Spirits by goldieasj

In the spirit of Halloween . . .   

Word count: 4,790

“I do so wish the three of you had worn costumes!  It’s Halloween!”

“What kinds of costumes do you have in mind, Teresa?” Scott inquired.

“Well, let’s see . . . Oh!  Johnny, you would have made a perfect pirate!”

“That’s true,” said Scott.  “Johnny is very swashbuckling!”

“Hey!  You watch your language!” Johnny complained.  Everyone laughed.

“And Scott . . . “ Teresa continued, “you’re from Boston and you would have been a good Revolutionary soldier!  A symbol of the birth of our country!”

Johnny pretended to pout.  “I’m the bad guy and Scott gets to be the good guy?”

Scott slapped his brother on the back.  “Sounds about right to me!”

“And Murdoch,” Teresa said dreamily, “I can imagine you as a wonderful Southern gentleman.  Tall and stately, with a white Southern beard and carrying a cane and wearing a top hat.  No . . . a John Bull hat, I think.”

Murdoch smiled.  “And would I be talking with a Southern accent?”

“Of course!  And you would be so charming you would sweep all the women off their feet!”

“I’d like to see that!” laughed Johnny.

“Yes,” Scott agreed, “I think it’s high time Murdoch was doing some woman-sweeping!”

A happy near-consensus  was reached.  Murdoch poured them all a glass of wine and was about to make a toast when Scott interrupted.  “Here’s to Murdoch and to all those swept women in his future!”

Murdoch laughed.  “Which will happen when I am growing that long white beard!” 

They all laughed and drank the toast and then Teresa said, “It really is a shame the bridge was washed out by all this rain.  I would have enjoyed that Halloween party in town.  I think we all would have.”

The others, with the possible exception of Johnny, agreed.  Murdoch said, “Tomorrow, or whenever this storm ends, we’ll have to work on getting that bridge back in place.  That will be hard work . . .”

“ . . . which I don’t care to think about tonight,” Scott added.

“Quite true.  Therefore, since we’re in a party mood and it is Halloween night, I suggest we have our own little Halloween party right here.”

“Now that sounds good to me!”  Johnny raised his glass.  “I never was one for crowds.  Besides, Teresa’s wearing a witch costume, and there’s a big storm, so there’s our Halloween atmosphere.”

“Thank you, Teresa!  You’re a lovely witch.”  Scott raised his glass to her.  Teresa cackled.

Murdoch sat in his favorite comfortable spot on the sofa.  “Yes . . . the Halloween atmosphere,” he said pensively.  “I’ve never seen a storm quite like the one we’ve having.  This storm really is the perfect setting for some spooky tales, isn’t it?”

“Say, that’s a good idea!” Scott said.  “Ghost stories!  Let’s tell some ghost stories!”

“Wonderful!”  Teresa clapped her hands.

“Ghost stories?  I never saw any ghosts.”  Johnny looked genuinely puzzled.

“No, Johnny,” Murdoch explained.  “Ghost stories aren’t necessarily about ghosts.  Although they can be.  They’re just stories that people tell to scare their listeners, just for fun.  They can be true stories, but usually they’re fabricated.”

Teresa smiled in memory.  “My father used to tell me ghost stories around Halloween each year to scare me!  I loved it!”

“Lucky you,” said Scott.  “My grandfather wouldn’t allow any nonsense in the house.  I do know plenty of stories, though!  My friends and I used to regale each other with stories we’d make up.  We tried to outdo each other with the ferocity and imagination of our tales.”

“Huh,” said Johnny.  “Well, I don’t know much about ghost stories.  I wouldn’t be able to think up anything.”

“Sure you can, Johnny!” Teresa encouraged.  “Why don’t you listen to some of our stories and I’ll bet you will think of something!”

Murdoch asked his sons to douse the lamps, which they did.  The only remaining light came from the fireplace and candles throughout the room, and together with the storm, there was a spooky atmosphere all around.

“All right, who wants to start?” asked Scott.

“I think I will,” Murdoch said.  “I remember some wonderful traditions from my childhood.  Halloween was the Eve of All Saints’ Day.  The idea of that night was to do things, symbolically, to rid your life of as many demons as possible.”

