Ghost story of a Dallas boy who meets the girl of his dreams in a Texas small town. A girl who might be too good to be true. Maybe the old rotary phone is a giveaway. Written by Bob Hopkins.

The weather was perfect that third day in May as the boy, energetic and youthful, walked out the door of his childhood home with an ample bit of courage coupled with excitement, but shadowed with a slight hint of fear. It was on that day the boy became a man. That beautiful morn in May was his twenty-first birthday and life seemed so full of possibilities, and like a pit bull full of spit and courage to face the unknown, regardless of what may come, he trotted into a day of boyish vigor morphing into manhood.

It was a typical spring morning and not a cloud in the sky. Just the kind of day for an adventure, and not just any adventure – today, Hayden Hawkins would celebrate his birthday with a gift that most boys his age would certainly envy if offered half the chance. Today would be the day when Uncle Red would finally allow Hayden to drive his treasured 1964 Chevy Corvette, a priceless gem of Americana, one that still dominates the dreams of car lovers both young and old alike.

He arrived at Uncle Red’s house about 9 AM that morning with unbridled anticipation. Red, his mother’s brother, three years her senior, met him at the door with a list of what not to do while behind the wheel of his classic automobile, rules of the road spelled out by a man who treated his car better than he treated his wife. Hayden, hearing only about half of the lecture, couldn’t wait for Red to hand over the keys. After absorbing an eternity of instructions he finally found himself sliding into the driver’s seat of a classic piece of machinery.

Where would he go? What would he do? He was forbidden to allow any of his “hoodlum” friends, as Red called them, to even sit in the car, let alone ride in it – Red’s strict orders. So, he just drove in the direction the car was facing: eastbound. Soon he found himself cruising through the campus of Southern Methodist University and figured that was as good a route as any while the warm wind caressed his youthful face, bobbing to the music on the radio which was blaring loudly from the convertible classic.

Soon he connected to the dreaded 75 Central Expressway, six lanes of southbound traffic speeding toward the very center of “Big D.” Like a bead of water into an ocean he too blended into the endless stream of steel and rubber floating toward the heart of the city. One either needed to be a part of it or be run over by it and if he wasn’t careful, it could easily be the latter if he dared slow down or take his eye off the eighty mile an-hour traffic.

Hayden was as giddy as a child as his swelling pride rose up once he discovered he was the envy of most drivers along the highway, gawking at the Vette with smiles, envy, and even an occasional “thumbs up.” He found it almost impossible to keep his foot light on the throttle but even in his youthful venture, discipline would keep him safe from such dangerous thoughts. And still, where to go? It didn’t matter; he had all day and the world, that day, belonged to him.

Before long, Hayden found a deep desire to get out of the city and since he was southbound on Interstate 35, he figured he’d just keep going. It was near noon by now and he was getting hungry while taking the Highway 287 exchange – next town, Waxahachie.

He’d heard of the small town but had never been there and his stomach convinced him that stopping for a burger anywhere was a must. Route 287 Business was his next exit west into the middle of the historic north Texas village. Fertile fields and forests of pecan and oaks soon gave way to historic stately homes on either side of the road. He was amazed as he passed one historic home after another giving his imagination a hint of life in the old days. The pride of the village was a beautiful red stone courthouse right in the middle of the town square surrounded by unique 19th century commercial architecture. He soon found a quaint little restaurant right across the street from the courthouse and had a bite to eat among cut limestone walls lined with black and white pictures and décor from a time when cotton was king and Waxahachie, Texas thrived by the profits of it.

Once Hayden devoured the best home cooking he’d ever had away from his mother’s table he decided to cruise the Victorian neighborhoods and admire the historic homes. He was mesmerized as he drove past one beautiful house after another, each outlined with bright colors, gingerbread trim, large wrap-around porches and stately yards manicured to perfection.

Early-afternoon was looming as thoughts beckoned his return to Dallas, when suddenly the car sputtered. His heart sputtered along with it. Not only would a breakdown maroon him in unfamiliar territory but Uncle Red specifically instructed him not to take the car very far from the neighborhood. He just knew he would be in some serious trouble if Uncle Red found out. Another sputter, a cough and that was it…nothing. The car died and rolled to a stop, and Hayden found himself stranded without any idea of what the engine looked like, let alone what could be wrong with it.

Once again, he tried to start the car but to no avail. Over and over he turned the key but the engine just churned and sputtered. So, naturally, he got out of the car and lifted the hood glancing at the motor, not that he had any idea what he was looking at but that is what men were supposed to do. He was no mechanic.

Not knowing what to do next Hayden instinctively started jiggling wires and checking for loose parts when his hand unintentionally came in contact with a hot radiator cap. “Ouch!” he shouted as he jerked his arm back, striking the support rod dropping the hood directly on his head. Frustrated, he let out an expletive that would embarrass anyone in mixed company. But he was not in mixed company, or so he thought until he heard the sweetest voice on God’s earth.

“You broke down?” she yelled from the safety of the porch. It was only then that he realized his car had stalled in front of a beautiful Victorian house with a large wrap-around front porch. Sitting in a rocking chair on the porch was one of the most beautiful girls Hayden Hawkins had ever set his eyes upon.

“What’s the matter with your fancy car?” she yelled again. Hayden found himself awestruck and suddenly unable to speak. “Are you deaf or something?” she hollered.

“No,” he replied, somewhat insulted and embarrassed all at the same time. “It just died.” At that she stood up and walked down the sidewalk toward the car. Hayden was instantly smitten with the girl as if bewitched, even though she seemed a bit feisty in her initial tone. It mattered not, she was a Goddess as far as he could tell.

“Is it yours?” she asked.

“Uh, no…it’s my, my Uncle Red’s,” he stuttered. “We live up in Dallas and, well, he lets me drive it.”

“Do you always tear up your Uncle Red’s stuff…Just kidding,” she said with a smile. “You want to use our phone to call your Uncle?”

“I guess so,” he reluctantly replied, knowing that the phone call could spell out the end of driving the car forever.

“Well, come on up to the porch and I’ll ask my mother if you can come in and use the phone.” Hayden had his cell phone in the car but ignored it – if doing so would lend him any prospect of being in the company of such beauty.

“Mama,” she yelled into the back of the house, “there’s a boy who needs to use the phone, his car broke down in front of the house!”

“What boy?” came a woman’s voice from the same direction.

“Just a boy,” the girl yelled back. “He just needs to use the phone!”

“Alright, yelled her mother, “but don’t go any further into the house, I just waxed the dining room floor and I don’t want anyone walking on it for a while!”

“Okay, Mama,” the girl replied, motioning Hayden into the large foyer lined with dark oak wainscoting upon a crimson carpet that covered the heart-o-pine flooring.

He found the home elegantly fashioned in comfort but oddly retrospect in decor. The young lady pointed toward an old rotary telephone sitting in a little nook just inside the main hall next to the beautiful staircase that led to the second floor. “Strange,” he thought as his eyes spanned the room which smelled of fresh cooked pastries mixed with floor wax, odd yet inviting all at the same time. Hesitant to use the phone, mostly because he wasn’t sure how to operate the antique rotary dial, he figured he’d wait a bit before calling Uncle Red. Maybe the engine just got hot, he thought, and he could let it cool off and then see if it would start. Besides, he could think of no better place on earth to be stranded.

“Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Barbara, Barbara Hill.”

“Nice to meet you,” he replied as he found himself hypnotized by her beauty and her smile.

“So, do boys from Dallas not have names?” she asked with a curious smile.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he replied embarrassingly. “I’m Hayden, Hayden Hawkins.”

“Nice to meet you Hayden Hawkins,” she replied with a slight giggle.

“I think I’ll wait on that phone call and just let the engine cool down a bit, if you don’t mind,” said Hayden.

“Suit yourself,” she said. “You can sit out on the porch and relax a bit if you’d like,” of which he was more than happy to oblige.

He quickly made himself comfortable in one of the large white rocking chairs with thick padded cushions surrounded by big tropical plants as he took note of two hummingbirds sipping from the blooms on the crepe myrtles. Barbara sat in the chair next to him quickly joined by a gray tabby cat who she affectionately called “Mr. Doodles”.

“Do you go to school? she asked.

“Yes’em,” he replied, in his usual southern drawl, “I do. I just finished my third year at Texas. I’m working on my business degree. What about you? Do you go to school here?” he asked her.

“I’ll graduate high school in a couple of weeks,” she replied. “I’ll be a freshman at Baylor this fall. I can’t wait.”

The conversation went on and on and Hayden was beginning to understand the silly notion of love at first sight. They shared interests and hobbies and each other’s goals for life as if time no longer held any meaning. He learned that her father was a physician who had a practice up in Dallas, her mother stayed home and her brother Roy was in the Army, a first lieutenant stationed right out of Fort Hood, Texas, and Mr. Doodles, well, he just walked up to the house one day and they took him in.

They spoke of things like childhood memories, grandparents and friends – all the while careless of the stress that comes with adulthood and responsibilities. The only thing that suddenly existed for them seemed to be the bliss of the moment.

The day evaporated and Hayden suddenly realized that evening was upon them and he still had a car problem on his hands. “Wow,” he remarked as he noticed it getting dark, “I guess I need to see if that car is going to start, I had no idea that it was so late.”

“Why don’t you see if it will start now?” she said, as Hayden got up to walk toward the car. She followed down the sidewalk which ran through the manicured lawn to the curb where the car sat. Hayden rechecked the hood to make sure it was closed when he slid into the seat and tried the ignition once again. With one crank, Vroom! Just like that the engine roared to life. Hayden checked the gauges and everything seemed just fine. Curiously, he got out of the car to thank Barbara for her hospitality.

“I guess maybe it just got hot or something,” he said.

“Yea,” she replied, “cars sometimes do that I guess,” as she shrugged her shoulders while giggling.

“Well, I guess I’d better be getting home, he said, nervously. Suddenly, as if again bewitched he instinctively added, “I sure would like to see you again.”

Barbara said, “Yeah, me too. I really had a nice time today.”

“Would you like to go out next Saturday night?” Hayden nervously asked.

“I’d love too,” she said with a huge smile.

“Great” he said, “it’s a date. Why don’t I pick you up early in the afternoon and you show me around Waxahachie?”

“Sounds wonderful to me,” she said.

“Can I have your phone number?” he asked and she said “Yes,” and made a quick trip back into the house returning with the number written on a small piece of personalized letterhead that read, “Dr. Lewis Roy Hill, MD.” With that Hayden walked around the car and got in, leaving the beautiful girl waving goodbye from the sidewalk in front of her beautiful home.

Hayden’s drive back to Dallas was interrupted by his cell phone. It was Uncle Red inquiring the whereabouts of his classic Corvette and to make sure Hayden was alright. Any punishment handed to him at this moment was irrelevant compared to how he was feeling. He was on cloud nine, floating northbound along a stream of lights toward home, his mind still reeling with the thoughts of the most beautiful girl in the world and eager anticipation of the time he would spend with her next Saturday night.

The week seemed to drag for Hayden. He’d had lots of dates with girls and even had a serious girlfriend in high school but something about Barbara Hill was different. Just the thought of her made him feel all funny inside. Never before had a girl had this kind of impact upon him. Like a five year old waiting for Santa, his thrill and anticipation of seeing her again seemed to grow daily. He could hardly wait. She was all he could think about.

”The number you are calling is no longer a working number…” was the recorded voice each time he dialed the numbers Barbara Hill had written on the oddly faded piece of paper she’d handed him just days before. Hayden tried the number several times, each with the same results. It was the middle of the week and he just needed to hear her voice again and besides, it was proper to confirm the date. But he couldn’t reach her by phone. Not to worry, he thought. He’d planned to show up anyway. Nothing was going to keep him from going to Waxahachie – after all, he had a date with the girl of his dreams and he was going to keep it no matter what.

