Acadia After Dark Campfire Stories Episode 1 Up Now

Welcome hikers, to the maiden episode of Acadia After Dark’s Campfire Stories. I’m your host, Reverend Redbeard, and tonight, we embark on a new chapter together. Fans of the original Acadia After Dark will still find solace in the glow of our fire, but the original series will take a slightly different path. Beneath the veil of crackling embers and shadow-draped woodlands, there are tales waiting to be told—tales that will tingle your spine and make the night feel just a little colder. So, gather close, and let the firelight dance across your faces as we delve into the haunting unknown.

Every journey begins with a single step, and what better way to set the tone than with a story rooted in my own childhood here in Maine. My family and I would spend days exploring the park’s meandering trails, but one spot always held a special place in my mind—a quiet pond nestled deep within the heart of Mount Desert Island, known as Witch Hole. Its name alone seemed to hold secrets, as though the pond itself were whispering half-forgotten tales of the past.

Witch Hole, originally known as Witch Hollow, has been shrouded in mystery for generations. No one knows for certain how it earned its name, though some point to the oppressive evergreens that once encased its shores, their gnarled boughs weaving shadows over the water. These trees were lost to the devastating fire of 1947, but the name, much like the stories, lingers on. Perhaps it was the park's very remoteness that allowed such legends to take root, or maybe the haunting stillness of the pond itself inspired whispered tales of the supernatural.

Through time, Witch Hole has become more than just a name on a map. It is a place shaped by both human hands and the unstoppable forces of nature. With its eerie stillness and layers of history, it stands as a silent witness to the past—its depths holding secrets only the boldest are willing to uncover. Tonight, we begin to unravel one of those secrets.

So lean in, my friends. The fire burns low, the night stretches long, and the first chapter of Acadia After Dark’s Campfire Stories awaits.

Acadia’s famous carriage roads weave through the park like veins, guiding explorers to places steeped in beauty and legend. These roads were the vision of John D. Rockefeller, Jr., a man who sought to preserve Mount Desert Island’s tranquility by creating scenic byways free from the noise and pollution of automobiles. Constructed between 1913 and 1940, the roads—crafted meticulously from hand-cut granite and stone—became an enduring symbol of Rockefeller’s love for the land. Their sixteen-foot width and gentle slopes made them ideal for horse-drawn carriages, but today they serve as pathways for bikers, runners, and even winter adventurers on skis. If these trails could talk…

Witch Hole Pond is one of the many quiet corners connected by these roads, yet its history casts a long shadow. Historic maps tell a story of change, showing how its land shifted ownership over time. In the 1930s, the northernmost parcel was acquired from Mrs. Bowler, while the southern portion—once belonging to Mrs. Haight—was preserved much later, around 1950. Both women were summer visitors drawn to the enchanting allure of Mount Desert Island, their grand homes standing as sentinels near the water’s edge. But the Fire of 1947 swept through this region like a vengeful force, changing everything in its wake. Sparked northwest of the pond, the flames devoured 8,000 acres by October 23rd, passing through Witch Hole’s quiet woods and leaving scars both ecological and cultural.

The pond, small and unassuming, has quietly held its place through centuries of transformation. Even the Great Pond Acts of 1641 and 1647—ancient laws applied to Maine when it was part of the Massachusetts Bay Colony—deemed it worthy of state jurisdiction for its size alone. Yet Witch Hole is more than a geographic feature; it is a canvas where history, folklore, and the natural world collide. Its depths seem to pulse with hidden energy, waiting for those daring enough to explore its dark waters and tangled myths.

As a child, I was told a story about the origins of this pond by my grandmother. Nana had grown up here, and though I never knew whether the tales she shared were local legends handed down through generations or woven from her own imagination, this particular story haunted me. It struck a chord deep within me, filling my young mind with visions both enthralling and unnerving—images that seemed to linger like shadows at the edges of my thoughts.