“You had demons, Murdoch?” Johnny asked with a smile.

“You bet I did, son!  Everybody did!  Demons came from the hills, or from the lakes, or from under the ground!  They wormed their way into our very lives and worked their evil . . . “  Murdoch was a born storyteller and he had already grabbed everybody’s attention.  Both his sons and Teresa had arranged themselves around him, eager to hear his story.  Scott sat in the chair and Johnny sat on the other end of Murdoch’s sofa.  Teresa spread her witch skirt on the floor and sat on a cushion at Murdoch’s feet.

“The work of the devil, huh?” Johnny asked, now engrossed.

“Oh, yes, the devil,” Murdoch continued.  “Each year in my town we had a gathering – something like a party – on Halloween night to fortify ourselves as a group and turn away the demons.  We set fires and neep lanterns to light the night – a lot like those pumpkins we carved today.  But the faces we carved in those days were terrible – ugly and difficult to look at.  Symbolically we were destroying our demons.  And it worked, for the most part.  Until one day . . .”  Murdoch stopped and looked at his captivated family.

“Until one day, what? ”cried Teresa.

“Maybe I shouldn’t go on,” Murdoch said.  “I’d forgotten how grisly this was.”  He shook his head sadly.

Teresa gasped, her first of many that night, but Scott pointed out, “We’re all adults here, Murdoch.  You’re committed now.”

Murdoch sighed and looked at his family.  “Yes, I suppose so.  Well . . . on that night, at the end of the night when only a few of us were left, we snuffed the candles in all the pumpkins and gourds.  Except – one of them kept re-lighting itself!  It was by far the ugliest one.  I don’t remember who carved it but whoever it was must have been using the devil himself as a model!  The flame on the candle in that neep kept coming back to life when we tried to put it out.  We all tried, but with no success.  Then the flame started growing!  The flame got so big that it devoured the candle, and the neep, and still it kept growing!  We were forced to stand back.  We threw all our sources of water directly on it, but all it did was sizzle and get larger!  It was like a bonfire!  And then the wind started – a very strong wind.  And the wind pushed us closer to the fire.  I remember hanging on to Ailbeart McMillan, who was equal to me in height.  We grasped on to a fence and were able to keep from being blown too close.  But others weren’t so lucky.  To this day I remember hearing the screams of young Colin Dickson as the wind blew him into the fire.”  Murdoch paused for a moment.  All three listeners also needed to take a breath. 

“What happened, Murdoch?” Scott said in a very soft voice.

“Well . . . I don’t have any idea who – and no one admitted to it – but someone started reciting a Scottish prayer out loud.  Then, one by one, we all joined in.  It wasn’t long before we were yelling the words over Colin’s screams as well as the noise of the fire itself.  But it worked!  Our prayers were heard and the power of the Lord took over, I guess.  The size of the fire shrunk and shrunk until it was no more than the candle it started out as.  And then it went out completely!”

“And . . . and Colin?” Teresa ventured hesitantly.

Murdoch took another breath.  “He lived.  But he was severely injured.  And never the same after that.  To the day I left the Old Country, I never again saw him use a candle.  And, a couple others were burned as they tried to rescue him.  No one actually died that night, but . . . “  He trailed off.

After a moment, Johnny said, “So that’s a ghost story, huh?”

Scott looked down.  “Damn good one, I’d say.”

Teresa put her arms around herself.  “Oooh.  I’ve got shivers from it!”

At that moment, there was a particularly loud bolt of thunder.  Everybody jumped except Johnny.  He said, “Come on, Murdoch, that’s not really true, is it?”

Murdoch said softly, “You have to decide for yourselves.  You never know with ghost stories.”  Everyone thoughtfully took a couple sips from their drinks. 

Then, in an attempt to lighten the mood, Scott said, “I’ve got a couple stories.  Would you rather hear about the Swamp Monster or the Headless Horseman?”

“I think you should combine them into one,” Johnny laughed.

“No, no, the Headless Horseman!” cried Teresa.

