
                          Haunted Southland Tales

                                     By
          
                      W. Stuart Harris &  Cara Swann

Table Of Contents

Introduction...........................W. Stuart Harris

The Perilous Trail.................Cara Swann

The River Plantations...........W. Stuart Harris

Devil On The Tombstone......Cara Swann

Rocky Hill Castle...................W. Stuart Harris

Room Number 13...................Cara Swann

Children Of Old Cahaba..........W. Stuart Harris

Jukebox Hero..........................Cara Swann

Confederate Love Story...........W. Stuart Harris

Ghost Who Liked Cats.............Cara Swann

Nellie Avery.............................W. Stuart Harris



                   INTRODUCTION 
              
               By W. Stuart Harris

There is a place I often visit when I am in need of solitude. Located on the
banks of an almost isolated lake, near the remains of a town which once
flourished at the turn of the century, but which vanished over fifty years
ago, the area has a seemingly haunted quality. 

I often go there to meditate, to clear my mind of worldly problems; I sit
there on an ancient stone bench and gaze out on lovely reflections in the
silent waters.

As I sat there on a cloudy day in October and looked at the reflections of
colorful autumn tree leaves, I could see several ducks at play across the
lake, but there were no other sounds to disturb my serene thoughts.  I was
at peace with the world.

Then suddenly my heart was filled with sadness, which seemed to come from
nowhere. Instantly I felt this spot had become haunted, and chills ran up
and down my spine. As I sat there bewildered, a smoke-like form began to
appear before my eyes. For only a few feet from where I sat, a lovely woman
appeared, dream-like, and wearing a long white gown...or shroud!

I was shocked, alarmed, but could utter nothing, having lost my voice. The
young woman stared at me with such sadness on her beautiful face, and tears
began to roll down her cheeks as she looked into my eyes. And with a lonely
expression on her tender face, she softly said, "Oh Johnny, please remember
I shall always love you."  

Tears continued to roll down her cheeks for perhaps another minute, and I
have never seen such sadness. I reached out to offer her solace, when
suddenly she vanished right before my eyes. The haunted feelings had
disappeared along with the mysterious woman, and once again I could hear the
ducks playing on the other side of the lake, as the sunshine came out and
brightened the skies.

As a historian, I searched the public records and interviewed several older
people who had once lived in the now-vanished town, seeking an answer to
this mystery.

I learned that sixty years ago, a young poet had lived in the village, and
he often met his sweetheart there, the girl whose image I had seen. They had
been so much in love, but had to meet in secrecy because her wealthy parents
did not approve of the poet, and told her, "He is not our kind, he's from a
poor, shiftless family. Now what could he ever offer you, for he will never
acquire a fortune, and we will not allow you to see him again!"

But even after she had accepted her family's orders, she met him one more
time. When they met there on the bank of the lake, and were sitting on the
stone bench, she felt so helpless, and informed him they could never meet
again. And when they stood up to leave, they embraced and kissed for the
very last time. But as she turned to leave, she looked back once more and
uttered, "Oh Johnny, please remember I shall always love you."  And then
they departed, never to see one another again.

After a year, the poet moved away to a distant city, where he soon died of a
broken heart. The girl never married, and later in life became a recluse, a
woman who never really lived after her only love departed.

I still visit this enchanting spot, but not as often as I once did. It had
been my place of solitude, but is now what I call my "haunted place."

Do you have a "haunted place?" Do you believe in those unsolved mysteries
which seem to have no meaning? Do you believe in ghosts and things that are
unexplainable?

Well many of us either believe, or want to experience the unknown
vicariously by reading stories and books.  My friend, Cara Swann, and I do
like to explore the realm of supernatural mysteries and enjoy writing about
it.

As a former professor of History, I have often experienced the
unexplainable, the unknown. Come along with us in this book to visit former
locations of once-great mansions of the Old South. Follow me to a haunted
house, which was once known as "Rocky Hill Castle."  Go with Cara into the
mysterious "Room Number 13" stumbled upon by an independent young woman of
today who finds herself in the midst of a past tragedy. And Cara will also
take you along the "Perilous Trail" in a suspenseful folk tale of early
pioneers; or go with teenagers into a dark and forbidden cemetery, where the
Devil lurks in "Devil On The Tombstone." Hear my little ghost, "Nellie
Avery," as she plays upon a piano in a lovely old home. Or travel into the
pages of recorded History to seek two lovers from former times in
"Confederate Love Story." Some of our stories are based on folk tales, some
on authentic history, and some are entirely fiction -- but all are sure to
hold you spellbound. And all originated within the Southern U.S.

As authors, we invite you to read and enjoy these 'Haunted Southland Tales."
Let us engage your imaginations, and then perhaps you will find as you read
our stories sitting in a quiet room, where shadows line the walls...that you
may remember your own "haunted places."

         THE PERILOUS TRAIL 

            By Cara Swann                                                
                          

Evelyn Jeeters stood at the window of the rough-hewn log cabin, peering out
into the dimming afternoon. Soft golden shades of late afternoon were
descending over thickly grown evergreens outside. She pulled the faded
muslin curtain aside and stared at a narrow dirt path leading away from the
cabin. Surely Andrew would be home soon?

A sharp cry from Amy, her baby of five months, jerked her attention back
inside. Amy lay on a feather mattress in a corner of the primitive room. Her
tiny delicate body quivered with another spasm of crying and her hands
clenched into fists of protest.

Hurrying to her, Evelyn glanced at the stone fireplace, where she cooked
meals over an iron grate, seeing the big iron pot of soup simmering slowly.
She hoped Andrew would be home soon -- Amy had come down with a slight fever
that morning and had grown worse sick all day. She knew they needed the
doctor.

Evelyn gently lifted Amy into her arms and tried to breast-feed her, but the
baby's mouth puckered with refusal. Walking near the fireplace, she eased
into her wooden rocker and began to hum a soothing melody as she rocked and
watched the baby's crying lull a few moments. Oh, how she loved Amy! After
only three months of marriage, she'd become pregnant; it was the happiest
day of her life.

Living in a remote cabin, away from the brood of siblings she'd had as a
family, Evelyn had been lonely. Like most 1900 pioneer Appalachian hillfolk,
she wanted to have a large family, to hear the pitter-patter of little feet
surrounding her always. Her folks, Andrew's folks...most everyone she knew
felt the same. And now, trying to quiet the baby's feverish cries, sherocked
Amy and worried about the quickness of such an illness. If anything happened
to Amy...

The huge mantle clock's ticking reminded Evelyn the minutes were swiftly
passing, and she saw it was nearly four o'clock. The creaking rocker, the
hissing fire and the ticking clock combined to create the warmth and comfort
of home as Amy continued to refuse feeding and Evelyn cast an anxious look
toward the window, noticing how the light was growing deep with shadows.
Autumn afternoons were becoming shorter, and nightfall sooner; the wind
whistled through the rafters overhead and Evelyn fretted, wondering what was
keeping Andrew so late?

Andrew had always arrived home long before this time; his part-time job at
the nearby Gristmill, helping grind cornmeal for a bit of cash income,
usually ended at two. Today he was to stop at the country store and pick up
supplies...but, that didn't explain this much delay! Of course, his old mule
was slow...old trusty Nell. She was stubborn but dependable, not like the
sleek black horse Andrew bought last spring. Midnight, he called the fast,
fancy Arabian, and sternly warned Evelyn against riding it alone.

Firelight reflected on the knotted-pine log walls, casting long shadowy
fingers throughout the room. Evelyn's anxiety was mounting by the minute,
the ticking clock irritating in its reminder of time passing. Amy kept
refusing to be breast-fed, and Evelyn gave up, lifting the tiny bundle into
her arms, starting to pace back and forth, hoping to stop the wailing.

Standing at the window, she pulled back the muslin curtain, saw the wind
rising to scatter fallen leaves across the ground; the forest surrounding
the cabin looked dark, forbidding. She remembered how Andrew had prized this
isolated spot for their cabin -- way back in the wilderness, on the edge of
a high bluff. She could see out the wide city-bought window to the valley
spread out in the distance below but it seemed far away, too far from others
now who could help her with the sick baby.

Just then she heard the pounding of hooves, and was relieved to think Andrew
was coming -- but then she realized old Nell could never get that kind of
speed. Amy was dozing now, and swaddling her in blankets, Evelyn lay the
baby on the feather mattress. Grabbing her shawl, pulling it over her
shoulders, she went out the door to see who was coming up the trail. 

Shivering, she tightened the shawl, and saw old man Peters galloping up the
dirt path, reining in the horse sharply and calling to her, "Ma'am, Andrew's
dad took sick, his folks sent word round about noon, he took off and said to
tell you he'd be back tomorrow."

Peters owned the mill, and Evelyn didn't mind letting her fear show when she
cried, "My baby's sick! I need a doctor!"

"What can I do? Go for the doc?" Peters started to dismount, but then he
scratched his chin, asked, "Ain't doc Sam closer by the back trail?"

Evelyn nodded, realizing that she could get there quicker by going along,
than waiting here with Amy and told him so. But he looked off at the woods
anxiously, as if something else was bothering him, and she asked, "What's
wrong?"

"Ma'am...ain't safe for folks to be in those woods after dark. You stay
here, I'll go..."

She was shaking her head, about to protest when Peters' horse reared up, let
out a loud piercing shriek and began bucking, snorting and leaping around
wildly, the big eyes rolling up in its head and though Peters struggled
mightily, the beast threw him, then stomped over and about him as Evelyn
watched in horror, feeling helpless but unable to intervene.

The horse finally exhausted itself, and ran off back up the trail; Peters
was bloody, still conscious, but moaning and unable to get up as Evelyn
rushed to him, screaming, "My God! Why did the horse do that! Dear Lord,
you're half dead!"

He was trying to sit up, mumbled, "Something spooked that mare..." but
clenched his stomach as if about to vomit; his face was sickly pale, and
Evelyn knew he was injured badly. She managed to help him into the cabin,
easing him onto the feather mattress, where Amy was now wailing furiously
again. He took one glance at the baby, reachedto touch her forehead, and
said, "Ma'am, your baby has the fever, lots of younguns coming down with it
hereabouts. You better get her to doc soon as you can."

"But...how?" Then Evelyn recalled Midnight out in the barn, that fierce
black horse with the speed of lightning in its hooves. "I...there's a horse
in the barn, but what about you?"

"Just take the baby and go. You can send the doc back after he's tended to
that there baby, I'll lay here and try to hang on." Peters looked at Evelyn
and she saw her worst fears in his eyes: Amy would die if she didn't get the
baby to a doctor soon!

Making no further protest, Evelyn went into the tiny closet, shut the door
and quickly changed from her long cotton dress into denim jeans and red
flannel shirt. Back in the room, she glanced briefly into the faded mirror
over the wash basin, tucked her long auburn hair into a secure bun, alarmed
at the fear in her wide green eyes.

Quickly, she went to the pantry, fetched a thick blanket, a few diapers and
the softly worn leather backpack Andrew had made for her to carry Amy in
while riding a horse. Putting on her jacket, she went to wrap the baby up,
easing the fevered little body into the snug backpack, securely strapping it
on her back.

Looking down at Peters' worried face, she grabbed her red scarf and began
tying it over her head, telling him, "I know the trail is dangerous, but
I'll be careful, and I've got to do something!"

He grimaced, shifting around in misery, still clutching his stomach, but
managed to warn, "Stay clear of that ridge, there's loose rocks, could cause
the horse to stumble or throw you!"

"I will. And I'll send the doc back soon as he can come to help you."

She hurried to the door, but he called, "Be careful with the horse,
something spooked my mare...maybe..." But he clamed up, as if not wanting to
scare her any worse than she already was.

"I'll be careful as I can, but I've got to get Amy to the doc! If she..."
but the words stuck in her throat, and she swallowed hard, unable to voice
the awful prospect of losing her first child.

Evelyn hurried to the barn, and once inside, saw Midnight standing in the
back stall, sleek and black as its given name. The horse stamped its foot
impatiently, snorting and staring steadily at Evelyn; Amy was snuffling, her
wails having abated temporarily.

Approaching the horse, she walked cautiously, talking in soothing, calm
tones to the animal and her voice seemed to quiet it into an almost docile
stance. Evelyn got the saddle, put it on with no trouble, and led the horse
outside into the dusky light of a chill evening...determined to save her
child's life no matter what risks she had to take on the long trail ahead.

Evelyn saw the forest was gray with gloom but gave a quick spur with her
boots to prod Midnight, and they jostled onto the dimly worn trail --  a
narrow serpentine passage winding along the edge of a high rock bluff. She
glanced down at the sheer drop to the shadowed valley below, carefully
holding the reins to keep Midnight on track.

The swaying, rocking motion of riding must have lulled Amy, for the baby was
quiet and Evelyn prayed their trip would be speedy, but as she held Midnight
in a slow trot, it seemed they'd never make it by dark. Worse, she saw a
snarled tangle of vines, weeds, briars had grown across the trail in some
places, and had to maneuver even slower through these treacherous spots.

Deeper into the forest, the woods thickened, the evergreens obscuring the
skyline, darkeningthe path the farther they went. Evelyn heard Amy whimper,
and tried to talk in a reassuring murmur, bringing a measure of comfort and
love to the sick baby. Cool now, a light wind rustling the dry, dead leaves
overhead, the clop, clop, clop of the horse hooves penetrating the darkly
silent forest, an eerie echoing seeming to follow them as Evelyn shifted in
the saddle, apprehension and nervousness mounting as they journeyed along
the thin ribbon of trail.

She'd only been along this path once, and it had been with Andrew; they'd
rode quietly, being mindful of the sheer rock cliff dangerously nearby.
Andrew had shown her how to maneuver through the worst spots, and she tried
to recall his voice now -- not just for guidance, but for companionship.
Itwas so isolated along this path; no one took it unless they were forced to
by an emergency...as she was now, hearing Amy begin to whine, fret a second
and then fall silent again.

Swiftly, the daylight began to fade, leaving only a glimmer of purple
twilight and making it even more difficult to stay on the worn path; but
Evelyn looked up to see a short clearing ahead, and as Midnight emerged from
the woods, she gave him a spur, feeling the powerful beast gallop, sure-
footed and quick to traverse the straightway.

But all too soon, they were back in the dark woods, and Evelyn slowed the
horse, feeling the jerk of protest in its resistance on the reins. Yet they
slowed back to a trot, and just as she was about to breathe a sigh of
relief, a shrill scream pierced the forest. The horse snorted, tried to
stop, but she goaded it onward, panic rising as she heard another similar
eerie shriek echo throughout the woods. She thought aboutthe rifle hanging
on the wall back in the cabin...why hadn't she thought to bring it along?

When the high, thin wail cut through the forest again, she pulled the reins,
bringing Midnight to an abrupt halt; she sat there, trembling all over,
listening intently. Within moments, the piercing wail sounded again, and she
realized it was vaguely familiar -- and made chills runup and down her
spine. The drab gloom preceding night now made it difficult to see, and she
looked ahead, judging how far it was to the doc's cabin, thinking this trail
was longer than she recalled.

Gently tugging on the reins, Evelyn got Midnight back into a slow trot,
forcing her panic down, not allowing herself to act on the impulse to let
the horse gallop at full speed ahead. Reckless idea, she chided herself, and
kept a steady pace, cooing and murmuring to Amy, thinking how she'd tell
Andrew about this harrowing experience, how he'd be proud of her bravery,
her courage in getting help for Amy.

Some of the bare tree branches made skeletal images against the distant
skyline when they hit a short clearing that ran even closer to the bluff;
she felt the horse's muscles tighten, and knew Midnight was worth the price
Andrew had paid -- this animal had an instinct for finding its way on the
worst of trails!

