tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38891991988398876762024-03-13T13:50:25.163-07:00SC Ghost StoriesThe Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-59523525064951325662014-09-04T08:15:00.002-07:002015-07-06T14:46:36.247-07:00Ghost Creek<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Now, you children be sure to be home by dark.. and no playin' around that creek, neither! They's ghosts down there at night!" This was the admonition of many mothers as they sent their children out to play in this rural area of Laurens county, South Carolina in the mid '40's. This one statement kept numerous children safe from their own dare-devilry and foolishness. Just a small statement to put a bit of fear into them.</div>
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Of course, the kids knew that what Mom was saying was the truth. It was well known that if you went down the dirt road to the place it ran to the bank of the creek and the moon was full, you might get a right scare. It was not uncommon to see two or more children run screaming up the road as if the devil himself was on their heels.</div>
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Many had seen the eerily glowing specters on the other side slowly wandering up and down the bank as if trying to find their way across or through this watery barrier in order to reach you and take your soul back to where they came from. It seemed that the water stopped them as surely as a thunderstorm would stop a picnic. </div>
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On this particular day, the Martin boys were planning to do a bit of fishing. Their Mother had long since given up trying to keep them away from the creek. They had heard the tales of ghosts all their lives but weren't fazed at all. As most pre-teen country boys will, they spent most of their time in the summer, either helping in the fields, exploring the surrounding woods and streams or trying to see who could catch the biggest fish on their cane poles. </div>
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As their day of helping Dad plant some row crops had finally come to an end, they grabbed their poles and headed down the road. There was a really good hole just down and around the bend of the creek where they had even caught some catfish once or twice. It sure would be great if they could take a mess back with them for tomorrow's dinner. Mom would make some of her famous hush-puppies and they could have some cream corn and peas to go along with it. </div>
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The fishing was even better than hoped for. One had pulled in three nice, pan sized cats while the other had caught one catfish and three bream. They were so intent on supplying the family with supper that they didn't notice the time and were caught unawares when darkness fell on the creek- bank. </div>
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As they took their time making their way back along the slippery bank, the boys remembered the stories of the spirits said to haunt the creek. By the time they had reached the road they had successfully put themselves into near hysteria with imagined sounds and sights in the darkening woods. </div>
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They climbed the last bank back to the clearing of the dirt road, finally feeling that they could now breath since they were away from the creek. As they bent over, trying to catch their breath they looked back the way they came and nearly fainted dead away. There, on the far side of the creek, directly across from where they had climbed up to the road hovered six phantoms! They seemed to be swaying back and forth, about four feet off the ground and making terrible moaning sounds.</div>
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Well, that was enough for the Martin boys. The ran, heads down and legs pumping, all the way back home, lucky to have held onto their poles and fish due to their fright! From then on, the Martin boys did any fishing they wanted to do either early in the morning or during daylight hours. Mom never had to warn them about Ghost Creek again.</div>
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The parents only told the story of Ghost Creek in order to protect their children from the danger posed by the running water when it was too dark to see well and they might accidentally get hurt. They felt like they knew the truth.</div>
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Mr. Robertson owned the land on the far side of the creek and he pastured a small herd of Hereford cattle there. Herefords are a breed of beef cattle that are normally a rust colored brown on their bodies with white faces. Commonly known as white-faced cattle.</div>
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Now, in the light of a full moon (which is when the 'ghosts' supposedly appeared) the cattle's body color tended to blend into the color of the surrounding field leaving only their faces glowing in the moonlight. These bovine heads were what the parents believed were to become known as the Ghosts of Ghost Creek. What they never realized was that after the kids were long gone from the creek and the moonlight had faded from the sky, the specters continued to wander to and fro along the banks and tributaries. Perhaps the grown-ups were right all along and just didn't know it. <br />
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So, if you want some good cat-fishing, there is a right nice hole you might sink a line into, but make sure you are well away from there by evening. Don't you dare get caught by the dark down on Ghost Creek.<br />
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*The road is now paved and has been named, Ghost Creek Road.</div>
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The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-24765139587838514942013-09-15T13:15:00.000-07:002014-09-04T08:24:57.902-07:00The Bus on Old Schoolhouse RoadIf you travel to the upstate of South Carolina, in a quiet foothills county you may find yourself on a stretch of country lane called "Old Schoolhouse Road". It is lined with old growth woods with a very small number of houses scattered along its length. There is one building of interest here, though. It is an old, falling apart at the seams, deserted gas station that dates back to the days of full service at the pump and nickel cokes.<br />
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No one hangs out there any more, not since the mid 1990s. You won't see the sign lit out front nor hear the sound of the bell as someone pulls up to the pump. No one will come out to see how much gas you need or whether you want regular or high-test. No one will clean your windshield while the tank fills. There are no sodas in the cooler and no crackers on the shelf. Just memories of past times, people and events. One of those memories is of a tragedy from 1993.<br />
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It was in the fall, the leaves were starting to turn and the night air had a bit of a nip to it. School had just begun and that meant high school football on Friday nights. Local schools battled for bragging rights as they took turns traveling to 'away' games. Their marching bands loaded their instruments into the bus and followed along to rouse the fans in support or this visiting team. And that is where our story begins.<br />
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The band had packed up their instruments and loaded them into the back of the bus and the members were jostling into the front. They were hyped up since they had just cheered their team on to victory over their hated rivals. It had been a hard fought victory to be sure, but all the sweeter because of that. Loud and raucous, it was a good bet, the drive thought, that they wouldn't settle down for the entire trip. He was thinking this as he pulled the bus into the gas station to top off the tank. The tank was usually filled prior to any trip, but for some reason that had not happened today.<br />
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It was late and the owner, old man Higgins, was just preparing to close for the night when the bus full of teenagers pulled in. He let the driver pump the gas while he attended to ringing up all the Snickers bars, snacks and sodas for the kids.<br />
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He stood and watched as the bus pulled out of his station, with a prickly sensation on his neck. "Oh, well, must be the weather," he thought as he turned the lights and pumps off for the night.<br />
Just a mile or so from the station, the woods seemed to grow closer to the road and the night gathered its dark cloak more tightly. The only light was from the high beams the driver had on the bus. Suddenly, a young deer launched itself from out of the night, directly into the path of the oncoming vehicle. The driver, on instinct, wrenched the steering wheel to the right to avoid a collision, lost control and careened the bus off the side and down an embankment, picking up speed into the waiting arms of the trees. He collided head-on with a great, sturdy oak that gave not one inch.<br />
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When the bus did not reach its destination on time, the waiting parents began to get concerned. after thirty minutes, concern turned to fear. The school principal was contacted by one of these parents just before getting a call from the Highway Patrol. He was devastated by what he was told.<br />
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Mr. Higgins, the station owner had just closed up and was on his way home for some much needed rest when his headlights struck a cloud of oily, black smoke off the road in the woods. As he slowed down, he noticed marks on the road, aiming for the shoulder. He pulled off, grabbed his flashlight and went to investigate. What he found left him speechless. The bus that had left his station not twenty minutes earlier, loaded with band equipment and rambunctious teenagers lay in a burning heap, wedged between two pines and crumpled in the front with and old oak. The gas line had obviously ruptured and the liquid ignited to turn the packed bus into an inferno. The doors were blocked by the pines and the emergency door was inaccessible due to the equipment. The passengers never stood a chance.<br />
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He didn't have a cell phone. He never thought he would need one, until now. Not knowing what else to do, Mr. Higgins raced back to his station and called the police. They, in turn, called EMS and the State Patrol, who, after arriving at the scene, called the school principal. <br />
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Mr. Higgins closed his station for good, not long after that, saying that on certain nights in the fall, if you were at the station all alone, you could hear the sound of a school bus full of students pulling in, but when you got up to go outside there would be nothing there, except for the dark night air.<br />
So, if you do happen to find yourself on that lonely stretch of road on a cool, dark mid-autumn night, you may want to pull into the abandoned station to rest for a spell. But, don't be surprised if you see sights and hear sounds that seem to belong in another place and time. <br />
Then, again, maybe you should just keep driving..... The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-72541165132073849052013-03-26T06:15:00.000-07:002013-03-26T06:15:03.335-07:00The Hunt<div style="text-align: justify;">
Ever watch those 'reality' shows on TV? No, I mean the ones about ghost hunting. Right. There's the one with the guys that scream like little girls and run if a floorboard creaks and there is the one that has the very scientific approach and all the ones in between. I especially dislike the one with the British medium that believes she feels and hears every moment of every ghost she goes after.</div>
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Well, I have watched them all and decided that if these dorks could do it, I should be great at it. So, after a quick trip to the local Wall-Mart and hardware store, I set out, with my best friend Harold, to bust a few ghosts. We had all the equipment needed, such as a digital sound recorder for all those disembodied voices we were going to catch, a couple of digital cameras for snapshots, four mini-dvd recorders for catching live (dead?) footage and two EMF detectors to detect EMF's. Okay, got all that? So far I was in the hole by about three hundred and seventy five dollars and we hadn't even investigated our first haunt!</div>
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Harold's aunt, Jessica, owned an old house that everyone said was haunted. It was believed that the ghost of an old lady wandered the halls of the second floor and opened and closed doors at will. No one we spoke to had ever seen her, but lots of folks had heard the tales and, it seemed, everyone knew someone who had seen her. At my request, Harold called and received permission for he and I to have our first ghost hunt the following night.</div>
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Eight o'clock on Friday, July 13 found Harold and I on the steps of one of the most creepy places I have ever been. With the sun going down and the shutters hanging off of broken windows, I was seriously reconsidering my choice of participatory entertainment. </div>
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We had parked in the gravel drive next to the house and entered through a non-existent gate in the falling down picket fence. The only thing that seemed to be holding the fence upright was the weeds and brambles that twined themselves around and through it. The grass within the confines of the fence was brown and withered where-as, on the outside of the yard it was vibrant and green. It was like the yard had a blight on it. There was the remains of an ancient fishpond and fountain to the left of the flagstone walk. Both arms missing fro\m the statue in the middle. She looked as if she might have carried a pot from which water flowed at one time, but it too was missing.</div>
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We approached the house width front porch that was guarded by two cement lions and reached by way of three cement and flagstone steps. The lions had long since lost any paint they might have sported at some point in the past and the cement holding the flagstone was nearly non-existent, giving freedom to the stones and allowing them to lie waiting for some unknowing visitor to step wrongly and take a painful tumble back down into the dead grasses and weeds of the yard. In front of the porch and beside the lions were several azaleas that still retained a flower or two, even through the heat of the summer. The only point of color in the entire scene.</div>
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My first step onto the porch proper, was met with the expected creaking of boards. If they had not creaked, I believe I would have been disappointed. Each step that followed was met with the same sound. Harold followed close behind and I began to wonder if we might be putting too much weight on the porch. We certainly did not wish to fall through. It would not be an auspicious beginning to our adventure.</div>
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Looking up and taking in the rest of the house, I saw that it was in as bad a condition as the porch and yard. The clapboards covering the outside were peeling what little bit of paint that was left. Just enough left to show that it was originally white.. The shutters had, at one tie been black and still had that color stain on the rotting wood. They hung as odd angles and would never close again, though that is what they had been designed to do. When the storms blew in off the lake, the occupants would close the shutters to prevent the wind, hail or tree limbs from breaking the glass out of the windows. Of course, very few of the windows had any glass left. Most had fallen victim to small kids with bb guns or rocks and some had just fallen on their own. Even knowing that the condition and appearance of the house was completely natural did nothing to calm my nerves.</div>
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As I reached for the door I privately hoped that it was locked. The knob turned easily in my hand and the door swung open with considerable ease. Not even a squeak. I stood in the doorway for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the gathering gloom as well as pumping myself up to step inside. The door opened onto a foyer with stairs leading to the second floor directly ahead and to the right. An arch to the left opened to what seemed to have been a sitting room or living room and on the right, just before the stairs, another arch opened into another sitting area. We thought that we might use this room for out command center. There was a couple of old tables as well as a couch and chair, though I couldn't bring myself to sit in the chair. I did give it a good pat though, and was rewarded with more dust than seemed possible.<br />
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The wallpaper in the right-hand room was peeling from the top down and the ceiling seemed to be bowed in certain places. There was a brick fireplace centered on the back wall with an ornately carved mantle crowning it. A large rectangle above the mantle bore evidence of a mirror or picture that may have once hung there.<br />
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"Harold," I said as we made our way back to the van, "Let's bring our own chairs. We can use those tables and I'll get a couple of towels out to clean them off with." Not that I am great at keeping a clean house, but there was no way I was setting my laptop down in all that dust and dirt.</div>
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Harold opened the van and pulled the chairs out as I found the towels.. As I was turning around, I saw Harold drop the chairs and head for the passenger side. "Where are you going?" I asked. </div>
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"I'm not going in there! I just saw somebody looking out of that window!" His face was white as a sheet. "They were looking out of that room we were just in. I saw the face!"</div>