Murdoch chuckled.  “You have the floor, son.  You choose.”

Looking doubtfully at his brother, Scott said, “I’ll tell my story about the Headless Horseman, then.  But it’s not the Headless Horseman you’ve all heard about!”

“Oh!  There’s another?” Teresa asked in awe.

“I don’t know of any riders without heads,” Johnny complained.

“Well, you will now, brother!  Pay close attention.”

More thunder.  Everyone jumped again.

“Everyone in Boston knows this story.  We boys heard it in school – not in the classroom, of course, but when we gathered after classes.  Our teachers would not have approved.  It’s been told and re-told countless times over the generations.  You see, it happened a long time ago.  It’s funny you mentioned Revolutionary soldiers, Teresa, because this tale took place during the Revolution.  This headless horseman was almost like a Revolutionary soldier.  He was a hero.”

Another lengthy clap of thunder made Scott pause.  He perused his audience.  He had Murdoch’s and Teresa’s full attention, but Johnny’s attention seemed to be waning.  Scott understood that;  Johnny no doubt was taught little about the birth of America in any schools he attended in Mexico while growing up.  Scott smiled a little.  He figured that by the end of his story he would have Johnny’s interest.

“The Revolutionary War – like all wars – was bloody, and it was by no means clear that the new upstart Americans would win their independence.  In fact, there were many times when it almost seemed to be a lost cause.  The British were better-armed and more organized than the Americans. 

“Several people took it upon themselves to be vigilant and warn villagers when the British were coming.  Everyone knows the story of Paul Revere’s ride, and in fact there were a number of others who owned swift horses and volunteered to warn as necessary.

“One such heroic man was Titus Brown.  He was only about 18 years old, just a boy really, when he rode through his village of Trempeleau and on to the next town to announce the approach of the enemy.  But it seems he was wrong;  the British were not approaching his village.  No one knows where he got the idea from and no one ever will.  His horse came home without him that night!  The saddle was intact, and so was the long white banner he had looped over it to wave through the air as he yelled his warnings.

“By first light, a search was launched for him.  Everyone liked Titus.  He had a promising future as a carpenter and he was engaged to a young woman named – believe it or not – Teresa!  It wasn’t long before they found his body.  But only his body.  He had been decapitated and his head was never found!”

Teresa put her hands over her mouth and gasped.  Johnny and Murdoch said nothing and Scott knew he had their full attention.

He paused for effect before continuing.  “Although the British never made an appearance at Titus’s village, he was declared a hero.  He had been willing to give his life for the cause, and, in fact, that is actually what he did.

“His murderer was never found, and no reason for the murder was ever discovered.  His fiancé Teresa turned away all suitors and pined for her lost love the rest of her life. 

“But Titus did in fact return – again and again – on the anniversary of his death.  On that date, after the sun has gone down, every year a pale horse with a headless rider and a long white flowing banner gallops through Trempeleau!”

“Oh my!” said Teresa, edging a little closer to Murdoch.

Johnny smiled a little and looked down.  He tried baiting his brother.  “He looking for something, Scott?  The British?  Maybe his head?”

But Scott’s sober tone never changed.  “No one knows, Johnny.  No one knows the answer to that.  By the time the horse has reached the end of the street, it fades into thin air!”

Johnny just shook his head.

“You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want,” Scott continued in a deadly serious tone of voice, “but I can tell you one thing for sure – I have seen it!  One year some university friends and I traveled to Trempeleau on a dare.  We stationed ourselves on the boardwalk of the main street of town.  Apparently the word was out because there were quite a number of other sightseers there as well.  And at midnight, just like every year on this date apparently, we witnessed a headless rider on a pale horse with a long white banner trailing behind.  When the vision got to the end of the street, it disappeared into thin air!”

“Scott!” Teresa whispered. 

“You spin a good yarn,” Johnny said softly.  Scott knew he had stunned his listeners, even Johnny.  Deadly sober, he downed the remainder of his glass of wine.  “I need this now,” he said quietly.

There was a very sobering silence for a moment.  Then another loud thunderclap startled the mood.

