Strange Short Tales
Charles E. Wells
Copyright Charles E. Wells 2011
Published by Wellston Publishing at Smashwords
Visit the Author’s website at:
http://www.wellstonpublishing.com
Wellston Publishing
Dublin, Georgia 31021
www.wellstonpublishing.com
SMASHWORDS EDITION
“Yankee Dime”
Ann Chowldins looked at her husband seated across the table, smiled, and then looked about the restaurant filled with patrons. The early dinner crowd was in full blossom. Bobby Joe, noticing his wife's roaming eyes, also scanned the room full of neatly dressed people.
"You know something, Ann? I've got a sick feeling about this place...know what I mean? I'll just bet you it'll cost us ten bucks for the tip alone."
Ann snapped one finger over her lips and shushed. "Not so loud, Bobby, somebody will hear you and that southern drawl voice of yours. The last time that happened, we were stuck talking with half the people in the place for an hour. I honestly don't know why the people here in Boston find your rebel accent so interesting. You'd think they would be antagonized by it."
Bobby smiled and said, "Well you see, darling? The war is over. Old General Robert E. called it quits down at Appomattox Court House about 140 something years ago. These Yankees know they whupped us and whupped us good. Since then, the folks up north here just love to hear a southern accent... god, why do you think they put old Jimmy in the White House? It wasn't his stand on the issues... it was his mouth and that southern drawl of his..."
Ann interjected, "and those southern Belle's his campaign staff sent up north to pass out political pamphlets and Yankee dimes."
Bobby smiled, "Well gosh, sweetheart. No man on earth can resist the alluring temptations of a southern woman, especially one giving away free Yankee dimes. You know that."
"Then why did you marry a refined lady from Boston? Why did you have to wander 1200 miles north from Georgia to find a wife? Was it because your first cousin had already married your brother?"
Bobby shook his head and grinned from ear to ear. "No... my brother had already married my sister... that left me pure out of luck and besides, my poor old grand pappy is still rolling around in his grave for my gettin' hitched up to a Yankee woman."
A perfectly dressed waiter approached the table, looked at Bobby and asked, "May I take your order now, sir?"
Bobby nodded, "Yes sir, you surely can. The lady here would like a hamburger steak with red eye gravy... I'd like some fried chicken, mashed 'taters, and some of that same gravy on top of them smashed taters... and put some fried okra on the plate too, will ya'll do that for me?"
Ann blushed, looked down at her plate and coughed loudly. Bobby glanced over, smiled, and then looked back up at the waiter's face....and the face was a work of art... shock, fright, suspicion, and an expression that read, "God help me."
Bobby back pedaled and said, "Uh... my wife would like to have your Prime number 6 entree... and I'll take the beef tips in gravy, please."
The waiter regained some semblance of control, nodded curtly, and asked, "Would you care to see the wine list, please?"
Bobby nodded. "Yeah...gimme' the moonshine list and let me..."
Ann sputtered quickly before Bobby could finish, "No, thank you. We'll have water and maybe coffee later. Thank you."
Again, the waiter nodded, bowed slightly, and walked away. Bobby leaned over the table and whispered, "Aw, come on, Ann? Let me have my fun... you are such a spoil sport...you know?"
Ann shrugged and said, "Well I'm tired of you embarrassing me in nice places like this, Bobby Joe. I've sat through you ordering grits, I've wallowed through your escapades with waitresses, treating them like the place was a truck stop diner or something, and lord knows I've put up with you terrorizing people with your fake rebel attitudes and accent."
"Fake accent?" Bobby cried. "You're the one who talks funny, my dear...not me. I sound just like half the folks who come from Georgia...and..."
"And you are not Gomer Pyle, Bobby, so stop trying to sound like him... or at least, if you insist on talking like him then let me hear you sing like him....okay? Let me hear you sing a good old southern gospel song that will bring tears to my eyes...like Gomer use to do on the TV show."
"Gomer Pyle is an actor, Sweetheart. You know that he's about as southern as a New York Cab driver. His accent on the TV show was fake... mine just comes natural...but I can sing... you want to hear Country Roads? How about a Johnny Cash rendition of A Boy named Sue?"
Ann shook her head in disgust and said, "William? You are a Science Professor at Boston University and I do wish you'd act like it in public. You are a world renown expert in Physics... you are not Gomer Pyle... you are not Jeff Foxworthy... you are not Minnie Pearl's long lost brother... you are Professor William Chowldens PHD so if you want to mock someone, how about mocking Albert Einstein?"
Bobby laughed and said, "Einstein? Now you're talking gettin' hitched to a family member. Did you know that Einstein's second wife was also his cousin? Did you know that, sweetheart?"
Ann rolled her eyes upward and was about to speak again when a gentleman from the table to their right leaned over and said, "Excuse me, please... but my wife and I overheard you using the expression, "Yankee Dime." I'm afraid our curiosity got the best of us. What is a Yankee dime?"
Ann wanted to crawl under the table. Bobby smiled then looked at the middle aged gentleman and his astute and picture perfect wife. "A Yankee dime? Well, sir, a Yankee dime is something like this here..."
Bobby half stood and leaned heavily over his own table. He grabbed Ann behind the head with one hand, tugged her forward, and planted a rich, juicy kiss on her lips. Ann shirked, "Bobby... stop that, please?"
Bobby sat back down, looked at the now red faced, embarrassed, couple at the next table, smiled and said, "Now that, sir, is a Yankee dime."
An hour later, they were on the expressway heading home. Ann, beside him, had been silent since the Yankee dime demonstration at the restaurant. "Ann? Come on, darling. I was just having some fun. Did you see the expression on that couple's faces? God... I thought they were going to get up and walk out."
Ann turned sideways in the seat and snapped, "I was the one who almost got up and walked out, Bobby. That was the most embarrassing thing you've ever done to me...and it will be the last... I promise you."
