I know you like stories of the strange and unexplained, so I need you
to check out Jim Harold's Campfire. It's where real people share their true spooky
stories in their own words. The concept is simple. Jim talks to everyday
people about their strange encounters and publishes it as a ninety minute episode every week.
There's no exaggeration or anything. The stories basically speak for themselves. I
recently told a story on there, so let's see if you can spot it.
And there's more stories too, like the one about a child who had
vivid past life memories or the one about a woman who found a ghost in
her bed. Now, not all the stories are horrifying. Some are heartwarming,
like a visit from a past loved one or a peaceful near death experience.
Perhaps regardless, they are true and fascinating, as told by ordinary people
who've had extraordinary experiences. Now do me a personal favor. Tune into Jim
Harold's Campfire on Apple, Podcasts, on Spotify, or wherever you listened true
scary stories again. You can find it by searching for Jim Harold's Campfire.
Welcome to Scary Story Podcast. Today's story will take you into the lonely world
of a dollmaker who struggles with the existence or the lack of it. My
name is Edwin. Here it's a scary story. Dansville is a very small
town near the coast where my aunt and uncle live. Now mostly a spot
for people driving through with their families or lost tourists looking for one of the
waterfalls that showed up in an older issue of National Geographic at one point.
But perhaps better than the waterfalls, this town's claim to fame is actually about
the town next to it. It was an old, abandoned place that got
left behind after some of the larger cities incorporated and this one refused to join
the road network. Then it became where people used to go film movies and
then leave behind the sets alone to rot. A very niche group of movie
fans would track the place down for pictures of forgotten films. Now, I
know this story is going to sound odd, but I do ask you to
remain respectful of the old man who existed, since his life and struggle has
to be worth something, even after the many years since his passing. I
was in high school back when I first heard of his story and wanting to
be a big shot journalist at one point I wanted to explore it. I
had already done stories on the mailman's retirement and the future of libraries once the
Internet came in, but some of the most interesting ones were of the missing
lambs and the strange lights that Missus Hill would see from the side of her
house late at night. With pictures and everything, I was able to get
a headline image on the actual town newspaper, and then later it was picked
up by the county. The answer to the lights was just gas, That's
what the scientist said. But this story, this one was different. A
man nameless at this time, still lived in the town where everyone had left.
He would get groceries delivered once a week by car, where he would
make a list of materials he needed to make repairs on his home. And
although the poor man was getting older, nobody seemed to want to take care
of him. He had no family, no friends, and he didn't seem
to want to talk to anybody. Yet he was an important person and pretty
well known. That's what I wanted my story to be about. So I
got a ride from the man at the grocery warehouse one day, and perhaps
too hopeful. I also packed a tent, a sleeping bag, and a
large bottle of water. Also carried two cans of raviolis in my school bag.
I wanted to be able to spend the weekend there. I wanted to
meet with this man, get a story and publish it. Maybe he would
finally get out of that town, perhaps just get some help. Everyone around
the school knew part of the story of the man in the haunted town,
yet nobody could describe where he lived. That would be the first I met
up with the kind man, with the truck already loaded with all sorts of
prepackaged foods, soaps, and chunks of spare wood pieces bags that looked like
pillows. They were stuffed at the top of whatever light material was inside.
I thought he was joking when he said to meet him at five in the
morning. We drove through Dansville and into the edge, the one labeled by
the last hill before Everything became flat and grassy, with the greenery slowly getting
larger until it turned to trunks and then trees that surrounded the small two way
road, and it seemed like it too, was vanishing as it transformed into
dirt and then gravel. Jim at that point rolled up his window and asked
me to lock my door up ahead the broken down sign of Frinton, the
letters now being able to be read thanks to the parts of the sign that
faded first, the grass growing through the asphalts now as we passed by,
the buildings still intact, perhaps a broken window here and there. But I
still felt nervous about going through the intersection without looking both ways, even though
I wasn't driving. Jim, the driver who worked at the warehouse, had
tried to make conversation with me early on, but we ran out of things
to talk about, or simply dived into the moment of going to a place
lost in time. We kept going through the main street and into another patch
of trees, where the buildings houses now were more spread. Apart by the
large oak tree was a corner house slightly larger than the others. The area
surrounding it had no grass growing into the sidewalks or the streets. I knew
we had arrived. There's no kid, Jim said, as he stopped the
car. He saw how we got here, right, that's the way back.
