The Ghost of Blackfeet Nation

by Eva Pohler

  “Well, isn’t that strange,” Sue said as Karen pulled from the parking lot.

  Not long after, Karen turned onto a private dirt road that was lined with thick trees. The road stretched for a mile before the dilapidated two-story ranch house, with its peeling gray paint and decrepit, black-shingled roof, came into view. An old chevy pickup, perhaps from the sixties, sat without wheels in the tall grass on one side of the house. Three dead trees—two in the front and one near the back of the house—stuck up from the earth like the black skeletons of giants. After Karen had parked and Ellen had stepped from the car, she was startled by a flock of crows fleeing from the dead branches above them.

  The remains of an old wooden fence stood rotting along one side of the house. Even from where Ellen stood, she could see it was crawling with ants. The front wooden stoop wasn’t in much better shape. It was covered with dirt and broken glass, presumably from the two broken windowpanes near the front door.

  A second-floor balcony looked out from one side of the house. You couldn’t see it from the front, but Ellen had walked from one side to the other and had noticed it on the left side, facing east.

  “That doesn’t look very safe,” Ellen muttered, pointing.

  “What part of it do you mean?” Sue asked. “None of it looks safe.”

  “Ladies, please keep in mind that this house was built in 1890 and hasn’t been touched since the ‘70s.”

  “Oh, it’s been touched,” Sue said. “Just not by human hands.”

  “What about vagrants?” Ellen asked.

  “They don’t stay long,” Karen said. “I can promise you that.”

  “I don’t doubt you,” Sue said.

  “I’m not sure much of the original structure can be salvaged,” Ellen said.

  “For once, I may have to agree with you,” Sue said. “But at least the land is nice. Except for these dead trees, the rest of the acreage looks beautiful.”

  “There’s a creek that runs along the back of the property, too,” Karen pointed out. “And from the second story, you will find amazing views of the nearby mountains.”

  “How nice,” Sue said. “As long as the second story doesn’t crumble beneath our feet and plunge us to our deaths.”

  “Shall we go inside and have a look?” Karen asked.

  Ellen and Sue exchanged worried glances.

  “We may as well,” Sue said. “We’ve come this far. There’s no use in giving up now.”

  Ellen followed Karen and Sue up the wobbly steps to the front stoop and through the unlocked front door. She was pleasantly surprised when she wasn’t accosted by the horrible stench that usually resided in abandoned homes. She supposed the broken windows allowed fresh air to circulate.

  She was also surprised to see furniture in the front room. An old armoire stood against the back wall, and, in front of it was a broken bench, covered by a thick, cream-white animal fur. After circling around the bench, Ellen saw the head of a buffalo hanging on the other end.

  “I’ve never seen a white buffalo before,” Ellen said.

  “I didn’t even know such things existed,” Sue remarked.

  “They’re very rare,” Karen explained.

  “Then why has this been left here to rot?” Ellen wondered. “If it’s rare, wouldn’t it be valuable?”

  “Money isn’t as important to us as our sacred ways and beliefs,” Karen said. “You see, only the person who was chosen by the Creator to kill a white buffalo may keep its hide. It cannot be sold—though it may be passed down to relatives.”

  “I’ve never known anyone who didn’t value money,” Sue said.

  “We value it,” Karen said, “just not in excess. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  Sue lifted her brows and gave Ellen a look—a look which acknowledged that she’d been burned by the tribal secretary.

  “Do you know who killed the white buffalo?” Ellen asked.

  “Talks to Buffalo,” Karen said. “The same man for whom this house is named. I guess he had no descendants to pass it onto, so, after his wife died, it remained with the estate. Every person who has owned the house since has become the custodian of the skin. If you decide to buy, you will be the next.”

  “How wonderful,” Sue said with a tinge of sarcasm. “I’ve always wanted a buffalo hide.”

  Ellen frowned and whispered to Sue, “Control yourself.”

  Sue ignored Ellen as she strolled to the armoire and opened the cabinet door. No sooner had she pulled the door open than a rattling sound alarmed them and a small critter scurried across the floor.

