Old Bones - a short story

It's October, my favorite month, and it's time to share some spooky stories for Halloween. Old Bones is one such story. The problem is, it's true. It happened when I was a graduate student at the University of Arkansas. Ghost stories are always frightening... except when you are unexpectedly thrust into one.

Old Bones

It’s a gray day here in Oklahoma, and my two kitties, Buster and Buttercup, are searching for even a scant patch of sunlight to bask in. The gloom reminds me of a search I made many years ago, which resulted in an eerie discovery.

A chill weekend in November found Gail, my ex, and me deep in a pine forest in southwest Arkansas. A graduate student in geology, my thesis concerned long-forgotten mineral deposits in a sparsely populated corner of the universe. Years before the invention of GPS tracking devices, we relied on a very old Brunton compass to navigate through the stark loneliness of the southern Ouachita Mountains.

Tall trees, mostly pines, covered the rolling terrain. While the Ouachitas aren’t high, rapid elevation changes of several hundred feet are common. We were moving slowly, picking our way through the undergrowth as we traversed an east-west trending ridgeline, looking for an old lead mine hidden deep in the forest.

Gail was short, had green eyes, dark hair, and an olive complexion inherited from her French-Acadian parents. Though raised in the New Orleans metro area, her athletic legs carried her through the forest as smoothly as if she’d been born there. She was walking ahead of me, and I bumped into her when she halted abruptly.

“How do you know where we’re going?” she asked. “There’s no trail. I think we’re lost.”

I was holding an old topo map in one hand and the Brunton compass in the other. “We’re following an azimuth. The mine should be just up ahead.”

“That’s what you said thirty minutes ago,” she said.

“It’s hard staying in a straight line with so many trees and boulders in the way.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Let’s keep walking,” I said. “We’ll find it.”

I was about to give up when we reached a slight clearing that led down the slope to a roaring stream. Something anomalous about the rounded pile of dirt in a bend.

“That has to be it,” I said.

“That pile of dirt?” she said.

“Someone dug that dirt out of the ground and put it there. I think it’s the mine we’re looking for.”

“Doesn’t look like a mine to me,” Gail said.

“Quit bitching, and let’s investigate. Even if it’s not the Davis Mine, we can at least take a break.”

Gail had endless energy and rarely ever took a break. As I sat on a fallen log and tossed pebbles into the roaring water of the creek, she climbed up on the pile of dirt and began exploring it.

“This hill’s bigger than it looks,” she said. “It follows the river for at least fifty yards.”

“I’m sure it was built by humans,” I said.

“Hell yeah,” she said. “Look at this.”

Glancing up the hill, I could see Gail had something in her hand.

“What is it?” I asked.

“An old bottle.”

“How old?”

“Real old,” she said. “Looks like something from a museum.”

I left my perch on the stump and followed her up the hill. The bottle was faded green and crusted with dirt. I was still examining it when Gail called again.

“Check this out,” she said, holding up something for me to see.

“What is it?”

“What’s left of a Confederate soldier’s shirt.”

“How do you know that?”

“There’s a brass button still attached with the letters C.S.A.,” she said.

The weathered hill was the talus pile of an old mine. A scar, roughly a half-acre in size, was all that remained of the old mining operation. Vertical shafts had collapsed or were filled with standing water. We soon began digging beautiful ore specimens out of the talus pile, which was strewn with old bottles, broken timbers, and a few faded signs of the men who had worked it.

“How did anyone ever find this place?” Gail asked when she finally stopped for a break.

“Prospectors searching for silver in the 1830s found lead and antimony instead,” I said. “This particular mine used horses and slave labor to mine lead for the Confederacy.”

“The old man at the truck stop told us we’d never find this place and that it’s haunted,” Gail said.

“Well, we did find it. Don’t know about any ghosts, though the accounts of operations at the Davis Mine refer to abuse, torture, and even murder of Union prisoners of war conscripted to work here.”

“Then maybe it is haunted.”

“Maybe so,” I said. “The shadows and silence are starting to creep me out.”