He then said that if I got past the wooded area, a car
surely would see me and I could hitch a ride. And even though he
was trying to be helpful, I couldn't stop thinking about that one word he
said, if if I got past the wooded area, I would be okay.
I tried to forget about it as I helped them unload the bags and
boxes to the porch of the old wooden house. Once we were finished,
he knocked on the door three times hard and shot me one of those looks
that asked if I was sure about what I was doing. Then he suddenly
got back to the truck and drove away, his arm sticking out the window.
It took about two minutes when I finally heard steps coming up to the
door. I clearly remember being so nervous, even more nervous than when I
interviewed the mayor or when they picked up the body of Tracy Mom from the
edge of the river and I was there to write a story on it.
The old man opened the spring door and looked at me, asking if I
was all right and how he could help me. I told him that I
was a writer and that I wanted to do a story on him with all
of the confidence I had. His entire demeanor changed right then the story He
said on me. Why in Heaven's name would you want to do that?
He asked with a chuckle. He then invited me in. His house was
neatly decorated, although the stacks of newspapers on the center and dinner tables were
out of place, he seemed to have things in order generally, Ben,
he said, Ben gritsmore as he stretched out his hand for a handshake before
wiping off foot looked like sawdust from his hands and trying again. I introduced
myself and asked if I could help him bringing the stuff. He took a
deep breath, knowing it would be a lot of work, and then look
down, nodding while getting the energy to go outside and grab the bags.
He said he needed to finish up a few things in the back and that
I could wait for him for a bit while he came back for interrupting himself
to ask where I would be staying or if I would be getting picked up.
I pointed to my backpack, and he got the point, saying that
he had four rooms in the place that if I could shake off the dust
on one of them, I could stay there. I remember wholeheartedly believing that
I would be staying on the porch of a random house with my tent and
sleeping bag, thinking it would somehow make a good story for the place itself.
But I had never been camping and I didn't know what I was doing,
so I was really happy to have agreed to it. Besides, from
all of the stories heard about the town, I was not sure I would
actually want to see it alone in the dark, And so the man and
I moved every thing inside by the kitchen counter, and he rushed back outside
toward the backyard. Rumor said that this man Ben was a doll maker,
and he would not make just any type of doll, but specialized replicas of
children that had died. Some people said he started with the dolls for his
own wife and daughter, while others said that the tale had a more sinister
beginning, stories that dated way back to when the town had people in it
who told and retold the story of the legend. Himself the dollmaker a Frinton,
but with no more people to tell his tale, it would end up
being just me, the one who had to have the accurate account of a
story and share it to keep it alive. And I remember sitting there watching
as the sun went high up in the sky and then later came back down
through the trees. In front of me. I could hear the scra sounds
of sanding material coming from the backyard with sudden brakes from the old man.
I had already gone through a can of my food and a couple of SIPs
of water by this point, with time flying by, as I thought of
the questions I would ask Ben, and wondering how he would react to the
rumors of him from the nearby towns. I was young, and if I
could go back in time, I would have helped them get out, and
I would have gotten out of there myself before nightfall. Part two of the
doll Maker is coming upward. After this stay with me, Ben came around
the house and toward the porch just as the sun had set. He walked
straight to a large barrel on the side of the porch, and with another
bucket, he took out some of the water and rinsed off his hands.
He smiled nervously as he looked around and said in a near whisper that we
should go inside. As soon as we got in, he shut the door
in the three locks before going around the windows and the side entrance to do
the same thing. His house had electricity. At one point I could see
the old television in lamps all over the place, but now he seemed to
get around with oil lamps and candles, like a trip back in time.
