What follows has been edited for content and relevance to the ongoing investigation
into events in Sugar Creek, Ohio on the night of September 26-27, 2015.
into events in Sugar Creek, Ohio on the night of September 26-27, 2015.
The following entries provide the heretofore missing information from Jim Corrie's journal, covering the period from June 3 to June 25, 2014. These were provided to BCI by Mr. Corrie's daughter Miranda during her interview on October 26, 2015.
June 6, 2014
As I prepare for our session on Monday, Doc, I realize I'd almost forgotten why I was mad at you. Actually, it hit me in the middle of reviewing everything I wrote three days ago that I've done more than that: I've virtually roped you in as a co-conspirator. I'm sure that will tickle you to no end that I'm suddenly so willing to confide in you. Just remember, though, that it's the idea of you I'm confiding in at the moment; I have no clue how you'll actually react to this. You have some high expectations to live up to, my friend - I do not envy you for that.
I'm totally fixated on the last thing Carl said to me before I left, about "Killiecrankie." I checked in Jennifer's notes and, lo and behold, I found the words "Killiecrankie 1912" written in the upper-left corner of a yellowed sheet of narrow-rule. Cryptically, this was circled and connected by a drawn line to another circled set of words "the same species?" No further explanation was to be found in any of the spare remnants of her research. Fortunately, a quick Internet search of the the term yielded my lazy ass its answer, pointing me to a book called "Ghosts of Scotland" by one Elliott O'Donnell written in 1912.
Some quick backstory regarding the Battle of Killiecrankie before I launch into this tale. I already mentioned that Killiecrankie Pass in the Scottish Highlands was the sight of a major battle during the Jacobite Uprising of 1689. Highland Scottish forces, favoring the deposed King James II, engaged English and lowland Scottish forces backing the new king, William III of Orange. On July 27, 1689, over 3000 men clashed upon the slopes above Killiecrankie Pass, resulting in a massive victory for the Jacobite Scots over the English. This also resulted in a violent, bloody slaughter of more than a thousand troops. It is was this slaughter that left Killiecrankie with the reputation of being one of the most dramatically haunted places in all of Scotland.
Shades of Killiecrankie's dead...or something else?
"How haunted was it," you say. Well, it fit the bill for all the classic haunting tropes: phantom cannon fire, disembodied voices and screams, visions of ghostly warriors racing through the woods to leap over cliffs and vanishing. it has been suggested that The violence at Killiecrankie had so traumatized the land there that it replayed it, year after year on the anniversary of the battle, like a broken projector.
However, things depart from the standard haunting fare in the way that the dead also seem to attempt to interact with the living. This is shown in stark relief in O'Donnell's story from a cyclist who found herself caught out in the pass on the night of the anniversary around the turn of the 20th century. As night descends, she describes the sounds of cannons, the shouts, the clear-as-day sightings of pale soldiers skirmishing in the moonlight.
And then shit gets really weird. The cyclist describes the ground suddenly being carpeted with the realer-than-real forms of dead and dying soldiers, their blood staining the earth. The cries of the dead are unbearable to hear. She becomes aware of a figure moving among them, a young Highland girl with bone-white skin and black hair. She carries a basket on one arm and a dirk ( a really f__king big Scottish dagger) in her hand. The girl looks so real, so utterly solid, that the cyclist is initially uncertain whether she is part of this vision or not. This question is answered when the girl kneels at the side of a piteously-moaning soldier and plunges the dirk into his heart.
However, things depart from the standard haunting fare in the way that the dead also seem to attempt to interact with the living. This is shown in stark relief in O'Donnell's story from a cyclist who found herself caught out in the pass on the night of the anniversary around the turn of the 20th century. As night descends, she describes the sounds of cannons, the shouts, the clear-as-day sightings of pale soldiers skirmishing in the moonlight.
