What does it mean
to be a Christian
when the God you know and love
takes a child you know and love?
When He takes
your child
your baby
your most
beloved
belonging?
Archive for life after death
When God Takes A Child
Posted in Christianity, poetry with tags children, Eternal Life, God, Heaven, life after death, When God takes a child on May 15, 2011 by Uncle TreeThe Hanging Tree Of Bedlam: Second Coming
Posted in short stories with tags fairy tales, haunted trees, life after death, Purgatory, scared to death, scary stories on October 28, 2010 by Uncle Tree
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On the southern edge of Bedlam, back in 1869, stood a tall old oak tree. Its fame and glory stemmed from the fact that it had been host to a multitude of hangings. Conveniently located, it lived and grew beside the road that ran to the river. This highly prominent tree was used with regularity by enforcers of the law who wished to see justice carried out to its fullest measure. The town’s large graveyard lay just beyond the tree, which only helped increase the oak’s popularity. Having a cemetery nearby quickened the entire procedure, for little time need be wasted between the drop and the burial.
Hanging On: Twenty Eight
Posted in short stories with tags bedlam, choiceless awareness, coming back to life, crazy dreams, death by hanging, dreamers, ghosts, hanging out in trees, haunted towns, life after death, marching bands, oak trees, preachers, rising from the grave, square dancing, totem poles on January 12, 2010 by Uncle TreeMark’s Dream: Part Two
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Captivated by the ongoing scene in front of him, and imprisoned behind the dreamy eyes that were free to fly to and fro as they wished, Mark’s choiceless awareness floated along in flight, and made a beeline for the dancers. In the short amount of time that it takes to blink your eye, Mark recognized the men. Sure enough, it was Sam and the guys, the guys who had formed the posse. They were dressed exactly as they were when last he’d seen them, except for now they weren’t all wet, and their miserable expressions had disappeared completely. The men were quick on their feet as they took their steps in time. They were wearing joyful smiles, and looking happier than hell. The six ladies in the circle seemed vaguely familiar. (He didn’t know why at the time, but he would come to find out later on. The reason he thought he’d seen them somewhere before was because they were the girls he knew from the saloon.) The women were traditionally dressed in style for the dance, wearing full-bloomed skirts and fancy petticoats. Cheerful in their merriment, they certainly seemed to be enjoying the occasion.
Through perfect eyes that never once blinked, Mark watched as the view receded from the dancing scene. Once the musicians were in sight, his movable lookout station smoothly came to a stop, and turned just enough to put the group front and center. Twelve elegantly dressed, beautiful ladies made up the band. (Mark was not familiar in the least with any one of them.) These dozen women wore long white gowns, delicately trimmed in lace. Their chairs were arranged in a semi-circle that curved away from the crowd. Two harps were being masterly strummed at the ends of the line. Over on the left, four violinists were swiftly drawing their bows. Across from them were four speedy cellists adding harmony to the tune. And lastly, in the middle, sat two banjo pickers dueling it out with graceful gusto.
Once those eyes of his had had their fill of that fun scene, Mark was sucked clear back to his original position in the tree. Immediately after that his focus turned left, and set it’s gaze on the little town of Bedlam. It was no longer as small as he remembered it to be. The town was overflowing with spectators, Mark could tell that much from the tree. But the eyes wanted to see more, so off they went, flying as the crow flies. (The distance between Mark and the ground always remained the same, 20 feet up in the air, or so he said.) When they’d made it as far as the first house on his left, the eyes eased their speed until they came to a halt. Teams of happy folk crowded both sides of the road. Some of younger adults were waving colorful banners on a pole, and a couple of old men were hoisting America’s flag way up high. The celebration was being enhanced by some kind of marching band. They were traipsing up the road in Mark’s direction. Waiting patiently to see what the fuss was all about, the eyes hovered in place.
The leader of the band was dressed in white from head to toe. All the men behind him were dressed much the same way, but their formal attire was entirely black. The contrast was staggering, but the keen eyes kept their focus. The frontman played a silver flute that glittered in the sun. His white polished shoes were brilliantly spotless. He wore a long tailcoat, and a little white bow sat tied over his throat. High-stepping his way down the middle of the road, he looked to be quite jolly nodding his head from shoulder to shoulder as he piped his tune into the air. The eyes wished to see this figurehead up close, so they took off once again, and hovered in front of him, keeping a distance of ten feet between themselves and the man by slowly backing away. In remembrance of the past, Mark found himself to be in the act of recognition. The leader was none other than the cruelly murdered preacher man. He appeared to be having the time of his life. Alive and well, and still in his prime, the pastor was hitting his stride to perfection. Satisfactorily pleased by Mark’s acknowledgment of the familiar character, the eyes began to scan the clan beyond him.
