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McLeod Andrews (1:07)

Campfire stories have a way of weaving themselves into the fabric of our childhoods, blurring the lines between thrilling tales and chilling truths. But what happens when these tales, whispered among flickering flames, become a haunting reality? Some legends, it seems, are far more sinister than campfire smoke. Welcome to Sightings, the series that takes you inside the world's most mysterious supernatural events. I'm McLeod.

Brian Sigley (1:41)

And I'm Brian. And today we're running as fast as we can from a terrifying urban legend.

McLeod Andrews (1:47)

So if you're brave enough, journey with us to Ojai, California, where one fiery myth casts a long shadow. They say he roams the night, a smoldering figure born from tragedy. But is the char man merely a campfire tale? Or does he lurk in the shadows, waiting to be summoned? Find out on this episode of Sightings. Let me tell you a story. Ojai, California, 1948. The Great Fire, as they called it, was roaring across the valley, eating everything in its path and leaving nothing but ash in its wake. Some say it first sparked near the Pool, a wheeler resort, when a butane pipe burst. Others say it began when the flames of hell breached the rocks and the hills outside of town. Whatever the cause, more than 30,000 acres were soon ablaze, with 1500 firefighters risking life and limb to quell the inferno. Most of the townspeople of Ojai managed to evacuate to safety. But not everyone see. Out past Old Creek Bridge, there was a cabin. And in this cabin lived a man and his wife, a pair who, unlike their Neighbors down the hill failed to hear the warning sirens or smell the smoke before the flames were licking at their doorstep. It's said that the man tried to save his wife, but the front of the cabin became a wall of heat, blocking his path to her. And as he tried over and over and over again to get into that cabin to reach the wife he loved so dearly, he was burned so bad that the skin melted right off his body. And as he lay on the boiling dirt, unable to move, he could only listen as his wife screamed, help me. Help me. From inside the cabin as she was slowly consumed by the flames. And hearing that turned that man's mind into an inferno and his heart to ash. Fueled by remorse and rage, he became something more than human, something worse than human, something known as Char Man. Now he wants revenge. My name's Bobby Parsons. And if you were raised in Ojai like I was, I'd bet you learned the story of the char man when you were a teenager. It's a rite of passage here, an all in good fun mashup of spooky campfire stories and late night dares. But for me, well, learning the legend of the char man wasn't quite so innocent. I grew up the youngest of three, which made me the constant punching bag of my older brothers. And once they became teenagers and learned about char man from their friends, they decided to use his story to scare me out of my wits. So they took me into the hills and rehashed the legend, which suggested that if you stood on old creek bridge and shouted, help me. Help me. Then you'd see the horrifying creature for yourself. That my brothers said was the only way I'd become a man. I was 9 years old at the time, so I felt like I didn't have one say or another in the matter. And sure enough, I found myself standing on that bridge in the middle of the night with nothing around for miles but my two idiot brothers waiting with our bikes. And they reminded me that if I didn't do it, didn't cry out and glimpse the horror for myself, then they'd never, ever, ever let it go. And look, I'd be the first to admit I was a total wuss as a kid. So I didn't have much cour. Despair at that moment. All I remember is that I was so scared, I couldn't even speak, Couldn't even mouth the words. So I just closed my eyes and hoped to pass out from the sheer stress of it all. But before that could happen, I heard it a Scraping sound on the old rickety wood of the bridge. And I felt something, a presence almost getting closer. Closer, but how? I hadn't said anything, hadn't cried for help, hadn't summoned the char man. But I didn't dare open my eyes to see what was beside me, even as I felt the baby hair on my left arm begin to singe and I was too terrified to move, to recoil, even as my arm felt like it was fully on fire, like I was standing next to a being made of pure flame, until wham. I hit the ground hard. And I opened my eyes to find my brothers standing over me, laughing and pointing at my crotch because I'd peed my pants. But right then I didn't care about that. I was worried about my arm, which throbbed with pain. And I screamed at my brothers to show me the lighter. One of them had to be hiding, but they looked at me like I was crazy and said, they just tackled me. That's all. It was just a stupid scare. So from then on, I was terrified of fire and the woods and the thought that something else was on the bridge with me that night, it messed me up real good. And I kept having dreams of that bridge that night. And though I could never actually see him, the char man, I could feel him and his disturbing warmth beside me. This continued well into my teens, terrifying me each night. But by day, I tried to play