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"Calm down, man. You just saw the last rays of the sun catching on some of that dust and dirt on the window pane. Nobody is in there. If there were, we would have seen some sign. The dust on the floor is an inch deep. No one has been in there in years."</div>
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Harold said, "That's what I am afraid of .. no one LIVING has been in there in years. Ghosts might not leave footprints."</div>
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"Come on, Harold. It was your aunt that gave us permission to do our first hunt here. We can't leave before we even investigate one room!" That seemed to reach him. He was more afraid of being teased about chickening out than he was of ghosts.</div>
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We took the chairs and went back into the house with a battery operated lantern, two flashlights and the rest of our equipment. I admit that I was a little more attentive to my surroundings, this time as we moved to the rear of the house. In lieu of Harold's 'sighting' we decided to make the old kitchen area in the back of the house our 'control room'. There was an ancient four person table that was almost perfect for our equipment and we set our chairs up.</div>
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We set up a table and knocked most of the dust off. The laptop went there and we pulled up our two chairs. Next thing to do was tour the rooms and decide where to put our dvr's and recorders. All of these pieces of equipment were wireless and the dvr's were streaming into the laptop. </div>
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Like the guys on television we had a night vision camera that I had bought with that week's paycheck. It was the only thing that allowed us to see where we were going without turning on a flashlight. It came with an extra battery because the fellow at the electronics store told me that paranormal entities had been known to drain the energy from your batteries in order to manifest themselves. Made sense to me. And are ghosts afraid of flashlights? I mean, why must all ghost hunts be done at night with no lights on? Do they sleep in the daytime? Hmmm.</div>
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Harold held the EMF detector and did a sweep in each room we entered. We found no spikes of energy on the first floor and began to make our way up the stairs where the three bedrooms were located. Just as we started up the stairs, I caught a movement about three steps above me. It was small and very quick and I thought that it might be a raccoon or something along those lines. As I scanned the area, it was gone and I marked the spot on the camera so we could check it out later. </div>
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As we neared the top of the stairs we heard what could only be described as footsteps ahead of us. We stopped and listened as they seemed to come out of the bedroom off to the right of the landing. I held the camera up above my head in order to get a shot of the doorway without having to make any overt movement. Plus I wasn't in any hurry to meet up with what ever was walking around up there.</div>
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I almost lost the camera when I heard a terrible commotion behind me. I spun around, positive that the ghost had somehow gotten behind me and was on the verge of grabbing me and dragging me to wherever it is ghosts drag you to and saw Harold already halfway down and picking up speed. "Harold!", I called in my best theatrical whisper. "Get back up here. Come on, we're a team, don't turn chicken on me now." He stopped, though his forward momentum took him the rest of the distance to the bottom floor. </div>
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"Are, are, are, " he stutters a bit when he is nervous. "Are you sure there is nothing up there? "</div>
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I convinced him that there was probably nothing to it and we made our way back to the upstairs landing. I swung the camera over towards the room on the right just in time to see the middle door close. That did not make me feel any better. I stepped across the landing and checked the door latch, It seemed to work well. It didn't stick or hang up when I turned the knob. The door was heavy, like most old doors seem to be and it didn't move on its own when I turned it loose. I decided that I wanted a good look on the inside of the room before venturing in so I turned on my flashlight and scanned the room/ The paint on the walls was a yellowish gray, the way white turns when it has been infused with cigarette smoke over decades. The ceiling was the same and the trim around the base and top of the walls was peeling and cracked. There was no closet, but an ancient armoire stood guard in the far corner. No carpet covered the old hard wood floors.</div>
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I turned off the beam and Harold and I took a moment to let our eyes adjust. We decided to place one of the cameras on top of the amour and angle it to cover the entire room as well the door leading to the landing. This angle allowed the camera to shoot out the door to the top of the stairs as well. </div>
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We didn't bother with doing an EVP in this room as we had more equipment to set up. </div>
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We went about that chore with gusto as we were getting our courage up with every minute we went without getting the you know what scared out of us. One of the other cameras went in the corner of the landing on an old chair we place there for that reason. We had failed to purchase any tri-pods with the cameras. We aimed this one to cover the landing. If anything moved, we would see it.</div>
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Back on the first floor we placed a camera just inside the front door aimed down the foyer. It would catch any movement including on the staircase. </div>
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As we set that particular camera and headed to the back of the house, a very dark shadow seemed to move from the area at the foot of the stairs, across the foyer and disappear. I spun toward the movement just as it vanished and almost ran over Harold. "Did you see that?" I asked. </div>
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"See what?"</div>
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"Never mind, must have been a mouse." I realized that he had been in the wrong position to see anything and if I told him, he would be out the door and halfway home before I finished my sentence.</div>
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We placed the last camera on a chair in the kitchen doorway leading back through the dining area, the sitting area and through the door leading into the front room that is to the right of the foyer as you enter the front door. This side of the house was all open, except for that room. It had a door, but it stood open at the moment. That moment didn't last long.. </div>
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As we wove our way through dust and debris in the dining area towards the sitting area, the front room door slammed as if a ticked off linebacker were on the other side. To say that Harold and I were startled would win an award for the largest understatement of the year. I would like to say that Harold screamed like a little girl, but, I believe that was me. Harold, on the other hand, said not a word. The only sound he made was the thump when he hit the floor. He had passed out from fright. This was not turning out as I had planned.</div>
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He wasn't out long, just a couple of smacks on the face brought him back around. I calmed him by explaining that the door had shut due to a gust of wind coming through the window on the front of the house. Though, honestly, I had no idea how that door had slammed, but the story served to settle Harold down and keep him from streaking through the door, cranking up the van and leaving me in this creepy place all by myself. </div>
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The next hour was, at best, boring. We were hyped up for the first fifteen or twenty minutes due to the newness and the excitement of what had already happened. For the next thirty to forty minutes, though, nothing happened. And I mean nothing! We went into each room and did an EMP sweep, just like on that TV show and got zero hits. Well... </div>
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After that first hour, we were calm and a little more professional. We checked in on our computer now and then and started doing some EVP's (electronic voice phenomena's). That is where we go to a location, such as a bedroom and start asking questions. We hoped to get an audible response (one that we can hear, but if not, then the recorder may pick up one that we could not hear at the time. At least that is the way the guys on television do it. We used our flashlights very little since we did not want to scare any spirits away that might be lingering nearby. Of course, this meant some bumping into furniture, walls and doors. I wonder which would frighten them more, the light or the noise we made?</div>
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By this time it was nearing midnight and I was getting tired. I had worked all day and had not realized how exhausting ghost hunting could be. It was almost like work. We were sitting in the kitchen with the computer, taking a rest when we heard a loud crash from the foyer area. Once our hearts stopped trying to jump out of our chests, we grabbed our camera and recorder and made a mad dash for the front of the house.</div>
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Harold's flashlight bobbed and bounced as he ran behind me which made my forward movement a bit tricky. (Have you ever tried to dodge obstacles when they seemed to keep moving?) When we reached the foyer I immediately looked for some piece of ceiling to be on the floor. I figured that would be the only thing that could make that huge sound. But nothing. No ceiling or anything else seemed to be out of place. This made no sense. We both heard the crash. However, we did have the camera in place and if anything had happened, it should have recorded it. </div>
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We debated checking the computer to see what had happened, but decided to continue our investigation as we had planned and look at it later. I am glad that we did. We immediately started and EVP session in the foyer. The first few minutes we would ask questions and wait a moment or two to give any entity that was there a chance to speak. We would not know if we had caught any evidence until we replayed the recorder.</div>
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After about fifteen minutes of asking questions like, "Are you here?" and, "What is your name?", we got a jolt when a voice from behind us said, "Why are you here?" I almost came unglued. Spinning around I was certain that someone was standing behind me. This wasn't a garbled, sounds like a voice from beyond kind of voice. It was as clear and pronounced as an English Professor giving a lecture. There was no one there. Our backs were towards a corner of the foyer where there were no windows or doors. No way for anyone to sneak up behind us. Harold was actually more calm than I was. I guess he had most of the scared shaken out of him already.</div>
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"Did you hear that?", he asked. "Sounded like it came from the corner."</div>
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"Yeah, I heard it. That was perfectly clear. Now what do we do?" I was momentarily at a loss.</div>
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"I guess we answer", he said.</div>
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I sat the recorder upright on the floor and said, "We are here to find out how many spirits this house has in it. Are you the only one or are there others?"</div>
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We waited for a response, hoping that it would be loud and plain like the last statement, but all we got was silence. We continued the session for another five minutes and then we heard the distinct sounds of footsteps leading off down the foyer towards the back of the house. We quickly gathered out stuff and followed.</div>
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The sound of steps continued until they reached the dining area. As Harold and I approached, one of the small LED flashlights we had left in the kitchen came on! All by itself! Well, obviously not 'all by itself', but without either of us touching it. I decided to see if we could communicate with whatever was manipulating the light. "Are you part of the Robertson family?" I asked. "If you are, then please turn the light off. Two seconds and off it went.</div>
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Harold got into the game at this point. "If you are one of my aunts turn the light back on." Nothing. "Are you Uncle John?" The light flashed back on. "Are any others here?" Light off. "Are they relatives?" Light on. "Do you try to scare people that come into this old house?" Nothing. "Does someone else?" Light off. "Do you want us to leave?" Light on, light off, light on, light off.</div>
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"I think it is time to pack up and go," I said. "He seemed pretty clear on your last question, don't you think?"</div>
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We immediately began going back through the house, gathering equipment as we went. We saved the upstairs for last because, to be honest, we were a bit nervous. After all, that was where the female ghost was rumored to reside. However, everything remained quiet while we loaded our stuff and we were happy to have it that way. </div>
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Our review of the evidence took longer than the on site investigation did. We set up at my house and went through all the video and audio. Though we did get several shots of a little mist, at times on video, there were a couple of really good, send chills down your spine, clips. One was of the door to the front room closing. It had been standing wide open from the time we entered the house, there had been no movement around the door and there was no where for a draft to come from. Even so, the door slammed shut. It did not start slowly and pick up speed, it went from a standing start to closed in a matter of a second or two. You could even see the dust that was kicked up by the breeze the door caused. Also, directly after this happened, you could hear two very clear sounds .. one was my screech and the other was Harold hitting the floor. We may cut those out.</div>
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The other clip was taken when we first got to the property. I had taken a dvr and chronicled our arrival. The scene began with a panning of the grounds and then the front of the house. I verbally described the location as I went. I took in the front porch and then moved the camera up the front, across the second floor and then to the roof and the two chimneys where there were bricks missing. It was on the second floor that I now saw something I had not noticed before. </div>
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In the second window from the left, there was the distinct image of a woman looking out and down at us. She had either short hair or it was pulled back, the collar of her blouse was high and ruffled and what you could see of the skirt was either white or some other very light color. Her face was brownish as if she had a good tan. (I always thought ghosts were supposed to be pale.) I believe we found the lady in white.</div>
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Our EVP's turned out to be mostly silence. Once in a while we would think something was there, only to replay it and find a little static. Several times we did catch the sound of footsteps. One sounded like boots walking up the stairs and another actually sounded like spike heels on a lady's shoes walking on the hardwood of the upstairs landing. Two other times the sounds were too indistinct to determine the type of footwear they may be. It would have been nice to have the equipment to 'clean up and enhance' the recordings like the folks on television have. I don't, however, have that kind of money to spend on a hobby, and Harold and I haven't found a sponsor for our investigations (yet).</div>
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It was a great introduction to ghost hunting, since we did get to experience something other than our imaginations. I believe that we will be getting better at the entire operation as time goes on. We already have two more investigations lined up and I'm planning on spending most of my tax refund on more equipment.</div>
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As for our findings on this hunt. Well let's just say we left the location as we found it .. dark, creepy and haunted.</div>
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The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-47630926163460280502013-02-26T10:58:00.002-08:002013-02-26T10:58:59.987-08:00The Phantom on the BridgeThe voice is calling, calling. It hasn't been still in almost a week. Inviting, cajoling, whispering in my ear during the dark hours of the night. No manner of light, happy communication with family or friends has been capable of removing this notion from my mind.<br />
I make my way to the river by starlight. The mists hang low, graying out the trees and bushes. What, on any other night might be an ethereal fantasy landscape, complete with animals from the realm of imagination and myth, now seem more of the land of nightmares and terrors with the tendrils of mist stealing along the ground in rivulets, twisting around the stones and stumps beside the path to the river. White, luminescent snakes writhing their way toward my own destination, the bridge. <br />
