October is here again. The first week can feel like summer; the last week can be anything but. The month’s climax of course is Halloween, the night before All Saints Day, which is one sunrise before All Souls Day. For many of our ancestors, Halloween started out as Samhain (“SAW-win”) or similar, a time when the doors between the dimensions are ajar. It’s said that things can flow and scurry between the gaps, and not all of them are nice. In the spirit of the month and its last night, I present two tales—two true stories—of the holiday here.

The Girl in White

Many Halloweens ago, I was with several roommates and neighbors headed home from a party. It was late. Some of us were still in costumes. Some of us had already changed. The SUV was full; there was one spot left.

We were driving east on College Avenue, and had just passed Eighth and Seventh. It was very dark. Somehow, a two-block stretch there is always especially black at night. This makes sense in the summer and fall when the leaves block the streetlights. But even on leafless nights there’s road that rests in shadow.

In that inky spot there was a young woman. Barefoot. Standing in the middle of the right-hand lane. She was wearing a long, old-fashioned dress, like a nightgown. Her dress was white. Even before the low beams reached her she stood out against the darkness as if under a half moon’s light. Her back, covered in her long blond hair, was toward us.

This wasn’t a wet All-Hallows-Eve, the kind with 55F mist at noon and 50s drizzle all night. It was one of those dry Halloweens: 72F in the afternoon shade, 60s when the candy-handing starts. But, now it was past midnight, with clear skies, and downright chilly.

Someone said, “Funky costume but where are her shoes?” We came to a stop in the left lane. There was nobody else around. Then windows went down: “Are you ok??” “Do you need a ride?”

She didn’t say a word. I don’t recall if someone opened a back door or if she opened it herself. She got in gracefully. Any assumptions that she was drunk evaporated. She wasn’t hyper or manic. She wasn’t dazed or confused. She smelled like night air, not Southern Comfort. She was serene on the seat, staring forward. And her skin, dress, and hair were so pale... she almost seemed to glow. 

We put it in gear, turned back into the right lane, and went on our way. We continued our conversation. She stayed silent. The yellow glare of streetlights resumed; her appearance must have been just a trick-or-treat of the eye.

When we got to the stop at College and Willson we asked where she was headed. A detour of several blocks? Instead, she pointed to the northeast. Her thin arm and thin hand motioned between the seats. Without moving the air, without making a sound.


She gestured at the Sigma Chi house.

We looked both ways. A lone car passed by going north, its red tail lights disappearing down the gradual hill. We crossed the street, back when you still could. We turned left into the alley behind the frat, backed up, and maneuvered around —so her door faced the brick building and we were pointed to where we had come.

She made a small, slow nod as if to say thanks. The vehicle opened. She got out. It gently closed. Again, I don’t remember who handled the door. A buddy said, “Dude... that was kinda weird.” Another: “Not much of a ride.” His girlfriend overlapped, “I hope she’s fine.”
And then, multiple voices: “WHERE’D SHE GO?!”

She wasn’t there. She wasn’t on the sidewalk by the car. She wasn’t on the street. In her pale, bare feet. She wasn’t in the alley to our right. Or across the way. She wasn’t in the lot behind the frat. She wasn’t on the lawn.

She was gone.

Several people with good eyes had clear views in all directions. Two and a half seconds had passed. All of the lights at Sig-Chi were on, inside and out. At least one of us should have witnessed her walk or run away. None of us did.

Years later, scattered around different states, from time to time some of us compare our recollections of that night. Who was Serena?... The Girl in White.

I’ve mentioned this story to newer friends over the years. It reminds locals of another apparition: People see a young girl on the road in Beartrap Canyon, often at night. One instant she’s there, two more and she’s not. Another reason to drive carefully through those curves. Also, some farmhouses in the valley are said to shelter young children who died generations past, especially girls. It’s not just Montana Hall that’s inhabited.

The Marsh Man

One rainless Halloween several years ago, we were at backyard bonfire along Linear Trail. Around midnight, two of us moseyed over to the trail for a people break. Off the path to one side is flat, the way we had come from the party; the other side falls abruptly into a reedy area of slow-moving water. The night was notably warm. No breeze. A herd of university students rode by, laughing and shouting, each of them covered in homemade cardboard-and-plastic costumes. Ever try to keep on makeshift robot panels while pedaling?

It was also notably light out. The bonfire blazed behind several tree trunks. A line of townhouses down the path had on golden porch lights, one after another. The city’s amber glow reflected off a high veneer of clouds. The back yard next-door had tiki torches lit along the way. All of this bathed the trail’s dry earth, a wooden bench, and the dead cattails beyond in warm sepia tones, like an old-timey photograph. It looked like a night scene from a Western film.

Then another group of costumed college kids buzzed past on bikes, talking and whooping. We smiled and stepped back. Their noise faded away to the northeast and it became quiet. After a minute we stopped and realized it wasn’t nice and quiet. It was strangely quiet. Even the bonfire shindig seemed silent. Was everyone inside for bathroom breaks and fridge stops? Who was tending the fire? 

Just then we heard rustling. Down and away in the parchment-colored cattails. A deer? A dog? The murky water’s not crazy deep, but the antique mud is. Most things would get stuck. A moose? This far in town? Then more rustling. Rustling. Louder.

And then we saw it. A large... thing... covered in fur, had been standing tall, watching us, the entire time. How it was that high upright in the water and mud was hard to fathom. It then began to move. Effortless strides through the marsh. No sinking or slipping. Toward the trail. Toward us. We were stunned. Is this a person in a costume? Why stand around in the cold mud? Why muck up your rented bear suit? And why be alone? There were no cheers or jeers from friends across the marsh who had made a dare.

The least human part about The Thing was the ease and speed it climbed up the steep bank. There was zero scramble. It didn’t use its long arms. This was no inebriated Halloween reveler. This wasn’t a bulky, hollow costume even heavier from being half wet.

The Thing, nearly seven feet tall, stepped onto the trail stealthy-paw style. These weren’t squishy sloshes from soaked footie pajamas. These weren’t wader boot thuds. And then it looked at us. One-quarter curiosity. Half indifference. One-quarter disdain. This was no bear or bear suit. This wasn’t a basketball center in a Wookie costume. Those yellow eyes flush with the fur and shining in the sepia light were not human eyes. He gave a bull-like snort, turned around, and trotted down Linear Trail, beyond the tiki torches, past the porch lights, and into the darkness.

This happening reminds friends of seeing zombie coyotes and stories about trolls and wendigos. Also, over the years it’s amazing how many people—very different people—have dreamed about Big Mike at the Museum of the Rockies coming alive. A bronze T-Rex skeleton tiptaloning around Bozeman late at night. 

Was the Marsh Man really John C. Reilly in a sasquatch outfit? On lifters and steroids? I doubt it. That would have been one heck of a pricey face-paint and wardrobe job. There were no film students asking us to move. I’ve been able to reason many things. But not that night. Then again, it was Halloween, and maybe that’s the only explanation one needs.

If you’d like some scares of your own, preferably a bit less supernatural, check out the Anderson School Haunted House. Also, the Extreme History Project and Bozeman Paranormal host ghost tours throughout the year. Happy Spooking.