Mary had cleverly waited until midnight—the so-called witching hour—to begin our little game. That gave some of the girls chills, but sheer peer pressure brought all four of us around the table to play. At first, there was much giggling and questions about boys and school and who would marry whom. Silly answers came up on the board, and it was obvious that Mary and Jessie were pushing the planchette around themselves, though they swore up and down that they weren’t.
Around one thirty in the morning, the planchette suddenly froze in Mary’s hand. Wouldn’t move, no matter how much we pushed and pulled at it. That creeped me out something fierce. It was as if the little device had suddenly become a part of the board. “Stop it,” I told Mary. “You’re scaring everyone. It’s not funny anymore.”
Mary turned her frightened blue eyes toward me. “I’m not doing it,” she said, lifting her hands. I grabbed the planchette myself and tried to push it around. It was fixed to the board.
Suddenly, a kind of electric shock buzzed through my fingers. I gasped and tried to pull my fingers from the planchette, but they were fixed on the plastic device as if I’d used some kind of instant glue. Mary and Jessie both tried to pull my fingers away, but they got an electric shock of some kind that made them jump away from the table. The other girls stared with wide, round eyes, and Sarah began whimpering as the planchette came alive under my fingers—which were still stuck to its surface—and began to move.
“Help.” The words spelled out under my hand. “Help me. Help me.”
Jessie spoke the words in a trembling voice as each one spelled itself on the board. Sarah made a choking sound, and Mary started asking questions. But the planchette kept moving back and forth between the h – e – l – p continuously, until Sarah cried out: “Who are you?”
Then the rhythm of the spelling changed. “Amber.” The board spelled. “My name is Amber. I am eight years old.”
“What’s wrong?” Mary asked in a voice pitched much higher than normal. Her face was so white all the freckles stood out like darkened age spots.
AMBER
“Water. Danger. Help. Scared.” The words spelled out as fast as my hand could move. “Help me. Help me.”
“Call 9-1-1,” Mary cried suddenly. “Quick. Amber is in danger.”
As Sarah ran for the phone, I shouted. “We don’t know where she is! Amber, where are you?”
By this time, Sarah was gasping into the phone. She listened a minute, cried: “Wait, please. This isn’t a joke.” Then she hung up the phone. “They wouldn’t listen to me,” she told us, almost in tears.
At that instant, the planchette stilled on the board, and my hand was suddenly free from the mysterious force that had held it tight.
“She’s gone,” I gasped, pulling my hand away. We stared at one another, all of us shaken to the core by what had just happened.
“See if you can contact her again,” Mary said urgently. “We need to know if she’s okay!”
Hesitantly, I picked up the plastic planchette again. “Amber, are you there?” I asked softly, afraid of what might happen.
After a long pause, it moved slowly across the board and spelled out the words: “Too late.”
Sarah broke out into tears, and Jessie wrung her hands.
“Ask her what happened,” Mary said softly in my ear. I nodded and stammered out the question.
“Water. Flood. Drowned.” The planchette stopped after the last terrible word.
“Where was the flood?” I whispered the question around the lump in my throat. I could feel tears streaming down my cheeks.
“Mobile. Alabama.” The planchette grew heavy under my hand, the last few letters spelling out so slowly I thought that Amber would disappear before she finished.
Then the planchette quivered to life one more time and spelled out: “Thank you for trying.” It stopped suddenly, and instinctively I knew that Amber was gone.
None of us got much sleep that night. In the morning, we rushed through breakfast and then looked up the Alabama news on the Internet. None of us were surprised to read that there had been flash floods the night before. No list of victims was released that morning, but later that day when I checked again from my home computer, I was able to read the names of those who had died in the flood. One of the victims was an eight-year-old girl named Amber.
3
The Old Bridge
CAMDEN
Old Man McManor was the foulest-tempered fellow you ever did see. He owned and operated the sawmill over in Camden, and nobody in town liked him one bit. Had to deal with him though, since his mill was the only one in town. He was an ornery cuss, as touchy and stubborn as a mule, and whenever anyone didn’t pay on time or crossed him, he’d take out his horsewhip and flail at them until they ran away cussing or broke down crying. The sheriff warned McManor a couple of times about it and threatened to call in the Rangers, which calmed the old man down a bit. But he was still a mean one to deal with.
One evening McManor was out riding when a coyote scared his horse and it bolted. McManor was thrown down next to the bridge by the sawmill, and his head broke right open. Died instantly. Folks in town said all the right things, of course, but there was a general sigh of relief when the sawmill was taken over by a nice fellow who’d moved to Texas from Kansas with his pretty wife and two kids.
Everyone thought they’d seen the last of ornery old McManor, until one night when Jerry Jones—a man whom McManor had particularly hated—decided to make his way home via the old sawmill bridge after a long night of partying at the tavern. Jerry was halfway across the old bridge when a plume of steam came rising up through the boards of the bridge. Jerry stopped his humming, meandering stroll and stared as the mist thickened and became a whirling column that pulsed green and white like a mad thing and made his eyes water. Then it solidified into the translucent, glowing green body of Old Man McManor with a popping sound that made the bridge reverberate. The specter flourished his whip at poor, drunken Jerry, who screamed in terror and went running back the way he had come with the ghost hard on his heels. Green light spilled everywhere as ghostly blows rained down on his head and shoulders for more than a mile. When Jerry reached the giant pecan tree that shaded the road, the ghost of Old Man McManor vanished at once with another popping sound.
