Teenage Fantasies and Small Town Ghosts - a short story

 While attending college in Monroe, Louisiana my friend Larry and I decided to hitchhike to the small Webster Parish town of Cotton Valley, Louisiana. Larry’s grandparents lived in the former oil and gas boom town and had invited us down for the weekend.

The trip there was non-eventful, the trip home a story in itself. I’ll save that account for another time and tell you instead about our encounter with a ghost in the Cotton Valley cemetery.

Larry had a twin sister named Leeann that was also visiting her grandparents for the weekend. Her girlfriend Cindy had a car and don’t ask me why we hitchhiked to Cotton Valley instead of riding with them but it had something to do with sibling rivalry.

Larry’s grandparents, I’ll call them the Bloomers, had a large wood-framed house with many rooms that they had once rented to itinerant oil field workers. By the sixties, Cotton Valley had a population of less than two thousand. Still an oil town it was no longer a boom town. All of the Bloomer’s extra rooms were empty and Larry and I had our pick of the lot.

Like her brother Larry, Leeann was tall and dark. That’s where their appearances diverged. Leeann had the looks of a young starlet along with a Jayne Mansfield body. Tiny Cindy was as pretty as Leeann but was blonde, svelte and had a deep and lusty voice that belied her size.

In my teens, the girls could have both been homely as sin and I would still have had visions of a potential weekend liaison. Leeann and Larry, as I mentioned, had unresolved family differences and my daydreams squelched shortly after the girls arrived. I got my first clue when she and Cindy took rooms as far away as they could get from us on the other side of the large house.

Friday night and most of Saturday passed without seeing much of Cindy and Leeann as they were off in the car and we were on foot. Cotton Valley had neither a movie house nor any other form of recreation at the time and Larry and I soon grew bored. I managed to stem my own boredom somewhat by keeping a running journal written in ink on a sheet of paper that I kept in my shirt pocket

The seclusion Larry and I felt had apparently also worked on Leeann and Cindy because shortly after a sit-down dinner with the grandparents they asked us to go for a spin with them in the car. We quickly agreed.

We drove away from the grandparent’s house after dinner, Larry and I in the back seat of Cindy’s Fairlane. As I glanced over the bench at the half-hidden riches beneath Leeann’s plunging blouse and Cindy’s short skirt hiked high on her tanned thighs my daydreams quickly reemerged. They needn’t have.

We soon stopped at a house on the far edge of town and picked up Jim. Cindy and Jim, it seemed, had met the prior semester at Northeast Louisiana. After flunking out, he had moved back to Cotton Valley to work in the oil patch.

Cindy’s beau was a tall handsome fellow with a Cancun lifeguard’s tan. When Leeann climbed into the backseat with Larry and me and told me to push over to the middle of the bench seat, all my sexual fantasies flew out the car’s open window and I could tell by her frown that I should keep my hands to myself. I thought so when she crossed her legs and pointed them away from me toward the door and knew for sure when she wrapped her arms tightly around her ample bosom

It was just beginning to grow dark as we drove away from Jim’s house—a good thing as I had trouble keeping my gaze away from Leeann’s ample body. Miniskirts were the vogue at the time and the short garment barely qualified her as fully clothed. Feeling Larry’s cold stare over my shoulder I somehow wrested my gaze from her gorgeous legs and luscious breasts—except for an occasional stolen glance.

There isn’t much to do in Cotton Valley and we were soon headed out of town on a stretch of lonely blacktop. By now it was pitch dark, except for the stars and light of a full yellow moon. Jim and Cindy apparently had a bit of a tiff earlier in the day. We didn’t know it at the time but their relationship was near an end. Luckily for the rest of us, they remained cordial the remainder of the evening and Jim covered up their quarrel skillfully by becoming our local tour guide.

“Slow down and I’ll show you the hanging tree.” Cindy touched the brakes and pulled over as Jim pointed at a large oak tree on the side of the blacktop. A single large branch stretched across the road. Jim told us the tragic story of the rape of a white girl by a local black boy and the resultant retribution performed by an element of the town’s white population. ‘They buried his body in the cemetery up the road and he supposedly still haunts it, especially on a full moon like tonight.”

“Have you ever seen the ghost?” Leeann asked.

There was swagger in Jim’s voice when he said, “Lots of times. Once it waved a knife at a friend and me.”

“Did it scare you?” Larry asked.

