Haunted Spring

Story Info
Three friends encounter ghosts in rural '70s South Carolina.
25k words
4.85
6.3k
6
Share this Story

Font Size

Default Font Size

Font Spacing

Default Font Spacing

Font Face

Default Font Face

Reading Theme

Default Theme (White)
You need to Log In or Sign Up to have your customization saved in your Literotica profile.
PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here
Oldguy45
Oldguy45
244 Followers

I still drive by our old place sometimes. The house is still there, although it is empty and crumbling. There are still no close neighbors. Whoever the owners are now don't mow, so the lot is overgrown with weeds and grass. I'll pull up in the driveway and get out of the car, but I don't usually go farther. I cannot tell you exactly why. Maybe it's out of respect for their privacy, their aloneness.

The back corner of the lot is the entrance to the path. It too is overgrown, almost closed off. If you look above the trees behind the lot you can see the spindly, skeleton-like branches of the ancient oak in the distance. It has been many years since I visited the tree, situated in its forgotten clearing like a tired old king holding court. It's not that I'm scared to enter the lot, walk down the path, or visit the old oak. It's not that I'm scared. It just doesn't feel right. I have no regrets, no qualms about what we did for them that spring. It's just that now that it's done, they deserve to be left alone. They are together in their solitude. It's what they would have wanted.

One of these days, developers will come as they always do. They'll knock down the old house, cart it away. They'll raze the woods behind the house, clear the land, grade the ground, put in roads and buildings. The old home place and the surrounding woods will become a subdivision or a shopping mall, or maybe a trailer park. The old things, the tree, the path, will all vanish. Whether they will vanish remains to be seen. Perhaps, they will walk the streets of a modern day community, barely noticed on spring and summer evenings. But I doubt it. Most likely they'll simply go away, disappear like so many things from our past. They belong to a bygone era, like we all will eventually. That I want their story to be told is the reason I'm writing this down. This is the story of the spring of 1970, when I and my two friends encountered a pair of ghosts.

***

In April, 1970, I was twelve years old. It had already been a memorable year. The previous month, there had been a total solar eclipse and I had been able to witness it. That April, Paul McCartney announced that he was leaving the Beatles, to the disappointment of millions of fans worldwide. Also during that April, the Apollo 13 spacecraft, on its way to visit the Moon, had suffered a crippling rupture in one of its liquid oxygen tanks. The crew been forced to abandon the Moon mission and devote all their energies to returning to Earth alive.

In a boy's life, twelve is the age between childhood and young adulthood. It is the age of campouts with friends, BB guns, bicycles, and baseball. You're too old for tricycles and toy dump trucks, and too young for cars. What girls you hang out with are just friends, no more. Twelve years old is a special time.

My family—my father, my mother, and me—lived in a rented house in rural Leesville County, South Carolina. My father had been in the Air Force but had recently retired. He, like so many other military retirees, now worked at the Post Office. After living on or near Air Force bases his whole career, he had announced one day that we were going to live in the country like his folks had. When he left the service, we rented this house while saving money for a house of our own.

I liked it out in the country. I rode my bike on the two-lane black top and explored the woods around my house. I often saw deer, and once I even saw a bobcat. I carried my BB gun on "patrols" and imagined I was a soldier in wartime.

The drawback to living in the country was that we had no close neighbors. So, I had few friends. This didn't bother me too much; I was used to it. But it would have been nicer to have someone who lived close by.

That was where Bobby Craddock came in. Bobby was a stout, somewhat heavy kid with longish light brown hair. He sat beside me in math class, and we had become friends in the past school year. It had taken a while. I don't make friends easily and was initially put off by Bobby's smart-aleck humor. But gradually, through shared interests and sheer proximity, he grew on me. The only thing was that Bobby lived in town. He walked to school. I lived out of town and my mom took me back and forth to school. That made it a little harder for Bobby and me to get together, but we did the best we could.

We had begun planning an early April campout in my backyard in March. We would use the pup tent I had earned by saving gold stamps, and sleep in sleeping bags. We were going to cook hot dogs and s'mores on the campfire. We would have chips and sodas. And we would be armed with our BB guns in case we were menaced by predators.

On the Friday afternoon of the campout, Bobby came over about four-thirty. We pitched the tent, circled rocks for our campfire, and spread out our sleeping bags. Then we went out and gathered firewood. When we had a nice pile, we set out into the woods on patrol, BB guns at the ready.