Suddenly that wild scream shocked her senses, and it was closer now, which
made her spur Midnight recklessly into a faster gait. They crossed the
clearing, hit the woods and she had to duck to keep from being knocked off
by low-hanging limbs...that shrill shriek following them, closer and closer,
so that Evelyn felt clammy sweat breaking out over her body, her hands tight
with fear on the reins.

Midnight kept up a fast trot, avoiding the low spots, the tangle of tree
roots, almost leaping at times over snarled vines; she dodged and laid low
in the saddle, feeling the straps of the leather backpack pinching her
painfully. Amy was awakened by the noisy hooves hitting solid ground, the
leaps and falls of the horse pitching them about...and the baby's wails of
protest erupted mightily.

Evelyn pulled on the reins, forcing Midnight to slow; then, that ferocious
scream came again, only it was nearer now! She sat up, listening, the baby's
cries loud and heartrending, but Evelyn heard that high-pitched shriek
clearly as it rang out again and again...and she knew what it was, why it
had scared her so badly. Tears burned her eyes, and she spurred Midnight,
knowing that a panther was one of the worst feared predators in the
Tennessee mountains!

With abandon, she whipped the horse into a faster run, glad the path had
widened, the treelimbs were higher and she detected a clearway ahead...the
ride no longer the real danger. But all at once, she heard the panther's cry
behind her, and glanced back over her shoulders to see a sleek, black
creature pursuing them, running at top speed.

Even though Midnight galloped harder, the panther was swifter; it slipped
into the woods, wound around just out of view, and Evelyn thought it had
gone away, when suddenly the beast leapt out dead center of the path!
Midnight reared up, whinnying and slinging his head, hooves pawing thin
air...and she gasped, hot fear making her scream out, the baby's cries
louder and wilder too.

Somehow, Evelyn managed to subdue the horse, and it didn't buck them off,
came to a halt,still pawing the ground with one foot, snorting and standing
with tense muscles before the pacing panther. She saw the wicked gleam of
fiery-yellow eyes in the panther's black face, its angry, hungry pacing
portending a savage attack.

Without knowing quite what she was doing, Evelyn whipped her scarf off and
tossed it down in front of the horse, attracting the panther's attention. As
the creature sniffed the bright red scarf, Evelyn slapped Midnight's
backside and they were off, galloping along the path, darkness almost upon
them now.

Amy's screams were ear-splitting and made Evelyn sob aloud, suffering pangs
of guilt and remorse for not leaving earlier, trying to get to the doc
before it was too late. As they rounded a bend, Evelyn thought she saw the
glint of lantern light in doc's cabin off in the distance...but just as she
was about to sigh gratefully, the panther suddenly leapt in front of
Midnight again, forcing the horse to a shrieking, protesting halt.

She looked around wildly, grabbed the blanket off Amy, and tossed it down,
seeing the panther's wild eyes scan her, now fiercely provoked, but
beginning to lower its head and sniff the blanket. Evelyn spurred Midnight,
and the horse galloped past the angry panther, falling in behind them, a
race for the cabin the only thing that mattered.

They were on a straightaway, going at full speed, then up a slight incline
and rounding a bend, Midnight never once faltering, Evelyn grateful for his
sure-footed speed. Then they were back into the last long stretch of deep
forest, pounding hooves shattering through the woods and the panther's
seething, frustrated snarls and shrieks right on their heels.

Evelyn saw the distant cabin ahead, a flickering light in a window, and felt
they were going to make it, they'd be safe and Amy would have the doc's
care...when Midnight came to a shuddering stop, pawing and sniffing,
snorting and twisting, turning in the path. Evelyn saw that another panther
had leapt in front of them, and the other one was still behind them,
blocking all escape!

Midnight was on the verge of a revolt, trembling and shuddering, and she
feared the horse might pitch them off, so she began talking in soothing
tones, murmuring to the animal, praying it would calm down. The horse
snorted, whinnied yet began to settle somewhat, still twisting back and
forth, turning round on the path and sensing the lost cause of confronting
the panthers.

Evelyn groaned aloud, seeing the cabin so close yet so utterly unreachable!
Amy was quieter now, as if she'd also instinctively picked up on the futile
predicament...a sniffle from the baby brin
as she watched the panthers moving in, closer and closer, with each pace
approaching nearer to Midnight's clenched body.

The panther in front let out a fiercely angry squall that reverberated
through the forest, and with that sound came Evelyn's realization she had
only one means of saving her baby's life. Although ravaged with despair,
fear and dread, sorrow at knowing she'd never be able to raise Amy, the one
chance to save her baby was suddenly clear.

With resolve, Evelyn did what she felt she had to: She unstrapped the
backpack, and though the panthers were closing in, Evelyn concentrated on
tying the leather straps securely to Midnight's saddle, making sure the baby
wouldn't fall off...that the straps would hold Amy firmly through her
perilous ride into the safe harbor of doc's cabin.

Evelyn leaned down, kissed Amy tenderly on her hot, wet cheeks and
whispered, "I'm so sorry baby, but it's the only way. I love you, and
someday you'll understand why I had to make this sacrifice."

Without pausing, Evelyn slipped quickly, smoothly to the ground, saw the
panther in front start coming around the horse, heading for her with a
hunter's deadly gleam in its yellow eyes. And when it was out of the way,
Evelyn slapped Midnight on his rear, making the horse hit the trail ahead
with a swift, sure gallop toward the doc's warm-glowing cabin.

There, in the lonesome pines, Evelyn knew she'd made the ultimate sacrifice.
Her reward was knowing that Amy had a chance to survive now, that Midnight
was already approaching the cabin even as the two sleek, hungry panthers
closed in on her.

She faced her killers with courage as a savage, high-pitched wail
reverberated eerily through the deep, dark forest.


                                          THE END


[Author's Note: This story was based on an old southern Appalachian folk
tale my grandmother passed along to me when I was a child.]




                        The River Plantations

                           By W. Stuart Harris

Thomas Stuart was what many people would call a professional student. He had
received his first college degree at a small Baptist institution in his home
town, and had graduated into the world of business, which he found to be
completely unsatisfying. He had then enrolled in a large state university,
where he had become a Master in the field of Southern History. Then he
accepted a position as a high school history teacher, and finally discovered
his true place in life; unfortunately, the wages were too low, thus he had
re-entered the University, where he worked toward a doctorate in his chosen
field.

For two more years Thomas was engaged in the assigned courses, but finally
emerged into the dissertation stage. Original research was not entirely new
to him, but finding a suitable topic was a problem which he had never before
encountered. He was excited by military history, but his lack of financial
means left him hardly able to travel to distant libraries and governmental
agencies where needed materials could be found. So finally he decided on a
subject in which research could be conducted in his own region. The chosen
subject was plantation society during the ante-bellum era.

Young Thomas had always resided in the state of Louisiana, and had acquired
a knowledge of the fascinating lore of the former French and Spanish colony.
The only problem concerning this intriguing theme was the fact that so much
research had already been written and published in regard to the slave-
owning society. For weeks he studied over library materials and discovered
the area economics had been thoroughly explored, but there was a scarcity of
sociological data on the by-gone era. Offices of probate in the parish
courthouses soon became his abode, and he devised a map of the sites of
former plantations, where the wealthy sugar planters had lived majestically
up the river from the port city, New Orleans.

After gathering data from legal and library records, Thomas decided that the
next step was to visit the sites of the once-prominent families, where he
hoped to gather family records, such as diaries, letters, journals, and
ledgers. With ease, he was able to compile adequate materials on his trips
to the old mansions, and as time went by, he felt that he was actually
acquainted with the patricians of yesteryear. He looked forward to each
visit into the former plantation country and began to spend more time there
than was actually required.

Finally only one large area remained for his explorations into the back
country -- a visit to the legendary river plantations along the Cane River.
He had read that only a few of the old mansions still remained in the area,
and the lands had been leased to the large pulpwood companies of Baton
Rouge, yet Thomas could hardly wait to drive up to the sites of this once
fabulous society.

Toward the end of May, Thomas was ready to spend a weekend along the Cane
River. He loaded his automobile with clothing, notebooks, reference volumes,
maps, and cameras. Then he headed northward along highway 101, and soon
discovered that the only remaining settlement in the once prosperous region
was a tiny village called Redbank.

Redbank was a disappointment for the graduate student. Most of the stores
were boarded up and abandoned, and the houses were small, run-down, and of
1920 vintage. The manager of the pulp-wood agency was not a native of the
area and knew nothing of the once proud history. The only information which
he could give was the directions for reaching one decaying mansion, the so-
called Ott Place, which had faded from grandeur to survive as a cheap
rooming house.

Thomas did not even bother to remove his camera from the car when he saw the
old, unpainted house, with its modern-built ungainly porches and sagging
windows; however, he did get out to inquire of the occupants if they might
know anything of the history of the region.

"Don't know nothin' about this place," answered a drawn-up little man, who
was sitting on the steps, "but I've heared that this wuz an important place
years ago. 'Bout tha only person who would know anything at all would be old
Tom Crocker down at tha store. He wuz born here 'bouts, so he mite be able
ta help ya."

Thomas thanked him and drove back down to the vacated business section. He
soon spied a dirty grocery store with a faded sign on the seldom washed
window, stating that it was "Crocker & Sons Grocery." He parked at the
curbing and walked into the store.

As he strolled into the interior of the grocery, an old yellow cat,
disturbed from sleep by the slamming door, ambled across the floor in front
of him.

"Howdy, young fellar, what kin I do fo' you," asked a voice from behind the
counter.

The young scholar was confronted by a friendly-looking elderly man, dressed
in faded overalls and a once-white shirt that had yellowed with age. Thomas
explained his mission and expected little help from the storekeeper, but
soon found himself sitting in a cane-bottomed rocker beside the counter
listening to a rich source of local historical lore. The old man was quite
familiar with the families who had lived in the river bottoms over a century
before, and seemed to have remembered every fact which had been related to
him in a lifetime.

Finally, after dozens of questions had been asked and answered, Thomas
asked, "Mr. Crocker, I had known something about this region, but did not
realize that so much romance and excitement had taken place along Cane
River. Is it still possible to drive to the sites of those once fabulous
plantations? Do any of them still exist?"

"Well, I ain't been down the river road in several years, not since I wuz a
lot younger than I am now. Use ta run fox down there when I had some good
dogs, but that wuz over a decade ago or more. I think ya kin still drive
part of tha way, loggin' trucks still use tha road from time ta time, but
tha places are all growed up with pine trees, briars, and things. But, yes,
I 'magine you can still drive down it, but mind that ya don't get stuck.
Doubt if there's any houses still standin' though. The old Mabry Place wuz
still standin' back a few years ago, but it wuz a-leanin' even back then, so
I reckon it's fallin' by now. 'Member they wuz four or five big 'uns a-
standin' when I wuz a boy, but all them people is dead now, and I can't
remember any of them still livin' there when I wuz a fox-huntin', 'cept
maybe on tha Mabry Place." 

The old man stopped talking for a minute and seemed to be in deep thought.
Suddenly he smiled, and said, "Wish you could have seen tha Thornton Place.
Now that wuz some mansion. I use ta visit there when I wuz a little boy. I
had almost forgotten all 'bout it. Old Sadie Thornton would always give me
some fresh buttermilk when I stopped by ta chat. Why, that must hav' been
way back 'round 1904."

"Why, the Thornton mansion was supposed to have been the finest home in the
entire region," exclaimed young Thomas. "Is it by any chance still
standing?"

"Don't know, but I shore doubt it," the old man answered, "I ain't been that
fur down tha river road since I wuz ten or twelve years old, but it wuz
quite a beauty. It was big and brick, two-stories, with a lot of that there
fancy iron work, which they said had come up tha river all tha way from New
Orleans. Tha place wuz rundown even back then when I wuz a kid. Mis' Sadie
must have been 'bout eighty when my mother and I visited there, and tha
place hadn't been worked since befo' tha war, the Yankee War that is. She
died back durin' tha First World War, and I don't think that nobody ever
lived there again. If anything, jus' tha walls would be a-standin' now."

Finally the conversation had come to an end. Thomas thanked the old man for
the valuable information, and because of the hour in the late afternoon, he
decided it would be better to drive to the nearby town of Reidville, where a
motel was located, and then he could return to the river road early the
following morning.

The next morning, a Sunday, Thomas had breakfast at a roadside cafe in
Reidville, and then drove back to the almost deserted village of Redbank. A
large padlock secured the door of Crocker's store, and the only sign of life
anywhere was singing coming from a small Baptist church, in front of which
were parked an old sedan and six pickup trucks.

But Thomas did not need to talk to Crocker again for he had adequate
directions in order to reach the river road. He passed the decaying Ott
Place, and soon turned off the paved road onto a narrow dirt road. The road
was deeply rutted and slick because of recent rains. There was no single
sign of human habitation, and the deep forest seemed to grow closer and
closer to the seldom-used road. Erosion had made the road almost impassable,
and he was forced to proceed at a snail's pace in low gear across the washed
out sections. Several times he held his breath as the automobile ceased to
go forward and the rear tires began to spin, but each time the wheels would
finally grab, and the car would continue onward.

Soon the road became but a crude trail with pines five-feet high growing
between the ruts. Not even a logging truck had been over this section of the
road in years. Thomas halted the car, turned off the motor, and began to
walk. He noticed that the large oaks, covered with thick Spanish moss,
formed a dark wall on both sides of the trail. Silence, everywhere there was
nothing but a wall of silence; not even a bird sang in the dismal
wilderness. Several times he stopped, thought about returning to the car,
but trudged onward.

"I might as well see where it will lead," he whispered half aloud, "for I'll
never travel into this area again." And so he continued, thinking, "I'll go
a hundred yards more, for after all I should be getting near the Thornton
place, and I would certainly like to see the ruins."

His footsteps soon carried him down into a low area, where a small brook ran
across the rutted trail. Some rotten timbers marked the site of what had
once been a bridge, but the shallow waters of the stream were no barrier to
his progress. 

Once again he thought, "Should I go on or turn back? The trail seems to bend
right ahead. Maybe I can see the ruins from there."

Cautiously he crossed the brook by stepping from stone to stone, and arrived
on the other side without once getting his feet wet. He then walked to the
bend in the trail, and was amazed to see that the road widened out and
became smooth with no more small pines to mar his way. And as he proceeded
along the road the trees on either side began to thin out, and then he could
see cultivated fields and cows feeding on the lush greenery in rolling
pasture land.

Soon a sight made his heart beat rapidly. A beautiful ante-bellum mansion
stood a hundred yards off the road, surrounded by well-kept grounds ablaze
with flowering plants. The large house was constructed of brick, which had
been painted white. The porches contained iron-grill work, and six large
fluted columns supported a huge portico.

"Oh, thank God!," he said aloud, "someone has restored it. Someone has
restored it!"

He then quickened his pace and walked through a large iron gate toward the
mansion. It was then that he noticed a small Greek-Revival gazebo to the
right of the house, with four small fluted columns supporting a dome of
white marble. And a girl sat within the gazebo and waved at him as he
approached.

"Hello there!," he yelled.

"Why hello," answered the teenaged girl, "what are you doing walking so far
from town?"

Happily he saw the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on. A smile
shone through her milk-white complexion, and her long black hair hung down
in well-defined ringlets.

"Won't you come up and rest a spell?" she invited.

Quickly Thomas stepped into the gazebo and sat down on a marble bench beside
her. He introduced himself and explained that he was a student of History,
and was in an unguided tour of the river road plantation sites.

"Well, I didn't recognize you, and realized that you were a stranger," she
answered, "Welcome to Thornton Plantation."

