Ghost Fire and Will O’ the Wisp

As the chilling cold fronts reach down from the northwest with icy fingers, autumn fire pits can spark and conjure ghost stories, but when the fireside tales of the macabre become more than the rumors of the ne’er-do-well and the Will o’ the Wisp, the wise must consider that the legends from the past can have manifestations in the present.

Once upon a time in October, not long ago, the chickee huts on Marco Beach were under repair and getting new palm thatching for the conical rooftops. A recent hurricane blowing through the Everglades was responsible for the ruffled feathers of almost everything on the beach, and the Marco Beach Boys and Girls were trying to get everything back on track for the upcoming winter season.

Much of the palm thatching and framework was wind-worn and blown away by the storm, and as the Native Americans were weaving the fresh palm fronds into the cypress framework, the fascinating process was interesting to watch. When the Seminole tradecraft was complete, the weaving and workmanship was truly an art form. 

On the final day of work, when the thatching was perfect and the little forest of chickee huts was green and filled with the scent of the newly cut palm fronds and the Everglades, the Native Americans drove away with their tools and their trucks. Shortly afterward, a much older rough-cut stranger who was obviously not with the work crew began to approach and inspect the thatching from under the largest of the huts.

When the two Beach Boys saw the ne’er-do-well stranger, who did not look like a tourist staying at the Marco Beach Hotel, equal parts of curiosity and snooping were the driving factors that brought a new light on everything when the misplaced man became stranger than expected. Without preamble or introduction, the newcomer began staring with determination at the Beach Boys under the hut.

“Did they tell you where they cut that cypress or those cabbage palms?” The question from the stranger was abrupt and followed by a thick stream of tobacco juice that shot onto the sand. Before any answer was possible, the stranger jerked a thumb at the departing pickup trucks as they were about to disappear. “Did they tell anybody about where they cut those palms and cypress? About where they been and how they come back?”

The Beach Boys had only one reply. “No sir.”

“I’ll bet you don’t see too many ne’er-do-well swamp people out here on this fancy island.”

The Beach Boys had no response but could not escape as the stranger’s tale began.

“You boys have no idea what is happening on the other side of that Goodland Bridge. The chickee builders know, and I know, but the folk that build the chickees know a lot more than they will tell.”

“Out there in the Everglades, there are places no one should go, not if you plan on coming back,” he said. “There are hammocks to cut cypress and swamp cabbage where only native folk can go. Only the folks that truly know the glades can go in without going missing. Out there in the mangroves, and where the saltwater turns to fresh, the Ghost Fire is alive and roaming them swamps. Most folks living on Marco have no idea about Ghost Fire and the Will O’ the Wisp and how they can take you.”

The stranger searched the faces that were watching. “You boys ever hear about Ghost Fire?”

“No sir,” was the unified Beach Boy response.

“The science folks say it's swamp gas. Methane gas that bubbles up from dead critters or maybe from some of them drug runners who got caught in a bad deal and were dumped in the glades. Maybe some of them ghosts are from dopers, but a real Florida cracker knows that bubbling swamp gas don’t light by itself and that roaming purple fire don’t roam without a reason.

Ghost Fire and the Will o’ the Wisp is nothing special to Florida. Ghost Fire is all over the world, but because all them mangroves and glades are lonesome; we lose folks from time to time.”

“The story is that the Will O’ the Wisp are old hobgoblins who are forever wandering and carrying the Ghost Fire flames of the lost,” the stranger said. ”They capture lost souls and lock them in their lanterns. The more souls they collect the brighter their purple lights. The goblins roam near roads or waterways where the Ghost Fire lanterns can flicker and attract travelers - just like bait. When cars or boats see the purple lights, it draws them into the glades or the mangroves. When the purple lights disappear, that’s where more Will O’ the Wisp will be waiting. They’re waiting in dark places with empty lanterns. The curious who stop to search for the purple glow become the folks who never come back. The missing travelers are the ones that end up as fuel for the Ghost Fire lanterns.”

“When the moon is new, and the dark of the moon is heavy over the Everglades, that lonesome drive between Marco and Miami can show a glow of purple light will always capture the unwary. Park rangers will tell of methane swamp gas rising from the mangroves and saw grass, and how when happenstance mixes in another noxious stench, the two gasses catch fire, but no one can tell why the Ghost Fire moves over the wetlands and taunts the careless. Nor can anyone explain the empty cars left on the swampy shoulders of the old Tamiami Trail or of the missing drivers and passengers that have come across a Will o’ the Wisp—a hobgoblin who forever carries a lantern that always needs more fuel!”

Happy Halloween month Marco, Goodland, and Isles of Capri!