Sometimes a news item flashes across the wire that cannot be ignored…

In the quiet hours of Thursday morning, August 10, the Fresno Police Department (FPD) received an unusual call — a report of a suspicious item nestled in the weeds by the side of a road.

Officers met a surprising sight — a pristine ornate casket resting incongruously in the grass. Its polished silverish surface gleamed in the faint light, standing out starkly against the muted tones of the landscape.

While the officers approached it cautiously, a sense of dark humor seemed to linger in the air. Vampires and zombies seemed to have chosen to steer clear of this peculiar discovery. The investigating officers left the thing lying where they found it.

In the ensuing hours, officers diligently cross-referenced stolen and lost reports, hoping to unravel the mystery behind the abandoned casket. Yet, their efforts yielded no tangible leads or explanations. And so, there it remained, an enigmatic fixture of southwest Fresno near Chandler Airport.

The local news, ever keen on the quirky and offbeat, caught wind of the story. The investigation led to a couple who lived close to Hughes Avenue, where it was lying.

The husband and wife relayed the story of their unexpected casket acquisition, explaining that they had intended to use it as a prop for their Halloween decor. They did not know until the segment aired on television that their casket had vanished from their garage.

But before they could pick it up from the roadside and return to their garage, someone stole it. They have since filed a report with the FPD.

In summary, the casket was stolen, found, and stolen again, all in one day.

In 1861, Olaus Magnus, the great-great-grandson of the renowned cartographer Olaus Magnus, introduced a comprehensive book that delved into the mysteries of the Comstock. Within its pages lay detailed accounts of the land’s people, customs, and peculiar creatures, some of which seemed to spring from the depths of imagination.

Among the descriptions was that of a strange mammal, a creature resembling a cat and a dog. The enigmatic beings were said to inhabit the vast layers of snow during the frigid winter months, a land hidden away from most of the world.

The fur of these peculiar animals was highly coveted among hunters, driving many adventurers to brave the Comstock in search of a prized catch. Tales of the creature’s valuable fur became the stuff of legends, attracting daring hunters from distant lands.

Their feeding habits, though bizarre and disturbing, added to their mystique.

Described as insatiable gluttons, they would gorge themselves until their stomachs swelled and stretched like tightly-pulled drums. Their hunger knew no bounds, and their quest for sustenance seemed unending.

To relieve themselves, they sought out a pair of closely standing trees, where they would force their bodies between the narrow gap, pushing their stomach contents backward. The scene was grotesque, yet it held a macabre fascination.

As rumors of these strange creatures spread, so did the methods to capture and kill them. Many chose to wait until they squeezed themselves between two trees, their vulnerable moment allowing for a well-aimed shot from a revolver.

Another method involved ambushing the creatures while they fed on carrion. With nerves of steel and wires in hand, hunters attempted to strangle the beings during their gruesome feasts.

The warning against using hunting dogs was well-founded, as these creatures possessed razor-sharp claws and fangs that sent even the most experienced hounds fleeing in terror. It was a beast not to be trifled with, and only the most courageous or foolhardy would dare to confront it.

Despite the questionable conformity to facts of some of the descriptions in Magnus’s book, its influence was undeniable. The stories of the Comstock’s strange creatures captured the imaginations of readers. Whether the creatures were products of folklore, fancies, or rare sightings of real animals, the allure of the Comstock and its peculiar inhabitants remained a compelling mystery.

Johnstown, the once-thriving community southeast of Virginia City, has become a hotbed of myth and folklore, attracting ghosthunters and storytellers alike.

However, the current residents are eager to debunk the legends and put the matter to rest, as they believe these tales have tarnished the town’s reputation and drawn undesirable elements. Comstock Historical Society’s president, Michael Gannett, spoke out against the perpetuation of misinformation:

“For decades, there’s been this perpetuation of misinformation,” said Gannett. “Go to Johnstown, they tell you. It’s this real ghostly place. But the truth is, Johnstown’s a big fraud.”

Johnstown, once home to miners, blacksmiths, and prostitutes, is now an abandoned spot, with remnants of its past found in the vicinity of State Route 341 and Old Dayton Road.

Among the dozens of myths surrounding this once-thriving settlement, some of the most spine-chilling stories involve untimely deaths and unexplained misfortunes.