No ordinary, concrete and steel edifice crossing a raging torrent, but a slender, covered span inside which I have spent many a solitary, though not lonely night. A safe haven, if you will, from the drudgery and dullness of the workaday world of reality. A place for imagination and fancy, for wishes and dreams, for the world of the mundane to be left at the portal, disallowing entrance to the dimly lit interior. Though familiar, the bridge that comes into view as I round the side of a great tower of spruce seems, somehow different. Not wrong, if such a word would even be appropriate, just different.<br />
I step from the path I follow onto the moss covered planks of the bridge, noting the rush of the river only a few feet below me. The water flows from the mountains and is cold in a bone-aching manner. The cleanness of the stream is quantified by the fact that it emerges from the realms of the inner-earth less than three thousand feet from where I stand. It sweeps from the mountain in a rush, the waterfall at its source creating a never disappearing rainbow in the sunlight with sparkling drops nourishing the verdant foliage along the near banks and slopes in its headlong tumble down the mountain. Here the slope has gentled a bit and slows the water to a more peaceful, though never still, flow. During the day, sunlight may dapple the bridge with the shadows of leaves or the passing cloud may cool the air for a moment or two. But at night. At night.<br />
I follow the voice as though in a trance, though I am aware of all that transpires around me. I am aware of the night creatures that sit, unseen, behind the low undergrowth observing my passage. The owl, far off, emitting his mournful call, the mice under the leaves, the raccoon that hurries off at my approach. <br />
I must find that which beckons me. The voice, so familiar, yet so strange. The melody that plays just out of range of my hearing. The fragrance of the voice. The aroma of the call. Leading me on, through the woods that I wander at will in the light, but leave nearly unexplored past twilight. The siren's call to the sailor might have much in common with this wraith of whispers and invitations. Not allowing one to ignore it nor allowing indifference, once noted. "Come .. Come."<br />
Stories have been spoken, late at night around camper's fires or during children's sleepovers of strange and mystical beings that inhabit the forests and rivers. Beings of far off lands and magical dimensions that should never have found their way to our corner of reality. Creatures born of spirit, not flesh or made from stone instead of bone. Creatures that flit from branch to branch on wings of gossamer silver or rise from the rock strewn ground to block the way of the unwary. All of this is knowledge roiling around in my mind as I traverse that one step from the night shrouded path I followed to the gloom and mystery of the bridge.<br />
Mostly gone are the sounds of the river. Not its current nor its passage amongst the rocks and roots along the banks intrude their voices within the boundaries of the bridge with more than a muffled undertone. Even the voice has stilled. With that cessation my head seems to be wrapped in cotton. Perhaps this is what near deafness feels like. <br />
"Come .. Come." The invitation returns, low, almost sultry in the delivery. Almost ... familiar. The night recedes and the blackness of the interior fades to a dark, dark gray. A glow, more feint than that of a single lightning bug illuminates a figure. No, no figure, but a darkness that is more so than the surroundings. A blackness that is more than shadow. A shadow that seems more than flesh but less than whole. A shadow that has a missing place. Incomplete. Not finished.<br />
I am drawn to this phantom on the bridge. I am inexorably drawn. I find the sensation not unappealing nor do I find it unwelcome. As though the shadow may have searched for me for many years, or I it. Now we are found. Peace.<br />
<br />
John was found the morning of the nineteenth of June. The place of his demise was a covered walking bridge within a few hundred yards of the cabin he and his wife shared until the night of her passing. He had become a recluse afterward, preferring to spend his time exploring the woods or writing the books that were so well loved.<br />
<br />The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-51094348910544466912013-01-31T11:17:00.001-08:002013-01-31T11:17:51.600-08:00The Train<div align="justify">
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There is a legend, whispered about in the mountains of South Carolina. A story of a Ghost Train. It goes that in the late eighteen hundreds a steam locomotive derailed while crossing a trussel. The wreckage was spread across the river gorge that the bridge spanned. Some of the victims were swept away by the raging mountain stream below. Many were never found.</div>
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The story goes that one passenger was pulled from the water, where she had been clinging to a twisted limb along the bank of the river. In her left hand was a ragged piece of cotton, brightly colored and soft. She refused to release the cloth as if it were the most important thing in the world to her, this piece of cloth.</div>
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The next few days saw the wreckage explored as bodies and a few survivors were pulled from the bent and broken pieces of steel. The dead were taken to the local mortuary where friends or loved ones came to claim them. The others were bandaged and treated as well as possible on site and then transported the forty miles to the nearest hospital. Even then, some eventually died.</div>
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The woman with the cotton cloth languished, silent and alone, in this hospital for weeks. The doctors treated her wounds and set her broken leg, but were unsuccessful in reaching her mind. She was listed as Jane Doe, since she could not, or would not respond to any conversation they tried to engage her in. After the staff had done all they could for her physically, she was released to the nearest mental facility where she spent the rest of her days. </div>
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Jane Doe never spoke to anyone, but you could hear her make strange cooing sounds directed at the piece of cloth that slowly disintegrated through her constant handling over the years. Now and then, the nurses would report sobbing coming from her room in the middle of the night and once in a while a scream would resound and echo down the hallways as if she were caught in the throes of a nightmare.</div>
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Jane died at the age of about seventy years. She was buried in a local cemetery where they placed a small stone on her grave. It can still be seen there, and though the lettering is worn and faded now, you can still make out "Jane Doe, Unknown, Rest In Peace". </div>
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This story in itself would be quite a legend, however it does not end there. You see, the strip of cotton cloth that Jane held onto for all those years once belonged to a baby boy. Jane's baby boy. </div>
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Jane, whose real name was Margaret Mason was traveling to meet her husband in North Carolina, where he had recently gotten a new job and found them a house to rent. He had sent for Margie (as he called her) and their new baby boy, Benjamin as soon as the papers were signed and he had enough money for the train ticket.</div>
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Margie had no relatives in the little community of Salem, South Carolina and was overjoyed at the prospect of joining her husband and reuniting their little family. Her dreams of the future were all joy and light.</div>
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She and her son boarded the train and made their way to the passenger car she had been assigned to. The train pulled out of the station and expected to arrive at their destination on time. The day was clear, the air fresh with springtime and the flower she had picked along the edge of the sidewalk was perfect like the baby she held, swaddled in his new, brightly colored, cotton blanket.</div>
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The trip was exciting, this being her first time on a train. She sat with her nose almost glued to the glass as she watched the landscape whipping by while they make their way through the hills and valleys. At times it seemed she could see forever when they topped a ridge and then, at other moments, she could almost imagine they were in some strange and distant land as they traversed tunnels cut straight through the mountains!</div>
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The excitement gave way to drowsiness, however with the monotonous clacking of the steel wheels on the track. Even the rare whistle as the train passed through an even more rare settlement or community could not keep Margie from dozing off with little Ben tucked up happily against her breast. </div>
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The crash of thunder was her first warning. She blinked the sleep from her eyes to find a much changed scene. The sky had grown dark and menacing with storm clouds engulfing the train. She had never imagined herself travelling into a cloud. The lightning flashed so brightly and so close that it almost seared her eyes, and the clap of thunder followed on the heels of the lightning so quickly there was no time to cover little Ben's ears. He was justly terrified, which did nothing for Margie.</div>
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She attempted to comfort him and sooth his terror, all the while the fear was building in her own heart.</div>
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As the passenger train rounded a curve in the tracks where it hugged the side of this rugged mountain, and began traversing the trussel that spanned the river gorge, a bolt of lightning blasted into one of the main supporting beams underneath, about midway of the bridge. There was no time to stop, though the engineer did his best. He was pulled from the wreckage with his hand still on the brake lever. </div>
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The scream that escaped Margie's lips, accompanied by the wail of little Ben, were lost in time along with all the rest from the other passengers as the train seemed to leap from the rails and begin its disintegration in its plunge of two hundred feet to the river below.</div>
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The trussel is gone now, the wreckage long since carried away. The train no longer rolls through this mountain terrain. The rails are still there, though they are rusted and hidden by the encroachment of nature after so many years. Hunters and fishermen still walk along them at times, the level bed of the forgotten tracks makes their adventures a little less exhausting. </div>
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They tell of camping next to the old bridge on a springtime night, when a seasonal thunderstorm comes rolling in across the peaks and valleys. They say that now and then you can hear the sound of a steam locomotive traversing the mountains and the screech of the wheels as the brakes lock down on the steel rails. Then the mournful sound of a baby crying, off in the brush near the stream below.</div>
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If you are lucky, they say, you might catch a glimpse of the child's mother searching for her little one. And, don't worry if you catch a glimpse of color in one of the trees, it is just a piece of soft, brightly colored cotton cloth that was once part of a baby's blanket, wrapped around a child named Ben.</div>
The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-66865360977846485442013-01-16T11:46:00.001-08:002013-02-12T13:58:52.910-08:00A Sequined Shoe<div align="center">
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1960<br />
She couldn't believe that John had dumped her out! I mean, here she was, way out in the country, in the dark, on a lonely, dark, scary road, all by herself! And just because she wasn't 'loose' like some of the girls he dated. Sure she had let him kiss and hug her, and maybe they danced a bit too close at the prom, and she had agreed to take a ride with him. Of course, drinking half of the beer he had hid in his car may have given the wrong impression, plus they had fooled around some in the front seat, but she had definitely not been ready for it to go any farther than a little amateurish playing around! What kind of girl did he think she was, anyway?</div>
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Lindsay was lost deep in her thoughts as she neared the old bridge. She paid no attention to the set of headlights as they approached around a curve up the far hill. Her mind was filled with what should have been the greatest night of her life. It was the Senior Prom, when all young ladies bought wonderful dresses and their beaus showed up with a corsage that the girl's mother had to pin on. Lindsay had been accompanied by the best looking boy in school. He was also the coolest. All the girls had envied her when they found out that John had asked her to the prom. He was so rad. Jet black hair, sideburns like Elvis and the deepest, darkest brown eyes she had ever seen. His dark hair and eyes were a perfect offset for her blond and blue.</div>
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She started across the bridge and could hear the staccato sound of her three inch heels echoing back from the unseen creek below. As she neared the middle of the bridge, the sound changed. Of a sudden, she realized that the headlights that she had glimpsed were bearing down on the other end. She began turning to run back the way she had come when one of the beautiful heels that her mother had bought for her, became stuck between two of the planks. She felt the bridge begin to rumble as she tried to pry her heel out. She was caught like a deer in the beam of the headlights of the onrushing Pontiac. There was no time to scream, no time to run or even jump from the bridge.<br />
<br />
But Bobby's wife screamed as they took the curve too fast and she saw the beautiful young girl in the middle of the bridge. There was no time to miss her and the horrid sound of metal on flesh pummeled into her memory. The car careened out of control and then came to a sudden, solid stop when it impaled its grill and motor on the guard rail at the far end. That was all she remembered.</div>
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The police and the fire department finished their work of cleaning up the debris and the ambulance had already taken the driver of the car and his passenger to the hospital. Sgt. Jack Murphy was doing one last check of the area when his light fell on the shoe, its heel stuck in the bridge floor. The shoe was rather small, with a single, sequined, broken strap. He followed his light to the far edge of the bridge and beyond to the creek below. Then down-stream to where some bushes were moving with the current and something out of place was trapped in the branches. A hand. A small, slim fingered hand, seemingly grasping the lower branch. As his light traveled further, he could just make out blond curls floating on the current. Jack made his way down the creek bank and crashed through the underbrush. He was unable to reach from the bank so he removed his holster and wallet in preparation of wading, waist deep to the girl. "Please let her still be alive" was his entire prayer as he moved through the swiftly moving stream. He grabbed the hand and slowly drew her to the top of the water, knowing from the first touch that this was one prayer that would not be answered. </div>
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A terrible thing. It seemed that the girl had been walking on the bridge, though why at this time of the night, Sgt. McMurphy had no idea. Well, actually he had an idea. Probably got separated from her fellow up on lover's lane and decided to walk home. It happened once in a while. The guy was ready to go farther than the girl, things got heated and when the girl called it to a halt, she was left to fend for herself.</div>
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He knew the girls parents, the Jacobs. They were going to be devastated. He was on his way to their home on Willow St. to break the news.</div>
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**************</div>
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2000<br />
Jess had just gotten off from work, late again, and was hurrying home to pick up his slightly upset wife for their anniversary date. He had finally finished the Borden file that had been plaguing him for a month. People thought that lawyers had it easy; just settle cases, do divorces, chase ambulances and make lots of money. They never considered the long hours and late nights you had to put in to settle those cases. They never knew about the broken families and broken hearts they had to try their best to help heal when they did the divorces or accidents.</div>
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His mind was still attempting to file away the days events as he took the turn onto Drury Lane. It was a seldom used road, except for farm machinery, with a rickety old, one lane bridge. He knew the road was full of potholes and sharp curves, but his new Mercedes could handle it just fine. And it would cut a few miles off his trip home. That would make him a little less late and his wife a little less upset.</div>
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He slowed as he approached each curve and then 'powered out' as the NASCAR officials called it. And there was plenty of power to use, too. The Mercedes was just a week off the showroom floor and Jess had already had it detailed. He wanted to keep it like new as long as he could. After all, it was his anniversary present to himself. Tonight, he would surprise his wife with the stunning diamond that was part of his present to her. The real surprise would be when she found the two tickets to Jamaica inside the ring box. He had been promising this trip for the past five years, ever since he had joined the firm. Now he had finally been named as a full partner and the money got much better.</div>