Soon, Saturday arrived and Hayden, borrowing his mother’s SUV, headed south to the small town half an hour south of Dallas in nervous excitement. It was about four in the afternoon when he pulled up in front of the large Victorian house. But something strange was about. The rocking chairs were missing, as were the plants, and the crepe myrtles were missing their blooms. As a matter-of-fact, the porch was bare and lifeless with the front door shut. No longer warm and inviting as it was the week before, as dust and dead leaves covered the porch and steps as if no one had been there in weeks or even months.

As Hayden walked up the sidewalk he noticed an elderly woman in the lawn next door stooped over a flowerbed. The woman looked his way as if curious of his intentions. He continued up the steps to the front door where he knocked but got no answer. He knocked again when he was interrupted by the elderly neighbor, “Can I help you?”

Oddly startled he replied, “No Ma’am, I’m just here to pick up my date but it seems that nobody is home.”

“Well, young man,” she replied, “that could be because nobody lives in this house.” Hayden looked at the woman as if she had lost her marbles. She went on to say, “No one has lived in the house since 1968. It’s owned by Mr. Roy Hill, who lives near Seattle, Washington. I don’t think he’s actually been here in years. He just keeps the place exactly like it was when he was growing up here. I keep an eye on things for him.”

Hayden was dumb-struck and refused to believe what the old woman said. Most likely crazy, he thought. “Is this some kind of joke?” he replied. “I just met these people a week ago. My car broke down right there,” pointing to the spot at the curb where he had parked the car. “I met the girl who lives here. I walked into the house where I heard her mother in the kitchen. People live here. I saw them. I was here and they were here.”

“Young man,” she replied, “I never said you didn’t see and talk to someone at this house. I simply said no one has lived here for over forty years.”

Hayden looked at her completely puzzled when she asked, “Did you meet a pretty young lady named Barbara with long black hair, beautiful blue eyes and sweet as the morning dew?”

“Yes,” he said with confusion. “Yes, that’s her, that’s Barbara Hill!”

“Did she sit on the porch and talk to you and give you a phone number that you couldn’t call?” asked the old woman.

Hayden was dumbfounded as the woman continued with another question.

“Was she wearing a pair of white slacks with a blue sleeveless sweater and a red ribbon holding her hair back?”

“How do you know all that?” he asked.

“Because you’re not the first,” she said. “I mean, you’re not the first boy who has showed up here for a date with Barbara Hill. Several young men just like you have walked up to these steps expecting to find a warm and friendly young lady waiting for them at this door, but no one has been at this door in many years. Or at least, no one living.”

Hayden was beginning to question his own sanity and not sure he could believe a word of what this crazy old woman was saying.

“The first time it happened was about 1978, ten years after the plane crash. A young man just like you, about your age, showed up one afternoon to take her out on a date, but naturally no one was here and hadn’t been for some time. He knocked on my door looking for any information about my neighbors and young Barbara Hill. I was angry with him at first and told him to leave my property because I thought he was playing a cruel joke. Since that time there have been several, including you who came looking for a beautiful young lady forty years dead. Like a magnet from beyond she continues to come home to this house, somehow, and mingle with young men who instantly fall for her devilish charm and unending beauty…even in death. I’ve lived in this neighborhood since 1948, only a couple of years before Barbara was born. I watched her and her brother grow up here. My husband and I were good friends with her parents. You can only imagine the grief when the family died in that plane crash.”

“Plane crash? What plane crash?” he frightfully asked as his mind wondered if any of this conversation was really happening. He was sure, without a doubt that he stood upon this very porch not a week ago falling hopelessly in love with an 18 year old beauty named Barbara Hill who was as real as he was and very much alive.

The woman continued as she searched her mind for memories, “It was on the 3rd of May, 1968 when they were headed home on a flight from Houston. The Doctor had been to a conference there. He’d decided to take Barbara and her mother along on the trip so the family could spend some time together. The morning was stormy here in Waxahachie and a line of heavy storms had just past through. The plane was en route back when the pilot tried to fly through those storms. The plane just came apart in mid-air and crashed to the ground in a fireball near a small town down near Corsicana. There were no survivors.”

The conversation went silent as Hayden searched every fiber of his being for something to assure him that things like this didn’t really happen. That the ghosts of pretty girls don’t come back to break the hearts of boys like him. But he was left with no choice as the facts began to unfold on that strange afternoon, one that would forever plague his mind in wonder and doubt.

“Barbara was a beautiful girl and very witty,” the woman continued. “She was so full of life and was looking forward to her first year in college. She was a very popular girl whose young life was tragically taken away. I guess she wasn’t ready for that to happen and somehow keeps trying to go on with life the way she lived it, unfortunately, she hasn’t figured out yet that she can’t.”

Once again, another moment of eerie silence caressed the space between Hayden and the old woman.

“Barbara’s older brother Roy was serving in the Army and was in Vietnam at the time. He came home and buried his family. Roy inherited the home but never lived in it again. He hires folks to keep it maintained just like it was when he was growing up and it’s been kept just as it was the day the family left,” she told him as she sadly gazed into the empty yard.

She then stared right at him and said, “You see son, some things in this world are…well, just strange like Barbara Hill and we’ll never have the answers to them. I suggest you go on home now and give this some time to sink in. It’s best if you don’t try to find all the answers in life. You go on now.”

With that she turned and sadly walked away, leaving Hayden Hawkins standing on the front porch of the beautiful home where a beautiful girl once lived on a beautiful day in May many years ago.

-THE END-

Links of Interest:

Waxahachie, Texas Official Site
True story of Corsicana plane crash.
Bob Hopkins’ Texas ghost stories

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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends

Creature story of a mysterious Tennessee lake that tends to attract visitors – for life!
Written by Harris Tobias

One wonders how these places get their names. There was nothing especially owlish about its 60 acres of surface or the little islands that poked their domed heads above it. It was a pretty lake in the Tennessee woods, peaceful and pristine. Exactly the kind of place Monty needed for a few days of splendid isolation. Fishing, reading, getting back in touch with his inner man. A few precious days to decompress before the firm reeled him back in and sucked him dry.

There were a couple of reasons Owl Head Lake appealed to him. One was its inaccessibility. Three miles of dirt road to a primitive campground ruled out all but the most determined campers. The second was its unpopularity. The lake had acquired a bad reputation ever since people began disappearing from its shores—a group of teenagers vanished a few years ago, their tents and gear untouched. Before that a family went missing without a trace. And those were just the two that he knew of; he supposed there were more. On both occasions the lake was dragged, divers sent into its murky depths, to no avail. The divers reported the lake was uncommonly deep and cold but harbored nothing out of the ordinary. So the stories grew that the lake was cursed and as the stories multiplied, the locals kept away and its campsites gradually fell into disrepair.

If tall tales and ghost stories kept campers away, that suited Monty just fine. The last thing he wanted was company, some garrulous stranger making chitchat about the weather or some tedious retired couple from Des Moines. No Owl Head Lake was just the tonic he needed. Who knew what happened to those teen-age campers. Kids are famous for making stupid decisions. He could imagine them yelling, “Watch this” just before plunging over a cliff.

As for the lake’s reputation for being haunted or stalked by a serial killer, well he was a city boy and violent death was all around him. He knew the odds of being killed by a stranger were greater than getting struck by lightening. And besides as a lawyer he made his living defending the most depraved sociopaths on the planet. No, he wasn’t afraid of a violent end, he was afraid of some friendly camper destroying his solitude.

His heart sank when he first drove in and saw the bright blue of a tent pitched near his favorite site. He needn’t have worried the neighbors were packing up and leaving. The man came over to Monty his face showing obvious signs of distress.

“I wouldn’t be staying here, fella, if I was you.”

“Oh, why’s that?” an obviously relieved Monty asked.

“There’s something wrong with that lake. Something evil. You hear them stories about people disappearing and all?”

“I heard ‘em,” Monty said. “A lot of old wives tales if you ask me.”

“Maybe, but I ain’t staying to find out, we all heard weird noises last night and now my dog’s gone missing. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye open for him. If he shows up would you give me a call?”

The old man handed Monty a slip of paper with a phone number on it. Monty promised he’d do that. He watched the man pack his gear calling “Rufus” every few minutes until he finally drove away leaving nothing but blissful silence behind. When the neighbor was gone, Monty tossed the phone number in the fire, mixed himself a cocktail and sat facing the lake.

The sun was low in the sky, the birds were active, ducks, geese and herons making their living from nature’s intricate web. The graceful herons, like statues working the margins while flotillas of ducks and Canada Geese patrolled the deep water like opposing fleets. On the small islands, a glint of white, an owl or bald eagle. Fabulous, this is the stuff his spirit thrived on.

In spite of the scenery, his mind drifted back to his high-pressure job. He had to admit it was a hell of a way to make a living. Sure everyone is entitled to the best defense they can afford blah, blah, but his rich clients knew they could buy their way out of almost anything. Did it make him feel dirty? No, not really. He was a hired gun. Someone had to safeguard the civil rights of wealthy child molesters, drug dealers, thieves and murderers. How should it make him feel? He didn’t make the rules. Still, thank goodness for places like this, islands of peace and quiet to soothe a troubled mind. Nature restored his soul. He raised his glass to the setting sun by way of thanks.

Weren’t there three islands in the middle of the lake? Oh yes. From this angle it looked like two but there were the three little mounds. He knew them well; he called them the 3 knobs. They looked like the tops of three heads, dome shaped and symmetrical. They reminded him of three bathers wearing forested bathing caps. Something spooked the Canada Geese just then. They broke the placid surface of the lake in a spontaneous dash into the air sounding their alarms. He admired the natural world. Now there was a system of justice that made sense. Eat or be eaten, the strongest survive, that was how it should be. There was no plea-bargaining out there, no sir-ee-bob.

When his attention returned to the islands, they were spread out in a line before him. The sun was a golden ball spreading jewels on the rippled surface. The fleeing geese reminded him of the case he just finished litigating. Chichi Maldonado. What a piece of work. If ever anyone deserved to be locked away, it was Chichi. Bargaining down multiple felonies to a few months in a country club prison due to a technicality. That’s why he made the big bucks. He even got a bonus for that bit of work. What a system.

Was he mistaken or was the configuration of the islands slightly different? One of the knobs seemed to have drifted closer. It must be a trick of the light. The sun was almost down. What a scene. A sky striped like cotton candy and grape soda. The reflection on the lake was flawless. What a picture. He pulled out his camera and snapped a few for posterity. The heron called and took wing. Calling it a day he guessed.

The ducks too took wing. Where do ducks sleep he wondered. He loved the sunsets on this lake. He was here six months before. He looked back in the little camera’s memory and pulled up some shots he’d taken in May. Yes, that was another soul satisfying sunset. What was different about that earlier shot? The knobs. In the earlier picture they were somewhere else entirely. That’s strange he thought. It was his last rational thought before the island dragged him kicking and screaming into its toothy maw.

-THE END-

Harris Tobias lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia. He is the author of The Greer Agency , A Felony of Birds and dozens of short stories. His fiction has appeared in Ray Gun Revival, Dunesteef Audio Magazine, Literal Translations, FriedFiction, Down In The Dirt, Eclectic Flash, E Fiction and many other publications. His poetry has appeared in Vox Poetica, The poem Factory and The Poetry Super Highway. You can find links to his novels at: http://harristobias-fiction.blogspot.com/

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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends

Kentucky ghost story of a haunted house that holds the key to the mysterious past of a young girl.
Written by Samantha Frazier Gordon

You can feel a presence before you see it. The presence that had taken up residence in the house on Black River could reach clear across the county. But it didn’t have to; it made you come to it. Some places hold us captive by their beauty, some hold us captive by their history and other places just hold us captive. Grace knew exactly what the clapboard house looked like from the inside out, even though she had never been inside. She knew that the kitchen had yellow and white checkered gingham curtains that were hung askew and the lace sewn on the bottom was tattered and hanging by a thread. The kitchen countertops were mint green Formica and they had started to bow some time ago but no effort had been put into fixing the problem, before too long it would all peel off, exposing the rotting wood. The living room was small as was the dining room, both filled with pieces of mismatched furniture in various stages of ruin. People used to live here, but there was never any life.