“Me too,” Gail said. “I keep looking around, thinking someone’s behind me.”

It was already past noon when we found the old mine. Days were short, and our time was limited before we needed to start back to the truck. We took photos and collected specimens, all the while feeling as if there was something present other than ourselves, even if it was only fleeting shadows. The distinct sensation that we were disturbing a place where something terrible had happened was unmistakable. I felt it, and so did Gail.

I jumped when she said, “Oh, shit!”

“What is it?”

“You better come see. I’m not touching this thing.”

She was standing on the top of the pile, nudging something with the toe of her boot. Though mostly covered with dirt, it looked for all the world like a human skull.

“Shit is right,” I said, digging the skull out of the earth with my pick hammer.

“Is that a bullet hole?” Gail asked as I held the skull in my hand.

“Looks like it to me,” I said. “But hell if I know for sure.”

“What are we going to do with it?” Gail asked.

I tossed it into the creek, staring at the rapidly rushing water momentarily before answering.

“Forget we found it,” I said.

“Can we do that?” Gail asked.

“I have a thesis to write and no time to participate in a murder investigation. I don’t intend to ever return to this place except maybe in my nightmares.”

“I hear that,” Gail said. “Let’s get the hell out of here before it gets dark.”

Twilight draped the forest when we finally made it back to our old, faded green Ford truck, waiting for us on a muddy dirt road. When we returned to Fayetteville, I sent some of the ore samples to the U.S. Geological Survey in Denver for analysis. The results surprised me as I’m sure they would have been the prospectors who discovered the Davis Mine. The ore wasn’t just lead and antimony; there was silver present, and it was richer even than ore from the Comstock Lode.

Many years have passed since Gail and I felt the presence of ghosts at the remote Davis Mine, hidden deep in the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas. Today, as an overhead cloud cast a shadow on my kittens, sleeping on the hood of my car, I remembered in vivid detail.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You can also check out his Facebook page.

Gurdon Curse - a short story

My wife Marilyn was born in Oklahoma but spent much of her childhood in Gurdon, Arkansas. A railroad traverses the outskirts of the tiny Arkansas town, and there are numerous accounts of people seeing strange lights at night on the track. Marilyn and her family lived in the house near the tracks, and an old black woman named Hattie worked for Marilyn's family. One dark night, she recounted the story of the Gurdon Ghost to Marilyn and her sister Sharon. Is the story true? Sometimes, the truth is stranger than fiction.

Gurdon Curse

When I was young, I lived in the country just outside of Gurdon, Arkansas. Our house sat alone, back in the woods, about a mile off the highway. Daddy was a logger. Mama took care of the house and all six of us kids. Hattie was a black woman who helped Mama with everything. She had her own home and family but often stayed after work and visited us on the front porch.

The porch wrapped around the house, and Daddy screened it to keep out mosquitoes. We were all sitting outside that night, enjoying the dampness a late autumn rain had brought and a little chill that made it comfortable to cuddle up in one of Grandma’s old Afghans.

Almost grown, Bobby Jack was hardly ever around. He had a date that night with the new girl down the road and soon slipped out the screen door without saying bye. Brother David was at a basketball game. Mama frowned when my Daddy dropped the butt of his cigarette on the porch, smashing the glowing stub with the toe of his boot.

Waving at us over his shoulder, he said, “See you all tomorrow. Four o’clock comes early.”

Mama shook her head, grabbed Nita and Carl Wayne and followed Daddy through the front door. We had no light on the porch but the glow of an almost full moon cast Hattie and Sharon Ann in a warm glow. She was eight; I was nine.

“Guess it’s time for me to go home, too.”

“Please, Hattie, tell us a story before you go,” I begged.

“I’m tired and you two girls have heard every story I know at least a dozen times.”

Hattie’s smile disappeared when Sharon Ann said, “You never told us about the Gurdon Lights.”

“Maybe you know as much as I do. What have you heard about the Lights?”

Sharon Ann gave me a frowning glance, daring me with her eyes to blurt something out and take the spotlight away from her.

