Locks of her Hair
By Jon Paul Olivier
Copyright 2013 Jon Paul Olivier
Cover photograph Copyright 2013 by Petr Kratochvil
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental or used with permission.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Preface
This story was originally published under the title The Halloween Story. In October of 2006, The Courier newspaper announced a writing contest. They provided the introductory paragraph for contestants to continue as a story about Halloween. I wrote a short story featuring my children. My story was awarded first place in the contest.
Acknowledgements
My children inspired me to create this story. The Courier newspaper provided the introduction, presented here in italics. My good friend, Melinda, told me what it was like to be a young child with red hair. My good friend, Earl, gave me the ideas for the children’s ghost stories.
Locks of her Hair
By Jon Paul Olivier
As children, our grandmother had always warned us never to venture into the sugar cane fields after sunset. But she would never explain why. When we asked, she would only shush us and repeat her warning, her voice lowering to a whisper as if whoever – or whatever – lurked in the fields might overhear her if she spoke any louder.
“Just don’t do it,” she would say, her eyes growing big.
Sometimes, she would glance at a family photo on the kitchen windowsill, her gaze settling on Uncle Joe. Grandma refused to tell the story of Uncle Joe’s sudden disappearance, but the neighbors weren’t as prone to keep silent. They heard and spread the tales about our uncle – how he used to smoke cigars when our Grandma wasn’t looking, how he could make any old car run like brand-new, and how he vanished from our small bayou town after creeping into the sugar cane field one night to light up one of his favorite smokes.
All the police found was a burnt cigar tip.
Years later, the mystery remained unsolved. Until one October night, when we ignored our grandmother’s warnings…
My littlest sister, Dianna, was just eight that year. She was a carrot-top who adored me, her big brother of ten. She would follow me anywhere, trusting me to protect her. That night, however, as we played behind the house and the sun descended to the horizon, she objected to my suggestion.
“Oh, no. I’m not going in there,” she told me.
“Come on, Dianna, we’ll just go a little way. Maybe we’ll find out what happened to Uncle Joe.”
I was obsessed with finding out what was in there, in the sugar cane field, after dark. It was forbidden and that just made me want to go there more.
“Nu-uh. Not after dark. I’m scared.”
“I’ll be there to protect you,” I assured her, not knowing what I’d be protecting her from.
After repeated protests, her admiration and trust of her big brother overcame her fear. She took my hand and we walked, with trepidation, towards the stalks of cane. A fall breeze rustled the tops as it got darker. I stopped at the edge and pushed aside a few leaves to peer in, not as sure as I had been but I led the way between the rows. Dianna’s grasp on my hand grew tighter as the stalks closed behind us. Before long, all we could see was the sugar cane all around us and all we could hear was the wind rustling in the tops of the leaves.
“How much farther? I want to go back,” she said, her voice the only sound other than the wind in the leaves.
My bravery was fading almost as fast as hers, but I wanted to be brave.
“Not far,” I said as I hoped that was true.
We came to a clearing, a wide path where the harvesting equipment was parked. It was dark now, except for a harvest moon rising in the sky to cast a silvery gloom. We walked out into the opening, feeling all alone with only stalks of sugarcane around us. The feeling of isolation made me dizzy.
“There,” I said and pointed. “That must have been where they found Uncle Joe’s cigar.”
We heard a rustling in the cane. Then from the other direction, another rustle. I felt Dianna’s hand tug on mine.
“Let’s go back. I’m scared.”
“That’s just the wind,” I said, trying to sound a lot braver than I felt.
“The wind only blows in one direction,” she said.
She was right. The rustling was coming from places all around the clearing – all around us. Whatever it was, it was approaching from everywhere.
“Andrew…” my little sister said, her eyes wide as saucers.
“Uh, yeah, let’s go back,” I said, my own bravery evaporating as I desperately tried to figure out which way we had come.
A dark figure stepped from the field and moved into the clearing, ignoring us. Another joined it. We watched, too scared to move, barely able to take a breath, as they put their hands together. Fire appeared as they pulled their palms apart, a fire that moved to a pile of logs which hadn’t been there a moment before. Other figures were arriving and forming a circle around the fire. The fire burned with a black flame, not yellow or red. All the colors were black and silver, not the warmer colors we were used to seeing. Then, a smell reached us. It took me a moment to place it—the smell of a lit cigar.
At that moment, Dianna screamed. I tried to hush her but it was useless. She was panicking. The figures all turned towards us, as if noticing us for the first time. Dianna bolted for the sugar cane and I followed, no longer the brave one. I looked back over my shoulder as we entered the row, seeing the figures pursuing us. They didn’t seem to be running. Rather, they seemed to glide along the ground. We ran but it felt like we were running in molasses. We were hardly making any progress. The sound from behind us told that our pursuers were catching up to us. Another break in the cane appeared. As we ran into the clearing and left the cover of the field, I could clearly hear the rustling of the cane. It was the passage of many somethings coming quickly, accompanied by murmurings like angry conversation.
Dianna was in full sprint, dragging me along with her. At that moment, a bright light appeared from around a corner. The headlights of a pickup truck pierced the semidarkness with a warm glow. The sound of its engine overcame the rustling of the cane and the murmurings of the things chasing us. We ran by instinct to the light as the truck bumped along the path.
When we stepped into the beam of the headlights, the truck suddenly stopped. A door flew open and someone got out.
“Dianna! Andrew!”
It was our mother’s voice. The relief I felt was indescribable. We ran to her, feeling her put her arms around us, and all felt right in the world.
“Momma, there was a…” I started to say.
“Child, what is wrong with you?” Mom asked and I realized she was looking not at me but at Dianna. She held Dianna by her shoulders, holding her out at arm’s length to look at her.
Dianna had not spoken a word since her scream. Mom pulled us into the headlights and exclaimed,”Good Lord!”
I looked at my sister and it suddenly felt like ice water was flowing in my veins. My sister’s brilliant red hair was now flaxen blonde, silvery like the cold light of the moon. Something had transformed her.
Her hair stayed that color until she was laid to rest two summers later, after she drowned in the bayou. She was buried with her hair still silvery blonde – and she had never agai
n spoken a word since that scream in the sugar cane field.