I grew up in Fremont, CA, a lovely town on the east side of the San Francisco Bay. My Grandparents lived in the rolling hills of Calaveras County. To get there we often took a shortcut to the freeway known as Niles Canyon. Friday afternoon on the way to Grandma’s, I’d stare out the window excited to witness the spectacle of the canyon.
The two lane road winds along a small river dotted with picnic benches, dense brush that often shades the road, steep cliffs that reach high above, and old railroad trellises crisscrossing the canopy. A lovely drive for a small girl and a big imagination.
The two lane road winds along a small river dotted with picnic benches, dense brush that often shades the road, steep cliffs that reach high above, and old railroad trellises crisscrossing the canopy. A lovely drive for a small girl and a big imagination.
Coming home Sunday night was never as much fun.
Growing up an only child, I eavesdropped on the adults probably more often than I should have. I do not remember the first time I heard of her. A lost girl trying to get home. A lost soul reaching out for something she cannot find.
Growing up an only child, I eavesdropped on the adults probably more often than I should have. I do not remember the first time I heard of her. A lost girl trying to get home. A lost soul reaching out for something she cannot find.
If you are familiar with the area, you've probably heard the tale of the White Witch of Niles Canyon. Depending on who tells it, sometimes she was on the way home from her prom, sometimes on the way to her wedding. Usually once she is picked up she asks to be taken home, across one of the bridges. Once the driver tries to pay the toll of 15 cents, which indicates how old this story is, the taker tells him he is paying too much, and when he looks the girl has vanished from the back seat. When they go to the address she gave, there is a family member that says yes, she once lived there, but died years ago.
As a child, when we’d pull off the freeway and turn into the Canyon, a familiar feeling would overtake me, terror that the Ghost of Niles Canyon would appear in the back seat next to me looking for a ride home.
I’d squeeze my eyes shut and keep them closed the entire trip back, an eternity of wanting to open my eyes and see her, yet being afraid of what I might see if I opened them. Eventually the curiosity of what might happen would win out, and I had to peek. My heart would race. I’d take a deep breath, hold it and open one eye.
Nothing would be there. Relieved and disappointed at the same time, my eyes would slam shut again and I’d wait till the point I knew we were out of the canyon, the single stop light at the end. Once my father slowed to a stop, I knew I was safe again. I could open my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief.
I never saw her. Not once, on all the thousands of trips to Grandma’s house. But I didn't have to, did I? I carried her with me each trip. This Ghost haunted my childhood without any effort on her part all. That’s the true power of a ghost story. Not the actual seeing of a spirit, but the fear of what might be seen.
Mini Contest:
Tell me a spooky event from your childhood in the comments below, and at the end of the week, a random winner will be chosen to receive a spooktacular set of zombie shot glasses. (CONTEST CLOSED)
As a child, when we’d pull off the freeway and turn into the Canyon, a familiar feeling would overtake me, terror that the Ghost of Niles Canyon would appear in the back seat next to me looking for a ride home.
I’d squeeze my eyes shut and keep them closed the entire trip back, an eternity of wanting to open my eyes and see her, yet being afraid of what I might see if I opened them. Eventually the curiosity of what might happen would win out, and I had to peek. My heart would race. I’d take a deep breath, hold it and open one eye.
Nothing would be there. Relieved and disappointed at the same time, my eyes would slam shut again and I’d wait till the point I knew we were out of the canyon, the single stop light at the end. Once my father slowed to a stop, I knew I was safe again. I could open my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief.
I never saw her. Not once, on all the thousands of trips to Grandma’s house. But I didn't have to, did I? I carried her with me each trip. This Ghost haunted my childhood without any effort on her part all. That’s the true power of a ghost story. Not the actual seeing of a spirit, but the fear of what might be seen.
Mini Contest:
Tell me a spooky event from your childhood in the comments below, and at the end of the week, a random winner will be chosen to receive a spooktacular set of zombie shot glasses. (CONTEST CLOSED)
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