“We heard it was the ghost of a railroad man that had fallen off a train and it cut off his head. They say the lights are from the lantern he carries up and down the tracks, looking for his lost head.”

As Hattie grinned, a semi out on the highway blew its horn, and the dying moan mingled with the chill breeze, whipping the limbs of the tall pines in our front yard.

“The Gurdon Lights are real, but the true story ain’t nothing like anything you ever heard. I’ll tell it to you when you both get a little older.”

“No way,” I said, grabbing her arm. “We’re both old enough. Tell us now.”

Sharon Ann grabbed her other arm. “Is it spooky?”

Hattie let us direct her to Mama’s rocker. “Spooky? It’s downright scary and the story is kinda long. I need a big ol glass of ice tea to wet my whistle if I gonna tell it.”

I didn’t have to be told twice. Rushing into the house, I poured Hattie a large glass of tea from the pitcher in the icebox. Before leaving the kitchen, I doctored the brew with Daddy’s bottle of Weller’s he kept hidden behind the Mason jars in the pantry.

I didn’t bother stirring the mixture before handing it to Hattie, and after her first sip, I knew it didn’t matter. Sharon Ann and I sat on the porch before her, huddling together in the warmth of the Afghan.

“This story might give you a few nightmares. Your Mama wouldn’t like that.”

“We’re not scared,” I said.

I always thought of Hattie as a big woman, maybe because of her husky voice. She wasn’t big at all. I realized as much years later, when returning to Gurdon for a visit. She did have square shoulders, big arms for her size and slightly bowed legs that we girls used to tease her about, and her skin was as dark as if she had spent her whole life in the sun.

Hattie took another slug of the laced tea, and I knew she wasn’t going anywhere until she finished every drop. After settling into Mama’s comfortable rocker, she began her story, her words so low that Sharon Ann and I had to lean forward to hear them over the gusting wind.

“Marilyn, you and Sharon Ann are such pretty little white girls. I was not much older than you are now when I first saw the Gurdon Lights. It was about this time of year, maybe just a tad later. Sister Selma and me was sitting outside the house in the swing. It was way past dark and Mama had called us to come inside at least twice.”

Hattie leaned her head back and closed her eyes before slowly continuing.

“Our daddy was the local preacher man. Everybody know’d him. We lived in a nicer house than most black folks, not far from the railroad tracks. Selma and me was waiting for the ten o’clock to thunder past. It wasn’t quite ten when I saw something else instead.”

“Selma, you see that?” I said, pointing down the tracks.

“It was a light moving toward us. We couldn’t tell much else because the night was kinda misty from one of them low-hanging fogs. Sorta like tonight.”

“Where? I don’t see nothing,” she said.

“I didn’t have time to answer because here come the ten o’clock, right on time. The train blew its whistle and rattled right on past our house. The flickering light I had first seen was gone when it finally disappeared into the darkness.

“I was the oldest girl in the family, my room on the first floor, in back of the house. That night, I heard something tapping on my window. The sound woke me but I was still half asleep. It was dark and my eyes blurry when I looked at the window where the noise was coming from.

“Someone or something was tapping on the window and the sound echoed through my room. Tap, tap, tap, it went. Tap, tap, tap. It was dark outside but I saw the shadow of something in the window.”

“What was it?” Sharon Ann demanded.

Hattie sat her tea on the porch floor, closed her eyes and hugged her arms together at her bosom.

I took the empty glass from the floor and scurried back inside to replenish it before she thought better about finishing her story. Sharon Ann had Hattie’s arm, begging her not to leave when I returned from the kitchen.

“What did you see in the window?”

Hattie took a deep breath and a slow sip before answering. “I didn’t hardly believe what I saw myself, but it was a white ghostly head, with long white hair.”

“You mean a ghost?” Sharon Ann asked, sucking in her breath and holding it for Hattie’s answer.

“It was a ghost all right, staring at me through the window with eyes that didn’t have a drop of color. Scared the scream right outa my throat. I swear to you nothing come out. I just pulled the covers over my head and shook.”

