A cloud of dust billowed its way down the road and soon a motorcycle pulled up to a small weathered shack where an old man sat rocking on its front porch. The rider shut down his machine, hopped off, and gestured a greeting to the old man.
“Sorry for the dust, mister,” he said, slapping at his powdered covered jeans. “I’ve been choking on this God forsaken stuff for the past three days now.” He stepped onto the porch and held out his hand. “My name’s Burt Nyland. You must be Thaddeus Olsen.”
The old man took his hand. “That surely be my name, young feller,” he said, eyeing the rider from top to bottom. “Don’t get many folks a’comin round these day’s but it’s nice to make yer acquaintance all the same.”
“Likewise, Mr. Olsen,” replied the young man as he removed a bandana that was tied around his neck and patted away the sweat from his face.
“I’m sure you’re probably wondering why I came by to see you today. The truth is, I’m in the process of writing a book and have spent the last four month’s traveling the country trying to track down some stories.”
The old man raised an eyebrow. “Stories? Well now, that makes me a tad nervous why someone would come to see me about such things. Just what kinda’ stories we talkin’ about here?”
The young man laughed and sat down on the porch step. “Not to worry Mr. Olsen, I’m not investigating anyone. It’s just that I’ve been attempting to follow up on some ghost stories that I’ve been researching for quite a while now. I’ve made my way from Pennsylvania all the way up to Maine and down the entire Eastern seaboard. I’ve heard some great tales along the way but since the very beginning I’ve been anxious to get here. You see, I’ve been hearing rumors of PawPaw County’s haunted woods for years and the folks in town said that if anyone could explain its mysteries it would be Thaddeus Olsen. I was hoping that you’d be willing to share some of its secrets with me.”
The old man turned his head and skillfully spat a stream of tobacco juice into a can next to his chair. “There’s no real secret to it at all, young feller,” he said, wiping his chin with his sleeve. “The hills and surroundin’ woods is haunted, plain and simple!” He pointed to a nearby hill blanketed in a thick pine canopy. “Ya see that ridge over yonder? Well, son, up there aways used to stand an old mansion that was part of a working plantation back in the early eighteen hundreds; there’s still pieces of the main house along with some splinters of wood from a number of slave shacks up on that ridge if’a person would wanna take a looksee. The plantation grave yard is also up there behind the house aways but folks round these parts have good sense not to go up there at night ‘cause that’s when the spirits of them dead people roam the grounds as if they was still alive!”
The young man became noticeably excited and quickly retrieved a note book from his vest pocket.
“Now it’s perfectly fine to be up there when the sun’s up,” continued the old man, “but when it starts a gettin’ dark then a soul better skedaddle quick from them woods!”
After a short while, the young man looked up from his writing. “Could you tell me of any particular encounters that people have had with these, um…spirits, maybe even something that you have experienced yourself, Mr. Olsen?”
The old man considered the question then leaned forward in his rocker and spoke in a low tone as if to disclose the most confidential of information.
“My pappy seen them spooks on many occasion, right out yonder,” he said, pointing to the field that spread out wide from his shack and ran to the base of the hills. “Ya see, them folks musta planted the fields out there before the trees took over the land ‘cause I found many a broken spade and shovel in that ground. My old pappy used to tell me stories about walkin’ home from work and seein’ these workers, black they was, from time to time bent over and doin’ some kinda work with the soil. The first time he saw ‘em it nearly scared the bejesus out of him. He hollered out to get their attention but they just ignored his calls. This irritated my old man and he walked up to ‘em so’s he could give ‘em a little of what fer, but when he got close, well sir… they just disappeared right before his eyes! Course, after a time he got used to seein’ ‘em and just let ‘em be. Truth is, I seen ‘em myself every now and then. They’s harmless down here in the valley, but like I said, don’t nobody stay up on that there hill after sunset, ain’t safe by a long shot!”
The young man stopped writing and turned to the old man. “This is such a great story, Mr. Olsen…it might even turn out to be the best story of my entire book!” He stood and glanced out towards the woods.
“I certainly appreciate your warnings, but now that I think about it, I’d better spend the night up on that ridge just to see for myself what’s really going on.”
The old man’s jaw dropped and the color seemed to drain from his face. “Don’t you be a damn fool now, son, you take a ride up there and look around a bit, but if yer life means anything, ya best leave before dark!”