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He had just roared out of the curve and onto the bridge when his headlights fell onto the figure of a woman, or girl. He slammed the brakes but it was too late. He knew he was going to hit her even as he tore the steering wheel to the right in a last desperate attempt not to. His wife's face was the last thing in his mind's eye as the new Mercedes ripped, with the despairing sound of rending metal, through the rails on the side of the bridge and the rear-end swung forward, broadsiding the young woman.</div>
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**************</div>
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Sheriff McMurphy pulled the tape across the road leading to the old bridge. He doubted that the it would be re-opened, it was in terrible dis-repair. Just as well. He had just waved the coroner's truck out as they transported the body from the Mercedes back to town. Forty years and four deaths on this one, lonely bridge.</div>
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He remembered the first one he worked. It was in 1960 and he had been a sergeant for less than a month. He was heading back to the Sheriff's Office after a fairly uneventful shift. The night was warm, the stars were out and the local high school was having their senior prom. He had pulled a couple of teens over for open container and under-age drinking, but had turned them loose with a warning. After all, he wasn't that far out of high school himself, and could remember how special prom night was. The memories of that night still haunted him. <br />
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Tonight he was, again taking Drury Ln. back towards town. It was a little quicker and he didn't expect to see any traffic that would need his attention or cause him to work any overtime. Then he rounded the curve. The scene burned into his mind. He saw black marks on the tar and gravel road leading onto the bridge and continuing to the right where they ended at the torn rails on the side. He could see lights shining at an odd angle from the creek-bed, up into the bushes on the far side. His first thought was a drunk driver going too fast for conditions. If the guy was lucky, he would just be banged up a bit and have a large insurance bill. He was only partially right.</div>
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The guy in the car was travelling a little too fast for this road and he'd probably had a couple of beers, but the car was totaled and he was pretty messed up. He kept talking about the girl on the bridge. </div>
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He remembered the first and this would be the last. He would see to it that the county either fixed this road and widened the bridge or just tore the bridge down. He had heard all the stories that were passed around about the bridge; about the figure of the girl and how she would suddenly appear in the middle of this same bridge on prom night each year. He had never seen her, but he believed. Each Halloween this bridge became a gathering place for anyone wanting to hear a good story or get a good scare. Whether the stories were true or not, he did know that there would never be a repeat of tonight. He was a few weeks from retirement and had seen too much to walk away with this bridge still intact. It was now, officially, closed.</div>
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As he turned away from the railing and moved back towards his squad car he saw it, the single strap, three inch heeled shoe stuck between the boards of the bridge. He might have missed it if the little sequins on the strap had not caught the beam of his flashlight. It was very dainty, just the kind a girl might wear to her first dance. <br />
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He pried it out and gently laid it in the front of his patrol car. Later he would add it to the others that he had collected over the years.</div>
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The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-11092068739550407482012-12-18T16:08:00.000-08:002014-10-15T13:15:41.465-07:00The Room at the Top of the Stairs<span style="font-size: medium;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Wendy
had kissed Ben goodbye as he and his brother, Harold left for work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you could call it work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were helping out an old friend on some
painting job for a couple of days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was good money, it just wouldn’t last very long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She
was feeling pretty good this morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She had the whole house to herself and she intended to do some serious
cleaning before her future Mother in Law, Clara, got home from work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, she wasn’t entirely alone, since
Aunt Nellie was in her bedroom in the front of the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being bedridden, she wasn’t going
anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taking care of Aunt Nellie was
the reason for Clara and her two sons living here and Wendy didn’t mind helping
out.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Wendy
began with the foyer/hallway that ran from the front door, all the way to the
back of the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was about fifteen
feet wide with beautiful, dark hardwood floors and light paint on the walls
above walnut wainscoting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a
lot of space, but most of it was filled with antiques, paintings, pictures and
hand carved items in all types of wood, from all over the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nellie’s brother, Lewis had collected these
during his travels with the U.S. Air Force.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He had retired after thirty years in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He had collected lots of stuff!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She intended to polish every bit of it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Cobwebs
were fairly easy to take care of with the help of one of Ben’s ‘painter’s
poles’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was six feet long, closed,
but telescoped out to seventeen feet, fully extended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wendy discovered that the head of a cheap,
‘Dollar Store’ broom would screw on this pole and thus, she could reach the
thirteen foot high corners just right!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She also used Ben’s ten foot step ladder to reach the chandeliers that
lighted the hall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even when he wasn’t
here, Ben came in pretty handy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
antiques shined up really nice with some ‘Old English’ and a soft rag, though
she had a bit of trouble getting into the little nooks and crannies on some of
the carved pieces.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The
last thing on her agenda, before lunch, was to dust and polish the banister
going up the stairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was old oak and
the stain on the top of it was worn off from over a hundred years of hands
moving up and down, over and over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
had been children’s hands that grabbed and pulled little bodies up the stairs
and held on to slow the same child’s descent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There had been young, strong hands that just barely rested on the
banister as they hurried up or down, always with somewhere else to be or some
errand to run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There had been old,
arthritic hands that, like the child’s, held on for support and safety, maybe
for the last and final time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a
long tumble down the steep staircase.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Wendy
dusted and then polished to banister till it glistened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She did the same for the portraits that lined
the wall, matching the staircase in angle of ascent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The portraits were of family long since
gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gone, but never forgotten by those
that remained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These pictures differed
from others scattered about the old house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those were of happy times and events, people smiling or laughing at the
photographer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some were professionally
taken, but most were obviously amateur.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The ones lining the stairs were of stern visage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No smiles adorned these faces staring out of
the frames.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The men were in topcoats and
ties, stern and hardened with women of the same cut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the men were mustachioed while others
were clean shaven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of the women
wore loose hair, nor was it cut short, but all pulled severely back or in a
bun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of the frames had names
attached so that later generations might know who they were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed that they were considered too
important to forget.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, no one that
Wendy knew had any idea who these people might be except for Aunt Nellie and
she seldom spoke of them at all.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Once
Wendy reached the top of the stairs she decided to sit and rest in one of the
two bedrooms located off the large landing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The bedroom to the left had belonged to Nellie’s late sister Doris, an
embittered old maid that, rumor had it, had been left at the alter when she was
but a young lady looking to her future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She had never married, but had stayed in the family home all her years
and ruled the household with a stern stare and sharp word when needed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her bedroom, as Wendy explored it, lent
evidence of someone that might have been quite different if she had not been
dealt that heavy a blow so early on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were beautiful dresses in the closet, some in dry cleaner plastic
and some still with the sale tags attached.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some of the tags announced high end clothiers long out of business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were shoes of styles Wendy had never
been aware of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hats with feathers or
flowers or plain with bead-work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doris
seemed to have been a woman that liked finer things but, after purchasing them,
had nowhere to go nor reason to wear them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Costume, (she assumed it was costume) jewelry filled
polished boxes with glass and mirrored lids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Real silk stockings hung in the closet while beautiful sweaters were
wrapped and stored in seemingly ancient, cedar chests. There was also a small </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Wendy
looked at her watch and discovered that time, while seeming to stand still in the
bedroom had continued for the rest of the world and, if she didn’t get a move
on, she would be hard pressed to have dinner ready by the time the guys and
Clara got home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had passed more than
two hours rummaging through Doris’ possessions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She closed the lid on the last chest and made her way to the landing
where she stood for just a moment longer considering the differences between
the great aunt Doris that Ben and Harold talked about and the one she had
discovered in the room at the top of the stairs.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She
took the first step with a firm grip on the railing she had previously polished
and then the next when, surprisingly, she got the distinct impression that
someone was behind her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though she
knew no one had come up, she turned slightly to look over her left
shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure enough, no one was
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she, again, began her decent
she imagined the portraits on the wall were following her progress from behind
glasses frames.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Just
as she began scolding herself for an over active imagination, two small hands
landed in the middle of her back with such force as to force the air from her
lungs and send her on the beginnings of a head first tumble down the stairs to
certain injury if not worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wend
instinctively made a grab for anything to break her fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To her right was only the wall and the
portraits, but to her left was the bannister she had so lovingly polished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was to the railing on the banister that
her hand grasped toward and clung to, slowing her enough that she kept her legs
under her instead of above her head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">After stumbling and
staggering down the remainder of the staircase, Wendy paused at the bottom to
catch her breath and look up to see who had pushed her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was no one at the top of the stairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knew that she had been alone up
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She also knew that someone had
pushed her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could it have been Doris,
angered at the intrusion into her private domain?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could it, truly have been the specter of this
past matriarch of the family?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually,
Wendy didn’t spend much time considering who it might have been, she was too
busy making a promise to herself that she would never again take the initiative
to clean the banister nor explore the upstairs of this eerie old house.</span>The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-40250460256668460752012-10-23T14:04:00.000-07:002012-12-04T17:31:39.599-08:00Setting Up With Annie<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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The day was finally coming to a close; the friends had mostly all gone home
and the house was quiet. Not necessarily a bad thing, but not necessarily
good, either. Not when you are the one left to sit up with the dead from
eleven pm till three in the morning. <br />
Her best friend for the last 20 years, Annie had died just two days past and
today had been brought from the funeral home to the family house for viewing
and a wake. This was still the custom in the rural areas of South
Carolina in the mid 1940's. The family had been worn out after greeting
all the neighbors and friends that had come to pay their respects. Of
course, many of them were just there for the food and maybe a nip from Mr.
Ramsey's flask. He really wasn't much of a drinker, but once in a while
you could see him and some friend or another slip quietly outside to "get
some air."<br />
Miss Doris had sat next to the coffin from dark till eleven that evening and
she had just gone upstairs to her bed for the night. Louise was up from
Georgia and she would be relieving Jolynn at three.<br />
Technically, it was relatives that were supposed to do the sitting up, but
they all thought of Jolynn as just another of the family. It had been
that way since she met Annie.<br />
They had met at the corner store just a few days after Annie and her mother,
father and the rest had moved into the area twenty years back. They had
become fast friends and remained that way from then on. It was rumored at
the one room school they attended that they were really sisters, switched at
birth and just now reunited. It was also rumored that they had started
the story. They never denied it. Mostly they giggled about it in
the quiet places where they would meet and discuss all the things proper young
ladies didn't talk about. Like, well, you know. Sometimes they
would spend the night at each other’s house and sit most of the night just
talking or being quiet and growing into adulthood. <br />
In that respect, this night was like so many others. Just she and Annie,
friends.<br />
Jolynn enjoyed visiting with Annie. There were always people coming
and going. There was the house, as well. Big, like the
family. It seemed to have a character all its own. It was an old
two story kind of farmhouse, though there was really no farm attached to
it. A large front porch spanned the entire front with the door set right
in the middle to balance it out. As you entered the main hall, Annie’s
room was to the left, looking over the porch. She and her husband, M. L.
had occupied it since moving in when Annie came down sick. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Originally, it had been the living room, and
would be, again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Across the hall was Nellie's room. She
was Annie's little sister and one of Jolynn's favorites. She’d had polio
and walked with crutches, but was still a lot of fun.<br />
When Annie died a couple of days back, Jolynn was devastated. She
cried throughout the night. Her young husband was no help at all.