The wind whipped up, causing a real commotion with Mama’s chimes hung on some of the nearest low-hanging limbs.

“Then what happened?” I asked, reaching for Sharon Ann’s hand, squeezing it fiercely in my own.

Hattie steeled herself with a healthy sip from the tea glass and finally began again.

“I would probably still be under the covers, but Selma couldn’t sleep and she had walked down to my room. When she shook the bedspread I almost had a stroke. When I didn’t answer, she yanked the covers off my head.”

“What are you doing under there?” she demanded of me.

“I glanced at the window, and then back at Selma. Whatever I had seen in that window was gone. Selma laughed at me when I told her, and before long I’d convinced myself it was just a dream. Next morning my brother found something that brought back my fear.

“Somebody’s gonna get in trouble when Mama find out who broke off her favorite rose bush,” he said.

“Selma and I followed him outside to Mama’s roses growing right outside my bedroom window. Petals strewed the ground beside the broken bush and it looked like someone had fallen on it, mashing it nearly flat.”

“A ghost wouldn’t have fallen,” Selma said. “Someone climbed up on the big rock and was looking into your bedroom.”

“I wasn’t convinced that I hadn’t seen a ghost but the thought of a peeping Tom in the neighborhood did little to soothe my nerves.

“That night, the light was back, only this time Selma saw it too. We weren’t the only ones. For the next few months, people all over town began seeing it, usually late at night and almost always close to the railroad tracks.”

Hattie took another sip, and chilly as it was, wiped beads of perspiration from her forehead. The wind outside had slowed and it got all quiet, except for a dog barking in the distance. Fog hung close to the ground, in the hollows and between the trees. The screech of Mama’s cat outside the house startled Hattie. A grin spread over her big face when she saw us staring at her so intently.

“I see you girls aren’t going to let me go home until I finish the story.”

Our faces were the only answer she needed, plus, we were a captive audience, and she knew it.

Hattie grinned again, took another sip and continued. “My Daddy, like I said, was the preacher man. I knew I couldn’t tell him I’d seen a ghost or he’d of made me listen to one of his sermons after the other. I told my Grandma instead. I could always talk straight to her and she always give me good advice.

“Grandma was a very old woman, with skin as black as chimney soot and hair white as ash.

“You believe in ghosts, Grandma?”

“Course I do. I was your age when I saw my first ghosts. I was pickin’ cotton with my Mama and Daddy. It was hot and we was tired. I cried, grabbed my Mama’s dress and begged her to let me quit.”

“Chile,” she said, “We can’t go till we finish pickin’ this cotton, but we got some help and will soon be done.”

“She pointed behind me. There was folks I had not noticed and they was helpin’ us pick the cotton. They was our dead ancestors, looking as real as you and me, and doing just as much work, except you could see right through them.”

Hattie drew a deep breath. “Granny said we all have spirits that guide and protect us.”

“Don’t ever be afraid, little Hattie,” she said. “Always do the brave thing and God will protect you.”

“I got my chance to test her words not long after that. I was asleep in my room when the same tap, tap, tap on my window woke me, just like before. My eyes were wide as saucers when I peeked out from under the covers and looked at the window.”

Hattie covered her eyes and shuddered. “Don’t stop,” I said. “Tell us what happened.”

“This time I got a good look at the ghost. He was huge and white as a sheet in the light of a full moon. His eyes had no color and he was tapping on my window with long fingernails that curled up like fishhooks.

“I covered my head with the bed covers and stayed that way, thinking he would bust through the window any minute. It never happened and sometime during the night I fell asleep from exhaustion, but my heart was still pounding when I woke up next morning.

“I ran outside in my nightgown and found something under my window.”

“Tell us,” Sharon Ann said, squeezing my hand to where the pink of the fingers gave way to white.

“Was an envelope and there was something in it. A letter.

“I waited until I was in class before I opened and read it. It didn’t say much cept: Help me—Dorothea James, the old house that sits alone down the railroad track. Please come.