“No way,” Jim said

As we sat on the side of the road, listening to Jim’s story, a gentle summer breeze wafted the large tree’s leaves and branches causing shadows to dance across the warm blacktop. None of us commented as Cindy applied the gas and started away toward the cemetery.

As I recall the short ride to the suspected rapist’s place of internment, I realize that Jim probably had visions of mending fences with Cindy, and perhaps a romantic connection induced by her anxiety at possibly seeing a ghost. When we reached the cemetery, I’m sure the visualization we soon saw caused his thoughts of romance to disappear out the open window, along with his phony boldness.

The little cemetery lay just off the blacktop and had a small dirt parking lot. Cindy pulled into the lot and turned off the car’s lights. The night was moon bright and it took only a few moments for our eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. A fence of wrought iron surrounded the cemetery stretching before us like a silent metropolis of the lifeless.

“Hear it?” Jim asked. “The dead boy’s soul is calling out to us.”

I couldn’t hear anything except semis passing on a distant highway along with a chorus of crickets and tree frogs. Still, Jim’s words evoked a certain anxiety. Cindy also felt it as she slid toward the center of the car and closer to Jim. Leeann uncrossed her legs and grabbed my hand in a firm clasp. I couldn’t see Larry’s eyes but I knew he must be frowning. We had all just noticed something that none of us could explain.

Leeann clutched my hand even tighter when Cindy said, “Oh my God! What is that?”

Before us, an eerie blue light rose straight up from the center of the little cemetery, stretching like the creepy luminescent beam of an ethereal spotlight pointing high into the sky. A slight breeze caused the beam to vacillate like the luminous arms of a ghostly hula dancer.

We all sat in silence, waiting for the image to disappear so our minds could promptly deny what we all had seen. It didn’t happen that way.

Talk of the ghost had elicited Jim’s desired effect on Cindy. By now she was practically sitting in his lap, her arms clutched desperately around his neck. Jim didn’t seem to notice as his eyes in the reflected moonlight were big as proverbial saucers, his own arms gripping Cindy as tightly as she held him.

They weren’t the only ones caught up in the spooky moment. Leeann clamped my right hand with both of her own. She couldn’t have drawn any closer without occupying the space where I sat. What Larry was thinking about the situation briefly crossed my mind.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Leeann finally said.

Larry was having none of it. “No way, we need to find out what’s causing that light. I don’t believe for one minute it’s a ghost.”

When no one responded to his statement, Larry opened the back door and started for the cemetery gate. I was more interested in Leeann’s pressing warmth and tender softness than the ghost was but it quickly returned to my attention when the door slammed behind him. Concerned for her brother, Leeann released her grip and pushed me toward the door.

“You’re his friend. You go with him.”

When I glanced at Big Jim, his wide-open stare quickly told me he would be of no help. Leeann’s frown and folded arms had returned so I opened the back door and followed my friend into the night.

“Larry, where are you?” I called.

“In front of you,” he said in a whisper. “The light is coming from over that rise.”

The little country cemetery was well kept, grass trimmed around the tombs. Some of the headstones were large and ornate but most were old and crumbling, many no more than wooden crosses and rectangles of worn concrete. We had no flashlight but didn’t need one as there were few trees to block starlight and bright glow of the full moon. A graveled path led up the hill toward the gleaming blue light.

Larry and I were in ROTC and both already experienced in night maneuvers. The ghostly light that continued to beam from the center of the cemetery apparently didn’t frighten my large companion and I was feeling more elated anticipation than fear. As we crested the slight rise we both saw the origin of the eerie light.

Larry halted in his tracks and held up his hand for me to stop. Moonlight was shining directly on a large piece of blue foil once used to wrap a flower pot. The light was reflecting off the foil and onto the polished marble surface of a headstone. The resultant glow shone like the beam of a spotlight, straight up into the sky.

The light wasn’t all we saw. In the darkness, just beyond the spot where the little hill began to drop in elevation, an almost indistinguishable shadowy figure came into view. It remained a moment in one spot before continuing slowly toward us, its amorphous shape wafting in the gentle summer breeze. Larry took a step forward to investigate but a shout from behind caused us to turn and look.

“Larry, where are you?” It was Leeann. Worried about her brother, she had followed us. We watched as she picked her way up the little hill. Just as she reached us she froze in place, put her hand to her mouth and said, “Oh my God!”

A vivid flash of summer lightning accompanied Leeann’s exclamation followed quickly by a clap of thunder that seemed as if it were right on top of us. Leeann didn’t appear to notice. She was staring at a spot behind us, still grasping her open mouth with her left hand as she pointed straight ahead with her right. Need I add how wide her eyes had grown?

