Ray House (standard:Ghost stories, 3160 words)
Author: radiodenver	Added: Aug 22 2004	Views/Reads: 3865/2294	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A ghost story.

Ray House 

I was tapping my fingers on the steering wheel as I sat in my car at a
crowded stop light on Highway 60 near Clever, Missouri when I spotted 
the tilted sign along the roadside.  With an arrow pointing right, the 
signs inscription read - Battlefield. 

Battlefield?  It has to be a Civil War Battlefield I imagined.  To be
certain, I pulled my car from the highway and stopped in the oil 
stained parking lot of a convenience store. 

My visits to these sites of slaughter should have by now revealed
something tangible, a clue to what I was seeking, but it hadn't.  My 
morbid fixation on the battles of young men, brother against brother, 
had waned over the years; it no longer felt relevant to me.  I was on 
the highway, traveling from New Mexico to Kentucky.  It was late in the 
afternoon, perhaps three or so hours before sundown and the mid-August 
sun was scorching. 

Dragging the tip of my finger along the line on the map, I paused at the
town of Republic, Missouri.  Republic is about two miles from here I 
reasoned.  Wilson's Creek Civil War Battlefield, printing in light blue 
letters, a beacon from the map.  I wasn't familiar with this battle.  
Missouri was the brutal scene of many dramatic campaigns during and 
after the Civil War, that much I knew, but Wilson's Creek I couldn't 
recall.  Still, I was curious, I should visit this place. 

The road to Wilson's Creek was narrow and hilly.  As I crept along, an
occasional car or truck would come upon me and then pass impatiently.  
My eyes were focused on the roadside for a sign at an entrance.  To my 
left across the four-way stop, I spotted it - a large stone marker 
nestled amongst the landscaped lawn bounded by tall shade trees, 
Wilson's Creek National Battlefield. 

I eased along the narrow driveway until the welcome center came into
view.  The parking lot was empty except for a lone car and two lawn 
workers loitering in a cart nearby.  I thought briefly that it may be 
closed, but a family exited from the museum and strolled towards me as 
I stood beside my car.  A wizened little boy with cropped brown hair, 
no more than eight or nine years old stared intently at me, 
expressionless as he approached.  I smiled.  His head turned as we 
passed, his piercing gaze following me as I moved towards the museum 
entrance. 

Inside, behind a large veneered counter littered with pamphlets and
historical paraphernalia, sat a park ranger, a petite lady, in her mid 
thirties.  Appearing tired and listless, she raised her head and beamed 
a cheerful grin as I approached. 

“Welcome to Wilson's Creek National Battlefield.”  She said in a worn
and well rehearsed but friendly Southern drawl. 

“Are you still open...”  I asked, observing the name tag pinned to her
shirt.  “...Ms. Blain?” 

“Oh yes, we close at sundown.  You've still got time.”  In her
outstretched hand she held a pamphlet.  I took it from her, leafing 
through it as she continued speaking.  “It's three dollars for entry 
into the Battlefield.  You buy your token from me and put it in the 
gate out there.”  She said, pointing to windows behind me.  I pulled 
three dollars from my pocket and exchanged them for the token.  “If you 
wanna see the film or demonstration in the museum, just let me know 
when you're ready, I'll get'r started.” 

“That won't be necessary, not yet anyway.”  I replied.  “I think I'll
walk the grounds first, I'm sure this air conditioning will feel a lot 
better afterwards with the heat and all.” 

“Suit yourself.  The doors are locked and the gates are closed at
sundown, so don't dawdle too long out there.” 

“Oh, I won't.  Promise Ms. Blain.” 

“Oh yea, the Ray House ain't gonna be open.  The sitter had to leave
early today, but you can poke around the outside if ya like.”  She 


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