He kept trying to get her to eat or drink or some such nonsense. All she
wanted was for him to leave her alone and let her get these terrible feelings
out of her heart! After hours of his unqualified failure to ease her
burdens, John acquiesced and let her be. Some things are only possible if
done alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once done with the crying,
she made her way to the house to help in any way she could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Now she sat, with her book on her lap and her memory in her past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just she and Annie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was thinking about some of the times they
had sat and talked well into the night as girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talked about everything and nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had planned out their futures and
decided what kind of husbands they were going to have and how many
children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So far, she’d had none.<br />
They would ramble on until they fell quiet or began telling ghost
stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would try to out do each
other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would compete to see who
could tell the scariest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was where
her mind had settled when the grandfather clock in the hall struck 1a.m.<br />
As the chime faded away, she heard another sound that froze her to the
chair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the rustle of fabric as it
was moved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She glanced to her left just
as Annie sat straight up in the casket!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Every nerve in Jolynn screamed run, but she did not move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not until the next sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a great, sad, hollow moan … from
Annie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then Jolynn made for the
door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She later said that she only
touched the floor once from where she sat to the porch, she was so scared.<br />
When they found Jolynn an hour or so later, it was down the road, in her
house, at the back in her bedroom, hidden behind her bed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her scream had woken the whole first floor and
they had rushed to see what had happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When they got to the front room, they had discovered a still dead Annie,
sitting up and an empty chair where Jolynn had been a few minutes earlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Jolynn said that at the time of this incident, she had been remembering the
$5.00 she had borrowed from Annie a few days prior and was certain that Annie
had returned from the dead to claim the debt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jolynn never came to the Henderson home again, though she said that she
just never had the time.<br />
When Annie died a couple of days back, Jolynn was devastated. She cried throughout the night. Her young husband was no help at all. He kept trying to get her to eat or drink or some such nonsense. All she wanted was for him to leave her alone and let her get these terrible feelings out of her heart! After hours of his unqualified failure to ease her burdens, John acquiesced and let her be. Some things are only possible if done alone.The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-62491335418720110922012-07-02T16:37:00.000-07:002012-07-02T16:37:24.742-07:00Excuse Me?!It was a dark and stormy night. <br />
Okay, it wasn't stormy, though there was lightning and thunder. And it was almost dark. So, there! <br />
Lisa was in the room we laughingly call the office, since it houses the computer and file cabinets. She goes in there, not to actually do any office type work, normally, but to have an excuse to get away from the rest of the family and just have a bit of quiet time. That was what she was hoping for on this night. As she settled in and got the computer going, she let her mind wander to the affairs of the day. <br />
She had packed quite a lot into a small amount of time, today. There had been the trip to the recycling center to haul off all the paper that consisted of junk mail, catalogs (of every size, shape and description, selling everything under the sun), magazines (read and unread), flyers advertising every event within a 50 mile radius and last but not least .. phone books. (My Lord, how many phone books does one house need, or want?) The trip lasted longer than anticipated once she realized that a stop by the grocery was called for if she wanted the family to eat, tonight. Then there were the candles that she was making for the 4th of July festival in Maggie Valley. It promised to be a big one and she needed to carry as many as possible in order to make some money. So, yes, it had been a busy day.<br />
The office chair that Jerry insisted they have really felt good, today. Though not overly padded, it was soft enough and just the right height for typing. <br />
She had given notice to all that she had work to do in the office and did not want to be disturbed. Of course, with two grandchildren in the house, that was like spitting in the wind. But anyway. They were why she wasn't really surprised to hear someone come into the room. She was immersed in what she was typing and didn't bother to look, expecting that it was either Nate (3) or Abby (2). Instead, it was their mother, Rachel that said, "What are you doing?". At least it sounded like Rachel.<br />
Lisa turned toward the voice, ready to ask, "What part of .. leave me alone .. did you not understand?" That 's was what she intended, anyway. The sarcasm died on her lips as she realized no one was there. <br />
Thinking that Rachel had ducked back out of the room, she left the computer and went in search of the intruder. She stuck her head in every room, but no Rachel. Not in the hall, the den nor the kitchen. Matter of fact, there didn't seem to be anyone, anywhere in the house ... but her. Realizing that she was all alone and that someone that was not there had asked her what she was doing, she felt the best thing that she COULD do was exit the premises!<br />
She found David, the farm help, lounging in the swing under the tree. He promised that he had not been in the house over the last half hour or so. <br />
After catching her breath and calming down a bit, she admitted to herself that she had just been visited by the Lady. And even though she did not doubt that the Lady would never harm her, she determined that, from now on, she wouldn't be so adamant about being left alone.The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-55075937896754837202012-05-31T12:11:00.000-07:002012-05-31T12:28:51.880-07:00Little DannyThe screams woke her again. She knew where they were coming from, of course. From herself. It happened about once a week and had been for many years. She would wake in the middle of the night to the dieing echoes of her own screams. And she knew the cause. The nightmare. Same one every time. Well, not actually a nightmare, more of a memory, though she wished for the millionth time that it was only a dream.<br />
<br />
It was the summer of 1964 and the weather was miserable. It was even worse in the house, so El had decided to take her young nephew, Danny out for a walk .. maybe to the store down the street and around the corner. Heaven knows, there wasn't much else to do in Johnston.<br />
<br />
Chambers, the mill village she and her family lived in was just down from the Masonic Lodge and not far from the railroad tracks that led through the town. Sometimes you couldn't hear yourself think for the trains coming and going. Specially when they hit mid-town and started laying down on their whistles and horns.<br />
<br />
Johnston wasn't a bad little town as little towns went. It had a movie theater, a drug store with a fountain, a Western Auto, and of course the shops and grocers where everybody shopped. Everybody that is except for those fortunate few who got to go into Greenville now and then. That was the Big City. Not far away as miles went, but a distant country when it came to accessibility.<br />
<br />
El was only 15 at the time, but her mind and heart were far away, already. She had a beau. His name was Randal, or Randy as his friends called him. She preferred Randal. It sounded much more distinguished and important. And he was important, at least to her.<br />
<br />
Randal had joined the military and was away. El missed him. They wrote back and forth, but never regularly, though she treasured the letters that she received. It had to remain just friends for now, anyway. Her Mother and Father would throw a hissie-fit if they knew how much she really cared for him. But she would get to see him when he came home on leave one of these days and that filled her thoughts.<br />
<br />
She held little Danny by the hand. He was only 4 years old and rambunctious. He had his own ideas as to how quickly they should be walking and in what direction they should go. Sometimes it was difficult to control him, like now. At just that moment, as Danny tore his hand from her grasp and made a bee-line for the other side of the street, a driver desperately locked his brakes and tried to swerve past the flash of red that was Danny. He did not succeed. The sound that followed was unrecognizable, yet it came from El. Before her, in the street, a pile of rags and broken bones lay crumpled in an expanding pool of blood. Little Danny was gone. That quickly his life was extinguished and her life would never be the same. She cried and begged God to let this not be real, but it was.<br />
<br />
Randal came home as promised in November. She had finally accepted that the world as she knew it would continue to turn and so would life. Randal asked her to marry him and she agreed. It should have been the most wonderful time of her life, and it would have been, if not for the nightmares. Those haunting, dark, miserable nightmares. They just wouldn't leaver her alone. They constantly brought to mind the same question, "Why?"<br />
<br />
It was a simple question, but one with no answer. "Why? Why didn't she just stay at home that day with Danny? Why didn't she hold his hand tighter? Why did no one blame her for his death?"<br />
<br />
No, no one blamed El, except for El. Of course she had seen the look that came over Danny's parents faces when they learned what had happened. When they saw her covered in Danny's blood. But no one had come right out and blamed her. Maybe it would have been easier if they had.<br />
<br />
It was almost unbearable when people spoke about the tragedy. They would make over her and pat her and say how sorry they were that she had gone through that. It was as if they felt more sorry for her than for Danny. And that wasn't right.<br />
<br />
But life did go on as the old folks said. And she and Randal made their wedding plans. Nothing fancy, just a small affair in the park with her parents and Randal's parents. She had invited Jim and Nora, Danny's folks, but they said that something came up and they couldn't make it. Just as well. It was better this way.<br />
<br />
The years went by and the world continued to turn. Randal got out of the military and they settled down on the outskirts of Greenville. It didn't seem as much a 'big city' now as it had when she was younger. Seeing a bit of the world had changed her perspective a bit. But not her nightmares.<br />
<br />
This particular night seemed different, though. It seemed in her dream that Danny stood on the far sidewalk. No blood, no torn clothes. The same gap-toothed grin on his face that he normally had. He was waving for her to come on, follow him, he had something to show her. He kept disappearing around the next corner, leading her farther and farther from the place where he died.<br />
<br />
Finally, they came to a stop in front of an old iron gate, the one to the cemetery where he was buried. She woke up. This time she wasn't screaming. This time she felt differently. It was as if she were on a mission.<br />
She checked the time .. 1:15am. She had been asleep for a couple of hours. She had made it her habit to go to bed about 11pm and let the sound of Randal coming in wake her when he got home from working the second shift at the mill.<br />
<br />
This time his coming in hadn't awakened her. Matter of fact, she could hear the shower running and that meant that he had been extra quiet this time. She loved him more and more every day and he loved her.<br />
<br />
She thought about putting her head in the bathroom door and letting him know what she was doing, but she knew that he would try to talk her out of it. Not that he could, she was pretty strong willed when she wanted to be. And besides, it was only a short distance and she would be right back. It was always easier to ask forgiveness than get permission.<br />
<br />
She grabbed the car keys and headed for the door.<br />
<br />
The silkiness of the night air brushed against her and the stars shown with a brightness that lent a lie to the dark. She knew that it was not normal to go out like this in the wee hours, but she felt compelled. Not frightened, just that it was important. To her. She backed out of the drive before turning on her headlights, knowing that they would cast their light on the bathroom window. No need to startle Randal.<br />
<br />
The drive was a short three miles and in what seemed only a moment, she pulled up to the gate, the same one in her dream. Old and a bit rusty, the black paint chipping and peeling a little from the wrought iron, it swung open with an unexpected quiet. She half thought that it would screech like in the movies, it should, right? Rusty iron gate to an old cemetery in the middle of the night with the moon full? Oh, well.<br />
<br />
As she made her way along the cement path that had been installed a couple of years ago, she began to question hear reasoning for coming here at this hour. Was it just because of her dream, or had Danny reached out from the grave to pull her here? Her musings had no answer before she was startled back to reality. A light was glowing from just beyond the old, gnarled oak next to the path. It wasn't a bright light, just a glow, like the luminescence from one of those light sticks the kids get at the festivals or concerts. Just a glow. <br />
<br />
She pulled up sharply as she rounded the tree to find Danny's grave with Danny sitting Indian style on top of the stone! Her breath left her lungs as if she had been sucker punched. The stars that had been so bright just a moment ago, now seemed to swim in the heavens and the m\om danced. But only for a minute. She closed her eyes, shook her head and truly believed that when she opened them it would be to see her bedroom and realize that she had just experienced a dream within a dream. her eyelids parted just the tiniest space and she peeked out to find Danny still sitting on the stone, still wearing that "Boy, I sure scared you", grin.<br />
<br />
"Hi, El," he said in way of greeting. "Where ya been?" Okay, this was getting a little weird. Wait a minute, it was already weird. There was absolutely nothing normal about this scene. She was not going to carry on a conversation with the ghost of little Danny, who really wasn't here and this was definitely just a part of the dream within the dream within the .... oh, never mind!<br />