So as the story goes an old hag once dwelled on the bank of the pond, her ramshackle hut hidden deep within the trees where sunlight barely pierced the canopy. The locals whispered of her in hushed tones, calling her a witch, though few could claim to know her story. When she did appear, it was to trade or sell the herbal medicines she concocted from the forest’s bounty—remedies that some swore by, even as they recoiled from the strange and unsettling woman who made them.

Her presence was brief, her demeanor cold, and she spoke little, if at all, before retreating to the safety of the woods. Those who saw her described a figure cloaked in mystery, her back hunched with age, her movements deliberate and silent as though she carried the weight of secrets too heavy to share. And always, she was accompanied by her dogs.

The dogs—three of them—were her constant companions, creatures as enigmatic as their mistress. They followed her wherever she went, their watchful eyes scanning the surroundings with unnerving intensity. Their very presence seemed to shift the air, making it heavier, darker. These weren’t pets in the way most would think of them; they were guardians, sentinels, bound to the woman in a way that felt almost supernatural. No one dared approach her when the dogs were near. Their silent stares and imposing posture discouraged even the boldest of townsfolk, lending further credence to the whispers that the woman was more than she seemed.

Perhaps it was her reclusive nature that delayed the town’s realization that something was wrong. No one noticed at first when the old woman stopped making her visits. Days turned into weeks, then longer still, until someone remarked that it had been some time since her last appearance. What was more unsettling was the silence from her dogs. Their distant barking, once a faint echo in the woods that reminded the townsfolk of her presence, had ceased entirely.

It wasn’t clear how much time had passed before people began to grow uneasy, but when it became undeniable that something was amiss, a few of the braver locals decided to act. They resolved to make their way to the pond, to seek out the old woman and her dogs, and to uncover what fate might have befallen their reclusive neighbor.

When the townsfolk finally made their way to the secluded cabin, they were startled to find the old woman still there. She sat motionless in the dim light that filtered through the twisted trees, her gaunt figure blending with the decaying timbers of her hut. Her dogs, however, were nowhere to be seen. Unease hung in the air as the men approached, their nervous whispers silenced by the oppressive quiet that seemed to swallow even the sound of their footsteps.

They questioned her, voices hesitant and eyes darting around the shadowed woods. Where had she been? What had happened to her ever-present companions? At first, the woman offered no response, her gaze vacant and unseeing, as though she were looking beyond them into something only she could perceive. But then, with a voice rough as the grinding of stone and eyes clouded like a stormy sky, she began to speak. What she told them left the men shaken to their core.

The hag spoke of a night weeks prior, when the moonless sky had cast an oppressive darkness over the island. It was on that night, she claimed, that a voice called to her—a voice that seemed to rise from the earth itself, low and resonant, filling her ears and mind with its command. The voice bade her to take her three loyal dogs to the edge of a nearby cliff and sacrifice them. Their spirits, it said, were to be offered to the land, an ancient and primal ritual whose purpose she didn’t claim to understand, only to obey.

She had tried to resist, she said, her voice trembling for the first time, but the command had rooted itself in her mind like a thorn. The woman described how she’d gathered her dogs that fateful night, their trusting eyes glowing in the dark as they followed her along the forest trails. Her heart ached with every step, but the voice’s pull was unrelenting, and her resolve was firm. The land demanded their spirits, she said, and she believed it was her duty to comply. With sinister intentions and a breaking heart, she led her only companions toward the cliff, their fate sealed beneath the starless sky.

Now, I must admit—I’ve always had a soft spot for animals. The thought of what happened to those poor souls is enough to make my heart ache, so I’ll spare you the gruesome details. But the true weight of the story lies in what came next, in the moments that followed the unthinkable.

The old woman claimed that as she made her way back to the pond, her steps heavy with guilt and grief, the voice returned to her. It came without warning, filling her ears and mind once more, its words cold and commanding. This time, it did not ask for sacrifices but something far more sinister—it told her there was still more to be done.

