Beware of “The Man of Metamora.”

At least, that’s what I was told growing up.

As a member of the Cub Scouts organization during my elementary-school years, I used to go on annual camping trips with my scout pack on the designated camping grounds of Metamora, Michigan. The camping trip always took place sometime in late spring.

During that event-filled weekend out in the woods, us Cub Scouts, along with any participating scout parents and relatives, took part in a variety of activities. These activities included morning jogs, going on hikes, bow-and-arrow target practice, fishing, eating smores and sleeping in tents.

By far, the most nerve-racking aspect of the trip would always be the scary story our Scoutmaster told us on Saturday night while everyone was sitting around the campfire. Those of us who were brave enough to stay seated around the fire while he told his tale were always spooked to the core by the end of it. Being afraid was inevitable.

Every year, it never failed. Our Scoutmaster set out to scare us that night. His stories never ceased to do the trick.

Metamora is a small village located in East Michigan. It is north of the Metropolitan Detroit area and about 25 miles southeast of the city of Flint. It has a population of less than 600 people. Thanks to its wooded location and small-town atmosphere, the village provides an ideal setting for camping trips and, of course, spooky narrations.

Our Scoutmaster was the master of telling spooky tales. Each time, the setting was perfectly prepared for him because we were already in the woods, it was already dark and we could barely see anything beyond what little was illuminated by the campfire. We couldn’t help but let our imaginations run wild for the worst.

The Scoutmaster was always the last one to take a seat around the fire on Saturday night. Once he did, however, everyone else knew what was coming next. The aura of the camp would suddenly change from a feeling of lighthearted fun and relaxation to a feeling of gut-wrenching anticipation and fear. The tension was pretty intense.

His most memorable story is the one about the aforementioned Man of Metamora. This story was his most prized possession in his collection of creepy narratives. It was, hands down, his scariest tale and the one he told most often, too.

From what I remember of the story, the Man of Metamora was a Cub Scout, like we were, whose scout pack camped in Metamora years and years before us. He was more of an outcast compared to the rest of the scouts in his pack and was no stranger to being given a hard time by his peers. His life forever changed one fateful day when a tragic sequence of events left him burned and abandoned in the woods. He was left all alone and permanently deformed.

The boy, however, survived. He made Metamora his new home, thriving in the woods as some sort of feral child. Eventually, he grew up and became a man.

His personal vendetta is to terrorize all scouts who dare to go camping in Metamora, because of the way his own scout pack treated him. He is a deformed savage seeking revenge.

Now, I realize this story may not come across as being so scary when it is read on a computer screen or phone screen. Many of you are probably adult readers, reading this from the comfort of your home or some other safe place. However, to a bunch of elementary-school kids with wild imaginations in the heart of the woods at night, it was no joke.

Boy: “Mom, I don’t want to go camping this year.”

Mom: “Why not, dear?”

Boy: “Because I’m afraid of the Man of Metamora.”

Mom: “Okay sweetie, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

Boy: “Thanks, mom.”

Believe it or not, some form of the above dialogue really took place back then. Some boys refused to go camping again, simply because they were afraid the Man of Metamora might get them. I remember hearing about at least one or two of these cases. The fear was real.

I used to wake up on Saturday morning already thinking about the story I knew the Scoutmaster was going to tell later that night. I, myself, even skipped story time once, although I did still go camping.

After story time was over, many scouts refused to sleep outside in their tents; they opted to sleep in the bunk beds inside the cabins instead. Others would even choose to sleep inside their parents’ vehicles to feel safer as they tried to survive the night. I, too, once chose to sleep in my dad’s van, rather than in the tent we had set up.

Admittedly, on Sunday morning, I would still be frightened. I’d be too scared to eat much for breakfast. I’d still be thinking about the story during the drive back home, even though I was finally leaving Metamora. Once I was home, I would sit and watch hours of cartoon shows and movies just to try to take my mind off the story; this tactic, however, barely helped.

The best solution, it turned out, was always time. Eventually, I would be good again. At least, until it came time to go camping again. We camped in Metamora every year, too, no place else.

The story of the Man of Metamora really speaks volumes to not only how easy it is to scare kids but also how good of a storyteller my Scoutmaster was (and probably still is). He took this portion of our camping trips very seriously. He treated it just like he treated the rest of his duties as the leader of Pack 1671.

Here is an example of my Scoutmaster’s dedication to story time on Saturday night. Our scheduled bow-and-arrow target-practice session on Saturday had to be canceled one year for unknown circumstances. That night, our Scoutmaster took advantage of story time around the fire to tell everybody “the real truth” about what caused target practice to be canceled. He explained that the Man of Metamora had recently been sighted near that area of the camping grounds, so authorities decided to shut it down for the time being.

Here is another example of my Scoutmaster’s dedication to story time. One year, a kid accidentally fell into the water while we were out fishing during the day. Later that night, the Scoutmaster told a tale about a creepy lady who lives in the water and snatches unsuspecting campers who fall in or dare to stand too close to it at night.

The “lady in the water” narrative was obviously a convenient one to tell that time around because of what had happened earlier that day. Even so, it was nothing short of scary to everyone who listened and was, of course, particularly traumatizing to the kid who actually did fall into the water that day. His initial nonchalance about the accident was quite pared after that.

Oh yeah! It got real for us in Metamora back in those days. Like I mentioned earlier, those stories were no joke. We heeded every word that the Scoutmaster said. It was a serious matter.

These days, however, I find myself looking back on those memories with fondness rather than fear. This is something I never would have thought possible back then. If you would have told me back then that I would eventually come to cherish these times, I would not have believed you. I would have been too scared in the present to see that as a possibility for the future.

Indeed, the story of “The Man of Metamora” is now regarded as a childhood classic. Today, it definitely deserves its props. You just never know how much your feelings about something will shift once enough time has gone by.

My Scoutmaster, of course, deserves an honorable mention as well. He did what he was supposed to do as the leader of our pack. Because of him, I’ll never forget the Man of Metamora.

Be afraid, campers. Be very afraid. I know I sure was.