  Sue jumped back with her hand on her heart. “What the hell was that?”

  “I think it was a rat,” Karen said. “It’s to be expected, considering how long this house has been unoccupied.”

  “Apparently, it hasn’t been unoccupied,” Sue said as she caught her breath.

  Karen pointed to the ceiling. “As you can see, the internal structure has held up pretty well over the years.”

  Ellen wasn’t so sure she agreed but followed Karen into the kitchen, which was outfitted like something from the sixties. Lime-green linoleum covered most of the floor, and Formica countertops lay atop broken lower cabinets made of dark oak. There was an old stove and two rusted metal chairs. Karen flipped a switch, which brought a three-foot-long fluorescent tube on the ceiling to life.

  “I’m surprised the electricity works,” Ellen said.

  “It almost looks quaint,” Sue said. “Don’t you think, Ellen?”

  Ellen frowned. “I have a pretty good imagination, but it must not be as good as yours.”

  “Well, it looked better in the dark,” Sue admitted. “Are those rat turds on the counters and floor?”

  “I think so,” Karen said.

  They followed Karen to a dining room, bathroom, and master bedroom before heading up the rickety stairs to the second floor, where they found two more bedrooms and another bath. Each bedroom led to the side balcony, where the views were spectacular.

  “You can see Chief Mountain from here,” Karen pointed out. “My people consider it to be the center of the earth.”

  Although other mountains stretched higher up to the sky further in the background, Chief Mountain stood alone in the foreground. Its shape reminded Ellen of an ancient castle built on a high hill. It had a nearly flat peak and long flat face before it swelled outward.

  “Wouldn’t it be amazing to wake up to this view every morning?” Sue said.

  “I don’t think I’d ever get tired of it,” Ellen agreed.

  Before they headed downstairs, Ellen noticed a gaping hole in the ceiling that opened through the roof to the bright sky above.

  She pointed to the hole. “This is why the air isn’t stale in this place.”

  “It also explains why the floorboards directly below it have nearly rotted through,” Sue added. “Watch your step.”

  As they descended the stairs, Sue asked, “Is the water turned on? Does it run?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think the toilets work,” Karen said.

  The tribal secretary led them back to the kitchen, where she turned on the faucet at the white apron sink. “See?”

  “Yep, it works,” Sue said.

  While Sue asked questions about the plumbing and sewage, Ellen returned to the main room and to the white buffalo skin. Although it was covered by a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, there was something magnificent about it, and she couldn’t resist reaching out to touch the fur. No sooner had her skin made contact with it than she felt something like a jolt of electricity pulse up from her hand, up her arm, and to her chest.

  She flinched, released the fur, and took several steps back, whispering, “What was that?”

  Sue and Karen continued to discuss the details of the house in the next room and hadn’t noticed.

  Hesitantly, Ellen inched toward the fur and, with a shaky hand, reached out and touched it again. Just like before, she felt a rush of energy surge through her. This time, sh
e held on, curious to know if something more would happen, but nothing did.

  When Sue retuned from the kitchen, Ellen said, “Touch this, and tell me what it feels like.”

  Sue arched a brow. “Why would I want to touch that dirty old thing? It gives me the creeps.”

  “Just do it,” Ellen said, unable to keep the exasperation from her voice.

  Sue did as she was told, for once, as Karen entered from the kitchen.

  “It’s surprisingly soft,” Sue said.

  “You didn’t feel something?” Ellen asked. “Like a jolt of electricity?”

  “No. Why? Did you?”

  Ellen glanced at Karen, whose brows had lifted with surprise.

  “What?” Ellen asked her. “Does it mean something?”

  “I’m not sure,” Karen said. “But maybe the spirit that dwells in that skin has made a connection with you.”

  “Do you mean Crow Woman?” Sue asked. “That’s the name of the evil spirit who’s attached to this house—according to your husband, anyway.”

  “Not according to my husband. The name came from Creator. In our language, it is Maisto Aakii.”

  Ellen shuddered. “Well, when I touched it, it didn’t feel evil.” Had evil entered her heart?

