Local folklore becomes enigmatic over time, and myths are formed. Maryland has numerous examples. These legendary tales provide fresh fuel as inspiration, since they’re adaptable to speculation. It’s reasonable to assume Edgar Allan Poe may have something to do with it. Moving to Baltimore in the early-1830s, the city with its foggy streets and mysterious history played a critical role in the gothic atmosphere of Poe’s stories and poems. Horror’s based in reality, and Maryland provides the perfect setting for superstition and paranormal instances.
History shows us you better wear a gas mask at Edgewood Arsenal because of secret government science experiments. For decades, military patients were trapped in their own devastating nightmares. There’s also the dismal track record of torture and sexual abuse in private and state-run mental institutions and sanitariums. It’s easy to forget the names of tormented innocent souls housed at Forest Haven, Crownsville, Rosewood, Mt. Hope Retreat and many more.
Paranormal investigators and trespassers still wander the grounds of onetime Glenn Dale Hospital. The former tuberculosis sanitarium is campfire urban legend. The 216-acre complex located near Washington DC now stands in ruins, overrun by rodents and bats. Here, helpless thousands endured pain and suffering, unaware of their destiny. Madness at its most extreme, the human condition of criminal insanity was characterized by screams, cries, and moans from victims of mistreatment. No medical examiner needed; hospital waste was burned in building crematoriums.
Could a Prince Georges County rest stop be cursed with Glen Dale’s wandering lost ghosts? On long road trips, travelers need to take a break. Highway stops are marketed as safe havens with restaurants, convenience stores, and gasoline stations. The time to relax and refuel occasionally goes awry, which isn’t surprising. Unsettling conduct on full display is common.
At four in the morning, tempests of moths circled the Good Luck Road Diner lights just off Route 1. Billy Seaford, the boyfriend of Fay Lyon, was waiting outside in his cherry red 1968 Chevrolet SS. The car radio blasted Aerosmith’s Sweet Emotion. Billy liked to park out back near the dumpster. As he pounded the steering wheel to the beat with both hands, he kind of resembles Steve Tyler.
Inside the Good Luck Road Diner, eccentric Mr. Earl Reed, just finished his breakfast favorite: a burnt English muffin topped with two slices of half-melted Swiss cheese. The retired civil servant can chat up a storm. He finished a cup of coffee, neatly folded a napkin and asked for a check.
“Hey Mr. Earl, did y’all hear, somebody with a crossbow killed three big rats out back by the dumpster the other night?” The Baltimore-born artist and poet waitress, Miss Zooey asked.
Mr. Earl’s ears perked up.
“Oh, Jeez Louise. You know Miss Zooey, I’m not much the hunting type. I’m quite familiar with this insufferable area. I reside nearby in a charming old-fashioned senior community. Are you familiar with Lake Village?” he exclaimed in a high-pitched voice.
“Really?” Miss Zooey acknowledged.
“Yes sweetie. A whole different kind of people, the gilded DC type crowd I would say, in comparison to the folks around here.”
“I would think and hope so Mr. Earl,” Miss Zooey howled with glee.
After leaving a big tip, flamboyant Mr. Earl glided out the door blowing her an air kiss.
A Hummer hopped the curb. Bobbie Mackeson, a former Marine, hit the brakes as his tires squealed, flooring it to make a sharp turn into the rest stop. Bobbie wiped off his sloppy billy-goat beard after a third Egg McMuffin as he arrived at the diner doorstep. Mean-looking Lenny Weinstock wasted no time hopping-out.
Bobbie told Lenny, “Make it snappy!”
Lenny appeared nervous inside the Good Luck asking for the bathroom key punch code. He’d been fighting-off the urge to release a pressure-cooker ready to explode in his gut for a few hours. Sonic Boom! Lenny just made it. Now relieved, he noticed how disgusting the place was. Used condoms, dirty panties and tossed needles covered the floor. The public restroom’s failed attempt to keep out junkies and hookers appeared fruitless.
In the gloomy silence before sunrise, the parking lot appeared even more desolate and dreary, perhaps frozen in time. Approaching in the distance, a Trailways bus ready to refuel made its way down the off ramp.
Inside a 7-Eleven beverage aisle, unhappily married Rod Stanton was easily recognizable. He wore a dirty yellow Tweety Bird tank top. An obvious meathead, who scored an astounding 27 on the IQ scale, he lacked critical thinking skills and frequently displayed poor judgment in social situations. In 39 seconds flat, Rod grabbed a can of Mountain Dew, a Red Bull and a bag of Utz chips.
“Now we talking,” he proclaimed.
Right in the aisle, he consumed the hillbilly Holy Trinity. He stood alone, disheveled and disoriented.
Stunner college student Fay Lyon, during a late-night study session, pondered her options in the nearby candy section: Junior Mints, Tootsie Roll, or Baby Ruth? After noticing how attractive Fay was, Rod’s horndog radar went off. He tried to get a better peek of her well-developed chest climbing over a shelf full of Quaker Oats products, which came tumbling down when he fell over.
“I tawt I taw a puddy tat!” he purred.
Rod decided to follow Fay in a suspect manner wearing a spaced-out look.
“Hey, can I ask you a question? You got a boyfriend?” he said.
“Just stop it.” Fay snapped. She immediately walked away.
Rod followed her, rubbing circles around his Tweety Bird, making a genie in a lantern wish gesture. Fay walked up to the check-out counter and ordered two Blue Raspberry Slurpees.
An uncomfortable situation escalated as he leaned on the counter in an effort to impress.
“I’m standing next to you and that’s pretty close.” Rod said.
He wanted to use a touchy-feely approach to smell Fay’s hair but didn’t. Tweety wants to take you out.” he chirped. Fay thought this guy was gross, unhinged and had skank potato chip breath. He persisted, suggesting they should go away together on a trip to Bermuda.