Soon they were laughing and discussing the area and its inhabitants of long
ago. The girl stated that she was "Miss Jenny Thornton," a descendant of the
builder of the mansion. Thomas was amazed by her knowledge of the families
of the former plantation society. He would ask questions, and she would give
an immediate reply, such as:

"Oh, the Mabrys, why heavens yes I know them. Why Lucinda Mabry is the very
best friend that I have ever had."

"What," Thomas uttered, "do you mean that there are Mabrys still living in
these parts?"

"Why, of course they are. Lucinda's father has a sugar mill down on Cane
River, and she and I are planning to attend school together next Fall in
Baton Rouge."

This visit, now that he had met the girl, was not all historical study. The
two had discovered that they had much in common. Both were fond of art and
music. Soon they were laughing and joking as if they had known each other
for years. Thomas realized that he had never enjoyed the company of a female
so much, and if there was anything such as love at first sight, then this
must be it. A girl who loved historical lore, music, and art; why Thomas had
never even dreamed that such a girl existed. Even if she was quite a bit
younger than he was, it could not possibly matter, for this was the girl of
his dreams.

Time seemed to fly as they talked and laughed together. Thomas realized that
he had a long walk ahead of him in order to return to the car, but first he
strolled over the grounds of the mansion with Jenny. Finally he told her
that he had to get back to the village, but that he would return again.

"Oh, please do, Thomas. I don't know when I've ever enjoyed a visit so much.
You'll have to come back and meet Mama and Poppa. I wish that they were here
now, but they have gone to Redbank on business. Please come back to see me.
It is so lonesome out here. Why, I hardly ever see anyone near my own age
except Lucinda."

Thomas promised that he would not only return soon, but that he would come
back tomorrow, and he added, "Listen Jenny, would you mind writing some of
those family facts in my notebook? Then I can justify coming back tomorrow."

Jenny promised to do so, and he handed her the notebook, said goodbye, and
started down the road once again. As he approached the bend of the road, he
turned and waved to her. The return to the automobile seemed to take only
minutes since his mind was filled with images of the beautiful girl.

It was dark when the automobile turned onto the paved road. Soon he was back
in the motel in Reidville, where he dined on candy and a coke from a vending
machine. His muscles were so weary that he fell asleep soon after lying down
on the bed.

The next morning, Thomas did not even stop at the cafe for breakfast, but
drove straight to Redbank, where he pulled up to the curbing in front of
Crocker's grocery. "I'll purchase some cheese and crackers to fortify myself
for that long walk," he thought.

"Howdy young fellow, what are you still a-doin' in these parts," the
friendly voice of the grocer welcomed.

Thomas paid for the cheese and crackers, then sat down in the cane-bottomed
rocker once again. "Mister Crocker, I had the most fortunate amount of luck
yesterday. Not only did I visit the river road, but I also found that the
Thornton Place has been restored, and it is once again in the possession of
the Thornton family."

"Wait now, young feller, nobody lives on tha river road no more. You must a-
taken another road by mistake, probably the Byler Road."

"No sir, I'm sure that this was the right road. I located the ruins of the
Mabry house. I parked my car there because of the ruts in the road, and went
on on foot, but the road soon widened out, and I came to the Thornton Place.
Why, you should see the place now. They are farming there once again and
raising livestock."

"Couldn't be, son. Now I don't want ta sound like I don't take your word fer
it, but its just impossible. That land all belongs to tha pulp-wood company,
and they don't allow nobody ta live thare."

Thomas did not feel like arguing with the elderly gentleman, but Crocker
continued his dialogue: "Listen son, tell ya what I'll do. I'll lock up tha
store and drive you down tha river road in my jeep. I would lak to see tha
area again, and you could never get down that road without a four-wheel
drive vehicle."

Thomas accepted the offer, and soon they were on their way. They passed the
rooming-house, then came to the dirt road.

"Take a left here," Thomas confidently said.

"Is this where ya turned yesterday?," Crocker asked, with doubt written
across his face. Then when Thomas answered affirmatively, the old man said,
"Well, this here is tha river road."

The rutted road again narrowed down, but it was far easier to drive the jeep
over the rough surface than it had been in the car. The dense forest seemed
to choke the road into two narrow ruts. In less than half the time it had
taken Thomas on the previous day, they came to the wide place in the road.

"This is the Mabry Place," Thomas quickly stated, "a chimney can still be
seen through the trees." The old man simply nodded and continued driving
down the road. They were now on that portion of the road which had been
impassable in the automobile, but old Crocker put the jeep into four-wheel
drive and proceeded forward.

Spanish moss brushed against the roof as they rolled forward, pushing
numerous saplings down in front of the jeep. And then the trail began to
slowly drop down toward the low, swampy area.

"We'll soon be coming to a brook," Thomas exclaimed.

And soon they arrived at the slow running stream. Crocker stopped the jeep,
got out and examined the bottom of the brook.

"There shouldn't be any problem ta cross," he said, and into the stream
bounded. In a matter of seconds they were on the other side.

"There's a bend in the road just up ahead," the graduate student said, "and
then the road will widen out. Just a few more minutes and we'll be at the
Thornton's." As he uttered these words, his heart began to beat faster at
the thought of seeing Jenny once more.

They reached the bend, but the road did not widen out as Thomas had believed
it would. Instead it narrowed down even more, and the jeep was barely able
to proceed along the tree-infested trail.

"I can't understand it!," Thomas said in amazement, "I'm sure this is the
right direction."

A minute later, the old man halted the jeep, and said, "Well boy, this here
is it, and the ruins of tha house should be behind those large oak trees."

Thomas could not believe his eyes. Why, they had not yet passed the
cultivated fields nor the cows in the pasture. They got out of the jeep, and
behind a patch of briers the old man pointed at two brick posts, which were
crumbling with age, and he said, "This is where tha gate use ta be."

They pushed their way across a wilderness of briars and trees. And soon they
came to the ruins of what had been the walls of the house. The upper portion
of the brickwork had long ago fallen, and broken columns lay on the ground,
covered by mounds of dirt and brush. Twisted, rusted grill work projected
from the mounds, and vines grew into the empty gaps where windows had once
been.

"I can't understand it," Thomas said bewildered, "I just can't believe
this!"

In disbelief, Thomas poked through the ruins being constantly on guard for
snakes, which no doubt infested the piles of broken bricks. He walked as if
in a daze, but realized that this had to be the same site that he had
visited the day before.

"Mister Crocker, come on, for if we are in the right location, then a gazebo
should be just over there," he said while pointing.

"Don't remember no gazebo," the old man answered, as they walked through the
weeds to the right of the ruins. Only the wilderness occupied the entire
area; however, Thomas was soon drawn toward a mound of earth and briers. 

And there the crown of a small fallen column projected from the dirt. "This
must be the spot," the younger man stated. He picked up a large stick and
began to probe into the mound. Then, sure enough, a thin layer of dirt
covered a marble floor.

The old man began to probe also, then discovered the broken pieces of what
had once been a marble bench. He bent down and pulled aside a small slab of
marble, formerly the side of the bench. Under it he discovered something
which he picked up.

"What in tha world?" the shocked grocer exclaimed, "why this is a notebook!"
Inside the cover he found a name, "Thomas Stuart, State University."

                                             The End

(Author's Note: this is entirely a work of fiction but is somewhat
autobiographical in many ways. I have searched for the ruins of "dead towns"
of Alabama for several decades, and have often examined the remains of many
of the mansions of the ante-bellum era.)



                   Devil On The Tombstone
 
                      By Cara Swann          

Brent turned onto the narrow dirt road, the headlight beams raking over the
rural countryside. He noticed that the others in the car, his girlfriend,
Sally, their double-date Rob and Karen in the backseat, had gotten quiet.
They'd all been joking, laughing and making dares a moment ago, but now that
he was actually heading toward the isolated cemetery, no one spoke.

Lush foliage scratched the car as Brent drove slowly along, creeping by the
thick pines and oaks that grew close to the roadside. The road was washed
out from recent summer thundershowers, and left deep ruts as they bumped
toward their destination two-miles ahead. Brent said, "Hey, you guys, who
goes first when we get there?"

Sally laughed nervously, but neither Rob nor Karen replied. The silence
resumed as they neared the small clearing Brent could see faintly in the
distance; he wondered if he had let superstition overwhelm his good sense?
Just because a bunch of teenagers said there was an eerie 'mark' resembling
a devil on one of the tombstones in this isolated cemetery didn't mean it
was true. And even if it was, Brent figured there was a good explanation for
it: some sort of peculiar stain, nothing paranormal at all about it!

When the car came into the tiny clearing, Brent stopped, and looked out into
the moonlit graveyard. It had been abandoned years ago, no church nearby
anymore, but a few relatives of those buried here apparently came to keep
the worst of the weeds and briars beat back. Still, he could see patches of
tangled weeds covering some of the graves here and there...the old, darkened
headstones pointing sharply skyward, some cracked and crumbling. He pulled
up a little, so that the headlight beams shone across the cemetery,
illuminating the eerie specter of tombstones.

Sally said, "Geez, this place is creepy! Looks like some of the tombstones
are falling apart, and it's...."

"Decaying," Rob said, leaning forward over the front seat, staring out and
then adding, "Yeah, look at all those stones, how we supposed to know which
one has the devil on it?"

Karen moved toward the front seat, joining Rob in getting a better view.
"Sally, how'd you say it could be found?"

Brent looked toward Sally, could see her tiny, heart-shaped face in the
dashlights; she was frowning, as if deep in thought, then said, "Jennifer
said that if the car headlights were trained at a certain angle, you could
see the tombstone without even getting out of the car."

Rob gave a disdainful snort. "Come on you guys, we drive all the way out
here and then stay in the car?" He gave Brent a shove. "Man, let's go out
there and show the girls it's no big deal!"

Brent knew he didn't want to go out into that spooky cemetery, searching for
something that might not exist at all. However, he couldn't let the others
see his skepticism (and fear)...so he bluffed, "You first, Rob. Remember,
you took the dare!"

Karen piped up, "I'm sure not going out there!"

Sally agreed, "Me either!"

Brent asked Sally, "How did Jennifer say we should park, for the headlights
to pick out the right marker?"

"From what she said, I figure we're in the right position now. I mean, the
lights are focused directly into the graveyard...we're on this little hill,
looking down at it all."

Brent looked out again at the small cemetery, how the deep woods surrounded
it, giving it a closed-in appearance, as if soon the forest would claim the
tiny clearing too. He suddenly switched off the lights, and the girls
yelped, but he quieted them, saying, "Listen...let's see what it looks like
in the moonlight, it's so bright out there tonight, a full moon."

Sally added, "Yes, Jennifer said that sometimes you can make out the
tombstone, it's white marble...and..." She was peering out the windshield,
and exclaimed, "Hey, look, see that tall stone, the bullet-shaped one that
is almost luminescent in the moonlight? I think that's it!"

Brent asked, "And what was that man's name, the one buried there?"

"Henry Rodale. Weird story about his life..." Sally paused for dramatic
impact, then continued in a low voice, "He was supposed to have been real
mean, one of those abusive types, beat his wife, his children, drank alot.
This was back in the late 20s, early 30s...when the KKK was still active,
had their secret society here in the South. Rumor had it that when there was
a bad man in the community, like Henry, the KKK would pay him a visit and
teach him a lesson. Give him a kinda warning, to stop harming his family,
and if he didn't, then the next time, they'd hang him."

Rob gave a low whistle. "Wow, is that true?"

Karen and Rob were both still halfway hanging over the front seat, peering
out the windshield at the eerie spectacle of the moonlit graveyard, trying
to focus on the tombstone that stood starkly white and taller than any
others. Karen said, "I don't think it was ever proven, but it probably did
happen like that sometimes. My grandpa told me that same story, so it must
have a grain of truth in it."

"Yes, I heard it from my grandparents too," Sally said, looking at Brent.

He felt like an outsider, since he'd grown up in Michigan, only moved to the
South this past year; and at seventeen, he was a year older than the others,
but desperately wanted to fit in. It sounded to him just like the kind of
thing that Southerners might say to justify the existence of a bunch of red-
neck renegades...but he just shrugged, said nothing.

Sally continued, "Anyway, the story goes that the KKK warned Henry, gave him
a severe beating, asked him if he liked getting beat up on like he beat his
family. And then they warned him that they'd be watching him, if he ever
laid so much as a finger on his family, they'd come back and pay him another
visit, only they'd make sure he never hurt anyone again."

Rob asked, "So what happened? Did that make him straighten up?"

"No." Sally paused dramatically, then resumed: "He went home and murdered
his whole family."

"Oh my God," Karen exclaimed, "how horrible!"

Rob slapped Brent on the shoulder, said, "Hey you Yankees would say that's
the reason the KKK shouldn't administer vigilante justice, huh?"

Brent nodded, "Right. Never can tell what a man will do and sounds like the
KKK pushed old Henry right over the edge."

"What happened to Henry, did he have a trial?" Karen asked, looking
expectantly toward Sally.

"No. He went out in the backyard and shot the dog and then killed himself
too."

"Oh wow, that's awful." Karen moved slightly back, disgusted.

"Then, after they were all buried, the family in another cemetery, for some
of the wife's people wouldn't allow them to be buried by Henry...about six
months later, someone noticed the devil on Henry's tombstone. Said he was so
mean, the devil appeared there." Sally sighed. "That's the story anyway."

Rob said, "So we going out there, or not Brent?"

Brent started the car, flicking on the headlights, peering out toward the
looming tombstone, saying, "I'm game if you are."

"Okay, we're going. If you girls get scared, don't take off! We'll be back
in a few minutes. You got the flashlight Brent?"

"Yeah." Brent reached down underneath the seat, pulled out the large
flashlight and said, "Let's go."

Both car doors opened at the same time, and the boys slid out, stood and
started immediately toward the cemetery, ducking the low treelimbs. As they
rounded the car, Sally said, "God, they looked scared to death!" 

Karen giggled nervously, and leaned over the front seat, watching the two
boys in the bright headlight beams, seeing how they nearly marched across
the grassy graveyard, playing the flashlight across the tombstones, feigning
bravery. She shivered, said, "Wow, you couldn't get me out there!"

All at once, just as the boys approached the grave of Henry, there was a
loud noise behind the car; both girls shrieked and began jostling around,
wildly scared....and somehow, in the confusion, the car got knocked out of
gear and since they were parked on a knoll, it started to roll downhill
toward the cemetery...picking up speed as the bewildered, frightened girls
screamed and tried frantically to stop the car. Sally slid over underneath
the steering wheel, and tried to find the brake, but instead hit the gas
pedal and they swooped forward faster, faster and suddenly were crashing
through the graveyard, heading for the boys who had turned to see what was
going on, petrified in the glare of the headlights as the car sped toward
them.

Karen was screeching and yelling, and saw that they were about to run over
the two boys, who had stopped dead in their tracks, pinned in the headlights
like deer stunned and frozen. But Rob quickly ducked off to the side as
Karen felt the thud of headstones hit the car as it bounded onward, mowing
down the few small ones as it raced out of control toward Brent. Covering
her eyes, she couldn't bear to see what was happening.

Within seconds, there was a horror-filled scream that echoed through the
cemetery, through the deep woods as Brent saw the car upon him, and turned
to run, but instead found himself pressed against the looming tall tombstone
of Henry...coming face-to-face with the darkly stained image of a horned
devil, his last conscious thought being that indeed, there was truth to the
legend of the devil on the tombstone.

