 I was born and raised in the city of Bideford, Maine. The city itself is full of somewhat garbage people, but I wouldn't have wanted to grow up anywhere else. I had many wonderful memories. As the beach was an hour walk away, the backyard was sprawling, and the woods that lead down to the river were right next to my house. It runs about 135 miles from New Hampshire and splits the towns of Bideford and Soco, emptying out into the ocean beyond. Most mothers, my own included, did everything in their power to make sure children didn't go to the water until three people died at the beginning of the year. This may sound morbid, and indeed it is. But for good reason. All the children in the cul-de-sac knew bits of information, usually clashing, but I first heard the full story told by an old man named Rodney. Rodney was an old Native American man who lived down the other side of my backyard. His grandson Josh and I would often play games with each other and became pretty good friends. Rodney was a good spirited man, always telling us fun stories about the people from his lineage and usually scary ones when we would put the tent up out back and camp out for the night. It was one such night when I heard the curse of the Soco River. Back in the year 1675, Winter Harbor, now known as Bideford, was well established by the Europeans. The local Natives generally welcomed them and boats would come and go along the river. One such boat carried three white men who were said to be drunk as a skunk and meaner than one too. A woman who had given birth to the chief's son was upon one of the islands carrying the child in tow. They decided to have a little fun and test out a story they once heard. It was said that Native Americans could doggie paddle from birth and they wanted to find out, most likely making a few bets on it. Despite the woman's screams, they ripped the baby from her arms and threw him into the water. Unsurprisingly, the child drowned. Some say she went in after him, only to drown herself. What eventually did happen is the chief found out and placed a curse on the river. Until the day white men clear the banks, the spirits of the river would take three lives a year. Some say the three were killed right there, but regardless, there were no delegations made. In fact, it was said to ignite violence between the tribe and the Europeans kicking off the war of King Philip. There was a little more to it than that, I'm sure, but it's been about 26 years now, so my memory is a tidbit fuzzy. The one thing I can remember, in fact, it's probably what caused my terrible lifelong nightmares, is the night he took us out fishing. Conveniently enough, Rodley took us by canoe out to Skelton Dam. It's a popular place for fishing and swimming. In late summer, the sun's warm while being shaded by the large forest around it, and as the sun goes down, the sounds of wildlife make it an unparalleled place to relax. He'd paddled us downstream for about an hour when finally the night came. He didn't catch a whole lot, and honestly at seven years old, I hardly knew what I was doing, but I had fun with Josh and Rodney was telling more of his stories of the past. I don't know what time it was, possibly 10 or 11, but fog began rolling across the water. Rodney made a crack about the spirits making their way from the deep when all the noise from the banks stopped. There were no insects, birds or frogs to be heard, just the quiet sloshing of water on wood. I don't think we even noticed at first, not until I could see the dead serious look on old Rodney's face. He didn't say it, but he was scared. He said something to the effect of we better pack it in so we reeled in our fishing poles and he started the long trip back up the river. Being children, Josh and I didn't really panic. Rodney was experienced in the woods, and though he stayed silent, he didn't much let on that something was wrong. He just kept his eyes forward and worked the oars. This went on for a while. The sounds of nature were still silent. I don't know how Rodney didn't get lost, but I assume it wasn't his first time in conditions such as this. The closer we got, the more we let go of our fear. That is, until the crying began. I couldn't tell where from, but like a gunshot out of the silence, this shrill high pitch sobbing rang out from the land. It would be so loud, like it was right next to you. Then seemed to move away, only to return just as quickly. To make it worse, the sobbing would erupt into insane bursts of laughter. Even thinking about it now makes me shiver. Not a male or a female. It was something I can't possibly find words to match with. As it continued, we started to hear the sounds of something jumping through the forest, easily keeping pace with the boat. I tried to block most of it out, but that's not something that ever goes away. I believe that was about the time Josh and I began to cry ourselves. Rodney tried to comfort us, telling us to keep our heads down and to cover our ears. But most of his efforts were spent rowing in a panic driven manner. The tone of his voice was quick and stern, and I believe he was praying. The sob crying stopped after a bit to our relief, however, it was short lived. A woman's voice shot out from somewhere, distant but also close in a blood freezing tone. It screamed, help me. I looked out through the fog. It wasn't a woman I saw, however. On the bank to the right, I could make out a thin figure. Not too many details were visible, aside from the long horns that sprouted up from its head like that of a deer. The image quickly melted back into the fog and disappeared. Once again, help me please could be heard from the bank, the opposite one, however, the one closest to us. As this happened, the sound of drums came and quickly crescendoed their way all around us like that of a dozen or more people playing drums. Many told us once again not to look and steer the canoe away towards the center of the river. Like the idiot kid I was, I looked as large green orbs of light began to appear along with multiple little men. I say men, but they were all much too short and the shape wasn't quite right. They were all lined up along the shore, just staring at us as that ghastly cry for help continued to follow, switching sides from time to time. I don't think I've ever been so scared in my life, including my current age. Unfortunately, our boat trip through hell wasn't quite over yet. The fog was a constant and would swallow everything almost as quickly as it appeared. As terrifying as the things on the bank were, at least they couldn't get to us. Or so I thought. We must have been pretty close to the boat launch by that point, but before we could get there, the sounds of splashing erupted on all sides of us. The occasional slosh of water told us there was something around our boat and it wasn't long until the knocking began. It was soft at first. More like something was rubbing the signs of the canoe than it turned into scratching. But they quickly got louder as if people were pounding their fists against the signs. It was getting so bad, I thought we were going to tip. And poor old Rodney was rowing like a madman. The panic on his face was as clear as day. He was no longer trying to be silent. And I could even see something trying to grab and pull at the oars. Well, we finally made it to the boat launch. Rodney practically throwing us on land. He didn't bother with our bags or fishing stuff either. We ran to his truck, still hearing drums beating all around us, now coupled with the sounds of loud growls. I can't tell you what for sure, but some sort of animals were pacing around the fog on all fours. They kept their distance, thank God. But before we were fully on the road, we were in for one more surprise. The branches and leaves of the trees off to the left of the truck began shuffling. The forest here is thick, so it was hard to see what it was, but some sort of large bird burst through the canopy and shot across the lake. I've never seen anything so monstrously huge in my life. Rodney later told me he believed it was a thunderbird. I'm not sure, but the wingspan was anywhere from 20 to 30 feet long. Since that night, I stayed away from the river. In fact, I moved halfway across the country. I can't really tell you a whole lot else from that night. I never got many answers myself. I can tell you, however, that I believe in the curse of the Saco River wholeheartedly, as well as its spirits, do not go into that river. Unless, of course, three people have already been found dead.