The young man laughed under his breath, “I gotta tell you, Mr. Olsen, I’ve seen some mighty strange things these past few months but I didn’t come all this way just to scratch the surface of what could be my book’s most entertaining story.”
The old man shook his head. “Well, son…I spose your mind’s made up on the point but before you go, there’s a story that you might wanna hear…it’s about what happened to a boy that went up in those woods a long time ago.”
The young man eagerly nodded his interest and sat back down.
The old man turned his head and spit once more into the can. “Ya see…rabbits was as thick as grass round these parts at one time, and the boy found himself up on that ridge just after sundown still a’huntin them rabbits. Well sir, he knew not to be there after dark but he was needin’ to get just one more for the pot back home and he musta lost track of time. The darkness crept up on him and before he knew it, it was black as pitch outside. He finally decided it best to start back toward the main road but all of a sudden, he heard the bark of some old hound dogs in the distance and what looked like lights a’dancin through the trees and comin’ closer.”
“He had the idea that the whole thing was some kinda searchin’ party that his folks had sent out to find him, so he stayed put and hollered out to get their attention. Well sir, it was a searchin’ party alright but not what he was expectin‘! A group of men broke into the clearing carryin’ torches and leading them was a bunch of snarling dogs at the end of long chains. One of the men hollered out in an angry voice, ‘There he is!’ and proceeded to surround that poor frightened boy. A tall feller dressed in strange clothing came over to the boy and struck him square in the face with the end of what looked to be an old musket type rifle, the blow caused the boy to lose his senses and the next thing he knew he woke up some where’s else after bein’ doused head to toe with a bucket of cold water.
“He laid fer awhile on his back a’chokin out that water til two other mean lookin’ fellers yanked him off the ground and held him firm on either side. He could see a number of black folks standin’ round him, some holdin’ torches whilst others were weepin’ away as if someone had just died. The tall feller came up to him again, only this time he was holdin’ a large wood cutting axe in one of his hands. An old woman latched ahold of this feller’s legs and begged mercy for the boy, but he just threw her to the ground and shot her an evil look, then turned to the boy again and said, ‘Boy! This is the last time yer ever gonna be able to run from us!’ and with one mighty swing, he chopped off the end of that boy’s foot!”
“There came at once blood curdling screams from the black folk and a few of ‘em fainted dead away. The old woman and some others started right off bandaging the boy’s foot as he laid there on the ground. This was the last thing he remembered before he passed out from the pain. He woke up next morning midst them grave markers all by himself. He thought for a moment that it was all just a bad dream till he felt a sharp pain comin’ from his foot. When he looked down, he saw the bloody ba
ndages. That morning, he crawled his way back down that hill and swore that he would never return to those woods again after dark!”
The young man was smiling from ear to ear and frantically trying to get what he had just heard down on paper. “Fantastic stuff, Mr. Olsen!” he said with a wry smile. It was obvious that the old man had just spun one doozy of a yarn, but still, he would have no qualms about including such a flavorful tale in his book. He looked at his watch. “You know Mr. Olsen, I’ve only got an hour or so left of daylight and it just occurred to me that I should get some pictures taken of the remnants up there.” He got up and shook the old man’s hand once again. “I’d really like to stop back tomorrow sometime if you don’t mind so we can finish our talk. I’d certainly be interested in knowing where I can find the boy whose story you just told, that is, if he’s still around.”
“Oh, he’s still around, alright,” replied the old man. “You just remember what I said about getting out of them woods by dark.” There was a steely seriousness now to the old man’s voice.
“I’ll remember. Mr. Olsen, and I’ll make it a point to see you tomorrow.”
The young man hopped onto his motorcycle and started up the old dirt road, kicking up a blanket of dust. The old man watched as the cloud disappeared into the thicket of trees at the base of the hill.
Sometime that night, the old man was awakened by the hauntingly familiar sound of dogs barking in the distance. He lifted himself up on one arm and peered out the corner of the window beside his bed. He could see small points of light between the trees on the hill where the old cemetery would be. He realized that he had not heard the roar of the young man’s motorcycle coming down the hill all evening long. A moment later, a distant shot rang out and echoed its way down to his shack; a second one soon followed. The old man felt an icy shiver go through him as he eased himself back down onto his bed and stared blankly into the darkness.
“Poor young fool,” he said to himself and immediately the memory of his childhood trauma came flooding back to him as if it had just occurred; his foot responded by throbbing with a pain he had spent a lifetime desperately trying to forget.
REVENGE IS VERY SWEET