“I wanted to tell my daddy, or granny, or maybe even Selma. Something in the message made me keep it to myself. I was working on a project for the English teacher and it was after five before I left school. Instead of going straight home, I headed up the railroad tracks, toward the old house in the woods.

“Everyone in Gurdon knew about the house, near the railroad track. It had been ramshackle long as I could remember, and we called it the haunted house. We had all heard tales about hobos and tramps living there and none of us chilluns had ever so much as stuck our heads inside that old building.

“It was dark when I reached it and I was already kicking myself for being so far from home, but as I stood on the tracks and stared down at the house I saw the glow of a light coming from inside. I almost turned and ran away down the track, but Granny’s words stopped me. I started down the hill instead.

“The old front porch creaked like an old man’s bones and I wished I had a lantern to keep from stepping in a rotten spot and falling through. Somehow I made it to the ruined screen door hanging on one loose hinge. The old wooden door was only half shut.

“I pushed through into the house. The inside smelled like mold. You could feel the dampness on your skin. The wood was all rotted. I followed the hallway to the dim light that led to a bedroom where someone was lying in bed.

“It was a woman, her hair long and unkempt as wet hay. She was black but her skin was ashen as Granny’s hair. The sight of me set her into a coughing fit, her eyes bulging when she tried to catch her breath.

“Oh Chile, thank God you come,’” she said, holding out her hand and speaking in a wheezing voice.

“She wasn’t old but her body was so ruined by disease that I barely understood her. Frail as she was, her grip was strong when she grabbed my hand and touched it to her cheek.”

“I’m Dorothea and I got a problem,’” she said. “I’m gonna die soon and I need to share a special secret with someone I can trust.”

“What secret?”

“It’s about Jerome. Jerome my boy."

“She didn’t have to tell me someone else had entered the room because the little hairs on back of my neck bristled up and I felt a cold chill race down my back. I was afraid to turn around though more afraid not to. When I turned and seen who it was, I almost fainted.

“Standing right there was the Ghost of Gurdon. My legs got weak and rubbery. I almost pissed my panties and would have, but my heart was beating so fast I had to grasp my chest to keep it from busting out of my body. The woman still had hold of my hand and yanked it.”

“It’s okay, Chile. Jerome want never hurt a soul."

“I was once in a doughnut shop when the Grambling basketball team come in. I’ve never in my life seen such tall, athletic young men. Jerome was just as tall and big, and he had absolutely no color in his whole body, not his hair, his eyes or his skin. He was white as a ghost."

“Dorothea yanked me, demanding I pay attention to her, not her giant, colorless son. She eased me close enough to her face that I could smell her acrid breath and clearly see the tears pouring down her ruined face.”

“What’s your name, girl?’” she asked. When I told her she said, “Jerome’s an albino. Having an albino baby in these parts is a curse. It’s called mzungu, the product of a black woman and a white man. Worse, most believe an albino is a living ghost. When families have such a curse, they usually take care of it. I just couldn’t do that to my baby."

“I brought him here and raised him all by myself. We had a little truck patch out back, a cow and a few chickens. Jerome never had no one but me, and when I took the sickness, I got to where I could not feed us no more. Jerome’s been walking down the railroad track at night with his lantern, stealing food and things we need. He’s deaf and can’t speak and I’ve been so scared somebody was gonna kill him, or worse, hack off his arms and legs and leave him to die."

“There’s no monster mean enough to do that,” I said.

“The woman pulled me closer, right up to her face so that I was staring directly into her brown eyes and I couldn’t help but see, and feel her desperation.”

“You’re just a baby. You don’t know yet what hatred some people have in their hearts. Jerome thought you were older and he had a good feeling about you, but . . ."

“Just tell me what to do,” I said, squeezing her hand. “I’ll help if I can.”

“I can’t die and leave Jerome like this. He’ll never make it without someone to care for him."

“Daddy’s a preacher. He’s a good man and will help you, I promise.