<br />
"Hi, Danny". Well she had to say something. "Long time no see."<br />
<br />
"Not really. I stop in to check on you every once in a while. You sure do cry a lot." It was true, each time she had the nightmare, she cried. Each time she remembered the accident, she cried. Each time he crossed her mind, she cried.<br />
<br />
" I just wanted to let you know that it really wasn't your fault. I was being a brat., I'm sorry that you've hurt all this time because of me."<br />
<br />
El could be still any longer. "Because of You?! I'm the one that was supposed to watch after you. I'm the one that decided to go after ice cream that day. I'm the one that didn't hold on to you tight enough. It was me. It was my fault!" El's voice had risen a full octave as she spoke.<br />
<br />
"Calm down, you know I'm right," Danny said from his perch. "Anyway, I'm way more happy than you. I don't cry 'cause there's nothing to cry about in Heaven. I don't have to worry about none of the stuff you do. And, guess what? I know a lot more stuff than you do, now. Can't tell you what it is, but I know things that you just wouldn't believe!"<br />
<br />
Right now El thought that she would probably believe just about anything. She started to smile in spite of herself and lowered her head to hide it. When she looked back up, he was gone. The glow, Danny and all. Had it been real? She hoped so. It would be wonderful to know that Danny didn't blame her for his death.<br />
<br />
She turned and made her way back to the path and then, the gate. As she closed the gate behind her (This time with a haunted house type screech!) she could have sworn she heard Danny say, "Yeah, it was real."<br />
<br />
Thankfully the drive home was uneventful and El was almost in a state of euphoria when she glided in the door to see Randal sitting on the couch waiting for her. The expected questions from Randal about where she had run off to gave her the opening she needed to tell him all that had gon on that night. Amazingly, he <br />
accepted her story at face value and didn't question her sanity. His only statement was that he hoped it helped her.<br />
<br />
Randal and El were married another twenty-nine years before she passed away and in all that time El never again woke screaming in the middle of the night. Never again haunted by the memory of little Danny and his death. Never again haunted by guilt. A God fearing woman that stood with her husband day in and day out, El lived a great and wonderful life. One thing that many said after meeting her for the first time was that she seemed to have a peace about her that few had. El would have told you that it was due to her faith and maybe just a bit because of something a little boy named Danny had said.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-89185418081495881502012-05-08T12:08:00.003-07:002012-05-08T12:08:58.588-07:00The Donaldson HouseDonaldson, SC was once a sleepy little community just outside the city of Greenville. It was a community that shared its resources between farming and the textile industry. It was, that is, until the Air Force established a base, complete with hangars and run-ways there. Donaldson was initially known as Greenville Army Air base and was used by the United States Army Air Force's Third Air Force as a B-25 Mitchell medium bomber training airfield during World War II. Renamed Greenville AFB following the establishment of an independent U.S. Air Force in 1947, and later renamed Donaldson AFB, it was home to C-124 Globemaster II transports and called "The Airlift Capital of the World" for its role in the Berlin airlift, Korean War, and Cold War, being assigned to both Tactical Air Command (TAC) and the Military Air Transport Service (MATS). It was closed as an active USAF installation in 1963. The base is now known as Donaldson Center Airport and the Donaldson Center Industrial Park.<br />
<br />
When Jerry and Lisa moved back to the Greenville area, they did so with mixed feelings. Jerry was happy to return to an area in which he had grown up as well as being close to his mother and family. Lisa had been promised a good job at the hospital in town as a registered nurse. They brought with them their two daughters, Claire and Rachel as well as their nanny, Taimi and her son Rick. Taimi and Rick had been with the family since before the move from Pamplico and were as much a part of the family as anyone else by now. <br />
<br />
They had planned the move after Jerry had found a beautiful home in the Travelers Rest area, with a pond in which he and the kids could do some fishing on hot summer days. Four bedrooms, 2 baths It sat in a small valley on fifteen lovely acres with pasture for the horse. It even had a ready made chicken coop! (Jerry had several hens he kept for their eggs.) However, after selling their small farm in Pamplico, the widow that owned the property decided that she couldn't bring herself to sell, so they found themselves scrambling to find a rental til they could locate another property they liked. <br />
<br />
Almost as a miracle, they stumbled across the farmhouse that sat on what later became the air base. It was a two story that had seen a hundred years of husbands, wives and children come and go. It had been expanded at least once, in the ‘forties when the owners had added a large ‘family room’ off the kitchen. Two baths, 4 bedrooms, living room with a large Craft stove and a huge eat-in kitchen as well as just the ambiance of a home this old made this a fine temporary residence. A beautiful, old clapboard with a covered porch across the front. A fixer-upper, but beautiful, just the same.<br />
<br />
As you pulled off the side street when approaching the house, your first impression was of the grounds. A large, stately Magnolia tree greeted you in the circular drive with a boxwood hedge along the border. What had once been a well manicured lawn had long since gone to weeds and the dandelions had all but overtaken what portion the wild onions had not claimed. Oaks and pines dotted the landscape of the acre plus yard. A worn path that had been gravel at one time, led to the porch that was obviously intended for swings and rocking chairs. The family was taken by the sight at first glance. But this old place had much more to offer than stateliness and possibilities.<br />
<br />
As the family moved their furniture and belongings from the U-Haul to the house, they began claiming their individual spaces. Claire and Rachel were immediately drawn to the bedroom off to the right at the top of the stairs while Taimi decided on the room at the far end of the upstairs hallway. Rick had already staked his claim to the room next to his "sisters". That left Jerry and Lisa with what was believed to have been the formal dining room at one time. This was located off the living room and the hall that ran from the front of the house to the back. Heavy drapes made for a workable petition for privacy from the living room and a door let into the hall. Just right.<br />
<br />
The family found that moving in could be hard work and called it an early evening after setting up the beds. Unpacking and placement of the rest of the furniture could wait for the morrow. <br />
<br />
Two in the morning and something woke Lisa up. A sound, maybe. But she was sure that something was not right. She and Jerry had taken the downstairs bedroom that was just off the living room. It also connected with the kitchen via a short hallway. <br />
<br />
That was it. Not a sound, but a smell! It was the aroma of someone baking bread. It was wonderful, but she wondered what could have prompted Taimi to be up at this hour? Then another thought struck her. There was no oven for Taimi to bake in. Matter of fact, there was no stove at all since they had left theirs in Pamplico believing that any rental house would surely have a stove. So where was this smell coming from? <br />
<br />
Lisa, always curious, switched on the small lamp she had placed on the floor next to the bed and made her way into the hall leading back by the kitchen. As she neared the rear of the house, the aroma grew until she was convinced that she would find loaves of fresh baked bread cooling on the table, stove or no stove. She entered from the hall to find .. nothing. She got up, fully awake now, and made her way down the hall to the kitchen. She peeked around the corner, not really sure what she expected to see. What she did see, however, was nothing. No non-existent person cooking on a non-existent stove with her non-existent apron hanging around her non-existent body. Even the smell seemed to disappear. It was gone so quickly that Lisa wondered if she had been dreaming it. After all, yesterday had been tiring and the snack they had all had before retiring didn't go far. Sure, that was it. Wishful thinking and hunger pangs.<br />
<br />
She didn't say anything about it the next morning, knowing that she would be embarrassed for the others to find out her mind had been playing tricks on her. After all, she was a college educated, very logical person. She was not given to flights of fancy. It was actually Taimi that brought up the subject as she made breakfast on the two burner camp stove that had made the trip with them.<br />
<br />
"Did anyone smell anything, last night?" she asked.<br />
<br />
Lisa was immediately attentive. "Such as?"<br />
<br />
"Well, it was weird", Taimi said. "It smelled like fresh baked. I thought about getting up to check it out, but then I heard one of you up and figured you were doing something. So I rolled over and went back to sleep."<br />
<br />
Lisa then related her experience of the night before and she and Taimi agreed that it was strange but probably nothing to be concerned about. It may have been coming from a neighbor's house and just transported on the breeze. That is, until two nights later, when again the family had been busy all day unpacking and arranging things to suit them in the house. This time it was Jerry that woke to the wonderful smell of cooking. But not to bread baking, no it was spaghetti. It was of spaghetti sauce that had been cooking for several hours. Rich and full of garlic and herbs and spices. Wonderful, still, no stove. He woke Lisa (She just couldn't get a full nights sleep.) to make sure he was not imagining it. He wasn't. Oh, well.. back to sleep and figure it out in the morning.<br />
<br />
These two episodes began a great time in this old farm house. Over the next year they had several events that we shall relate a bit later on. None of which caused any terror or danger, but were, none the less, a bit weird.<br />
<br />
Speaking of weird, it so happens that Jerry is a relative of the Hendersons that we write so much about as well as being the son of Clara from the story ‘After the Game’. Hmm… Seems to run in the family.<br />
<br />
<br />The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-61528496698841581072012-05-07T21:25:00.001-07:002012-05-07T21:31:27.111-07:00The VisitorMary Ramsey had finally gotten to bed. She had been up late with her young husband, Ben, getting him fed and off to work at the mill. He worked the graveyard shift and she would always stay up until he left. He worked hard for her and the two children that they had. It wasn't easy in these times and they were having to live in the old farm house with her family until times got better. But someday, things would change. They had already been talking of moving to Slater, the town that the mill owned. At least Ben wouldn't have to travel so far for work. <br />
She really didn't like being up this late, specially with what she knew would be happening in a very short time. But Ben was worth it.<br />
<br />
You see, there was this thing that happened pretty much every night in this old house. Okay, let me start from the beginning.<br />
<br />
The bedroom that she and Ben shared had a large hump in the floor, right in front of the door. This made it extremely difficult to open the door. Actually it too two strong men to open it all the way to the wall. Except that each morning would find this door completely open. Everyone believed that a ghost opened it. Of course, with everything else that went on around here, it wouldn't be surprising. This occurred at precisely midnight. Several people had heard the terrible scraping and dragging that the door mad as it opened. Except for Mary of course, she had always been blessed with being in a sound sleep that only a crying baby could interrupt. <br />
<br />
She had tried everything to keep the door closed. She had even tried the suggestion made by the old widow woman down the road, to tie the door shut with a baby's bonnet. Mary had taken her daughter Betty's bonnet and tied the door, knowing that this would settle the problem (the woman was rumored to be a witch). Next morning .. you guessed it .. the door was all the way open, again. <br />
<br />
Tonight she was not going to get to sleep before midnight, she knew she wouldn't. It was already a quarter til and she was just now climbing into bed. As she rolled onto her side, trying desperately to will herself to sleep, the clock on the mantle downstairs began to chime ... midnight. If Mary had not been a good Christian she might have cursed, but instead she just burrowed down under the down filled quilt that Aunt Sara had given her on her wedding day and began to silently pray. It did not help.<br />
<br />
The clock had just struck the final chime when she heard the doorknob rattle in its housing. She felt the draft as the door opened as far as it could until it came in contact with the hum in the floor and then .. oh, Lord .. and then she heard the door begin to scrape and drag across the floor. But there was another sound, a softer sound, one that an old fashioned petticoat made as it rustled around slippered feet. <br />
<br />
Mary fought with the urge to peek out from under the quilt just to see what it was that could open this door. She decided instead to call across the hall to her sister, Nelly. "Nellie", she called, but no answer. "Nellie!", a little louder. "What?" was the reply. "I need you, Nellie." "No you don't. You just afraid over there by yourself. I heard the door!" "Please come sleep with me", Mary begged. "Well, only if you light the lamp. I ain't coming over there in the dark!" <br />
<br />
So Mary, with her eyes still tightly shut, found the matches and having struck one, maneuvered the top off the hurricane lamp and managed to get it lit. Once done, Mary cracked her eyes to peek and found ... nothing. Oh, the door was open alright. All the way to the wall, but there was no gray ghost or any other color ghost for that matter. Just the open door.<br />
<br />