Murdoch turned to Johnny.  “Son, are you beginning to understand what ghost stories are like?”

“Yeah,” Johnny said softly.  “Guess I can come up with one.  Teresa, you go next.”

Murdoch smiled and put his hand on Teresa’s shoulder.  “My dear, why don’t you tell us one of the stories your father used to tell you?  Paul was a very good story-teller, I well remember.”

“Oh my!  My heart is still pounding after these last two stories!” Teresa cried.  “I’ll try.”  She put her finger to her face.  “Let me think; he told so many good ones!  All right, I’ve got one.”  She made herself more comfortable and Scott poured more wine into everyone’s glasses.

“This was one of my favorites,” she said.  “It’s very spooky.  Poppa said when he was a young man, even before he married my mother, he heard about the gold strike and he went to look for gold like everybody else, I suppose.  People panned for gold then.  They left everything behind, even common sense, I guess, and headed for the reports of gold findings.  He said on his way there, he ran into a lot of men who were going his direction for the same reason.

“He camped one night with an old man, Josiah.  Josiah’s eyes weren’t too good but he claimed he had a ‘special sight.’  He told Poppa that gold was just around the corner and in the morning he was going to make a strike.  He liked Poppa and asked if he wanted to join up with him, but Poppa said he would be going on to Sutter’s Mill, where the gold was actually being found, instead of chasing the unknown.  Poppa felt they were too far downstream and all the gold would never get to where they were.  In the morning, Poppa and Josiah said goodbye.  They had become friends and Poppa said he missed him as he traveled on his journey alone.

“Poppa said panning for gold was real hard work and it didn’t pay off very well.  At least, not for him.  After a while, he left his camp behind and decided to come back where he started from.  On the way back, he ran into a few 49ers who were headed for what they hoped was a lucrative future.  He didn’t try to discourage them but he just wasn’t interested any more himself.

“After a number of days of traveling, he decided to make a little side trip to see if Josiah was still around and if he had found anything with his ‘special sight.’  Poppa remembered where their camp had been and he arrived there in late afternoon.  Josiah’s things were still there but he wasn’t, so Poppa called out for him.  In a minute, he heard Josiah answering him.  At least, it sounded like Josiah’s voice, but it also sounded different – like he was underwater, Poppa said.

“Josiah kept calling Poppa’s name and kept saying for him to come to him, but Poppa couldn’t find him.  He searched the camp and the area around it, but he just couldn’t find Josiah.  When he would go to one spot, Josiah’s voice seemed to be coming from behind him, and when he went to another spot, Josiah’s voice came from another direction.  They kept calling out for each other, but Poppa just couldn’t find his friend!

“And it didn’t really sound like him, either.  It was Josiah’s voice but it sounded like he was straining to talk – like he was trying to talk through glass or something.  Poppa asked him questions like exactly where was he or was he OK, but Josiah only called Poppa’s name and said to come join him.  He said it over and over.  It was very spooky and it was beginning to get dark.

“After a while Poppa gave up and decided to build a campfire and stay there the night.  He removed the loads from his pack mule and horse and tied the animals to a line and then he put some coffee on.  All the while he kept hearing Josiah’s voice calling him, coming from all different directions.  I don’t mind telling you, I couldn’t have done that.  Too spooky for me, but Poppa was made of sterner stuff, I guess.

“Poppa made himself something to eat, and enough for Josiah too.  By then it was dark.  Poppa yelled one more time for Josiah to show himself.  He said he was getting angry and it must have been apparent in his voice.

“And that’s when Josiah came out of hiding.  He had waited for the night.”  Teresa shivered and took a breath.  She had everyone’s attention.

“Poppa said Josiah was wearing the same clothes he had worn weeks before but they were in tatters, torn like he had been attacked by a mountain lion or something.  And he wasn’t wearing any boots.  And he looked like Josiah, but at the same time he didn’t look like him.  And then Josiah did something that scared Poppa, and my Poppa didn’t scare easily, I can tell you.