The upstairs did not have a bathroom but it did have two bedrooms and there was a small attic with two small windows. Grace was certain the oldest child was a girl and that she slept in the attic, against her will. Grace didn’t have any siblings and she didn’t have any friends and she decided you couldn’t miss what you didn’t have. Grace didn’t have a mother, at least that’s what her father told her, she left before Grace could walk. Sometimes she could make out the voice of a woman; she was always whispering something indiscernible and smelled of honeysuckle. She wished she could remember more so she could think about that, rather than think about the things she didn’t have.

When they came to Black River her father seemed to disappear. She could still see him, but he could no longer see her, an absence took over as he looked straight ahead, he never even looked at his fishing pole, just pulled the pole out of the water, grabbed the line, all in one motion, without even blinking. Every now and then he would call to her to fetch him a peanut butter sandwich from the bag, even his voice lacked presence.

She knew it was the house, it hypnotized him and he couldn’t get loose of the spell, she just didn’t know why. There was no doubt the house had some mysterious power; she wondered how something could be both dead and alive at the same time. The windows were all covered with that thick plastic people used to keep out the weather. The plastic was secured with pieces of lath and nails so she was never able to see in it to ascertain the cause of its death. It looked as though some of the corners had been torn or cut, something trying to get in or something trying to get out.

Sometimes in the afternoon her father would put down his pole and lean up against the old willow tree for a nap. It afforded her time to wander, she desperately wanted to go inside the house, but her father had forbidden her to do so, but one day she knew she would, she had to. She walked up the winding path to the main road and started walking. When she looked back all that was visible was a thick canopy of willow trees and it blocked out the sun and held in the secrets. There was a little store about a half a mile down the road, she always saw it when they went by and always wanted to stop, but he never would. It had an old soda cooler out front; she was desperately thirsty and wanted something cold to drink. She had three quarters, hopefully that would be enough to buy a grape soda.

There was a hand painted sign on a gnarled piece of wood that was attached to a pole that had been stuck in an old milk can and it read “Rusty’s Bait.” It didn’t look as though the place had been painted in years and the screen door didn’t close all the way. Grace loved how the wind played with her, the way it picked up the scattered leaves and carried them to some unknown destination and she wanted to go too. Grace was mesmerized by the way the screen door creaked when the wind would catch it and then release it. Grace noticed the bulls eye window above the front door and it seemed so out of place, as though it was beckoning you to look through its swirling glass. The swirling pattern seemed to change shape and color and it reminded her of a kaleidoscope she used to have. She walked over to the soda machine to see if there was a price, but she didn’t see one. She would need to go inside and ask. She reached for the screen door handle but now it seemed to be stuck, she had been watching the wind open it, but now it wouldn’t budge.

You can feel a presence before you can see it. She kept pulling on the handle and she knew someone was behind her, she was afraid to turn around, but she had no place to go, the wind wasn’t about to carry her away to some unknown destination. When she turned around she was staring at two glowing red eyes, the belt buckle said snake eyes. She looked up and saw a heavily bearded man staring down at her with a grimace that covered his entire body.

“How many times have I told you not to come here, Gracie?” His voice was jarring and how did he know her name, why did he call her Gracie? No one ever called her that.

“I’ve never been here, this is my first time.” She knew he wasn’t going to hurt her so she asked him. “How did you know my name?”

“You ask me that same question every time.” He shook his head, reached down and moved her aside so he could open the door. He turned to look back at her.

“Are you comin’ in this time or what?” She followed him into the store and the door slammed behind her. There was a musty smell in the air and the floor creaked as she walked. When she looked up she wasn’t sure what to think, but she was sure this wasn’t a bait shop. All of the shelves had Instamatic cameras on them, some with new flashes and some with spent flashes but nothing else. She looked around and noticed a bulletin board next to the door with pictures stuck to it.

“What kind of a bait shop is this, I don’t see any bait?”

“Don’t need no bait, just people that are curious.”

“About what?”

“About that house.”

“Have you been inside?” He hesitated to answer.

“No, it won’t let me in.”

“I know what it looks like inside.”

“I know you do, that’s the problem.”

Grace wasn’t sure what he meant by that and she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do, but before she could say anything he handed her a camera. She took it from him but wasn’t sure why. The camera had a shiny new flashbulb on it and it was ready to take pictures, she just didn’t know of what.

“You have four shots to …” As he said that she hit the button and the flash went off.

“You have three shots to get answers to your questions.”

“About the house?”

“I know your questions Gracie, I just don’t know which ones you want answers to and which ones you don’t, only you do. But you can’t hang around here anymore, it’s time to move on. So use the three flashes you have wisely and don’t look back.”

She left the bait shop and let the screen door slam behind her. She knew she wouldn’t be able to open that door again. She stared at the road and started walking towards Black River. She knew the wind was still blowing because she could see the leaves on the trees moving, but there was no sound. As she walked along she noticed little swirls of dust dancing around keeping pace with her reluctant stride. As she got closer to the path going down to the river they stopped and let her go ahead. She looked back and saw them as though they were suspended in midair, waiting.

The only way to get across the river was a fallen tree, the bridge washed out years ago for reasons no one cared to explain. The tree wasn’t quite long enough to cover the width of the river, so she knew she would get her feet wet, but the river wasn’t very deep where the tree ended. She carefully climbed off of the tree and walked through the shadowy water and up to the grass. She saw the plastic flapping but there was still no sound, as she walked around the back of the house she saw an old rope hanging from one of the willow trees. It had a knot tied at the bottom so she knew it used to be a swing. She kept walking up the incline towards the back door of the house still uncertain how she would use the camera. She felt something with her foot, she looked down and it was the board that went to the swing. She saw the notches carved out on each side so it would slip onto the rope. She picked it up and saw the name Gracie carved in it. She dropped it and kept walking until she reached the back door.

You can feel a presence before you can see it, and sometimes it’s too late.

But some things can change in a flash.

She knew he was behind her, but she didn’t take the time to look. She reached for the door handle and opened the door. Her mother and her sister were both lying on the floor, dead, in a pool of blood. Her mother still had the camera in her hand. Grace wouldn’t panic this time, she ran to her mother and grabbed the camera out of her hand. The last frame was blank; Grace needed to get to the picture when the killer first walked in the house and flash forward to change the course of the day. But he had other plans for her.

“You got lucky last time, I ain’t about to let that happen again.” He walked towards her and grabbed for her, knocking the camera out of her hand. The flash went off on the other camera when she stumbled. Two flash forwards left. She struggled to get the old flash off so she could reposition it, praying she got the first one so she could flash ahead with the two she had left. Charlotte in her party dress, the first picture her mother took. Flash forward.

Her mother told her to go out to the shed and bring in Charlotte’s new bicycle. She had seen the man leaning up against the old willow tree by Black River on and off for the last couple of days. Her mother told her not to worry, he was probably just fishing and there was no crime in leaning on trees. But now he was walking across the yard towards the house, for no good reason. Grace was no match for him, but Luke was. Luke wasn’t a smart dog but he was a fearless one. She ran back to untie him so he could go with her into the house. She ran as fast as she could, as she ran through the open door she heard her mother tell her to run away.

“Who are you, what do you want?” Her mother screamed when she saw the knife. Gracie let go of Luke, there was no need to tell him what to do. He heard the dog and turned towards Luke but Luke was already there and with the first hit Luke knocked the knife right out of his hand and sent him to the floor and struggling to get away from Luke. Luke wasn’t a smart dog, but he was fearless. Flash forward.

It was a perfect July day in Weavers Junction, Kentucky. Charlotte wanted to ride her bike so Gracie and her mother walked behind her. Charlotte slowed down until they caught up.

“I’m thirsty, let’s stop at the bait shop and get a soda.”

Gracie wanted to tell her sister and her mom, but she kept silent. Charlotte parked the bike and they walked towards the soda machine, still no price. They would need to go inside. When Charlotte reached for the screen door handle it opened with no effort. Gracie was the last one to walk through the door and she knew they shouldnít be going in. She stopped as soon as she got inside.

“Wait, this has bait in it.”

Charlotte responded, “It’s a bait shop, what did you expect them to have?”

She looked around; the bulletin board with the pictures was still there so she walked over to look at them. There he was, clear as day, Rusty. She called to her mom as she pointed at the picture.

“Mom, I know him, this is…”

“Yes honey, that’s your father in his uniform. He was a wonderful man. One day I’ll put back the pictures. I don’t like thinking about what I don’t have…but he loved you very much Gracie, he will always be with you. Fathers always look out for their little girls.”

Gracie wasn’t sure what it all meant, or how it all happened but here she was. She wandered around the store looking at all of the fishing paraphernalia and as she walked around a display of fishing knives there he was, the man with the knife, staring down at her. He spoke to her, almost in a whisper.

“Third time’s a charm Gracie..”

You can feel a presence before you see it and not a camera in sight.

Luke had chased him, but not far enough.

She heard her mother call her and she started backing away and moved towards the door. Gracie heard Charlotte and her mother go out the door, when she backed into the door she turned to face it. She didn’t want to see his face again, but she had to make sure it was real.

When she turned back to make sure it was the would be killer, Rusty emerged from behind the counter and smiled at Gracie as he made he way towards the man. She went through the door and let the screen door slam. She had to be sure, she turned to open the screen door to take one last look but the door was stuck, and no matter how hard she pulled it refused to open.

You can feel a presence before you see it, and by the time he saw snake eyes, it was too late.

- THE END-

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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends

True West Texas ghost story of a strange Mexican woman haunting the Green River Bridge. Think we’ll take the long way next time. Written by Bob Hopkins

The day was warm for October, but he loved the fall regardless. The crisp, cool mornings and warm afternoons were a respite from the relentless summer heat of north central Texas.

The year was 1948 and four cattlemen were on their way back home to Chico, just north of Bridgeport. They had been out to west Texas to purchase cattle. The weather being dry and the land parched as drought had claimed it earlier that year, recalled G.E. Francis, age 92 when he shared this ghostly tale in 2002. A strange account indeed, but one that certainly gains the respect of the reader once the details of the day are told.

“We’d been on the road for hours, stuffed into Buford’s brown 1939 Buick. There was no air-conditioning in cars back then and the trip had been a long one.” The car rattled along the old Green Elm road through, what was known in those days as “the bottoms”, a stretch of dirt highway that ran between Wizard Wells, now a ghost town, and Chico. The old road is now mostly covered by water, encompassed by the far north end of Lake Bridgeport, located on the Jack-Wise County lines south of Texas FM 1810.

“We had to stop for a nature break. We were close to home, but when you got to go, you got to go! We decided to go ahead and pull over when Buford simply came to a complete stop right on the bridge. You could do that in those days as you may not see another car for a half hour or so.” This particular bridge spanned the west fork of the Trinity River and was constructed with an iron frame support beams and wooden slats for car tires.

The four companions were relieved to get a break from the cramped car as the sun was just about to set in the western sky. As they finished their business they stood on the bridge taking in the scenery and making small talk as the blue sky above faded into orange and yellow hues upon the vast Texas horizon. The bridge was called “Green Elm Cemetery Bridge,” because of its proximity to an old cemetery located about 500 yards south of its location and just beyond a bend in the river.

One can only imagine the serine beauty of the area and the solitude of the fall evening. But soon, the still of that beautiful evening was shattered when suddenly, without warning, a blood-curdling scream vibrated across the silence amongst the men with a wailing that chilled their very souls. The feminine cry was so ear-piercing and so startling that they found themselves dumbfounded of its origin. All four were perplexed about what it was or where it was coming from. Once able to gather their senses they realized the cry was coming from up river, about 100 feet or so.

“We saw this thing,” said Francis. “It floated in the air about eighteen to twenty feet above the river and it was moving, rapidly toward the bridge, and us! The thing appeared as if it were floating and thrashing about in unseen waters. I was scared half to death. Actually, I was terrified to the point that I couldn’t move or even think to move. Either could anyone else. We just stood there in complete confusion and horror bewildered by the reality of what we were witnessing. Not one of us had any idea what it was or its purpose.