Nellie did come across the hall and climb into bed with Mary, by the way.The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-78945400984185289452010-12-20T09:14:00.000-08:002012-12-18T16:12:35.361-08:00Not In My Room You Don’t! (Nellie's Viewpoint)<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">Nellie was the last sister living in the old farm house on Fish Trap Road. Her brother, Lewis Henderson had bought the house for his spinster sisters many years before. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">She had been afflicted with polio when she was a small child and had been crippled ever since. For most of her life she had been able to get around with canes or a walker, but over the past few years she found herself needing more and more help in daily living.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">Her niece, Clara, had been taking care of her for the last couple of years (until the time of her death), first with having Nellie live with her in Travelers Rest and then living with Nellie here in the old house. Clara had not left her alone, of course. Her sons, Harold and Ben, along with their fiancées, Sonya and Wendy respectively, still lived in the house and watched after her and saw to all her needs. They were wonderful young people .. but. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">It was difficult getting older and more dependent. Clara had been sweet and was, truth be told, Nellie’s favorite niece, but depending on someone tended to change things. When Clara was young she would come and visit and would sit next to her, hanging on every word of the stories that Nellie would tell of past times and the family. It was nothing for the two of them to sit for hours in this way, sometimes way into the night. Now, well, the boys were great and their fiancées were treasures, but it just wasn’t the same. Oh well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">It was nice being home and hearing others in the house besides the voices of lost loved ones echoing through the emptiness. This still happened at times, in the darker moments of the night or when the kids went out to run errands. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">She would hear things. Noises, voices, bumps in the night. She tried not to tell the others since, when she had, they had given her the “Are you okay?” look. She even had ‘visits’ from some, such as her sister Beatrice who would come to her in her dreams at times. That was nice. Nicer by far than when Doris stopped by. She was as bitter now as she was when she was still living. Maybe worse. Always griping about ‘outsiders’ living in their home. Didn’t seem to matter that the two boys were her great-nephews or that the reason they were there was to help Nellie. No, Doris was always about being in control and making all the decisions after Lewis died.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">Of course she knew that she was not the only one to experience these ‘visits’. She had overheard Ben telling about how all the cabinet doors and drawers in the bedroom he shared with Wendy were opened each morning when he woke. This had been Lewis’ old room and Nellie had no doubt that it was her brother’s sense of humor to shake up his great nephew a little.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">Another thing that happened, though, concerned Nellie more than Lewis’s sense of humor.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">Wendy had gone to explore the upstairs that had been unoccupied since Doris had passed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">After rummaging through the wardrobes, dressers and trunks that still inhabited the two rooms, Wendy had begun to feel uneasy, almost as if someone were standing just out of sight, watching and not being very happy with what she was seeing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">After a few minutes of trying to ignore this spine crawling feeling and having found a notebook full of poetry, Wendy decided to postpone any further explorations till she had someone to keep her company. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">As she moved to the top of the stairs, her mind was on the dresses, shoes and other things she had found in the bedroom. She certainly was not expecting what happened next. With one hand on the rail next to the stairs, the other gripping the notebook and her right foot in the process of finding the first step, she felt two hands in the middle of her back. Two small, feminine hands placed quite deliberately</span> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">and</span> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">with force. Then a shove that all but sent Wendy head over heels, tumbling toward certain injury, if not death, down the stairs. Only the reflex of tightening her grip on the handrail saved her from this. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">As it was, Wendy suffered a wrenched shoulder as well as two very sore spots on her back that coincided exactly with the placement of the hands upon her.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">That evening Wendy told Ben about her experience and he explained that the room she had been in had belonged to Aunt Doris. Wendy stated that, “If she didn’t want me in the room, all she had to do was say so. Then I would have probably broken my own neck trying to get out from there. She wouldn’t have had to push me down the stairs!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">Nellie contemplated what she heard. Next time Doris visited, she would need to ask her about it. It was one thing to scare someone now and then, quite another to try to hurt them. Specially if they were family. Yes, she would definitely have to ask her about it.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;"></span><br />The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-25970072587195138092010-11-23T08:55:00.000-08:002012-05-08T12:15:28.817-07:00A Friend Comes to Visit?The Hendersons gathered on the porch of their rented two story farmhouse on that hot, late summer afternoon as was their want. It was much cooler here than in the house, what with the slight breeze coming through the oaks and shake from the same. It was a habit passed down from many generations and a good one at that. It not only helped with the heat, but gave everyone a reason to get together and discuss the farm, work, pleasure or just the weather. Today they also shared a bushel of corn that needed shucking. A pile of discarded shucks lay between them on the floor of the porch waiting to be taken to the hog pen.<br />
<br />
Jack, the youngest of the men, looked up from his ear of corn and noticed a movement down in the cow lane leading up to the barn from the back pasture.<br />
<br />
"We expecting company?" he asked to no one in particular.<br />
<br />
"Not that I know of," said Ben, Mary's husband.<br />
<br />
"Well, I thought I saw old man Johnson coming across the pasture. Least it looked like him from here." Mr. Johnson was an older gentleman that lived on the farm that backed up to the Henderson's. He would drop by once in a while to visit or borrow some flour or sugar. Any excuse to have someone to talk to. His wife of 56 years had died last spring and he got awfully lonely by himself, with his two girls grown and gone. <br />
The pasture was in full view as was the front and back of the barn, from where they were sitting. The cow lane was a fenced funnel, if you will, into which the cows were herded into the barn, twice a day for milking. Though, truth be known, they no longer had to physically herd the cows, they just wandered in at meal time by themselves. The most you had to do was whistle a couple of times and here they came.<br />
<br />
If someone approached from the back pasture, they would naturally have to go through the barn to get to the house. And the only time they would be out of sight was during their passage through the barn. <br />
"Well, wonder where he is?" Ben asked to no one in particular. Mr Johnson, if that was who it was, had entered the back of the barn, but had not emerged from the front. Since there were no doors on the other side he should have come out by now.<br />
<br />
"Well, nothing to do but go see what happened" said Jack. "Hope he's okay. Hate to have something happen to him, he is getting old and he's not been himself since his wife passed.<br />
"Well," said Ma Henderson, "you boys go fetch him on in. Supper's almost ready and we've plenty for one more." It was well known in the community that the Hendersons never turned away company from the table, no matter what was on the stove. And it was always something good. All the Henderson women were good cooks.<br />
<br />
Jack and Ben sauntered, in no hurry, down the drive to the barn. They really weren't concerned about Mr. Johnson getting hurt. He probably just stopped to relieve himself out of sight of the house.<br />
<br />
As they approached, Jack noticed that the barn sounded awefully quiet. Matter of fact, there seemed to be no sound coming from the baarn or the grounds surrounding it. The air seemed heavy, too. Like a storm was bearing down. He looked up, not a cloud in the sky.<br />
<br />
But not a sound! The chickens were even quiet. No sound of the rooster raising a ruckus or even the hens singing. Strange.<br />
<br />
Ben noticed all this as well. He really didn't like the barn, not since the experience he'd had last winter when he had come out to milk. ('Morning at the Barn') But Jack and the rest of the family knew nothing about that and he wasn't about to tell them now.<br />
<br />
"Mr. Johnson?" Jack called as they entered the front of the barn."Mr. Johnson, can you hear us?"<br />
<br />
They moved from the glaring light of the midafternoon sun into the dim, cool gloom of the hallway. You could smell the musky fragrance of the hay that lay on the hard clay floor, mixed with cow manure that, by spring, would yeild some great fertilizer for the garden and the flower beds.<br />
<br />
They continued into down the hall, looking into each stall they passed, beginning to be concerned. After all, Mr. Johnson wasn't young and people did die from heart attacks and such.<br />
<br />
They opened the tack room and Ben searched it. This was his favorite area, since it held all the hanes and harnesses used with the mule. Traces were hung on the wall along with girths and headstalls. The collars had their own section since they needed to be cleaned and oiled more often than the rest. The smell of leather permeated every inch of the room.<br />
<br />
He looked under and behind everything in the room, but no old man.<br />
"Jack, you see anything?"<br />
<br />
"Nope, nothing. But I know I saw him come in here. And there wasn't anywhere for him to go without someone seeing him."<br />
<br />
"Think maybe we should check the loft?" Ben asked.<br />
<br />
"Might as well, though I doubt he would go up there. No reason to."<br />
<br />
They scrambled up the ladder to the loft where they stored the winter's supply of hay. When the cold hit, the grass would die and the cows and mule had to have something to eat.<br />
<br />
The two young men searched high and low. They left no bale of hay unturned, so to speak. But could find no sign that the old man had been there.<br />
<br />
"Well," Jack said, "he ain't in the barn. Danged if I know where he went, but he's not here."<br />
<br />
Last but not least, they went to the rear entrance to see if, maybe, he had fallen or something before he actually got into the barn. Here they found footprints in the soft manure leading in, but none going out!<br />
<br />
They got back to the house just as Ma and the girls were setting supper on the table and advised them of their unsuccessful search. No one had any answers and, after much discussion around the table, the subject was dropped for talk of chores that must be done prior to winter coming on. The mystery was put aside. Untill the next day, when word came of the passing of Mr. Johnson. Seems he had died in his sleep the night before. Strange thing was, there was dried cow manure on his boots. That was strange, since it seems that he had been bedridden for nearly a week according to his niece who had come to stay for a few days. And she had cleaned his boots two days before.<br />
<br />
jfsThe Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-38382675984914593382010-11-15T20:34:00.000-08:002012-10-24T09:51:44.918-07:00After The Game'Not a bad game', Clara thought as she got off the bus at Fish Trap Rd. 'Not our best, but not the worst, either. <br />
Clara was on the Slater High School Girl's Basketball team and she had just participated in an away game against Easley. Clara was a guard, first string. That really wasn't huge since they didn't have that many girls who had gone out for the team.<br />
<br />
She did have one claim to fame, though. She held the record for fouling out. She had not even made it through the first quarter of the game before she was asked to leave the floor. Amazing. Not the biggest girl in the game, but man she could scrap!<br />
<br />
She had gotten permission from her school (with a slip from her mother) to get off the bus at her aunts' house on the way back from the game. She liked visiting her aunts. They weren't married and Doris was fairly close to her age. Someone she could talk to.<br />
<br />
The bus stopped at the corner and she hopped off to walk down the road the hundred yards to the two story farm house.<br />
<br />
The house was seriously old, but pretty. It was white and always seemed so welcoming. Her uncle, Lewis, had purchased the home for his sisters with the money he made in the Air Force. He was a bachelor and had decided to make the military his career. He was really neat and he treated his sisters well.<br />
<br />
Clara reached the house and went to the back door. If you were family, you never went to the front, that was saved for salesmen and the preacher.<br />
<br />
Upon climbing the steep back steps, she went in without knocking. Again, she was family. The door opened onto the back porch with another letting into the kitchen.<br />
<br />
“Hello”, she called as she entered. “Hello?” There was no answer and her voice seemed to echo into the emptiness. <br />
<br />
'Hmmm .. must be gone to the store', she thought. No problem. She could walk the mile down to the local general store and ride back with them. Anyhow, she would like to get a 'coke'. It was rare that she had the opportunity and the money at the same time for this little luxury and this store was famous for having the bottles so cold that ice formed on the inside!<br />
<br />
After the walk, she was even more ready for the drink and looked forward to riding instead of walking back. She paid no attention to cars in the lot as she entered the cool interior of the store. It was dark and cool with a huge ceiling fan slowly turning from the open rafters. She called out to the owner behind the counter as she made her way to the 'coke' cooler in the back. She had reached in, grabbed a bottle, opened it and was intent on taking that first chilling sip when she realized that her aunts were nowhere to be seen. “Sir, have you seen the Hendersons this afternoon?” she asked the owner as she paid for the drink and added a pack of 'Nabs' to her purchase. <br />
<br />
“Not since about three. They drove by headed towards town.”<br />
<br />
“Well,” she replied, “if you don't mind, I'll wait outside and catch them as they come back. I would really rather ride than walk back to the house.”<br />
<br />
“You're more than welcome to wait, long as you want. I don't close til about 8.”<br />
<br />
“Thanks” she said as she went and parked herself on one of the worn out chairs still standing sentinel out front.<br />
<br />
The minutes Clara had expected to wait turned into an hour and the sun was beginning to set. It looked as if she had no choice but to trek the mile back and she best get on it if she wanted to reach the aunt's house before dark. With that she struck out down the road.<br />
<br />
Having reached the house, she went straight on in, turning on lights as she went. Since this was a Friday, she had no school tomorrow and, hence, no homework. What to do, what to do.<br />
<br />
