The True Story Behind The Ghosts of Alva Forest Even today, Alva is a sleepy community of sharecroppers, ranchers, citrus farmers, and the migrant workers who bring the sweet, tangy crop to market. If you take State Road 80 east from Fort Myers, past the rotting strip malls and car dealerships that couldn't even pretend to be attractive when new, past the the New Florida sprawl of the I-75 Corridor, you head into the center of Florida, and seem to head back in time. Back to the days when the Country Diner, with their Sunday afternoon Cat Fish Fries, was the focus of social life, and local entrepreneurs sold chicken wire garden sculptures and orange wine from their front lawns to passers-through. It is this setting that is home to one of the most frightening modern horror legends. Locals, those old enough to remember horse as the chief form of transportation, speak of the Skeetchahatta Indians that made the woods near Alva their home. A secretive group, they were only seen when they rode into town to trade. Some can recall seeing them slowly ride their horses in the morning mist of the orange groves. A quiet, stoic people, they were most remembered for the rumors that swirled around them. Rumors of the full-moon rituals, of strange chants that culminated in unearthly screams, and of ghostly apparitions that haunted those who had seen them to the end of their days. People, especially those with too much time on their hands, had always spoken with suspicion of the aboriginal people. It's hard to say if the suspicion led to the rumors, or the rumors led to the suspicion, but after a while people were blaming everything form their cows giving sour milk to lack of rain on the Skeetchahattas. Pretty soon, some of the more adventurous young men began to spy on the Indians. They claimed it was to investigate, while more pragmatic neighbors said it was to catch a glimpse of the pretty Indian maidens. Whatever the reason, these boys were stealthy enough to approach undetected. The first few times they didn't see anything out of the ordinary. But one night, with a full moon rising, the young men witnessed something that raised the hairs on their necks. Time has obscured the details of their story, but legend has it they witnessed a full-moon human sacrifice. When they told their tale the next Sunday at church, the community was in an uproar. Folks began to share stories they'd kept to themselves for fear of being branded crazy, or a drunk. As the stories began to tie together, a definitive truth began to evolve. A truth that went against everything these God-fearing people knew. Deep in the woods, their woods, amongst the scrub pines and cypress knees, the ground was stained with the blood of human sacrifice. The Skeetchahattas were ritually sacrificing their own people on full moon nights, and these souls, their lives ended in terror and agony, were walking the earth in anguish. This was more than the community could stand. In an uproar, and egged on by the land-greed of some of the wealthier ranchers, the people descended upon the Indian settlement that afternoon. No one remembers what was said or who reacted first, but many of the men had armed themselves, and the Indians were no doubt on edge seeing a large, angry mob closing in on them. But, as happens more often than not in the Florida summer heat, violence erupted. Maybe they tapped into their ingrained fear of primal forces, or maybe they maybe they seized upon some primal bloodlust within themselves, but before the sticky-hot night fell, the entire tribe lay in a pool of blood. Three local men suffered injuries, the worst being the loss of a hand to a machete. The people of Alva swore an oath to each other to never speak of this unholy Sabbath, and for along time they held true to this. But as time and conscience wore on their souls, they began to talk quietly to their families, maybe to attempt to forge an understanding, or maybe to explain their actions that long-ago afternoon. Eventually the full story began to creep out. Although there were investigations, the matter was allowed to sink back into its uneasy sleep. But legends have a way of growing, and the story started to circulate amongst those who derived their strange pleasure from such late-night diversions. Years later, after time had obscured the details of the horror, voices within the Native American community began to speak up, seeking reparations for the massacre. After much wrangling, the Federal Government began to quietly purchase tracts of the forest to create a National Sanctuary. Thus was born the Walking Dead Forest National Sanctuary. A popular day trip for outdoor enthusiasts, it's sun-dappled splendor does not hint at its reputation for moon-lit apparitions and unearthly noises. Although open to the public for overnight camping, it's haunted reputation has so effectively kept away campers, there isn't even an outdoor supply store in the area.