One such tale recounts the untimely demise of Gershon Hollister in 1859. The circumstances of his death vary in different accounts. Some say he tragically fell into a mine shaft, while others believe he met a more sinister fate, allegedly murdered in the home of William Tanner, a neighbor of Abiel Johns.

Another victim of the alleged curse was the Nathaniel Carter family, who moved to Johnstown in 1859 and settled in the house previously owned by Abiel Johns. Tragedy struck the Carters four years later when they relocated to the outskirts of Silver City.

While Nathaniel Carter was away from home, bandits invaded their homestead, murdering his wife and children before setting the house ablaze. Upon his return, Nathaniel met a grisly end, leaving a trail of unanswered questions and sorrow.

The legends don’t end there; they extend into the realms of high-profile figures.

One such tale includes Mary Cheney Greeley, the wife of Horace Greeley, who hanged herself a week before her husband lost his bid for the Presidency in 1872.

Another is the story of Civil War hero Gen. Herman Swift, whose mental state deteriorated after his third wife died when struck by lightning.

Dr. William Clark, a prominent cancer specialist from the East Coast, bought about 1,000 acres near Johnstown in 1924.

He and his wife lived there peacefully until a strange incident unfolded one fateful summer.

Called to New York on business, Clark left his wife behind.

Upon returning after a 10-day absence, she was gone.

Resident Walter Kilham, known as the hermit of Johnstown, has lived there since 1959, but he’s become frustrated with the influx of tourists seeking ghosts:

“I tell them if you believe in ghosts, I guess you’ll find one,” he said. “If you don’t, then there aren’t going to be any.”

The legends surrounding Johnstown trace back to the Johns family, whose history included tragic events, mysterious deaths, and possessive spirits.

As Kilham has pointed out, these legends reportedly began in the 1920s when residents spun tales about the fateful curse that purportedly led to the demise of the community.

According to the legends, the Johns family’s troubles began with Edmund John, who allegedly had his head chopped off by orders of Queen Victoria for annoying members of the court circle, setting the stage for the other tragedies that befell the family.

Edmund’s son, John, the Duke of Northumberland, was said to have plotted to overthrow King Edward by orchestrating a marriage between his son, Lord Guilford Johns, and Lady Jane Grein. With the plot’s failure came the beheading of the Lady and both Johns.

In a cruel twist of fate, Lord Guilford Johns’ brother, a military officer, returned to England from France carrying the plague, which claimed the lives of many of his troops and thousands of English citizens. Finally, adding to the family’s mystique, another of Guilford’s brothers, the Earl of Leicester, reportedly left England under mysterious circumstances.

His descendant, William Johns, eventually made his way to Connecticut and settled in Guilford. Three of his descendants later ventured to the Comstock in the mid-1850s.

However, some residents, like John and Jean Leech, believe the downfall of Johnstown was simply due to the silver strike in nearby Virginia City. But it’s the stories of curses, ghosts, and other frightful anomalies drawing witch covens, motorcycle gangs, and television stars to the place.

Harriet Clerk, a resident of Comstock whose ancestors lived in Johnstown, aims to set the record straight through her upcoming booklet, “The True Facts of Johnstown.” The booklet will provide a factual account of the community’s history, dispelling the myths that have overshadowed its true story.

However, on certain nights, under a gibbous moon, some claim to witness mysterious shapes dancing amid the few foundation stones remaining in Johnstown, hinting at a past that continues to intrigue and captivate.

While on foot, wandering the paths in the hills above the Virginia City Highlands, it began to rain. Nearby, I found a large, half-dead Cottonwood tree and stood inside the hollow of its massive trunk.

As I waited out the downpour, I looked at my surroundings. At my feet were numerous oversized toadstools, a rare treat in the high desert of Nevada.

Suddenly, I saw movement beneath the wide caps of the mystical fungi. Diminutive human-like beings keeping from the rain showers, too.

As I peered closer, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The tiny human-like beings were only a few inches tall, their miniature forms dressed in intricately designed clothing made from petals, leaves, and delicate fibers.

Their faces held a captivating charm, like something out of a fairy tale.