When the commotion was over, the deep stillness surrounded the little
isolated graveyard, and all was quiet again. Before the crying started, and
the horrid reality of what had happened dawned on the other three, the car
that had pulled up behind theirs made a sharp turn and headed back to town
to get help. The teenagers inside were unable to make sense of it, but one
kept saying, "It's the devil, the curse of the devil on the tombstone!"

                                       The End

[Author's Note: This is loosely based on a regional legend in the South,
about the image of a 'devil on a bad man's tombstone'...and teenagers do go
there to see it. Fortunately, nothing so tragic ever happened there.]




                  Rocky Hill Castle

                  By W. Stuart Harris

One of my favorite "haunts" took place in a mansion which was known as
"Rocky Hill Castle." The large mansion was built during the 1840s by James
Edmonds Saunders, a lawyer, historian, and the owner of several thousand
acres of rich plantation lands on the banks of the Tennessee River, near the
town of Courtland. The large two-story brick home, which contained only the
finest of European furnishings, was surrounded by beautiful, well-kept
grounds. The most unusual feature of the estate was a tall Gothic tower,
which stood at the side of the house, and from which the owner could watch
his slaves as they worked in the cotton fields.

Saunders became one of the wealthiest planters in Alabama prior to the Civil
War, but unfortunately the war destroyed the economy of the Tennessee Valley
region. After the termination of the war Saunders was forced to sell some of
his lands in order to pay the high taxes imposed by the carpetbag
government, but he did manage to keep the home place for the use of his
family.

During the late 1870s Saunders and his wife both died, and the home became
the property of his son, who practiced law in Courtland. After the young
lawyer and his family moved into the mansion strange noises were heard
coming from the cellar. Sounding like the rattling of large iron chains,
whenever the lawyer would investigate the sounds would cease as soon as he
opened the cellar door. The disturbing rattles soon gave way to the sound of
loud tappings, and after a time the lawyer and his family sold the house and
grounds, as they said "in order to be near his office and the conveniences
of the town of Courtland."

Rocky Hill Castle was then purchased by the wealthy Swope family, who
refused to believe in the rumors of the supernatural occurrences in the
house. Mrs. Swope and her "old-maid" sister had all of the rooms painted and
redecorated the mansion with costly furnishings. And for a time they did
enjoy the beautiful estate. The maiden sister was given the task of
designing beautiful gardens and grounds, and she complied with an array of
lovely flowers and shrubs, and spent her afternoons reading on a marble
bench by the side of a small pond.

Late one fall afternoon, the family gathered around the mahogany table in
the dining room for their evening meal. All of the members were present
except for the "old-maid" sister, who had earlier walked down the path to
the pond while clutching a tiny book of poems. It was unusual for her to
miss a meal, so a servant was sent to the pond to get her.

"Perhaps she has fallen asleep by the pond," the husband calmly said.

But in a minute the servant rushed back into the room shouting: "Old Miss
done drowned! She done drowned!"

Somehow the middle-aged woman had fallen into the pond and had drowned. The
body was prepared for burial, and the next day after the service was held in
a nearby church with the burial in the churchyard, the Swopes sadly returned
to the mansion.

As darkness fell, the remaining sister went into the parlor and sat in a
large chair by the fireplace, without lighting the lamp on the parlor table.
And while thinking of the past years, she glanced at her dead sister's
rocking chair in the corner of the room. And suddenly, without warning, the
chair began to rock, and then the vague outline of the dead sister began to
appear in the chair. A smile came on the face of the apparition, and she
motioned with her hand as if to beckon the living sister to come nearer to
the rocking chair. Mrs. Swope answered with a scream, fainted, and fell to
the floor.

As can be easily understood, the house was once again placed on the market
to be sold. Afterward another member of the Saunders family purchased the
Castle. He had it remodeled with many of the original furnishings, and soon
the house gleamed in its former glory.

During the remodeling, the Saunders family worked busily around the old
house during the daylight hours, but returned to Courtland for the nights.
But finally they brought the last of their belongings to Rocky Hill Castle,
and prepared to spend the first night in their "new" home.

The new Mrs. Saunders went upstairs to take a warm bath in the newly
installed bathroom. And while contentedly reclining in the bathtub, she
heard a loud noise in the dark corner of the room.

Frantically she asked, "Who's there?"

And a calm female voice answered, "It's only me, your sister. I am here with
you."

Needless to say the family moved out that very night, and the house was once
again on the market. Years passed and the house remained vacant. North
Alabamians were too familiar with the reputation of Rocky Hill Castle, and
no one was willing to purchase the house at any price.

Finally during the late 1920s, and shortly before the stock market crash, a
wealthy young business executive and his wife bought the home, and had the
most modern conveniences installed. And for their "housewarming" they
planned a weekend party, inviting friends from both Huntsville and nearby
Decatur.

On Saturday morning a festive air was seen all over the grounds and mansion
as the guests began to arrive. Baggage was carried up the large staircase to
the guest rooms on the second floor, and laughter and merriment rang
throughout the downstairs parlors.

The young hostess suddenly remembered that the upstairs bathroom would
perhaps need additional towels to accommodate her guests, so she excused
herself and started up the wide stairway. As she reached the top of the
stairs, she was startled to see a little old lady, who was dressed in a
black lace dress of former times, but the ancient lady smiled sweetly at
her. The hostess did not recognize the guest, but thought she might be the
mother of one of her other guests.

"Oh, hello," the hostess uttered. "Why, it is so nice to see you!"

The little old lady smiled and nodded, but immediately vanished into thin
air.

The hostess was visibly shaken, but did not mention the "visitor" to her
husband or the other guests.

That night the large and happy group assembled around the banquet-size table
and dined on the finest food and drink. At the end of the meal many toasts
were offered to the happiness of the young couple. But soon all of the
bottles of wine were empty.

"Don't worry my kind friends," said the husband, "there are many bottles in
the wine cellar. It will only take me a minute to go and get them."

The young man hurried down into the darkened cellar, where he selected
several bottles. But when he turned toward the narrow cellar stairs, he was
shocked to see a little old lady, dressed in black lace, sitting on an empty
keg. He stared as the lady smiled and suddenly disappeared.

That night in the privacy of their own bedroom, the husband told his wife of
"a little old Confederate lady" who had appeared before him in the cellar.
She reaffirmed the description of the ancient lady, and informed him that
she too had seen this mysterious lady.

The "For Sale" sign was placed on the gate-post the following morning.

After this, the mansion was rented by various share-cropping families, but
none of them remained in the house for very long. One large family moved out
of the mansion one night in such a hurry that they abandoned their unwashed
dishes on the dining-room table. Finally no one would move into the house,
and it remained vacant. The furnishings gradually disappeared, and vandals
ripped up most of the flooring to build farm houses.

Late one evening during the early 1970s I made my last visit to the old
home. As I was fighting my way through the heavy weeds and brambles, I came
to the site of the house and discovered that it had been destroyed by a fire
of "unknown" origin. It made me so sad to view the ruins, but suddenly I
found the outline of the stairs that had gone down into the wine cellar.
There was nothing but brick-bats and fallen plaster. What had happened to
the little old lady who had been attired in the black-lace dress of so long
ago? 

I might mention that I left the site as darkness fell, and I never looked
back as I made my way to my automobile. 


                                           The End

[Author's Note: This is based on a true story, historically at least.  The
facts about the house and the people are correct, but then comes the
"unknown factors."]


                        ROOM NUMBER 13

                          By Cara Swann

I lit up a Virginia Slim cigarette and feigned nonchalance, glancing up in
my rearview
mirror. The beatup Impala was still two cars behind me on the interstate,
swinging over to
pass rapidly. As it zoomed by, I felt a flash of irritation.

I had been noticing for the past fifty miles that the Impala had alternated
back and forth,
passing sometimes, then slowing and lingering behind my Mustang as though
playing a
game of cat-and-mouse. Frankly, it was disturbing!

I was not a seasoned traveler, and this trip from Atlanta -- my one and only
childhood home
-- to Jacksonville, Florida, was not an everyday occurrence. I had recently
been
transferred to a fast food chain restaurant as manager down in Jacksonville.
Much to my
parents' dismay, I'd jumped at the chance to move further south; being a
lifelong resident
of good old Atlanta was not advancing my career ambitions.

Unfortunately, I'd been stuck as an assistant manager for months and wasn't
about to give
up my chance at advancement. Someday, God willing, I wanted to be the owner
of a
nationwide chain; but that was much too premature now -- I couldn't expect
to leap from
junior college management graduate to nationwide entrepreneur overnight!
And, at
twenty-two, I had lots of time to grow.

I saw the Impala slowing up ahead and began to tense. Sure enough, it eased
along at a
snail's pace, forcing several cars ahead of me to pass. Soon, I was passing
it too. I had
already noticed the good- looking hunk driving, but he didn't attract me.
No, I was
determined to be a career girl first, and wife last -- if ever! Anyway, I
sped past and didn't
even glance in his direction.

The afternoon wore on interminably; it was a long boring drive down
Interstate 75 across
the countryside of south Georgia. I had the CD player blasting out some
Madonna, the air
conditioner keeping me cool and my brain was busy contemplating the new
position when I
realized the Impala had pulled a disappearing act. It was nowhere in sight,
and I was
immensely relieved.

Later, I saw a sign that proclaimed the next reststop a few miles away. I
was tiring but
wanted to make Valdosta by dark. Traffic was light, as it was middle of the
week and late
August. Holidays were the real killers on interstates.

My stomach was beginning to growl and outdo Madonna; I was afraid I'd never
make my
goal without a quick snack. Leaving home shortly before noon, without lunch,
hadn't been
such a bright idea.

By five o'clock I was regretting I didn't make the last reststop my
destination for a brief
snack. Instead, I saw a sign announcing the exit for a town called Swansong.
The name
alone was intriguing, and I was partial to small southern towns; I found
them quaint and
nostalgic.

I whipped my Mustang onto the ramp and gazed at the rustic landscape; I was
certainly off-
course by heading east on a winding country road, but the two-lane blacktop
was
picturesque with fenced cattle pastures, peanut, soybean and corn fields, an
occasional
white match-box house. I drove slowly, savoring the farmland and peaceful
interlude.
Entering Swansong I smiled with pleasure -- although I did find it oddly
deserted.

I slowed and drove along the main drag, which consisted of typical places --
drugs stores,
post office, department stores and a monstrous paper mill. The rancid scent
seeped in
through my air conditioner, and I was sorry this place contaminated the
clean countryside.

The empty streets amazed me. Braking, I sat still, looking at the little
town which seemed
dead. But then I realized it was after five and many had closed shop for the
day.
Southerners were not known for the busy-bee lives; sleepy hamlets like this
existed
everywhere in the South.

My stomach growled angrily, and I glanced around, looking for a place to
grab a snack.
The only sign of activity was near a cafe in the middle of Main Street. I
drove down the
wide boulevard and parked in front. It was rather homey, with a canopy over
the sidewalk,
yellow-checked curtains in the windows, and a list of homecooked
specialties. I decided to
eat an early dinner and then just keep driving until I made Jacksonville,
even it was
midnight when I arrived.

Outside, I smoothed my wrinkled chambray pants and blouse. I figured my
mussed short
brown hair and faded cosmetics would have to suffice, and went into the dim,
cozy cafe.

Inside, delicious scents wafted from the back; soon a robust lady came out
and invited me
to be seated at a table. I was the only customer! It was a fine meal, much
like my own
mom's homecooking. While eating, I felt a sharp stab of homesickness, but
quickly cast it
aside. I had to reach out and find success sooner or later!

Back in my Mustang, I felt a growing anxiety to be on my way. I couldn't
believe it when
my car wouldn't start! I pumped the gas pedal, listening carefully. But not
even a murmur
came from the motor; it seemed to have died while I was in the diner!

I looked around again and was struck by the forlorn emptiness. An old ratty
jalopy crept up
the street, a plum of black smoke trailing behind it. I was tempted to flag
it down but knew
that was an impulsive thing to do. Apparently the town wasn't even large
enough to warrant
a police station!

I saw the robust lady peering out her cafe window and then she walked to the
door. Her
eyebrows lifted archly and she called, "Having trouble honey?"

I stuck my head out the window. "Yeah, car won't start! Could I use your
phone, maybe call
a service station?"

She motioned with her flabby arm. "Come on back inside, we'll work out
something."

I hurried back to the cafe and gushed, "I'm really in a jam! I wanted to get
to Jacksonville
by midnight."

"No need to get excited. Sam is just down the street, around the corner. His
service station
will be open till eight."

"That's great!"

She made a call and in no time a disgruntled guy showed up to check out my
car. He peered
under the hood and shook his head. "Fraid it'll be morning fore I can git
'er fixed." He was
now fiddling with some loose wires and making grunts of discouragement.

I surveyed his slouchy, grimy coveralls and assumed he was on the level. Or
even if
dishonest, he seemed to be the only mechanic in town.

Finally he straightened and looked me dead in the eyes. "Miss, you'll have
to wait
overnight. Sorry, but it's the only way."

"Oh no! What's wrong?"

"Ain't sure, kinda strange, these loose wires and all..."

"I'm in a hurry! I can't stay here!"

"Say, don't get all bent out of shape. Place down the street just off the
corner Vine Avenue.
Old historic mansion turned into a hotel. You can stay there tonight, I'll
do some checking
into this...." He shook his head, holding snarled wiring in his hands, a
puzzled frown on his
face.

Then I saw him glance toward the robust lady, and they exchanged a furtive
look, a tight
grimace on both their faces. And there was a strange look in their eyes,
almost a pained,
sightless stare at something which seemed mutually acknowledged between
them.

I groaned with aggravation but reluctantly said, "Well, if you're sure you
can't fix it, I
guess I'll go to the hotel."

"Yeah, Miss. Gotta see if'n these wires ...they's cut up bad. Ain't no quick
way, need to
sort it out." He spat a stream of tobacco juice, and I turned away, heading
for my car
trunk. I pulled out a small suitcase and told them I appreciated the help.
Sam assured me
he'd contact me first thing next morning.

I trudged up the sidewalk, heading for Vine Avenue. It was cooling down, and
I walked
slowly, studying outdated buildings. At the end of Main Street, I crossed to
Vine Avenue. It
was steady uphill walking, but finally I saw the hotel perched on a high
knoll. Truly, it gave
me the creeps! A vast, sprawling three-story mansion, it seemed to loom
darkly on the
horizon. Mighty oaks swept low in front of it, obscuring the main thrust of
the massive
structure.

I approached it warily but had to keep up a fast pace because twilight was
deepening into
dusky dark. I crossed the yard, fragrant flowering of magnolia trees
staggering me with
heady aroma.

Stopping at the wrought iron gate, I read a neatly lettered carved wood
sign:
HARBINGER HOUSE.

I walked to the wide porch and looked at awesome doric columns, sweeping
verandahs and
other features of the grand ante-bellum architecture blended with elaborate
Victorian
touches. Only a dim glow shone in an arched doorway entrance.

I rang a bell beside the thick oaken door and heard footsteps approaching.
An elderly lady
with a friendly face greeted me with a welcoming smile. She ushered me
inside the lavishly
furnished interior, but I was already feeling ill-prepared for my overnight
stay in this
creepy place!

In the shadowy parlor, I glimpsed an elderly man, quite dignified in his
wine-colored
smoking jacket. He had gray hair and mustache, his lips clamped over a pipe,
and rose
from a golden velvet divan and came forward, smiling graciously. "Good
evening my dear.
Have you come for a room?"

I stammered, "Er, um, I guess so. My car broke down in town and I..."

The lady stepped forward, extending her hand. "Welcome to Harbinger House.
I'm Peggy
Winthrop and this is my husband, Eugene. We just moved here recently and are
renovating
this place, so don't mind the clutter."

