Ray House (standard:Ghost stories, 3160 words)
Author: radiodenver	Added: Aug 22 2004	Views/Reads: 3868/2295	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A ghost story.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

added as I walked towards the museum exit. 

“Okay, thanks.” 

I sat in my car long enough to unfold the glossy pamphlet and examine
the map of the grounds.  The map illustrated the Visitor Center in the 
far north eastern corner of the park and depicted a looping road 
through the grounds, first to the east, then south and again back 
towards the north, near the entrance; five or six miles of road at 
most.  I should have time enough to stop and examine the battlefield 
along the way and have no trouble returning by sundown. 

The metal pole attached to the impassive cubed box rose as the lifeless
device swallowed my token.  The winding narrow lane slithering through 
the trees was darkened by the shadows of passive long limbs of oak and 
walnut trees.  A short distance beyond the dark leafy corridor, the 
roadway meandered beyond the horizon and out of my view.  The quietus 
of the recumbent rolling fields gently beckoned me. 

A few hundred feet beyond the trees, I wheeled my car into the Gibson
Mill site.  A small pull-off with room for half a dozen cars, it sat 
along a large empty field of tall grass and scattered bushes.  Wilson's 
Creek ran through this field.  I strolled along the dirt path that led 
from the roadway into a string of woods straddling the banks of the 
creek towards the south.  The path, meandering through the dense woods, 
eventually merged with the creek at the old Gibson Mill site. 

Cobwebs and insects abounded as I strolled through the thick pungent
undergrowth.  The enticing smell of rotted trees and green leafy plants 
consumed my lungs as I sat along the banks of the creek, trying as I 
may to visualize the tired and ragged young men fighting a desperate 
battle, many destined to fall dead from mortal wounds, perhaps on the 
very spot I was sitting.  The solemn peace of the woods and the 
trickling flow of the creek, deafened with the sounds of gunfire and 
cannon.  I felt kinship with this place, unlike the other battlefields. 
My heart pounded, the haunted emptiness of the woods engulfed me. 

At first, it was a faint sound -- I thought nothing of it, my
imagination perhaps.  The spectral noise continued to grow louder and 
commanded my attention; the tramping of hooves, metal rattling, dirt 
crunching, emanated from a distance beyond the woods.  I stood to 
listen.  Submerged amongst the roar of cicada and well beyond sight, 
the sounds trickled into oblivion as I returned along the path to my 
car. 

I was startled from behind by the voice of an old man as I exited the
woods.  He had a rumpled look, a scraggy hat on his head with long 
frazzled whiskers dangling from his chin.  Wearing dirt stained 
clothes; he carried a shovel over his shoulder. 

“The winds a pick'n up out there.”  The old man said, removing his hat
and scratching his head.  I expected a colony of fleas to leap from his 
grey matted hair. 

“I was unaware of this place until today.  I was driving through on my
way to Kentucky and saw the sign out on 60; couldn't resist stopping.” 

“This here was a big battle.  Lotta good boys died up on that there hill
to your right.  It don't look much like it did then though.  The land 
has a way of reclaiming its own.”  He said with mournful regret, his 
gaze crystallized as if he were viewing the distant horizon through the 
woods, as though he had seen it the way it had been in times past. 

“Which side won the battle?” 

“The Rebs.”  With an unworthy glance, he lowered his head. 

“So, you know the history of this place pretty well then?” 

“Yes.”  He paused for a moment, looking into my eyes, words hanging from
his lips.  “I seen you here before.”  He stated matter-of-factly. 

“No sir, never been here.  Didn't even know it existed.” 

“Well, don't pay no mind to this old man, my mind aint-a what it used to
be.  Watch those clouds coming in, it may get stormy.”  And, with a 
final rub of his head, he continued on along the woody path behind me. 

I continued my drive along the lane and the Ray house was in full view
at the top of the hill in front of me.  It was a small white house with 
a limestone foundation and a covered porch.  I slowed to view it 
through the window of my car. 

On the porch sat a young woman rocking gently in an old wooden rocking
chair.  She wore an ankle length dress of the period and on her head 
was a tightly wrapped scarf.  Her gaze was focused on a distant 
hillside and she made no notice of me -- a curious site, as I recalled 
the park ranger telling me that the house would be closed.  Having lost 
my concentration, I momentarily veered from the road onto the grass.  
Regaining control of my vehicle, I felt a bristling of the skin along 
my arms and neck.  I punched the accelerator pedal hard with the toe of 
my shoe and my tires spun dirt as my car jerked back onto the roadway, 
beyond sight of the porch. 

