As I stated in my last post the opening for this story has changed. The original opening will remain, it will be moved into the body of the story following the new opening I will reveal when the story reaches it conclusion.
God’s Chosen contd.
A shadowy figure emerged from the dry goods store, it could have been Randall who owned the place with his wife, but it was too hard to tell even with the light cast by the burning saloon. Several of those staggering down the street turned towards the new arrival who tried to push through them and failed. The man fired several times into the crowd surrounding him, his bullets whistling harmlessly through the air as the group closed around him and his screams competed with the crackling roar of the fire. Whoever it had been was driven to the ground where the group knelt down around him and tore at his body while his screams dwindled to incoherent whimpers that finally fell silent.
Reverend Wickes fell back from the window crawling across the floor to vanish into the deeper shadows where the voices once confronted him. They were silent now, leaving him alone with his terror, the image of the man’s death replaying itself in his mind while the roar of the raging fire crackled into the night.
The call of a lonely bird pulled him from the restless sleep he’d fallen into and he rolled over onto his back, the stained and cracked ceiling of his bedroom shrouded by shadows as the false light of a new dawn painted the floor an effervescent gray.
Cautiously he crawled to the window, the flames from the saloon having died down and he looked down upon the deserted main street. Smoke drifted across the small town, casting its shadows on the street that appeared devoid of life. Here and there he spotted dark splotches in the dirt that marked the location of someone’s death.
Where did they go?
He pulled himself to his feet and left the bedroom, carefully moving down the stairs as other birds responded to that initial cry and the day was filled with the promise of new life as the bloodied street beyond came into view as he came down the last few stairs onto the first floor. At the door he hesitated, not entirely sure if it was safe for him to leave but leave he must. He couldn’t stay here. This was a dead town, and as he moved across the front porch of the hotel he spied his church sitting at the opposite end of main street. White and pristine amid all the chaos the spire rose towards a bright blue sky that carried the promise of a new day. It was a refuge among the insanity of everything that had transpired.
He raced down the steps, the church the only thing he was focused on, unaware of the multiple piles of what looked like discarded clothing littering the side street between the dry goods store and the hotel. As he moved down the street he became aware of movement to his right and swiveled his head to see these piles of clothing moving as the bodies they draped slowly climbed to their feet and turn to him.
They all appeared to have died and he hurried down the street, towards the imagined safety of the church while more piles of discarded clothing slowly stirred to life.
The gunfire has long since fallen silent, most of the scars that once marred the field of battle have healed, and the physical signs of the past conflict were but a memory. Yet if one were to listen closely to the restless breeze whispering across this hallowed land, you might hear the voices of the past. The cries of anger and terror fading to the final whimper of a dying soldier as they came face to face with that which awaits all of us in our final moments.
The names of the battlefields might change as well as the means of conflict, but one thing will always remain. The dying. Be it from sword or arrow, bomb or bullet, death moves among the combatants gathering up the fallen. Where they will march for eternity in lock step with death as the world of the living honors their sacrifice.
Stories of ghostly encounters near old battlefields are as old as the nature of war itself. On the plains of Marathon, north of Athens, Athenian soldiers repelled the Persians in 490 B.C. Afterwards visitors to the battlefield talked of hearing the whistle of spears and the screams of dying soldiers.
British history is filled with similar stories. Three battles from the civil war of 1642 have been reportedly seen by visitors, the engagements at Naseby, Marston Moor, and Edgehill. Two world wars have also left their mark upon the landscape from Dieppe to Burma.
The U.S has its fair share of stories with most centered on the ghostly apparitions that inhabit the civil war battlefields of Gettysburg, and Antietam just to name two.
I experienced an encounter in West German in the mid-seventies. It was my first trip out of the country, courtesy of Uncle Sam, and we were in the field on maneuvers. I had been assigned to a listening post for two hours. It was punishment because me and my tank commander, a west pointer who was always trying to bully people, had been locking horns ever since he’d been assigned to the tank. I had been bullied growing up, so I had very little patience for people of that nature, no matter their rank.