  “By the way,” Karen said, “that was also the name of Talks to Buffalo’s wife. They are probably one and the same.”

  “Really? Do you know anything more about them?” Ellen asked Karen.

  “Not a lot. There may be some records on file—marriage and death certificates—if you want to look for them. We have copies of almost everything from the Indian Bureau as far back as 1871. The documents have been scanned and cross-referenced in the tribal database.”

  “You said Talks to Buffalo and Crow Woman didn’t have any descendants,” Ellen said. “Is that right?”

  “As far as I know. I don’t recall reading about any in the documents pertaining to this property. If there were children, however, there would be birth records. The Indian Bureau was pretty strict about documenting everyone.”

  Sue folded her arms and turned to Karen. “Do you mind if we conduct our investigation tonight and I give you our answer within the next few days?”

  “I suppose that’s fine,” the tribal secretary replied.

  “Is that fine with you, Ellen?”

  “The sooner the better,” Ellen said. “My curiosity has certainly been piqued.”

  Ellen followed Sue through the front door to the rotten front stoop. Karen, who was the last to exit, had barely stepped over the threshold when the door slammed shut, causing her to utter a soft cry of surprise.

  “Was that the wind?” Sue asked.

  Ellen gazed at the still, tall grass surrounding the abandoned pickup truck. “I don’t think so.”

  “Definitely not,” Karen said. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing with this paranormal investigation stuff?”

  Sue turned to Ellen, who shrugged.

  “We think so,” Ellen said.

  During the drive back to the tribal headquarters, Karen asked Ellen and Sue how they had become paranormal investigators. They told her about the Gold House in San Antonio and had just finished recounting their experiences in Tulsa with the Monroe Social Club when Karen pulled in the parking lot of the tribal headquarters.

  Wanting to hear more, Karen invited them to join her for coffee in her office, where they continued their stories. Karen sat behind her desk, opposite Sue and Ellen, as they told her about the Demon Baby of New Orleans, the Shanghai Tunnels in Portland, and the haunting of Hoover Dam.

  “How fascinating,” Karen said, when they had finished. “What interesting lives you lead.”

  Ellen smiled, realizing it was true. So, why was she so mopey all the time?

  “And what will tonight’s investigation entail?” Karen asked. “Can you tell me about it?”

  “Would you care to join us?” Ellen asked her.

  “I can’t tonight. I have plans. I don’t usually on a Friday night, but I do tonight.”

  “Let us know if you change your mind,” Sue said. “You have my number.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ellen suddenly had an idea. “Do you think we could take a look at those records you mentioned? I’d like to learn as much as possible about Talks to Buffalo and Crow Woman before we get started tonight.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Sue said.

  Karen began typing on the keyboard connected to the PC on her desk. “Let’s see what I can find.”

  Ellen and Sue exchanged looks of excitement while they waited for the tribal secretary to conduct her search.

  “Hmm. Okay, I did find a marriage certificate for Talks with Buffalo and Crow Woman for June 12th of 1890.”

  Ellen and Sue climbed to their feet to stand behind Karen, so they could look over her shoulder at the screen. It showed a scanned document that had been crudely typed on plain paper. The document bore a seal that read “U.S. Department of the Interior Bureau of Indian Affairs” with the image of an eagle.

  “According to this document, Crow Woman wasn’t Crow,” Karen said. “She was actually Piegan. I wonder why they called her Crow Woman.”

  “Can you check for death certificates?” Sue asked.

  Karen tapped at her keyboard and pulled up another document.

  “Talks with Buffalo died of cirrhosis of the liver in 1932,” Karen said. She tapped a few more keys and pulled up another document. “And, let’s see, Crow Woman died in 1943 of dehydration and malnutrition.”

  “How terrible!” Ellen said. “How old was she?”

  “Seventy,” Karen said. “It wasn’t uncommon back then. Many Blackfeet died that way.”

  “How sad,” Sue said.

  “Let me look for birth records under their names,” Karen said as she typed at her keyboard.

  She clicked on a hyperlink and brought up a birth certificate.