Curiosity took over, and I crouched lower to better view these extraordinary creatures. They seemed to possess an ethereal beauty, with translucent wings gently fluttering as they sought shelter beneath the toadstools.

It was as if I had stumbled upon a hidden realm of enchantment, a secret world concealed from the eyes of ordinary humans. Feeling a sense of wonder and delight, I remained still, careful not to startle these tiny beings.

As the rain gradually subsided, the little beings emerged from their temporary shelters, and I couldn’t resist following them with cautious steps. They seemed to move with purpose, their community of tiny figures creating a sense of harmony amidst the natural landscape.

As the sun began to peek through the dissipating clouds, the air filled with a vibrant glow, illuminating the colors of the wildflowers and transforming the surroundings into a breathtaking spectacle. Their movements were graceful and swift, and I marveled at their ability to navigate through the sagebrush with such agility.

Suddenly, one of them realized I was present. And with mind-numbing deftness, they turned on me as one body, ferocious and deadly, revealing sharp teeth, razor-like claws, and miniature sgian dubhs.

They were upon me before I managed five steps. They bit, clawed, stabbed, and sliced at me until I bled, and my clothes were ragged bits of cloth.

Making it to my truck, I fought off the final half dozen that acted as a rear guard before I opened the door and scrambled in. As I slammed the truck door shut, my mind reeled from the unexpected and vicious attack.

The tiny beings I had found so enchanting only moments ago had turned into ferocious assailants, leaving me battered and bewildered. The pain from the bites, scratches, and wounds was excruciating, and I knew I needed medical attention immediately.

With trembling hands, I started the engine and drove away from the scene, my mind filled with disbelief and fear. The truck’s engine roared as I sped down the winding dirt road, leaving behind the once-charming hills that now held a terrifying secret.

Reaching a safe distance from the hills, I stopped the truck and tried to collect my thoughts. I decided to head straight to the nearest medical facility to treat my wounds.

The medical staff looked puzzled as I explained how I had fallen down a hillside into a thicket of thorn bushes. Many doubted my story’s veracity, as my injuries bore proof of some other kind of encounter.

As I recuperated and the days turned into weeks, my physical wounds healed, but the emotional scars remained. Since then, I have resolved never to approach a toadstool or mushroom in the Nevada desert again, and while I have returned to my ordinary life, a part of me will remain forever changed by those tiny, deadly beings.

The Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) murdered a 74-year-old, 5-foot-four-inch, 300-pound disabled man who made threats against President Joe Biden through social media.

Agents executed Craig Robertson while claiming to serve an arrest and search warrant on his home in Provo, UT, at around 6:15 a.m. on Wednesday, August 9. Then, they left his body on the sidewalk for nearly six hours.

The two summons came after Robertson allegedly posted the following on social media on Monday: “I hear Biden is coming to Utah. Digging out my old ghille suit and cleaning the dust off the m24 sniper rifle. welcom, [sic] buffoon-in-chief!”

Biden landed in Salt Lake City hours later on the same day for a scheduled visit to the state, a stopover planned far in advance. Then again, other alleged threats made by Robertson were at least a month old, giving the FBI plenty of time to arrest Robertson in a public space, like getting out of his vehicle, going to the grocery store, or in his church parking lot.

The FBI had Robertson under surveillance since March. They even once went up to his house and talked to him calmly.

Stopping a bad guy before the situation turns violent is usually the first rule of apprehending a person, according to my 35-plus-year-old Peace Officer Standards and Training (POST.) As law enforcement officers, deputies, or agents will tell you, the last thing anyone wants is to shoot someone when a peaceful resolution is available.

Non-violent confrontation requires planning, something the FBI appears to be short on. Instead, the FBI opted to drive an assault vehicle into the front of his home, deploy SWAT, and violently confront Robertson because he appeared in social media postings to “own a sniper rifle and a ghillie suit” in addition to other firearms.

Later in the day, Ecuador presidential candidate 59-year-old Fernando Villavicencio, who was leading in the polls, was assassinated two weeks before the election, one that polls projected he would win. Journalists constantly referred to him as a “right-wing” candidate.

Then, the only man arrested as a suspect in the assassination died under mysterious circumstances inside the Flagrancy Unit of the Prosecutors Office in Quito. Now, the Biden Administration has sent the FBI to Ecuador to aid in investigating the assassination, which means they are going in there to cover it up, and we will never know the truth of what happened.