“I’m marrying you whether you like it or not.” he declared.
“No way!” Fay shouted.
Clutching her phone, she instantly dialed 91l.
Rod’s IQ climbed to 28, recognizing it was time to split. He bolted out the door.
Bad turned to worse. Tweety Bird was missing! Minutes later, walking solo along the road, Rod was shirtless. Guys without shirts: always a problem. After getting high smoking bath salts, he descended into a spiral of self-destruction, falling further into psychotic madness. Returning to the parking lot, he placed a wrapped blanket held under his arm on the ground. His aggressive, antisocial behavior pattern escalated. Red-faced with anger, having a spastic fit, he waved his arms around in a monkey-like manner. The terrified Trailways passengers looked out from inside the bus. They weren’t charmed. Some indulged in a prayer hoping he’d stop making offensive and crude gestures.
Multiple Prince George’s County residents had filed troubling sightings. State Police confirmed something odd was lurking around Fletchertown Rd. Complaints claim, a goat-like creature escaped from a Beltsville Agricultural Research Center. Rumors fueled by multiple questionable local reports go as far back as the 1970s. Threats to house pets and frisky lovers’ lane teenagers were published locally about attacks by a DNA-created experiment gone sour.
What happened next was horrifying. In the parking lot’s remote corner, Poppy the service dog from Trailways was doing a number one. A dark figure prowled around “dead rat” dumpster. Hiding behind a bush, a pair of red eyes stared out from the darkness.
Fay returned to Billy’s Chevelle and shrieked, “You’re not going to believe this!”
Billy replied, “Wait a second Fay, Blue Oyster Cult’s “Godzilla” just came on!”
She immediately reached over, turned off the radio and made him listen. Billy was angry after he heard about the degenerate psycho. He told her not to worry. Fay awarded him with a Slurpee and a hug.
By the dumpster, the dog started barking. “Come on now, finish your business.” Emerging from a thick cloud of Marlboro Light smoke, Ms. Lotte Carmel, the heavy-blue mascara dog owner. She saw something move. “Woah! Wait a second, what was that?” she gasped. The shadow leapt forward. Ms. Carmel froze and screamed. Poppy was halfway down the throat of ‘Goatman’ the half-man, half-animal beast.
The mangy creature then lunged at Ms. Carmel. She fell to the ground like a spilled latte. Curled in a fetal position, damage to her airway was consistent with an animal bite. Running around in circles, her three-legged pooch was in bad shape. Happy as a kid on Thanksgiving with a turkey drumstick, Goatman fled back into the woods headed towards Crybaby Bridge carrying the dog’s leg in its mouth.
Not to be undone in the pre-dawn escapades, Rod’s unstable mental condition came as no surprise. The day before, his wife called home upset after testing positive for a medical condition. His reply was juvenile, “Look, I’m busy watching the game.” and hung up. Mrs. Stanton, tired of his unpredictable antics, read him the riot act. Rod’s approach of dealing with things: go out and get drunk at a bar. As a result, she emptied out their bank accounts from several ATMs, adding a significant amount of misery to their decidedly, less-than-stellar domestic relationship.
The Trailways driver was busy calming upset passengers. Rod approached the bus and said, “Bro, you gonna have a hard time getting back on Route 1.” Baffled bus driver, Mr. Fred Kasinski replied, “Really not a problem for me.” Rod spouted, “Let me show you.” He walked over to the stashed blanket and pulled-out a loaded rifle. Kasinski wasn’t having it, declaring, “You ain’t no tough guy.”
And that’s when it all started. A scuffle took place on the lot attempting to grab the firearm.
Oblivious to ongoing events, Bobbie gulped down a large bag of cold McDonald’s fries and a Diet Coke, while checking out his Nightcrawler fishing worm supply with unwashed hands. Scrambling through a WeatherTech beverage carrier, he needed paper napkins. When he heard the commotion outside, he decided to see what all the fuss was about. After sneaking around the Hummer in military-style fashion, Bobbie was shocked to see an ongoing fight, Ms. Carmel, and her bloodied dog.
Kasinski was having a difficult time fighting off Rod. Bobbie decided to jump in, landing an aggressive, no-holds-barred, body-slam. The rifle hit the ground and went off. “What was that?” Lenny exclaimed from inside the diner. Appearing at half-mast, pulling-up his pants, he quickly grabbed a broom ready to help out. Bobbie had Rod on the ground in a head lock. Standing tall, Lenny took a super-hero swing, smacking Rod’s lower back. Kasinski caught his breath, and then kicked Rod in the ribcage a few times for good measure. By then, the parking lot was locust swarmed. Dozens of patrol cars arrived alerted by Fay’s 911 call.
“We need you to not move!”
Rod was hand-cuffed and hauled-off to jail. Kasinski said he tried to stop the chaos, gave a statement, then reboarded the Trailways. Zooey watched the event unfold from inside the diner. She felt it was just like performance art and decided to write a poem. In the Chevelle, Fay and Billy enjoyed the spectacle sipping Slurpees. Fay recorded it on her iPhone, then posted on Instagram. Cops asked Bobbie and Lenny, “Give us your version of what happened.” They left around daybreak, leaving just enough time for another McDonald’s run before going fishing.
Ms. Carmel was placed in an ambulance and regained consciousness. She told police, “Call me crazy. The monster caught me off-guard.” Her service dog survived after receiving emergency vet care. Proud Poppy stood as a testament to endurance. Police said the creature in question was probably a rabid coyote seen in the area. In the grand scheme of things, it’s out-of-control moments like these that provide us with insight into the realm of Maryland myths and our perceptions of reality.