“Dorothea loosened her grip on my hand and looked me square in the eyes. She didn’t say another word. She just smiled, nodded and laid her head back against the pillow.

“Dorothea was right. Jerome wouldn’t have hurt a soul. He held my hand as we walked the tracks back to my house. I give him a kiss on the cheek before sneaking in the house, without anyone knowing I had been out. Next morning I told my Daddy.”

Thinking about my own dad, I asked, “Was he okay with it?”

Hattie nodded. “He let me take him to the old house on the railroad track. He prayed for Dorothea and promised her that he would care for Jerome and protect him from harm.

“And that’s what he did. When Dorothea died, Daddy held a service for her and buried her body behind the Baptist church. Jerome was there, dressed in a black coat, a big hat with a veil so people couldn’t see his face. Daddy knew a good couple in Chicago and he called and told them about Jerome. They adopted and finished raising him.”

Sharon Ann and I were captivated by the story. “I can’t believe Jerome wouldn’t have been welcome here in Gurdon.”

Clouds had finally parted and a full moon lighted the path outside the screened porch. Hattie finished the last sip of her tea and started out the door, turning when she had one last thought.

“You pretty little white girls just remember one thing. Old beliefs, black or white, die hard. Some people would rather deal with a ghost than someone that’s different than them. Those people will keep looking for a ghost forever because their minds can’t accept the truth.”

Sharon Ann and me watched the little black woman disappear down the foggy road. Before closing the door, I glanced up at the full moon, and then back at the railroad track, wondering if the distant incandescence disappearing into the fog was Jerome’s spirit, still searching for a person with a good heart.

 ###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You can also check out his Facebook page.

A Ghost Story for Halloween

Though born in Oklahoma, my wife Marilyn spent much of her childhood in Gurdon, Arkansas. Her dad logged while her mother took care of their six children. Like many families in the south at the time, they had help from a black woman—for an enjoyable read, check out The Help by Kathryn Stockett—that spent much of her time at their house.

A railroad track winds through the little town, and for years, the locals have reported seeing strange lights on the tracks. One late October night, Hattie, encouraged by sisters Sharon Ann and Marilyn, and a shot or two of their dad’s bourbon, told them the real story behind the Gurdon Lights. The Gurdon Curse, as told to me by Marilyn, is her recollection of exactly how Hattie told it to her and Sharon Ann on that spooky night, so many years ago in southwest Arkansas.

The ghost story, just in time to give you a few chills for Halloween, is free in ebook format at Smashwords.com and Barnes & Noble. I hope you’ll check it out.

Eric'sWeb

John's Story, Prairie Sunset - of love and magic

How old is too old to fall in love? The question haunted me when I read a newspaper article in the Oklahoman about an old man that had disappeared from his son’s house during a late spring snowstorm.

The numerous casinos now prevalent all over Oklahoma weren’t in existence when I wrote this book. There was, however, Indian bingo. I drove through Red Rock, Oklahoma—site of a huge bingo gaming facility— the very day I read the article about the old man. It was springtime, flowers blooming and trees just beginning to bud. Like the flowers and trees, the story sprang forth in my mind, not letting me rest until I’d committed it to paper.

The Battle of the Bulge tale that John tells is true, at least as far as I know, recounted to me by my own father, a code clerk during World War II. Growing up, he was always my hero. His era produced many heroes, mostly unsung, their stories never told.

For awhile, I had the book posted on the website Authonomy.com, where authors critique each others' books and make suggestions for improving them. One author suggested I expand the book and resolve many of the questions left unanswered in the original version. Once I got started, the characters came alive again in my mind. When I finally stopped writing, the new version was almost fifteen thousand words longer than the original.

When is it too late to fall in love? Read John’s story, Prairie Sunset - of love and magic, now available across the web, and find out.

Eric'sWeb

Earthly Complexities

Fresh from the war, I started graduate school at the University of Arkansas. Separated from polite society for almost two years, I was trying desperately to regain some of its social graces. My new thesis advisor, Dr. K, reminded me as much every day.