It had only been a little more than 32 years since the guns of WWII had fallen silent, and in many parts of the country there remained small reminders of the past conflict. Most notably were the abandoned structures still riddled with bullet holes.
We weren’t near any towns, or even farms. The night was clear with a full moon and as I waited to be relieved I caught the sound of movement to my right front. I focused my attention on where the sound was coming from but could see nothing. It sounded like several people sneaking up on our position, and it was obvious from the sound of their movement they were soldiers. An armed force moving through the night, no matter how quiet they think they are, will still make small sounds. A rifle sling rattling softly, pants catching on the weeds, footsteps moving as quietly as possible. When you’ve done it enough you recognize these sounds.
There were no infantry units nearby, and as per our rules of engagement everything in front of us was considered hostile. I was about to call it in when whoever it was started speaking quietly, in German. Like they were giving orders or bitching about their situation. I only knew enough German to get into trouble. I looked again at where the voices were coming from, but there was nothing there. The weeds in the field were only about a foot high and not very dense so it’s unlikely they were hiding.
They continued to get closer, their footsteps growing louder, that guttural voice whispering orders. They were no more than five feet away from me, but nothing moved where the voices were coming from. I couldn’t see a damned thing, but I could hear them as clear as a bell. It was then I took a chance and turned on my flashlight. I was supposed to call in any movement, but for some reason this didn’t sound right. There was something off about the way the person was speaking so I hesitated on calling this in. I’d heard a number of stories about strange occurrences that happened to others in the field.
I searched everywhere but saw nothing. If it had been an opposing force patrol sneaking up on our position, the moment I turned on my flashlight they would have come after me. As it was whoever had been there simply vanished. My relief showed up, and I returned to the tank to get reamed out by my TC for turning on my flashlight. I didn’t tell him what happened. It wasn’t until later that I started to piece together what I might have witnessed. I believe what I heard that night was a lost German patrol that paid the ultimate price but were still continuing their mission.
Sounds farfetched, and some might question what kind of drugs I had been playing with at the time. But I was stone cold sober, and I know what I heard. I believe it was just one of the little events that put me onto the path I now follow.
In the coming weeks and months, I plan to explore the stories of hauntings from the world’s battlefields, from ancient times to the present day. If you have any personal experience I’d love to hear about them too, please share your story in the comment below. Thank you.
I’m bringing back my weekly writing challenge. Every week I will add an additional 500+ words to a short story in progress. My plan is to write 26 stories, one for every letter of the alphabet. During my last foray into this I managed to write stories for letters A thru F.
I previously wrote 500 words for the short story for the letter G – God’s Chosen. Last night after my trip to Baltimore, I added another 618 words to the story in progress. Below is the story from its beginning to its latest point. This is raw work with minimal editing.
God’s Chosen
“Why is it so hard for us to forgive?” Reverend Wilkes asked from the pulpit as he scanned the parishioners gathered to hear his sermon. Many were fanning themselves with the days program, the heat inside stifling even with the windows open. Last night’s storm brought with it an intense heat wave that promised to be the worst they’d known in some time. The reverend also noted that Sally Umstead was shifting in her seat and he zeroed in on her. It was terrible what she and her sister were doing to the Plimpton girl. She’d never hurt anyone but to hear them tell it she was evil incarnate.
“Because the evil one is a good salesman.” Reverend Wilkes shouted, slamming his fist on the pulpit to get their attention. He was satisfied to see many of the younger ones stop their squirming and were sitting up straighter in their seats. They knew it was about to get interesting.
“He hates forgiveness because he knows that if he can persuade us not to forgive even one person, our own forgiveness from God will be cut off.” He stopped, letting his gaze linger across the parishioners who were all now paying close attention. For a moment it seemed the heat had been forgotten.
“The devil whispers very persuasive lies to us,” he said quietly, forcing the congregation to lean forward to catch his words.
“Did he lie to you?” He shouted, pointing at Sally.
“Did he lie to you?” He asked, shifting his attention to the widow Barnes. He knew she was responsible for the problems the Plimpton girl was experiencing.