As it got closer, I began to realize that it appeared to be a woman, a Mexican woman wearing a white dress or gown of some kind, screaming and moaning as if she were in a state of turmoil floating along in mid-air. Then I realized she was in great distress as if she were drowning while being carried away by the unseen flood waters.

I was so scared, we all were, not knowing if to run, hide or just get back in the car. She floated right toward the bridge. She was wiggling, screaming and thrashing about as if she were trying to save herself. She came right over the bridge just barely clearing the top of the frame then rapidly on south into the bend of the river where, like a misty vapor, she simply faded into thin air. Her screams went silent as her form vanished, just like that. We all stood stunned not knowing what to say to each other. We all had blank looks about us, horrified and confused. Then we each quickly got into the car and left that place, each man searching his own belief’s in total shock, wonder and terror, still confused of what to make of the ghostly encounter.”

The four couldn’t get away from the bridge quick enough to find any emotional comfort as they realized that any rationale had, at the moment, been dismissed. As the Buick hugged the road in the escape each began to calm and collect themselves but were all of great confusion about the entire event. Obviously shaken by the incident the four in discussion decided they would not tell a soul of the eerie encounter as not to be the bunt of any joke or to be accused of taking to strong drink. They simply didn’t think anyone would believe them and wondered from time to time, if they believed it themselves.

But, as human nature would have it, secrets are known to be shared and within a couple of years, tales of the encounter with the ghost at Green Elm Bridge began to surface. Teenagers looking for a thrill as well as the curious began to partake in adventures out to the bridge for the chance of a like encounter. By the 1950’s folks from Jacksboro, Chico and Bridgeport frequently visited the bridge in hopes of seeing the specter and some did see it, or at least hear it, according to Francis who claimed that the ghost was the real deal. “I remember every terrifying minute of that day. A fella don’t forget things like that, you know! It stays with you.”

“Back in 92’, reported Francis, “two oilfield workers got quite a scare down at the compressor station near the bridge. They went to leave when their truck wouldn’t start. While working on the truck, at just about sundown, they too heard that horrifying scream coming from the river. I’m not sure if they actually saw her because it scared them so bad they didn’t want to talk much about it. They high-tailed it on out of there by foot, mostly in a run when they came upon my son’s place not far from the bridge. One of them fella’s quit his job that very day saying he was never going back down to the river where that ghost was. He was really scared from whatever he saw or heard.”

Not much is known about the old Green Elm Cemetery (also known as the Verner Cemetery) or those who make it their final resting place. It is located just south of the bridge where the road turns into more of a trail which dead ends into the cemetery. The earliest grave there dates to 1870 and the last entered in 1909. The cemetery, located amongst a thicket of post oak and mesquite trees is occasionally mowed but well hidden from view. According to Jack County records, fifty five or so graves have been entered there with twenty to thirty, sadly, unmarked.

The life and times of settlers to that area would have been difficult at best. Most people who ventured west were in search of hope and opportunity. Many Mexicans and whites alike dotted the landscape in crude makeshift huts or dugouts until better living accommodations could be obtained. Harshness, disease, rattlesnakes and scorpions would have been an everyday occurrence for these folks. Droughts and floods were a constant expectancy in the land and many undocumented calamities and tragedies were a common thread for many poor Texas pioneers.

By the 1970’s, all the hype had run its course and most locals forgot about the spook at the bridge but as far as G.E. Francis and three fellow ranchers were concerned, the phantom of Green Elm Bridge was very real. But, what could it be? Why was it there? What is its purpose? Has it been seen since? Most of these questions we’ll never know. Perhaps it is the echo of a tragic event of long ago or something more sinister. Like most ghostly encounters, it was very real to those most unfortunate to have experienced it and as much a mystery to those who did not. Many will simply choose not to believe the story but some will, especially those who claim it to be true through their own encounter.

Green Elm/Verner Cemetery is located about five miles down an isolated dirt road located along the Jack and Wise County lines. The old skeletal remains of the bridge still remain though the slatted boards were burned away in a fire many years ago. The area is densely covered with tress and scrub brush and is as lonely as the soul that haunts it.

If you ever feel brave enough to venture down the old dirt road at sundown be aware of the cries of the coyotes or mountain lions that roam the river banks and know that any scream you hear at that bridge may be your own.

-THE END-

Photos provided by Bob Hopkins.

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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends

Written by Harris Tobias

Once there were two little children, a boy, Jules, and his twin sister, Julia. They lived in a cabin in the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee with their father, a wood cutter, and their beautiful but cruel mother. They were a happy family until one day a change came over the mother. Overnight it seemed, at least to the children, that their mother changed from kind and loving to mean and cruel. One day the nice mother went out and a mean mother came back. She wasn’t cruel to the father, only to the children. She yelled at them and nagged them about every little thing and worst of all, she made them work hard from the minute their father went off to work in the morning until the minute he came home again at night.

Needless to say, the children were unhappy about this change in their mother, but if they tried to ask her about it, or anything else for that matter, she flew into a rage and shut them up in the woodshed, spanked their bottoms and called them names. She made the twins’ lives very hard. The children didn’t understand what was wrong and they were too young to do anything about it being only 9 years old.

The only joy the children had was when their father came home from work. Even though he was hot and tired he scooped them up in his arms and carried them on his shoulders. He kissed them and hugged them, then he kissed his wife and never suspected that anything was wrong. The children looked forward to their father’s homecoming, for it meant the end of their labors. They loved his piney, sawdusty smell and his big smile and he loved them, but their time together was short. He would eat some dinner, take a bath and go right to bed, for wood cutting was particularly hard work. Their mother would draw their father’s bath and often she would wash herself at the same time. Then the parents would retire for the night.

On a typical morning, after father had left for work, mother would gather up the empty buckets and send the children off to fetch water from the spring two miles away. “Your father will have his bath. Go, you little pests, and fill these buckets then hurry back, there’s wood to chop.” The children never understood why they had to walk to the spring when there was a perfectly good well right there in the front yard. “Why can’t we get the water from the well like we used to?” asked Jules.

When she heard this, the mother grew angry and picked Jules up and held him over the well saying, “Because this well has gone dry, you prying worm. Would you like to see for yourself?”

The children never mentioned the well again. Instead, they picked up their buckets and went down the path to the spring.

———————-

Going to the spring was not all bad. The woods were beautiful, alive with birds and wild flowers and the empty buckets were easy to carry. Coming home was another story, the buckets were filled with water, and the children struggled under their weight. It was difficult to get them back without spilling too much. They would have to carry one bucket a little way and then go back and carry another; going back and forth until all the buckets were delivered. Even then their work wasn’t over nor were their efforts appreciated. Their mother had a long list of other chores for them to do.

The spring was in a cool dark hollow filled with ferns and mystery. It was little more than a trickle of water dripping from the rock, so it took quite a while to fill each bucket. While the buckets filled, the children were free to play and be themselves. Jules liked to sit under a tree and nap while Julia liked to catch frogs and chase butterflies. It was on such a butterfly chasing day that Julia came upon a small wooden door in the side of the cliff. She immediately ran off to get Jules.

Together they stood before the small door and wondered whether to knock or not when the door opened and man, no bigger than Julia, with a dark bushy beard and a green suit and pointy hat, greeted them by name and beckoned them inside. "Come in, come in, I’m just taking a pie out of the oven. We can play a game while its cooling."

Truly the smell of strawberry rhubarb pie, Julia’s favorite, filled the air with its delicious smell. So the kids stepped inside. The little man introduced himself . His name was Orb and he was a Gnome. “I live alone and keep an eye on the spring and this here dell,” he said. “How about a game of checkers while we wait? I love checkers, don’t you?” And he produced a checker board and tokens onto the table in a flash.

“Do you live here alone?’ asked Julia who was bursting with questions. “What do you eat?” “Are you really a gnome?” “Can I look around?”

Orb shook his head, “After each game, I’ll answer one question. No more and no less.” He sat down and Jules sat down opposite him— the game began. Jules was a fair checker player but Orb was better. He should be better being 309 years older than them. Next he played Julia, and beat her too. When the games were over, Orb served them the warm pie and glasses of fresh milk. The children finished every bite. “Now I will answer one question for each game played,” announced the gnome. “Ask me anything.”

Julia was about to explode with one of her thousand questions, but Jules put his finger on her lips and hushed her. He turned to the little man and asked, “Why is our mother acting so mean?”

Orb nodded his head, stroked his beard and sipped his tea. He was quiet for a long time as though he was listening to a voice only he could hear. Finally he looked at the twins and said, “Your mother is not mean. Your real mother that is. The woman who is mean to you is not your real mother, she is a troll who has stolen the likeness of your mother. Your real mother is kind and caring and loves you very much.”

“How did she come to be a prisoner of the Trolls? asked Julia unable to contain herself.

Again the old gnome stroked his beard and sipped his tea before answering. “Three weeks ago your real mother went to the well and the trolls pulled her in. They live down there you see. Your mother is very beautiful and ugly trolls covet beauty more than anything; so every night at midnight one of the trolls drinks a drop of your mother’s blood and takes on her likeness. Then she climbs out of the well and pretends to be human. It’s all a big joke to the trolls who are naturally mean and intensely curious about how humans live.”

“But, how can we get our real mother back?” Julia asked.

“Well,” said the gnome, “that is a question for another day. You’ve used up your questions for today. Come again tomorrow and I’ll answer more.”

“Oh dear the buckets,” cried Jules remembering they still had to fill the others and haul them home. “Mother will be furious if we’re late.”

“Don’t worry,” said Orb, “all your buckets are filled. Run along now.”

And the children not only found all the buckets filled to brimming, but they were already a mile and a half down the path.

The next day Jules and Julia couldn’t wait to go for the water. Their mother was suspicious that they weren’t complaining like they usually did but let them go anyway. They were out of water and father would need a bath when he came home tired and sweaty. The kids made a bee line for Orb’s house. He was waiting at the door and the checker board was waiting on the table. This time Jules almost beat him but Orb pulled off a triple jump at the last moment to win the game. Julia played her best but soon lost to a gleeful Orb. Winning put the old gnome in a good humor and he announced that he was ready to answer one question from each of them.

Jules was ready with his question and asked, “How can we find our mother?” Once again the gnome sat silent for a while sipping his tea. Then he fixed the children with his gaze and said, “Trolls live in tunnels under the ground. Their tunnels twist and turn and are known to no man. You will need a guide-stick to find your mother. A guide-stick is a branch of a dogwood tree as wide as your thumb and as old as you are. You must cut the branch as soon as the sun has set. If you have done all this, the stick will show you the way through the tunnels and back again.”

“How can we get our mother back?” asked Julia. This was the most important question of all. The old gnome though long and hard before replying. “You will need to get the key which is around your false mother’s neck. Every night at midnight your false mother goes into the well and through the tunnels to where your real mother is locked away. The key opens the lock to her cage. As I told you, the troll needs a drop of your mother’s blood each day in order to appear like her. You must steal the key and get your mother away before the troll can get her blood.”

“How do we do that?” asked the two children together. Orb just puffed on his pipe and smiled. “That’s a question for another day,” he said. “Your buckets are waiting down the road. Run along now and maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As the children walked back home they talked about what they had learned. “Mother and father planted a dogwood trees on the day we were born said Julia. I think we can cut guide-sticks easily enough.”

“It’s getting the key from around mother’s neck that I’m worried about,” said Jules.

“She’s not our mother,” muttered Julia. “I want our real mother back.”

“So do I. I suppose we could always ask Orb about it tomorrow,” said Jules.

”I suppose so,” sighed Julia clearly unhappy with the way things were unfolding.

But events have a will of their own and the children never got the chance to ask the gnome another question. When opportunity beckons, you must be ready to act.

--------------------

That evening just as the sun was setting, the children were outside sweeping the yard and trimming the bushes waiting for their father to come home. Their mother was ordering them about and criticizing every little thing they did. When they saw their father coming, the mother went inside to prepare his dinner. Jules and Julia had a few minutes to run over to the dogwood tree their parents had planted on the day they were born and cut off a branch as thick as their thumbs just as the setting sun peeked behind a distant hill. They had just enough time to hide their sticks before running into their father’s waiting arms.