Another flash of lightning lit the sky as Larry and I turned to see where she was pointing. A sudden summer rainstorm had moved quickly overhead, already covering the stars and moon with dark puffy clouds. As lightning dissipated, only gloom remained, but not until Larry and I saw a shadowy nimbus floating up the hill toward us.

Before either of us could react, Leeann grabbed me from behind and screamed, trying, it seemed to squeeze the breath out of me. As she did clouds began unloading with large heavy drops of warm precipitation that lasted for no more than a minute. Dark clouds passed with the rain, again revealing a clear sky complete with stars and full moonlight. Whatever we thought we had witnessed had disappeared along with the momentary storm.

“Did you see it?” Leeann asked, her long arms still wrapped tightly around my chest.

“I saw something but don’t know what it was,” I answered.

Leeann gave me an incredulous look when Larry said, “It was just a low-lying cloud.”

“My ass!” Leeann said. “It was shaped like a man and it was coming up the hill after us. You saw it didn’t you Eric?”

“I saw something but I didn’t get a good look. We turned away just as you called to us.”

“Trust me, it was nothing but a cloud,” Larry said as he led us back to the Fairlane.

Leeann had already begun to disbelieve her eyes as she followed her brother down the hill. I didn’t know what to believe but I was already missing the warmth of her breasts against my back. We had to bang on the car door for Jim and Cindy to open it.

“Did you see it?” Cindy asked.

“Yes, just before the rain started,” Leeann said.

“What rain?” Jim asked. “It’s been clear as a bell ever since you left the car.”

“Well it sure as hell rained on us, didn’t it Larry?”

“For a minute or so,” he said.

Cindy and Jim stared at him, and then at me. “You don’t look wet. Are you guys pulling our legs?”

My shirt and pants were almost dry and I could do little more than shrug my shoulders. By the time we dropped Jim off at his house, talk of the ghost had ended.

Cindy and Leeann were already gone next morning before Larry and I ate breakfast. Larry didn’t want to talk about the ghost except to say it was “bullshit” and I never spoke to either Leeann or Cindy again.

The mind plays tricks and sometimes what you think you see is nothing more than an invention of your imagination. Still, as Larry and I waited on the edge of I-20, trying to thumb a ride, I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out the remains of my scribbled journal. My shirt. We were out of clean clothes and I was wearing the same shirt and blue jeans as the previous night was damp with sweat, crumpled paper equally moist. Something prompted me to unfold the soggy journal and look at it and I got quite a shock when I did.

Either rain or sweat had caused the blue ink to bleed on the paper and render my scribbling indecipherable—except for one word. In large blurry letters, it spelled out WRAITH.

####

Born a mile or so from 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 and continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. If you liked Teenage Fantasies and Small Town Ghosts, please check out his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and iBook author pages.

DANCING AT THE SCORPIO

While rummaging through my closet, I found a tee shirt that evoked a treasure of old memories. The tee sported a poorly drawn picture of a scorpion and bore the name of the establishment from where I purchased it: Scorpio. Under the name were the words: dancers, pool, and cold beer, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

The original Scorpio was an old two-storied building located at Villa and N.W. 23rd, across the street from the Shepherd Mall. The bottom floor had a bar, several pool tables, and a dance floor—a wooden structure raised about three feet off the floor. Music played while the mostly male customers shot pool, drank beer and watched the dancers perform on the raised structure.

The female dancers all wore the equivalent of a bikini with no exposed nipples, buttocks or pubic hair. That was downstairs, the action upstairs quite different—at least I had heard. Not everyone was allowed to go there. Nudity in Oklahoma City, at the time, was banned and rule breakers treated harshly by the authorities.

Most of the young men frequenting the bar were baby-boomers. Many, myself included, had survived the dirty war in Southeast Asia, partaken of the many illegal drugs so readily available there, and had visited the nightlife of Saigon and the brothels of Bangkok. Oil exploration was turning the City into a boom town, the young men of Oklahoma, and those pouring into the State because of the boomtown prosperity, an adventurous bunch and ready for a change from the ways their fathers did things. The Scorpio was there to provide that change.