Glancing to the back of the church he spotted the ushers gathered around one of the windows. Bobby Franklin pointed at something outside and turned to look in Reverend Wilkes direction. The terror on his face was clearly transmitted across the room and a ripple of voices followed his gaze.
“What is it Bobby?” The reverend asked, wanting to get this issue out of the way so he could continue his sermon.
“It’s the widow Franklin, sir.”
That wasn’t possible, he’d personally overseen the widow’s grave side services less than a week ago. The scattering of voices became focused on Bobby’s words as several of the parishioners closest to the window left their seats to see for themselves. Several ‘Oh my gods’ were punctuated by a woman’s scream. Reverend Wilkes pushed his way to the window.
The widow Franklin staggered down the center of main street dragging what looked like the lining of her coffin behind her on one foot. The clothes she’d been buried in were a muddy mess
Turning from the window Wilkes pushed back through the crowd and crossed to the doors for the church.
“Where are you going?” Someone shouted behind him. He stopped and turned to face the crowd.
“I don’t know what happened but I’m going to find out.”
“Don’t, please, what if she hurts you?”
“What if she wasn’t dead when we laid her to rest.” Reverend Wilkes said, “certainly, she’s terrified by now and needs someone to help her understand what is going on.”
On the street the heat hit him with a physical force that slowed his steps. The widow Franklin approached, staggering down the center of main street. It was early yet, and though not all of the inhabitants of Whisper Cove attended services regularly, the streets were empty.
Where does she think she’s going, he wondered as he stepped off the curb and moved to intercept her. With every step closer his resolve began to wane. It wasn’t his job to maintain order on the streets. His was to protect the souls of his congregation. When he was a few feet away he stopped and pulled his kerchief from his breast pocket to place it over his nose. The smell coming from the old woman was overwhelmingly bad.
“Mrs. Franklin, are you all right?” It was a stupid question to ask. Obviously she was not all right. For one thing she stunk, for another her eyes had taken on an unnatural cast, and as if to add insult to injury her lips had been sewn shut. She was far from all right.
She turned in his direction, her feet becoming tangled in the coffin lining, and she fell headlong to the pavement. Reverend Wilkes tried to catch her, but was too slow, and she hit the ground with a wet squishing sound that strayed dangerously close to unnatural. It was enough to give him pause, and he stepped back as she thrashed about on the ground, grunting and groaning in a primitive manner that further distanced her from the prim and proper matron she’d been when she lived.
But she was alive. Wasn’t she? He wondered as he remained rooted in place, afraid to get any closer.
The sound of an approaching vehicle drew his attention, and he looked up as Deputy Frank arrived in his cruiser.
“What’s wrong reverend?” Deputy Frank asked as he stepped out of his patrol car.
“It’s Mrs. Franklin, we buried her last week, but it appears she wasn’t dead. How she got out I have no idea, but she needs help.”
“Well, what are you going to do?” the deputy asked.
“Me? What about you? Help the woman.”
Deputy Frank stepped closer, and though he stood a good six four, his expression collapsed into that of a frightened young boy confronting his first nightmare. “I don’t even know what to do.”
“Let’s help her up,” Reverend Wilkes said as he stepped forward and stooped down to grab one of the woman’s arms.
She nearly yanked him off his feet as she thrashed about, and the spongy way her arm felt under his hand left a sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach. It felt like he was trying to grab something stuffed with wet noodles.
Deputy Frank managed to find his balls long enough to step forward and lend the reverend a hand, but he quickly backed away when she lunged at his hand with her face.
“She tried to bite me,” he said, his voice rising in an unmanly manner.
“Nonsense, her lips are sewn shut.”
“How do you even know that?” Deputy Frank’s expression had dissolved completely into that of a frightened schoolboy.
“I called an ambulance,” Derrick, one of the ushers, said as he came up behind Father Wilkes who continued to struggle with the old woman. “Let me help you,” he said as he tried to slip the old lady’s loose arm over his shoulders. She lunged at his face, pulling at the stitches holding her mouth closed as she tried to bite him.
To be continued!
I’m Looking For My Tribe.
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Richard Schiver 