At first, no one believed Jerry’s story, his reputation for drink being what it was, even though he swore on a stack of Bibles that it was true. But once McManor’s spirit emerged from the grave, he became quite active. The ghost challenged the local parson when he tried to cross the bridge Sunday evening of the following week, and he only backed down when the preacher pulled out his Bible and recited Scripture. Later that summer McManor tackled the huge blacksmith on his way to court his sweetheart, and the two wrestled for a bit before the blacksmith managed to tear the whip away from the glowing green figure and toss it into the stream.
After that, folks started avoiding the bridge at night unless they were called out in an emergency. Even then, they took the precaution of wearing amulets and carrying Bibles and whatnot, hoping this would keep the ghost away. Worked sometimes, but not always. This situation went on for nigh on twenty years, until after the first World War, when more families in town could afford to own a car. Those cars could whip over McManor bridge at fifteen, twenty miles an hour; too fast for the ghost of McManor to catch them. Sometimes folks would see his glowing green form standing beside the bridge and waving his whip. But he never caught any of them.
THE OLD BRIDGE
Folks figured the ghost would give up haunting the bridge after the town got so modern. But mean old McManor still had one last hurrah in him, and it was a doozy. The local football team was driving home in the bus one night after winning a big game. The boys were whooping it up plenty, to the chagrin of their teachers, when all at once the bus stalled right in front of McManor’s bridge. Well, the boys started joking around about the ghost, until they noticed that the road outside was glowing green. The boys nudged one
another nervously and then turned to look out the rear window of the bus—right into the twisted smile of Old Man McManor.
The boys started shrieking, the teachers chiming in just as loud, and the ghost of Old Man McManor lifted up the back of the bus as if it weighed no more than a rabbit. The team tumbled out of their seats, screaming and praying, and the football coach bravely climbed up the sloping aisle, waving a fist at the ghost in the strange, pulsing green light. Just then the sheriff came roaring over the bridge on the opposite side of the road. As soon as his headlights illuminated the ghost holding the bus, Old Man McManor vanished with a popping sound. The sheriff slammed on his brakes in shock as the school bus crashed to the ground. The boys went running out the door at top speed, followed closely by the teachers and the bus driver. It took the combined efforts of the sheriff and the football coach to round up the panicking students and load them back into the bus, which was suddenly back in working order.
It wasn’t long after this event that they built a new highway and the old bridge was torn down. The ghost of Old Man McManor hasn’t been seen since.
4
On the Front Deck
BANDERA
It was all so sudden. Dad was a bright light among us, spending time with each of his beloved grandchildren, working around the house, and golfing, golfing, golfing. I’ve never seen anyone enjoy retirement more. He always joked that he would die on the golf course. We never thought it would really happen. But it did.
I was taking a first aid course at the time, and my first thought, when I got the call that Dad had collapsed on the golf course, was that I had to get there quick so I could use my new skills to save him. But no one could save him—not his golf buddies, not the paramedics, not anyone. Dad had had an aneurism and died right there and then. The hospital visit was more perfunctory than anything else. Just like that, he was gone.
We were numb afterwards, I guess. Going through the motions, comforting the kids, helping Mom, planning a funeral. I just couldn’t believe my vibrant Dad was gone. Sometimes, when I got home to the ranch, I’d stop for a moment on the front deck and look down toward the house where my parents had retired after spending much of their life in Wisconsin. If no one was looking, I’d wave, hoping that Dad would see me somehow.
After the funeral, everyone gathered at the house, and I noticed that the air was filled with the smell of Dad’s cigar. It was a distinctive smell, and one I thought I’d never smell again. I could tell Mom noticed it too, and one of my sons. In that moment, I realized that Dad was still with us in spirit, and I took what comfort I could from that.
Like anyone suffering a great loss, I took refuge in my work. My job is demanding, and raising my sons and daughter equally so. My husband and his family wrapped their love around me and Mom, and that was the best comfort. But I missed Dad sorely. I wanted those extra years that had been taken from us. I wanted to hear him cheering the boys at their football games and see his face one day in the future when my daughter walked down the aisle. I felt cheated somehow and angry at Dad, at God, at life for taking someone I loved with my whole heart away from my family too soon.
But time heals, and the seasons changed from summer to fall to winter to spring. With the changing seasons came grief, pain, anger, sadness, and finally peace and laughter and the sure knowledge that Dad was with us somehow. I could see his influence every day in the faces of my children.
We had an annual garage sale every year at my house, and this year was no exception. Everything was topsy-turvy for a few weeks while we decided what to keep and what to put in the sale. Finally, the big day came, and for several hours we hawked all our used items to anyone and everyone who came to the ranch. One of the fellows who arrived late in the day was our paperboy; though paperboy was a misnomer, since he was too old to be a boy. He was interested in our used electronics and spent some time browsing before carrying his chosen items to where I presided over the cashbox. We exchanged some friendly chit-chat as I made the sale, but I could tell there was something on his mind. Finally, after handing him his change, he came out with it.