That night after supper father and mother retired early. The children could hear them laughing together in the bath. While they were thus engaged, Julia looked in on them through a crack in the door and saw the key sitting atop her mother’s clothing. Being as quiet as a mouse, Julia crept into the room and snatched the key from the pile. Then she ran down the stairs and proudly showed it to Jules.

There was no time to waste; this was the perfect time to go. Their parents were distracted, the twins had their guide-sticks and they had the key. It was unlikely a better opportunity would present itself. They dug the guide-sticks out of hiding and tucked them into their pants. They ran to the well and looked into its dark interior. They could see the top of a ladder descending into the murky depths until it was lost to view. Jules went first, he hoisted himself over the edge. His feet found the top of the ladder and he climbed down into the darkness. Julia followed right behind.

Down and down they climbed until the top of the well was no bigger than the full moon. At the bottom was a tunnel leading off into the earth. The twins pulled out their guide-sticks which glowed with a greenish light and twisted left or right whenever they came to a fork in the road. They moved along as quickly and quietly as they could trusting their sticks.

After a long and winding route, they came to place that looked like a kitchen. There was a stove against one wall and a table in the middle. On the table, a candle burned making the room almost bright. On the other wall, next to a cupboard, was a cage and in the cage was a woman asleep on the floor. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the room but they could hear voices nearby. As quietly as possible, they tip toed into the room and over to the cage. Their heart lept when they saw that the woman asleep inside was their mother. The voices from the other room were getting louder. Julia put the key into the lock. it turned and the lock popped open with a snap that sounded like a gunshot. All sounds from the other room stopped and a troll’s voice called out, “Who’s there? Gertrude, is that you?”

Mother was awake now and was astonished to see her precious children smiling at her. She must have thought she was dreaming until she felt Jules’ hand help her to her feet. There was no time for hugs, already trolls were entering the room.

“Hey you there, stop that,” one of them called. This was the signal to run and run they did. Back they ran as fast as their feet would carry them. Back the way they had come, the three of them racing down tunnels, twisting and turning this way and that, all the while the trolls hot on their heels.

Mother was weak from her long captivity but somehow found the strength to keep going. At one point, Julia tripped and fell and a troll almost caught her, but mother threw dirt in the troll’s eyes and they got away. They were near the well when they saw a figure coming down the ladder. It was the troll mother coming for her drop of blood. When she saw the twins she let out a howl and ran after them. Quickly they ducked down a side passage. Their guide-sticks twisted in their hands as if to say, “wrong way.” It didn’t matter if the way was wrong or not; as long as they could still run they had a chance. Left and right they turned heedless of where they were heading. Nearly out of breath and out of strength they finally came to a place where the tunnel ended up against a wall of stone. They could go no further, their way was blocked. Not too far away they could hear the trolls coming for them.

Frightened and desperate they looked around for something to fight with, but there was nothing they could see in the feeble light. Just when it seemed all was lost, a voice from above called out, “Hey, up here, hurry,” and a rope ladder fell from the ceiling. Looking up they could just make out a passage and at the top was Orb’s smiling face looking down on them. They scrambled up the ladder as fast as they could landing breathless into the gnome’s bright kitchen. Orb slammed the hatch shut with a bang seconds before the angry trolls could enter. “Ha,” Orb yelled, “I love doing that.” Then remembering his guests he asked, “Can I offer you some pie? Anyone care for a game of checkers?”

The rest of the story is just as you might imagine. With their true mother restored to her family, the children’s lives went back to the way they were. The old well was filled in with rocks and earth and a new one dug nearby. The children no longer had to travel to the spring for water. Even so, they still visited old Orb now and then. The old gnome was always glad to see them and somehow always managed to have a freshly baked pie ready when they came.

-THE END-

About The Author:

Harris Tobias lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia. He is the author of several novels and dozens of short stories. His fiction has appeared in Ray Gun Revival, Dunesteef Audio Magazine, Literal Translations, FriedFiction, Down In The Dirt, Eclectic Flash, E Fiction and several other obscure publications. His poetry has appeared in Vox Poetica, The Poem Factory and The Poetry Super Highway. You can find links to his novels at: http://harristobias-fiction.blogspot.com

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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends

Written by Nathan Oser

Check the microfilm in the library and the disappearance might come up somewhere around the middle of November, just before Thanksgiving. But the way I heard it, and the way everyone else here on the Kentucky side of the river knows it, it was Halloween night.

It gives me the shivers just to think about it–that one night of the year where ghosts slip past moonlit windows, ghouls creep by in a tumble of rusty leaves, and skeleton bones clack-rattle in the windblown trees.

No, it had to be that sleepless October night. That was about the time Ricky Donaly and Tommy Clarke’s old junker of a pickup truck bit the dust anyway. Remember that heap they’d pooled their money to buy just so they could haul every jack o’ lantern in the neighborhood down to Principal Ford’s and pile them in his front yard the year before? No one would be caught dead walking the bridge if they’d had the wheels to go around it.

Of course the bridge was a short cut, but it wasn’t built to be. The expanse of it was railroad tracks laid for freights passing from city to city, town to town over the hilly Bluegrass countryside. If you were walking across and a train came barreling down on you it was either jump and splatter on the rocks by the creek or wait to get plowed over by tons of speeding steel. Well, as the story goes, those might not have been the only dangers, at least not for Ricky and Tommy. You see, their bodies weren’t found stuck to the tracks or scattered in the woods below. Their bodies weren’t found at all. That’s why everyone calls it the Troll Bridge.

Are you listening?

Folks start turning off their lights at eight. When the two hours of trick-or-treating are up, it lets the few stragglers know you are out of candy and have had enough scares for the night. Of course, if you leave them on longer it keeps the older kids, the ones who don’t need to dress up to become evil lurking demons, from egging your car and TP-ing your trees.

That’s what Ricky and Tommy were up to when the sound of sirens blared through the chill quiet of the night. They jumped the hedges and lit out for the woods once they saw the red and blue lights come flashing down the street.

At the time they felt lucky to be on foot. If they had taken the truck, they’d likely have spent the night trying to explain to their parents why they had to be picked up at the police station yet again.

They were seniors at the time, breezing through the twelfth grade on state football scholarships–not that they had even cracked their textbooks before they got scouted. A friend of a friend’s sister said she was a sophomore when it all happened and that she’d even seen them up at the stop sign on Grace that night, stealing candy-filled pillowcases from little Draculas and Frankensteins and Fairies and Robots and Princesses.

Well, the point is, they weren’t in junior high anymore and hadn’t been through the woods in years. The trails had changed or grown over, and Ricky’s lighter threw its flint in the first five minutes of walking through the black trees. They wound their way blindly ahead, slapping down twigs and bashing through spider webs for nearly an hour before reaching the other side of the woods.

There they heard the buzzing even before they spotted the sickly orange light beyond the last of the trees. Have you ever been down Gravesway Lane? To old man Hickley’s? If you have then you’ll know he leaves the porch lamp on day and night, all year round, gathering bugs with its dim flicker and humming loud enough to give the Devil a headache.

They hiked over the tall grass and finally set foot on concrete. Tommy wrinkled his brow at the sight of the lonely old house. The yard was a mess of weeds fanning over busted old tires and cinder blocks and moldy stacks of four-by-fours. The house itself was just large enough to fit two square windows and a door on the front wall above the porch, and it had a slanting shingle roof that jutted out into an awning caked over with soggy brown leaves. The incessant dull light shone down on the walls where cracked and curling peels of gray paint stuck like cobwebs to the clapboards.

“Where are we?” Tommy glanced left and right along the road and squinted to read the street sign through clinging layers of fog. “Graves–way–Lane?”

“Yeah, Old Man Hickley’s.” Ricky flicked him in the chest and capered across the street. “Come on.”

“Didn’t know this place was here,” said Tommy, wading through the fog.

“Sure you did. Remember swimming lessons? The old pool used to be just down that way.”

“Whatever happened to that place?”

“All the little kiddies were probably too scared of the old man’s blasted porch light.” Ricky fluttered his fingers in Tommy’s face, trying to spook him out. Then his eyes lit up and he nodded his head sideways at the house. “Hey, I dare you to go unscrew the bulb.”

“What? No way. Wouldn’t that be like blowing out the eternal flame at some memorial or something? Stuff like that’ll give you some bad juju, man.”

“Seven years bad luck, if you’re lucky.” Ricky’s mouth curled into a smile and he gave his best B-movie performance of a maniacal laugh.

“Shut up, man. You’re gonna wake the dead.”

“Alright then,” said Ricky, turning serious. “You dare me to do it?”

“You?”

“Yeah, come on. Dare me!” Ricky put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and started creeping up the walkway.

Tommy licked his lips and shifted his eyes before finally giving a shrug. “Whatever. I dare you.”

Ricky barely made it three steps before a voice as husky and crackly as a fresh log sizzling in the campfire broke the silence, “You boys lost?” Their sneakers scrapped against the weedy concrete and stuck in place. There was a howling gust of wind, and Ricky cussed under his breath. How could they not have noticed the gaunt old man leaning back in a rocking
chair on the porch with his feet crossed over the moldy railing–Old Man Hickley himself!

Tommy finally let out a breath and whispered, “Didn’t even see him there. You?”

“Nah, but check it out.” Ricky leaned his head down and shot his eyes toward an eight-pound ax leaning handle up against the wall beside the old man’s chair. “You know he doesn’t use that to chop wood!”

“You boys is trespassin’!” The chair rocked forward and the old man dropped his feet onto the wooden decking.

“Sorry, sir, we were just–”

Ricky jumped in, “We were just trick-or-treating and got lost. That’s all.” He ran a hand through his black undercut and scratched the back of his head.

The old man grumped himself back into the chair and spit into a rusty coffee can. If he wasn’t a ghost then he was just plain creepy. “Trick-or-treating? Where are your costumes? Where are your masks?”

“He thinks we’re in fifth grade,” Ricky laughed.

“You’re never too old to wear a mask.”

“Look, we were just gonna ask the way home.”

The old man cricked his head. “Ask the way home? Does it look like I know where you live?”

“God I hope not,” said Ricky under his breath as he turned to leave. “Sorry to bother you, sir.”

“You know which way to go?” Tommy said, following along.

“No, but let’s just get outta here. We’ll take the woods back.” Ricky glanced over his shoulder and through the fog. “Old loony!”

“I wouldn’t take to the woods, if I were you,” the man suddenly grumped. “Not on a night like tonight.”

From curiosity or fear, or a mixture of the two, the words stopped the boys dead in their tracks. “Yeah? And why not?”

Tommy tugged at his friend’s sleeve. “Ricky, come on.”

“No, no, I wanna know now.” Ricky started walking back. He raised his voice, “You mean ‘cause it’s Halloween? The ghosts are out! Ooooh! Aaaah!” He flittered his hands in the air. “Pssh! We’re taking the woods. Let’s go, Tommy. Bound to run across the railroad tracks sooner or later. Follow ‘em long enough they’ll take us right through my back yard. We could be still be home in time to catch a slasher flick or two.”

The hollow-eyed Mr. Hickley licked his lips and kicked his chair into a steady rock. “Looks like you fellas are in luck, then, since your minds are already set.” He cracked a smile, pale and sick. “Matter of fact, you can find the tracks right out back here. If you ain’t afraid, of course.”

“Afraid?” Then Tommy nodded his head, suddenly remembering. “Oh yeah, there’s that bridge, right?”

Ricky huffed. “You gotta be kidding me! What’re the chances a train’ll come in the couple of minutes it takes us cross? Do trains even pass through here anymore? Let’s blow this joint!”

Ricky was already stomping around the side of the house, through the bushes. But for a moment, Tommy stood frozen, staring at the man. He wanted to say something but didn’t know what, and nothing came out. He watched Ricky wave his hand, “come on,” and disappear around back.