Marching behind their leader in a strict formation was a percussion band of a hundred men in ten rows of ten. Each hatless man had a wood-sided drum strapped around his neck that hung waist high. Seemingly oblivious to the folks cheering them on, they stared straight ahead with a stern look on their faces. Holding a drumstick in each hand, they alternated the beat with one strike between each of their steps. They were identically dressed in black tuxedos and black, shiny boots. But they weren’t entirely clothed in black as they had first appeared to Mark. Now that he was up close he could see that their bow ties were made out of thin cords of rope. The observant eyes paused for a moment, and waited for him to put two and two together. He didn’t get the picture right away, so the eyes allowed the witness to further examine the faces of the men in the first two rows. Mark thought they all looked vaguely familiar, but he didn’t know the reason why quite yet, so those eyes pulled him back to his hangout spot in the tree. Without the slightest hesitation, the eyes started pivoting to his right. From Bedlam to the picnic gathering, the gaze continued to move southward on across the fertile land. It didn’t stop and set it’s sight until Mark was able to grasp a complete view of the graveyard scene. Dwelling in the unfathomable depths of a dream as he was, Mark wasn’t about to be easily startled from sleep by this ongoing stretch of his active imagination.
Mark told Matt that his first impression of the scene was picturesquely magnificent. The haven of the dead had been transformed into a garden grandeur of life. The graves had been replaced by a hundred beds of blooming red roses neatly arranged in ten spacious rows. The drab slabs of engraved stone that previously marked the graves were gone. Standing in their stead at the head of each bed were open books. Their lily-white pages were flapping back and forth in the breeze. These books were all about four feet tall, and the pages were purely empty. Here and there and in between, little white bunnies could be seen hopping over and around the living beds. There were also a lot of red robins bopping about. Taking low short flights in a willy-nilly manner, they searched the surrounding lawns, and pecked at the ground in hunger for worms.
A tall totem pole stood erect in the midst of the rose beds. Skillfully adorned with a traditional variety of carvings, it ran straight as a rail from the ground on up for the first twenty feet. From that point on to the top, which was another ten feet beyond the last carved face, the narrowing pole was noticeably bent, and the bark was still intact. According to Mark, there was one thing especially odd about this pole. Several newly-formed sprigs shot forth from the very tip, as if somehow or another, it was still alive and growing. Having seen that unlikely combination, Mark’s memory drew from it’s store of resources, and offered him a clue as to the pole’s origin. Once Mark became conscious of the freely given clue, he automatically thought, “This pole was made from the lowest limb of the hanging tree.” That was all the eyes needed to hear. The focus point then fell from the very tip top on down to the bottom.
Sitting cross-legged on the ground at the base of the pole was an Indian chief. He was typically dressed in leather clothing strewn with beads, and a long eagle-feathered warbonnet sat on his head. The decorated elder had a small hand drum on his lap, but he wasn’t beating on it at the time. Mark could tell by the solemn expression on his face that he was either meditating on something highly important, or patiently waiting for the rest of the party to arrive. A little ways away from the chief, and standing directly in front of one of the books was a frail old lady flipping through the blank pages. She had her back to Mark, so he never did see her face. She wore a tattered grey dress and a pair of brown, laced boots.
The Hanging Tree Of Bedlam
Posted in short stories with tags consciousness, demons, exorcisms, haunted trees, life after death, Purgatory, scary stories, westerns on November 22, 2009 by Uncle Tree*
On the southern edge of Bedlam, back in 1869, stood a tall old oak tree. It’s fame and glory stemmed from the fact that it had been host to a multitude of hangings. Conveniently located, it lived and grew beside the road that ran to the river. This highly prominent tree was used with regularity by enforcers of the law who wished to see justice carried out to its fullest measure. The town’s large graveyard lay just beyond the tree, which only helped increase the oak’s popularity. Having a cemetery nearby quickened the entire procedure, for little time need be wasted between the drop and the burial.
In the year in which our story took place, the mighty oak was about 75-80 years old. Its height was estimated at 70 feet. As seen from afar, the crown appeared irregular in shape. In its asymmetrical pose, it leaned to the east, enabling itself to hang a few branches over and across the dirt road. These wickedly crafted branches shot forth from the tree’s most distinguishing feature, its lowest limb. This skinny, but sturdy limb jutted straight out from the trunk, whereas the rest of the limbs above it reached for the sky. Perpendicular to the trunk, it gave the tree a peculiar look. It reminded the folks of a flagpole in the way that it thrust itself out from the main. Being only 10 feet above the ground, it provided a means for the simple task of tying a rope. Positioned 8 feet from the trunk, two side by side branches shot up from the limb forming a V-shape. In the middle of these two branches lay a well-worn ring where the bark had been rubbed away, the scars of its labor having been caused by the frequency of its usage.
All throughout it’s long and storied history, this grand and stately tree had been fortunate in the fact that it had never succumbed to disease, nor had it ever been home to pesky insect infestations. Luckily for the tree, lightning strikes had let it be, whilst they struck and mangled many an other in its general vicinity. Natural disasters had left it alone. In their season of cranky moods, the fierce and usually unrelenting tornadoes had steered clear of its steadfast location every time they appeared in the area. Because of its good fortune, the tree had stayed intact. Except for the leaves that it dropped in the fall, along with a few small twigs that it lost here and there, now and then, the tree had retained all the parts it had grown up with. Perfect, whole, and complete, the oak had remained immaculate in its formation, having lived out its entire life in multi-dimensional tranquility.
