REHOBOTH – Local man Jeff Perkins came face-to-face with the legendary redheaded hitchhiker of Route 44 in yet another paranormal episode in the famed Bridgewater Triangle. A hotbed of all manner of supernatural activity, this spooky swamp is known for ghosts and goblins, witches and werewolves and all manner of cryptids reaching all the way back into precolonial times.
Jeff, a Massachusetts native, was winding his way back from a local watering hole in nearby Seekonk when he caught a glimpse of the ghostly traveler. The signature flannel shirt and shock of fiery red hair marked the spectral figure unmistakably. Jeff, never one to shy away from the unknown, pulled over and retrieved his trusty .38 Special revolver. His heart raced as he fired several rounds directly into the famed phantasm, who was first documented in the late 1960s.
To Jeff’s astonishment, the ghost vanished like smoke, dissipating into the inky darkness. The first bullet passed through its translucent form, leaving no trace. But the night held more secrets. A blood-curdling scream echoed through the trees, urging Jeff deeper into the woods. His mission: to finish what he started and prove the existence of one of the Bridgewater Triangle’s most elusive residents.
What Jeff stumbled upon was a scene straight out of a nightmare. A coven of occultists, cloaked in shadows, surrounded a large, bright white turkey. Their demonic ritual was in full swing, and blood stained the ground. But the turkey, bizarrely, remained unharmed. It was as if fate had intervened.
The reason became clear when investigators arrived. One of Jeff’s hastily fired shots had struck a heavy steel inverted crucifix worn by a cultist. The bullet ricocheted off the crucifix, defying the natural laws of physics, and then bounced off a pentagram worn by another cult member. Finally, it lodged in the shoulder of a third, a wounded warlock named Heath Owens.
“Never thought my necklace would save me from a bullet,” one of the unharmed, and unnamed occultist mused, nursing his bruised sternum. “Guess Satan’s got my back.”
Lucy Lopes, a self-proclaimed high priestess of the coven, offered her perspective: “It was like the universe itself was intervening. Jeff’s bullet disrupted our ritual, but it also revealed our truth, the truth that the Prince of Darkness really does love us and protects us.”
Local police, well-versed in the peculiarities of the Hockomock Swamp, declined to charge Jeff Perkins. “Shooting at ghosts is practically a local pastime,” chuckled Officer Daniels. “We’ve all been tempted. Hell, I shot at one last week!”
The coven, however, faces charges of cruelty to animals and theft of livestock. The turkey has been donated to a nearby shooting range for target practice.
As for Jeff, he remains haunted by the encounter. “I wanted proof,” he said, staring into the murky swamp, carving crosses into rounds of ammo. “Next time, I’ll be ready.”
Franklin Carson
