Old Man Johnson is not a real person. As far as I can tell, he never existed. But to my childhood self, he haunted every campground my family and I ever camped at. 

Growing up in western North Carolina, camping was an essential part of my childhood. My mom grew up camping in Canada, mostly because it was the cheapest way for her family to vacation with five kids and all. She imparted all her love for camping into us and held our hands when we first learned to pee in the woods. My dad, on the other hand, only camped a few times before adulthood. But he’d grown up loving Scooby Doo mysteries and campy, B-level horror films. This love is what led to many scary stories told around the campfire, each one more gory than the last.

“Old Man Johnson” stories started before I can even remember—probably before I even gained consciousness. My first camping trip was when I was three or four, with my dad and older sister. My mom was pregnant and my dad got us out of the house to give her some space and also to traumatize us with the scariest campfire stories we’d ever heard. That is—I’m told—where Old Man Johnson was born. 

Old Man Johnson never had any name except for that one and his family (the Johnsons) used to own the land we were camping on. When Old Man Johnson was just a child, his family was brutally murdered and their land stolen from them. He grew up with one mission in mind: to avenge his family by murdering anyone who tried to camp on their land.

These stories followed us from campground to campground as we grew up, sometimes with friends or family. While the basic outline of the stories remained the same, bits and pieces would change and often grow. My dad described it as there being a pressure—admittedly self-imposed—to keep the stories from getting boring and predictable. This led to stories of Girl Scouts being strung up like Christmas tree ornaments, blood spatter on tents that looked eerily exactly like ours, and a murdered pregnant woman whose rescued baby grew up to be Old Man Johnson himself. 

I have tried many times to retell or invent my own “Old Man Johnson” stories for my friends on various camping endeavors. Every time, though, I fail to capture the heart of the stories. Maybe that’s because I have a very difficult time keeping a straight face, or because I gasp alongside my storytelling to encourage others to gasp with me. Regardless of why, my scary stories have never lived up to what my father created for us growing up. 

The magic (and terror) of Old Man Johnson may be cocooned in nostalgic memories of camping with my family, of huddling beneath a tarp while a windstorm almost whipped us off a mountain, of corn on the cob hot from the coals, and of the smell of the dew-covered tent in the mornings. And the best part is that these stories only originated because my dad thought it would be funny and entertaining—for him and us. But they were improvised, just cobbled together on the fly. 

I asked my dad what he remembered about my siblings’ and my reactions to the stories. He replied, “I don’t recall anyone having nightmares or being scared. I’m sure one of us made sure to tell you that it was all made up.” I don’t quite remember being told it was all made up. It felt really real; this murderous and sad old man was very believable. 

I asked my dad if there was anything else he remembered. He said simply, “I remember that you guys wanted more of them.” And twenty years later, he’s still right.

Carlisle Patete

Carlisle Patete (‘22) came to Calvin University from the mountains of North Carolina and graduated with a double major in film & media and creative writing. After brief stints in Los Angeles and Chicago, she now resides in Chattanooga, Tennessee, where she enjoys sweet tea on her front porch and identifying every tree and bird she runs into on any hiking trail.