With that said Ann turned full away from him and glared out the window. She was steaming and Bobby knew that he had gone one step... one bridge... one foot, too far. He took a deep breath, sighed, and said, "Okay...honey. I'm sorry. I guess I let it go too far. I'll try to..."
A brick wall hit him in the face and the world tumbled in a kaleidoscope of colors, sights, and sounds. Then silence and peace. It was the last thing Bobby remembered until he woke up in a strange room. A giant, eye piercing, whitish light glared overhead and full force in his face. He was lying on a table and a half dozen people were fussing over him. He tried to raise his head but a sharp hand forced him back down. A voice called from out of the fog, "Lay still, Mr. Chowldins."
"What? What's happened? Where's Ann?"
A woman dressed in medical garb leaned over and said, "I'm Dr. Carmichaels. You've been in an automobile accident, Professor. Do you remember what happened?"
Bobby's mind raced now. Accident? Car accident? When? How? Where? Nothing... blank. He tried to focus his eyes on the woman (a woman doctor? Wow... what would they think of next?) He shook his head and a drop of blood trickled down his forehead and fell to the sheets of the hospital gurney. (Wow...I am really banged up here... Ann?) "Ann? Is she hurt badly? Doctor? Is Ann hurt real badly?"
The strain was too much and he passed out. When once more he opened his eyes, he was standing on a hillside overlooking a small valley. Near the bottom of the valley, he could see a brownish river that snaked its way southward into the infinite distance. The sun was shining overhead brightly and he could feel the warmth of a spring breeze on his body. He recognized the valley and the river. It was home... Georgia... the Oconee River.
"How did I get here? What's going on?"
A voice behind him said, "You need to follow me, please, Mr. Chowldins."
Bobby spun around and saw the figure of a middle aged man standing in the bright sunlight. It was the man from the restaurant. "What?" Bobby cried. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
The man smiled. "You asked to come, Mr. Chowldins. You gave me the password... you do remember the password, do you not?"
Bobby was confused. The man from the restaurant was standing with him on a hill overlooking his home town and valley... but password? All he'd mentioned to the guy was... was... and then he shouted at the figure.
"YANKEE DIME is a password? To where? To what? What in all blue blazes is going on here? Who are you, Mister?"
The figure bowed, much like the waiter at the restaurant, and said politely, "I am Nyem Viskor. I am the gate keeper of the dimension windows and you have asked for passage from your dimension to another. The code word is Yankee Dime... your new dimension awaits you, sir... as you've so respectfully requested."
Bobby was now totally confused. "What? Dimensions? Windows? I got Windows Vista on my computer at the house... what are you talking about here...uh... Mister Viskor? Is that what you said your name was?"
"That's correct, but now I dare say, that, judging from your confusion, I've, no doubt, made a terrible error. You are not a dimension traveler? You did not request transfer to another dimension? Is that what you're saying? Is this a mistake on my part?"
Bobby looked around at the familiar valley and nearby woods... (My daddy taught me how to squirrel hunt in those trees) He looked up at the bright blue skies overhead..., then back to the man from the restaurant, and said, "I don't know what kind of mistake this is, but it's an error. That's for sure. What has the words, Yankee Dime, got to do with all this? I just don't get it."
Viskor shrugged helplessly and said, "I'm sorry, Professor. When you gave me the password in the restaurant, I assumed you were a traveler... so I ended your stay in dimension 56434 with an automobile accident and I'm prepared to forward you on to a sector of your choice. Do you understand now, Mr. Chowldins?"
Bobby stepped backwards and said, "You've what? Wait a second... are you saying I'm dead? Are you the Angel at the gates of heaven? I mean... I ain't been in a church in ten years... since I got married... but I'm a Christian... I'm a believer and all... in God... and, uh... and God's son, Jesus. I know that he died for me on the..."
Visker interrupted. "Excuse me, professor. I'm sorry to interrupt but you've got this all wrong. God and Saint Peter, and the heaven you speak of, are in Sector zero One... the first sector of the universe. He's the creator and no one is allowed to visit there... you can only apply for entrance to sector Zero One on completion of your life... but your life has not ended...only your stay in sector 56434."
Bobby looked at the man with wonder. "Do what? I'm missing something here worse than a coon dog barking up a tree full of bobcats. What are you talking about? God is real... ain't he? And I'm dead... but I ain't dead... right? So if I died in a car wreck then I gotta' go to heaven or go to heahhhhhhh...uh... I'll not go to heaven... right?"
"Hell? Is that what you're trying to say, Professor? Well, punishment for how one lives their life is issued in the last sector which is 999999 to the 99th power sector...and it's quite a distant journey from here, I might add. A Mister D.S. Lucifer is the gatekeeper on that sector."
"You mean the devil? And uh... hell?"
Visker shook his head. "He doesn't like anyone using his first name, Professor. His full name is Devil Satan Lucifer...and like I said, he's the gatekeeper down on the 9th Dimension level... but, also, as I've mentioned, one can't just visit. One must wait until an application for entrance to sector Zero One is denied and at that time, one is automatically transferred to the Nth Sector on the tail end of our spectrum."
"Well, Mister Visker, I don't care to live with OR visit with Mister Lucifer...and besides, if Ann and I were killed in a car crash, why don't I just wait for her to catch up with us here. Then we can decide about where to go together...okay?"
Visker shook his head. "Your wife," he said, checking a clipboard filled with computer print outs, "uh... Ann was not killed in that crash, Professor. She's in the hospital, alive and well...I know, because I'd have seen a sheet on her application to sector one otherwise, and I haven't."
Bobby scratched his head and thought a moment. "Well, you said I gave the password... and this might be a mistake on your part. Why don't I just go on back to where I come from... and we'll pretend this never happened...okay?"