And then shit gets really weird. The cyclist describes the ground suddenly being carpeted with the realer-than-real forms of dead and dying soldiers, their blood staining the earth. The cries of the dead are unbearable to hear. She becomes aware of a figure moving among them, a young Highland girl with bone-white skin and black hair. She carries a basket on one arm and a dirk ( a really f__king big Scottish dagger) in her hand. The girl looks so real, so utterly solid, that the cyclist is initially uncertain whether she is part of this vision or not. This question is answered when the girl kneels at the side of a piteously-moaning soldier and plunges the dirk into his heart.
In horror, the cyclist watches the girl move from body to body, methodically looting the dead and finishing off the wounded. Throats are slashed, limbs are dismembered, breath is stopped. The cyclist is so appalled that she lets out a little moan of terror.
And the girl looks at her. Her eyes zero right in on the eyes of the living person trespassing in the abode of the dead. Her eyes dart up and down the body of the cyclist, sizing her up, and her grip switches on the dirk, pointing the blade toward her new prey. She stalks her slowly at first, moving circuitously toward her to cut off any chance of escape. Then with an animal shriek the girl raises the knife high above her head and charges the last dozen steps toward the cyclist, who in a panic throws herself to the ground, squeezing her eyes shut...
And silence. When the cyclist is at last able to summon her courage, she forces her eyes open and rises to her knees to find herself, once more, alone in the moonlight.
Very dramatic stuff, isn't it? I'd personally say she made it up for effect, except there are other accounts of people seeing and interacting with this girl on the site. Other tellers add an interesting detail where the blood of battle staining the ground actually comes away red on their hands when touching it. In each version, the feeling of immediate, mortal danger is palpable in spite of the fact that none of the tellers are ultimately harmed.
As dramatic as it is, it's still a bit puzzling. I can see why she was drawn to this, seeing as how she suffered from what is, essentially, a textbook "haunting" herself. But I don't get how it fits together with Sugar Creek. The haunting at Killiecrankie only resembles the manifestations in the woods in that there is a hostile interaction between a "spirit" and a living person. There are legends of the living and the dead interacting from all over the world; why should this one stand out to her? And what could she possibly mean by "the same species?" Strange word to use with ghosts, "species." It's a word more suggestive of something alive than dead.
I wish I had more to go on here from her notes. I still have the list of sources she left - maybe that will shed more light on this.
June 12, 2014
I missed my appointment with Dr. V______ on Monday. Before picking up this journal I had completely forgotten about it. That's never happened before. It's like any notion of it was completely wiped from my mind.
Under different circumstances this would concern me. Vague worries about early-onset dementia or other hypochondriac fears of cognitive decay would be buzzing around my brain. But the reason why I forgot is no mystery to me. It's the same reason I haven't replaced the glass in my passenger-side window, or cleaned the red smear off its surface.
It's the same reason I haven't left the house in three days. Why I've been texting Rachel at work every few hours, just to confirm that she's safe. I've been calling when she doesn't respond fast enough. She's exasperated with me, and I can't tell her why, and I can't breathe easy until she walks through that door.
How long did I think this would last? It's been over a year now. How long did I think it could go without the other shoe dropping? Carl warned me, but it hadn't happened to me. Not yet. Did I think I would be different? Did I think I was immune?
I was getting into my Jeep Monday morning. I had Jennifer's list of sources on the seat next to me, ready to research the crap out of it down at the library. I still had her book with me as well, and my conscience tweaked me about finally returning it while I was there. (It's six months and counting since I checked the damn thing out.) The Corries sprung to life from the CD deck when I turned the key, and I was dismayed to hear "Killiecrankie" issue forth. I had been purposely avoiding this song for the last few days, and I distinctly recalled a different song playing when I turned off the car the previous night. I didn't have a chance to consider this, because at that same moment a massive impact rocked the car on its frame and threw me against the driver's side door. I felt the car start to tip and was sure it was going to roll over on its side, but its momentum stopped and it crashed back onto four wheels again.