  “A boy,” she said. “Born to Talks to Buffalo and Crow Woman on September 20, 1891. Here he’s only called First Son. That’s not uncommon, as some families like to name their children later, according to their personality or traits.”

  “But they did have a child,” Sue said.

  “Yes. Now I’m searching through our census data. Ah, here it is. Aisaistowa Iini, or Talks to Buffalo, Maisto Aakii, or Crow Woman, and A’atsista, or Rabbit. There are no other children listed as of 1908.”

  “Can you find anything else about Rabbit?” Ellen asked.

  “Let me check for a death certificate for A’atsista Aisaistowa Iini,” Karen said as she tapped at her keyboard. “Hmm. Nothing.”

  “Does that mean he’s still alive?” Ellen wondered.

  “Not necessarily,” Karen said. “Besides, that would make him around 130 years old. He probably left the reservation sometime before he died. Wait, let me check something else.”

  Ellen held her breath as Karen conducted another search.

  “Okay, here’s something,” Karen said. “In 1900, A’atsista Aisaistowa Iini, or Rabbit Talks to Buffalo, was enrolled in a boarding school.”

  “Does it say which school?” Sue asked.

  “No, but I know where he would have been taken,” Karen said. “Holy Family Mission. Back then, nearly all the Blackfeet children were forced to attend Holy Family as part of the U.S. government’s effort to train the Indian out of them. Children were ripped from their parents’ arms, bussed from their homes, and only permitted to visit a few times a year, if at all.”

  “Dear God,” Sue mumbled.

  “But what happened to Rabbit after he went to school?” Ellen asked.

  “The bureau might have records. And, although the boarding school closed decades ago, Holy Family Mission Church still holds mass every Sunday. They may have records, too. It’s only about a half-hour away.”

  “And where’s the bureau?” Sue asked.

  “Right around the corner,” Karen said.

  Ellen and Sue met Tanya for a late lunch a few minutes awa
y from their hotel at a place called Rock-N-Roll Bakery: Gear and Goodness.

  “I read about their vegetable quiche and cinnamon rolls online,” Sue said as they followed the hostess to a table, where they were surrounded by mountain views. “The pies are supposed to be good, too.”

  “I may need to fast again after this meal,” Ellen said, looking over the menu. “Everything sounds delicious.”

  “Smells delicious, too,” Tanya said.

  After they had ordered, Sue and Ellen told Tanya about their morning touring the property and searching the records of the tribe, the bureau, and the Holy Family Mission.

  “You should have called me,” Tanya said. “I would have met you. I spent most of the morning in the Glacier Park Lodge gift shop.”

  “What about your hiking and shopping at the park?” Sue asked.

  “After I got the rental, I chickened out. I hated not knowing my way around. So, I went back and walked around the lodge.”

  “We should have called,” Ellen agreed. “I’m sorry we didn’t.”

  “Oh, well,” Tanya said just as the waitress arrived with their quiche.

  “Let me know if I can get you anything else,” their waitress said before leaving their table.

  Ellen took a bite and sighed with pleasure.

  “Hmm,” Sue said. “This is delicious.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Tanya agreed.

  “So, I was about to explain that, while we haven’t made much progress yet,” Ellen said before taking a sip of her tea, “we met someone who seems eager to help.”

  “Oh?’ Tanya asked. “Who?”

  “A Jesuit priest named Father Gonzales,” Ellen replied. “He’s very interested in the history of Holy Family and says he’d be delighted to conduct some research for us.”

  “Let’s hope he unearths something useful,” Sue said. “And now for the more important question of the day: what should I order to go, for later tonight? Cinnamon rolls or a cherry pie?”

  Chapter Six: A Paranormal Investigation

  While Sue took initial readings downstairs at Talks to Buffalo Lodge, Ellen set up a full-spectrum camera in one of the upstairs bedrooms, which had grown dark with the setting sun, as all the bulbs in the upstairs light fixtures were dead. She had just found the right camera angle to capture both the room and the hallway when she tripped and fell on her hands and knees, and her cell phone slipped from her pants pocket.