Aaron Polson - Thirteen Shadows: Ghost Stories

by

AARON POLSON

SMASHWORDSEDITION

Copyright 2011 by Aaron Polson

All rights reserved. Without limiting therights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publicationmay be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without theprior written permission of both the copyright owner and the abovepublisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of theauthor's imagination or are used fictitiously. The authoracknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of variousproducts referenced in this work of fiction, which have been usedwithout permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is notauthorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademarkowners.

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Thirteen Shadows: Ghost Stories:Contents

SpecialCollections

Junk

Billy Boy

Heroism and HotDates

LittleFingers

Snow

Uncle Bobby

TheSub-Basement

DaddysTouch

Aunt TessiesBurden

Acknowledgements

The House Eaters (a novel) Chapter1

Until we were twelve yearsold, Billy Wilson and I searched for the Ox-Cart Man during oursummer vacations in New Hampshire. Oursearches grew over the years, adding new technology and techniquesto find the worn path where that phantom supposedly trekked homefrom the Portsmouth market.

That last summer was veryspecialwe both knew it would be our last chance to find the oldroad and maybe catch a glimpse of the Ox-Cart Man together. Billys dad was being transferred to California,and I would have to reconnoiter the Piscataqua River valley alone,climbing over rock and stone, through old forests, and near quietlymurmuring streams for a hint of the legend. We pledged to find him that year.

Billy collected anythingto do with the Ox-Cart Manscraps of stories in old newspapers,books of regional ghost stories, pictures of lost throughways,bridges, and foundations of homes that time pushed aside. He constructed a map of the region, complete withevery reported sighting.

I snuck out of my house onthat last night. Both of us traveled bybicycle, dangerous in the dark, but stealthy too.

Ivelearned some new stuff, he said, eyes glowing like silver embersunder the moon. Mom drove me tothe library in Portsmouth today. They havea whole new local folklore section.

We slid off our bikes near an oldcrossroads.

All thestories corroborate, he was shot by some highwaymen. He was on his way home from the market afterbartering all his familys goods, even the ox and cart. Billy snapped on a flashlight and ducked under asycamore branch.

Okay, we know that bit,I said, tromping after him.

Billy stopped, turned, andsmiled. Theres a part of the legend Idnever heard before. His son left lookingfor him after the Ox-Cart Man didnt return. The son never came home, either.

A chill breeze dancedthrough the trees.

Theysay his son is still looking for him, Billywhispered. He was our age. He nudged me with a knobby elbow. His name was William.

We found a spot where theold path dipped low beside a dying stream. Billys notes indicated this might have been the location theOx-Cart Man met his fate. I felt a littlechildish when fear crept in my chest; Billy needed some closure onhis own childhoodhe needed some verification of hisbeliefs.

The moon shifted backtoward the morning horizon, filtering long streams of pale lightthrough the light forest. The nightsmelled black: the rich smell of mud and old moss. Billy and I kept the vigil in silence. Then he arrived, shimmering like a morningfog.

The Ox Cart Man lookedmore solid than Id expected. He lopedwith a steady gait, a pole over his shoulder holding a blackkettle. His face was drawn, long andrimmed with a reddish beard, just like the legends said. The man wore a rough cotton shirt and blackcoat. His feet struck the ground with nosound but the light brush of breeze.

Billy stood up. I remember the burning in my arms and legsthetingling nerves. I wanted to stop him, butall I could do was watch as my friend walked toward the Ox CartMan.

The man stopped, regardingBilly. He knelt after a moment,smiling. I heard a voicenot from thespecter but in my head, William? Billy nodded. The OxCart Man reached inside his black kettle and pulled out a smallcandy, wintergreen so the stories told, and offered it toBilly.

They stood for a fewminutes in silence until finally without a look back, Billy walkedaway with the Ox Cart Man. I could donothing but sit with throbbing heart as the father and son vanishedinto the trees, fading like the mist.

Before the flood brought the dead to hisdoor, Elroy Jantz lived alone.

Each evening, he spent atleast an hour tinkering with his boat. Itwas an older center console model, but Elroy loved it like achild. He waxed the hull, applied oilycleanser to the vinyl seats, adjusted sparkplugs and carbonator,and poked endlessly at the motor and propeller to ensure a smoothrunning ship. During the good years, heand his boat worked on contract for the shrimp companies; in thelean years the boat at least helped him fill his frying pan.

The rains started inApril, usually a good season for rain, but soon the river crestedits levees and sent brown murk into fields and towns, forcing amigration north. The delta sank under theswell. The government sent men in greenjackets to the bayou on wide barges. Theycame for Elroy in mid-May, hoisting his small boat onto their flatbarge. He winced at the rough treatmentand worried about scratches on the hull as his only child came downon the larger craft.

There were other men onthe barge, other enlistees with little boats that they worried overand coddled like infants. Elroy wonderedabout those men, whether they led lonely lives and cared for theirboats like children. None of them talked;none had any words to fill the grim task before them. They stood on the deck and listened as amustached man with a bullhorn barked orders. A few of the men coughed; others shuffled their feet. Elroy tucked his hands inside his bib overallsand squinted toward the horizon, the vanishing point where sky andland should meet, but now was a gray plane with no clearbreak.

On the first night, Elroywas fooled three times. When the men ingreen jackets initially lowered his boat into the water, he wassure they missed their mark, overshot the submerged delta, anddrifted too far into the gulf. One of themen in green laughed, shook his head, and handed Elroy a long polewith a hook at one end.

Elroys mind wandered ashe scanned the rolling water; he remembered a girl, years ago, MaryAnn Nolan, who he had hoped to marry. Whenthey were young, he would take her for slow, midnight cruises, justas far as he was comfortable in the darkjust as far as he knew thepersonality of the river. He was instrange waters that first night, and the river was gone.

The barge searchlightscaught a glittering island, a dark mass in the twilit gloom. Elroy steered his little craft toward the islandand was fooled a second time; it was only the top of a massive treefilled with snakes. Their tiny eyessparked in the beam of the searchlights. He sped away as one serpent dropped toward the boat, landedin the milky-murk, and slipped into the depths as a fading blackscribble like a trail of smoke.