Prairie Notes are monthly photo/journal observations from Tandy Hills Natural Area by Founder/Director, Don Young. They include field reports, flora and fauna sightings, and more, mixed with a scoop of dry humor and a bit of philosophy. They are available free to all who get on the FOTHNA email list.

The Engulfed Death Car of Tandy Creek

Prairie Notes - Special Edition

October 27, 2011

Prairie Notes Halloween Supplement

Up until the early 1980's, people could still drive right into Tandy Hills from View Street. There was no cable or curb to stop them. Some were couples looking for a place to "park". Some were looking to dump trash or steal topsoil. Others, probably thrill-seekers, wondered how far the road went and what was out there in the tall grass. From the street, Tandy Hills just looked like a big overgrown field. There wasn't an actual "road", only footpaths cut through the grass. Any fool driving out there often got more than they bargained for. Take a wrong turn and you end up staring death in the face as did the unfortunate lovers who crashed into the Witchey Tree.

Today, the rusted shells of three vehicles still litter the Tandy Hills landscape. The infamous, Witchey Tree Dodge Van and a 70's model Chevy pickup are still out there but can be hard to find.

But there is one vehicle, an old car, battered beyond recognition, that is better left unseen. It ended up in the creek many years ago after what must have been a horrifying accident. Most of the time it remains hidden from view, consumed by the earth and the torrent of waters that sometimes flow through Tandy Creek. On certain October nights, in some inexplicable way, the car becomes unearthed and reigns terror onto any unsuspecting hiker who happens by. Be forewarned. You never want to encounter...

Tandy Hills creeks are usually dry and good places to hunt fossils. They are also the final resting place of a few unfortunate individuals.

How the car and its driver became entombed in Tandy Creek is uncertain. Rumors persist that, having lost his way home after a night of bar hopping along East Lancaster, a man drove his car down the main trail at Tandy Hills, thinking it was his driveway. It was dark after all and a heavy thunderstorm was rolling through the city. I think it was about 1979. After driving some distance across the prairie, the man eventually went downhill ending up in Tandy Creek. Unable to get the car restarted, he attempted to get out but the door was jammed shut. Overcome by his ordeal and stinking drunk, he fell into semi-consciousness as storm waters slowly engulfed his car, pushing it downstream.

The body was never found and the car was so far from the road that police just left it in the creek where it was soon forgotten. The tale of how I discovered the mysterious car is a one of unimaginable terror. To this day, it's enough to make me hurry out of the park when evening light darkens. I, for one, would not want to get caught anywhere near that submerged death machine. Once was enough.

I first saw the car in about 1996. It was a crisp October afternoon, cheerful spikes of Liatris waved like purple-tipped paintbrushes on the hillsides. Maximillian Sunflowers glowed golden among the tall prairie grasses. I was taking a casual hike down the dry creek bed, just sauntering aimlessly, kicking at the occasional fossil. A chilly wind whistled through the dry air. Wood smoke, traveling on invisible wind currents from the nearby neighborhoods, was a welcome aroma.

Dotted Gayfeather

Seep Muhly Grass(aka: Ghost Grass) & Maximilian Sunflowers

Up ahead a weird noise caught my ear. It sounded almost like a car engine shutting off. "No way", I thought to myself. I started a bit when I first laid eyes on it, reluctant to approach in the gathering gloom. "This is too weird.", I said under my breath. It was indeed a car, buried half way up the doors in one of the deepest parts of the creek-bed. The make and model were obliterated. Rocks, mud and trash filled what was left of the tattered, seats. Tree limbs stuck out the back window. The body was badly dented and covered in damp creek slime.

Curiously, there was a faint whiff of cigarette smoke in the partially crushed cab. Touching the hood, I was alarmed to feel that it was slightly warm, despite the chilly temp outside. I was even more alarmed to see a set of keys in the ignition. They dangled slightly, a pair of dice hanging from the chain. I couldn't resist reaching for them only to find they were stuck. I leaned further in and jiggled them firmly when suddenly, the air was penetrated by a loud scream! I felt the hair on my neck stand up stiff, banging my head as I pulled my head quickly out of the cab. Looking fearfully over my shoulder I saw that it was only a noisy Crow, its huge, black wings flapping in silhouette against the dirty yellow moon above my head. That's all the warning I needed. I scrambled up the creek bank and got back on the trail, a cold wind pushing me homeward.

A few days later I got the nerve to go back for another look. "It was just my mind running away with me", I thought. The wind-swayed trees, the Crow, the darkness: they just stirred up the panic disorder I had recently come to grips with. Nothing to be afraid of. Or so I thought. To my astonishment, the car had vanished. Thinking I was at the wrong spot, I canvassed the creek for some distance in both directions. Not a trace. I finally gave up the search and went back home, eventually putting the whole thing out of my mind.

Most folks are familiar with that creepy tingle that can happen when you discover that you are standing atop a grave at a cemetery. We've all done it by accident, usually moving off quickly as soon as we realize our error. To this day, I am extra careful of my footing when duty calls me to attend a gravesite service of a friend or relative. You never know what's going on under your feet. That eerie feeling comes back to me as I recall what happened the next time I found myself in the creek bottoms of Tandy Hills.

