These four vampire stories were retrieved from Archives and Special Collections at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. Thanks to the staff of the entire library system especially when someone comes in asking for local vampire stories.
THE BRADY STREET ENCOUNTER (1985) – Jeff Michaels
I ain’t much for writing, but after what happened outside Wolski’s, my hands are still shaking while I put this down. I’m Jeff Michaels, been working at the Allen-Bradley factory since ’70. Started on the line, now I’m a shift supervisor. Got two kids in high school, divorced three years now. Regular guy, you know?
It was Thursday night – payday. Me and some of the boys from the plant were at Wolski’s, like usual. Jimmy, Stan, and Pete had left around midnight, but I stayed for one more Old Style. The Brewers had lost again, and I wasn’t in no hurry to get back to my empty apartment on Humboldt.
Must’ve been around 1 AM when I finally headed out. It was one of them crisp October nights, leaves crunching under my steel-toes. I was cutting through the side streets off Brady, past all them old Polish flats. The streetlights were acting funny – flickering like they was trying to tell me something in morse code.
That’s when I seen her – this lady standing in front of St. Hedwig’s. At first, I figured maybe she was one of them artsy types from the Riverside, or maybe someone from one of them historical tours. She was wearing this dress that looked like something from my babcia’s old pictures, all black lace and high collar.
But something wasn’t right. The way she was standing – too still, like one of them department store mannequins. Then she moved. Jesus Mary and Joseph, how she moved. One second she’s by the church steps, next second she’s right in front of me. Didn’t walk, didn’t run, just… was there.
Her face… God help me, her face. Skin whiter than factory paper, eyes like something out of a cat’s face but red as brake lights. When she smiled, I saw them fangs, sharp as drill bits. The air got so cold my breath came out like smoke.
She reached for me with hands like ice. I felt her nails – more like claws – scratch my neck. Still got the marks. That’s when the church bell struck one, and I swear that sound made her flinch. I ran. Ran like I was twenty again, all the way home. Found my old rosary that night and ain’t taken it off since.
Quit drinking for six months after that. Started going to St. Hedwig’s every Sunday, lighting candles for my mama’s soul. The guys at work noticed the change, figured I’d joined AA or something. Let them think that. Better than telling them the truth.
These days, I’m back at Wolski’s sometimes, but never alone, never after midnight. Still work at what’s now Rockwell, but I switched to day shift. Some things you just can’t explain away, and some nights are better spent at home behind locked doors, with the TV on and all the lights burning.
THE MILLER PARK MAINTENANCE TUNNEL INCIDENT (1998) – Thomas Rodriguez
I’ve been with the stadium maintenance crew for twelve years, starting back at County Stadium. Know every inch of these tunnels like my own house. Never been one for ghost stories or that kind of nonsense. Until last week.
I was doing final checks after a night game against the Cubs. Most folks don’t know there’s almost five miles of service tunnels under the stadium. Usually have my crew with me, but Martinez called in sick and Johnson was on vacation. Just my luck, the Brewers lost 6-2, and the crowd had been rowdy. Lots of cleanup needed.
It was around 1:30 AM, down in the north tunnel section near the old boiler room. The emergency lights were on, casting everything in that red glow. Temperature’s usually pretty steady down there, around 65 degrees, but that night my digital thermometer showed 42. Had to check it twice, thought it was malfunctioning.
First thing I noticed was this guy in what looked like an old-time baseball uniform, like from the 1900s. Figured maybe he was some actor left over from the pre-game show, though I didn’t remember any special events that night. He was standing by the junction where the original County Stadium foundation meets the new construction. Just standing there, still as a statue, facing the wall.
The weird thing was how he cast no shadow in the emergency lights. And his uniform… it was the old Milwaukee Brewers uniform, but not the modern throwback kind. This was actual vintage wool, with bloodstains down the front. Could see the stitching, the worn leather belt, even the old-style cleats – details you don’t get in modern reproductions.
When he turned around, his face… Christ. His eyes were solid black, like looking into empty sockets. His mouth had these teeth – not like Halloween fangs, but real proper fangs like some kind of animal. He spoke in this voice that seemed to echo from everywhere: “The old grounds… they built over the old grounds…” Had this accent I couldn’t place, old-timey but foreign too.
I’ve got twenty years in construction and maintenance. I know every creak and groan of this building. But when he moved toward me, he didn’t walk – he kind of flickered, like bad fluorescent lights. The temperature dropped so low my keys frosted over. My flashlight started going crazy, beam jumping all over the walls.
He reached out – his hand passed right through my safety vest, felt like someone poured ice water down my back. That’s when I noticed his name stitched on his uniform: “Wagner.” Later found out there was a catcher named Wagner who died in a brawl in 1894, right where the stadium stands now.
I ran. Dropped my toolbelt, radio, everything. Found myself up by the main concourse, shaking like a rookie on his first day. Security footage showed me running from nothing. Just empty tunnels. But the temperature readings from that section were recorded – dropped 30 degrees for exactly seven minutes.
Started researching after that. Turns out the old County Stadium was built over a 19th-century baseball field where three players died in a fight during a game in 1894. Wagner was one of them. Never told the crew what happened, but I changed all maintenance protocols. Nobody works the tunnels alone anymore.
I still work here, but I don’t go down to the north tunnels at night. Some things you can’t explain with building codes and maintenance manuals. Sometimes, when I’m locking up after a game, I swear I can hear the crack of an old wooden bat echoing through the tunnels, and the sound of cleats on concrete.
