Restless Spirits, Part 1
By Patty Crow
HALLIE WAS ON LOAN TO THE TELEPHONE-engineering group in Wartburg, Tennessee, working as a design engineer for a year or more. I love this job—never boring. Always problems to solve, fires to put out, and the occasional difficult person. I don’t even mind being the “token Yankee.” It’s the same work, North or South of the Mason-Dixon line. At least the telephone company gave us a common joke, the unofficial motto, “Dial Tone Is My Life.” Don’t even miss Denver much. Miss the Rockies, though.
She turned off the computer and picked up her briefcase, intending to cram it full of blueprints and papers. No. I am not taking work home this weekend. I need some time out. She grabbed up her purse and slung it over her shoulder, briefcase in her other hand.
Hallie changed into sweat pants and shirt after she got home and spent the rest of the evening lounging on the sofa, watching mindless TV. In the morning, she woke up feeling somewhat refreshed, packed a fried egg sandwich, carrots and threw in an almond poppy muffin for good measure. After adding a thermos of coffee and some bottled water, she headed for the door, car keys jingling merrily in her hand. She opened the closet by the front door to grab her jacket and noticed the duffle bag on the shelf. Guess I’d better take it--winter’s coming on--might need it. The duffle contained her emergency survival gear, sleeping bag, utility candles, waterproof matches and other necessities.
Comfortably settled behind the wheel, she began to drive aimlessly into the mountains. As she drove higher, the air became crisper. No telephone poles, houses, or traffic distracted her from the awesome views and forests. Blue and purple hills tipped with sunlight rose in the distance. The stream close to the road was alive with wood ducks and mallards. I need this-- balm for the soul.
Her imagination twisted and turned with the road. The pavement changed to dirt- dusty and lumpy. How many turns have I taken? Left or right? Am I a mite confused or lost?
She pulled over, stopped the car, and got out, stretching as she looked around. Well, if I follow this path to the top of the hill maybe I’ll get my bearings.
Hallie struggled through overgrown hedges, brambles and trees as she made her way to the top of a hill. When she broke through the brush, she was surprised to see a small cabin, barn and out buildings in the little valley below. Ramshackle. Looks like an old-timey photo. I have to go see this. She tramped down the hill toward the cabin. Feels like I’m going through a time warp--back a hundred years. Makes my scalp tingle.
Densely forested hills surrounded the cabin. No road led here, just a dim track through the undergrowth. The leaves were alive with brilliant autumn colors typical in the rural backcountry of Tennessee. In the distance, pearl and gray storm clouds began to billow. A light wind set free a kaleidoscope of orange, red and rust. Fallen leaves carpeted the damp ground giving off a pungent earthy aroma. She inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of fall.
Doesn’t look like anyone’s lived here for years. The logs and planks of the cabin had weathered to a shabby soft dove gray. Silver green and drab olive moss covered the sagging roofs. Cracked windowpanes and drunkenly tilted doors beckoned. Shadows from the trees made the cabin look cold and forbidding. Hallie shivered.
Wild rosebushes, thick with clusters of bright russet rose hips and a few ragged blossoms, filled what must have been a sizeable vegetable garden. A dilapidated wooden fence that once defined the front yard, now stood broken and forlorn. An overgrown shale path invited visitors to come and stay a while. She spotted about two dozen mold-covered empty quart jars with zinc lids nestled in the weeds. Why are the canning jars scattered around? They aren’t even broken.
A rope swing hung from an old red oak tree. The tattered ropes and gray splintered seat moved to and fro in the breeze, as though a giggling child was swinging. Nearby a small, carved doll lay forgotten and abandoned, covered by dead grass and lichen. The toy felt cold and rough in her hand, the once red color of its dress faded to pink. Some little girl lost her dolly. Did the family leave suddenly? What happened?
Weather-beaten steps led to the wretchedly drooping porch. The hand-hewn logs and doors had been placed with care and forethought. Saw marks still showed on some of the planks. Wavy panes of dirty glass dimly reflected the afternoon sunlight.
Cautiously she climbed the rickety stairs to the front porch, crossed to the partially open door, and peered into the cabin’s dim interior. She pushed gently, aware of the time worn wood under her fingers. The door creaked and groaned. This cabin seems so familiar, but why?