I looked toward the passenger side to see what had happened. I had hit my head against the door post, so it took a minute for everything to shift into focus. The passenger side window was shot through with cracks, yet still holding together. In the center of the glass was a bright red smear that morphed into an unmistakable shape as my vision cleared:
And the girl looks at her. Her eyes zero right in on the eyes of the living person trespassing in the abode of the dead. Her eyes dart up and down the body of the cyclist, sizing her up, and her grip switches on the dirk, pointing the blade toward her new prey. She stalks her slowly at first, moving circuitously toward her to cut off any chance of escape. Then with an animal shriek the girl raises the knife high above her head and charges the last dozen steps toward the cyclist, who in a panic throws herself to the ground, squeezing her eyes shut...
And silence. When the cyclist is at last able to summon her courage, she forces her eyes open and rises to her knees to find herself, once more, alone in the moonlight.
Very dramatic stuff, isn't it? I'd personally say she made it up for effect, except there are other accounts of people seeing and interacting with this girl on the site. Other tellers add an interesting detail where the blood of battle staining the ground actually comes away red on their hands when touching it. In each version, the feeling of immediate, mortal danger is palpable in spite of the fact that none of the tellers are ultimately harmed.
As dramatic as it is, it's still a bit puzzling. I can see why she was drawn to this, seeing as how she suffered from what is, essentially, a textbook "haunting" herself. But I don't get how it fits together with Sugar Creek. The haunting at Killiecrankie only resembles the manifestations in the woods in that there is a hostile interaction between a "spirit" and a living person. There are legends of the living and the dead interacting from all over the world; why should this one stand out to her? And what could she possibly mean by "the same species?" Strange word to use with ghosts, "species." It's a word more suggestive of something alive than dead.
I wish I had more to go on here from her notes. I still have the list of sources she left - maybe that will shed more light on this.
June 12, 2014
I missed my appointment with Dr. V______ on Monday. Before picking up this journal I had completely forgotten about it. That's never happened before. It's like any notion of it was completely wiped from my mind.
Under different circumstances this would concern me. Vague worries about early-onset dementia or other hypochondriac fears of cognitive decay would be buzzing around my brain. But the reason why I forgot is no mystery to me. It's the same reason I haven't replaced the glass in my passenger-side window, or cleaned the red smear off its surface.
It's the same reason I haven't left the house in three days. Why I've been texting Rachel at work every few hours, just to confirm that she's safe. I've been calling when she doesn't respond fast enough. She's exasperated with me, and I can't tell her why, and I can't breathe easy until she walks through that door.
How long did I think this would last? It's been over a year now. How long did I think it could go without the other shoe dropping? Carl warned me, but it hadn't happened to me. Not yet. Did I think I would be different? Did I think I was immune?
I was getting into my Jeep Monday morning. I had Jennifer's list of sources on the seat next to me, ready to research the crap out of it down at the library. I still had her book with me as well, and my conscience tweaked me about finally returning it while I was there. (It's six months and counting since I checked the damn thing out.) The Corries sprung to life from the CD deck when I turned the key, and I was dismayed to hear "Killiecrankie" issue forth. I had been purposely avoiding this song for the last few days, and I distinctly recalled a different song playing when I turned off the car the previous night. I didn't have a chance to consider this, because at that same moment a massive impact rocked the car on its frame and threw me against the driver's side door. I felt the car start to tip and was sure it was going to roll over on its side, but its momentum stopped and it crashed back onto four wheels again.
I looked toward the passenger side to see what had happened. I had hit my head against the door post, so it took a minute for everything to shift into focus. The passenger side window was shot through with cracks, yet still holding together. In the center of the glass was a bright red smear that morphed into an unmistakable shape as my vision cleared:
I don't know how long I sat there staring at it. My heart was battering at my sternum, my breath coming so fast I was afraid I would pass out. I didn't dare blink my eyes for fear it would disappear...or something else would take its place. I did finally allow them to fall shut and reopen, and saw that the print was still there. My entire body sagged with a strange sort of relief, and as it did it shifted the car and jostled the fractured window. A small piece of glass in the center of the print tumbled out onto the passenger seat. The morning sun caught it and it gleamed like polar ice.
