Scream In The Night

Submitted by Denise Raney Thanks Denise!

This is a story that was told to me by my grandfather Jeff Raney...as he set out for a camping and fishing trip, from Steel Creek to Camp Orr. On the Buffalo River that runs a side of Mt. Sherman in Newton County, Arkansas. His final night would became one to remember...as he settled down for the night before heading home the next day.

He had just lain down, when he heard the Scream in the Night. He lay there helpless to the permetrating scream of the black panther. As it got closer he realized that he should seek protection with something. Even though no one had ever had a confrontation with the panthers, he did not want to be the first. So he flipped his two man raft over him, and laid listless to the prowler of the night.

Twice a year a pair of panthers would run their course though the Boston Mountains, up over Mt. Sherman, from Shiloh below. And down to and through the Buffalo River, and across to the other side. To a final destination that has never been discovered.

As he laid under cover of his raft with a listening ear, the splashing of their paws across the river made way for another safe night on the river. But he finished the night sleeping under the raft.

I had heard of other stories from several people, but had not experienced the tale of these two panthers. Through the years one must of died that left one to carry on their tradition. It was 1965 and I was spending the school year with my grandparents. Was late fall as I was coming home from a basketball game. Most of us kids lived so far out that the school buses would run their normal routes, to pick up kids to take to the games in town. I for once got to go this time. And it became a night for me to remember also.

The game had ended and we started to load up in buses. It had started to mist and old man winter was trying to come early that year. We lived five miles up Mt. Sherman and then a quarter of a mile down a dirt road. As the bus topped the mountain that night, the fog had set in so thick you could cut it with a knife. The driver having a very hard time seeing where to stop, asked if a group of us could get off at the Mc Nealy place. I had my reservations, but didn't think I had much of a choice. So off the bus we go, things didn't look too bad yet. We said our goodbyes and as they walked off and porch lights started to turn out, I thought to myself "Well their all safe and warm. But what about me!"

I soon found myself in a very dark and scary world. But I new if I could just get to our mailbox where I had left a flashlight, I could handle it from there. As the school bus drove off and around the bend it's headlights no longer gave me the direction I needed to go. I started frantically looking for a landmark that was familiar. Feeling the pavement under my feet, I could only hope that I was heading in the right direction. I could not see anything but a faint little yellow line in the middle of the road. I strayed down the middle of the road and when I had felt I had gone some distance, I would walk towards the side of the road until I heard gravel under my shoes. And than proceeded to scan the mailboxes for familiar names.

And there It was, the first, "Stacey's". Now all I needed was to get by the Mt. Sherman Community parking lot. I was feeling pretty good about myself by now, as I took big bold high stepping jumps off into a dark void. Armed with a sense of direction and a flashlight, I would be unbeatable. Through the parking lot and it was there, a mailbox loaded with a power of light, or so I thought. It was about this time when it started to mist heavily. And the fog was in no way letting up. I turned on the flashlight and the rays shot right through the fog clouds. And then it began to fade, and fade. I shook it, dropped it, stood on it, banged it on the ground, "flashlight!" If my grandfather knew what I had done to that flashlight, well lets just say I wouldn't be writing this. So here I am, with no light and the scariest part of my adventure.

Down that old clay bottom over grown road, I hated that clay. It was like glue when it got wet. It would stick to your shoes until it built you another one right over the old one. Well, no where to go but forward for me. So I pulled up my pants, took a deep breath, and "ran like hell." Clay flying ever which way, tree limbs slapping me as if they suddenly grew arms. As long as I was slipp-in and a slid-in, I knew I was still on the road home. Over the hill and around the bend, I was closing in. Yes down the stretch to the first cattle guard, "it's cleared." Just a few more feet and I would be in the hayfield. And there it was, the front porch light. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and to gaze into that faint lit yellow light as it struggled to send its rays through the fog. With the house in sight and as always a child's mind begins to think of the worst. Panther, the three graves in the hayfield, right in my path to the house. Well, need I say more. I don't think my feet hit the ground more than two or three times, I don't even remember the last cattle guard. Through the front door and into bed and my basketball days where over.

I had no longer hit my head on the pillow when I heard the voice of my grandfather yelling for me to get up. "Get up" "Get up, Denise. You my never see this again!" As my mind started to clear, I could hear the phone ringing. And my step-grandmother's voice, what is she doing up, I thought. What was going on? It began to sound like the end of the world. No more than when the phone was hung up, it would ring again. I stood in the living room in amazement to all the activity. Grandpa scrambling for the (oh no) flashlight, Flora answering the phone calls one after another. I hadn't seen that much action in this old house or from my grandparents in years. "Come on Denise, get your coat and lets go. The Panther is on its way." I couldn't believe it. I could now tell of my story of the scream in the night.

We both ran outside as Flora gave us the updates through the front door. " He's just come by Gertrude's place." It would be at Devoe Stacey's place next. And then down our road. "Listen." My grandpa spoke in a whisper. As the flashlight shined in the dense fog (with new batteries of course) in the direction of intensity. I heard it for the first time. The wails, as if a women in labor, and there he was. Black and sleek, as he flew over the fence as if to have wings. Never hesitating, or second guessing his destiny. His eyes but a glance into the light reflected the color yellow as I had never seen. Amber colors from his gleaming eyes, stroked his coat down through every muscle. And in a flash, off into the darkness he vanished.

That was the last time we heard or saw the panther. But for years the panther brought friends and neighbors together in the mist of the night. As phone lines followed his path and grandparents yelled "Get up, you may never see this again!" As quickly as he came and went, so did his legend. The next day as I was walking to the bus stop there layed his paw prints, beside my foot prints from the night before.

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