally, I came upon a thread of other local legends: Ghost Mountain.

Fuck yes! Ghost Mountain? What? Apparently, a local “mountain” (not a mountain) is home to a number of fascinating legends, the best being that some wild pack of cannibal albinos lives in some glass house up on Haycock Mountain where they keep a collection of surgical tools. That’s some vivid shit right there. Where I grew up, our house sat at the base of another local “mountain” — Buckingham Mountain (still not a mountain), and that spot alone is pregnant with local myth. For instance:

It’s a gravity hill.

It’s got a “Devil church” where you can “race the Devil for your life” (what a fun game!) — this legend, you ask me, comes from deep, deep racism, because it’s assumed that a “black church” is a church black with Satan’s heart when really, it’s an African-American church (and a site of the Underground Railroad). My grandmother is buried there, as are half my father’s ashes. And my uncle’s a caretaker.

It’s got a hermit.

It has lost gold.

It’s not far from Hansel Road, too, where the glowing ghost of a headless boy would come out if you yelled out the magic words, “Fritz, come out and play!”

And hell, our house was haunted and had all kinds of goofy shit going on.

All this stuff is awesome fodder for anybody looking to write horror or supernatural craziness.

You click on that Ghost Mountain link, you get people talking about where the Lassie dog is buried, about basements full of blood and evil Injun spirits and haunted bridges and — well, the list keeps on going.

So, I have to ask: what are your local legends? C’mon. Cough ’em up. I know you have some. I wasn’t going to ask this now, as it seems like such a classic Halloween topic, but you know what? Summer is when we kids did all our scary exploring. No school, warm nights, easy to go out and summon ghosts with magical words. Summer is the perfect time to talk about this.

You have your mission.

Talk to me.

Local legends.

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Go.