We can hardly blame that old tree for its bad reputation. It had done nothing to deserve it. It wasn’t able to understand man and his ways. Absolutely, it had always acted as it should, in an appropriate manner, natural and common to its kind. Except for those times when men would come to swing on its limb, people shied away from it, especially at night, whilst all the rest of God’s creatures treated it with dignity and respect. Folks said the big oak was haunted. “Home to a hundred killer’s souls, or more…”, but the tree didn’t kill them. Quite to the contrary, it took and accepted those men’s souls unto itself. The tree didn’t know how, or why it did that type of thing, it just did. It thought all the trees around there were able to do it, and would act in the same way under similar circumstances, if given the opportunity. As far as the old oak was concerned, that’s what trees were for, that was their reason for living. From its very beginnings, this big, humble tree had maintained a neutral stance of equanimity, thus placing itself in the highest degree of servitude for the sake of mankind. It lived an amoral life. It could not judge between right and wrong. It had no such knowledge. It made no distinctions between the two. Time and time again, the souls of the innocent and the guilty alike were welcomed into its inner sanctum.
Hanging On: Chapter Seventeen
Posted in short stories with tags bedlam, curses, death by hanging, ghost towns, haunted trees, ice storms, life after death, manhood, manhunts, mumbo jumbo, murder mysteries, old-fashioned, posses, scary stories, slippery slopes, tough guys, valor, westerns, whiskey, wild west on November 21, 2009 by Uncle TreeStunned into a state of shock such as they’d never before experienced, the men turned around and headed for fresh, clean air. With puzzled faces and mixed emotions, the posse proceeded to clear the area. Each and every man had their own set of questions. These questions pertained to meaning, intent, and purpose. Most of the men perceived the whole otherworldly ceremony as a sick, gross joke. The bastard had lost his mind and gone berserk. Simple as that. Nothing more needed to be said. He was a menace to society, and beyond help. It was their job to catch the murderer. He must pay for his crimes, and he would pay with his life. The penalty was death. There could be no compromise. Sure they had misgivings, but that bloody crazy act did not increase their fears of going after this man and carrying out their duty. Curses and spells and such belonged in fairy tales. They had no place in the minds of grown men.
Mark, the youngest of the bunch, was raised to believe differently from these men, although he wished he would soon ‘grow out of it’. He was old-fashioned. He had yet to shake off the aftereffects of his upbringing, which included all that ‘mumbo jumbo’ in The Bible that he used to believe wholeheartedly. For the most part, he denied the fact that he still retained a part of that imaginative belief system. Yes, even though he knew it wasn’t his fault, nor was it something he willfully chose to put his faith in, nevertheless, he berated and condemned himself for ever having believed it in the first place. Concerning these matters, Mark wasn’t about to fess up to his brethren. No, not hardly.
Because of Mark’s long-held beliefs, and because of what he had just seen back there, he was inclined to view the murderer as an evil villain, not as someone who was insane. He saw him as a purpose-driven man who knew exactly what he was doing. Mark’s question as he exited the cave came down to this: Was it really possible for a man to be possessed by evil spirits? He’d never before come into contact, or personally confronted a man who’d been labeled as such, so he didn’t really know if he believed it or not. He couldn’t rule it out, and this troubled him greatly. Mark left the question open, and since he had done that, he alone out of the group was leery of the pursuit. Mark thought himself a man, and he was ‘toughing it out’. He kept his fears tucked away, and hidden from his cohorts. Mark admired the way Sam took charge. In the past, when he had tried to ‘talk tough’, no one took him seriously, so he doubted his own meritorious valor. Some young men believe they have to prove themselves. Mark had more to prove than all the others, so as soon as they were out of that hell hole, Mark volunteered himself to be the man who would make his way to the top. “Okay, kid.” Sam relented. “Just be careful. Here, take this lantern, but don’t drop it. It’s breakable.” Mark was more than thrilled, and he took the slippery slope to task.
In a silent procession, Sam led the rest of his men back down to planet Earth. The rain on the ground had now turned to slush. The footing was pretty slick, and it was still sprinkling a bit, but they managed alright, as did Mark. By the time they’d reached their horses, Mark had already found the murderer’s muddy tracks. He crept towards the precipice and shouted, “He was here! He headed east!” Sam yelled back, “Okay! Now get on down here!” It was going on about ten o’clock by that time. Sam walked to his horse, and opened up the saddlebag once again, pulling out more deer jerky. It would give him strength, or so he concluded. He passed it around to his men, and put some aside for Mark. Then he went back to his saddle, and broke out a bottle of whiskey. “Something to calm my nerves would be good right now.” That was one of his reasons for bringing it. Those men were part and parcel for his other reason. “A little ‘courage in a bottle’ won’t do them any harm, and it’ll help them get up the gumption for the chase.” Sam had himself a couple of swigs and passed it around. About that time, Mark showed up happier than hell to have accomplished his daring feat, and Sam said nothing. Sam already knew Mark didn’t drink the stuff, so he went back and grabbed his canteen of water. He handed it to Mark, along with his share of jerky, and took the lantern from his hand. Then Sam addressed the whole gang, “What do you say boys? Are you ready for this?” Cries rang out all at once. “Hell, yes!” “You bet we are!” “Damn right!” Mark swallowed real quick and joined in late, “Let’s go get that sonuvabitch!” That’s exactly what Sam wanted to hear.