Her account faltered here. The men who had ventured to her cabin pressed for answers, desperate to understand the meaning of her cryptic words, but the woman would not speak further. Her raspy voice fell silent, and her clouded eyes fixed on some distant point beyond them, as though she were staring into the abyss itself. Whatever the voice had instructed her to do, she refused to say, leaving the men shaken and burdened with questions that would never be answered.

So they left, making their way back to the town from which they had come. The events of the day weighed heavily on their shoulders, casting a pall over the air. Disturbed and weary, most of the townsfolk found little solace that night. Sleep eluded them as their minds churned with the haunting words of the old woman and the eerie silence where her dogs’ howls once echoed. Shadows seemed to grow longer, the faintest creak in the floorboards or whisper of the wind setting hearts racing.

When morning finally broke through the heavy gloom, a group of the men decided something had to be done. They resolved to return to the old woman’s hut, this time with a purpose that felt more honorable. Perhaps they could convince her to come back with them to town, where she could receive the care they felt she so desperately needed. The idea, simple as it was, came from a place of earnest compassion—a desire to do some small good in the face of the unease that lingered.

Yet beneath their noble intentions, there stirred a nagging sense of guilt. These men had spent years viewing her from a distance, whispering stories and mocking what they did not understand. To them, she had always been the “witch in the woods” or the “crazy old dog lady,” a figure more myth than reality. Only now, when the weight of the unknown pressed down on them, did they feel the sting of their own inaction, the realization that they had never been the neighbors they could have, or should have, been.

And so, they set out once more to the pond, their steps measured and their words few. The forest seemed quieter than before, as if holding its breath. They hoped, with hearts as heavy as the morning mist, that they might find a way to set things right—not just for her, but perhaps for themselves as well.

When the men arrived back at the cabin, it was just as they had left it—silent and still, the structure blending with the gloom of the surrounding forest. They knocked on the door, their fists meeting weathered wood, but there was no answer. Unease prickled at their skin as they exchanged wary glances. Finally, one among them, braver or perhaps more curious than the rest, reached for the handle. The door creaked open with little resistance, revealing the interior as lifeless and cold as the air outside.

The hearth, which once might have been a source of warmth and light, was now nothing more than ash and soot, the fire long since extinguished. The room was empty, devoid of the old woman they had left behind. Confusion rippled through the group, but concern quickly overtook it. They stepped cautiously inside, calling her name, but their voices seemed to vanish into the walls. It was as though the space had been abandoned for much longer than just a single night.

Determined to understand what had happened, the men spread out to search the area. Minutes passed in tense silence, each step of their boots stirring the thick, damp earth. Then came a cry from one of them—a sharp, urgent call that pierced the quiet. The others rushed to his side, finding him kneeling by a patch of muddy ground not far from the cabin. There, pressed into the sodden earth, was a single set of footprints. Small and hesitant, the tracks twisted their way through the trees, leading toward the pond.

The group followed the trail, their breaths shallow as they pushed through the underbrush. The footprints ended abruptly at the water’s edge, vanishing as though the earth itself had swallowed them. There were no tracks leading away, no disturbed ground to suggest she had left—or even struggled. The surface of the pond, dark and glassy, reflected only the overcast sky above. It offered no answers, only its still, unnerving presence.

The old woman was never seen again. Her absence became the quiet talk of the town, whispered over mugs of coffee and muttered around evening fires. People speculated about what might have happened that night—some suggested natural explanations, others something far darker. As the years passed, the whispers changed, taking on an air of folklore.

Strange sightings and unsettling sounds began to emanate from the pond, drifting back with those who dared venture near. And so the story grew. It became a tale of dark secrets, of rituals older than memory, and of witchcraft that had cursed the pond and the land around it. Witch Hole was no longer just a name—it was a warning.

Over time, the specifics of what had transpired at Witch Hole began to fade from memory, slipping into the misty recesses of local lore. The villagers no longer spoke of the strange disappearance or the unsettling events that followed, at least not openly. Yet even as the years passed, an air of unease clung to the area like the damp chill of an autumn morning. It was as though the land itself bore the weight of the old woman’s story, refusing to let it rest entirely.