And I had my camera with me. But even back then, a piece
of advice I heard from my teacher had been to watch out for photographing inside
private spaces, so I held back the urge. The place smelled like dust
but was otherwise clean, and I watched as he opened up the bags we
had brought him, and he made two sandwiches baloney and mao that he got
from a small packet on two slices of white bread. He quickly walked over
to the chair next to mine and sat down, taking a big bite out
of his food. That was my chance. I asked him about himself,
his family, and everything was going well until I asked him why he lived
alone in the town with no people. There are no people here, he
said, but not alone, not alone. If the man was talking about
his dolls keeping him company, I knew that this story would be too much
for me, and that I would need to find another angle to it or
be very cautious. With a person like that, one never knows what to
expect. He changed a subject upon, probably realizing that I was uncomfortable with
everything. Then he told me about one of his sons who was helping support
him with the deliveries, and that he would come by every once in a
while to help out with projects here and there. He went on for a
while about himself, and then talked about the things he would eat and how
he gets his water, and then he mentioned how the town used to be,
before pausing and then quickly changing the sun object again. Mister Gritsmore,
I asked, I'm here to do a story about you, as the last
resident here in your life. What do you do all day? Oh?
Well, I make dolls, he said. Everyone knows that they've been photographed,
and I've told their stories hundreds of times throughout the years. He continued.
It turns out this man had been making them for almost fifty years.
Twenty or so of those years had been all by himself. In the town.
He pretty much watched it die, and if anyone knew the story of
Frinton, it would be him. But as it dug deeper into his knowledge
of the town, itself, I found more questions and answers. He said
that it was a very old town, with certain areas dating back hundreds of
years as one of the first settlements. He spoke of the major historic events
and and other difficulties of the people of the town. The place itself was
a testament to the survival of human civilization. He continued, exaggerating sentences with
his hands as he spoke. He spoke of the elections for mayor, the
people who made it out of town for bigger things, who later returned to
settle back in and live out their years. And then just like that,
the smile went away from his face. Everything was good until it wasn't.
He said, I need to first explain that this story was never written for
the school newspaper, and in fact, it never saw the light of day,
and anything what I heard there was so bizarre and personal that I decided
to keep it to myself as a form of tribute to Ben. But at
the time, I guess I had my doubts that maybe I just didn't want
to damage my own reputation. Plus Ben cared for the town so much much
that he died with it, and who knows of the many secrets that would
be at risk of being discovered because of uninvited guests looking for a thrill,
completely ignoring the actual events, and just following a blind story written by a
high school kid. Ben stood up and went over to the back of the
house to a sort of second living room. He had back there to grab
a crate. I could see the black hair coming out from the sides of
it as he pulled out a doll with both hands, large about the size
of an actual four or five year old child, and then set it on
the floor. I was in awe of the thing. I walked over to
it to look at its face, glassy brown eyes that sparkled with the light
of the oil lamps from the other room. Its cheek imperfect like that of
a real human face blemishes on the skin along with its dead expression. The
doll was wearing a blue dress poorly sewn together with white cloth around the neck.
I looked over to Ben, who, instead of being proud to display
his creation, looked tired and solemn, a look more appropriate for a funeral.
He explained that the dolls are what he makes, going into details on
materials like wood and wax and composite natural hair and cloth from actual dresses.
Days are spent sometimes on the faces and hands whenever he has a solid reference
for them. But what surprised me the most was that each one was said
to be completely unique, and I mean sure. I thought he must have
meant unique, as in he would not be able to accomplish the same level
of detail on every single one, but he expanded on it. Each one
had a name, a last name, and was of a certain age.