“Mount up, men! If I remember correctly, just around the bend of the river there’s a place where we can get up to the top of the cliff, so follow me, and let’s ride!” Now hanging from their saddles, and from their horse’s manes were icicles just beginning to find their form. The horses also seemed ready to vacate the place, and happily obliged the call to giddy-up and go.
Sam’s memory served them well, and they did find their way to higher ground. The murderer’s embedded prints were found, and they followed his muddy tracks along the trail less traveled. Sam felt like death warmed over, even though he was colder than hell. After a short jaunt, he took to an easier pace. He wasn’t in that big of a hurry, because he was still of a mind to call off the chase once they’d reached the road that would take them back to the river, and from there to Bedlam and beyond. “That man has surely headed off to Mexico, if he has any sense left at all,” Sam figured, and he wasn’t ready, willing, nor able to pursue the criminal to God knows where. He didn’t believe these cowboys would mind, nor would they scoff at his preordained decision. Sam thought they were mostly in it for the money, and mostly he was correct in that assumption. I say mostly because…Mark still had something to prove. He was more than willing and ready to go to the ends of the earth, if only Sam were to ask that of him.
One totally miserable half-hour later, the posse arrived at the main road, and found themselves in the grips of indecision. The murderer’s tracks not only went south, but they were going to the north as well. It looked as if that vicious killer couldn’t make up his mind, either. The men had never actually seen Sam confused up until that moment. He loudly threw his question up for grabs, “Why in the hell did he hesitate?” Without waiting for an answer, he rode south a little ways. “They stop right here.” Mark turned his horse and walked to the north for about 20 yards. “They stop here, too. Hold on a second!” Mark took a closer look, and walked to the side of the road. “He got off here and went that way,” he said as he pointed in an easterly direction. “Let me see how far these go.” Mark followed the tracks for just a short ways, turned to the left and went another 20 yards before seeing, and thus realizing, the man’s directed intentions. “Oh, my God! Sam! He’s headed north, back towards town!”
Hanging On: Chapter Thirteen
Posted in short stories with tags acting, bedlam, bosses, cowboys, death by hanging, full moons, hanging trees, hunches, legends, life after death, loyalty, malarkey, manhunts, murder mysteries, myths, near-death experiences, peers, personas, posses, Purgatory, reputations, scary stories on November 12, 2009 by Uncle TreeSam couldn’t help but to stop and reminisce once they’d reached the hanging tree. It had been seven or eight years since the last time he’d been party to a posse. He’d had his first brush with death towards the end of that ordeal. A bullet had gone clean through his hat, missing his scalp by a mere two inches. It was one of those memories that are impossible to forget. The kind that often come to mind at the most inopportune of moments. Of course, he’d heard the stories going the rounds, but he didn’t believe them for a minute. Sam was too ‘down to earth’ to entertain ideas that pertained to ghosts, or hauntings. “A bunch of malarkey,” according to him. He rather viewed the big oak as a landmark. It was the only one of its kind in the area, and stuck out like a sore thumb. When he dropped Luke’s rope down beside it, he explained to the men, “It’s weight is slowing me down. We may be in for a long ride.” That’s all he said. His men had to be wondering about that excuse, and we can imagine they thought he really did mean to hang the fugitive if they caught him, but they kept their mouths shut.
They’d all heard the reason he gave Luke for needing the rope. They thought that Sam had had a change of mind and plans from when he’d first questioned the Deputy. Perhaps, he’d come to his senses, they thought. None of his men really wanted to participate in a murder, and risk going to jail, or worse. They didn’t know what to think about Sam’s latest action. They didn’t know if they could take him at his word, although they wished to. Their job was their life, and it was in his hands. The men kept their reservations to themselves. Second-guessing Sam was never a good idea. It didn’t matter now anyway, Sam was already second-guessing himself. The winds of change were making themselves known.
Let me tell you about Sam. To begin with, he was a large man. He stood over six feet tall, and weighed somewheres around two hundred and fifty pounds. A good decade past his prime, he was to turn fifty years of age that coming December. He’d never been married, although he claimed to have once been ‘in love’. He wanted to go West, and she didn’t. End of story. When he was ‘in the mood’ for romance, which wasn’t all that often, he’d visit a lady friend who kept a room on the saloon’s second floor. Sam had never known his father. He’d abandoned his mother when he was but a wee tot. Sam regretted the way it had all gone down when he left his mother back in St. Louis. He was thirty years old at the time. It wasn’t a good parting. He gave her one of those, “Woman, what have I to do with thee?” kind of things. She died of consumption before he’d procured the means to make his first return trip back home.