Visker thought for a moment. "I'm not so sure, Professor. You see, it's a matter of knowledge. You've learned so much already that I'm not sure we can send you back without risking exposure to our dimension travel operations. I'm sorry and I hope you understand. We can't risk having an untrained person wandering about the universe at will."
Bobby raised both hands in the air and shouted, "God? Can I go back? Please? Please send me back... I love my wife and I don't want to leave her... please, Lord... have mercy on my soul?" Visker shook his head. "Your soul is not in danger, here, Professor and God can't hear you at the moment. You have to send messages through the proper channels and from your old dimension; messages can be sent and received through mental telepathy channels of meditation. I believe it's commonly called, prayers or giving alms to God... Buddha... Allah... or whatever term one cares to use. The messages all go to the same place over in sector Zero One and God acts on them as he sees fit."
Bobby lowered his arms slowly and looked at the figure before him for a long minute. "Mr. Visker? I'm asking you to help me out here. You said my leaving Ann was an accident and all... please send me back. I'll keep quiet about your place here... and your, uh... uh... place here..."
"Dimension, Professor... Dimension Sectors Travel Office... and I am the gate keeper. If you'll wait here, I'll check with my boss and see what can be done."
The figure was gone in the blink of an eye. Bobby stood quietly, shocked, stunned, and suddenly very in love with Ann. He wanted to go home. (Tap your heels together, three times, and repeat after me. There's no place like home... there's no place like home... me and Toto too? There's no place like home...")
It didn't work. Bobby still remained locked on the hill side overlooking the Oconee river valley. "God? Please? Take me home?"
He opened his eyes and was back in a hospital bed. The same female Doctor leaned over him, tugging at his eyelids and peering into his pupils with a glaring flashlight. "Well, Professor. I see we're awake now. I almost lost you a couple of times... in fact; I did loose you for about five minutes. You're a very lucky man, Professor...very lucky."
Bobby moved his head and a sharp pain thundered up and down his spine. "God almighty... that hurts. Where's Ann? Is she okay?" He cried at the Doctor.
A familiar and very beautiful face appeared next to the bed. "Hi," Ann said softly...lovingly... it was the most beautiful voice Bobby had ever heard in his life. "Ann? Are you okay?"
With tears in her eyes, Ann smiled, leaned over the bed closer, and said, "I'm fine, my love... now give me a big Yankee dime and then get some rest."
There were five people in the same hospital room, six counting Ann, and none of them could understand why Bobby almost jumped out of his skin and shouted,
"DON'T EVER SAY THAT WORD AGAIN AS LONG AS YOU LIVE....."
End:
“Margie Makes the News”
"This is Jill Markel for WCCT News in Atlanta. We are on the scene of a school bus accident that took place a short time ago on the I-285 loop. The video running on your screen now was taken by a witness’ cell phone camera. It shows this dramatic rescue made by a young, beautiful, woman from the metro Atlanta area. We don't have her name as yet... (Off screen figure hands a slip of paper to the newscaster) Excuse me; uh...we now have that name for you. WCCT Live Action News sources tell us the heroine's name is Margie Dawson. She is an employee of the Greater South Banking Systems of Atlanta. It's the friendly bank where the customer comes first and auto loans are always better than the best rates you can find."
(Phone rings..., rings..., and rings...)
"Margie has just rescued fifteen children from a burning school bus. As you just saw on your screen, it was a daring and death defying effort. The school bus was struck by a cow..."
(Phone rings...and rings...and rings...)
"...after swerving to avoid a drunken high rise apartment building..."
(Phone rings...and rings...and rings...)
"We have here with us now, the brave hero of the day, Margie Dawson. Margie? Tell us why you were so unafraid to risk you life to save these children?"
(Phone rings..., rings..., and rings...)
"Well, Jill? I'm not really a hero and... Would somebody please answer that phone? It's waking me up...it's waking me up...wake up...wake up...wake up."
Margie sat straight up in bed and gawked around at the small world of her nine by twelve bed room. Snoopy bear was still sitting on the dresser, smiling down with his one button eye...but where was Jill Markel of WCCT News, Atlanta? Where were the camera crews, bright lights, sound technicians, and the amazed and admiring crowds of people from the scene of the accident? Hadn't she just rescued fifteen children from a burning school bus?
(Phone rings..., rings..., and rings...)
The universe came into better mental focus and she realized the only thing left of her daring rescue was the small world of her economy apartment that included Snoopy bear on the dresser, and a ringing...telephone? Who would be calling in the middle of...the...night? Why was the sun shining outside her window in the middle of the night?
Her sleep filled eyes glanced to the bedside clock and focused on the numbers. They read 9:34 A.M. Margie gasped, flipped back the sheets, grabbed the phone receiver with both hands and yelped, "I'm just leaving...on my way...I'm on my way."
Ten minutes later, she raced down the back flight of stairs on the apartment building and jumped in her red, 1986 convertible. Frantically she fumbled through her purse for the keys and found them stashed, this time, beneath the rectangular, plastic bottle of breath mints. Clumsily, she fidgeted the square headed one into the ignition slot and gave it a quick, twist of the wrist. The 289 beneath the hood...buzzed and groaned. Buzzed and groaned?
"Don't do this to me." Margie cried and released the switch." Come one, baby. Crank up nice and sweet; crank up baby."
A second twist and a metallic click, followed by a slow, grinding sound, emitted from the starter. "What?" She shouted and banged the steering wheel with both fists? "What is the matter with you?" The answer to her question could be found on the headlight switch. It was pulled out in the parking light position and the battery drain during the night had killed any chances of cranking the car. "Oh no..." she moaned and laid her head on the wheel." This is Jill Markel of WCCT News, Atlanta. We're at the Shingly Arms Apartment complex on Eastside lane where an early morning fire damaged the complex of 120 economy and single bedroom apartments. Standing here with me now is a young, beautiful woman, Margie Dawson, of this address, who is credited with saving the lives of several apartment dwellers after the fire started, by racing into the burning inferno and bodily carrying them out. Margie? Can you tell us what you felt while saving that young couple and their six month old baby?"" Well, Jill? I'm not really a hero." The newscaster smiled and asked, "Do you need a jumper?"" Excuse me?" Margie said confused. "What was that you just asked?"
