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of
     the black stag that Tom had encountered before his death. Tom’s demise was
     immediately blamed on some evil spirit, who had appeared on the roadway in the
     form of the great black stag.
    As tragic and terrifying as the story is, it did not end there.
    Tom’s widow gave birth to their child, and a few weeks later decided that the
     child must be christened. As there was no priest locally, she had to travel to
     the town of Placentia to have the babe christened. Off she set, accompanied by
     Tom’s brother and a man who worked for the family. They arrived safely in
     Placentia, the child was duly christened, and they resided for a few days with
     friends. Then the foursome started for home.
    Like Thomas Conway, they never arrived home. When a search party
     went out, they found that all four of them had met a sudden and shocking death
     on the road, in the same vicinity as Tom’s strange demise. Tracks in the snow
     indicated that they had met something, and that they had run one way and then
     another to avoid whatever it was.
    Like Tom, there was no mark of violence on their bodies. The weather was mild
     and all four were warmly dressed, so they had not died of exposure. They were
     well-stocked with food, and the friends in Placentia later stated that they had
     all been hale and hearty when they left. Whatever they had encountered, it
     seemed, had scared them to death.
    The mystery has never been solved, and the strange circumstances surrounding
     the deaths of those five people along that stretch of road have never been fully
     explained. But if you ask the older residents of the area, they will place the
     blame firmly on a malevolent spirit, who for its own fiendish purposes, assumed
     the terrifying form of a black stag.

Y
ou will not find the community of
     Turk’s Gut on any modern map, so you will just have to believe me when I tell
     you that it exists. If you do manage to find it, drive down the old road toward
     the water and pull over when you get to the very last house. It is the only
     house there, a bright red one, so I am sure you will not miss it.
    Beside the house there are a few trees, and under their branches, hidden among
     the tall grass, there is a long, flat stone. Stop there, and listen. For that
     flat stone marks the grave of the Drummer of Turk’s Gut. And though he has been
     dead and buried for longer than anyone alive can remember, there are those who
     say his drumming has never ceased.
    Exactly where the Drummer came from is something of a mystery. Some believe
     that the Drummer was a prisoner of war, while others hold that he arrived as a
     stowaway on a sailing ship. All that is known for certain is that one day in the
     early part of the 1800s, the Drummer simply appeared. He was dripping wet, as if
     the ocean had tried to swallow him down, found him inedible, and had spat him
     out onto dry land.
    None of the good people of Turk’s Gut knew where the man had
     come from, nor did they know his true name. The man himself could offer little
     assistance, for he seemed to know just as little about his own identity as they
     did. It was clear that the man was suffering from some sort of amnesia. There
     was no doctor to provide assistance, and it was thought by the local people that
     he had suffered some sort of memory loss, perhaps due to a war injury.
    While the stranger could not remember his name, or where he was born, or how he
     had arrived in Turk’s Gut, he did retain one impressive skill. He remembered how
     to play the drum. When one was placed in his hands, he played it with a skill
     that astonished all who heard him. Because he seemed to have no name of his own,
     the stranger was nicknamed “The Drummer” by the local residents.
    The Drummer was taken in and shown great courtesy by a local family, the
     Simmses. Over time, the Drummer was accepted as one of the community, and the
     sound of his drum became a part of the rhythm of local