Loch Raven Reservoir was a 15-minute drive from our Northwood neighborhood, but it might as well have been a world away. With its miles of lakes, streams, and woods, it offered a serene setting of peace and tranquility close to the concrete world we knew.

The main attraction of the reservoir was its dam. In our youth, we could walk out on an open observatory at its crest and feed the giant carp that gathered there for breadcrumbs.

Sometime in the 1970s it was decided that, despite the hungry carp, the walkway was a safety hazard and it was cordoned off. But there were other activities to indulge in. Fishing was popular either by boat or on the shoreline. There were areas for picnicking and camping, and even skeet shooting.

My brother and I would often go there to attempt to capture a painted turtle or snake. We discovered that painted turtles never ventured close enough to shore to grab, and the only snake I almost snagged was a poisonous copperhead. Thankfully my brother was of a sounder mind than me and convinced me to let it go. He correctly assured me that there would be many other opportunities to harm myself in the years to come.

However safe and familiar that environment was by day, at night the reservoir became a mysterious and spooky place.

After dark the main road that curved around the water was a haven for daters looking for a suitable parking spot. There were many such spots around the perimeter. Those of us seeking other adventures would travel off the beaten path to one of the many small side roads that dotted that area.

On one such thrill seeking evening my brother and I, and two friends, came upon a paved road that became gravel as it approached the reservoir. We found that even my father’s station wagon, which was often used as an off-road vehicle, would only go so far before the road became too treacherous.

We parked the wagon at the beginning of the tree-lined path and foraged deeper into the dark woods on foot. After several minutes the trail ended and we found ourselves in a partial clearing. On the right of us was a sandy cove that ran into a large lake. To our left was a boggy expanse of tall reeds and dead trees. A footpath cleaved the muck.

Upon unanimously deciding to follow the path to its end, we formed a straight line and slowly made our way along the narrow divide. It was a treacherous walk. The moon was full that night but a hazy ground fog enveloped the swamp. We could barely see a foot in front of us. On top of that the footpath was getting narrower as we went along. We knew that the slightest misstep would take us into the tall reeds and the mud that fed them.

We were about to retrace our steps to the main trail when the fog mysteriously disappeared. It enabled us to view our surroundings. We were indeed enclosed by swamplands but ahead of us, and to our left, a patch of land rose from the bog. On that dry piece of land, illuminated by the moonlight, was a small graveyard. From our vantage point we could see several tombstones randomly scattered about.

Our curiosity aroused, the four of us decided to try to get closer to the old misplaced cemetery. We continued down the now more visible path until we came to the graves.

The graveyard was in a chaotic state. The tombstones were old and, for the most part, tilted at odd angles. Weeds and other strange vegetation called the dark site home. Vines, perhaps from nearby trees, had wrapped around a few of the gravestones, even lifting one a few inches off the ground. Someone lit a match and put it to one of the stones. The engraving was worn and muddy and I don’t recall the name of the deceased but I remember the date of death as 1862. The light from the match unfortunately also revealed that a couple of the graves had been tampered with.

In the center of the graveyard, two of the old markers faced large deep holes.

Though no one admitted his fright, none of us would venture closer to those dark shafts.

Then one of our group yelled and pointed towards the woods that fringed the swamp. The mist was returning, rolling in with a vengeance. In front of it, appearing to lead the way, were erratically moving yellow lights of different shapes and sizes.

That was all it took for us to beat it out of there. I would like to tell you that our retreat was deliberate and organized, but it wasn’t. We stayed ahead of the lights and fog but paid the price in humility and mud.

All four of us stopped at the sandy shoreline cove to catch our breath and gather our thoughts. The mist drew up at the swamp’s edge and we no longer could see the lights.

We decided that the most prudent course of action would be to head back up the trail to the car. Any reflecting on what we’d just seen could wait until we were back on the road, with car doors tightly locked. 

We split up into two pairs and headed back. No one said a word during the walk. The old gravel road was an uphill hike and my friend and I found that before long we had fallen some distance behind my brother and his pal.

Off in the distance we heard the barking of several dogs. The barking was faint and far enough away that we didn’t think much of it. But as we continued to walk, the barking seemed to grow nearer. Within seconds the barking became loud enough to believe that a pack of wild dogs were rapidly descending on us.

We both began to run, but in the dark I tripped on a rock and landed face first in the dirt. My buddy wisely continued on without looking back.

As I lay there frozen, the barking became loud enough to know, without looking up, that the dogs had surrounded me. I honestly thought that at any moment I’d be torn apart by the ravenous beasts. Then the barking stopped. Just stopped all at once. There was abruptly no noise in that woods louder than my heartbeat.

I cautiously got up and looked around. When I saw that I was alone, I brushed myself off and hurried up the hill.

Upon my arrival at the parked car, I breathlessly blurted out my encounter with the vanishing dogs. My brother and his friend claimed to have heard nothing and my buddy backed my story by simply saying, “Yeah, I heard something too.” But ultimately it was determined that my ghost dog story came in a distant second to the haunted graveyard tale.

As time went on, the friend who was with me began to have his doubts about the entire ghost dog incident. He decided that it was either a couple of stray dogs whose frenzied yapping, echoing off the water, sounded like many more, or maybe just a flock of traveling geese. The mind can only take so much unexplained mystery.

A couple of weeks later, during the daytime, we went back down that trail. The swamp and its narrow path were still there, though, in the sunlight, much less foreboding.

We found no sign of the graveyard however. We walked the path to where we remembered it, but it wasn’t there. We couldn’t even find the elevated patch of ground where it stood.

A group of us did go back down that dirt road one evening. It was the night before two of us were to report for enlistment in the U.S. Army. We brought our girlfriends along and hung out at the sandy cove drinking warm beer and cheap wine by the light of the moon.

We had made a vow, the four of us, not to tell anyone else about the incidents of that earlier summer night and we kept that promise.

On that warm summer night, July 13^th, 1966, the memories of all our adventures remained unspoken. Instead we talked of things to come, of faraway lands and bonds that would never be broken.

At the end of the evening, in a quiet moment as we readied ourselves for the walk back to the cars, I took my future wife’s hand and we looked out on the calm moonlit lake. Somewhere in the distance we heard the splash of a fish breaking the water's surface.

But the ghost dogs remained silent.