The marks where his hand passed through my vest – they never washed out. Kept the vest as a reminder. These days, I carry a blessed medal from St. Stanislaus church. The old Polish ladies there say it keeps the dead at rest. I sure hope they’re right.
THE RIVER WEST ENCOUNTER (2007) – Derek Smith
You guys know I usually post about gigs and gear, but this is different. Been trying to write this for a week now. Had to get my head straight first. Or maybe as straight as it’s gonna get after what happened.
Some background: I’m just your typical River West musician. Moved here from Madison five years ago, share a duplex off Humboldt with two other bands. Work at Exclusive Company during the day, play in Toxic Waste Bucket at night. Pretty much living the Milwaukee indie dream, right?
Last Thursday, we were playing a late set at the Riverwest Public House. Good crowd, mostly locals. We’d just finished our new song “Cannibal Boyfriend” – yeah, ironic now – and I was loading out around 2 AM. The fog was rolling in thick off the river, like nature’s smoke machine.
I was taking my Les Paul to the van parked on Center Street. It’s a ’76 Custom, my baby, saved up for two years to buy it. The streetlights were making these weird halos in the fog, and that’s when this dude appeared. At first, I thought he was just another scene kid – you know the type, trying too hard to look like Robert Smith. But something was off.
He asked about my guitar, had this weird accent I couldn’t place. Not like German or Polish weird, but something older. When I turned to answer, his face… fuck, man. It was like looking at death itself. Skin like paper, but you could see things moving underneath. Eyes black as pitch, but with these red pinpoints in the centers. His fingers were too long, joints bent in ways that human fingers don’t bend.
He moved like a spider, all wrong angles. When he tried to grab me, I stumbled back. Here’s the thing – I was wearing this silver ring my mom gave me before she died. Family heirloom, real old Polish silver. Where it touched him, his skin actually sizzled. Made this sound like bacon hitting a hot pan, and this smell like burning meat but… wrong.
The weird part? Well, weirder part? He knew things. Started talking about my mom, about the night she died in hospice. Things nobody could know. Said he was there, said he’s “always there at the end.” Then he smiled, and Jesus… his teeth were like needles, row after row of them.
I ran. Left my guitar case right there on the sidewalk. Made it to Fuel Café where my buddy Mike works late shifts. Spent the rest of the night there, drinking coffee and shaking. When we went back at dawn, my guitar case was there, but it had these weird marks on it, like claw marks but deeper.
I’m not playing any more late shows for a while. Sticking to afternoon gigs at Linneman’s. Started wearing crosses too – not the cool metal ones, actual blessed ones. Got them from that little Catholic shop on Lincoln. The guys in the band think I’m losing it, but they weren’t there.
Changed our band name too. We’re “Silver Cross” now. Yeah, not subtle, but fuck subtle. Started writing different kinds of songs. That thing took my old life, but maybe it gave me something too. A purpose. A warning. Something.
Got cameras installed outside our practice space. Holy water in my guitar case. Research books from that weird occult shop on KK. My girlfriend left – says I’m obsessed. Maybe I am. But I know what I saw, and I know it’s still out there.
If you’re reading this and you play late shows in River West – watch yourself. If you see a tall dude, too pale, moving wrong, asking about your music? Run. Run fast. And keep silver on you. Real silver, not that plated shit.
P.S. – To the thing that tried to take my soul or whatever: I wrote a song about you. It’s called “Paper Skin and Needle Teeth.” It’s gonna be on our next album. Come to the release show if you dare. This time I’ll be ready.
THE MITCHELL PARK DOMES INCIDENT (2019) – Anonymous Story
I needed the money, that’s why I took the night shift at the Domes. Third week in, and I was finally getting used to working alone in those huge glass structures. The moonlight does weird things in there – makes the plants cast shadows that don’t quite match up with their shapes.
That night – November 12th – started like any other. I was doing my midnight rounds in the Tropical Dome, checking the locks, making sure the temperature controls were stable. The usual stuff. The silence in there is absolute after midnight. No birds, no insects, just the occasional drip of condensation from the leaves.
I first noticed something was wrong when I saw the ferns moving. Not the gentle sway you get from the air circulation system – this was different. Like someone was running their fingers through them. But the air system was off, and I was the only one in there. Should have been, anyway.
Then I found the footprints. Bare feet, but huge – way too big to be human. And they were frosting over as I watched, like whatever made them was so cold it was freezing the moisture right out of the air. I’ve lived in Wisconsin my whole life, and I know cold. This was different. This was wrong.
The temperature dropped so fast my phone screen cracked. I could see my breath, then I could see the plants starting to frost over. That’s when I heard it – this weird language echoing through the dome. Sounded like Spanish, but older, different. The kind you hear in those historical documentaries about conquistadors.
I saw it near the coffee plants. Seven feet tall at least, wearing rotted leather and rusted armor. The kind of outfit you see in museum displays about early explorers. But the clothes were wrong – they were dripping with this black liquid that killed every plant it touched. And its vampire face…
I don’t work at the Domes anymore. Can’t even drive past them. The police report says I had a panic attack, that the security cameras just showed static, that the dead plants were from a temperature malfunction. They replaced the plants, fixed the climate controls, wrote it all off as equipment failure.
But I know what I saw. And I know why the Spanish never established a permanent settlement in Wisconsin. Some things don’t want to be discovered. Like vampires. Some places don’t want to be explored. And sometimes, in those glass domes late at night, you can still hear ancient Spanish echoing off the walls, and see frost forming on the paths, even in the middle of summer.
Leave a Reply