I remember the first time the stairway guard allowed me and my friend Mick to go upstairs. I tingled with excitement and to say that electricity filled the darkened room would be stating a stale cliche that didn’t come close to expressing the pure sexual exhilaration constricting my chest and shortening my breath. A Bob Seger ballad wailed through the darkness as a pretty blonde girl gyrated, totally naked on the stage, both exposed and swathed by the reds, blues, and greens of a dancing strobe.

Upstairs was a clone to the downstairs with one essential difference—the dancers performed totally nude. Each young woman danced to the music of three songs. They performed their first song, like the downstairs dancers, in bikini-like costume. They would remove their top toward the beginning of the second song, and their bottoms during the beginning of the third song to the captivated attention of every young man in the place.

About this time, the Supreme Court ruled that nude dancing is not pornographic. After having their hands rapped by several adverse court decisions, the City removed its ban on nudity. Nude dancing soon became common in clubs around Oklahoma City, the Scorpio moving to a new location on North May.

Totally nude dancing continued in Oklahoma City until the Supreme Court ruled that cities could regulate activities that the majority of the people did not approve of. I don’t think a vote to regulate nudity ever occurred but the local police began operating as if it had. Oil prices had begun to collapse, ending the oil boom and Oklahoma City’s boom town mentality. Baby boomers were older and most, by this time had their own children. No one much protested the end of an era.

The Scorpio no longer exists, but the building that housed it remains. Ironically, it's now the home of a Vietnamese pool hall and domino parlor. I smiled as I pulled on the old tee shirt, a little too small for me now, but still in good shape. Yes, an era has ended but I still have my memory of the first time I climbed the stairs at the old Scorpio, not knowing what to expect, but spellbound with youthful anticipation.

####

Born a mile or so from 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 and continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. If you liked Dancing at the Scorpio, please check out his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and iBook author pages.

NAME OF THE GAME - a short story

There’s a basis of truth in all fiction, they say. Though I can’t speak for everything ever written, I can attest that the statement couldn't be truer for my short story Name of the Game. Years ago I had a girlfriend who was married to a state trooper. Younger, braver, and stupider, I had a taste of the forbidden fruit anyway. Rita (name changed to protect the innocent) had felt her husband had wronged her and was on a mission to get even with him. Though I’d thought that I had initiated the affair, I soon learned I was little more than an unwitting actor in a tale of marital revenge. Hope you enjoy the story. If you do, you might also like Big Easy, book 1 in my French Quarter Mystery series set in paranormal New Orleans.

NAME OF THE GAME

Rita used to wait for me at the building door where she worked. I would park close to the curb and linger until she came outside. Until that day, our routine was always the same. When I drove up, I noticed a powder-blue Mercedes had taken my usual parking spot. The car's nervous driver, a prepped-out lawyer with gelled hair, turned halfway around in his bucket seat to watch Rita leave the office complex.

“Who was that?” I asked.

Rita leaned across the seat and planted a sultry kiss on my lips. “I didn't see anyone.”

The man in the Mercedes watched us with interest and continued staring at us as we pulled away from the curb.

“Today, I want it hot and fast,” she said, turning the rear-view mirror and using it to touch up her lipstick.

“Whatever. How have you been?”

Rita crossed her legs, revealing more than a momentary glance of her shapely thighs.

“Beyond irritation,” she said. “Russell came home late after leaving me alone with Jessica. Ever try communicating with a good-looking teenage cheerleader with tits bigger than her mom's?”

My smile was all the answer she needed. “What happened when Russell got home?”

“Absolutely nothing. I even paraded around in my stretch-lace teddy to show him what he was missing.”

Talk of Rita's husband always made me uncomfortable. Sensing my discomfort, she leaned across the console and squeezed my leg. It was a beautiful clear-blue day in late autumn, and Rita’s grin was wicked when I braked hard to avoid a squirrel scurrying across the road.

We barely spoke during the short distance to my apartment. The parking lot was empty, everyone at work, and we soon found a spot near the stairs. Fast and discrete. Just the way Rita liked it. She had her arms around me almost before I could lock the apartment door behind us.

“Miss me?” she asked.

“You know I did.”

“And these?”

She unbuttoned her flocked blouse to the waist and cupped her breasts. With my fingers, I traced a narrow path up her flat stomach, but Rita had none of it. Grabbing my wrist, she pulled me down the narrow hallway to the bedroom in the back

Recently divorced, my apartment was small, one bedroom. The apartment was dark, with only hazy sunlight shining through an open window. Rita liked the dark, and I didn’t bother turning on the lights.