“Josiah was still calling ‘Paul . . . Paul’ and Poppa couldn’t take his eyes off him, and then Josiah floated into the air!  Just floated in the air above Poppa, who said he couldn’t talk and he couldn’t move – he could only watch Josiah.  And then he noticed that Josiah had no feet!  And his face was changing and his eyes were bulging out, and for the first time, his eyes were focusing on Poppa, even though he couldn’t see very well!  And he had no color!  He was whitish, and Poppa said he glowed in the night!  And Josiah kept saying, ‘Come join me, Paul.  Come to me!’

“And when Josiah reached down his bony arms to grab my Poppa, that’s when he figured he’d better move.  He bolted and ran right through the campfire and grabbed his horse’s reins and jumped on its back without a saddle and hightailed it out of that campsite!  And he kept hearing Josiah’s strange voice calling to him to come back for quite a while!”

Teresa put her arms around herself and shook her head.  “I’ve got to tell you, this one still gives me the chills, even though I’ve heard it several times from Poppa.”

“Yeah, it’s a good one,” Johnny agreed.

Scott said, “Whew!  Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“Did he ever find out what happened to Josiah?” Johnny asked softly.

“No,” Teresa said.  “Poppa just figured it was his spirit or something.  The guy’s face was bloated so he might have drowned, but his feet were missing, so . . .” she paused for a breath “ . . .maybe he was attacked.  By an animal or even robbers.  It had to be Josiah’s spirit, though.  It had to be!”

There was another moment of silence while the little group listened to the rain pounding against the windows.  Then Murdoch said, “Well, Johnny, do you think you can top that?”

Johnny looked down.  “No, I don’t want to top it.  I guess I’ve got a story, though.  Just a story I’ve heard, that’s all.”

“Go ahead, brother,” Scott urged.

“OK.”  Johnny sighed.  “Well, where I grew up, there was . . . well, there was . . . a dragon!  A real dragon.  It was mean and ugly and it seemed to hate people.  And the worst part was that it breathed fire!  Not all the time, but whenever it wanted.  Everybody tried to stay away from it, but it went wherever it wanted and did whatever it wanted.  I mean, it was a dragon – it got by with whatever it wanted.  And it was real mean.

“Once in a while, some folks would talk about how they could get rid of the dragon.  But no one ever . . .”  Johnny’s reticence at telling his story was beginning to turn into obvious discomfort.  “Listen,” he said, “I’m not too good at story-telling.  Your other stories were good.  I can’t really . . .”

“Oh, Johnny!” Teresa wailed.  “This is great!  You’re a wonderful story-teller!  I’ve never heard this one.  Please tell us the rest!”

Johnny looked down.  “No, I don’t . . . think I should.” 

Murdoch detected Johnny’s strong unease but the cause wasn’t clear.  “Is something wrong, son?” he asked with concern.

Johnny shook his head.  “No, it’s just not . . . it’s not a good story, I guess.”

“It sounds good,” Scott said softly.

“No.  The dragon wasn’t too . . . nice to people.  It’s not a pretty story.”

Scott knew his brother very well.  He saw sadness in Johnny’s face, not embarrassment at telling an inadequate tale.  Trying to downplay the empathy in his words, Scott said, “The one thing I know about dragons is that once they’re slayed, they don’t cause pain anymore.”  Murdoch’s heart swelled with pride for his eldest.  Sometimes brothers say exactly the right things – words that would not occur to fathers.

Johnny looked up.  He studied his family’s faces and read only fondness in their expressions.  When he looked at Murdoch, his father was smiling gently and nodding his head.

Johnny sighed again.  “Well, like I said, he . . . it was mean.  Sometimes it would get . . . it would come into the village and tear it up and make people afraid of it and most times they hid.  The dragon hurt a couple people – anybody that got in his way.  Even the priest.  It was just mean by nature.”  Johnny paused for a moment before continuing.  When he did speak again, his voice was soft and shaky.

“And it liked fire, I guess.  It burned down some homes and a couple fields and sometimes the people were lucky to save their own lives.

“And it killed one of the women . . .