And that was intrigued. If this really was the case, the people of
my town and the surrounding places had a reason to start rumors about the guy
and his strange obsession. I figured I would tell him about the rumors at
that moment, and risking getting kicked out into the darkness of a dead town,
I told him. I said that the people talked about him, and
in not the most positive light, that he was a creep who liked to
live by himself, and that he had mental problems that would not let him
join a serious society. He looked at me and smiled, making sure that
I was not going to say anything else before he started talking. Kid,
you're not the first person to tell me that, you know. I looked
at him, waiting for him to continue again. Another tip from my journalism
teacher. I wish I would have said something though changed the subject or I
don't know, talked about his family again, but then he explained it early
times of the town, stories were collected of a particular family who was not
welcomed by the rest of the townsfolk, and that through every generation, the
plot of the land that they had would be seized or swapped for a larger
piece, with the condition that it would be farther away from the center of
town. The family would usually agree to the offer easily, it was hard
to refuse more land. They were able to keep it civil for some time,
until one of the family member's husband passed away and was left alone to
fend for herself against a town that did not want her there. Eventually,
though, peculiar events started happening around the town, like things with the clock
tower being witnessed by several people to be moving backwards at the time when thousands
of rats arrived and destroyed wooden columns and the entire bakery. The event labeled
on a wall at the tiny library. He said that talked about the birds
that stopped and place in the sky, or the time the large white owl
stood on a branch on the center square for over two days straight. The
townspeople had gathered around the church and at the courts to talk about what had
been happening, before deciding to do nothing because the events were simply peculiar things.
Suggestions that they were evil would seem too silly to go on the public
records, and so they decided to leave it at that. Suspicions had already
grown about Bertha the widow being responsible for all of this, but nobody had
any proof, and so she remained by herself at the edge of town.
Eventually, the events escalated. Children were disappearing from the market, from the
play areas, and some snatched in the middle of the night right from their
beds. Siblings little kids would sometimes have to testify about the disappearances, saying
that they saw a woman come in through the window and take their little brother
or sister by the leg and then drag them straight out. All this time,
I was looking at Ben's expression to see if he would suddenly smile or
admit to be joking around, but he only kept getting more and more upset
at his own memories. Eventually, family started leaving the town, everyone from
the church people to the elected officials, and then hundreds of children over the
years disappeared from Frinton and other nearby towns. Stories circulated about the widow searching
for children to bring back to her house, but that part been assured was
real, and he demanded for it to be added to my story. I
looked at him, riting the eye when he asked me if I believed him.
My journalism teacher never taught me what to say in such a case,
so I just said my truth or was hard to believe. It's important to
mention that eventually I did find records of the disappearances. But what about the
dolls? You may ask, who were they for and why did he spend
so much time on them. Ben's enthusiasm for answering the questions went away right
then, and even today I consider the way I answered his question to be
one of my biggest mistakes. He was still very polite when he answered the
process of making his dolls out of photographs that were sent to him, every
detail had to be right for them to be taken. He explained, everything
from the shape to the weight and the color of the hair were spot on
always, and I believed them. The doll he had made that evening was
just so realistic. Before the conversation died out, I asked again, after
building some report with him, why he did what he did. The man
simply stared at the lamp about to die out, and then in silence,
he took a deep breath and then said, more children will not go missing.
When I think back on that conversation, I am not sure Ben knew
if what he was doing would work, But there's a little left to say
when you're sitting next to a sobbing old man. I was looking for an
answer that was not there. Perhaps the guy only did what he was told
and had done so for so long that it was all he knew, getting
better with every doll that he made. For no reason at all, there
were no kids left in what remained in that town, unless he meant kids
from other places. Ben showed me the room where I would be staying and
immediately walked over to the window and then pressed on the latch to make sure
that it was closed. I heard him walk around the house to the other
rooms to wiggle the doors and windows. The bed sheets were cold when I
got into bed with my sleeping bag. It was sometime around three in the
morning when I heard footsteps from the porch just around the corner from where my
bedroom was. Everything was silent for a bit. The window had no curtains
and the blue light from the moon was shining straight to my face. When
I turned toward it, I waited for another creak, the kind you expect
to hear when you lift your foot from the floor. But there was nothing.
And that's when I saw the face of the doll, the same doll
from earlier that day, right against the glass. It sank down toward the
sill very slowly until behind it I got to see the face of an old
woman as she smiled and then tap on the glass and then signaled for me
to open it. I pulled up the sleeping bag over my eyes and waited
for her to go away with all I could hear were the chuckles. After
a few seconds, I heard the footsteps through the porch, and then the
grass and the gravel as she walked away, making her way through the town
once again. You can also listen to the stories add free on Scary Plus
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If you want to get in touch to share something creepy, you can
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More content is available on our other shows from Scary FM. Thank you very
much for listening, See you soon.