There's some places in this world where the past
don't stay buried, where the weight of sorrow
and blood seeps so deep into the soil that the
land itself remembers. Locust Grove, Oklahoma
is one of them places. It started long before
men with paper and laws came taken what weren't
theirs, before the cries of the Cherokee were
swallowed by the wind on the Trail of Tears.
It started before the gunfire of war soaked the
ground in the soldier's blood, leaving behind
restless souls that never found peace. And yet,
despite all them warnings, despite the way the
air never quite settled right, someone decided
to build a camp for children on that cursed land.
A place of innocence, of laughter, of campfires
and starlit nights. But the land don't care what
it was meant to be, and in 1977 it took back
what it was owed. Now, if you listen close, the
wind don't just rustle the leaves, it whispers
names that ain't been spoken in years. If you
walk too far into them woods, you might feel
a cold hand brush your arm, might see eyes glowing
from the brush that disappear when you blink.
And Lord help you if you hear the laughing, because
it never stays laughing for long. Camp Scott
is gone, but something still lingers. And if
you go looking for it, it just might come looking
for you. Welcome to Kentucky Melodies America's
Scariest Stories, where we bring you ghostly
legends, spooky haints, and bone -chilling tales.
from all over this great land. These stories
will have you looking over your shoulder all
night. So pull up a chair, dim them lights, and
let's dive into the eerie and unexplained. That
land they call Locust Grove, Oklahoma, been steeped
in sorrow long for any settler ever set foot
there. Weren't always that way though. Once it
was Cherokee land. a place where the people lived
by the rivers, beneath the trees, listening to
the spirits that moved through the hills. But
peace don't last when greed comes sniffing round,
and sure enough, men with papers and guns came
and tore it all away. Back in 1838, the U .S.
government forced the Cherokee from their homes,
drove them from the land of their kin and their
ancestors, pushing them down a long, cruel road
called the Trail of Tears. Twelve hundred miles
of suffering with cold setting in their bones,
bellies aching from hunger, feet raw from the
journey. Thousands never made it. They fell where
they walked, their bodies left to the wind, their
souls caught between a world that didn't want
them and a world they couldn't reach. The old
folks say the land itself soaked up that sorrow,
took in that blood and never let go of it. Weren't
just grief settling in the soil, something darker
took root. The elders whispered that when that
much pain stains the earth, it wakes things that
ought to stay sleeping. Spirits left restless,
something old and hungry feeding off the misery,
and from that day on, That land was never the
same. The land suffering didn't end with the
Trail of Tears. Weren't long before more blood
got spilled right there in the dirt. Back in
1862, war come knocking. Union and Confederate
soldiers clashed hard at the Battle of Locust
Grove. The sound of gunfire tore through them
woods, bullets hitting trees, men dropping for
they even knew what killed them. Weren't much
of a fight. The Confederates got cut down fast.
Some of them never even had the chance to raise
their rifles. They died in the dirt. Their bodies
left to rot. Their last cries swallowed by the
wind. For years after, folks whispered about
shadows moving through the trees. Figures standing
just out of sight. Their faces twisted up like
they were still feeling the pain of dying. Some
swore they heard moaning in the dark, voices
drifting through the hills calling out for help
that weren't never coming. Others, they stayed
clear of that place altogether, wouldn't set
foot on that land after sundown saying the ground
weren't fit for the living no more. The Cherokee
who remained in them parts knew what it meant.
Too much death, too much suffering, too much
blood seeped into the earth. That kind of stain
don't wash out. That land was cursed now, cursed
beyond fixing. And yet, years later, somebody
got it in their head to build something meant
for children on that very spot. A place for laughter,
for campfires, for childhood memories. But curses?
They don't much care what a place is supposed
to be. Back in 1928, someone figured they could
turn that cursed land into something good. So
they built Camp Scott, a Girl Scout retreat,
a place where youngins could run free, learn
the ways of the woods, and make memories meant
to last a lifetime. For near fifty years, the
place flourished. Girls came from all over, laughing
round campfires, learning to tie knots and read
the stars, never once knowing what lay beneath
their feet. But folks that had been round long
enough, they knew. The Cherokee elders still
whispered their warnings, said that land weren't
never meant for the living, said it had already
taken too much. And some campers, they felt it
too. Girls told stories of whispers riding the
wind at night, voices calling from the trees
that weren't nothing but shadows in the daylight.
Some swore their belongings got moved in the
dead of night, though no one had been near. Others
woke to the feeling of something watching, something
just beyond the lantern light. But kids got wild
imaginations and grown folks don't like to dwell
on things they can't explain. So they ignored
the warnings, laughed off the whispers, kept
the campfires burning, hoping light was enough
to keep the dark at bay. Then came 1977, and
the land, the spirits, the curse, the suffering
buried deep in that soil took what it was owed.
Three innocent souls, gone. And Camp Scott, it
never opened its gates again. June 13th, 1977
should have been a night of campfire stories,
sticky s'mores, and sleeping under the stars.
for Lori Lee Farmer, eight, Doris Denise Milner,
ten, and Michelle Heather Gus, nine. It was their
first night at Camp Scott, full of nerves, excitement,
and the kind of wonder only childhood holds.
They were placed in tent number eight, sitting
just a little too far from the others, tucked
away at the edge of the camp. Alone enough that
when the darkness crept in, There weren't many
ears to hear what came next. But trouble had
been brewing long before that night. A counselor's
cabin was ransacked. Her belongings tossed like
someone, or something, had been looking for something.
A note was found, scrawled and strange, warning
that three girls would die that summer. Just
a cruel joke, they said, just a prank. Some of
the counselors heard strange noises in the night,
low, guttural growls from the woods. But when
they shined their flashlights toward the trees,
the only thing staring back was the empty dark.