the tough guy. So I got in fights, got into shit. And even though the dreams eventually faded, my macho overcompensation didn't. And by 19, I landed myself in prison. I don't want to get into what caused it, other than to say I screwed up good and was looking at 10 long years. And as the days ticked by in my tiny cell, that dream started up again, of that bridge, that thing. And it started getting to me, feeding on my fear, driving me crazy. And I wanted a way out. Needed a way out. I'd give anything for it. And you know what? Turns out? Fate has a pretty wicked sense of humor. So for any of this to make any sense, you need to understand there's these things in the prison system called conservation camps, where the state reduces sentences for assistance with things like disaster relief. And in California, that usually meant wildfire fighting, which was definitely not my gig. But like I said, I'd give anything for a way out, even if it meant facing my fears. So I sucked it all back and went out into the wilderness. And, yeah, I was terrified the first time I found myself staring at an inferno. But instead of killing Me. It empowered me. Because it turns out I was actually good at this whole firefighting thing. So day in and day out, I braved the woods, fought the flames. I saw how these fires ravaged people's lives, and I learned firsthand what empathy really was. And then, as my dreams of Char man faded like smoke on the horizon, I realized I'd beaten my fears. Or at least beaten most of them. Because even though I'd learned to fight fires like a pro, the thought of that bridge still terrified me. And that fear, All I could do was ignore it, forget it, bury it, and it would have to stay buried forever. A few years later, I'd earned my early release. And wouldn't you know it, I decided to keep working on the front lines, fighting wildfires. I joined a hotshot crew, the best of the best out there, and battled blazes across the state each fire season. Before I knew it, a few more years had passed, and sure enough, my thoughts of that bridge stayed buried and never surfaced once. Then I met Cotton. He was a new recruit in my crew, and like me, he grew up in Ojai. So one night, after handling a brush fire near Chico, we all got to drinking, and Cotton got to talking about Ojai. And then he did it. He brought up the char man. Suddenly, that bridge came rushing back to me, that creeping fear. And I did my best to hide it, even as Cotton said that next time we're down in SoCal, we ought to stop in Ojai, show the boys old Creek bridge, and see if the legend was true or not. I didn't say anything during all this, of course. I just stared down into my beer as the guys oohed and ah. And had a good time with a silly teenage legend. But sure enough, the next week took us down by Santa Barbara, just up the coast from Ojai. And since I was jockeying for crew leader, the guys looked up to me. So I couldn't wuss out on the trip. They planned to visit the hills outside of town, the bridge outside of town. So I felt my heart fall into my stomach as I realized that I was about to meet the char man again, whether I wanted to or not. There were five of us in the cab of Cotton's Ford F150. And as he drove, Cotton told us his version of the char man legend. Like the version my brothers and I learned, Cotton's story started with the Great Fire of 1948. But in his story, it wasn't a husband and wife in that cabin in the woods. It was a Father and son. And as the flames whipped through the hills, they destroyed the cabin, killed the father and burned the son. But the son didn't die. Instead, his body was left completely charred, and he was driven insane from the pain. So in the aftermath of the fire, he hung his father's body from a tree and stripped all the burned skin from it before fleeing into the hills, past Old Creek Bridge, where he's hidden, demented and charred ever since. So Cotton said, it's become sport among Ojai teenagers to stop their cars on the bridge at night and scream, help me into the wilderness. And some have claimed that a figure will come running at them from the woods. A horribly burned man who glows orange from the flames that emit from the cracks in his skin. And the legend goes, if you can't flee quickly enough, the Char man will start attacking your car windows. And if he's successfully able to break through, he'll drag you into the night and skin you alive. Of course, the other guys in the car thought all this was a load of bull, but Cotton told us he'd actually seen the Charman for himself, real and in the flesh. He said it happened back when he was a teenager. He and a buddy got drunk one night and drove out to the bridge. They parked smack in the middle of it, cracked a fresh beer, rolled down the windows, and started calling out for help. He said it was just a game for them. They started with a whisper, then got louder, louder, louder, until they were shouting with abandon out into the night. But nothing happened. No glow appeared in the distance, no cries came from the trees, and nothing came scraping at their windows, trying to pull them out into the darkness. So after a while, the boys gave up. Cotton grabbed his keys, cranked the ignition, and as soon as the headlights blasted to life, the boys froze. Something