Dr. K had an idea for a thesis project in the Ouachita Mountains. Arkansas is one of the most geologically diverse areas on earth. Almost every mineral occurs there naturally, and many other minerals are found nowhere else. Dr. K, a brilliant man, was a graduate of Cornell University and to say that I was a bit intimidated by him would be an understatement.

I wasn't the only person returning from Vietnam. There were half a dozen of us, including an ex-Green Beret. Dr. K and I were walking down the hall one day when we came upon Mr. GB, his back to us and obviously in deep thought. When Dr. K tapped him on the shoulder, he wheeled around, coming up with a vicious blow to the good Dr's groin and laying him out on the hallway floor. When Dr. K regained his senses, and his breath, he dragged himself off the floor.

I understood GB's motivation. It took me months to keep from hitting the ground whenever a car backfired near me. Still, I fully expected Dr. K, the chairman of the department of geology, to lower the proverbial boom on the ex-green beret. Instead, he began speaking in a soft, friendly tone.

"I realize where you just came from and how horrible it must have been, but you're back in the States now. I'm going to let what you just did pass this time, but sometime in the future I'm going to tap you on the shoulder. If you ever lay a hand on anyone ever again, for any reason, you will be dismissed from the Arkansas geology department and you won't be welcomed back.

I was with Dr. K the next time he came up on Mr. GB from behind. Believe me when I say, I wouldn't have done what he did. He tapped Mr. GB's shoulder and stood there, waiting for the inevitable reaction. As if in slow motion, Mr. GB bent forward, almost touching the floor, and then began his karate twirl. This time he stopped abruptly before he ever made his turn, his deadly blow pulled before ever making contact. When he saw Dr. K, he began to shake uncontrollably.

Dr. K nodded, smiled slightly and said, "Welcome back to the world."

In southwest Arkansas, just south of the Ouachita Overthrust, is a geologically complex area known only to a few lucky people. Before I ever set foot on the terrain, I got a lesson in life from an amazingly complex person that understood the human heart as well as he knew the heart of the earth.

Eric'sWeb

Mystery in Arkansas

I learned to read at an early age, and soon began enjoying books. We had a tiny, one-room town library in Vivian and Mrs. Files—I kid you not—was the librarian. The library had little or no budget but Mrs. Files always found an inexpensive way to keep our interest in reading high.

During the summer, she would mimeograph diagrams of the United States, or some such imaginative illustration. Whenever we read a book, she would give us a gold star for one of the states. The person with the most gold stars at the end of the summer got a five-dollar bill, which, I now feel sure, Mrs. Files contributed herself.

I liked mysteries from the time I was very young, books with heroes like Freddy the Pig and Miss Pickerel. As I grew older, I found I also liked a little adventure tossed in. I read everything I could find by Jules Verne, H. Rider Haggard and Edgar Rice Burroughs, so it was natural that when I began writing, I wrote stories that combined the two genres. If you have the need to label everything, I guess you could call them mys-ventures.

Growing up, I also loved history and have always wondered what happened to the ill-fated colony of Roanoke. It would seem with all our technology that we should be able to find the answer. Alas, this is not the case.

I have visited many wild and wooly places in my life but few as wild and remote as the deepest forests hidden in the ancient Ouachita Mountains of central Arkansas. I realized as much while working on my geological master’s thesis in Sevier County.

I remain entranced by the geologic mystery of the area and feel that central Arkansas is one of the top ten geologic wonders of the world. To me, it bears the same mystery and intrigue as Haggard’s vision of darkest Africa, or Burrough’s Pellucidar. Arkansas is also the only place in the United States with diamonds found at their source.

Not only are the Ouachita Mountains lush with mystery, intrigue and danger, their deep valleys and sharp peaks conceal limitless wealth in diamonds and many other valuable minerals. It seemed a perfect place for a mystery/adventure tale, and became the location for my novel A Gathering of Diamonds.