“I wanted to ask you about the man on the deck,” he said hesitantly. I stared at him, pulse racing with the unexpectedness of the question. I glanced at my Mom, who was standing beside me.
“Man on the deck?” I asked, puzzled by the question.
“Not now,” he said hastily. “I mean the fellow—I see him every morning when I deliver the paper—who stands on your deck smoking.”
I felt my eyes pop in shock and a shiver of alarm run up my spine. My husband didn’t smoke—none of us did. And none of my family was out of bed at five thirty in the morning when the paper arrived! Who was haunting our deck every morning? Some creep after the kids?
And then a thought struck me. “Can you describe this man?” I asked, a note of excitement in my voice. I knew a man who used to get up early each morning to smoke and think about his day. Could it possibly be? Then the newspaper man began describing the man, from his hat to the fancy long coat he wore. The man he described was my father!
I heard Mom gasp beside me, and then we were both exclaiming in awe and excitement tinged with that slight uneasiness that is always caused by the supernatural. Was it true? Did my father’s ghost appear on the front deck every morning at sunrise? Our newspaper man certainly thought so, and the notion alarmed him. Stammering a little, he caught up his purchases and made a hasty exit. I barely noticed. Mom and I were too busy talking over his story and trying to take it in.
ON THE FRONT DECK
Later, we discussed the matter with my husband and his family. There was some skepticism, but not as much as I thought there would be. And my husband certainly never saw anyone when he got up a few times at five thirty to check on the fellow’s story. Was it true? I wanted it to be. Perhaps the newspaper man was a bit psychic and could see what we could not.
I must confess, a few times after that I crept out around dawn, hoping to see Dad. But I never did. Perhaps just a whiff of tobacco? I could never be sure. The newspaper man, on the other hand, was positive. And frightened. I think he would have quit the route entirely if we hadn’t put a newspaper box beside our mailbox down on the main road so he no longer had to make the journey up to the house.
I don’t know if Dad’s ghost still appears on our front deck to smoke at dawn, now that there’s no one there to see him. I hope so. I like to think that he’s watching over us all every day, if perhaps in a more noncorporeal way than usual.
We love you, Dad.
5
The Warning
WICHITA FALLS
When I was a boy, my family lived in a town north of Mexico City, which was watched over and guided by the good Padre Simon. We were poor then, but we were proud, and we worked hard in the potato fields every day and gave freely to the church. And Padre Simon gave back to us much wealth—though it was the wealth of kindness and laughter and sympathy and good counsel, rather than money.
All of this changed one day when a man named Don Carlos came from Mexico City to live in our town. He was a wealthy, ambitious man who wanted to run everything. Soon he owned both stores in town—and the smithy and the sawmill, to boot. But he could not own the church, no matter how he tried to bribe Padre Simon.
So Don Carlos started telling everyone how we could be rich if we stopped giving money to the church and stood together. He said terrible things about Padre Simon: that he was fat and lazy; that he took all the money we gave to the church and buried it in jars under the altar. And what did the Padre give the workers in return? A prayer or two? A message on Sunday? He was cheating the people, keeping them from enjoying their hard-earned pay.
My parents, they were very upset with Don Carlos. They did not like to hear him speak against the good Padre and forbade me to listen to him. But many of the other field workers listened to the wealthy man from the city who owned so much property and had so much power. They began to grumble whenever the good Padre rode to the potato fields
on his donkey, and they no longer went to confession or laughed with him after services on Sunday. There was even talk of raiding the church to dig up the money the Padre had supposedly buried under the altar.
My father was alarmed when he heard this rumor one steamy-hot morning as we stood outside church, reluctant to go inside the muggy building until the last possible moment. “We must warn Padre Simon,” he said. “He could be injured or killed if a mob attacks the church!”
At that moment, Padre Simon came down the steps to greet his parishioners. He was a small, round man wearing dusty, dark robes. He had a florid face that beamed with delight whenever he saw a member of his parish. His face was beaming now as the men and women around us straightened up and stared at him with unfriendly eyes. My father hurried forward to speak to the Padre and try to deflect some of the unspoken anger directed at him.
Above us, a dark cloud passed over the sun, blotting out the bright light. This seemed ominous to me—as if the cloud represented the dark feelings of the men and women around us. I felt a sudden puff of cool air against my cheek, and then the tossing black clouds in the sky dropped a swirling finger toward the land not far from the place we were standing. It was a tornado!
The twister whirled fiercely, turning dark with debris and dust. The roaring, wailing, clattering noise it made was tremendous, and around us the workers started to panic. Some of the men and women fell to their knees to pray, while others shouted and ran in all directions. My mother came running up to me and snatched me into her arms. “Hurry, Pedro. We must run,” she cried, twisting her head this way and that as she tried to see where my father had gone.
Spooky Texas Page 2