(Editor’s note: This is the first in a two-part series about the supernatural goings-on in northern Oconto County.)
Following up on my column about the Holt and Balcom Logging Camp in Lakewood, I begin by saying I used to be agnostic about ghosts, goblins, witches and such. Maybe they existed; maybe they didn’t. Truth be told, haunted houses and horror movies have always creeped me out, though I love the ghost scene in the George C. Scott film version of “The Christmas Carol.” “Ghost,” starring Demi Moore, Patrick Swayze and Whoopi Goldberg, is one of my all-time favorite movies.
Now I only mention all of this because things changed drastically in my paranormal world about 20 years ago when I first heard about Dr. Fred. The good doctor supposedly haunts Hillcrest Lodge in Townsend.
Hillcrest is on Nicolet Road, a mere mile or so away from our home at Otter Run. This is very convenient for us, especially because Jon and I can walk home if need be. That’s never happened, so please don’t chalk up what I am about to relate to my being overserved by our favorite bartender, Shelly.
When I first heard about Dr. Fred, I was more than skeptical. His story was related to me in 2006 by Lois Harms, a lovely church-going lady I interviewed for my books on the history of Townsend. Lois, now deceased, insisted that the elderly doctor once resided at Hillcrest.
“He lived in an upstairs apartment, but he was tragically hit by a car driving in front of the lodge on a dark and rainy night. Fred may have died from his injuries, but he’s never really left the place,” she emphatically declared.
Nah, I thought. Lois has always had a vivid imagination. Even when I saw a Discover Wisconsin piece on Hillcrest and Dr. Fred, I was not convinced. It was only when I interviewed Karla Schuessler, then owner of Hillcrest, that I began to wonder.
Karla described Fred’s antics with eye-witness detail. It seems the good doctor had a habit of regularly opening windows, slamming doors, rearranging the chairs, scattering money out of the till, even opening the taps. She was really credible. Whoa, Bessie.
About that same time, I got involved with the Holt and Balcom Logging Camp Museum in Lakewood. Our summer Saturday tours start at 10 a.m., but sometimes we don’t get visitors until after 11. That leaves some dead (pun intended) time for me to sit alone in the cook shack. I had almost forgotten about Fred when one Saturday morning, I was overcome by a presence, like when you sense someone is watching you from behind. The back of my head tingled. I looked around. No one was there.
The presence wasn’t frightening, more the opposite, protective and affirming. I couldn’t help but wonder, were there spirits about? I found myself asking aloud: “Who are you? What do you want?”
Suddenly, the answer rushed into my subconscious. This will, of course, sound ridiculous to the unbelieving, but somehow I just knew. This was a manifestation of spirits of long-dead lumberjacks, approving of the work I was doing in saving the camp. After that, they began to visit regularly, until we started the restoration in earnest, that is. I assumed that all that activity upset them.
I missed their presence, but they didn’t return during the long challenging years of the restoration (2008-13). Then, in early May 2014, something extraordinary occurred when I was at the camp cleaning. I finished in the bunkhouse, making sure everything was arranged just so and went into the cookshack to fetch my phone. When I returned a minute later, one of the four old wooden chairs was sitting at a 45-degree angle to the table. I scolded myself for not positioning it properly, pushed it back where it belonged and closed the door.
I worked for a while in the cookshack, then went to use the bathroom in the McCauslin Golf Course Clubhouse, which is close by. Just for peace of mind, I checked the bunkhouse. The same chair was at that same 45-degree angle. Now I was more than annoyed. Was someone playing tricks on me?
I put the chair back, bolted the access doors, double-locked the bunkhouse and called Jon to tell him what had happened. He insisted someone was pranking me, perhaps Pat Lowery or Ken Klein or Sherm Laundrie. They all worked Saturdays at the golf course and were perfectly capable of carrying out a practical joke.
I assured him that no one could have entered the museum without me seeing, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. As I hung up, I was consumed by curiosity. I went back to the bunkhouse. Oh, my God. The chair was askew again, sitting at the exact same angle. That was my introduction to our Camp Ghost Charlie.
Kathleen Marsh is a lifelong educator, writer, and community advocate. She has published eight books, four on the history of Townsend, where she and husband Jon are happily retired on the beautiful Townsend Flowage.