"I said, I was just about to leave and I heard your car trying to crank. I've got a set of jumper cables... want me to jump you off?" Margie raised her head from the steering wheel expecting to see the smiling face of Jill Markel, only it wasn't Jill. It was Bobby Newsome, her neighbor. He was leaning down and looking straight at her through the Mustang's window." What? I'm sorry, Bobby. I don't have time. I'm late for work and my car doesn't start." Bobby, shaking his head in wonder but still smiling, said, "Boy... you just woke up. Didn't you?"" Uh... no. I'm just... I'm just... (Being interviewed on the news because I rescued a six month old baby from a burning fire...) I'm just late. That's all. Have you got a set of jumper cables? My battery is dead. I left the parking lights on last night." Bobby nodded. "That's what I just asked you and what I just said. I heard you trying to crank it and I've got a set of jumper cables. You want me to jump start the car?"" Yes, Bobby. Thank you." Five minutes later the Mustang sat beneath a red traffic light with a very impatient driver at the wheel. Margie reached for the rearview mirror and twisted it until the lower half of her face came into view; "Oh God... my lipstick. Where is my lipstick?"
"This is Bill Tinkles of WGG Radio 96 News. I'm at the corner of Peach and Vine Wall Avenue where a motorist just saved the lives of two school children who were attempting to cross the street. A drunk driver was about to hit the kids when Margie Merkel , an Atlanta Bank Teller, leaped from her car and, with only inches to spare, dove and rescued the children from sure and certain death.
"(Car horn blares...blares again...and again...)
"Come on, bone head. The light's green...move it."
Margie sputtered back to the present, reset the mirror until the face of an angry construction worker in a pickup truck behind her was clear and centered in view, and then she pressed the gas and the car pulled away.
Margie raced through the rear door of the bank and managed to sneak past Mr. Brown's office without being seen. In the rear employee lounge area, she put away her pocket book, checked her face in the mirror, and turned to leave. Mark Toler stood there with an anxious twinkle in his eye. "Good morning, Margie. We are so glad you could make it to work today."
"I know, Mark. I did it again. I'm sorry...and thanks for calling this morning. That was you calling...wasn't it?"
Mark nodded. "Yes...that was me again. Margie? If old man Brown sees your time sheet, he's going to go ballistic. You know he's warned you already this month about being late."
Margie shrugged. "I know...I'm sorry. I've been feeling pretty down lately and it keeps me awake at night. I'll get some sleeping pills today. I promise. This is the last time."
Mark pointed at the time punch clock. "I hit you in at8:58...but it's going to cost you. Dinner tonight? My place?"
Margie nodded. "Yea...that's a pretty fair price to pay for having to clock me in on time. Thanks Mark. I really owe you one. In fact, I'll order your favorite take out...Chinese sour Pork and rice?"
Mark whistled and walked away smiling. Margie sighed deeply, checked her still ruffled hair, and then exited the lounge. Her window was open and her money drawer was checked and ready for business. "I'll really have to thank Mark for this," She mumbled beneath her breath.
She stepped to her window, looked out across the bank lobby that was half filled with customers, and said, "Can I help someone, please?"
The rest of the morning went past quickly in a blur of deposits, withdrawals, and account balance checks. "One of these days" she kept telling herself to ease the boredom, "I'm going to be famous. I'm going to be on the national news...I'm going to be a real hero."
At one P.M., the girl in the next booth closed her window, leaned over towards Margie, and said, "I'm going to lunch now. Can you wait until I get back before you leave?" Margie nodded and said, "Sure. No problem, Jan. Go ahead."
Five minutes later a dark skinned, Mexican looking young man entered the front lobby of the bank. He wore craggy jeans, a torn and dirty plaid shirt, and in his left hand, he carried a small overnight bag of some type.
Margie's interest was immediate." This guy has got the word, bank robber, written all over his face."" This is Jill Markel of WCCT News, Atlanta. We're standing just outside the Greater South Banking System Branch on Border Avenue where a daring, broad daylight robbery attempt just occurred moments ago."
Margie watched the man look around carefully, cautiously. His dark, beady eyes focused on her window where only one other customer waited in the short line. The man slowly moved toward her." This is it." Margie thought. "This is my chance to be on the news... to be somebody... to be famous."
"According to our news sources, a dark skinned man entered the bank carrying a small overnight bag from which, we are told, he pulled a handgun and stuck it in the face of a female bank teller."
"Okay this is a stick-up" He shouted at Margie and tossed the bag on the counter. "Load it up and don't do anything funny; nobody gets hurt."
Margie looked at the small, black eye on the end of the gun barrel and then up at the man's scraggly face. There was a small scar that ran from the chin up to the lower right cheek." Scar... Right cheek...” Margie noted mentally.
"I'll need that for testifying in court. “ Yes, your honor. That's him...that's the man with the small scar on his right cheek. I know it was daring of me to snatch the gun away and wrestle him to the floor but he was going to kill someone..."
Margie looked into the man's dark, brown eyes (That's him, your honor. Scar on his cheek and dark, cold, brown eyes...) and then she smiled brightly.
The robber took a small step backwards in surprise. This was his first bank job. The clerk at the convenience store he'd robbed the night before hadn't smiled, just screamed and screamed loudly. Why was the girl behind the bank counter smiling? Was she crazy or something?
"Lady, I said give me the cash right now or I'll blow a hole in your head."
Margie's right hand dropped beneath the counter and the tip of her index finger located the emergency button. (She had always wanted to press that button...always...)