When I wrote A Gathering of Diamonds, I stole many ideas from masters such as Haggard, Burroughs, and yes-even Cussler. I also managed to solve the mystery of the disappearance of the Roanoke Colony, at least in my own fictional mind.

Many moons have passed since those days in Vivian’s little library. Mrs. Files is no longer around to read any of my books. If she were, I am sure that she would smile, pat me on the shoulder, and give me a gold star. That thought makes me very happy.

Eric'sWeb

Boggy Creek Monster

I grew up about thirty miles from Fouke, Arkansas, the location of the 1960’s and 1970’s sightings of the infamous Boggy Creek Monster. I never personally saw the monster (read Bigfoot) but I discussed the sightings with a close friend that I trust and that lived near Fouke and had relatives there.

Bo Smith told me that at least two families in rural southwestern Arkansas saw the large humanoid on more than one occasion. Is it possible that at least one and perhaps a family of the creatures live in southwest Arkansas? The short answer is yes.

For those of you that have the pictures I published of Jeems Bayou, you already realize how much rough, swampy, hilly, unpopulated land lies within the three-state area known as the Ark-La-Tex. Could a wild animal hide forever in the woods of the Ark-La-Tex? Go into the forest and look for a deer in daylight, or a bobcat or coyote. It is unlikely that you will see one.

Have I personally seen a Bigfoot? No but I have I seen and heard strange things in the forests of the Ark-La-Tex more times than I can remember. Is there really a Boggy Creek Monster? Maybe not but spend the night camping in southwest Arkansas sometime and I think it will cause you to admit that at least the possibility exists.

http://www.EricWilder.com

Crescent Memories

There are several old hotels in Eureka Springs. The Crescent was built in 1886 and is on the hill overlooking the valley where the main part of Eureka lies. Eureka has many mineral springs and they are known for their medicinal powers. The Crescent Hotel has had many incarnations and it is haunted according to many sources. I have stayed at the Crescent Hotel several times but unlike the New Orleans Hotel, I have never seen a ghost there. Ghosts aside, I did have a particularly memorable trip that involved the Crescent Hotel.

During the oil boom, I had a girlfriend named Gayle. Friends of ours, Carol and David, decided to join us one weekend on a camping trip to northwest Arkansas. Carol, Gayle and I worked at Texas Oil and Gas and David was an oil and gas lease broker. We left Oklahoma City after work on Friday in David's car and drove to a large lake east of Fayetteville, Arkansas. It was dark when we arrived and we had all been drinking. As we were trying to raise the tent, Gayle slipped and fell down the sloping terrain. She grabbed her leg in pain.

"Are you okay?" I asked, finding her in the dark with my lantern.

"It hurts but I think I'll be okay," she said.

Carol and David had joined us by this time and we all commiserated with her pain. "There's probably an emergency room in Fayetteville," David offered.

"I'll be all right," she said.

We soon realized the temperature inside the tent was almost unbearable and the mosquitoes outside it on a rampage. "Let's go into Eureka Springs and find a room," Carol suggested.

None of us needed much convincing. We drove to Eureka and found a room at the Crescent Hotel. There is a bar on the third floor. After taking our bags to the room, we hurriedly retreated to the bar for drinks. There is a scenic deck outside the bar from where you can see downtown Eureka, and in all directions for many miles. There was also a band playing. Gayle wasn't a big drinker but she slugged two vodka tonics in a matter of what seemed like minutes. The night was moody and rich with sound - perfect for imbibing a little too much alcohol. The rest of us followed her lead.

The next day we toured the scenic spa town. Gayle kept favoring her leg and looking like a whipped puppy, so we decided to head back to Oklahoma City early. After David and Carol dropped us off at my apartment, I took Gayle to the Baptist Hospital Emergency Room. An x-ray showed that she had a broken leg. The doctor's set the break and thankfully gave her pain medication.

Gayle was quite a trooper and her leg healed well. We didn't see any ghosts on that trip but maybe it was because we were all in such an alcoholic haze that we wouldn't have known it if we had.

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All of Eric's books are available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and on his iBook author pages, and his Website.