She decided to do what any red blooded American girl would do in her situation, she took what was left of her 'coke', made herself comfortable on the couch in the sitting room and opened her latest comic book. <br />
<br />
Now the sitting room was situated directly off the kitchen with the rest of the house available through the two doors opening onto the formal dining room. From there you found the hallway (with staircase to the left), two bedrooms off to the right and the front door and porch. The front bedroom on the right was no longer used. It had been Aunt Annie's prior to her death. It was still just as she left it. Weird.<br />
<br />
Anyway. Clara had read about half the comic when she heard someone coming up the front hall. Thinking that one of the aunts had come through the front, she quickly rolled off the couch and moved to a spot just behind the nearest door. She was going to scare whoever came through!<br />
<br />
She heard the steady tread as it progressed up the hall and stopped just the other side. She waited for the door to open .. nothing. Waited a bit more in case the aunt was having to shift grocery bags in her arms. Nothing.<br />
<br />
Not knowing what else to do and tired of waiting, Clara flung open the door, jumped through and shouted … Well, she started to shout, “BOOO!” but it never got past her lips, for on the other side of the door was, nothing. Not an aunt, not an intruder, not anybody, not anything.<br />
<br />
She was sure that she had heard someone and that the footsteps had stopped at the door she just jumped through. But, come to think of it, she had not heard anyone come through the front or even heard the slamming of the screen on the porch.<br />
<br />
All of a sudden, this wasn't fun anymore and the house that had always been so welcoming wasn't. <br />
<br />
With this in mind, Clara hastily gathered her book and made a dash for the back door. <br />
<br />
She waited, sitting on the front steps even though it was dark outside. The dark, however, was more inviting than whatever was inside.<br />
<br />
Within fifteen minutes the aunt's car pulled into the drive and she followed it to the back of the house. Hugs were given and received and Aunt Beatrice explained that they had gone to the grocery and forgotten that she was supposed to spend the weekend with them. Noticing that Clara was unusually quiet, Beatrice asked what was the matter.<br />
<br />
Clara was still quite shook-up from her experience and so it took a while to tell the story of what she had gone through. Still, it took less time to tell than it had to live it. She helped take the groceries into the kitchen. She didn't notice the looks that she got from the aunts as she finished her story.<br />
<br />
Nellie had made her way into the sitting room to her chair by the heater when she called Clara to her side. She had suffered from polio as a child and was only able to go out with the assistance of her sisters and walking sticks, so the trip to the grocery had worn her out.<br />
<br />
After Clara had taken her seat, Nellie asked, “Was this the first time you heard the footsteps in the hall? Why, its not unusual for us to hear those footsteps as well as other sounds every so often. Nothing going to hurt you. Its all family.<br />
<br />
Nellie went on to explain that ever since Annie had died, there had occasionally been heard footsteps coming from the front room and progressing up the hall to the sitting room door, where they would end with no one ever coming through. It was believed that it was she who walked the hallway. <br />
<br />
Annie had died in that room (it was her bedroom at the time) as well as having been 'laid out' the day before her funeral in that same room. There were stories about that wake, as well!<br />
<br />
After this explanation Clara really didn't feel any better. Matter of fact, the weekend seemed to draw on and on as she was constantly listening closely for any sound that might seem out of the ordinary. From that point on, when she visited the aunts, she made sure they were home and that she was never alone in the house, again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
jfsThe Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-60832546557031545372010-11-09T07:52:00.000-08:002012-10-24T10:33:36.387-07:00Introducing the LadyThe Lady (Just an introduction)<br />
<br />
<br />
Such a beautiful, old house. Built in 1897, the cape cod style home captivated me from the start. The first time I saw it I told my daughter, “It feels just like Grandma and Granddad's house.” After we purchased it I realized it now was .. Grandma and Granddad's house! <br />
<br />
The first clue we had that something was different about this house was when we noticed the scent of cornbread and beans being cooked. Which was fine, except that we weren't doing any of the cooking! We had entered the front door and were stopped about three feet in, where we were pleasantly surprised with the aroma. Cool!<br />
<br />
Of course, as with any Southern cook worth her apron, this wasn't her only dish. We were to be privileged with the smell of other truly wonderful meals. Too bad her talent did not include actually putting this food on our table!<br />
We nicknamed the provider of these pleasures of the senses, the Lady.<br />
<br />
The Lady never appeared to us a full blown apparition though she made her presence felt in many other ways.<br />
<br />
Now, at certain times the scent of cigars would waft from the sitting room (just inside and to the left of the front door) as if the gentlemen had retired for their after dinner brandy and cigars.<br />
<br />
This was our introduction to 'The Lady' in our house. We didn't know that we would come to know her much better over time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i><u>The Lady and the Hunley</u></i></b><br />
<br />
My wife, Lisa and I took a day trip to Charleston, SC to view the Civil War submarine, C.S.S. Hunley. It had been recently moved to an area where you could tour and see the ship and listen to lectures concerning its construction and short history. <br />
<br />
While there we decided to purchase a print titled 'the Blue Light'. This depicted the Hunley as she should have been after her ill-fated mission. It showed a mariner holding a signal light denoting “mission accomplished”.<br />
<br />
When we returned home I felt that the perfect place for this print was centered above the antique upright piano in the sitting room. Since the walls in this room are still covered in thick plaster instead of modern sheetrock I drilled a hole and inserted a hollow wall anchor to hang the picture from. <br />
<br />
After carefully centering and leveling the frame I stepped back to admire my handiwork. “How does that look?” I asked my wife. <br />
<br />
“I think it is perfect”, she replied.<br />
<br />
We retired to the den at the back of the house content that we had just added to our wonderful home.<br />
<br />
The next morning my wife came into the kitchen and asked, “Where is the Hunley?”<br />
<br />
Taken by surprise I said, “Let me guess, in the sitting room?” Well I thought I was witty!<br />
<br />
“No, and I can't find it,” she said.<br />
<br />
Look, I'm no genius, but even I know that if you put something somewhere and you don't move it, then it should still be there the next morning.<br />
<br />
That is what I thought, anyway. What I discovered was that it was not only NOT where I had hung it, but in its place was a hole that may have been made by forcefully pulling a hollow wall anchor out of the plaster!<br />
<br />
Okay, I didn't do it, my wife didn't do it and no one else was there... so … oh never mind! Didn't even want to think about it!<br />
<br />
So where was my picture? I gauged that if the picture had just fallen from the hanger, it would have bounce off the top of the piano, shattered the glass and wound up on the floor. One problem, no picture. No shattered frame and glass. No shards on the floor. Hmmm!<br />
<br />
It was as if the print had been ripped from the wall and taken away! No, I did not believe someone had broken in during the night, ripped my picture from the wall and escaped from the house the same way they had gotten in. And all without myself, my wife or the 5 dogs that we have, hearing or seeing anything. So, where was it?<br />
<br />
After searching everywhere else, I peeked behind the piano. This piano was built in the 1850's and is super heavy. I sits only two inches from the wall, so I already knew that the picture could not be there. But it was! <br />
<br />
Sitting very nicely behind the piano, leaned up against the wall, face out and with no shattered glass, scratched frame or even scuffed finish, was the print that I was so fond of. We never did find the anchor!<br />
<br />
I leaned the picture up on a table and left it there, un-hung and undisturbed for several months.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Not a bad little tale of unforeseen spookiness. I guess things would have been fine if I had just left well enough alone and the picture on the table … riiiight.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The Hunley .. Again<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The picture of the Hunley had been residing on an antique plant stand for several months when I decided that the Lady must have just been having a bad day when she ripped it from the wall. I was also sure that I would not allow something unseen to dictate where I hung my pictures or in any other way influence my decorating decision in my own home. <br />
<br />
With this in mind I politely got my trusty hammer, a small picture hanging hook (the kind with the small nail that doesn't leave too big a hole when you eventually pull it out) along with the print and proceeded to have my way in the sitting room.<br />
<br />
Okay, all I really did was put the hook a few inches above the hole left by the anchor and hang the picture in such a way as to cover the evidence that I had been too lazy to fix the hole.<br />
<br />
Our youngest daughter, Rachel and her husband, Randall were over and they steadied the chair that was standing in for the small step stool that I couldn't seem to find. After carefully and artfully hanging the Hunley back above the piano and stepping back to ascertain its being level, we retired to the den for some well earned iced tea.<br />
<br />
As our Sunday afternoon progressed we wandered in and out of the house on various errands. After one such outing Randall entered the den looking a bit perplexed. “Jerry, did you move the picture?” were the words that still send shivers down my spine.<br />
<br />
“No, why? Don't tell me its gone again.” I had just gotten over the first incident of whatever entity that roamed our halls taking it upon itself to rip the print out of a perfectly good plaster wall.<br />
<br />
“Well,” he said, “Its not where we left it.”<br />
<br />
My wife and I along with Rachel and Randall made a hasty advance to the sitting room where, sure enough, there was a bare spot where the print of the Hunley should have been. I was, however, pleased to note that there was no new hole in the wall but that the hook was still in its place.<br />
<br />
Wait a minute, the hook was still in its place. That meant that whoever, or whatever removed the Hunley had to have lifted it straight up off the hook instead of just pulling on it. For some reason this seemed worse than the previous event.<br />
<br />
This time I did not even bother to search the sitting room .. instead I first looked behind the piano and sure enough, there it sat. No scratch, break or scuff of any kind. <br />
<br />
I was beaten.<br />
<br />
I retrieved the print, tucked it under my arm and retreated to the den where it hangs to this day, a year later, in a wonderful spot just above and to the left of the T.V.<br />
<br />
Oh, in the place where I had tried twice, unsuccessfully to hang it in the sitting room, now resides a very innocuous 'Home Interiors' print. Totally unmolested by the Lady, who, truth be known, must have no sense of taste.The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3889199198839887676.post-78550413802216309882010-11-07T14:30:00.000-08:002012-10-24T10:35:22.275-07:00Early Morning at the Barn"I didn't mean to wake you", Ben said to his wife as he got dressed before the sun was even up. "I'm going out to milk the cow before leaving for work."<br />
"That's okay, I'll get your breakfast while you're at the barn. You need to eat." Mary was a young wife and intent on being a good one to her wonderful husband.<br />
Ben finished dressing by donning his heavy coat since this was mid-winter and he couldn't afford to catch a cold. He then headed for the barn where 'Old Bess', the cow was waiting with straining utters and a bucket load of fresh milk.<br />
"Easy girl", he said as he placed the kickers on Bess's hind legs. These were important in order to keep her from kicking the bucket over and spilling the milk just before the process was over. He had already put feed in the trough for her breakfast and now got down to washing her udders and pulling the milk from her in long squirts and splashes into the bucket. This was one chore that he enjoyed. Coming out this early in the morning gave Ben the opportunity to watch the world wake from its slumber and witness the dawning of another day. But it sure was chilly out here.<br />
With the milking done, dawn was just beginning to break, though inside the stall it was still difficult to see in the early morning gloom. He had to feed the mule and check on the chickens before he was done.<br />
Problem was, he felt the need (more so by the minute) to go visit the outhouse! "It sure is a long way out there", he thought. And it certainly was, especially on a cool morning such as this. Plus he would still have to return to the barn and finish his work here after he finished there!<br />
"Oh, bother. Well the cows and the mule use it in here, maybe that's what I'll do .. just this once. Nobody will know." Ant that is exactly what he did.<br />
Once he finished, he was trying to get his overalls pulled up when something jerked them back down!<br />
He glanced around but couldn't see anything, so he decided he must have just lost his grip due to the cold. Again he pulled the pants up ... and something jerked them back down. He looked around once more. The filtered light was getting a bit stronger by the minute in the barn, but he still couldn't see what was doing this. He wasn't close enough to the wall to be hanging on a nail and there was not anything in here, that he could see, to be pulling his pants down! One more time he pulled them up and, once more, something pulled them back down. Difference was, this time he was expecting it and maintained his grip on the pants, held them up and ran from the stall! <br />
Shaken and confused he quickly finished his chores and left the barn determining to always, no matter how cold it was or how late in the morning it might be, always to make the trek to the outhouse from then on.<br />
Ben returned to the house where Mary had put together a breakfast of eggs (scrambled with cheese), toast, blackberry jam (home-made), grits and sausage (from the boar hog they had slaughtered earlier that winter). He ate with enthusiasm and then got ready and left for work without once mentioning his adventure in the <b>early morning at the barn</b>.The Springfieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07170119652897985781noreply@blogger.com0