"The president of the Bank, Mr. B.K. Brown, told our producer just moments ago that he would supply Action news with a copy of the bank's video surveillance tape so we can show the viewers exactly what has happened this afternoon here in Atlanta."
"Hey lady, get your hand back up here where I can see...don't you do nothing stupid or I'll..."
Margie pressed the button and a silent alarm light winked on in Mr. Brown's office and at the Police Department six blocks away. She slowly raised her hand back up in clear sight of the robber...and still she smiled. "This is going to make me famous...I'll be on the six o'clock news tonight for sure." Margie was still smiling as the man's thumb rose to the hammer on the gun and snapped it back in cock position.
The loud click echoed in the lobby and all eyes in the building were now on Margie. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Brown move to his office door and peer outward, toward her. "I'll get a promotion from this I bet...I'll be on CNN all over the world...a hero...a real hero."
Carefully, Margie leaned over the counter, allowing her head to move even closer to the gun barrel. (I hope the camera angles are good...why don't they switch to color cameras in banks? Those scraggly black and whites are not pretty at all.) The gun barrel was noticeably shaking now. She winked at the man behind it and said, "What is your name, sir? I'll need to know that information for the police investigation."
Margie stood waiting...leaning over the counter... inches from the gun... and then a bright, red and white light blinded her eyes. Something tapped her on the forehead and then an unseen hand pushed her backwards harshly. "Hey... what's happening?" Her mind wondered.
Her head struck the carpeted floor. (I thought carpet was supposed to be soft when you hit it...that hurt...) Ann, the girl at the booth next door, was amazed (Just before screaming her head off...) because there was no blood pouring from the tiny dot in the center of Margie's forehead. There was nothing but a hole with black smudges around the edges and tinges of bluish smoke in the air. The sour smell of gunpowder singed her nose as well...and then she screamed her head off."
Mr. Brown also advised Action News that a special fund, the Margie Dawson Memorial fund, would be established at the bank in memory of his employee who, as we've just been told by paramedics, was shot in the head and killed by the robber. Police are still looking for the dark skinned man dressed in rangy jeans and plaid shirt. Anyone who has seen this man or knows where he can be located is asked to call the Atlanta Police Department."
Bobby Newsome got home from work, walked into his Shingly Arms, economy apartment, and flipped the remote power on switch to his 27 inch TV set. The familiar CNN News logo appeared onscreen.
"This is Ted Bannerman of VNN World Report. In tonight's news, the President advises that his stand on the balanced budget has not and will not change. Also, from Atlanta, a robber shot a female bank teller at point blank range this afternoon, killing the employee, Margie Dawson. He escaped on foot, without cash. A fellow employee, Ann Cowley, who witnessed the murder and robbery, told CNN that, "This was not some kind of daydream...it was a total nightmare."
Diary of a Grave Mistake
The heavy thuds of a pickaxe fractured the humid night air around the old graveyard and echoed away into the nearby woods and fields. The cemetery, long neglected and finally abandoned, was surrounded on all sides by a seemingly impenetrable barrier of thickets, underbrush, and vines. The only entrance was by way of a partially hidden deer trail that crossed the area. The property was desolate and long ago left to the whims and impulses of Mother Nature.
Most of the smaller grave markers were broken away or stood hidden in the tangle of weeds and thorns that had captured the area. The taller, more dominant, tombstones were sun bleached to a white, chalky, surface. Almost a century had passed since the grounds had felt the trembling sobs of a gravediggers spade and pick. In its heyday, if one can call the regular usage of a graveyard as such, the steady "thrum . . . thrum . . . thrum..." of an undertaker's team could be heard for miles around. This sullen reminder kept Matt Sanders on cautious edge as he worked the heavy axe in his hands.
A nearby kerosene lantern illuminated the area well enough for the figure to see by while the surrounding foliage veiled his operation from view by outsiders. If someone had ventured upon the midnight scene fifty years earlier, their first thought would have been grave robber. Today? Well, today, a closer inspection would prove otherwise because the most recent burial plot was dated 1902, which was 90 plus years ago
Matt certainly wasn't robbing graves in search of material treasures or bones, but he was attempting to uncover a skeleton connected to one family's mystery and another family's secret. The skeleton he sought was not located in the grave below his boots, either. Matt was searching for the more proverbial skeleton in the closet that belonged to the Pary family, the most prominent family within a hundred miles of central Georgia.
If caught, the defense of his gruesome actions of the night would be that the grave in which he dug belonged to his great-grandfather, Thomas Sanders. That, plus, his invasion wasn't robbery or evil intent, it was to solve a long standing family feud between the Sanders and Pary families.
The humid night air and heavy physical labor placed a toll on Matt's body. His sweat soaked shirt clung to his muscular chest while a steady stream of perspiration ran down his face. Mosquitoes and bugs, many of them darting to their deaths in the flames of the gas lamp, were thick and swarming all around.
As the hole grew deeper into the shadows cast by the light, he was forced to stop and adjust the lantern's position to the top of a closer mound of reddish dirt. Not that moving the lamp helped to see better because any where one placed it, the light angle was wrong for the depth of the hole and there were no tree limbs close by to hang it over head.
The adjustment was more of an excuse to pause and listen because he knew that to be caught digging in the cemetery by the wrong person could be a money back guarantee for joining the inhabitants of the earth beneath him. The law? He wasn't as concerned with the legal issues. In fact, at that moment, to be caught by the law would be a partial blessing.
While his hands fumbled with the light's placement, his mind strained all five body senses for opinion. Even his sixth sense, which had brought him to the cemetery in the first place, was fully alert and extremely wary. It warned that something was wrong because the woods were now too quiet. The crickets had stopped their consistent chirping and the silence was unnerving. Night creatures and insects were sensitive to all foreign invasions and Matt's presence was very foreign to their small world around the cemetery. When he'd first arrived an hour before, caution made him wait until the nearby animals had accepted his intrusion and then, all in unison, they had returned to their private sounds and occupations of survival.