The old man’s chair rocked forward. Slowly, he pulled a grimy nickel harmonica from his shirt pocket and held it over the railing. “They don’t like the noise. It’ll keep ‘em away and in the shadows till you’re home.”

Tommy hesitated. “Who are ‘they?’”

“The night creatures. Trolls.” Hickley winked and shook the harmonica.

Tommy stretched out his arm, flinched back, then snatched the rusty thing from the old man’s half-rotten fingers. And then he was gone, behind the house, into the woods to catch up to his friend.

The railroad tracks were ancient steel, rooted into the earth and shooting off like two long blades splitting apart the woods. The boys turned their heads left and right and climbed up the mound of gravel. As they started over the wooden ties, the buzz of the old man’s porch lamp began to fade away behind them, leaving nothing but the chirping and cricking of night insects. “At least he wasn’t completely useless,” said Ricky. And they kept walking, thinking they’d be home in no time.

Soon the gravel was taken over by dirt and grass, and the trees huddled up close to the long stretch of tracks. The fog thickened, and a soggy smell of rain settled in the air. They stopped and held their breath for a second when the trees around them dropped drastically into a deep ravine and there was the narrow bridge, shooting out like a tightrope into the enormous dark ahead. They couldn’t see the creek below but they could hear it rushing along and bubbling like a witch’s hot cauldron.

Ricky gulped. The bridge must have been nearly a quarter mile long and with no end in sight. “Okay. You ready?”

“What if a train does come through?”

“Then we’re wasting precious running time. Besides, it won’t.”

“Then, what if…” Tommy reached a hand into the pocket of his letterman jacket and pulled out the old man’s harmonica. He tapped it in his palm for a minute. “What if there’s, you know, something out there?”

“Something out there? Like what? Night creatures? Trolls?” Ricky laughed.

“You heard him?”

“Yeah. And if there was, you really think some spitty old harmonica’s gonna scare ‘em off?”

“I don’t know. But he’s got that porch lamp. Buzzing all the time. What if there’s something he knows about that no one else does?”

Ricky nodded. “You’re right. Lemme see that thing.”

As soon as Tommy handed over the harmonica, Ricky launched it into the huge black abyss. It whistled in the air like a screaming banshee until finally it hit the rocks below with a cracking echo.

“What the heck, man!”

Ricky laughed. “I just saved you, buddy. Likely to catch something trying to play that thing. Come on.”

The bridge was extremely narrow. One after the other they took cautious, slow steps off the wooden railroad ties and onto steel ones, each separated by a nearly a yard of empty space. They steadied themselves with their hands on the wide riveted beams on either side as they began to cross. Behind them the misty dark was catching up, vanishing the trees and the hill and the only hard ground they knew of.

“What a rush, huh!”

Tommy kept his head down to watch his step and gave a sarcastic laugh, “Yeah, a real good time, Ricky.”

“You know, I hear at State they make you do this kind of stuff all the time.” Ricky stretched his arms out for balance. “Initiation rituals and all that. Easy as cake. What they oughtta do is–” He stopped short. “Wait! You hear that?”

“Quit it!”

“No, I’m serious. Listen.”

And both boys held still and pricked their ears.

Silence. Then…

Whoooooooo!

The shrill scream of the steam whistle was like a defibrillator, pumping raw electricity straight through their ribcages to their racing hearts. After it was gone they swore they could hear a dull chugging and screeching of metal wheels. Then a pinpoint of yellow light poked a hole in the dark behind them and grew and brightened and grew and brightened.

“Run!”

The boys took off. They grabbed at each others shoulders and sleeves and elbowed forward, leaping as far as they could without loosing their footing.

Whooooooooooo! The train whistle blared again, louder and sharper. The light at the head of the engine beamed a wide circle and the rusty bridge began to glow here and there with a fiery yellow glare.

Two and three ties at a time, Tommy and Ricky jumped. They slid and tripped and bent their ankles until Ricky slammed down on the tracks, his punting leg fallen through and sticking out the bottom. A voice in Tommy’s head screamed, “Go! Leave him!” But Ricky was screaming, “Help!”

Tommy was just passing over his friend when the rails started to rumble. The train was on the bridge, and the light was an immense, shadow-casting white. And that’s when he spotted it. The other end of the ravine! Brown dirt and green grass and tall trees and prickly bushes. Oh God! It was just a few more steps to the other side…

He jerked back around and took Ricky by the forearm. He braced himself against the rails and yanked until his friend had freed his leg and lifted himself up. The two ran, screaming, watching their own shadows stretched out before them, growing shorter and shorter.

The bridge quaked and rivets clanked loose and the freight train barreled through like an evil metal snake from some deep black hole. But not before the boys dove.

They watched from the cold ground, from either side, as the cars raced by with enormous blasts of wind. And when the last car had passed they swiped the sweat from under their hair and smiled.

“We made it!” they both shouted. “We made it!” They stood and gave each other a huge hug and a hundred pats on the back as the last slithering sounds of the train were devoured by the woods. “I can’t believe it! We made it!”

Ricky and Tommy were safe. Safe from the bridge and the train, at least. But what about the old man’s warnings? They had dismissed thoughts of creatures dwelling below, of monsters lurking amongst the steel pillars and in the shadows of the night ravine. And, side by side, with a hand over each other’s shoulder, they stood in the dead-silent night, staring back at the bridge and catching their breath.

“I know you’re happy to be alive, man, but quit squeezing my shoulder so hard.”

“I was just about to say the same thing to you. Geeze.”

“I’m not squeezing.”

“Me neither…”

But the grip only grew tighter. And as they glanced over their shoulders, even Ricky, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, expected to see a wart-riddled, grimy green hand with nails like railroad spikes digging into his skin.

“Looks like you made it, boys,” a voice crackled. And through the shadows appeared the wrinkled moonlight face of Old Man Hickley.

They both rolled their shoulders to escape his grip. “How the–”

“Didn’t run into no trolls, did ya, boys? They’re afraid of the noise you know. Mighty strong ears, they have. You’re lucky that train came through when it did.”

“Lucky? The thing almost ran us down!” Tommy shouted.

“How’d you get out here, anyway?”

The old man didn’t speak. Instead he pulled two dark green faces from behind his back. They were all toothy snarls and fierce red eyes and hairy green warts as he held them up for the boys.

“Masks?”

“It is Halloween. And you’re never too old to wear a mask.” In the next breath, Hickley jerked his arms forward and pulled the rubber faces tight over the boys’ heads. They struggled to back away, but the masks were already on. They screamed and tore at the green flesh, but there was no removing the hideous faces. The masks were sinking into their skin, changing them. Inch by inch the mold color dyed itself down their necks and chests and stomachs and legs, all they way to their toes. And the old man took a step back to watch them writhe.

“What’s happening!” they shouted, even as their voices turned to nothing more than shrieks and growls. In a few moments Ricky and Tommy were no longer high school boys. They were monsters. They were trolls.

And Old Man Hickley, smiling, pulled a nickel plated harmonica from his pocket and blew a tune as he started to stroll back across the bridge.

The strange creatures, left alone with the whistling-echoing din, clapped their monster hands over their enormous pointed ears. They squirmed and ran. They leaped down through the ravine. They slipped away, gone in the moon-cast shadows of the cold steel bridge.

And now you know why the boys’ bodies were never found. Some say they are still there, cloaked in the dark, hiding from the screeching trains and hungrily awaiting the curious.

-THE END-

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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends

True story of north Texas haunted house, and a first hand account of the ghosts there. Written by Bob Hopkins.

It was a time when horses, wagons and steam locomotives were the only transportation available and the streets of Weatherford, Texas were made of dirt with cut limestone sidewalks. Texas was less than fifty years old and Weatherford, younger still and ripe with opportunity for those souls brave enough to chance their luck and brandish their skills in a new world born of the Industrial age and decorated with Victorian style. A fellow, if he set his mind to it, could make a good living in a place of unlimited opportunities like north Texas. Gone were the Indian depredations which plagued the area from the 1840’s to 1870’s. With plenty of farm and ranch land and an ever-growing population Weatherford was definitely a place for any hardy businessman.

The city, just 26 miles west of Fort Worth, became a frontier community in the 1840’s with only a few souls brave enough to stick it out on the fringes of country that belonged to the Comanche and Kiowa tribes. The actual organization of the city occurred in 1856, before the Civil War. The downtown area, like most Texas towns of that era, was the center of activity and the heart of Parker County and soon became a prime spot for the dry-goods business.

A man by the name of J.D. Baker found success in that trade down in Hood County but decided to move his business to Weatherford in the 1880’s as he believed it to have a better economy, more suited for his inventory. He was right in every way and in 1890, established a very successful business with a partner named Poston which blossomed into a chain enterprise covering several western counties in the north central part of the state. They purchased a large four story building on the northwest side of the square in downtown Weatherford from hardware man, JP Lowe, which became the center of the Baker/Poston Dry Goods business.

The gamble paid off big and it seemed that everything was going quite well for the Baker family at the end of the 19th century. In 1894, the Baker’s began construction on a beautiful 7,000 square foot Victorian home at 304 South Lamar in Weatherford. They had four children – Charles, Harry, Mary, and Ethel. Unfortunately, their daughter Ethel passed away at the tender age of 13. She would be the first family tragedy.

Mr. Baker, at the height of his success died suddenly on Easter morning in 1899 and never witnessed the completion of his beautiful home. In 1908, another tragedy struck the family…a strange case that remains unsolved to this day. Charles Baker, who grew to be an intelligent man and business wise, became a buyer for the Baker/Poston Company. Though he had health issues he frequently travelled the country buying wholesale goods for the business.

In the early spring of that year he embarked on a buying trip and was last seen leaving San Francisco en route to Seattle where he was to order goods. He disappeared without a trace and was never seen by anyone in Weatherford again.

His family was extremely upset with his disappearance and tried everything from local authorities to private investigators to locate his whereabouts. In 1909 his family put out a large reward for any information that would help them locate Charles. A poster was circulated all over the southwestern United States in hopes that he would be located.

To no avail, no word of Charles was ever heard nor was the money ever collected. In 1936, Charles’ sister Mary had his will probated assuming him to be long dead. The Parker County courts agreed and the long unsolved mystery was put to rest. A short time after the disappearance of Charles Baker, his brother Harry was on a business trip to Chicago when he was suddenly struck with a ruptured appendix and tragically died.

The last of the Baker children, Mary, married and moved to Oklahoma City. Mrs. Baker remained living in the home in Weatherford until she got too old to take care of herself and moved to Oklahoma City with her daughter to live out the rest of her life, keeping the big home until she died in 1942. Mrs. Mary Baker Rumsey, the remaining child, sold the huge home to Mr. and Mrs. George Fant in the early 1940’s. George Fant was the son of W.S. Fant, the President of the First National Bank in Weatherford, the same bank that backed the $5,000.00 reward. George took over his father’s position at the bank upon his father’s death in 1941. He married Mrs. Francis McFall in 1905. They had two children, Marian who died at the age of seven from a ruptured appendix and Knox, who died in 1942 when the US Army plane he was piloting crashed during a training mission near Harlingen, Texas. The marriage of George and Francis unfortunately dissolved sometime in the 1920’s and he remarried Mrs. Elena Bedford Newsome. George died in 1962. Mrs. Elena Fant owned the Baker house until the late 1970’s.

Hence begins our ghost story…

When the Fant’s moved into the house, nothing was out of the ordinary for about a year. Then, their teen-aged niece, who I will call Helen to protect her identity, came for a visit. Most of the following accounts in the home are recalled from the writing of Helen. She, out of fear of ridicule, never told anyone of these events until she revealed them to me for the purpose of documentation.

In a letter dated September 2000 she wrote: “My aunt and uncle bought and restored the old Baker house in the early 1940’s. Now, I know this sounds crazy but I also know what I have seen. The first time was during World War II, sometime during the summer. I was staying with my aunt and uncle along with another aunt. I was about 13 years old when she and I were sleeping in the easternmost bed room downstairs. This bedroom has a door leading to the southern side of the veranda. Only the screen door was latched and I remember all was quiet and everyone was asleep.