She beamed an infectious smile, and I returned her warmth, shaking her hand
politely.

"Thanks, I'm sure I won't mind the uh..." I cast my eyes down, unable to
utter another
syllable. I was seized with an uncanny sensation, a prickly finger of fear
running up my
spine. The awesome interior was overwhelming, but I saw no evidence of
renovation.

"Because of our work, we only have one room available. Actually, it hasn't
even been
touched, just cleaned and ready for a guest. The original furniture is still
in place," Eugene
Winthrop told me.

Peggy Winthrop sighed and said, "We're trying desperately to get the second
floor in
shape for guests. I'm afraid most of this here downstairs is basically as we
found it."

She made a wide gesture with her arms, indicating the downstairs, which
consisted of
several open rooms with high ceilings, ponderous antique furniture and dark,
thick velvet
drapery over the many long, narrow windows. It was oppressive, an atmosphere
of decay
and darkness, and I lowered my eyes to the faded, threadbare oriental rug,
unable to reply.

She concluded, "Oh well, don't mind me. Now, what is your name? You
certainly are a cute
little thing!"

Oh no, I thought, here we go again! How many, many times had I heard that
word -- cute?
It was a curse, mainly because my petite, pert looks made me appear helpless
and too
fragile. Nevertheless, I forced a bright smile. "My name's Delena Carden,
I'm from
Atlanta. I was on my way to Jacksonville, where I'm to be the new manager
of..."

"Manager!" Eugene erupted, chuckling. "My, my you don't look old enough to
be a
manager!"

I smiled politely again, feeling my false cheer about to evaporate. "Yes,
well, I am. And,
this trouble with my car will cause a delay!"

"Did Sam look at your car?" Eugene walked to a nearby table. "He's honest if
rather slow
and befuddled." He tapped his pipe ashes into an ashtray.

"Yes, said he'd have it ready tomorrow. Something to do with wiring."

"If you wish, you can call to your new location and explain about the
delay." Peggy was
moving slowly to what served as a register counter -- a rolltop desk of
rich, glowing
mahogany. She lifted the top and began digging through a stack of ledgers,
finally putting
one out and saying, "Here, if you'll sign, I can give you the key to Room
13."

"Room 13?" I questioned, puzzled and spooked by the symbolic unlucky number.
"I
thought you said the rooms weren't finished."

"No, they're not. But we've numbered them all and that's the one you can
have for the
night -- the one which remains as it always has been."

"Yes, my dear," Eugene added hastily, "it's quite comfortable and reasonably
priced. Just
ten dollars for the night."

I nodded, feeling silly. "That'll be fine."

"Have you had a meal yet?"

Peggy offered me a pen and the ledger. I signed in and told them I'd already
eaten at the
town cafe, so they gave me the key to Room 13.

"Now dear, if there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask."

Eugene smiled placidly, and I accompanied him to the narrow, winding
stairway leading to
the second floor. He gazed at me a long moment, finally saying, "We've had
the most
peculiar time getting settled here. Peggy and I moved from Detroit down here
hoping to
spend our retirement running this splendid old mansion as a bed-and-
breakfast
establishment. Bring in a bit of cash income, enjoy the regional
environment. However, it
seems the realtor who sold us this place neglected to mention the reputation
of our
property."

"Reputation?" I asked, bewildered. "Seems there was...hmm, how shall I put
it? Ah, a
most unsavory event here years ago and, well, it left a stigma that gave
rise to tall tales..."
he trailed off absently, gazing sightlessly up the stairway.

Clearing his throat at last, he said, "Never mind, dear. Local folklore, no
doubt. Now you
go on to the room and remember, if you need anything, anything at all, just
let us know."

I climbed the steep polished wood stairs uneasily, feeling a quirky sixth
sense of
premonition. The odd look that passed between the robust lady and Sam
flashed into my
mind. Were they thinking about the unsavory events in Harbinger House when
they sent
me here? 

What had I gotten myself into, stranded in this god-forsaken place?

Upstairs I had to let my eyes adjust to the dimly lit hallway. It was
cluttered with
construction tools, shreds of torn wallpaper, bits and pieces of plaster, a
layer of sawdust
over everything.

Gingerly, I walked along, looking at each broad, closed door lining the
hallway. A number
was tentatively lettered on makeshift signs of cardboard above every door. I
passed a
dozen doors and then saw it, ROOM 13. It was especially prominent because it
was at the
dead end of the hallway.

I slipped my key into the lock and pushed open the heavy door. The enormous
wallpapered
room was illuminated by grayish dusk filtering through sheer curtains at the
floor-length
balcony windows.

I went to the nearest lamp, a cumbersome antique thing with gold fringe
trimming a white
shade. Flipping the switch, mellow light flooded the room, and I gasped at
the magnificent
furniture, probably original antiques from an earlier century, although I
was not
knowledgeable about such things. A gleaming dark wood four-poster canopy bed
dominated
the area, with matching dresser, wardrobe, beside tables and a waist-high
trunk.

I tossed my suitcase down on the hardwood floor and gratefully flopped onto
the soft bed,
needing some rest. Closing my eyes, I drifted lazily into a half-drowsy
state, tired from the
day's disappointments.

I came awake with a start, realizing I'd dosed off, unable to discern what
had awakened me
from my nap. Instantly my eyes fell on a gilt-framed portrait above the
dresser. It was a
woman who looked remarkably like myself!

I sat up, shaking my head, raking my hands through my short brown hair. The
woman's
portrait was striking; her deep brown eyes seemed to focus relentlessly upon
mine. I
shuddered at the uncanny feeling of being watched, and got up, grabbing my
suitcase and
searching for a gown inside it.

When I looked at my watch, I saw it was only nine o'clock, but decided to
turn in for the
night anyway. What choice did I have? Out of idle curiosity, I walked over
to the balcony
windows, pulling back the sheer curtains. I could see the balcony was not
very wide, and I
looked down below, into the sloping yard. I saw the thick-leafed magnolia
trees, neat flower
gardens and the narrow driveway snaking along the side of the mansion, a
line of
lamp-posts providing an eerie yellowish glow over the area.

I let my eyes wander along the driveway, over the grounds...then I gasped
with shock! A
battered Impala was parked off to the side of the driveway, half-hidden
underneath the
low-slung limbs of an oak tree!

At that instant, a booming thunder-roll bellowed out of the lightning-
streaked sky. I jumped
as if slapped, and began to shake with fright. What was that car doing here?
Without doubt,
it was the same beatup Impala that led the tag with me on the interstate
earlier; I'd never
forget that sickly shade of green, the battered dents on the hood, a
peculiar bent, warped
left front fender!

I was shaking badly now and slumped down at a small desk. A radio was on the
desk, and I
snapped it on, lowering the volume. Anything to divert my attention, to
distract my frantic
thoughts of the Impala!

A long, lonesome country ballad was being whined in a nasal-twang by a
singer, and it
didn't help improve my shattered feelings. I wondered if perhaps I was
mistaken? Could
there be two Impalas with those same identifying scars?

I was trying to recall every feature of the Impala, trying to decide if both
cars were exactly
identical when an announcer cut into the song: "We interrupt this program to
bring you an
update on the earlier escape at Reidsville State Prison. The three prisoners
who escaped
are still at large and considered dangerous. If anyone should see these men,
please do not,
repeat DO NOT take action yourself. Call the authorities at once, dial 911,
and wait for
help. These men were all serving life sentences for murder. They are
described as..."

I felt my pulse racing, couldn't bear to hear another word, and snapped off
the radio.
Dangerous convicts on the loose and me only fifty miles from the state
prison! It was too
much, the last straw, and I had to get out of the room, talk to the
Winthrops.

I left the room, and the hallway seemed darker, more shadowy than before as
I made my
way to the stairs. I could faintly hear voices below and hurried down to the
parlor.

When I stepped into the room, there was an immediate silence. And I saw why
-- a
broad-shouldered man had his back to me as he stood at the window, the
Winthrops
apparently having been silenced by my presence. I saw they were staring at
me from where
they sat on the divan, their faces set in stone.

"Excuse me," I said, "but I wanted to make that call now to..."

My words ceased as the man turned to face me squarely: he was the handsome
hunk who'd
passed me in the beatup Impala, no mistake! I was speechless, paralyzed with
indecision.

Peggy placed a hand on Eugene's sleeve as he said, "My dear, this is...a
long lost resident
of Swansong. He's just back from California and needs a place to stay."

I stared at the young man who was incredibly good looking: he had wavy blond
hair,
sea-blue eyes and, as he smiled, a perfect set of white, even teeth. His
imposing athletic
build was emphasized by the white shirt and trousers he wore; muscular,
tall, but somehow
menacing.

He crossed the parlor and took my hand. "I'm Frank Cole, and I used to live
here. I mean,
in Swansong. I guess you beat me to the only room."

I swallowed hard and continued to stare like an idiot. He obviously didn't
remember our
earlier encounter, or he was keeping cool if he did. I withdrew my hand and
said, "I'm
Delena Carden, and I had to stay overnight because my car broke down.

"Oh really? Too bad." He turned and I thought he looked harshly at the
Winthrops as he
said, "I suppose I'll just have to find another place to stay."

They nodded eagerly, almost too eagerly, I thought. But then, maybe my
imagination was
working overtime!

He paced around the parlor, rubbing his forehead distractedly. Finally Frank
said, "Maybe
I could just use one of the upstairs rooms like it is. The mess won't bother
me."

No one spoke.

"I mean, I've come a long ways, and I'm dead tired."

Peggy Winthrops clutched Eugene's sleeve nervously. I watched them and my
unease grew
with each second. I coughed and said, "If I could just use the phone now."

Eugene grimaced. "My dear, I'm afraid that isn't possible. The lightning
must've damaged
the lines, our phone isn't working."

"Oh." I dropped my eyes from Frank's steady gaze and turned toward the
doorway.
"Guess I'd better be turning in then. Thanks anyway."

I wanted to mention the escaped convicts, but that quirky sixth sense told
me not to broach
the subject in this tense atmosphere.

As I headed out the doorway, Frank called, "Have a good sleep and nice
meeting you."

I didn't reply, mainly because I felt he was still playing that weird game
of dodge-and-chase
with me! I didn't know who he was or what he was up to, but certainly I was
convinced he
was the one who'd unnerved me on the interstate.

Back in my room, I locked the door and changed into my gown. Soon I was
ensconced in
bed, but low rumbling thunder kept me awake. When I heard the heavy
footsteps ascending
the stairway, I began to tremble. Sure enough, there was a light knocking at
my door and
then Frank's smooth voice, "Delena, could I talk to you a minute?"

"I'm already in bed," I yelled, hoping to get rid of him. Could he be trying
to put the moves
on me --- maybe having seen me somewhere before and wanting to date me? Or
was he one
of those psycho-stalkers who pursued women all over the country, despite
being flatly
rejected?

"Okay, sorry. I just, uh...well, never mind."

I heard his footsteps growing fainter as he went back down the hallway and
descended the
stairs. I curled up under the covers and tried to sleep. But troublesome
thoughts kept me
awake a long time, until at last exhaustion won out.

The reflection of a blue blaze of lightning streaked across polished
hardwood floors as I
awoke to the sound of a wildly vicious thunderstorm. Scraping tree limbs
against the
mansion and torrential rain brought me to my feet. I crept across the
darkened room,
trying to reach the lamp. But when I tired to turn it on, there was no light
-- probably a
power outage cause

Another clap of thunder jerked me across the floor to the balcony windows.
Down below,
the stormy onslaught twisted oak and magnolia limbs as though they were
willow reeds.

I shuddered and started back to bed when I heard a shrill scream, followed
by loud shouts
and gruff voices raised in pitched battle. But the continuous booming of
thunder drowned
out what I thought to be a loud argument -- maybe the Winthrops were trying
to get rid of
that creep and he was giving them a hard time?

Yet when the thunder abruptly ended, the house was eerily silent, and I had
a sudden
uncanny premonition of impending danger, that cold chill that runs up your
spine, tingles
your scalp with a foreboding sixth sense. I frantically looked around the
room, seeking an
escape, a way out of this enclosed space. I knew I couldn't get away through
the balcony; it
was a long drop to the ground.

My eyes fell on the cumbersome antique wardrobe, and I ran to it, thinking
it would at least
hide me should that fend come upstairs after me next! What on earth had he
done to the
Winthrops? As I crawled into the small space inside the wardrobe, I wondered
if the guy
had already left? Was my over-active imagination creating danger where none
existed?

Just as I pulled the doors shut, concealing myself inside the wardrobe, I
heard heavy
footsteps advancing down the hallway, then loud pounding on the bedroom door
as a harsh
voice yelled, "Let me in! Do you hear me, MOTHER? I said open this door!"

I felt sick with fear and knew I'd been right, that creep was after me!
There was a hacking,
banging noise, then a splitting, splintering sound as the rap, rap, rapping
continued
unabated. The loud crash must have been the door giving way for I heard him
scream in
triumphant exultation: "I'm back MOTHER! Back, do you hear?"

The footsteps resounded in the high- ceilinged bedroom, coming closer and
closer to where
I was hidden in the wardrobe, holding my breath and cringing with fear. If
he opened the
door...

"MOTHER, oh MOTHER dear! Here I am, your little boy returned, home again!
Come
out, come out...wherever you are!"

Muffled wicked snickers, and more of the little boy whine, "MOTHER, I came
back just to
see you. Just YOU! Don't you wanna see me too?"

The footsteps came even closer, he had to be standing right in front of the
wardrobe! And
then I felt the shaking begin, he had to be tilting the wardrobe off the
floor, his struggling
grunts punctuated by angry words: "I'll get you, I'll get you MOTHER!"

I wanted to scream, to do something ...but I knew if I made a sound, he
would know for sure
I was inside! It felt like he was still struggling with the wardrobe, but
then suddenly it hit
the floor, causing me to bang my head hard against the wooden back.

I heard another man's voice, a booming command: "Put it down, Frank! Put the
ax down or
I'll shoot!"

I was feeling woozy, my head spinning, and I felt like I might faint...

There was scuffling noises, a bang, crash and then the man/boy whined, "But
my
MOTHER is here! I saw her today, on the interstate and then later, HERE!
I've come
back, back to finish what I started!"

More footsteps, men's voices mingling and one saying, "Where's the girl?
Eugene said she
was here right before he passed out."

Another male sternly ordered, "Hold still, damnit Frank! Hold still or
you'll cause me to
hurt you with these cuffs!"

Relieved that it sounded as if everything was under control, I slowly pushed
open the door,
weak with nervous exhaustion and as I got out, tried to stand, my head spun
crazily and all
I saw was the wide chest of a uniformed deputy sheriff just as everything
went black.

Later, much later when I'd regained consciousness, the state troopers and
deputy sheriff
explained what had happened. Frank Cole had once lived in that mansion with
his mentally
unbalanced mother! He was searching for her, the mother whose portrait I'd
seen on the
wall and who bore a remarkable resemblance to myself. Frank had murdered his
mother
long ago, and was one of the escaped convicts from the prison break earlier
that day.

Apparently, Frank had seen me on the interstate and followed me to the
mansion. He was
triggered into a flashback, and perhaps began to slowly return to that bleak
past tragedy
when we spoke in the parlor. Then he'd tumbled back into the maniacal rage
caused by a
childhood spent wretchedly alone and at the mercy of his mother's insanity. 

I don't think I could have comprehended the depth of his rage, his vengeful
wrath if the
deputy hadn't explained how badly Frank was abused by his mother, tortured
and locked up
in Room Number 13!

