The Professor Finds Proof

He stood at the cave’s mouth and rested. He was trespassing on the farm, even told by the townsfolk not to temp going onto the land: The owner was protective of the cave. Something, though, told him to ignore all the warnings. Something was pulling him to the cave.

A breeze blew from within and exited, enveloped him in a coldness welcomed on this hot and humid summer night. He closed his eyes and tried to enjoy it, but the pleasure ended when he smelled an odor he wished he had never had before.

As a teen, Nathan Fellows wanted to follow in his uncles’ examples, wanted to become a private investigator. He would accompany them while on stakeouts, perform research on clients, and even ask questions of crime witnesses. That dream, however, ended one night; the one night he found a body that had been dead for a while.

Fellows could not stomach the odor: He cried and had his dinner escape rapidly from his stomach. It was that night he changed career ideas. Now at 45, he was a full professor of American History at State University of New York at Albany, teaching the young about what had happened locally during the Colonial and Revolutionary years.

An obscure parchment, dated 1816, came across his desk three months earlier, outlining the contents of a cave somewhere in the Schoharie Valley. This artifact seemed to confirm what he had believed for years: The pirate Jean Laffite had sailed up the Hudson River from New York City with two ships full of loot, and just before arriving in Albany, anchored and removed the cargo. He and his men trekked some 25 miles southwest to Schoharie, where a half-brother and his wife lived near a large cavern. Fellows’ research never found the exact location, but the parchment had given him some clues.

He closed his eyes and steadied himself, reminding himself that the smell of death could be coming from animals that became trapped and died deep within. He turned on the flashlight and pierced the darkness.

He saw several small, loose stones at his feet and stepped around them. He moved the light from side to side, the limestone walls stained red from the iron-rich soil above. In the distance, he heard the echoing of water dripping, the same action that caused the staining.

This was not the first Schoharie Valley cave or cavern Fellows had been in. He knew the trip was going to be long, an hour at the very least. He searched the walls and the cavern floor for clues, anything that would tell him he was correct: This was where Laffite left treasure. He found nothing.

He was becoming discouraged an hour into the walk, having descended several hundred feet as well as traveling what he estimated a mile. Though he found evidence people had used the cavern – smoke smudges on the walls, broken glass on the ground, charcoal – he found nothing to indicate early 19th century pirates had been there.

Another breeze came from deep within, colder than the first one. This one had no death smell, but it carried a sound, the sound of a crying woman. Fellows increased his pace, trying to reach her quickly.

“Hello,” he called out. “Where are you?” His echoed words received no answer, but he continued down the cavern.

He wished he had a more powerful flashlight: this one only pierced the black a few yards further, making him unable to run. Another breeze hit him, more cries from the woman accompanied the coldness.

“I’m coming,” he called out. He didn’t expect a response, but that didn’t deter him. He rounded a corner and slid to a stop. He nearly crashed into an iron door.

“What the Hell?” he mumbled. He reached out and touched it. It was solid, built into the limestone walls. This made him believe that, indeed, his hypothesis was true.

“Help me,” a female voice called out, this time from behind him. He was sure he didn’t miss a turn-off, a side path. He turned around, ready to retrace his steps.

His light pierced the opaque forms of four men, men dressed in the redcoats of colonial British officers.

“Help me,” one mocked. “Help me.”

The professor looked at the ghosts and shook his head. They tricked him, but wanted to know why. He began to question the four phantoms, never seeing one withdraw a sword from the scabbard.

Nathan Fellows tasted blood as the blade slowly withdrew from his stomach. His eyes expanded to their fullest. He dropped to his knees as his life began to leave.

“The Mistress will be pleased with this sacrifice,” one of the phantasms said as the professor’s life slipped away.



Ten pre-teens sat around the fire and listened to the man tell the story. None spoke while he spun the tale. Now as it ended, they looked up.

“Good story,” a camper said.

“Is it true?” another asked.

The camp counselor smiled. He knew the story would keep his charges distracted while two others went to get the S’mores ingredients from the kitchen. He didn’t have the heart, though, to tell them the truth.

“What do you think?” he asked the girl.

She shook her head and answered, “No, it’s just a story. It’s not true.”

“If that’s what you believe,” he said.