As I proceed along the lane, I sensed a rubbing from the rear of my car.
 I assumed that I picked up some debris when I swerved off the road 
earlier.  The map indicated “Sigels Second Position.”  I studied the 
description of the battle at this point.  An open field -- once the 
Sharp cornfield, a dirt road leading into the trees behind me; “That 
must be the Old Wire Road.”  I whispered to myself as I scanned the 
map.  Two corroded green cannon sat in the field next to the road, all 
that remained I supposed, probably brought in from some other place. 

I examined my tires; the right rear was nearly flat.  I found my spare
tire, it was flat too.  Exasperated, I knew that I'd have to walk back 
and find a phone to call for a repair.  A good two miles of hiking if I 
took the dirt road through the woods, three or more if I walked the 
main road.  The closest building to me was the Ray House.  I'll talk to 
the lady on the porch; surely she had a phone or a portable radio. 

The Old Wire Road was little more than two tracks of matted dirt that
crept along the hillside and into the woods over Wilson's Creek and 
onwards past the Ray House.  With the sun setting, I would have to 
hurry.  The wind was increasing, and the branches of the trees were 
shaking in violent synchronized dances as I entered the woods. 

The coolness of forest shadow was a welcome relief from the heat. 
Sheltered from the storm looming about me, I hastened my feet along the 
rock strewn path, wary that I may not reach my destination at the Ray 
House before the sun had set.  The shrill concert of cicada 
reverberated, ringing, screaming through my ears into the depths of my 
psyche, with each step deeper into the darkened forest. 

A half mile into the woods, the drone of the cicada has stopped and the
mysterious sound returns.  I pause, standing perfectly still, the sound 
enveloping me from every direction.  Hooves, as if I'm standing amongst 
an invisible pack train; the groans of men, tromping, rattling, 
everywhere about me.  I can see nothing, no, I see it...dust rising 
from the ground, translucent, swirls of fine powder wafting gently in 
the air.  I'm loosing my mind; I race along the path, through the sea 
of noise, attempting in vain to flee.  Another half mile of dirt, a 
glint of light ahead, I rush for the safety of open ground.  Stumbling, 
I fall.  Rising from the dust, I behold my hands, soaked in blood.  
Pitiful drops of black viscous serum abating from my dirt smothered 
fingers. 

Now in full stride as I emerge from the perdition of the woody road, the
thrashing wind dizzies me.  I pause at the main road across from the 
Ray House.  Using a trail of chimney smoke as a beacon, I lurch across 
the lane and up the hill.  The silhouette of the little white house 
glared against the darkening sky, a faint glint of yellow light 
profluent through the porch window.  I stumbled up the steps of the 
portico and pounded feverishly upon the wooden door.  “Somebody be 
here!”  I chanted. 

The door opened.  A female of fair skin, demure in her stature, beckoned
me with a motion of her hand.  I hurled my body from the windy porch 
and through the door.  Gathering my wits about, I gazed around the 
modestly furnished house.  A historical landmark it did not seem.  The 
wooden table with tin plates sat in a small kitchen.  A spinning wheel, 
laden with wound white thread, sat passively in one corner.  The bed, 
replete with disheveled hand-stitched quilts sat in another corner.  A 
fireplace, bristling with hot red embers and fired logs; this was not a 
museum, it was a home; a living, breathing home from the 1860's.  I 
turned and focused on the small woman, her simple grey dress catching 
my eye.  As I trained my stare upon her face I was startled.  Above her 
welcoming smile, within her pale, fair skinned scarf wrapped face, 
eye-sockets that were filled with iridescent blue cloudlike orbs.  Tiny 
wisps of white circling within darker blue smoke. These were not the 
eyes of a human.  I raised my hands to touch her, the blood was gone. 

“Don't be afraid.”  She whispered. 

“What is happening here?”  I shouted, shaking my open hands before her. 

“I've been waitin' fur ya.” 

“Waiting?  Waiting for who?” 

“You.  You've been here before.  Don't-cha know that?”  She said, with a
gentle smile crossing her lips.  “You've come here many a time.  I've 
always been here fur ya too.  It's no different.” 