Then came the night, and the woods fell too quiet.
Some of the girls said they heard moaning, soft
and eerie, drifting through the trees. Others
claimed they saw a single beam of light. A flashlight
moving through the woods, disappearing between
the trees like something was lurking just beyond
their sight. But no one dared step outside. And
by the time the first rays of sun pushed through
the trees, the horror had already happened. Tent
number eight was empty. Their bodies were found
along a trail leading to the showers. Three young
lives stolen in the dead of night. in a place
that had already seen too much blood spilled
into its soil. Panic gripped the camp. Parents
came rushing in, pulling their daughters from
the cabins, from the fields, from the nightmare
that had settled over Camp Scott. And after that,
the gates shut for good. The laughter, the songs,
the firelight, it all faded into silence. Camp
Scott was no more, but the land remained, and
folks say it never forgot what happened there.
The law turned its eye on Gene Leroy Hart, a
Cherokee man with a past tangled in violence
and escape. He'd been on the run for years, hiding
deep in the hills, living off the land like a
ghost. When they finally caught him a year later,
folks thought justice might be served. But in
the end, the jury let him walk, saying there
weren't enough proof to pin the crime on him.
In 1979, Hart dropped dead in prison on unrelated
charges, and with him went the truth of what
really happened that night. Or at least, the
truth that could be proved. See, plenty of folks
never believed Hart acted alone. Some say there
was someone else out there that night, maybe
more than one. Others, others whisper that it
weren't just men in them woods, that something
older, something darker had a hand in what happened
at Camp Scott. Whatever the case, that land never
took to life again. Camp Scott rotted where it
stood, cabins swallowed up by vines, the forest
creeping in like it was taking back what belonged
to it. Nobody rebuilt. Nobody dared. And yet,
people still go out there. The curious, the foolish,
the ones who don't know better. And some of them?
They come back shaken, whispering about shadowy
figures moving through the trees, about disembodied
voices calling out names that ain't theirs. A
few even claim to hear low, guttural growls in
the dark. just like the counselors did all them
years ago. Whatever haunts them woods, it ain't
sleeping, and it sure as hell ain't leaving.
Even after they locked the gates and let the
forest take back what was hers, Camp Scott ain't
never been forgotten. Folks still go out there,
the foolhardy and the curious, the ones who ain't
never heard the warnings proper or just don't
care. Some come for a thrill. Some come to see
if the stories are true. But plenty leave pale
-faced and shaken, refusing to ever speak of
what they saw. They say, if you stand still in
the dead of night, if the wind dies and the woods
go quiet, you might hear it, the high, sweet
sound of little girls laughing. But don't go
smiling just yet. That laughter... It don't stay
laughter for long. It stretches, twists, turns
into something shrill and broken. A sound that
don't belong in this world. Ain't just sounds,
neither. The woods got watchers. Tall, dark things
that slip between the trees, moving just out
of sight. Their eyes hollow and wrong, fixed
on anyone fool enough to walk them cursed grounds.
Then there's the ones who've felt it the cold
touch of fingers that ain't there Brushing up
their arms pulling at their sleeves Some say
they freeze up like they've been dropped in a
lake in January Can't move can't breathe can't
do nothing, but wait for it to pass and them
eyes them burning red hot eyes More than one
poor soul's caught a glimpse of them, glowing
in the underbrush, watching without blinking,
without moving, until you get too close. Then,
gone. Like they was never there at all. And Lord
help you if you hear the growling. Ain't no wolf,
ain't no bobcat, ain't nothing that walks natural
on this earth. It's low, guttural, hungry. The
same sound them counselors heard back in 77.
and the sound they laughed off until the laughing
stopped for good. Some folks say it's the girls
trapped in their final moments doomed to relive
that night over and over again trying to find
a way out that ain't never coming. Others reckon
it goes deeper than that. That whatever cursed
that land long before 1977 is still there, still
watching, still waiting. And if you step foot
on that soil It just might be waiting for you.
Maybe it was the trail of tears that first soaked
that soil in sorrow, leaving behind a wound that
never healed. Maybe it was the battle of Locust
Grove, spilling more blood into ground that had
already had its fill, calling up restless spirits
that still roam the hills. Or maybe, just maybe,
something else was always there. hiding in the
trees, waiting for something innocent to take.
And in 1977, it did. One thing's for certain,
that land never forgot. And those who set foot
upon it, they never leave unchanged. Even now,
if you listen close, the wind don't just whistle
through them trees, it whispers, calling out
names that ain't been spoken in years. crying
for something lost, and if you go looking for
the spirits of Camp Scott, you might just find
them, or worse, they might just find you. Now,
I have to ask, was it just a terrible crime or
was there something older, darker at play? Do
you believe the land itself had a curse on it,
built on all that sorrow and bloodshed? And what
about the hauntings? Do you think the spirits
of them girls are still trapped there, reliving
that night over and over again? Or is there something
else lurking in them woods, waiting for the next
soul to wander too close? We want to hear your
thoughts, your theories, and your own ghost stories.
Would you ever dare to step foot on that land?
Drop your comments below. And if you've ever
been somewhere that felt like it remembered something
awful, Tell us about it. We're listening. And
who knows? Maybe they are, too. That's all for
this tale, but don't you worry. There's always
more haunting stories waiting in the dark. We're
glad y 'all stopped by Kentucky Melody, where
the past ain't never quite buried in the shadows
got stories to tell. If you liked this one, be
sure to like, subscribe, and stick around. We
got plenty more Appalachian haints, ghostly goings
on, and eerie legends still to come. And remember,
next time you hear the wind whispering through
the trees, next time the woods go a little too
quiet, next time something don't feel quite right,
maybe, just maybe, you ain't alone. We'll see
y 'all next time, if them spirits don't find
you first.