Sam was known to have been a rambunctious self-made man. He also knew the value of saving money. He was finally able to buy that dream ranch of his, and did so during the year of 1864. Sam was reliable, trustworthy, and loyal. He demanded those traits from his hired-hands, and for the most part, he received it. He wasn’t afraid to act on a hunch. Sam thought he knew where he might find the murderer, or at least pick up his trail, and that’s where they were headed. His was an educated guess. In the past, bank robbers, horse thieves, and other hardened criminal types were known to have hid themselves out in a small cave not too far on past the river. Sam had been there before on his previous posse mission. The way Sam figured it, if the stranger wasn’t there, and they saw no sign of his tracks, then he was probably headed to Mexico, and that’d be the end of the chase. “We did the best we could.” He imagined himself saying that to everyone. Nothing more would need to be said in the way of a justification.
Of course, everyone has fears, and Sam was no exception. He had his own private insecurities, but he never spoke of them, and would never have admitted them out loud. More than death itself, Sam feared losing the powers of his two-armed beast. One of those arms represented his position in society. Sam loved his hard earned success. He loved what he’d made of himself, and his ranch gave him the means to do good business. He had hoped to make a fortune from the land, and he was well on his way to doing just that. So, you shouldn’t be surprised to hear — Sam loved his money more than he loved speedy justice. Oh, he wanted to hang that sonuvabitch! Please, don’t get me wrong. The thing was…Sam had a business deal scheduled for Tuesday. He only had two days to play with, and then he’d have to be back. He didn’t want to miss that meeting for anything. Oh sure, he thought catching the bad guy was a ‘good idea’, but it wasn’t paramount. Not in his book, anyway. And his book was the one of financial security. Sam was somewhat content, but he thought he could handle more. He was sorely afraid of becoming poor and destitute somewheres on down the road.
The other arm of this fearful beast was the arm of physical prowess. Sam had been big and strong since he’d turned 18. He’d made a habit out of playing the ‘tough guy’. Men feared his very presence, and that bought him a peculiar type of respect. He could push people around without laying one finger on them. That’s the way he liked it, and that’s the way he wanted it. It provided him with an odd sort of happiness. Sam wasn’t ready to give up that respect. He wanted to retain his reputation. He was still a ‘bad ass’. This characterization gave him a heightened sense of self-esteem, and made him feel important. Intellectually, he knew it couldn’t last forever. His power of strength would slowly fade away someday, and he was just beginning to realize the nearness of that stage.
Sam had never necessarily intended on breaking the law. He couldn’t afford to. This excursion, and his role in it as the ‘leader of the pack’? That was his game. That was his hype. He was putting on a show, and Sam was a well-polished actor. He’d had lots of practice perfecting his — ‘Don’t mess with me!’ — persona. Sam could act genuinely outraged, and angrier than hell, when in all actuality, he wasn’t mad in the least. He put on a display, and assumed the posture of authority, which in turn acted as a deterrent, and an efficient one at that. Now that Sam and his men had been put on the side of the law, their choices as to what they could do were limited. If indeed they did end up catching the murderer, they’d have to bring him back alive, or kill him in self-defense. That was their only other choice, but it would work all the same. It was a plausible possibility. Most importantly, it could be carried out in complete compliance with the law of the land. Sam had enough witnesses to back up his story, if that’s how it all came down. He was ready and able to do just that, and prepared himself accordingly.
Hanging On: Chapter Six
Posted in short stories with tags bedlam, death by hanging, devils, evil, fool moons, ghost towns, Halloween, hauntings, justice, life after death, murder, Purgatory, scary stories, superstitions, the gold rush on October 31, 2009 by Uncle TreeFortunately for Luke, his second cry for help was heard. A couple of men he knew from his neighborhood heeded his call. They came running over to give aid if they could. Upon arriving they could see that they had probably gotten there too late. The men found the children kneeling between their dear mother and older brother. “Oh, my! What happened?” asked the elder of the two men. The ladies shortly filled them in. The more nervous of the two women said, “Luke went around the back. No more than two minutes ago or so. Hurry on and go help the poor man! Will ya?” Then the little girl spoke out earnestly, “Daddy’s in there, too!” By now she was thoroughly shaking and trembling in her fright. The boy seemed to be taking it all in pretty well, given the circumstances, but he was obviously fighting back the tears, and trying to act like a big boy.
The men dashed on and away to the back. They could tell that the fire had reached its peak, and weren’t sure if they’d go in there or not for any reason. It was a death trap. That much was for certain. No one in there could be alive. Luckily for them, they were too late, and didn’t have to make the choice. They found an unconscious Luke lying on his belly, way too close to danger. No sight of the pastor anywhere. The full moon was bright up above them that night, and they could plainly see the blood on the palms of both his hands, and on his pants from the knees on down. By the looks of him they could tell he’d just come out from inside the place. Seeing him there like that scared the living daylights out of the two of them, and they feared the worst. “Luke! Luke! Wake up!” Each of the men grabbed an arm. They lifted him halfway off the ground, and started dragging him away to safety.
Next thing Luke knows, two men are pulling him along on the ground. He starts coughing and gagging again. “It’s alright, Luke! We got you,” said the young man fervently. “Are you alright?” Groggy and delirious Luke replies in a rough and barely audible voice, “Preacher man…in there…gotta get ‘em out.” The older man firmly tells him, “It’s no use, Luke. It’s too late. You’re lucky to have made it out alive. No one’s going in there now. I won’t allow it. It’s over. You did all you could. Those two kids out front are alive because of you. Thank God for that!” To the younger one he says, “This man needs a drink. Go get him some water. Pronto!”