Once he'd started digging, though, he lost track of their buzzing, chirping, and din until, for some odd reason, he noticed between swings with the pickaxe that the night had once again fallen into silence. When had they stopped? Better yet, what had disturbed them? A larger animal? Deer? Bear? Matt waited, listening with the creatures until a lone whip-or-will called out from the distance.
He couldn't wait and raising the axe overhead, he mentally scolded himself for not giving the creatures more credit. Their constant singing, hooting, and chirping, or lack thereof, made a better alarm system than the best junkyard mutt alive. His father had always taught him that one could live with, or against nature. Matt chose to live with it when at all possible but right then, time demanded otherwise.
Gravity and force propelled the tool downward and the muffled thump of the blade echoed in the distance. Listening to the report from the blow as he again raised the axe, caution took control and he slowly lowered the implement. He would rest, cool off, and use the time to listen to the night sounds about him. The crickets were still mysteriously silent. It had to be the digging that spooked them. Still, he waited and the continuing, uneasy silence grew louder and louder to his body's more sensitive elements.
The apprehension to remain suspended and alert, knee deep in the hole, was strongest in his mind until a sudden and more noticeable realization crept forward. "Clay!" he muttered aloud. "If a man digs a hole in Georgia then he digs it through hard packed, dry, red clay."
An uneasy shiver traveled down his spine. Stomping his boot harshly against the squishy bottom of the freshly dug hole, he realized the full meaning of the thought. The deep layer of clay was not easy for the axe to rupture with its tip, but it was very moist and sticky, unlike that which one should find three feet below the top soil. This clay had been protected by ages beneath a grave's encasement and should be dry. Had someone been digging here recently or was there an underground spring?
His sixth sense alarm suddenly crashed rudely into his open train of thoughts. The sensation arose that he was no longer alone in the cemetery. Somebody, or something, was watching. Flashes of old childhood stories about ghosts and goblins roaming the area popped to mind. He tried to brush the old fears aside but much like the cowardly lion in the Wizard of Oz, Matt's mind cried, "I do believe in spooks. I do believe in spooks. I do... I do... I do believe in spooks."
The hairs on the nape of his neck stood out and his blood turned icy cold. He strained to probe the darkness beyond the lantern's flickering illumination. The sensation of being watched grew until he was forced to reach for the lantern's gas control knob and twist it sharply. The light's wick gasped for fuel, flared irritably, and then died. A deep, black, darkness folded around him like an embrace by death itself "I do believe in spooks... I do... I do..."
To his now befuddled mind it wasn't a question of who was out there among the grave markers, but from which direction they watched and were, thus, located. For the next five minutes, he remained motionless in the already black night, staying silent, and very worried. When his eyes had adjusted to the shadowy settings, there was still little to see and the eerie stillness grew suffocating. The outlined horizon of the night sky was hard to discern even with his excellent night vision and some help from the stars overhead. He waited and listened, trying to reassure himself that nothing in his five senses warned of danger or discovery. It was his inner, less understood sixth sense that screamed... shouted..., kicked... that the woods had been violated, and were out of character. His greatest danger now was panic and it grew quickly. He was convinced that discovery had already been made and that someone, or maybe something, was watching, perhaps waiting, for him to finish the digging. But why? Because they knew, what only he suspected. The grave of his long dead relative contained a lot more than just bones.
The earth beneath him and the shadows that watched, no longer tightly held the missing links to the mystery which left only one prominent question. Why? Why go to all the trouble of hiding something that happened a hundred years ago? Would the courts of today make any attempt to correct something that had happened a century before? (Could the Indians get the deeds to New York City back?) Matt's ears caught a sound, the whisper of cloth moving through and against briars and weeds, and it was close by. He considered dropping the axe and making a run for it. Was it too late to escape? The tree line was fifty feet away plus he was nearly waist deep in a hole. "Fat chance" he thought.
Another sound and the feeling of something moving caught him squarely. The person stalking him was now very close. Fat chance or not, he lifted one foot out of the hole with intentions of making his break for the tree line but before his legs could pull him upward, the darkness exploded in a beam of brilliant, blinding, light.
Matt froze in place, squinting into the harsh, yellowish eye that focused upon him. He needed something creative to get him out of the jam. But what? Then the figure behind the light came closer and the face took shape and recognition. So this was the final answer Matt realized.
A voice spoke roughly. "Okay, Matt. Stay right where you are and don't make any funny moves. I got a gun aimed at your head." Matt said, "I must assume that you've read your Great Aunt's old diary like I have? Your sister, Edie, gave it to me. Did you know that, Pary?"
"Leave my sister out of this, Sanders... and yea... I read the Diary but, unlike you and my nosy sister, I don't believe a word of it."
Matt raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Then why are you out here right now, holding a gun on me?"
The figure began to laugh. A deep, barreling laugh that echoed across the fields and valley. Matt leaned forward, preparing to take his chances against the gun.
The laugh changed quickly to a bark. "I wouldn't try that, Sanders. Your foot wouldn't clear the hole before your brains hit the dirt behind you."
Matt relaxed backward and said, "This is it, Pary, and you know it. This is what it's all about...isn't it?"
The voice snapped back with a slight tone of confusion. "No, Matt. It's not what it's all about. It's simply how it must be. Now fire that kerosene lamp back up and keep digging until I tell you to do otherwise."
Matt relit the wick, lowered the glass cover, and then slowly took the shovel and began digging again. He was in a jam and knew it. How could he escape while under the watchful eyes of a man who WAS going to kill him?
As he worked, his mind
searched and watched for a chance to break away. An occasional tree
root blocked the path downward and he would slowly, carefully,
exchange the shovel for the pick axe while searching for an opening,
an edge, a single chance to break away and escape. The tension pushed
his body to near frantic speeds with the shovel and his anxiety grew
more and more intense with every strain of his aching muscles. After
three frantic minutes, he forced himself to stop and rest...to catch
his breath.