I was awakened by the sound of someone very quietly and slowly walking down a small hall on the south side of the house that connected an inner bedroom with the bedroom my aunt and I were sleeping in. I closed my eyes afraid to look up. When I finally got the nerve to open them a figure was standing at the foot of the bed. I screamed loudly, enough to wake the dead and the figure immediately disappeared. Naturally, everyone in the house descended upon our bedroom and the consensus of opinion was that I was merely having a nightmare, but I know for certain that it was no nightmare because I was very much awake when I heard him. That was the only time he ever appeared when anyone else was ever around and the last time that I ever screamed.

I didn’t spend the night in that house again for a long while. My parents and I moved out of town and I didn’t return to the to the big house until the early 1960’s…20 years later. In the meantime my aunt built a smaller house adjacent to the large house, just to the southwest leaving a gate connecting the two properties for easy access.

Against my better jugement, I returned to the house and stayed a while with my aunt. One night, before I was married, I was reading in my bedroom which was on the second floor. My aunt was still living there at that time and was in her bed room-den downstairs. It was, again, a warm night but not warm enough to turn on the window air-conditioning units so my aunt had turned on a huge exhaust-type fan in the upstairs window over the stairway. I suddenly heard a loud cry, well, not like actual crying but more like moaning. I quickly ran from my bedroom to investigate as I was afraid my aunt had fallen and was crying out for me but her lights were out and I could see nothing. I realized that the crying was not coming from her part of the house. It seemed to be emanating from the area near the front of the house close to the dining room. The wailing went on for at least five minutes and me, being your basic coward, went back to my room, locked the door and tried to sleep. The next morning at breakfast my aunt said nothing and I decided I had best keep my mouth shut. If you had known my aunt you would understand why I make this statement.

My aunt went on to work and I was getting ready to do the same when her maid started yelling at me to come down to the dining room. In the downstairs part of the house between the dining room and hallway are heavy sliding doors. Lying next to one of those doors was a huge dead bat. We were never able to determine where the bat came from or how he got into the house.

The front of the house was always kept closed off from the back of the house because we had plenty of room in the back after my uncle had added a huge den so it was easier to cool and heat by closing it off from the front. The maid, however, inspected and cleaned the front every day and the bat was not there the day before. Even though I know what I heard the night before was certainly no bat. I still tried to write it off as vivid imagination.

Most of the strangeness happened in the house when I was alone. I think that is why I never mentioned it to anyone. There was a pocket of cold, not cool but extremely cold air in the downstairs hallway close to the living room. No matter how hot the day, when I would walk down that hall, there was about five feet of very frigid air and I was always very startled by it. Yet, if someone were with me and we walked down that hall the air was always normal, cool or warm, depending on the time of year.

One day in the mid 1960’s, I was with my aunt shopping at stores on the Weatherford square, downtown. We were in a boutique called Sturgess-Allen. The elderly owner of the store, Mrs. Bozelle and I were having a conversation about the old house. She told me that sometime back in the 1920’s, her aunt attended a party given by Mrs. Baker. At some time during the festivities a loud noise emanated from a large armoire located on the first floor that had belonged to Charles Baker. The door of the armoire opened and an old starched collar rolled out and down the hallway and stopped near the large wooden sliding doors. She said the party-goers were more than mystified by the event as it scared some quite a bit. I then thought deeply about what she had reported and it gave me quite an uneasy feeling because the collar stopped in about the same place the dead bat was found.

The house sat empty for a while after my aunt built the new house next to it and in 1970, my husband and I moved into the house with plans to purchase it. My husband worked a lot at night and sometimes traveled so I was in the house alone for five to seven days at a time. After living there for about a year, the visitations started.

Our bedroom was upstairs on the south side. One night while alone in the big house I woke up and was sure I had heard something on the stairs. The dogs were outside and one of them started howling. Then I saw a shadow along the wall of the stairwell rising toward my bedroom. I was absolutely terrified. I couldn’t reach the phone, I couldn’t say anything – just lay there. Once again I closed my eyes and kept them closed. I heard the footsteps enter my bedroom and approach my bed and then I felt a hand gently touch my shoulder. I opened my eyes and jumped up very quickly but nothing was there. I don’t know what the neighbors thought but I immediately got up and turned on every single light in the house and left them on until daylight. In the bright light of day I did my best to convince myself that I had had another nightmare like the one 30 years earlier.

This same event happened to me at least six to seven times during our years in the house, always with the same result; someone would slowly ascend the stairs, walk into my bedroom, place his hand on my shoulder then disappear. Unnerving to say the least, still, I never told anyone, not even my husband.

There were times when I felt someone was watching me. I felt whatever it was, wasn’t exactly friendly. I did not feel potential violence as much as plain malice. This almost became a daily feeling. Anywhere I went in the house, someone was watching me and I became extremely edgy and frightened, afraid to leave and afraid to stay. Then, for a period of months to a year there would be no feelings of being watched and I would relax.

The worst incident of all happened in the spring of 1976. I was alone late one night and one of those Texas storms blew in with its usual violent winds, rain, hail, lightning and thunder. At that time there was an electric transformer in a pole about 20 yards east of the corner of Lamar and Columbia streets that would blow every time there was a drizzle and of course, it blew in the storm. I had no lights.

I was upstairs in the bedroom, thunder crashing, lightning flashing, wind blowing something fierce. Suddenly, I heard loud pounding on the door that leads from the basement to the hallway downstairs. This particular door was always securely locked and there was no way out of the basement except through the house via the hallway. I first tried to tell myself that the wind was causing the door to rattle but a rattle didn’t sound like that. Someone, or something, was loudly and furiously pounding on that door from the basement side. Thinking about it now is sending chills up and down my spine. I managed to get to the telephone and contact my aunt next door. She immediately knew I was frightened out of my wits and said she would meet me at the gate.

I ran downstairs in my night-gown not even stopping to get my rain coat or shoes. The second I passed the door the pounding stopped. I went through the kitchen, locked the kitchen door and started across the screened-in back porch to leave the house but as I crossed the porch and neared the door to leave the pounding started again, louder and angrier than ever. I ran across the driveway to the gate where my aunt was waiting for me. I can honestly say that I have never been more afraid than I was that night, before or since. I still said nothing more than the storm un-nerved me.

I was never again comfortable there in that house. A year later my husband and I divorced and I left the house for good. I truly believe that the ghost, spirit, figure that appeared to me in 1942 was that of Charles Baker and I don’t think he liked me one little bit. Since no one else, that I am aware of, ever saw him, I can only assume that I was the catalyst that aroused his ire. I can still feel the touch of his hand on my shoulder, ugh!”

Helen’s story is convincing to say the least and can easily be backed up by a legitimate timetable. If the ghost of Charlie Baker did return to the house then the haunting question would remain…what ever happened to him anyway? Was he upset to be unable to find his familiar surroundings and his loving mother or was he merely reaching out for help from a time no longer his. Perhaps anything is possible in a house so familiar with tragedy.

Mr. Fant died in 1962 and Mrs. Fant continued to live in the home until sharing it with her niece before moving to the cottage next door. She died in 1980. The old building downtown that brought the Baker family so much success was sold in 1930 to Bowden and Son’s and mysteriously burned one Saturday afternoon in 1980.

The present owners of the home, Rhonda and Michael Lasely have lived in the beautiful Victorian home now for over 20 years. They are wonderful people who love and appreciate the house and maintain it with much love and respect. They raised two sons in the home with no supernatural encounters. Oh! There was one time that one of the house-keepers, who spoke little English, was very upset and assured them that a “ghost” or something attempted to push her down the stairs on the second floor.

As for Charlie Baker, his whereabouts will always be a big mystery but nevertheless, we hope he finds peace in the hereafter and for all those who may live or visit the home we hope they enjoy all the beauty and elegance the place has to offer for years to come.

-THE END-

Photos provided by Bob Hopkins.

Outisde links:

Weatherford, TX Official Site
Wikipedia entry on Weatherford, TX
Bob Hopkins’ Texas ghost stories

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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends

Ghost story for young kids about an annoying ghost standing in the way of a child’s midday snack.

Some of the best stories you’ve ever heard were probably passed down from storyteller to storyteller – across cities, states, even countries! Need proof? Here we have two storytellers telling the same ghost story but with slight differences. One teller is from the United States (Kansas), the other from Montreal, Quebec. See which one you like best!

John David Hickey has been telling fables, folktales, and legends for over 15 years. He delights in telling stories from all over the world, but has a particular fondness for quirky, underdog stories. David has an animated, energetic telling style that appeals to both children and adults. He has performed in schools, libraries, pubs, cafes, and various festivals across Canada. He lives in Montreal, Quebec and tells tales in English and in French.

You can also hear John’s stories at Shortening The Road.

Priscilla Howe travels the US and abroad (Brazil, Germany, Bulgaria, Mexico and Belgium, to date) with a bagful of puppets and a headfull of stories. Her favorite audience is the one in front of her at any given moment. A full-time storyteller since 1993 and a former librarian, Priscilla lives in Lawrence, Kansas. She’s also searching for the best restaurant pie on earth.

Audio dramatizations are property of the storytellers. Used by permission.

-THE END-

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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends

The ghost stories below are from listeners of the popular paranormal podcast Jim Harold’s Campfire. Many of these stories are now compiled in the book Jim Harold’s Campfire: True Ghost Stories, available now in our Bookshop.

A CALL FROM GRANDPA

When I was about 4 1/2 years old, back in the early ’70s, my father passed away. I was pretty close to his side of the family as a child. But in the ’80s, as I was growing up, life happened, and I just kind of swayed away from that side of the family.

During the early part of 1990, my grandfather (my father’s father) passed away. Unfortunately, I did not go to the funeral. In August of that same year, a couple days before my birthday, I was at home in my apartment and getting ready to go to work when the phone rang. I picked up the phone, said “Hello,” and I could just hear a muffled sound. I had to say hello several times. I could tell someone was there but I just heard a muffled sound, like the person was really really far away.

The third time I said “Hello?” I heard the voice call me by name—a nickname that only my father’s side of the family called me. I knew right away it was my grandfather. I knew right away. He called me “Velmita,” and I really got spooked. I hung up the phone, because, I mean, I didn’t understand what was going on, you know? I didn’t really expect this. I hung up, and I picked up the phone again thinking I was going to get a dial tone. And he was still on the line.

I just got totally spooked. I hung up and left my apartment, because I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know what to think. When I told people, I got made fun of a lot: “You got a long-distance call from heaven,” blah, blah, blah. I insisted, “No. This really did happen.” I know I wasn’t going crazy. It really did happen.

I was 100 percent sure it was him. 100 percent sure. And for it to be around my birthday cinched it.

You know, I think about if I had done anything differently. It just really spooked me. I mean, going back…I don’t know, I may have done the same thing. I hate to say I was frightened, but it’s just something you don’t expect, you know?

Velma
Texas

THE GIRL IN THE ATTIC

When I was about 9 or 10 years old my best friend in the world was one of the neighborhood boys, named Hubert. His family had invited me to go with them on a long weekend to visit some of their relatives, so I went. I’m not really sure where we went, but it couldn’t have been very far; it was just a couple hours’ drive. Not much about the weekend was that memorable, to tell you the truth. I don’t remember much about the family either. Of course, being a young boy I wasn’t aware of much anyway.

So anyway, we got there, Hubert and I. He was usually the one who was more inquisitive; he’d do things…he was mischievous, in other words. So, at one point, we decided to go up to the attic and play for something to do. He was probably bored, so up we went to the attic. The one thing I remember about the attic is that it was very clean and sparse. There wasn’t a whole lot to do up there.

We got up there, and noticed that there was a little girl in the attic. This little girl, she wanted to stay in one corner of the attic, like that was her space, and she didn’t want to come down and really play with us much. I remember at one point we had maybe a ball or something that we were tossing around, and we’d toss it to her. She’d never respond.