October 31st, 1869
Luke wakes up in bed the next morning after a restless night’s sleep. Every move he’d made during his ‘rescue mission’ kept flashing through his mind in off sequence bits and pieces. He began to ponder over the stranger. What his motive for committing such a horrendously bloody murder might have been, he couldn’t say. Then it occurred to Luke that he didn’t have to tell everyone about everything he had seen. He thought, “Wasn’t it enough that the pastor’s throat had been slit? Why put their kids through all that senseless rigmarole? What difference does it make anyway?” He knew he’d have to go visit the deputy that day. Luke’s conscience notified him of the fact that he was now considering keeping this terrible secret all to himself. His own mirror suggested to him that it might not be a good idea, and that it would be something he’d often remember, all the rest of his life. Deep down in his soul, Luke knew he’d make the right choice when the timely moment of decision presented itself.
Hanging On: Chapter Five
Posted in short stories with tags bedlam, death by hanging, devils, evil, full moons, ghost towns, Halloween, hauntings, justice, life after death, murder, Purgatory, scary stories, superstitions, the gold rush on October 31, 2009 by Uncle TreeLuke wasn’t about to rush into the fire ill-prepared. Though he needed to preserve his strength, there was something above and beyond that, and that was his life. He wasn’t ready to make that kind of sacrifice for another. He couldn’t afford to lose his neck over this. He had to be cautious, and no buts about it. He had a wife and kids at home who needed him…who loved him. As he trotted slowly towards the back of the now defunct church, towards this place that was built for the sole purpose of worshiping God, Luke knew he had to make it back out alive. He simply had to. That was his first priority. “The pastor might not be in there anyway.” Yes, for a moment our hero fancied that the preacher man wasn’t in the inferno at all, but that hope was short-lived.
A few steps later, Luke was struck by the sight of this ongoing blaze. His perception finally led him to think, “I have to be stupid to be doing this.” At that exact moment, his memory brought up a good point. It allowed him to remember the last time he’d used that word. It was when he’d called the stranger ‘stupid’ for leaving town that very night. “Oh, my God! Did he start this? Why would he do such a thing? He wasn’t even running away.” But he’d made it around to the back by now, and he hadn’t the time to question himself. As Luke stood right there in front of the door, his fears came to the surface once again.
He paused for a moment of reflection, and thought it would be best to put forth an earnest plea to God Almighty, even though he was more than a little upset with Him and His Will. He sighed, and shook a bowed head, “It’s all stupid.” But Luke was a man of habit, so he stuck to his guns and prayed out loud, “Lord, have mercy on me.” Then silently he added, “After all…this is your house!” Luke had been led into temptation, but this was no time to argue, and he took a breath as deep as he could to ready and steady himself.
Not wishing to waste any more precious seconds, Luke kicked the door with the bottom of his boot smack-dab beside the handle. It flew open. He ducked and covered his head with his arms as the smoke and heat rushed out. Two seconds later he opened his eyes, and peered into the building. He didn’t like what he saw. The light from the flames could dimly be seen flickering here and there. He couldn’t make anything out, except for the floor at his feet. He got down on his hands and knees and crawled through the doorway. “Hello? Hello? Anybody in there?” But no answer came forth. He wasn’t surprised. Luke visualized the last time he’d been in the church. He remembered that there was a low platform not far from where he was right then. A piano and a pulpit were the only things on it. He’d seen and heard the pastor in there a couple of days before, rehearsing his first sermon. Luke then aimed himself for center stage.
The wooden floors had begun to absorb the heat, and felt warm on his hands. Creeping along quickly, Luke soon reached the platform. He got himself up on it and continued on anxiously. Barreling ahead, he suddenly ran his shoulder into the piano. “Almost there.” He slowed down in order to see better, but the dark grey smoke was thickening fast. Using both hands, he reached and searched around on the floor as he moved along. Just a little further on he touched something hard. “Ah, here it is.” Luke stuck his right arm out in front of him, and waved it back and forth, afraid of what he might touch next. He was hectically zigzagging here and there when his left hand felt a cool wetness. He looked down at a puddle of blood. Instantly Luke became dizzy and felt even more nauseous. His right hand reflexively covered his mouth, as he stared aghast at the other hand and gagged. In a fit of determination, he willed himself to move and follow the dark red trail. A second later he found what he was looking for, but it was worse than he expected. He blinked and squinted to get a better view, hoping his eyes had deceived him. No such luck. The pastor’s throat had been slit. He lay there on his back with both arms straight out to the sides. His shirt had been ripped open, and there was a large gash at the bottom of his rib cage on the left side. It was a deep, wide, gory open wound. It appeared to Luke as if someone had taken a knife and cut out his heart. But he couldn’t make himself believe it. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would ever do such a thing, and he made himself ignore the very thought of it. The silver cross that the pastor wore at all times was still around his neck, hanging off to the side. Blood continued to flow from his throat, and on down the chain. Drip after drip, it dropped from the cross and onto the killing floor. Luke was stunned! His own heart skipped a beat. The cruelty behind the whole horrid scene became too much for Luke to bear. Tears of grief streamed down his cheeks from his burning, inflamed eyes, blurring his vision. Luke convulsively shivered and shook from his head down to his toes. He turned his head to the side and vomited, adding the contents of his stomach to the gross pool of blood. He felt the nearness of death in his own person, and he knew he had to act quickly.