Her eyes adjusted to the gloom as she looked around. Dust motes swam through shafts of sunlight. Dry leaves and debris covered the silver gray, random-plank floor, crackling under her feet as she moved into the single room. The cabin wasn’t very big, about twenty-four by twenty-four feet. She noticed an iron crane still attached to the smoke-darkened fieldstone of the open fireplace. Fluttering spider webs draped from pegs imbedded in the wood above the rough mantle. Bet a rifle hung there once. To the left of the fireplace was a small rocker, fashioned from bent twigs and branches. She crunched through the leaves to the tin sink and touched the cold metal hand pump. This is stupid, but I have to try it. The handle squealed as she moved it up and down, but no water flowed. Crude, dust-covered pine shelves flanked the window above the sink. A wobbly, scarred wooden table and three chairs sat between the fireplace and the sink. Wild animals had come in through the open door, leaving droppings and deserted nests as evidence of their passing. Dust and cobwebs prevailed. Suddenly, the wind picked up and began to howl and whine through the open door, cracked windows and chinking. The leaves and dust stirred and swirled. Fading sunlight made broken patterns of dancing shadows on the walls. Outside, an owl screeched. Hallie shivered again.
In the corner by the front door was a steep narrow staircase, just a hair away from being a ladder. She walked over to it and looked up. Can’t help it--I’m nosey. Sliding her hands along the rough wall, she crept upward. The wooden treads complained under her weight.
Her eyes were drawn to a rusted, black iron, double bedstead near the fieldstone chimney. It was made up with old woolen blankets and topped with a worn pieced quilt, its colors faded with time and washing. Rodents and moths had chewed much of the wedding ring design of the quilt. A cradle stood close to the bed. It appeared to be oak, the headboard decorated with hand-carved flowers. It, too, was made up and waiting. She kept her baby close to her. Must have been the baby’s doll I found in the front yard. What happened to these folks? Why did they leave their belongings? As Hallie moved closer to the beds, she caught herself tiptoeing. What? Like I’m going to disturb someone? Obviously, pack rats visited regularly, leaving bits of twigs, string and pinecones in the cradle.
A wooden folding screen with a faded oriental design and chipped black paint stood on the other side of the bed. In front of the screen was an old wooden trunk with leather straps. An old-fashioned dress hung on a rusty metal coat hanger from the top of the screen. The dress, faded navy blue cotton with a flowered pattern, was reminiscent of the late 1930s or early 1940s. As Hallie held the soft fabric in her hands, the hair on the back of her neck stood up. Where is she? Why didn’t she come back?
She knelt down in front of the trunk. Cautiously, she lifted the lid and saw neatly folded, yellowed linens and tiny baby clothes. The musty smell of mildew filled her nostrils. She picked up a baby bonnet, lavished with lace, and felt another frisson shoot up her back. Gently she replaced it and closed the lid, aware of the terrible silence.
Shouldn’t be prying into someone’s personal belongings. Their home. I feel like I’m being watched. An image of a slender young woman flashed through Hallie’s mind. The woman’s long black hair curled over her shoulder, hands outstretched as though beseeching Hallie to understand, listen, comfort. Her deep violet eyes were misty with sorrow.
This
is too weird! Now I’m hallucinating. Turning, she ran toward
the stairs, tumbling halfway down, banging against the rough steps
and wall. After ricocheting
through the doorframe, she jumped off the front porch into the
yard.
Gradually her breathing slowed as she mentally shook herself
and tucked away the fear. Gotta be a logical explanation.
Okay, now let’s go see the outbuildings. She headed toward a shed and went in. She pushed away the accumulation of years of leaves and dirt and ran her long fingers over the smooth concave surface of a butcher’s block. Woodworking tools, old harnesses white from sweat, horse collars, hames and garden equipment hung on the walls. The building smelled of musty leather. A lantern, covered with spider webs, waited to be lit. Abandoned bird nests sheltered in the rafters and among the hanging gear. In some way, the smell of leather and the old tools comforted her.
She walked to the barn through tall weeds laced with an abundance of yellow and orange wild flowers. Her arm scraped along the rough surface as she went through the open barn door. Several strands of dull brown horsehair, caught in a sliver of wood, moved slowly in the breeze. Inside, she could almost smell the fragrance of sweaty horses. The manger housed a colony of shrew’s nests. A pitchfork leaned against the wall readily available for tossing more hay from the loft. The hoist pulleys were rusted, the timbers and ropes rotting. Through a smaller door was a forge, still intact, although the leather bellows had been chewed to pieces. Rust was attacking anything made of iron, horseshoes, nails and the anvil. This place would make an antique hound swoon.