“ . . . and then – I heard – one day it tried to kill . . . one of the kids in the village.  The way the story goes . . . well, I heard that there was a boy from the village who was fishing from the riverbank and the dragon came along and blew fire at the boy and made him have to jump in the water to save his life.  And the dragon wasn’t satisfied with that – he jumped in after him and held him underwater and tried to drown him.”  Johnny looked off at nothing.

Teresa gasped.  “What happened to the boy?  Did the dragon kill him?”

“No, not really.  I mean, it’s just a story, right?”  Johnny seemed to snap himself out of his morbid mood.  He looked up and gave his family a small smile.

He shrugged.  “That’s all I know,” he said.

The end of each story had been met with a loud clap of thunder and this one was no different.  Everyone jumped.

“Whew!  That’s quite a tale,” Murdoch said.

“Oh, Johnny, a dragon!” Teresa exclaimed.  “I’ve never heard a story about a dragon!  That was so good!”

Johnny shrugged.  “It’s just a . . . just a story, you know.  That’s all.”

“Did someone slay the dragon?” Teresa asked.

“Yeah, someone slayed the dragon.  End of story.”  Johnny stared at the fireplace.

Scott said nothing.

“Well . . . I think we could all use with a refill.”  Murdoch opened another bottle of wine and filled their glasses.  “The night is still young.  Anyone have more stories to tell?”

“Oh, Scott!” cried Teresa.  “Let’s hear your story about the Swamp Monster!  Please?”

Scott chuckled.  “I was wondering if you would ask for it.”  Scott looked at his brother and father.  They both raised their glasses to him.

“Well . . . once upon a time there was this swamp, and it had a . . . “

---

Considering that the rain pelted the windows and loud claps of thunder could be heard now and again, the evening passed pleasantly enough.  Story after story was told, each more chilling than the last.  Murdoch and Scott and Teresa had an apparently endless array of tales.  Johnny refused to tell any more stories but politely listened to theirs.  Two more bottles of wine were consumed, and it was past midnight when Teresa yawned and Murdoch himself indicated he had had enough.

“Thanks, everyone, for the home-grown Halloween party,” Teresa said.  “I’ll bet it was even better than the one in town was!”

“And thanks for the stories, everyone,” Scott said.

“If this rain ever stops, we’ll have our day tomorrow planned for us,” Murdoch said.  “Well, thank you, all of you.  Goodnight.”  He gave Scott a meaningful look before heading off to bed.

Teresa also wished everyone a good night and left.

Scott stood up.  “I’m heading for bed, too,” said Scott.  “How about you, Johnny?”

“No,” Johnny said, and Scott detected a note of sadness in his voice.  “I think I’m just going to sit up with the fire for a while.  ‘night, Scott.”

A sudden wind gust blew particularly hard against the windows.  Scott stared out into the tempest for a couple minutes without moving. 

Finally, he sat down next to his brother.  In a caring voice, he asked, “Johnny, your story was true, wasn’t it?”

Johnny smiled a little.  “A dragon?  What do you think, brother?”

Scott said steadily, “I think the dragon was your stepfather in Mexico.”

Scott watched Johnny’s uneasy smile liquefy and disappear, before his face turned into the sad one Scott had observed during the telling of the story. 

Johnny looked like he was going to speak, but, for some reason, said nothing.  His deep liquid eyes continued to stare at the fire.  After a very long moment, he finally said, “You guessed it, brother.”  He spoke so softly that Scott wasn’t sure he heard correctly. 

“I’m sorry,” Scott whispered as kindly as he could.  “If you want, I’ll go up to bed and leave you alone.  But, please – just one more question.”

Johnny nodded.

“You were the boy who was tortured, weren’t you?”

Johnny’s eyes were the most heartbreaking Scott had ever seen.  It was a very long time again before Johnny answered, but Scott knew his brother was worth waiting for.

“Si, hermano,” Johnny fairly breathed.

Scott put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and left it there.  “Johnny, tonight I watched that dragon finally being slayed,” Scott whispered.

Johnny turned to look at his brother.  He smiled, a little, but enough.

And then they both noticed that, at long last, the rain finally stopped.  The night for ghouls was over.

.

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~end~

Halloween 2021

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