The weather was fine, the sun shining but settling lower in the west. It promised to be a cool, clear night. We tramped the woods for about an hour but, finding no enemy soldiers, decided to return to camp. We opened two bottle of Coke, turned on the radio, and listened while Creedence Clearwater Revival sang "Who'll Stop the Rain" and Santana sang about "Evil Ways." We talked about the things that boys talked about, sports and movies and fishing and guns. This time, though, another topic entered the conversation: girls.

"I noticed something about Louise Anderson the other day," Bobby said, taking a swig of his drink.

"Oh yeah," I said, "what?"

"She's getting' titties, man!" he said, with a knowing leer.

"What? No way!" I said. I hadn't noticed anything, but I wasn't as worldly as Bobby, apparently.

"Oh yes she is," he said. "Next time you see her, just look at the way her sweater wrinkles around her armpits. You'll see."

"Hmph," I said dubiously. Then, "Hey Bobby, do you reckon the Lone Ranger really has silver bullets in his gun belt?"

And just as quickly as that, the conversation had changed to the question of whether the Lone Ranger really carried silver bullets or whether they were just lead.

An hour later, we had exhausted the subject, the consensus being that, if those bullets were indeed silver, it didn't make a lot of financial sense.

"I mean," I said, "just think of all you could buy with that silver."

"Roy Barrett," Bobby said, "you are a cheapskate. The Lone Ranger has those bullets so people will know he was there. To add to his no-tor-iety. You can't put a price on that."

"Well, maybe he just carries a couple to show off," I said, sort of conceding the point.

By this time, it was dusk. My mom came out to check on us. She made sure we had everything we needed, adequate blankets, and food and stuff. My father had driven in an hour or so before. He had waved to us as he wearily walked to the house and entered.

"Let's start the fire," I said.

For the next hour, while the sun sank below the horizon, Bobby and I struggled to make a fire. We used at least ten matches, a mound of damp pine straw, and blew until we could blow no more. Finally, I said, "Wait a minute." I walked to the garage, got a bottle of charcoal lighter fluid, and sprayed it on the smoldering pile of charred sticks. Nothing happened except that smoke started to emanate from the pile.

"Throw another match on it," Bobby said.

I did so and the pile, with a 'puff', burst into flames. We both jumped back, not expecting that.

"Holy crap, didn't see that coming," I said.

The back door opened. It was mom. "Are you boys all right?" she asked.

"Fine, Mom," I yelled.

"Okay," she said uncertainly.

Luckily, no one was burned. We piled wood on it until it was built up nicely, then skewered our hot dogs with sticks and held them over the fire until they were crispy brown on the outside. We opened chips and drinks and ate until we were full.

Thirty minutes later, full of hot dogs and chips and soda, we lay around the fire with our sleeping bags as pillows and burped. And farted. Bobby won the farting contest with a long one that sounded like a mellow cornet note.

The sky grew dark. The wind picked up a little and the night became brisk. The nearly full moon rose in the east. My friend and I relaxed and talked and listened to the radio. We talked about what we were going to do during the coming summer vacation. We were hoping to go to summer camp together. The night drew on. After a while, we were both yawning, which was a disappointment because we had planned to stay up all night. I looked at my watch. Ten-thirty, still early. But I was tired and my frequent yawns testified to that fact.

"Man," I said, "I think I'm going to bed."

"Yeah, I guess I will too," said Bobby.

We crawled into our sleeping bags, fully clothed. Bobby turned off the radio. We talked for a few more minutes, but soon fell asleep.

I awoke a couple of hours later. The night was quiet. I could hear, in the distance, the leisurely call of a chuck will's willow. I lay wrapped in my bag for a few moments, fighting the urge to get up and go pee. If I fell right back asleep, I'd probably sleep till morning and not have to leave my warm bag. After a few minutes, though, it became clear that I was going to have to get up.

I unzipped the bag and crawled out. The cool night air was a bit of a surprise. Bobby mumbled something and rolled over. I laboriously got up, stiff joints protesting, and walked on my stocking feet a little way from the tent to relieve myself.

The moon was practically overhead. When Bobby and I had gone to bed, it had been high in the eastern sky. At that time, there had been no clouds. Now a large bank of broken cumulus moved across the moon and the night grew dark. I unzipped and began taking care of business. The Cokes I had drunk earlier now made their appearance.