Despite the lingering discomfort, there were those who saw the location as an opportunity—a chance to bring life and industry to the land where the “witch’s” modest home had once stood. A local entrepreneur set out to establish a log mill on the site, envisioning a thriving enterprise in the shadow of the pond. For a brief time, the project moved forward, the quiet woods filled with the sounds of saws and hammers carving progress into the soil.

But the mill’s promise of prosperity came to a sudden and unexplainable end. One night, long after the workers had gone home, flames erupted from the building, devouring it in a voracious blaze. The fire left nothing behind but smoldering ruins and questions. No culprit was ever identified, nor was any natural cause determined. The blaze seemed to come from nowhere, as if summoned by forces unseen, and many whispered that the cursed land had claimed the structure as its own.

Though the entrepreneur considered rebuilding, the rumors swirling around the site grew too strong to ignore. The burned-out remains of the mill were abandoned, left to be reclaimed by the creeping wilderness. And so, the shadow over Witch Hole deepened, the memory of the mill becoming just another chapter in its dark and enigmatic story.

Over the years, those who found their way to the pond spoke of its remarkable vitality. The area seemed to pulse with life—animals flocked to its shimmering waters, their presence undeterred by the whispers of unease that surrounded the place. Birds sang in the trees, their melodies echoing across the surface, while deer and other woodland creatures came to drink from the cool depths. Even the trees appeared to thrive here, their trunks thick and strong, their leaves unfurling with a verdant brilliance that seemed unmatched by the rest of the forest. It was, by all appearances, a place of beauty—an untouched slice of nature that invited awe and admiration.

Yet, despite its idyllic facade, there were stories that hinted at something far stranger beneath the surface. Those who lingered too long spoke of unsettling phenomena: the faint strains of disembodied voices carried on the wind, too soft to understand but impossible to ignore; flickering lights weaving through the trees, their source elusive and unexplained; and, most chillingly, shadowy figures glimpsed at the edges of the water—there one moment, gone the next. The apparitions stirred unease in the hearts of even the most pragmatic visitors, leaving many to wonder whether they had seen something or whether the pond was playing tricks on their senses.

Still, the allure of the place was undeniable. Its natural beauty, tranquil atmosphere, and abundant life made it a cherished spot for those seeking respite from the bustle of the nearby town. Locals and travelers alike came to hike its trails, picnic beneath its towering trees, or simply sit by the water's edge, lulled by the calm it offered. For many, it was a sanctuary—a rare gem of untamed wilderness that demanded to be enjoyed, even as the whispers of its past and the strange occurrences cast a faint, lingering shadow over its pristine landscape.

As I mentioned earlier, when I was a boy, my family would often visit Witch Hole. For us, it wasn’t just a pond; it was an adventure waiting to unfold. Though the tangle of weeds and the ever-present obstacles of logs made it far from ideal for fishing, it turned out to be the perfect place for catching minnows and other small fish. And frogs—there were more frogs there than I’ve ever seen in my life, before or since. People used to joke that if you scooped a cupful of water from the pond, you’d be lucky to end up with a teaspoon of water for every ounce of frog.

I can still recall the warm laughter and exasperated sighs from my parents as they recounted one particular tale—a family legend, really. It was about the time i dropped our camera into the water while trying to catch one of those elusive, slippery critters. The camera sank into the murky depths, and though the frogs escaped unharmed, the camera didn’t fare so well. For years, this story was retold with the same gleeful smile and knowing shake of the head, immortalized as one of those moments that turns a place into something more personal.

But today, I’m not here to tell you about our mishaps or the abundance of frogs at Witch Hole. No, the story I’m choosing to share paints the pond in a far different light—a darker, more unsettling portrait of this seemingly serene place.

In the oppressive heat of July 1896, one of the most chilling deaths ever recorded on Mount Desert Island took place at Witch Hole Pond—a tragedy shrouded in mystery and fear. Two boys, Jimmy Elkhorn and Guy Bunker, ventured out to the pond that day, eager for a summer adventure. Jimmy, resourceful and a bit reckless, had built a homemade rowboat from scraps of wood, a rough but functional craft that he kept tied up along the shore. With youthful enthusiasm, the pair decided to row out to the center of the pond, a place where the water was deepest and the shadows seemed to stretch longer.