His first thought was to grab the still warm corpse by the feet and drag it out. He could leave it behind the church, so the children wouldn’t have to see this gruesome sight, a sight they’d surely remember for the rest of their lives. With an abrupt realization, Luke felt that his heart was beating at too rapid of a pace, and he found himself gasping for air right then and there. All the symptoms of asphyxiation were settling into his system. He had to get out, and get out now before he fainted. That much he knew. He looked around at the flames of destruction in order to size up the situation, to see if he could buy himself a little more time. In his current state of confusion, he concluded that he did. He’d leave the body there for now, and come back for it as soon as he’d recovered a bit. Begrudgingly, he turned himself around and began crawling towards the exit. Luke was fast losing his strength. It took everything he had to close the distance between himself and the door.
He’d barely made it through the door when his strength gave way. He collapsed to the ground, and lay there on his stomach. His head was throbbing in pain, and his clothes were soaked in sweat. “I’ll go back in in a minute…need a few seconds…need to rest.” His thoughts dropped away and he shut his eyes. He fell unconscious an instant later.
Hanging On: Chapter Four
Posted in short stories with tags bedlam, death by hanging, demons, evil, full moons, ghost towns, Halloween, hauntings, justice, life after death, murder, Purgatory, scary stories, souls, superstitions, the gold rush on October 29, 2009 by Uncle TreeLuke was shaken to the core by the little girl’s question, but it was all the inspiration he needed to do what must be done. Determined to carry out her wish to the fullest measure, Luke vanquished any and all misgivings he had about going back in there. He didn’t hesitate for a moment, even though he was putting his own life on the line in doing so. The little cozy home had turned into a fiery furnace, and he hastened to make his way through the harsh smoke. It had worsened. Thick and all-encompassing, the dark gray fumes escaped through every nook and cranny. Smoke was enveloping the entire house, and Luke was doing his best to remain calm and collected.
Once at the entrance, he could vaguely tell the furniture had also begun to go up in flames. To the smell of burning wood, the upholstery added another dimension. The foul stench and stinking scents forced Luke to take short, quick breaths and he remained close to the floor as he coursed through and around the dangerous obstacles in his path. Once safely into the bedroom, he found the bed and attempted to awaken the mother one last time, even though he knew it’d be useless. Luke’s instincts informed him that he needed to get out of there immediately! He got down on his knees and pulled her onto and over his shoulder. She was a heavy load, but he would bear the burden. He slowly stood up and found his balance, then lugged her out the bedroom door. He was feeling the weight, and physical exhaustion was settling in from exertion and lack of oxygen. Finally, they reached the front door and stepped out. Just in the nick of time! They were only a few feet out into the yard when he heard the crash of the roof caving in right behind them.
Luke spotted the children on the grass, and continued walking directly at them to bring them their most precious possession. “These kids have lost their mother, their brother, and possibly their father, too! How on earth do I tell them? What’ll I say now?” he pondered. The little girl and boy were now huddled around their big brother. He sees two older ladies coming quickly towards them in bedclothes and house robes. “It’s about time someone showed up,” he thought with a sense of relief. But they had already been bewitched by the magic of the huge healthy fire, and its hypnotic effects were clear. Luke could see it in their eyes. “Not much help,” he mumbled to himself in his frustration.
Feeling his strength draining away, Luke reaches the children and goes down on one knee, gently laying their mother beside their brother. “Mommy? Mommy? What’s wrong?” the kids ask, as they rush over and surround her. Their sobs increased tremendously, because now they knew something was wrong. Very wrong! Luke backed away a bit in a moment of indecision. Looking at the two children…blackened from the smoke, but alive and basically unscathed…seeing them there in a panic, confused by the concept of death…all together now…the whole scene for Luke was bewildering. Coming out of this perplexed state of mind was made easier for him as the ladies arrived. They seemed to understand what all had happened without even asking. Luke had been wrong about those two not being able to help, and he felt sorry for having assumed as much.
Luke stared in amazement at what used to be a home, and realized just how lucky he’d been. His gaze lands on the church again, then it strikes him. “I have to go in there?” He looks back at the kids, “Is that where your father is?” The two worried little ones nod in the affirmative. Luke knew he must steady himself, although he had no time to waste. He concentrated on gathering up his strength and courage by taking a deep breath, but as soon as he tried, he activated a coughing fit. Beads of perspiration instantly formed on his forehead. An invigorating cool breeze caught him by surprise, and sent chills up and down his spine. He shivered and shook for a moment or two. “Take little breaths,” he told himself, and he found that this he could do. This small amount of brisk air sprung him back to life somewhat, and alerted him to his current predicament. Now having the will to go on, he clearly saw the task set before him. “I must go get their father,” was the only thought he had. The strength behind this thought banished any and all fears from his person.