Fortunately, the Winthrops survived, though both had been beaten by Frank
before he
came after me. And luckily, the officers got there just in the nick of time
to prevent another
murder! This was due to the mechanic's call to the authorities when he heard
of the prison
escape, having been puzzled about why my car had been tampered with. Frank
had done
that while I was eating in the diner.

One thing for sure, I plan to stick to reststops and big cities in the
future when I travel,
stay away from sleepy little southern hamlets that may harbor haunted past
histories!

                                 The End

[Author's Note: Entirely fiction!]




                       THE CHILDREN OF OLD CAHABA
 
                           By W. Stuart Harris

The park ranger was all alone as he cut up and removed several large limbs
which had
been broken down by the previous week's storm. He was working on a knoll in
the center
of an ancient cemetery in the "dead town" of Cahaba. The former city had
been the
capital of Alabama from 1819 to 1826, but now consisted of piles of vine-
covered bricks
and broken fragments of glass interspersed within a forest of hundreds of
acres.

The day was overcast, damp and dreary, as he placed the limbs in the rear of
his pickup
truck. Few tourists were attracted to the park during the last days of
winter; therefore, he
worked at a leisurely pace.

"Just one more limb to go!," he uttered as he drew back on the bow-saw.
After several
cuts, the two branches fell to his feet. But as he bent over to retrieve
them, he heard the
sound of children's laughter. Thinking that they had no doubt come up behind
him as he
worked, he turned to greet them. But there was no one there! Nothing but the
silent woods,
and the narrow dirt road which led to the burial ground. The landscape was
absolutely
empty.

                                         *  *  *  *  *

I have conducted both historical and archaeological research in Old Cahaba,
particularly
when writing a volume which I entitled "Dead Towns of Alabama."

Located next to the waters of the Alabama and Cahaba rivers, I had found it
to be a perfect
place for solitude. Many history buffs, who are so often romantically
inclined when learning
of a "dead town," or "ghost town," conjure up more than images of long
abandoned and
decaying buildings, weed-infested streets, and lichen-covered tombstones.
After a bit of
study, their active imaginations can recreate the laughter and sadness of a
bygone age.
To them the streets are no longer just empty depressions in the wilderness,
but are once
again busy thoroughfares of travel and trade; ancient foundations once more
support houses
and businesses; and the long-forgotten cemeteries are emptied, their former
inhabitants are resurrected, and are again active participants of life.

While studying the above mentioned story, told to me by the park ranger who
had
witnessed it, I learned of other persons who had had strange encounters in
the cemetery. A
clean-up man was carefully trimming the ivy around one of the box-tombs,
when he heard a
voice behind him asking, "Young man, what are you doing?" But when he turned
to
answer, there was no one there! The worker was entirely alone. And I might
add, that he
left the area in haste.

Although the above stories took place during recent years, I was able to
discover a much
earlier account, which happened during the 1930s. 

Mike McCready had just retired from the steel mills of Birmingham, when he
and his wife
Judy decided to build their dream house on the banks of the Alabama River,
near the
former capital, and soon after they erected a small two-bedroom cabin.
Always an avid
fisherman, Mike began to spend most of the daylight hours bass fishing. With
little
housework to accomplish, Judy spent her time reading and planting flowers.
Then each
evening just before dark, Mike would return with his catch, and they would
cook and dine
on the outdoor patio.

One summer evening, as they prepared their meal on the brazier, Judy
suddenly asked,
"Mike, did you hear that noise? Why, there are children playing in the woods
behind the
house!" 

Mike stopped cooking and listened, and then answered, "You must be hearing
things,
Babe. I don't hear a sound!"

The night was silent, except for the crickets and an occasional call from an
owl across the
river.

The next night, as they were again sitting on the patio, while Mike was
oiling his fishing
tackle, Judy again exclaimed, "Mike, there they are again. Don't you hear
those children?
Who could they be?" 

But Mike again answered, "I really didn't hear a thing, but you know that my
hearing is
not what it once was, my love." 

Judy replied, "Mike, I can't believe that you don't hear them. I can plainly
hear the
laughter of little boys and girls. Why, they have to be in the woods less
than thirty yards
behind our house!"

Mike was silent for a moment as he carefully listened. He then replied,
"Judy, I still don't
hear a thing, and no children live within four miles of here, unless some
tourists have let
their kids play in the woods to run off some of their excess energy." But
why would tourists
be in the area as darkness descended? There were no cabins for lease in
those days, nor
were there any camping facilities for many miles.

For the next few days thereafter, Judy heard nothing unusual in the forest
as darkness
descended. But later in the week she again heard the children. Spring turned
into summer,
and summer into early fall, and the children's voices were still being heard
by the patient
wife.

Finally, one evening in late September, Mike and Judy were sitting on the
patio enjoying
the sight of shadows falling upon the river, when laughter was again heard.
But this time
differed from all of the others, for Mike too heard the voices.

"Mike do you hear them," Judy almost was afraid to ask. But Mike answered,
"Why, I
do, I really do hear them! I think that they are playing hide and seek in
the woods behind
the house."

Quickly, they both rushed into the rear yard. Acknowledging that they were
both listening
to the same voices, Mike stated, "Those little devils are playing a game
with us! I think
that I just saw a little girl run behind that large oak tree!" And with this
statement, Mike
shouted, "Let's follow them!"

The laughter continued just beyond their view, as Mike and Judy rushed up a
rise in the
thickness of the woods. Briars ripped at their clothing, but they were
determined to
discover the identity of the playful children. Refusing to stop running,
they panted as they
moved quickly up the rise. And then they came to a sudden halt before rusty
strands of a
barbed-wire fence.

Immediately the laughter ceased. Mike and Judy were gazing across the wire
into the
weed-infested Cahaba cemetery. All was silent, as they looked at the moss-
covered tombs.
Among the gravestones were many small marble markers and a few tiny box-
tombs of
children.

Had the lost children of Old Cahaba come out once more to play?

                                   The End



                      JUKEBOX HERO 

                      By Cara Swann

Dusk. Dark descending slowly, the horizon a vague shimmer of something
unseen. An old
knotty oak tree, bare limbs scratching the reddish skyline. It all looked
bleak and bleary to
Tom Winston as he rocked with the wind on his motorcycle. It was that
indistinct time
between daylight and darkfall, and he had slowed in awe of the Mississippi
delta landscape, a flat portrait in amber mystery.

Tom's eyes scanned the fields that stretched into forever, and the flat two-
lane blacktop
ahead. He shifted gears and roared along -- on his way to nowhere.

Tom Winston recalled the fist-fight earlier with his violent step-father;
Tom had knocked
him on his ass, and with due cause. The creep was beating his mom and had a
gleam of lust
in his eyes when he looked upon Tom's younger sister, MaryLee.

Life had been torn and confused since his mom had married Jake Simcoe, a man
who'd
walked into their midst and brought loathsome behavior. Jake drank heavily,
gambled his
mom's hard earned money, and was even beginning to squander the meager
savings their
dad had left in the form of a life insurance policy. His dad would have
killed Jake -- but
then, his dad was dead -- an accident, the victim of a drunk driver.

Tom pulled off the highway and stopped. The dust settled around him, and he
squinted
through his helmet shield, finally removing it to get a clear view of the
bleak countryside. It
was eerily quiet and unnerving to Tom; he listened, but no traffic sounds
could be heard, no
houses could be seen. Somehow, he'd gotten on a desolate stretch of highway;
his
emotional upset had rendered him dazed, and he couldn't remember exactly
which road had
led him here.

Tom studied the shadowy twilight, the long, long road behind him and ahead
of him.
Shivering slightly, he realized he had not taken a jacket; late fall was
bringing chilly
evenings, and a sudden wind whipped through his longish hair, reminding him
of his
thoughtless actions.

After the fight, he'd torn out of their small frame house in Memphis and
paid no attention
to his direction. Just to leave, to rid himself of the despicable step-
father who was ruining
all their lives!

Tom stood silently, wondering whether to continue or turn around. He stomped
the ground
and muttered to himself, worried about how he got here in the first place.
He vaguely
recalled crossing the Mississippi/Tennessee stateline, and then just hitting
backroads
without any pattern. The crooks, hills and sharp challenges of the winding,
twisting
highways had been a way of releasing his frustrations. When he'd noticed a
flat endless
stretch, that too had been challenging. He'd pushed the cycle to its limit,
sometimes not
caring if he crashed -- maybe he'd be better off dead?

Tom heard a grinding, growling sound, and then saw headlights far in the
distance; it was a
diesel truck plowing ahead with speed. Suddenly he swung his motorcycle to
face the
oncoming truck and began blinking the headlight furiously. Maybe the trucker
could give
him directions to a nearby interstate connection.

The truck came closer and closer and made no sign of stopping; if anything,
it picked up
speed. He got discouraged and quit blinking the light. Just as quickly the
diesel, now
barreling down on him, let up and geared down, slowing to a grinding halt.

Tom hopped on the running board and asked, "Say, mister, could you tell me
how the heck
to get to the interstate?"

There was a grunt of acknowledgment, but Tom could only see the glow of a
cigarette tip
and the shadow of a man's slumped frame. "Kid, what you doin' out here?"

"I musta took a wrong turn somewhere..."

"Reckon so, partner...less you got some kinda trouble with the bike?"

"Nah, it's fine. I just need directions."

The man leaned over, pushed the door open. "Climb in a second, let me show
you this here
map."

Tom felt a moment of unease, then slipped inside and was overwhelmed by the
cigarette
smoke and oppressive atmosphere of the cab. "Preciate your help, mister," he
muttered.

The trucker made no move to open the map he held, but instead took a deep
drag on his
dwindling cigarette. "Kid, what you really doin' out here in this God-
forsaken place?"

"I just got lost..."

"Been my experience, ain't nobody gets here by mistake."

Tom felt increasingly anxious; the trucker gave him the shakes. He
stammered, "Um,
well... uh, I just took a wrong turn somewhere..."

Dead silence. The trucker tossed his cigarette out the window and looked
into the middle
distance as though he sensed something unseen.

"Look, if you don't want to help me, that's okay, cause, uh, I..." Tom
inched closer to the
door, moving his hand toward the handle.

"Ain't no way I can. We both here for a reason, and all I can tell you, see,
is where to get
some help."

The trucker was shadowed but turned his face toward Tom; he shrugged his
burly
shoulders. "Little place up the road apiece, Jukebox Heaven. 'Bout six miles
straight
ahead. Man there by the name of Hector who'll help you, if'n you let him."

Tom strained to see the trucker's facial features but realized there was a
peculiar
blankness to the face. It could have been the dim light in the cab, but Tom
felt this man
didn't really have a face, just an image...something sensed rather than
seen. He gulped and
found his voice, "Sure, I'll stop in and get a map there."

The trucker chuckled and switched on the engine. Tom was startled by the
power rumbling
beneath him and said hastily, "Thanks for the advice."

"Advice, yeah, that's what you'll get at Hector's place."

Tom didn't wait around for more of the weird conversation; he shoved open
the door,
dropped to the ground. Turning to his motorcycle, he heard the truck
rumbling away.
Before he mounted the bike, the truck had vanished, nowhere in sight when he
looked
down the long flat highway ahead. Christ, how could it have moved that fast?

Stunned, he stood looking off at the empty, bleak road, wondering how the
truck could have
disappeared so suddenly? It was a good ten miles straight ahead, not a
single curve or hill
to obscure the diesel...

Tom was suddenly cold, almost trembling, and not from the cool night either.
He cranked
the cycle and roared away; maybe there was a small road ahead where the
trucker had
turned off the main highway? But as much as he wanted to reason away his
fear, he knew
something strange was going on here, his eyes adjusting to the quickly
gathering darkness
as he sailed along, switching on the headlight.

In the blackness of night Tom saw bright lights appear ahead-- almost as if
they'd
materialized out of thin air. An enormous electric sign proclaimed JUKEBOX
HEAVEN.
Surprisingly well-lit, several flashing neon signs offered cheap motel
rates, good eats, and
even a night's entertainment by the Jukebox Hero.

Tom swung in, parked, and got off his bike. He dusted himself off, glad he'd
be out of the
chill windy night soon.

Walking across the small paved area, he noticed the rundown cement-block
building; it had
surely seen better days. Also, he seemed to be the only customer on this
blustery night.
But then, he wondered, who in their right mind would be out here on this
lonely road at
night anyway?

As Tom approached the screen door, he heard a country song blasting from
inside; it
sounded hauntingly familiar, but he couldn't name which singer had this
high-pitched nasal
twang that moaned about a cheating heart...

"Well howdy son!" The old man behind a wooden counter greeted him as he
strode inside.
"Glad to have your company."

Tom saw the jukebox at once; it occupied an entire corner and blinked
brilliantly as the
country singer twanged away.

Tom's eyes quickly scanned the small room -- it was badly in need of work to
update the
furnishings. The place had the appearance of a late 30s or 40s cafe --
wraparound red
plastic-seated booths lining the wall, linoleum floors, a circular wooden
bar with red
plastic-seated barstools, and even yellowed posters still tacked to the wall
announcing
Barnum & Bailey's Circus coming to town.

But that jukebox, an ancient Worlitzer! It was in super mint condition (not
unknown in
these days of refurbishing bygone relics) but somehow this jukebox seemed
uncanny with
vibrant energy: It was shiny, almost sparkling, and blasting as though it
had been made
yesterday.

Tom was drawn hypnotically to the jukebox and studied it critically: It had
bubbling bulbs
on either side, dramatic chrome work, and excellent artistic touches inside
the dome. A
perfect replica of a bygone era.

The old man cackled, "A beaut, huh? Every person comes in has to look at
that thing. It's
the latest to come along and folks just can't understand how it works."

Tom was shocked out of his admiring trance; he said, "The latest thing! This
monster must
be a good fifty years old, mister!"

The old man just grinned and asked, "So what'll it be? Thirsty or hungry, or
both?"

Tom remembered why he was here in the first place. "A map! Uh, I mean do you
have a
map or could you tell me how to get to the interstate?"

Another cackle. "They's always askin' that same question, can't never
understand that
there's only one person can tell 'em."

Tom began to sense that eerie feeling he'd had with the trucker. "And who's
that?"

"Why, the jukebox hero, of course."

"Jukebox hero..." Tom repeated absently, growing more uncomfortable by the
second.
"Look, I know you can tell me the way outta here!"

That piercing cackle again, then, "No way out, 'cept with him."

Tom backed nervously toward the door. "Guess I'll be goin' now."

His words were interrupted by the sound of a loud car engine, sliding tires
on pavement, a
shriek of protesting brakes when the motor died. Near the doorway now, he
peered out the
screen at the noisy arrival; a haggard-faced man, tall and lanky,
disentangled himself from
the back seat of a long black Cadillac. He cursed, "Damnit to hell if I
ain't bone-tired."

Suddenly, Tom recognized the songs that were playing over and over on the
jukebox as
those of Hank Williams, the country music singer who'd died long ago. The
voice still
twanged from the jukebox, louder now and echoing inside the cafe.

Tom felt a stab of fear as he admitted this was no ordinary cafe. Way out
here in nowhere...

The lanky man strode into the cafe, banging the screen door behind him.
"Pops, you can be
on your way now, I'm here."

Tom looked toward the wooden counter, but no one was there. He stuttered,
"Hey...
what's...goin' on?"

The wind slapped the screen door around, and it banged several times.
Silence followed,
the click, clicking of the records changing on the jukebox. A new song
began, an old Ricky
Nelson hit blasting out as they stared at one another.

The man said smoothly, "I'm Hank, pleased to meet you Tom."

Tom trembled; how did this man know his name?

"Now son, ain't no call to be afraid. I'm here to help you. I come a long
ways to talk with
you."