"You know something, Pary? My father never
accepted the murder of his father... the man in this grave here. My
Daddy struggled all his life to put the pieces of this mystery puzzle
together but he never went this far. He never got to see the diary
your sister and you kept hidden all these years. Even if he had, he
probably wouldn't have been able to bring himself out here and dig up
the grave. It is his father, you know. So, he died, never knowing the
real reasons why Sand hill Estate, or a part of it, wasn't left to
our family."
“ Shut up, Sanders...and get digging."
Matt
bent over, paused and then added, "Now, you and I both know,
Pary. Most of the answer is in the diary your Aunt left behind and
the proof is here in this grave. She said the original will is buried
here. She even described how she murdered my Great Grandfather,
poisoned him, Pary. Rat poison. How does that make you feel? She
married the man for the money and then murdered him in greed and my
daddy lost everything to that greed."
Pary shrugged and then growled, "There was no proof of anything and my Great Aunt showed them the real will right after he died."
"Come on, Pary. You know as well as I do that he didn't just die. I'll bet they could test these bones here and prove it too. They got all kinds of things this day and time that will let a body speak from the grave a long time after it's been there. The will your Aunt showed the law was a fake...a forgery...and she said so in the Diary. I've even got a letter from my great Aunt Annie. She said that a metal box was hidden in my Granddaddy's casket. She saw it when she was a kid at the funeral. That pretty well proves where the will is located and it will be the original and valid will of Tom Sanders. Any hand writing expert will prove that quick enough."
Pary shook his head. "That's a lie and you know it. Sand hill belongs to my family...and when my Aunt Abatha dies, all the property goes to my sister and me. We own it and you know it. Now get back to work and shut up."
Matt prayed the box was in the grave and that the papers, if any, hadn't been destroyed by exposure to the earth and decay. A few minutes later, the blade of the shovel hit something solid and screeched angrily. Was it a concrete vault? No, not very likely Matt realized. Not for such an old grave. Vaults were something relatively new and not used in the burial process at the turn of the century. But, if it wasn't a vault, then what?
"You hit something, Sanders? I heard it...I heard a...” With the muffled snap of rotted wood, Matt's foot broke through a soft part of the old casket top and sank to the calf of his leg. Max Pary jumped, and then raced closer to the hole. "Easy, Sanders. You try anything funny and I'll blow your head off."
Carefully Matt moved his leg about and pulled it free. Grabbing a nearby flashlight, he squatted in the hole and shone the light into the dark opening. He could see that indeed, he was looking at the inside of a long buried casket. The top had all but collapsed and filled the inner space with dirt. With his free hand, he reached inside and began pushing at lumps of the dry earth. Nothing... empty. Even the bones of his grandfather must have already decayed and rotted away because there didn't appear to be anything left to find. With a deep sigh, he realized that after all the investigation, all the trouble, after everything, he had now lost the gamble. Even so, there was no way that Max Pary would let him walk away alive. Not now... not after putting all his cards on the table like this. Matt needed an ace up his sleeve to stay alive and he needed it now. Just as he was about to rule the search hopeless his hand scrubbed against something metallic. He brushed harder at the loose dirt and saw a glint of metal in the light beam. With renewed hope, he sifted around the box and found signs of his relative. It looked like a Pelvic bone. He mumbled, "Sorry, Grandpa" and reverently moved it aside. A few more flicks with his hand and the box broke free of the soil.
Max Pary, standing directly over him now, snapped, "You found it? So it's here after all? Good... now we can put an end to it properly."
Matt looked over his shoulder at Pary but said nothing. He carefully lifted the box through the opening made by his leg and held the container up into the light. Slowly he stood, and Pary backed away several steps. "Easy there, boy... no fancy moves now." Using a thumb and fingers, Matt pushed against the cover of the box but it wouldn't budge. Taking a stronger grip, he pressed the latch and finally felt it release. The lid popped open and he peered inside.
Pary stepped warily closer. "Well? What's in there, boy? What you got?"
A yellowed, old, and delicate fold of papers were stuck against the bottom of the container. He carefully pulled them loose, fully aware that one wrong move and the papers would, most likely, crumble to shreds. Carefully he unfolded the aged document and held it beneath the dim glow of Pary's light. The hand writing was legible enough in most places and near the bottom of the sheet he could make out a date...May 3, 1911, and finally, a signature. The first name was hard to read but the last was clear enough. "Sanders.” This was it. This was the last will and testament of his Grandfather, Thomas O. Sanders. Matt smiled, looked up at Pary and said, "Listen to this, you jerk." To my beloved son, James t. Sanders," and, Pary, as you know, James was my father. Here's the good part, Max. "I bequest all of my assets and valuables, including the property of Sand hill Estate. Said property that borders on the east at beaver creek and runs west for twenty two hundred Rods" etc.etc. Etc."
Pary screamed, "It doesn’t mean a thing, Sanders. Not now... the statue of limitations is up."
Matt shook his head. "No, Pary... there are no limitations on Murder in Georgia. Your Great Aunt killed to get her hands on this property back then. You know as well as I, this is the only valid will and this proves you're Aunt stole the property and the mansion. This is the missing key my daddy spent his whole life searching for. Now it's over, Pary. It's all over."
Something moved in the darkness around them. Both men glared about looking but saw nothing beyond the small circle of light about them. Matt knew... he felt it... something was out there...or maybe it was a somebody. The metallic click of Pary's revolver hammer cocking thundered above the normal den of the night sounds. The creatures paused again to listen and a new wave of cold, eerie silence engulfed the cemetery. Matt knew...and could feel... his father... and then his Grandfather. They were there, watching...lurking on the edges of the dark rings about him.