She never talked. She had long hair, and I never saw her face; it was strange. Never saw her face. She had long hair that basically just covered her face. It came down probably to the middle of her chest. And I remember she was wearing maybe a white sundress or a gown of some sort. Her clothes seemed modern. That’s my feeling about it.

So, after trying to play some ball with her, we decided…I think there was a table, so we were going to play some cards or checkers, something like that. We got her to join us at the table, and she was just sitting there with us. We’d make our moves, and she was just sitting there, not doing anything. She didn’t talk, and I don’t remember seeing her face. It was kind of like the girl in The Ring. At the time, I was a kid and I thought, She’s no fun; she doesn’t want to play with us.

Well, in addition to how strange she was acting, my memory of her is not of fluid movement; it’s not like she actually moved. She didn’t seem ghostly, like ethereal or something like that; I just remember that she was in the corner and she wouldn’t play with us, and then all of a sudden she was at the table. Kind of herky-jerky; it was almost like snapshots of her.

Well, the family…that’s what led me to believe that something strange was going on, because I remember after we did what we were going to do in the attic, we got bored with it or whatever, and came downstairs. I remember watching a movie with the family and even having dinner with them later that night, and the girl wasn’t there. She wasn’t there with the family at any point! If the girl was for real, she would have been there with the family. At that point it dawned on me: Oh God, we’ve been playing with a ghost! That’s the only conclusion I could come up with, really.

If he listens to the podcast: Why don’t you call up, Hubert? Maybe he could fill in some of the holes for us. I haven’t been in touch with him since. They moved away when he was little.

Lindsay
North Carolina

-THE END-

Reprinted, with permission of the publisher, from JIM HAROLD’S CAMPFIRE: TRUE GHOST STORIES © 2011 Jim Harold. Published by New Page Books a division of Career Press, Pompton Plains, NJ. 800-227-3371. All rights reserved.

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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends

Ghost story of one man’s sleepness night that leads to a mysterious encounter with a stranger along a moonlit road. Written by Allen Mills IV

Hello everyone, my name is Ralph Heinsley and the story I am about to tell you is one that to this day I still cannot comprehend, nor can I determine whether it really happened or if I was stuck in some sort of dream. But nevertheless it is a story I wish to share with you today.

Before I start my story I shall give you a bit of background on my living quarters. I live in the state of Alabama, a very prosperous place with beautiful green foresty areas and lots of hiking grounds. These are the types of places that capture my attention most. They are so peaceful and give you a chance to breathe and relax from your day to day activities. I however wasn’t lucky enough to be able to afford such a beautiful plot of land, but instead I live in the middle of a city where the only sign of forest life came from the occasional squirrel that would wander around. There is much activity during the day. People walking around from job to home and vice versa, and there is always a conversation or two you could listen in on as you walked down the side if you were in to that sort of thing. Personally I saw no reason to get involved in other people’s matters so I mostly tuned it out. The buildings around me weren’t all that tall, but they were numerous and were always full of people. The night times in this town were always eerily quiet. As though not a soul lived there. It was the kind of quiet that made even those that enjoyed peace and quiet to want to make a sound or two, and that my friends is where I shall begin my tale.

It started one night as I lay awake in bed having trouble once again at falling asleep. I wasn’t sure where this struggle originated, but one thing was for certain – it needed to stop. I sat up for what felt like the hundredth time that night contemplating my next move and how I would again convince the sandman that I was ready for sleep. After a few minutes of thinking time I decided to take a walk. Surely a short stroll under the moonlight would soothe the body and mind enough to relax and drift into dreamland.

As I got up and got dressed I thought about what path I would take and determined whether or not it would be a long walk or short one. Once I was fully clothed I decided that a short walk was best. Didn’t want to get over tired to the point where falling asleep would be impossible. I walked out of my bedroom and proceeded to the front door. I opened it up and closed it behind me. I then began to walk from my house down a path that led further into town.

As I walked looking around at the stars, I couldn’t help but notice that the moon was very bright that night. I smiled thinking about how beautiful it was, as it gave the Earth light and provided adequate scenery for my surroundings. As I continued to look around I noticed that the moon was extraordinarily bright on one path in particular. I took notice of it as soon as I looked at it. The path was a dirt road and for some reason seemed to lead out of town. It also had trees lined along both sides of the path, which was unusual especially being that it was in the middle of a city. It captured my attention to the point where I had stopped moving altogether. I approached it and stood at its entrance. It seemed like a quaint path. One that looked to be very relaxing.

So I decided to take a walk down the moonlit road.

It didn’t take long for me to feel at ease. The smells and the sights were all very enamoring. So much so that I didn’t even notice that I wasn’t alone anymore. A gentleman looking about 6 foot tall had strolled up beside me. He had long white hair and a kind smile. He was very fancily dressed, which was unusual for this time of night. He had black dress shoes and white gloves. He also had on a black button down shirt which hung loose over the top of his black dress pants. The man was smiling next to me as we walked. He had not yet made eye contact with me so I spoke first.

“Um, excuse me sir..” I said a bit nervously.

The man smiling still, looked at me as we walked saying nothing. Once again I tried to start a conversation.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but do I know you?”

“Yes” the man said, still smiling.

He was looking forward as if he had not a care in the world. His posture was that of someone of a different era. It was poised and very confident, yet somehow still relaxed in its own way. I had only taken my eyes off of him to make sure I was still following down the path. Other then that, my eyes were fixed on this man. I then said to him:

“Well, alright – who might I ask are you?”

“I am the guy walking beside you on this beautiful road.” His smile grew and a small laugh escaped him.

I couldn’t help but to laugh with him for a second. I was a bit relieved that the stranger seemed to mean me no harm, so I decided – why not enjoy the company? We walked for awhile not saying anything. I hadn’t even been thinking about how much time had passed, I had just been enjoying the experience. He then turned to me and said:

“You must be having problems sleeping to be out this late.”

I looked at him and smiled a bit, then nodded and replied:

“Yes I must admit, sleeping hasn’t been easy to come by these last few days.”

He then looked at me and said, “Well not to worry, soon you will be able to sleep peacefully, This road has a certain way about it that calms even the heaviest of nerves.”

I looked at him again and nodded. “Yes it does appear that I am already getting quite tired. Perhaps I should turn back.”

The man then looked at me, his smile still the same. He pointed forward and said, “Oh, don’t worry about that, it would be most troublesome to walk all that way again. I have a place just ahead that you can stay at for the night. It is no trouble at all, I haven’t had a guest at the house in quite some time.”

His smile increased which made him appear to have a more boyish mannerism, though the man looked to be well into his 20′s or maybe early 30′s. I was a bit shocked by this. I asked the man how long we had been walking and he replied that we had been walking for about an hour. When he told me this I was really surprised. I had only anticipated a 10 to 15 minute walk at the most, but here I had walked for more than three times that.

I thought for a minute, looked back at the man and nodded, then agreed to stay with him. I was exhausted by this time and figured if the man had intended on hurting me that he would’ve done it a while ago. He led me inside and smiled.

The house was very dusty, but it had a homey feel to it. He led me upstairs to a room he told me would be mine for the night. He then told me that if I didn’t see him in the morning that it was because he had somewhere he needed to be. I smiled kindly and nodded. Before I laid down I turned to him and said, “I don’t mean to impose, but I don’t recall getting your name, sir.”

The man smiled back and nodded and said, “My name is Ben Davis.”

I smiled and replied, “I am Ralph Heinsley, it is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Davis.”

He grasped my hand and shook it firmly. He then nodded and smiled kindly as usual and left the room, closing the door behind him.

I yawned and stretched then slowly made my way over to the bed. I crawled under the covers that felt warm and cozy instantly. That night I had the best sleep I’d had in a while. I don’t even remember what time I had passed out.

When I woke up the sun was shining in the window. I sat up and looked around. I was a bit in a daze at what had happened the night before. I got out of bed and walked downstairs to the front room. There was a note sitting on a coffee table that looked like had just been put there recently. I walked over and picked it up and it read:

“Please, take my vehicle back to town. The key is in the car. I will be back to retrieve it upon my return, don’t worry about gas or repaying me, the company you provided was payment enough. Sincerely, Ben Davis.”

I was unable to understand why he was so kind to me. I mean, not 24 hours ago we had no idea each other existed and now all of a sudden he is letting me use his car to get back home? I was skeptical so I decided to go outside and check for myself.

As I walked outside the sun was really bright, it took my eyes a minute to adjust. Once my eyes came to focus, right in front of me was an old station wagon. It looked like it had seen better days, but it didn’t look completely broken. I walked around it a few times to check it out and decided to try the driver’s side door. It opened up and there on the driver’s seat was a single key. I looked it over and hesitantly picked up. I then sat down and placed the key in the ignition.

I turned the key and the car started right up. It sounded great, the car purred calmly. I sat there with the car running for a minute or two examining the inside and taking in what was happening. I couldn’t believe I was really sitting in someone’s car whom I had barely met – and even more unreal then that he actually is letting me drive it assuming I was an honest man. Although I do suppose I gave him no reason not to trust me, so I think he might have believed the car would be in good hands.

I closed the door and turned the wheel and began to drive down the path towards home. Along the trip I had thought about everything up to this point and how unusual and yet how fortunate things turned out, and about how good of a night’s sleep I had gotten which I haven’t been able to get in some time.

About 20 minutes later I make it back to town, and I was surprised to see people outside their houses looking very unhappy. As I saw what they were looking at, it became apparent that during the night the town had experienced total chaos. There were bullet holes and broken windows as well as vandalized vehicles everywhere. I was at a loss for words as I pulled up to my house. I got out of the car and prepared myself to witness the destruction that my eyes would soon meet.

As I took a good look at my house it looked to have been completely untouched. I was confused so I rushed over and circled the house looking for anything that might be out of place or damaged.

None at all. Everything was fine, nothing was hit or stolen. It didn’t even look like anyone TRIED to damage the house. I couldn’t understand it at all. How could this happen and me conveniently not have been around? Did my new friend plan this? Did he know about the event and chose to save me from it? If so why? So many questions filled my head at one time.

By this time the police had showed up and were taking statements from the people involved. I decided to approach one of the officers who wasn’t talking to anyone and asked what had happened. The officer told me that apparently a riot broke out between two gangs and things just got out of hand. I nodded and proceeded to point to my house which received no damage and explained to him how my new friend Ben Davis had led me away before all of this happened. The officer looked puzzled at first, then his face grew somber. The officer proceeded to explain that Ben Davis was a victim of a drive by shooting in the early 80′s and had died just outside the house I was living in now. He told me that back then violence was among the norm of the town and had caused many people to move away to safer locations.

Davis had apparently known about the dangers before he moved in thanks to the neighbors around him, but decided he wasn’t going to let it stop him from living there.

I looked at the officer in disbelief and tried to explain that I had seen him last night. I then pointed towards the path that he had walked with me down. The officer again looked confused and then said:

“What path?”

This confused me and I started to tell him, but when I looked, the path was gone. There were no trees, no path, anything that resembled anything leading away from town. I then looked back towards the car I had taken to get back home and to my astonishment, it too was gone. There was no proof that it had even been there in the first place.

I suddenly felt ill and decided to go back to the house and get some rest. I slept good that night too. When I woke up I sat up quickly and dashed outside looking around at the people’s homes that were still damaged and destroyed, and the occasional person who leaves the house and the occasional person who returned. More importantly, I was looking for the path as well as the car thinking maybe I just had a bad view from before.

Try as I might I could not find either of those things. Even as I write this I question my own sanity, and even as I re-read this over and over again trying to make sense of it, something to happen that would prove I wasn’t crazy, still I came up short, and still I remain just as questionable as when I first started. No matter the outcome or if I ever find anything relating to that event one thing is for certain: I will never forget my alleged friend Ben Davis, and I will never forget the alleged path we walked together and the alleged house I stayed in and even the alleged car that I drove to return to the place I call home. Even more unforgettable than that was the fact that even if none of that existed, the fact still remains, I got the best sleep I have had in years.

-THE END-

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The Moonlit Road - Southern ghost stories, folktales, myths and legends