Tom's voice croaked, "Are you, uh, the jukebox hero?"

A soft chuckle. "Hell yeah, at least for tonight. It ain't always me, like
your song playing
there, ol' Ricky's one and so are Patsy Cline and..."

"Buddy Holly!" Tom declared, surprised he even remembered the 50s rock and
roll singer,
since his musical taste ran more toward Grunge and Rap...

The man grinned. "Yeah, you got the idea now. Lots of us went down before
our time, but
we got a big mission back here to take care of."

Tom couldn't stop his hands from shaking; in fact, his whole body was weak
and shaken.
He stumbled toward one of the booths and fell into a seat. "I'm...scared."

"Don't be," Hank drawled in his slow southern accent, soothing and pleasant
sounding. "I
ain't here to hurt or harm you. You got trouble son, and you need help. That
help is me."

Tom raked a hand through his tangled hair. "Yeah, my step-dad, a real pain
in the you-
know-what!"

Hank walked toward the boy, placing his bony hand on his. "Let's talk it
over, son. I may
be able to tell you how to work it all out."

Click, clicking of the jukebox; Jim Reeves' deep voice sang in a haunting
melody of distant
drums calling...

Tom sighed, relieved at last to have someone listen. "Okay, if you're sure
you want to get
involved in this mess."

The hours passed swiftly; Tom talked non-stop, and Hank listened
attentively. It was easy
to unburden to Hank; he nodded and sighed, he seemed to genuinely care.

Around five in the morning, with the jukebox still spinning songs of those
taken by
accidental death, Hank told Tom the solution to his problem.

"Son, I'm gonna give you a couple hundred dollars. It's for a plane ticket
to Las Vegas,
and you gotta see your step-dad is on this plane."

"But how will I do that?"

"I'm gonna give you several extra hundred too; you tell him you've save this
money, and
you're giving it to him for gambling. You want him to go to Las Vegas and
never come
back." Hank was chain-smoking, and lit another cigarette as he smiled calmly
at Tom's
confusion.

"But he will come back, no doubt!" Tom wailed, perplexed.

"Nah, he won't." Hank grinned knowingly, a mysterious twinkle in his eyes.
"Listen..."

Tom looked toward the corner as the jukebox began click, clicking and
dropped another
record onto the slate; a sultry sax flowed and a deep voice crooned out the
lyrics to Ain't
Misbehaving -- an old jazzy tune redone by...

Tom gasped. "Hank Williams, Jr., your ....son."

Hank's grin turned into a proud smile. "Bosephus done fine, even with all
the bullshit in
this business."

Tom stared at the man lost in his own sad reflections of the past, his
haggard face now
sorrowful, filled with regret.

A rich melody surrounded them, the jazz rendition superb; then Tom
exclaimed, "Wait!
Hank Jr.'s not dead!"

"Not yet, he ain't. But if you don't get your step-dad on Flight 211, Delta,
to Las Vegas on
Saturday at noon, he will be. Cause son, sure as hell that plane is gonna
crash, and we'll
lose another talent. Let me explain: Bosephus will be forced to land at the
Memphis
Airport due to engine problems on his private plane, but he has to get to
Vegas. There's
gonna be one seat available on Flight 211...and no way to save the other
folks aboard that
doomed plane, can't be done." His voice broke off, his eyes caught Tom's,
and there was
no more need for words.

Tom stared in complete and utter amazement, speechless. Wind banged the
screen. Tom
turned to look at the jukebox, listening to the words pouring forth, the way
the bubbles
looked gurgling in the colorful bulbs, the way the thing seemed to have a
life of its own.

He turned back to see that Hank was gone, and he was alone. The money lay on
the table
tempting him.

Tom sat in the booth for almost an hour, holding the cash, before he could
bring himself to
leave. Was this a deal with the devil? Or, more likely, a deal to trade off
one soul for
another? Was it right? Surely if there'd been a way to prevent the air
disaster, Hank would
have told him -- but Tom instinctively knew some events were ill-fated,
destined before
taking place.

Right or wrong, Tom came to the conclusion he'd been given a window of
opportunity to
change the one thing Hank had suggested: His step-dad was a cruel, violent
man, capable
of future destruction. Hank Jr. was a performer who brought joy to others --
a giver, and
his step-dad a taker. Maybe universal justice was being played out?

The jukebox went silent. Only the glow remained as Tom strode outdoors.
Daylight was
coming; fingers of gold stroked the dawn sky and painted the flatland in an
aura of
promise. He climbed onto his bike, revved it up and soared away down the
road.

The flat highway soon gave way to curves; he saw a sign for the interstate.
The wind was
crisp, but he relished it now, thinking: Yes! Delta Flight 211 to Las Vegas
Saturday at
noon. For once the tide had turned and luck was with him.

And all because of the Jukebox Hero, he thought with gratitude.

Stopping to pause at the interstate ramp, he fingered the cash in his pocket
to make sure
he hadn't dreamed it all, knowing that for a brief time the place where
twilight meets
darkness, the real and unreal, had merged and rescued him.
                      
                                              The End

[Author's Note: This is fiction...but the Hank William's legend spawned this
story!]



                    A CONFEDERATE LOVE STORY

                        By W. Stuart Harris


Daniella Jones was proud of her rich family heritage. This beautiful, witty,
and intelligent young woman was the daughter of Colonel Richard Jones, who
was one of the three wealthiest planters in the rich bottom lands of the
Tennessee River Valley in Lawrence County, Alabama.

Colonel Jones, the son of a Revolutionary War soldier, had graduated from
the University of Georgia in 1812, and had then studied law under the
tutelage of Georgia Governor Peter Early. Jones had then married Lucy W.
Early, the daughter of his legal mentor, and the young couple had moved into
the wilderness of Lawrence County, Alabama, in 1822, to establish a large
cotton plantation on Town Creek. Shortly thereafter they sold these newly
developed lands and purchased a more extensive plantation near the town of
Courtland in 1829.

Daniella was born in her parents' large two-story frame house on the 20th of
August 1841. And it was here that she had a very joyful childhood, and where
she gained her basic education in a small plantation schoolhouse. When she
reached her teenage years, her father sent her to Huntsville for more formal
schooling where she was admired by many young gentlemen from  the lands of
north Alabama.

And after a period of formal courtship, Daniella accepted a marriage
proposal from wealthy young Benjamin Sherrod. Their wedding was a very
special event during those early times, and was spoken of with glee for some
years to come.

Richard Jones Sherrod was born in 1860, and the following year a daughter,
Ella, was born, but died in less than a year. Unfortunately, this was not
the only tragedy to strike the household during 1861, for the husband also
sickened and died, leaving a young widow and infant child with nothing but
broken dreams.

Daniella and her son returned to her father's home to reside, and within
months the vicious Civil War came into the Valley. And by 1862 there were
numerous Yankee raids in the area.

And now, please allow me to deviate again to the ante-bellum years. While
Daniella was completing her education in Huntsville, a young Georgia lad, by
the name of Joseph Wheeler, Jr., was attending schools in distant
Connecticut and New York. Young Joe had been born in Augusta, Georgia, on
the 10th of September 1836, and he was five years Daniella's senior. His
mother had died when he was only five years of age, leaving him with his
father, who soon after lost his entire fortune by signing a note for a
friend. Thus Joseph Sr. was broken financially as well as in spirit.

A short time later young Joe was sent to Connecticut to reside with an
uncle, where he attended the local schools. The uncle then wrote a New York
congressman about the youth's ability in the classroom, and this member of
the U.S. Congress got Joe an appointment to attend the United States
Military Academy at West Point, New York.

Young Joe did not excel in his class work at the Academy, but was a member
of the only five-year class in the school's history. He graduated in July,
1859, and received a commission as a 2nd Lieutenant in the 1st U.S.
Dragoons, and was stationed at Carlisle Barracks in Pennsylvania.

An interesting and unusual event occurred one night in 1858, as Daniella and
a group of her friends were visiting New York City and attending a play in a
theater. As they watched the performance, a fire broke out on stage, which
could have been a tragic event had it not been for some cadets from the
famous military academy. These cadets jumped onto the stage, and with
buckets of water extinguished the flames. One of these cadets was Joseph
Wheeler, Jr. Years later Daniella would often tell others how she had
watched the brave cadets, not knowing that one of them would later be her
husband.

But as the young officer served his duties at Carlisle Barracks, the winds
of war were blowing. Then in early 1861, young Joseph wrote a letter to his
brother in Georgia:

"Much as I love the Union, much as I am attached to my profession, all will
be given up when my state, by its actions, shows that such a course is
necessary and proper. If Georgia withdraws and becomes a separate state, I
cannot, with propriety, and justice to my people, hesitate in resigning my
commission."

And when Georgia left the Union and became a part of the Confederacy, Joe
resigned and returned to the South. Then in March of that same year, he
enlisted as a 1st Lieutenant of Artillery, in the Confederate Army, and was
immediately stationed at Pensacola, Florida.

Remaining only for a short time at Pensacola, the military educated officer
soon was promoted as the Colonel of the 19th Alabama Infantry Regiment,
C.S.A. And while leading this famous regiment at the battle of Shiloh in
early 1862, the unit had 110 men killed, and 240 wounded. But because of his
gallantry, the 26-year old officer was promoted to Brigadier-General. He was
short in stature and light in weight, with a full heavy beard to make him
seem years older, but many of his men referred to him as a "bantam rooster,"
and he was given the nickname which he would always bear...."Fightin' Joe."
He was never as colorful as Jeb Stuart or Nathan B. Forrest, but he did
become one of the finest cavalry generals in the Confederate Army. He became
General Braxton's "Chief of Cavalry" in July, 1862, and had an incredible
battle record. During the Civil War, he was wounded three times, lost
sixteen horses which he was riding to Union shot and shell, and had thirty-
six staff officers shot down at his side. But the gods of war seemed to
favor this little officer from Augusta, and he was promoted to Major-General
in January, 1863.

Soon after the battle of Chickamauga, Georgia, thousands of fresh Union
troopers moved into Tennessee. General Wheeler was then sent with only 3,000
cavalrymen into northern Alabama, seeking sanctuary south of the Tennessee
River into Lawrence County for both rest and recovery.

On the afternoon of October 9, 1863, these Confederate troopers began to
cross southward at a ford on the Tennessee River. They were dirty, ragged,
bearded, and very weary soldiers. Of this crossing, one old veteran later
said, "Every one of us got about six duckings, but by nightfall we were
safely across."

And as they crossed and began to erect a camp on the lands of Colonel
Richard Jones, little did they seem to notice a lovely young widow standing
in a small grove of willow trees. She had been informed that these soldiers
were General Wheeler's men, and she anxiously watched for him, hoping to
gain an introduction. Then a rustic old cavalryman rode up to her and said,
"Lady, ya mite as well go home, fer General Wheeler ain't a-comin' cross
'till tha last man is safely over." But she patiently waited, and just as
darkness descended on the scene, she watched the last man cross the river,
and knew that he was the famous general. She vowed that she would get an
introduction on the following morning.

The next morning the soldiers began to construct a campsite, and began to
gather firewood in order to cook their breakfast. Then out of courtesy,
"Fightin' Joe" sent a staff officer to the house to ask Colonel Jones'
permission. "Sir," the staff officer said to members of the family, "General
Wheeler presents his compliments, and would like to ask your permission to
camp on your property." Colonel Jones replied, "You certainly have my
permission to camp here for as long as you would like. We feel much safer
with our soldiers guarding this vicinity from Yankee raiders." And as soon
as he had said this, Daniella spoke up and stated that "she would like very
much to meet the General."

Years later, General Wheeler's youngest and only surviving child, who lived
until 1955, described her mother's meeting with her father. Daniella always
told her that the General was too weary and tired, when he came to the
house, to pay much attention to a "tow-headed, blue-eyed girl in a faded
calico dress." But the soldiers remained on the property for two weeks, and
the General did enjoy the company of the young widow, although she viewed
him in awe, but as every girl knows this is a method that can capture any
man's heart. And soon they were chatting about the "days befo tha war," and
of their schooling, and even discovered that they had both been so near to
one another in that theater in New York City back in 1858.

On the night before the gray-clad troopers left the plantation, as the sun
was declining in the western sky, Joe invited Daniella to accompany him to a
grove of trees, where vespers were being held for the soldiers. Proudly she
walked at his side, arm-in-arm, and reverently listened to the prayers of
the chaplain. Then as the sun disappeared in the west and darkness drew
nigh, the Adjutant began to call the roll in order to see who the soldiers
were that had survived many battles. And as he called each name, a soldier
in the darkness would answer, "Here." But occasionally there would be only
silence when a name was called, and Daniella could feel Joe shake with
emotion, a hardly audible sigh would come from deep within his breast, and
tears would come into his eyes. She was so deeply moved by his display of
emotion, that she fell in love with him at that very moment.

And as they strolled back across the plantation lawn, Daniella softly
whispered, "Joe...uh General, come back when you can. I'll be waiting for
you." No, he had never mentioned matrimony to her, nor tender words of love,
but he was deeply moved. Too emotional to utter a single word, he drew her
to him and kissed her. He then released her and began to walk away. Then he
turned for one last look, as if to capture one last image of the beautiful
girl, and then he departed into the night.

The troopers left early the next morning before daylight. Soon thereafter
they were in the Confederate loss of the bitter Atlanta Campaign, and were
forced to retreat as the Confederacy rapidly crumbled. 

General Wheeler led his last successful charge on March 10, 1865, after
crossing the Pee Dee River in North Carolina. But it was a hollow victory,
for eight days later the war ended. Then "Fightin' Joe" assembled the
remnants of his former forces, and addressed them for the last time at
Bentonville:

"You have fought your battles; your task is done. During a four years'
struggle for liberty you have exhibited courage, fortitude and devotion: you
are the sole victors of more than 200 severely contested fields; you have
participated in more than a thousand successful conflicts of arms. You are
heroes, veterans, patriots. The bones of your comrades mark battlefields
upon the soil of Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia, North Carolina, South
Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi; you have done all that human
exertion could accomplish.

"In bidding you adieu, I desire to tender my thanks for your gallantry in
battle, your fortitude under suffering, and your devotion at all times to
the holy cause you have done so much to maintain. I desire also to express
my gratitude for the kind feeling you have seen fit to extend toward myself
and to invoke upon you the blessings of our heavenly Father, to whom we must
always look in the hour of distress.

"Pilgrims in the cause of freedom, comrades in arms, I bid you fairwell."

When the war ended, General Wheeler was incarcerated at Fort Delaware
Prison, and was kept there in a cell until his release in July, 1865.
Immediately he went to Augusta to see his aged Father, who he found deeply
mourning the loss of another son in battle. Then after attending to a legal
matter, Joe rushed to Courtland to be with his beloved Daniella.

They were finally married in the parlor of the Jones' home on the 8th of
February 1866. Then soon after they moved to New Orleans, where they
remained until 1869, when they returned to Lawrence County. And it was here
that they raised their children, and where Joe lived the life of a cotton
planter and as a political leader, eventually becoming a member of the
Congress of the United States.

Daniella preceded Joe in death, passing away on May 19, 1896. She was then
buried in a small family cemetery behind their home. Joe did not think that
he could bear the loss of his precious wife, but two years later received
and accepted a commission as a General in the U.S. Army during the Spanish-
American War. He served with honor during this short war. At the battle of
San Juan Hill, a newspaper reporter followed the white-bearded general in
the charge up the famous hill, and reported that as "Fightin' Joe" charged
with his men into the retreating Spaniards, he yelled, " Charge those damn
Yankees men! Charge those damned Yankees!" Perhaps in the excitement of the
time he had forgotten which army he was actually leading.