The weaponized FBI is a danger to people, especially those considered radicalized, right-wing, extremist, or a Trump supporter, so message received.

The telephone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hi honey this is Daddy. Is Mommy near the phone?”

“No, Daddy. She’s upstairs in the bedroom with Uncle Johnny.”

After a brief pause, Daddy says, “But honey, you haven’t got an Uncle Johnny.”

“Oh yes I do, and he’s upstairs in the bedroom with Mommy, right now.”

Another brief pause.

“Uh, okay then, this is what I want you to do. Put the phone down on the table, run upstairs and knock on the bedroom door and shout to Mommy that Daddy’s car just pulled into the driveway.”

“Okay Daddy, just a minute.”

A minute later, the little girl returns to the phone, “I did it, Daddy.”

“And what happened, honey?” he asked.

“Well, Mommy got all scared, jumped out of bed with no clothes on, and ran around screaming. Then she tripped over the rug, hit her head on the dresser and now she isn’t moving at all.”

“Oh my God. What about your Uncle Johnny?”

“He jumped out of the bed with no clothes on, too. He was scared and jumped out of the back window and into the swimming pool. But I guess he didn’t know that you took out the water last week to clean it. He hit the bottom of the pool, and I think he’s dead.”

Long Pause.

“Swimming pool?”

“Yes.”

Longer pause.

“Is this 555-2368?”

“No, it’s not, you must have the wrong number.”

Click.

A man boarded an airplane and settled into his seat, captivated by the sight of a beautiful woman heading towards him. As fate would have it, she took the seat right beside him.

Eager to start a conversation, he nervously asked, “Business trip or pleasure?”

With a smile, she replied, “Business. I’m going to the Annual Nymphomaniacs of America Convention in Boston.”

His surprise was evident, but he tried to remain composed. Curious, he inquired about the woman’s role at the convention.

She revealed, “I’m a lecturer. I use personal experiences to debunk popular myths about sexuality.”

Intrigued, he asked, “What kind of myths are there?”

The woman proceeded to share her findings.

Among them, she revealed that the popular myth of African-American men being the best endowed was a quality of the Native American Indian man. She also debunked the misconception of Frenchmen being the best lovers, instead identifying men of Mexican descent as the most skilled. Lastly, she mentioned that Southern Rednecks were known for their impressive stamina.

Feeling embarrassed, the woman blushed, realizing she had divulged too much, and apologized, saying, “I shouldn’t have discussed all this with you. I don’t even know your name.”

With a playful smile, the man responded, “Tonto. Tonto Gonzales, but my friends call me Bubba.”

In the ancient lands surrounding Virginia City, where the veil between worlds grows thin, there is a fearsome entity known as the long-black being.

The spectral creature haunts the dusk, cloaked in twilight shadow, striking terror into the hearts of those who dare linger beyond the safety of daylight. Amongst the indigenous peoples, stories of the long-black being have been passed down through generations, serving as a chilling warning to the curious and the careless.

Legend has it that they possess a corrupt power, inflicting a curse upon unsuspecting prospectors and others who venture too deep into the surrounding desert, these poor souls becoming entangled in its darkness with thorns mysteriously planted into their feet and legs.

Unbeknownst to the mineral seeker, the wayfarer, and the lost, this act grants them the power to sow unpropitious malevolence upon others. Oblivious to their wickedness, they succumb to its toxic influence, and their actions reveal the sinister truth hidden within their hearts.

Because of this Paiute medicine meant to avenge their long-deceased elders and protect their defiled lands, the afflicted individuals fear to divulge their enigmatic abilities, lest they face persecution and condemnation. Yet, the dread does not cease with worldly alone, for the offspring of the long-black being carry a spectral gift.

The children of this haunting entity possess an eerie capability that defies mortal comprehension. They are said to remove their internal organs, transforming into ethereal forms of light akin to orbs or will-o’wisps.

Along the marshy edges of the high desert, following a summer monsoon, the enigmatic glow of these spectral beings casts an otherworldly shimmer, captivating and unnerving all who chance upon their ghostly presence. At other times, they appear as translucent, semi-solid globes of light, dancing between ancient ruins and the sagebrush-covered lands.