The journey started innocently enough—the boys laughing and talking as Jimmy pulled at the oars, guiding them across the pond’s glassy surface. But once they reached the center, the mood began to shift. Jimmy, always the troublemaker, started to rock the boat. The small vessel creaked and tilted dangerously with each deliberate motion, sending ripples across the water that disrupted its eerie stillness. Guy protested, his voice rising with urgency, but Jimmy only grinned and continued, determined to test the boat’s limits.

Suddenly, the boat overturned, sending both boys plunging into the dark water. Guy surfaced quickly, grabbing hold of the edge of the capsized craft. With wide eyes and trembling hands, he begged Jimmy to stay with him, to cling to the boat until they could figure out how to get safely back to shore. But Jimmy, confident in his swimming abilities, shook his head and took off toward the shore, his strokes strong and purposeful.

What happened next defies explanation and has haunted the whispers around Witch Hole for generations. Jimmy, known by everyone as an exceptional swimmer, seemed to glide effortlessly toward the shore at first. But as he neared the shallows, something changed. His strokes faltered, his movements became frantic, and his body began thrashing wildly against the water. Guy watched in horror, calling out to his friend, but his cries were drowned by the sound of Jimmy's struggle. It was as though something unseen had latched onto him, dragging him down.

Jimmy’s thrashing grew weaker until, in a terrible instant, he disappeared beneath the surface. The rippling water calmed, once again reflecting the sky above, leaving Guy alone and clinging to the overturned boat, his screams echoing across the pond. Jimmy Elkhorn was gone.

After a frantic rescue party managed to pull Guy Bunker from Witch Hole Pond, the group turned their efforts to finding Jimmy. They went to the area where he was last seen, desperate to locate the boy who had vanished beneath the water’s surface. When they finally retrieved his body from the pond, what they discovered sent ripples of shock through the entire community.

Jimmy’s legs were tangled in a dense mass of water lily stems, their fibrous tendrils wrapped tightly around him like the grasp of an unseen force. It was these lilies that had prevented him from reaching the shore, a tragic irony not lost on those who knew him well. The very lilies that had been a source of livelihood for Jimmy, the same lilies he had spent countless mornings gathering to sell in town, had become the cause of his death. The boy who loved the pond so dearly died there at just fifteen years old, his life cut short in a place of serene beauty that would forever bear the weight of his memory.

The incident shook the community to its core. Jimmy had been well known and well liked, a bright presence among the townsfolk, and his sudden and horrifying death cast a long shadow over the summer. The pond, once a place of adventure and wonder, now bore an air of melancholy—a quiet reminder of the fragility of life and the unseen dangers that lurked beneath its calm surface.

Even today, long after the echoes of that tragedy faded into the fog of history, stories persist. It’s said that if you stand on the banks of Witch Hole Pond on a still summer evening and watch the water closely, you might see a disturbance amid the lilies—a subtle ripple or faint stirring, as though something below were struggling to break free. Some dismiss it as nothing more than fish feeding on passing insects, but others insist it is the restless spirit of Jimmy Elkhorn, forever entangled in the place he loved most.

The beauty of Witch Hole Pond remains undeniable, its reflection shimmering in the dappled light of the trees, but for those who know its story, there’s a chilling weight to its allure. It is a place both mesmerizing and haunted, its lilies swaying in silent testimony to the boy who never made it home.

That does it for the first episode of Acadia After Dark Campfire Stories. I very much enjoyed writing this and getting to share with you all some of the tales I heard in my childhood growing up here. I hope it was to your liking and if that is the case please do me a favor and like, share, subscribe whatever your platform will allow as it really helps the channel out. I will be back soon with another story for you Hikers and in the meantime as always, keep those lanterns lit and stay safe out there.