My eyes wandered from the piece of glass to the window. The chilling photo of the Weavers' patio door, now my patio door, rose in my mind. I thought about what Carl had said to me: It looks like it's given you plenty, but what's it taken from you? Once that starts, it won't stop - it'll just take and take, and it'll be hard for you to know what's yours and what belongs to it.
What had it taken, I thought. My sleep, my sense of well-being? Sure, but nothing in the literal sense. Nothing compared to what it took from Jennifer, from Carl...
Or the way it gave it back...
I looked down at the piece of glass again. A memory of my wife from about a week ago suddenly popped into my head. That day, before work, she was tearing around the house in a panic, almost on the verge of tears. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me. I tried to help her, but I was unsuccessful. I held her consolingly and reassured her: Don't worry, it will turn up.
Cold dread flooded through me. I lurched across the seat and snatched up the piece of glass, confirming that it was not, in fact, glass. It had been far too expensive for that.
I threw open the car door and raced back up the porch. Rachel was working from home that day. I had passed her on the way out the door, sitting on the sofa, laptop open, steaming cup of coffee in her hand. I struggled to fit my key in the lock, praying, begging whatever unseen deity that looked down upon us to please let her still be there, please let her be safe.
The front door flew open, and her spot on the sofa was empty. Her cup lay in a dozen pieces on the coffee table, smashed. Milky brown liquid was dripping onto the floor. Yet it was the smear of red in the midst of all the brown that set my senses reeling, threatening to pull my legs out from under me -
And then Rachel appeared at the kitchen door and I screamed, which made her scream, and we just stared at each other like a couple of loons. She had a paper towel wrapped around her hand from where she had cut herself after dropping the hot mug of coffee. She asked me if I was all right.
"I'm fine," I said, although I was panting like I was going to have a heart attack. I collapsed onto the couch and propped my head up in my hand.
"I thought you we're on your way to the library," Rachel said. "Did you forget something?"
My head shot up, and I remembered the object that was now digging into my palm. I swallowed and faked a smile.
"No," I said, and I held out my hand. "I found your engagement ring."
My eyes wandered from the piece of glass to the window. The chilling photo of the Weavers' patio door, now my patio door, rose in my mind. I thought about what Carl had said to me: It looks like it's given you plenty, but what's it taken from you? Once that starts, it won't stop - it'll just take and take, and it'll be hard for you to know what's yours and what belongs to it.
What had it taken, I thought. My sleep, my sense of well-being? Sure, but nothing in the literal sense. Nothing compared to what it took from Jennifer, from Carl...
Or the way it gave it back...
I looked down at the piece of glass again. A memory of my wife from about a week ago suddenly popped into my head. That day, before work, she was tearing around the house in a panic, almost on the verge of tears. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me. I tried to help her, but I was unsuccessful. I held her consolingly and reassured her: Don't worry, it will turn up.
Cold dread flooded through me. I lurched across the seat and snatched up the piece of glass, confirming that it was not, in fact, glass. It had been far too expensive for that.
I threw open the car door and raced back up the porch. Rachel was working from home that day. I had passed her on the way out the door, sitting on the sofa, laptop open, steaming cup of coffee in her hand. I struggled to fit my key in the lock, praying, begging whatever unseen deity that looked down upon us to please let her still be there, please let her be safe.
The front door flew open, and her spot on the sofa was empty. Her cup lay in a dozen pieces on the coffee table, smashed. Milky brown liquid was dripping onto the floor. Yet it was the smear of red in the midst of all the brown that set my senses reeling, threatening to pull my legs out from under me -
And then Rachel appeared at the kitchen door and I screamed, which made her scream, and we just stared at each other like a couple of loons. She had a paper towel wrapped around her hand from where she had cut herself after dropping the hot mug of coffee. She asked me if I was all right.
"I'm fine," I said, although I was panting like I was going to have a heart attack. I collapsed onto the couch and propped my head up in my hand.
"I thought you we're on your way to the library," Rachel said. "Did you forget something?"
My head shot up, and I remembered the object that was now digging into my palm. I swallowed and faked a smile.
"No," I said, and I held out my hand. "I found your engagement ring."
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