The gallant General died on January 26, 1906, in Brooklyn, New York. He was
then buried with full honors in the Arlington National Cemetery.

The Wheeler Home is now a state shrine, which is visited by thousands of
people each year. And here the visitors can see the cemetery where Daniella
lies buried.

Unfortunately, the Old Jones' Home, where Daniella was born and married, is
but a pile of rubble. Miss Annie Wheeler, the daughter of the famous couple,
always refused to sell this home. One day when I went there perhaps thirty
years ago, I found that the roof was badly leaking and that the windows had
all rotted away, allowing rain to enter into the structure, and thus it did
not survive after many more years.

Sadly I stood there in the ruins of the parlor, and imagined the happy
bridal party as they assembled on that day in 1866. I then walked over the
weed-cluttered grounds which marked the spot where the soldiers had camped
for two weeks in 1863. Perhaps the ghosts of two lovers still stroll across
the grounds on quiet summer nights from an ancient grove of trees, which
once resounded with sighs of a General responding to the names of his fallen
men. 

                                     The End

[Author's Note: Based on historical records and facts.]


          THE GHOST WHO LIKED CATS

                By Cara Swann


My name is Denis Henderson, but everybody calls me Denny, guess that's my
nickname.
I'm ten, and live in a big old house near the corner of Magnolia Street.
Some people say
our house is haunted, but I didn't believe it until I saw the ghost myself!

Our town is in Louisiana, a little bitty place called Magnolia Springs. I
was born here, in
the hospital at the center of town. Mom and dad like it here, they say it's
real quiet, hardly
any crime, no drugs. I have lots of friends, guys I go to school with, but
mostly I have to
hang around with my family lots. They're okay, I guess, even if Margie, my
kid sister, is
only seven. But I try to watch out for her, protect her sometimes too.

Anyhow, about the ghost...my mom and dad always said the stories people told
around town
were not true. I know people like to tell ghost stories, even if no one
believes them.

My mom was always saying that the ghost was just a fiction story, but maybe
she said that
to me and Margie so we wouldn't get scared. I mean, if you got a real ghost
in your house,
it could scare the daylights out of you!

My dad didn't talk about it much, he just told us that we shouldn't be
afraid of the dark, or
of anything...that he was there to take care of us. I always felt real good
about him being
around. My dad is neat, and he can really slam-hit a baseball, you should
see it! He taught
me how, and I can beat the guys, even won our game at the school with my
home-run hit
one time.

Anyways, the story around town was that out house had a tragedy in it, some
old woman
fell down the stairs, hit her head and died. Mom said it was just an
accident, but the others
said somebody killed her...pushed her down those stairs! Creepy!

It was kinda spooky, when I looked down those steep stairs that led into the
basement. I
could just imagine that old lady tripping, and going down, hitting her head.
Besides, old
people are always falling, so I thought it was an accident too.

One time I was in the library, and I heard the lady librarian talking to a
girl. She said, "And
they say that somebody wanted to rob Lula May. If you ask me, I think she
was pushed
down those stairs."

I knew they were talking about our house, and I listened. The librarian
looked around, but I
was hidden behind the stacks of books, and she continued in a whisper, "Lula
May was
careful, she never would have fallen by accident."

The girl said, "Is it true that her money was never found?"

"That's right! They never did find all the money she had hidden in the
house. I think she
was robbed, if you want to know what I think." The librarian was still
looking around, as if
she suspected someone might be listening.

I stayed hidden, moved away before she saw me eavesdropping. Got me a couple
books,
checked them out. I had found some ghost stories, and later at home in my
own room, I
read them. It was scary, but I wanted to know more about ghosts.

When Margie saw me reading, she wanted to hear one of the stories, so I read
her one
about a little girl who haunts a cemetery. She shivered, exclaimed, "Yuck,
that's awful! I
don't want to hear anymore !" Girls, I thought, were not much fun!

I read this book that sort of told you how to contact ghosts, but I figured
my mom wouldn't
let me do this stuff. It said you had to watch for them, and try to
communicate with the
ghost by closing your eyes and waiting, asking it to materialize, whatever
that meant.

Boy, there were some really great ghost stories in that book, about old
mansions in
Louisiana, spooky tales. I finally went downstairs to eat supper with my
family, then
watched TV a couple hours.

By the time I went to bed, I'd forgotten all about the stories, because I
was thinking about
how much fun I'd have tomorrow at the park. Summer vacation was always my
favorite
time, being out of school and having fun.

Something woke me up in the middle of the night, and I sat up in bed,
rubbing my eyes. I
could hear thunder, and see lightning flashing, knew it was storming
outside.

But I was starving for some milk and cookies, and thought maybe dad was in
the kitchen.
Me and him raided the fridge if we couldn't get to sleep sometimes, so I got
up, put on my
shoes and headed out of the bedroom. I walked down the hall, but it was
really dark, not
much light from the small light by the stairs.

The thunder boomed real loud, and I jumped; it didn't scare me though, and I
went on
downstairs, made my way to the kitchen. But dad wasn't there. I opened the
fridge, took
out a carton of milk but suddenly felt real strange, a prickly feeling on
the back of my neck,
the hairs on my arms standing up.

Then I heard this really weird cackle, like laughing, and saw something by
the basement
door. I put the milk back, and started to leave the kitchen -- but then
realized I was being a
coward, so I just stood there, watching.

I saw something that looked like fog, a white cloud that floated to the
basement door and
then seemed to go right through it. I followed, stopping at the door, afraid
to open it.

But I did. It was pitch-dark down there, but I looked down anyway, seeing
nothing. I flipped
on the light switch, and still didn't see anything either. The steep
stairway was just empty,
nothing there at all.

I hurried back to my room, and had a little trouble going to sleep. Did I
really see that fog,
or just imagine it?

The next morning, I started to tell mom about it, but she was busy with
breakfast, getting
ready to take Margie to the doctor for a checkup. I decided not to mention
it. Besides, I
wasn't for sure I'd seen anything.

Mom dropped me off at the park, and Johnny was waiting by the baseball
field, so we got
right down to pitching a few balls, practicing. Johnny lived down the block,
and he knew
about the ghost stories in my house...when we took a break, I told him about
what
happened last night.

Johnny's eyes got real big, and he said, "Hey, did you really see a ghost?"

"I don't know it if was a ghost or what. It just looked like fog, kinda like
a drifting cloud but
it moved right through the door!" I watched him gulp his coke, and look at
me.

"Did you hear any voices?" Johnny asked, cramming his fist into his baseball
glove, over
and over like he was nervous or something.

"I don't know, I think I heard laughter, but it was sure strange." I grabbed
the baseball,
said, "Come on, I bet you can't hit my fast ball!"

We played ball the next hour or so, and then mom came by to pick me up and I
told Johnny
I'd see him later. Mom said Margie had a stomach virus, and she needed some
medicine.

I was not feeling so good myself, but it wasn't a stomach virus -- it was
that funny fog I saw
that made me sort of sick. I started to tell mom about it, but then I
thought she might just
laugh about it. Grownups don't believe in ghosts, and I knew she'd give me a
lecture.

I tried to forget it, and spent the afternoon watching an old cowboy movie
on TV, then
played some video games in my room. After we ate dinner, mom and dad told me
they
wanted me to look for Tiger, our cat. He'd been gone for two days, and I
knew Margie
would have a fit if he didn't come home soon.

I went out just before dark, and searched all around the neighborhood but
couldn't find
Tiger. I called and called that darn cat, but he was probably off having a
good time
somewhere and didn't even hear me.

By bedtime, I was really sleepy and didn't think about anything as I fell
into bed. But
again, I woke up in the middle of the night and looked around the room. The
moon was
bright, sending a strange light through my window and I could see something
in the corner,
right by my baseball stuff.

I looked closer, and saw it was that funny white cloud, hovering like fog
over my baseball
bat! I also felt cold, real cold and pulled the covers up to my chin,
shaking. I wanted to call
out for dad, but couldn't, I was just too scared to make a sound.

Then I heard this whispery croak, "Come with me, sonny boy."

I shook my head, but it said again, "Come with me, and I'll show you the
money."

I figured this was the ghost, the ghost of Lula May and she had come back to
show me
something. I was shaking all over, so very cold, but I got out of bed, and
watched the cloud
go through my bedroom door. I followed, and it went drifting along the
hallway, turned the
corner as I trailed along. Then it floated down the stairs, heading for the
kitchen. Once in
there, the cloud sort of hung around the basement door, then that whispery
croak saying,
"In here, come on sonny boy."

It was like I was a zombie, because I just couldn't quit following the foggy
cloud. I pulled
open the basement door, and started to flick on the light, but the voice
said, "No light.
Come along now..."

But it was so dark I couldn't see the steep stairs, and just stood there,
afraid. Finally, the
cloud seemed to settle over me, and made a dim light down the stairway so I
could see
enough to get down the steps, careful not to fall.

Our basement is piled up with old stuff we don't use anymore, and I had to
walk around the
junk, all the time wondering what the ghost wanted to show me. Just as I got
to the back
wall, I heard that sharp voice, "See that brick right there?"

I looked at the cement wall, but didn't see any brick. "No, it's just
cement."

The cloud moved away from me, and swept over the wall, then became a beam
highlighting
a small brick set near the floor. I bent down, and the voice declared, "Go
on! Pull it out
sonny boy!"

I did, and then looked into a small hole, saw an old cigar box and pulled it
out. The voice
said, "It's there, sonny boy, all my money. I fell down the blasted steps,
trying to get the
money."

"Are you, uh....Lula May?" I asked, staring.

There was a piercing cackle of laughter, then the cloud seemed to shape
itself into a bent,
bony old woman with straggly white hair and the voice said, "That's me,
sonny. Now, you
take that money and do something good for cats with it, hear? And don't you
never tell
nobody about me being here, or I'll come back and haunt you!"

"I won't," I promised, shivering as the cloud-shaped woman seemed to just
melt and slowly
fade, disappear before my eyes.

I carefully put the money back, and ran to my room. The next morning, I
asked dad if I
could clean up the basement and he said sure, that it needed it.

While I was working, I pretended to find the money hidden behind that brick,
and ran to tell
my parents. They were shocked, and after asking a bunch of questions, told
me the money
belonged to Lula May's relatives. I was confused, because she'd given it to
me to help
cats, but I kept quiet.

It turned out okay anyhow, because after mom and dad checked about her
relatives, they
were all dead. So the money was ours -- my parents insisted it was mine
though, because I
found it.

Mom asked me what I wanted to do with it. Tiger had come home, and he was
curled up in
Margie's lap, sort of looking at me strange. I had this weird feeling that
he knew what Lula
told me. So I said, "I want to give the money to the animal shelter, help
all those stray and
lost cats."

Tiger kept looking at me, started purring and I knew, I just knew that Lula
May was
pleased, wherever she was now.

And that's how I came to see a ghost. But you better not tell anyone I told
you this story, or
Lula May might come around and haunt YOU!

                                   The End
[Author's Note: This story was written for one of my friend's children,
totally fiction.]




          Nellie Avery

        By W. Stuart Harris



One of my favorite ghosts is that of a beautiful young girl who graced this
earth for only
twelve short years and died tragically. Her ghostly presence returns, not
for revenge, but
simply to re-live occasionally several minutes of the life she enjoyed on
earth. Her entire
life was spent in Lowndes County, Alabama where she returns several times
each year to
visit the home where she had found great joy. Nellie, which was her name,
never pays the
least attention to those of us who live or visit in the home of her
happiness today, but
spends those brief interludes in the Lowndes County of a century ago.

Nellie Avery was born and reared on her father's plantation near
Lowndesboro, Alabama.
The old home was long ago razed to make room for a farm-to-market road;
however, this
was not the place of her fondest memories. But wait, I am getting ahead of
my story.

In stature and health, Nellie was frail; but in spirit she was strong and
full of life. To her,
music was everywhere -- the meadow larks in the spring pasture, the sound of
the summer
rain, and the song of the wind as it danced through the massive oaks on cold
winter nights.
Her one desire was to learn everything possible about music, but her parents
realized they
could never fulfill this great desire as long as she remained on the
isolated plantation,
which was miles from the nearest school with musical accommodations.

On Nellie's twelfth birthday, her father announced he had made arrangements
for her to
move to Hayneville where she could live with the family of her wealthy uncle
and attend a
private day school in town, a school with an excellent reputation for its
musical education
classes. Nellie could hardly contain herself because of the joy brought by
this
announcement. Of course she would miss her parents and sister, but her
father promised
he would send Uncle Tembo, their trusted butler, to town in the buckboard at
least once a
month and bring her home for weekend visits. She began to count the weeks,
days, hours
with eager anticipation. The healthy color of a morning rose appeared on her
cheeks and
the world seemed to open up with joy.

Finally the day of departure came, and the entire family climbed into the
carriage and made
the journey into Hayneville to deliver their daughter to Uncle Adam and Aunt
Martha. To
Nellie, this trip seemed to last an eternity, until they finally reached the
white picket fence
in front of Uncle Adam's large two-story mansion, where they found their kin
anxiously
waiting to receive their little guest.

The following day Nellie's family departed for the plantation, and Uncle
Adam, gently
taking her by the hand, escorted her to the nearby school, where
arrangements had already
been made for her enrollment. The days seemed to fly by as she followed the
student
routine, and since she was blessed with an above average intelligence, she
found the
lessons easy, and devoted most of her time to the piano. Her afternoons and
evenings
were spent at Aunt Martha's beautiful rosewood piano in the front parlor,
where she
quickly mastered the fundamentals of music. Even late at night when she was
unable to
sleep she was permitted to go down to the parlor, where she would practice
by
candlelight, often for hours on end.

Months passed, and Nellie continued to make rapid progress in her music and
other school
work. She had no problems, with the possible exception of the troublesome
antics of her
two younger cousins, Archie and Peter. Unlike Nellie's demure disposition,
they were both
boisterous and devilish. Realizing that she was easily frightened, they
often played tricks
on her and rolled with laughter when they were able to make her cry.

Being a dedicated student, Nellie often became so absorbed in her studies
that she found it
hard to go to sleep at night. This also damaged her health, which had never
been good,
making her nervous and easily upsetting her temperament.

One stormy night, being unable to sleep, and after rolling in her bed for
what seemed like
hours, Nellie lit the candle by her bed and quietly went downstairs to the
parlor, where she
lightly played the music from her assignments. Upstairs, the impish cousins
had been
waiting days for such a moment. They realized their bedroom window was just
above the
parlor window where the girl was practicing below them. Quietly they made
their plans. A
large white sheet was removed from their bed, and Archie carefully dropped
it from the
open window so that it would slowly float to the ground below. As it fell,
Peter gave a
loud and unearthly shriek as the thunder roared across the blackened skies.
But to their
surprise no scream came from the parlor down below, although the piano fell
silent.
Disappointed, the boys climbed back into their bed.

The following morning, as the sun began to rise, the family went downstairs
for breakfast,
and as they were passing the parlor door, Aunt Martha screamed. Horror
flashed across
their eyes, for beneath the piano bench lay the dead body of the girl, and
just outside the
window, draped on a large shrub, was the huge sheet. Nellie had died of
fright!

The ghostly and mysterious playing of the piano in the middle of the night
began several
years later. If anyone attempted to investigate, the music would cease
before they could
reach the parlor.

Yes, little Nellie still plays -- not to frighten those who might be in the
house, but simply
to re-live for a few moments the joys of yesteryear.


                           The End

[Author's Note: This story is loosely based on a short passage in the
historical record 
'History of Lowndes County' but the original names of those involved have
been changed.]

                            -- End Of Book --