The night grew even quieter. The chuck will's willow I had heard earlier became silent. The only sound was the soughing of the wind in the trees. I finished what I was doing and stood there, enjoying the coolness of the breeze. I suddenly felt colder. And then from the woods came a sound: a low, soft whistle. I peered into the darkness, but all I could see were the intermittent flashes of fireflies. I thought the sound might have come from a bird, but I'd never heard a bird that sounded like that. It came again, an eerie, undulating trill. My heart began thudding in my chest. The wind picked up slightly, causing the trees to sway. The bank of cumulus moved on and silvery moonlight spread across the tops of the trees and along the ground. Once again the whistle came, but this time it clearly emanated from the far corner of the yard. I looked in that direction and watched fascinated as a cloud of fireflies coalesced into the shape of a soldier. A Confederate soldier.

My mouth went dry and I swallowed. The image was clear, though it seemed to be surrounded by a faint glow of spectral light. I wanted to turn away and wake Bobby, but something made me keep watching.

As I said, he was young, very young. I knew he was a rebel soldier from the gray slouch hat and butternut jacked. But what impressed me the most were his eyes. He stared at me with a piercing, sorrowful gaze. It was as if he was trying to tell me something, to convey some message. My knees grew weak and I felt myself start to sway. I was truly frightened. I tried to call to Bobby, but all that came out was a croak.

Then, the apparition nodded at me and in the direction of an overgrown path that led into the woods. He looked at me with his pleading eyes, turned, and disappeared down the path into the woods. I could see his glow faintly though the underbrush, then it faded away.

I fell to my hands and knees, suddenly too weak to stand. I nearly threw up right there. I crawled over to Bobby and started to wake him, then thought better of it. He would never believe me. Besides, this might all just be a dream. I sat down on the ground and looked around. The cool breeze sprang up again now, drying the sweat on my brow. The chuck will's willow started her mournful song again. The bright moon floated in a cloudless sky. I saw a light go on in the bathroom window of my house. Probably my dad taking a leak in the middle of the night. Things seemed normal again.

The fired had burned down to embers hours earlier. I stirred it with a stick but didn't add more wood. I looked back over at the corner of the yard. Nothing. Maybe it had been a dream. After a while, my eyelids began to droop. I was a little cold. I decided to lie down. I crawled back into my sleeping bag and zipped up. Delicious warmth flowed over me. My eyes closed and I feel asleep.

***

The sun hitting my face woke me up. I opened my eyes to see it clearing the trees on the opposite side of the road. Bobby was up. He looked tired and disheveled. He was fooling with the fire, trying to get it started. He saw me and said, "Hey man, get up and help me with this."

I groaned. I was comfortable and warm, but I also needed to pee. "Can't you get it started?" I asked.

"Of course I can," he said. "You're just better at it."

I threw my sleeping bag off and crawled painfully out of the tent, stiff joints aching. "Hold on a minute," I mumbled, stumbling off to take a leak.

When I got back there was lots of smoke, but no fire. Bobby had tried using damp pine needles once again and it had only made matters worse. This time I remembered my Boy Scout training. I scraped the hot coals clean, then carefully put dry needles on them. They smoked at first, but then caught. To these I added small sticks, pencil-thin, until they caught. No lighter fluid this time. Then I gradually added bigger sticks until I had a small but respectable fire going. Bobby spread his hands close to the fire, rubbing them together. "That's more like it, Barrett," he said.

We sat by the fire getting warm and waiting for my mom to call us in to eat breakfast. I thought about what had happened the night before. Had it been a dream? I looked over to the corner of the yard. Sure enough, there was the opening to the path. I decided that I would tell Bobby.

"Man, guess what happened last night," I said.

"What?" he said, poking the fire with a stick.

"I think I saw a ghost," I replied.

"What?" he said again, a grin spreading over his face.

I looked at the house. I didn't know how long I had before Mom came, so I said quickly, "Last night I got up to take a leak and there he was, standing in the corner of the yard."

"You were dreaming, man," Bobby said. "There ain't no such things as ghosts. You musta been sleepwalkin' or somethin'."

I grew annoyed that he didn't believe me. "Man, I'm telling you I saw something. A man, or a boy maybe, in the corner of the yard."

Bobby looked unconvinced. "Okay then, what did he do?"

"Nothing, really. Just nodded at me," I said defiantly.