In the shadowy embrace of Virginia City’s ancient lore, the long black beings are a chilling reminder of the enigmatic forces that dwell beyond human understanding. A harbinger of darkness, it is a tale for those who dare defy natural order. As the long shadows stretch across the land and the dusk settles in, the haunting specter of the long black things lingers, forever veiled in mystery and fear, a sentinel of the supernatural that shall endure through the ages.

In the whole of Six Mile Canyon, shrouded in an air of ominous mystery, lies a place now known as Sugarloaf. This eerie enclave, not far from the bustling town of Virginia City, carries an unsettling reputation that sends chills down the spines of the locals. Whispers of dark folklore and tales of a forbidding presence lingering among the antiquitous sage and shadowed ravines persist, etching a grim legacy into the very soul of this haunted land.

Within Sugarloaf, the legends of the leather-membraned winged slug still echo, though its name has transformed with time. The creature’s stolen progeny once said to have haunted the area, now seem to take refuge in the enigmatic depths of Sugarloaf. The giant carnivorous thing, a descendant of an ancient bloodline, continues its existence in these haunted crevasses, draped in an aura of otherworldly terror.

As night descends upon Six Mile Canyon, the pale moon casts a haunting glow upon the rocky terrain, and the air becomes heavy with a palpable sense of unease. Those who dare to venture near Sugarloaf do so with bated breath, knowing that the hideous slug’s legend endures, whispering through the rustling leaves and haunting echoes of the canyon.

To those who traverse these somber lands, heed the warnings of the old and tread cautiously, for the evil spirits that have taken root in Sugarloaf may yet awaken, ushering forth an era of darkness and terror that shall echo through the ages of Six Mile Canyon’s haunted history.

“We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far.” — The Call of Cthulhu, H.P. Lovecraft, 1928

The calling was there, someplace in the early morning hour, and Lily heard it. It was more an instinct than anything else, and she responded to its musing.

Quietly, she got up, looking at the clock, its red numbers glowing 3:00. Knowing it was a warm August morning, she slipped into a saffron-colored sun dress and stepped into her comfortable Birkenstocks.

Downstairs and out the front door, she stood on the porch of her home, quietly observing the surrounding neighborhood.

Nothing moved, save for a cat across the street, which scampered into the bushes as Lily stepped to the walkway.

The beckoning was stronger now, still soundless to the world, save for Lily’s ears. She followed the call, which led to the nearby Mashel River.

Quietly, she got up, looking at the clock, its red numbers glowing 3:00. Knowing it was a warm August morning, she slipped into a saffron-colored sun dress and stepped into her comfortable Birkenstocks.

Downstairs and out the front door, she stood on the porch of her home, quietly observing the surrounding neighborhood.

Nothing moved, save for a cat across the street, which scampered into the bushes as Lily stepped to the walkway.

The beckoning was stronger now, still soundless to the world, save for Lily’s ears. She followed the call, which led to the nearby Puyallup River.

As she walked, the full Sturgeon Moon hung on the western edge of the skies. It threw her shadow ahead, making Lily appear twenty feet tall.

She did not notice, nor would she hear the splashing from the darkened river as she approached its bank. Removing her sandals, Lily stepped into the water and spoke, “I am here, Master. I return at your beckoning,” in a language that sounded like gibberish.

“Y’ ah geb, uh’eog. Y’ nogephaii llll ymg’ uln,” she called again, before sitting down to wait.

Entranced, Lily watched with indifference as the inky flow began to bubble as if boiling, and an indescribable mass rose over her.

“Y’ ah geb, uh’eog. Y’ nogephaii llll ymg’ uln,” she repeated as the thing lifted first, her left foot from the water, appeared to scour it with a tentacled arm, then the other.

Then it touched her forehead gently with one of its shiny appendages, bidding her to lay back before it slipped beneath the river’s surface.

Lily blinked lightly and turned her head from side to side, wondering where she was and why she was lying with her feet in the river. As the sun edged its way above the forested hills to her left, she saw her sandals and put them on before getting up and starting her walk home.

Once back home, her eldest daughter declared, “You were sleep walking again, Mommy.”

Lily smiled, knowing that her child would, one day, repeat the same benefaction as her mother.