Until, that is, he took his first foreboding step towards the inflamed building. Doubt has a way of getting around the strongest of wills, and Luke was no exception to this rule. He knew he had a fight on his hands, and that it was going to take place inside him. The front half of the church was getting the worst of it, so he headed on around to the back door where fear would meet hope head on.
Hanging On: Chapter Three
Posted in short stories with tags bedlam, death by hanging, demons, evil, full moons, ghost towns, Halloween, hauntings, justice, life after death, murder, Purgatory, scary stories, souls, superstitions, the gold rush on October 28, 2009 by Uncle TreeLuke was flat-out flying towards the fire! Suddenly out of nowhere, a thought crossed his mind. He dug in his heels and stopped in his tracks. After turning around to face the town, he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Help! Help!”, as loud as he could. Then Luke took off again at a mad speed, deciding on the way to go to their home first. They were probably all in bed, and may have had no clue as to what was happening. He arrived at their front door within the minute, and reached for the handle. But luckily, it occurred to him before he’d touched it that it might be hot. He also remembered to expect a lot of smoke, and then pounded a closed fist on the door thrice. He reached both hands behind his neck, untied the knot on his bandanna and used that on the handle. In a flash, he opened the door, jumped back and over to the side letting the smoke billow out. After a few seconds, Luke could see in through the doorway pretty well, and he imagined the fire had just gotten started. Before he entered, he stopped and tied the bandanna over his nose and mouth.
Having helped build the place, Luke knew the whereabouts of the two bedrooms. He instantly decided to head towards the larger bedroom first to awaken the pastor and his wife. The flames and smoke were obviously coming from the kitchen area. That he could plainly see, and he might have thought its cause accidental, if not for the fact that the church went up in flames simultaneously. Luke absolutely knew he had no time for how, or who, or why, and continued his march towards the bedroom. The door was open. He entered and looked at the bed, seeing only the wife laying there immobile, flat on her back. Luke was sorely afraid that preacher man was over at the church. “Get up! Get up!” he yelled as he ran to her. He took hold of her shoulders and shook her, “Wake up! Wake up!”, but there was no response forthcoming. “The children, the children,” he thought, and let her be for the time being. As he was leaving the room he noticed the wad of sheets ruffled up at the end of the bed, and saw the blankets and one of the pillows on the floor. The air was becoming more noxious by the minute. As he hurried through the doorway, he remembered hearing these words that once came from the voice of his father, ‘Stay calm. Stay calm.’
As he made his way to the children’s room, he distinctly heard the little girl cry out, “Mommy? Mommy?” He rushed in,”C’mon! Get up! Get up! We gotta get outta here!” The girl was fine, but extremely frightened. She recognized Luke, even though he was wearing the bandanna, and allowed him to wrap her up in the quilt, and pick her up in his arms. He spun around to look in the boy’s direction, and the youngest was already coming towards him, coughing and carrying his blanket. Luke moved the girl to hold her in one arm, grabbed the boy’s hand, and began to walk them out, stooping down a ways into cleaner air as he went. He turned his head back towards the other boy who also lay there still as could be. Luke let out a another quick,”Wake up! Wake up!”, but the boy wasn’t moving, so off he went, pulling the little one behind him. “Thank God, these two are okay, at least!” Luke thought to himself, instead of thanking the Lord directly.
The kitchen was all ablaze by this time. Crackling and loud popping sounds could be heard as the group exited through the front door, and on out into the fresh, chilled air of the night. Luke didn’t see anyone else out there, and began to wonder if he was going to get any help at all from the neighbors in the vicinity. Ten seconds later, they were a safe distance away from the nasty smoke and scorching flames. As he sat the girl on the slightly wet grass, he bade the two sit down. “Stay here! I’ll be right back.” Shooting a glance over at the church, it looked to him like the entire front half of the structure was aflame. “Holy smokes is right!” came to his mind for the very first time in the truest sense.
Smoke was rolling out of the door by now, so he crouched down low to make his way back to the bedroom for the eldest. He didn’t like the looks of it, for the boy hadn’t moved. As he grabbed his thigh and shook him, he noticed that his pillow lay on the floor as well. The boy was unresponsive, just as he expected. “Damn, Lord! He was a good kid!” Luke pulled him off the bed, and slung him over his shoulder, in order to stay low as he trudged his way back out. He’d never carried a dead child before, and it felt horrible, simply horrible! He finally reached the other two and lay the boy beside them. Pleadingly, the girl asks, “Where’s Mommy?” Luke’s heart sunk to his stomach. Their mother had already given up the ghost. He was sure she’d taken her last breath some time ago. “I’m going to get her now, dear. Let your older brother be. He needs rest.” Luke had no qualms about telling this lie.
Catching what breath he could as he headed back in, he found himself angry from the turmoil, but all the while he felt his heart being broken in two. “Here we go again, Lord. Stay with me. What will I tell the children this time out?” But Luke didn’t have time to wait for an answer. He wondered, “Where is everybody? I wish my wife was here.” Again he blasted out to the town, “Help! Help!”