“I don't understand.  Who are you?” 

“I'm Robin.  You still don't remember do ya?  I keep thinking one day
you'll know, but-cha never do.” 

“Know what?  I don't understand what's happening.  My tire's flat, I
need to use a telephone.” 

“Sit, I'll explain it again.” 

I sat on a wooden chair.  Warmth coursed through my body as she gently
touched my face with the tips of her fingers. 

“It was after the battle when you met me.  You were down yonder at the
spring house.  Daddy and I brought you up here to the house and laid 
you in that there bed.  You were in a bad way too.” 

“After the battle?  I've never been here before in my life.” 

“Not in this life, but one before.  You were here at the battle, you
died in that bed.  You've been coming back time and time again ever 
since.  I've been here for you all this time, just like I was-a here 
for you when you died.” 

The weight of the conversation had settled on me.  I'm talking to an
apparition, hallucinating.  I'll awaken soon and everything will be 
back to normal. 

The woman continued...“You're-a Reb deserter.  We sat up a hospital here
after the battle, when everbody left, you came up out of them-thar 
woods.”  She pointed through the windows to the woody area I had 
visited earlier that afternoon.  “You were grief strucken, we tried to 
save you but yur wounds was mortal.” 

Listening intently, I knew there was truth in what she was saying.  This
wasn't a dream, it was real.  The familiar smell, her face, the rolling 
fields; I knew it was true in the depths of my soul. 

“How was I wounded?  Why couldn't you save me?” 

“You did yur-self in after you realized what you had done.  When we
found ya, you was barely alive but able to tell us.” 

“Tell you what?  What did I do?”  I asked, not certain I wanted to know
the answer. 

“You killed your daddy over thar on that bloody hill.” 

The bloody hill!  The old man mentioned the bloody hill.  It was a stop
on the tour, the scene of the most vicious fighting during the battle. 

“I killed my daddy on Bloody Hill?” 

“Thats-a right.  He was a Yankee soldier and you killed him during the
fight'n.  You were so overwrought, you hid in the woods for days and 
then tried to kill yourself in our springhouse down yonder.” 

“You said something about having been here many times?  What's that
mean?”  I asked. 

“Well, your soul I reckon.  You've had many faces but your soul keeps
drifting back here to find something.  You're a–look'n for somebody.” 

“You?” 

“No, not me...your daddy.  You buried him on Bloody Hill.  You keep
coming back to find him, he's a-been here too.  Maybe it'll be over 
now, you found him today.” 

“I found him?  I don't understand.” 

“He's the old man with the shovel.  He's looking for his bones up on
that hill.  He's a-like you.  Keeps a-come'n back, look'n for 
something.” 

I'm dumb stricken.  I've been returning here in different lives to find
the father I killed over a hundred and forty years ago.  I'm talking to 
a ghost and I believe every word of what she is telling me. 

“You ain't the only one ya know.  There's others too.  Ya'll keep coming
back here.  Over and over, year after year, ya'll keep coming back.  
That's why I stay here.  To help ya make it on through I suppose.  The 
land has a way of reclaiming its own.  I reckon this is the way.”  She 
stood and straightened her dress.  “I reckon you best be goin' now.  
It's pert-near dark, they'll be look'n fur-ya.” 

I stood on the wood porch.  I could see a man in a cart waving at me
from the roadway below.  I waved back as he turned and drove to the 
house. 

“Hell mister, you're hold'n up the show.  I saw your car down the road,
but couldn't find ya.  We can't go home till ya get out-a here.” 

“I'm sorry, I had a flat and was trying to find a telephone.”  I said as
I stepped from the porch to the lawn. 

“Flat tire?  You're driving the blue car parked down the road that-a-way
aren't ya?” 

“Yea, over by the cannons.” 

“Mister, you're loose'n your mind, your tire ain't flat.  I was just
down there and the engine's running and the doors hang'n there a-wide 
open.  What the hell's going on with you?” 

“Hell, I don't know.  I think you're right.  I've lost my mind.  Can you
run me down there?” 

“Get in.  I'm gett'n hungry.” 

After returning me to my car, he followed me along the road towards the
exit of the battlefield.  In the twilight of sunset, I gazed from a 
distance towards Bloody Hill and saw the lone silhouette of a man 
carrying a shovel.


Tweet