By chance, it was Halloween, 1998. My wife and I had been preparing for a gaggle of trick-or-treaters. With a little time to kill before dark, I laced up my boots, grabbed my camera and headed for the hills to stretch my legs. Hiking purposely across the tall grass prairie, I spotted a murder of Crows off in the distance. I decided to follow and see if I could get a shot of them with my camera. Most people don't know that Crows are the smartest of all birds. It's rare to get close to them because they've learned to steer clear of humans. The Harvest moon was rising on the eastern horizon.

Twilight was coming on fast, so I quickened my pace. I wanted to get back home before the trick-or-treaters darkened our door. The Crows were perched in the tallest Bur Oak trees down near the bottom. Apparently, they were upset about a Hawk in their territory. The north wind blew their angry caws my direction. Without really thinking, I entered the creek-bed, a good distance from the Crows perch. Trying to be quiet, I kept to the sides of the creek, away from the gravelly middle so the softer dirt would muffle my footsteps. I crept closer to the birds, fighting through cobwebs and privet that choked the edges of the bank.

A flicker of fading sunlight illuminated the treetops where I spotted the Crows, much closer than I had ever been to them before. I fished the camera out of my pocket and focused the zoom. Just then, the wind gusted, stirring the leaves and blocking my view. I gingerly took a couple of short steps into the middle of the rock-strewn creek so I could get a better view. Squinting into the camera, I refocused. Suddenly, I heard a loud roar and it was NOT the startled Crows who suddenly bolted across the steel blue sky. It was the sound of an engine cranking to life. I was so nervous I dropped my camera. My legs were shaking and making a terrible racket. At least, that's what I thought until looked down. It wasn't just my legs shaking, it was the rocks and gravel under my feet. They were vibrating and, rising. "OMG! WTF!", I silently muttered.

Struggling to control my panic, I soon realized that my head was now as high as the the top of the steep, creek bank. A sound like a car engine gunning without a muffler echoed loudly inside the walls of the creek-bed. Looking down again, I discovered to my shock that I was standing on the battered, smashed-in top of a car. THE car!

It was somehow rising from the depths of the creekbed with me standing on top! As I labored to keep my footing the engine gunned again. The car angrily vibrated like some wild beast. It was now sitting fully on top of the creek-bed, it's rusted, nearly rubber-less wheels making a crunching sound on the gravel and rocks as it slowly rolled backwards. Fearing for my life, I leaped off, landing hard on the gravel.

*"Looking fearfully over my shoulder I saw that it was only some noisy Crows chasing away a Hawk ..."*

Without warning the car lurched forward, then stopped just as suddenly. I struggled to my feet and took a few steps backwards, my unblinking eyes never leaving the uncanny vision before me. The car lurched again, this time moving slowly forward around the bend in the creek as the engine revved ever higher. I gazed around the bend straining my eyes in the twilight, as the deafening sound literally shook the towering Oaks that lined the bank. As autumn leaves drifted down, the car started rolling down the creek ahead of me. But how? A car can't drive itself, especially one that was recently buried. So, who's driving, for crying out loud? Was he, she, it recently buried, too? And who, tell me who, just turned on the headlights???

Peering into the semi-darkness, my face drained of all color, I could see the car sitting dead-still, its faded red taillights bathed the creek in freakish, pink light. Shading my eyes, I stared deeper into the gloom, and there it was. A pale-skinned, human hand hung limply out the window pinching a lighted cigarette. Two bony fingers flipped the cigarette out the window and the hand withdrew. For a few tense seconds, everything seemed to stand still. The car engine idled gently, as if the macabre apparition was waiting for me to do something.

The hand reappeared and with a quick, upward motion, tossed something high into the air. I stared skyward, unblinking, watching in slow-motion as a vintage pair-o-dice keychain fell silently into my outstretched palm. Then with a final, mighty roar of the engine, the car wheels spun furiously, scattering gravel and sparks in their wake, smoke and dust filling the air. I jumped aside as the car disappeared into the darkness, with me gaping like a dead fish in the dry creek bed.

Afterword

In the daytime, Tandy Hills is one of the most inviting green spaces in Fort Worth. The wildflowers, tall grasses and gentle hills are Mother Nature at her finest. But something sinister goes on out there after the sun goes down, something very unnatural. Who knows, maybe it's the spirits of slaughtered Indians buried on the prairie a century ago, come back to haunt any man or woman who stumbles by. Or, perhaps, Mother Nature herself, avenging the destruction of her domain by short-sighted, greedy developers. Or maybe it's just the spirits of dead, drunken drivers who inhabit the abandoned vehicles that haunt the Tandy hills and valleys.

Whatever it is, the macabre event I witnessed made a lasting impression on me. My panic disorder resurfaced with a vengeance after that harrowing Halloween night in 1998. You will certainly, never again, find me down in those dark and spooky creek beds at dusk. Just as I always do at grave sites, I now give the Tandy Creek a wide berth. You never know what's going on under your feet or what lurks around the next bend.