"That's all? Just nodded at you? He didn't go 'woo' and come floatin' at you?"

"No," I said. "I think he was trying to tell me something."

"Like what?" Bobby said.

"Damn if I know. He nodded in the direction of the path."

Bobby looked at me, grinning uncertainly, apparently trying to decide whether to believe me or not.

"I know," I said. "Let's patrol down the path after breakfast and take a look."

"After cartoons and Three Stooges," Bobby said.

"Okay," I said a little reluctantly. I wanted to get started, but Saturday morning cartoons and Stooges were a sacred ritual on our sleepovers.

The back door opened and my mom appeared. "Come to breakfast, boys," she said and closed the door.

She had cooked pancakes and sausage. We also had orange juice and chocolate milk. She sat down at the table with us while we ate. My mother's name was Blanche. She was a slim, business-like woman with dark hair and cat's eye glasses. She worked Monday through Friday at a dry cleaners. She loved me and her husband, went to church but not Sunday school and gave affection only rarely. My father and I accepted her for who she was: the driving force in the family.

"So how was the campout?" she asked, drinking coffee.

"It was fine," I spoke up. Bobby looked like he was about to say something about the ghost. I have him a look. He just grinned.

"Did you get cold?" she asked.

"No ma'am," we both said.

"We heard a whippoorwill," Bobby said.

"Hmm," Mom said.

She got up to sneak a cigarette. My mom smoked. My Dad didn't. She usually only smoked when he was gone or asleep. This was Saturday morning, and he'd slept in. Of course he knew. After all, they did kiss (although I seldom saw it), but he never made an issue of it.

After breakfast, we settled in front of the TV with more chocolate milk and watched cartoons and the Three Stooges for an hour and a half. Then we told Mom that we were going back outside and left the house.

We stopped at the campsite and picked up our BB guns. Then we walked to the corner of the yard. An overgrown path led into the woods. We had never explored this path before, preferring the more open woods on the other side of the house. This one had seemed a little forbidding. And yet, overgrown as it was, it was clearly a passageway. It led into a large stand of pine and oak trees that shaded the forest floor.

"Well, what do you think?" I asked Bobby.

"I don't know, Roy. This is your deal," Bobby said.

"Do you think it's safe?" I asked.

"How would I know? I've never been here before. "But we'll never find out if we don't go."

I was suddenly seized by fear. "But what if he's waiting for us, Bobby? What if he's waiting to ..." I swallowed hard.

"Shut up, Roy!" Bobby said. "Now are we going or not? It's broad daylight. Everybody knows ghosts don't come out in daylight. That is, if there's even a ghost. In any case, we won't know unless we check it out." He looked at me slyly. "That is, unless you're chicken."

Chicken. The word hit me like a hammer. I looked at him, wounded and angry. "I'm not chicken, Bobby! Let's go!" I said and took off down the trail.

The sun shone down on us as we walked through the underbrush, but when we entered the trees, it got darker. There were patches of sunlight on the forest floor, but also large areas of shadow. The path, though somewhat overgrown, was still passable. We walked quickly, BB guns at the ready. I looked behind us. The sunlit portion of the path receded further and further. I told myself to just stay on the path and everything would be all right, but in truth I half expected a ghostly rebel soldier to appear out of the shadows. My heart was beating hard in my chest.

After walking for about ten minutes, we could see sunlight ahead. Bobby looked at me and pointed. I grunted and we picked up the pace.

Presently we emerged into an open space a little over three acres in size. There was grass, but it was stunted and brown. It looked poorly. Around the space was a fringe of underbrush, and then the woods started right up again. It seemed that we were in the middle of nowhere, but then I heard a truck passing by in the distance. I looked around at the clearing. On the other side was what appeared to be another path, also overgrown, but this path was wide enough to admit an automobile. But that was not the most interesting or arresting feature in the space. That would be the enormous, half-dead oak three that grew right in the center.

"Whoa," I heard Bobby whisper.

"Yeah," I said.

The tree was at least thirty feet tall, gnarled, and about twelve feet or so around. Though it had some green leaves on it, it was mostly dead and skeletal, with thick brown boughs reaching out vertically and horizontally from the massive trunk. The trunk, despite being so thick, was not completely solid. There was a large opening in it.

"That is one big tree," Bobby said.

Oldguy45
Oldguy45
244 Followers