Pary also sensed something strange and odd. He knew the urgency to protect the Pary family secret was great and if Sanders exposed the old family skeleton in the closet then it would spell total disaster. He and his family would be broke and left with nothing. His gun hand began to tremble noticeably.
Matt knew that Pary was over the mental edge of the cliff. He had to do something and considered leaping out of the hole and making a grab for the gun. If nothing else, he could make a run for it and maybe get far enough back into the dark woods to safety. Whatever he did, his best chance would be total surprise but Pary was too careful and held the gun as though expecting just such a move and now it was cocked and waiting.
Matt snapped, "You think you can get away with killing me, Pary? What are you going to tell the law?"
Pary jumped at the sound of Matt's voice. "Shut up, Sanders... and hand over that box with the papers right now."
He was going to die. Matt knew it and accepted it. He was going to die in the next few seconds. He sighed deeply and surrendered to the idea but he still prepared to spring at the figure holding the weapon pointed in his face. He was not going to just stand there and die without a fight, no matter how futile it would be in the end. Suddenly, the old metal box in Matt's hand grew noticeably heavier. The mysterious new weight was a shock and surprise of its own. He looked down into what was supposed to be an empty box and saw, resting on its sides, a brand new, 9mm Browning Automatic pistol. His eyes focused on the weapon while his mind searched for reasons and answers. How did a gun... a brand new gun like the Browning... find its way into a box that had been buried for 100 years? Before his mind could reject what his eyes saw and his hand sensed in weight, a tiny red dot of flame winked at him followed by a bright flash of reddish light that exploded in his eyes. Max Pary had fired the gun, point blank in Matt's face...but nothing else happened.
He kept expecting, no, waiting, to feel the sharp pain or the force of a blind hand shoving him backwards into the dirt, but there was nothing, no sensations... not even night blindness that should have stunned his eyes into temporary uselessness.
Without thinking, Matt's free hand reached into the box and closed around the handle of the 9mm. Pary, whose own eyes had been stunned by the flash of his gun, stood watching but obviously not seeing. Matt raised the automatic level with Pary's belt buckle, released the safety catch, and squeezed the trigger with his index finger.
The gun jumped in his hand..., jumped again when the second round fired..., and then a third round exploded in the firing chamber and the projectile spit from the barrel of the gun at 2400 feet per second. It didn't take long to reach Max Pary.
The man staggered backwards several steps and then stared down at the glowing redness on the front of his shirt. He could also feel a wetness growing down his back as well. His free hand reached and touched it and pulled away. He lifted the hand to his face with fingers spread wide, and he stared at the damp, sticky red fluid that covered the tips.
In awe and wonder he cried, "What? What? Where did you... where did you get the gu...gu...gun?” The revolver in his hand rolled over and then fell to the ground at his feet. His eyes, now clearly focused on Matt, told the rest of the story. He was dying and he knew it... he could feel it, but still he wanted to know how and where the gun had come from. The eyes pleaded with Matt for an answer.
Matt lowered the 9mm, looked into Pary's dying eyes, and said, "I guess I'll have to thank my Daddy and Granddaddy, Max. They must have put this in the box for me to use."
Max Pary's last look at life on earth was a clear image of two figures standing ten feet behind and over Sander's shoulder. The two men stood side by side, watching, waiting, and he them to be Thomas and James Sanders. Their faces came into better focus in the dim light and he saw the striking family resemblance to the man standing in the hole who had killed him. He shouted, "But, Sanders, all of you... all of you are supposed to be dead."
Looking down at Matt he screamed, "I shot you, I killed you... why am I the one dead?” Then, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his body went limp, crumpling backwards and fell into the tall, dew moist grass.
Matt began to lower the gun when suddenly, it was gone...vanished into thin air. His hand was now empty. He could still feel the sting and bite of the weapon's recoil and his ears rang from the resounding heavy barks. The echoes of the shots stilled resounded from the distant trees and fields. And there on the ground before him lay the results of the 9mm's vicious response after being called into action. But, where was the gun? It had vanished back into the thin air from which it came.
He pulled himself out of the hole and stood looking down at the body of Max Pary. He spoke: "I don't know what happened any more than you do, Pary. All I know is that my family is the rightful owner of Sand hill Estate.” Holding up the paper, he added, "And here is all the proof we need. I guess it's a little late to ask if it's worth getting yourself killed over."
Something moved in the tall grass behind him. He spun quickly at the sound and looked. There was nothing but dark, empty space. The distant whip-o-whil called again for its mate. A soft breeze began blowing, cooling his sweaty face and arms as the crickets returned to their chirping and songs of the night.
Matt turned and started walking back towards the path from which he had entered earlier. He was going to call the Sheriff... but how would he explain that he'd killed a man with a non- existent gun?
Three hours later, he was seated in a small room beneath the County Courthouse and looking across a table at the Sheriff and his Chief Investigator. Both men looked stunned at the death of a prominent citizen but the evidence was clear enough. The Sheriff looked at Matt and said, "All the evidence seems to back you up, Matt but there's no signs of a gunshot wound on Max Pary's body. The Doc told me while ago that it looks as though Pary just dropped dead of a heart attack. I guess the strain of keeping you in his gun sight was more than his ticker could handle. I'll tell the DA what we know and what the evidence seems to indicate. In the meantime, I guess you can go on home. Get some sleep. I don't see how the law can hold you accountable for digging up an old grave."
Matt nodded, stood from his chair and pointed at the metal box and the papers inside. "Can I take those with me? My lawyer will need to see them in the morning."
The Sheriff nodded. "Yea... take them but make us a copy for our records here. Boy, you are going to blow the lid off this county with that old will. I guess it means you now own the richest piece of property within 500 miles and a two million dollar mansion to boot."
Matt shrugged, "Yea... it does look that way. I'm just glad my daddy was there tonight to see it."
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-25 show above.)