A Word Edgewise |
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A Word Edgewise |
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Last Updated 01/20/06
For more literature go
to Clendenin Books
Email: mjclen@our-town.com
Hanging On The Old Home Place
I’ll tell you
why I’m not out there on the old home place getting the house cleaned up and ready to
live in. Just last week I lived through a nightmare out there.
In the daylight, after that first night, everything was different. As I sat in the porch
swing enjoying the cool crisp morning, the rising sun made the eastern sky blush, and the
bottoms of a few white clouds echoed the delicate pink hue. I watched in wonder the Great
Artist at work, and the anxiety crouching in the darkness retreated. Tobbie, my mongrel
black and white dog, whined and nuzzled my hand for a little petting.
“Why didn’t you run those pesky cats off, Tobbie? You’re not afraid
of cats.” Fighting cats was the only logical explanation I could think of to explain
the noises I had heard.
Tobbie whined again and climbed up to sit close to me. Maybe he knew something about the
night here in this solitary place that I did not, I thought as I heard a mournful dove
call to a mate.
Last night, about 3 o’clock in the morning, I had been awakened by a horrible scream
bouncing off the closed window next to my bed. Thinking it must have been the edge of a
nightmare, and though I shivered and hugged the quilt to me, I finally became easy enough
to go back to sleep. Being alone in the house
made me a little uneasy anyway.
Mother
died last year, and it was time to try to put things in order. The place had been in her
family for many years, though she had not lived there until last year. Her grandmother had
lived there all her life.
In the last few years mother had been doing some research into the family history.
I hadn’t been much interested, but yesterday I began looking into boxes of material
she had left sitting beside her chair in the living room. On top of the stack of papers
was a letter about vigilantes who had been scaring people in the neighborhood.
Sitting there in the swing, gently rocking, watching the new-born sun peep over the
tree tops and chase the shadows, I marveled at the peaceful view of pasture with a few
giant oaks and wondered at my unease of the night. One ancient tree reared above a cluster
of little ones in a group between the yard and the barn. Cows kept the underbrush down so
that the sheltered spot with the long, reaching limbs bowing toward the ground looked just
right for a playhouse for some little girl.
I decided to sleep with the window up the next night. If I heard the cats fighting again,
maybe I could run them off. It promised to be cool enough that I wouldn’t need the
air conditioner, and I was curious enough to wonder what kind of animal could have
awakened me leaving such a feeling of foreboding. All day yesterday I had chided myself
about being afraid of a cat fight. Likely that was the explanation. I knew mother had kept
several barn cats and. So did the neighbors about a mile up the branch.
This was a solitary neighborhood--actually just the two places, two newer houses
built on sites of homesteads left by ancestors through several generations. The land near
the river bottom had once been rich farmland, but was now in pasture. A few of the large
old oak trees had, no doubt survived to see the changes. Once, according to history, most
of the area had been in wood. Then when the pioneers came, they began clearing land to
plant corn, cotton and vegetable crops.
Sitting there picturing in my mind the changes that must have occurred, I decided to go in
and read a little of the history mom had organized in the notebook by her chair.
“Evidently, my great-grandfather, Hirum Chisum, had been hanged by the Vigalantes.
Grandmother’s letter to her sister tells of that awful night when they were awakened
by a pounding on the door and a demand that Hirum come forth. The man on the porch at the
door was dressed in a black hood with just eyes showing. In the yard stood six or seven
more hooded figures, some holding high burning torches. They wrapped a rope around Hirum,
pinning his arms down and led him to that big oak near the yard where they hanged
him---”
That’s all she wrote about the incident. Maybe that’s when she had the stroke.
My uncle had found her sitting there in the morning when he came to check on her. She
hadn’t been dead long. Uncle always came from the adjoining farm to check on her
first thing every morning.
So, that night I went to bed with the window up and Tobbie on the foot of the bed. He
hadn’t wanted to go outside to sleep, though he usually did at home. It seemed a good
arrangement to me to have him near.
About 3 o’clock, Tobbie woke me up, whining and nuzzling my face. I sort of pushed
him away, then smelt something strange. It smelled like burning kerosene. Just as I sat up
in bed trying to identify and locate the smell, a horrible scream pierced the night. My
heart thudded and raced as the sound schreeked through the window, making the hair on my
neck stand on end. Tobbie whined and shivered against me.
My eyes were drawn to the window where I could see moving lights, torch lights moving down
toward the oak tree. A black robed figure passed between me and a torch, and other men
appeared in the wavering light.
I could see a figure in white struggling and fighting as my mind raced to fill in the
gruesome details of the horror. In only seconds, the repeating screams had become wailing
and sobbing as the lights flickered in the distance, growing dimmer with the sounds of
horses clomping down toward the creak. A shadow, human-shaped, swayed from a limb of the
tree. The crying and sobbing continued for what seemed hours as I crouched, paralyzed with
fear, on the bed.
Finally, I darted to pull down the window and curtain and scrambled to check all other
windows and doors, turning on all the lights in the house. Tobbie stayed right at my heels
as I moved about the house. I made coffee, even poured some thick with cream in
Tobbie’s bowl. For the rest of the night, I sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee
as the nightmare scenes played and replayed in my head.
As soon as daylight came, I packed my suitcase with the few things I had brought and was
ready to leave. But I did want to stay until sunrise. For some reason, maybe to convince
myself that all that had happened was a nightmare, I wanted to go to that tree and see if
there were any signs of the scene I had witnessed.
Tobbie whined, but stayed close by side as I walked toward the tree. “O.K., Tobbie.
So, it wasn’t a cat fight. I know that now. But we have to go see. Maybe I’m
loosing my mind. Maybe reading about Hirum being hanged made the pictures play in my
mind.”
The grass and weeds along the way showed no sign of disturbance. This dry Fall dust
covered everything. Made me think what a fire hazard a burning torch would be, but I
fancied I could still smell the odor of burning kerosene as I approached the tree. Even in
the daylight, I hesitated. Making myself command my feet forward with my eyes rivited on
the tree I walked on. Suddenly, I stumbled over something.
Looking down I screamed before I could
get control. It was a stick about two and a half feet long with some kind of cloth wrapped
around the end, cloth that was mostly burned--still smelling. Calming myself as best I
could, I went on under the tree.
Then I saw it. On the limb above my head dangled the remains of a frayed rope. Not a new
one, the remains of an old rope looped across the limb. Tobbie and I turned and ran back
to the house, into the car and here we are.