was standing on the bridge right in front of their car. A bandage clad figure staring at them. It looked like a man, Cotton said, but its eyes were black. Pitch black, like the night. And those black eyes just stared at the boy, who were too scared to move. Until all of a sudden, the figure clenched its fists and its whole body caught fire like a human torch. And then, Cotton said, the thing opened its mouth and screamed something awful. And without even thinking, Cotton slammed the car in reverse and they got the hell out of there and never looked back. Now, the other guys in the car seemed unsettled. A few tried to laugh it off, but I could tell they were straight up spooked. But me, I knew Cotton was bluffing. He'd Just made the legend his own. Or had he? Who was I to say what Char man really was? I hadn't seen him. I just felt him known he was there, and he'd haunted my dreams ever since. Soon enough we were on Old Creek Road and driving out into the hills above town. I knew the road well and knew the bridge would appear any moment, and right on time it did. It was an old wooden thing and I was amazed that it was still standing since I last saw it as a kid. But there it was, and Cotton pulled the truck right up onto the middle of it and turned off the ignition. He told us that since he'd already seen the Char man, he was going to leave the truck and wait down the road. The rest of us were to stay in the car, then say, help me, Help me. Soft at first, then louder and louder and louder, until still, if we were lucky, we'd see the Char man for ourselves. Then, with an ominous salute, he disappeared into the dark. The other guys looked at one another, skeptical. One asked me if this whole thing was bullshit, and I said of course it was. But another suggested that since we drove all this way, we might as well put the legend to the test. So we rolled down the window and on the count of three, the other guys started saying, help me, help me. Slow and quiet at first, then louder, louder, and as the guy's shouts reached fever pitch, screaming full blast into the night, the truck shook and I swear you could hear a pin drop in there. And we all looked around, scanning the dark for something, anything, when wham. A flaming hand smacked the driver side window and everyone, all full grown men, straight up, screamed. And in reply we heard laughter, a very human snicker with a voice I knew all too well. It was Cotton, of course, and with a sly smile he held up a fire resistant glove that was still sizzling from the lighter fluid he doused it in. Everyone got a good laugh out of that, and of course Cotton readily admitted that his story was a bunch of bullshit. He'd seen nothing at all on this bridge back when he was young. But as that fear still coursed through my veins, I got to wondering what I'd experienced on this bridge then. Had it all been in my head, a fever dream of a terrified 9 year old? Or had something really, truly happened back then? And worse, would it keep haunting me for years to come? So as Cotton got in the cab and turned the ignition, I told him to wait, that there was something I needed to do. I needed to end this once and for all. A Few minutes later, I found myself standing alone in the dark. Cotton and the others had retreated down the road and were told to give me five minutes before coming back. So with the clock ticking, I sucked back my breath and walked out onto the bridge just like I had some 20 years before. And I could feel myself shaking as I planted my feet right in the center of the wooden planks. Then I closed my eyes and waited. I knew I didn't have to say anything. That if the char man was indeed real, that he'd have no trouble finding me here. And I didn't know what I expected to get from this other than confirmation I wasn't crazy or a way to put my fears to rest. But as the seconds, then minutes, ticked by and nothing happened, I began to suspect that everything, all 20 years of it, had been in my head. And I was just about to open my eyes and walk away when I heard it. That familiar, terrifying scraping sound on the rickety wood of the bridge. And I felt a presence, a warmth growing ever closer. So I did what I had been too afraid to do 20 years ago. I opened my eyes and there he was, standing right in front of me. The char man. He was a portrait of pain with a blackened and charred face. Blistered flesh hung like rotted cloth from his cheeks and forehead, with glowing embers smoldering in the cracks of the skin that remained. His nose was a gaping hole, his ears charred nubs. His eyes pure vivid flame. And they stared deep into mine with a burning intensity I'll never forget. And despite the horror standing before me, I didn't feel any fear. Instead, I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness, just like I felt for the victims of the wildfires I fought each day. So I did the only thing I could think to do and said to words, I'm sorry. And the char man seemed to consider that for a moment. Then he slowly retreated back into the night until the faint glow of his charred skin vanished into the dark. And as I stood there alone on that bridge again, I felt lighter somehow, because I'd faced my fears and come out on the other side. And the Charman hasn't haunted my dreams since.