After leaving the barn, she followed a faint trail to the smokehouse and poked her head through the open door. Although unused, the smokehouse still held the sweet smell of hickory. Continuing on the trail, Hallie came to an old springhouse surrounded by willows. The spring water bubbled up crystal clear and cold through the rocks. Juncos and sparrows played tag at the water’s edge, chirping and wheeling in short flight.
Several yards away was the root cellar. She lifted the gray cellar door, stooped down and looked in. The stairs were rotting and broken. A heady fragrance of tangy apples and earthy potatoes wafted up from the empty cellar. Hallie inhaled deeply as unknown memories stirred in her mind. Stairs look too dangerous, better not go in. Hefty fieldstone had kept burrowing critters from destroying the family’s cache. She closed the door and moved on.
She glanced around, spotted part of a picket fence on top of the hill overlooking the cabin, and decided to go look. The wind blew through the tall weeds and purple thistles, tossing them about like waves on an ocean. I smell rain in the air. As she approached the fence, she realized it enclosed the family cemetery. After easing through the sagging gate, she took a closer look. Most of the markers were unadorned wooden crosses, inscriptions worn away with time and weather. They were simple, no angels or flowers carved on them. Nestled beneath the trees was a high backed, hand-hewn bench, a place for the living to rest while visiting the dead. It, too, was the color of silver and embellished with soft green moss. Wild flowers bobbed their heads in rhythm over the graves, giving a final benediction of peace. The leaves on the poplars sighed in agreement.
She meandered beyond the cemetery through dry waist-high weeds toward an orchard. Her movement flushed a covey of Bobwhites into flight, their wings swooshing through the air. She stopped near some downed pine trees and watched a stately buck eating fallen fruit under a gnarly apple tree. She heard the crunching as he ate and saw the juice falling from his mouth in silver strings. The velvet on his large rack shone softly in the sunlight. He didn’t notice her until she stepped on a twig. Alerted, he snorted and bounded away through the underbrush, white tail flashing. Quarrelsome red cardinals flitted among the trees and bushes. Chattering squirrels scolded her for disturbing their peaceful afternoon.
She gazed down a long green valley studded with pools of red, orange, bright yellow and subtle gold and rust. Gauzy, gray clouds were thickening around the high hills. They danced and swirled like old women’s raggedy skirts. Without her noticing, dark rain clouds had formed overhead. Suddenly, the rain began pelting her, a rude reminder that she was far from any shelter. Hallie ran down the hill, wind and rain pushing her toward the cabin. Thunder boomed overhead, whips of lightning cracked too near. Maybe the spirits are chasing me.
That’s odd. Just minutes ago I wanted to be away from the cabin, now I’m running to it. She was soaked to the skin and cold by the time she reached the door. Finding dry twigs and some small pieces of wood stacked next to the porch she took some inside. Sure hope the fireplace still works. Since I’m already wet, I might as well dash to the car and grab my duffle bag, lunch and thermos.
Hallie trotted and slogged up the hill, grabbed her stuff and slipped and slid back down to the cabin. She bullied the door shut. Breathless, she dripped across the floor to the fireplace then tested the draw by holding a burning twig under the chimney flu. It actually works! Hurrah. Soon a small, cheery fire was burning brightly. Pulling the rocker close to the fire, she drank the hot coffee, ate the fried egg sandwich, carrot sticks and almond poppy muffin. What a day! Got more ‘autumn glory’ than I bargained for. Outside the storm raged but the cabin was surprisingly warm. Firelight flickered across the walls and gave the cabin a soft cozy feeling. She realized she wasn’t afraid or upset anymore, just tired. I don’t want to drive back to town in the rain. I’ll just curl up on the floor in front of the fire and spend the night here, after I brush away the leaves. Good thing my sleeping bag is in the duffle. Better bring in more wood.
As she got up to bring in more wood, she stumbled over her shoelace, falling sideways into the rock fireplace. Her arm flung out to break the fall, hand smacking a loose rock under the mantle. Why is this rock so loose? More interested in the rock than fetching the wood, she tugged and wiggled it gently. The rock slid into her hands. Her curiosity got the better of her and she had to look into the hole. Old stories of hidden treasures flitted through her mind. Is that metal in there? She grabbed a candle, lit it and held it close. Sure don’t want to stick my hand into the unknown. Spiders! Yuk! The flickering light revealed a small black box trimmed with what looked like silver. It came out easily. I probably shouldn’t do this but I have to see what’s inside the box.
To be continued in the Fall issue of Appalachian Heritage