“Let's not waste it.” Releasing my hand beside the bed, she dropped her dress, slip, and bra in one practiced motion and fell onto the covers. “Now, I want it hard and fast.”

I’d left the air conditioner on high before leaving for work that morning and the room was cold as it was dark. Rita was neither, her eyes flashing. Already hot after having all the foreplay she’d needed during our lustful stroll from the front door. For the next five minutes, she clawed painful Xs in my back, yanked handfuls of hair from my head, moaned loudly, and squirmed like a woman possessed. When we finished, she rolled off the bed, went into the bathroom, and closed the door behind her. She returned shortly, still totally naked, and carried a can of hairspray.

“Hurry,” she said. I have a prospective employee to interview at one. Can’t be late.”

“But we just got here.”

“And did what we came for. Now, be a sweetie. You know my job is vital to me.”

As I exited the bed and pulled on my pants, Rita returned to the bathroom to brush her hair. This time, she emerged, looking ready for an urgent business meeting. Seeing I wasn’t quite ready, she tapped her shoe, waiting as I knotted my tie. Grasping my hand when I finished, she squeezed it and hurried me to the car.

Because of lunch-hour traffic, we found the return trip to her job much slower. Rita remained silent most of the way, although I could see she was miffed. She didn’t talk until we were almost there.

“I have a question, and I need an answer.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Does there have to be?”

“It's your voice. You sound. . .”

Rita ignored my psychoanalysis, folded her arms, and turned her knees toward the door.

“Tell me. What's the name of the game?”

“Game? I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“The one we're playing.”

I didn’t understand the issue and paused before answering.

“Infidelity, maybe?”

Rita closed her eyes. “This isn't a joke. I need a serious answer.”

A blaring horn distracted me from the unexpected course our conversation had taken. “Have I done something wrong?”

“You've done everything just right, and I've enjoyed every minute of it. Cool drinks in smoky bars, peanut butter picnics in vacant lots, and steamy sex in all the ways I love. That’s what our relationship has meant to me. I just want to know what it means to you. Anything?”

“Something exciting and truly memorable. I can't remember having so much fun since I went skinny dipping with the homecoming queen in the principal's pool on graduation night.”

Rita's strained smile flickered briefly. “Now what? It's almost winter. The pool is empty.”

“You're shooting over my head. Is this about Russell? Are you thinking of divorce?”

“Russell's not the problem.”

“But isn't Russell part of the equation? And Jessica?”

“That's not what we're discussing here,” Rita said, her voice rising.

“Then please tell me what we are discussing.”

By now, her demeanor had diminished from silent composure to barely suppressed rage, and I still was unsure why.

“Just let me off in front of the building,” she said.

I coasted into the slow lane and allowed some angry motorists to surge past on the left. “First, explain why you're angry with me.”

She did not frown or smile, only an empty expression of quiet frustration, as she pointed at the curb in front of her building.

“Pull in and let me out. I never play the game with someone who doesn't follow the rules. You don't even know we're playing.”

She hurried across the busy street without a backward glance. When I phoned to apologize, she didn’t take my call.

Three days passed, then a week, without a word from Rita. Finally, unable to control my curiosity and hurt feelings, I parked at the curb at our old meeting place by her office. From there, I watched, aware of a sudden rush of déjà vu as she walked out the door at exactly our usual time. I quickly realized why.

Even though she recognized my car as she hurried across the sidewalk, she didn’t look my way or acknowledge my presence. Instead, she focused her smiling attention on a young man in a black BMW as he opened the passenger door to let her in. Once inside, she wrapped herself around him and gave him a sultry kiss. She knew I was looking, and I wondered if her lustful actions had been for my benefit. I never found out.

As they disappeared down the street, I watched the young man cast a curious glance in his rear-view mirror.

###

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.

PRAIRIE JUSTICE - a Buck McDivit short story

I wrote Prairie Justice shortly after the Murrah Building bombing in Oklahoma City. Being in the Oklahoma oil business for so many years, I've met a bunch of crooked oilmen and more than a few corrupt judges and public servants. If my memory serves me correctly, this story is the first appearance of my cowboy detective, Buck McDivit. Yes, Buck preceded my French Quarter sleuth, Wyatt Thomas. Which character do I like the best? I have no answer to that question since the two are like children to me, and I love them both. Hope you love Buck as much as I do. If you do, please check out Blink of an Eye and my other two books in the Paranormal Cowboy Series.

Prairie Justice

Buck McDivit braced himself against a dump truck, staring at the deep hole in front of him. The broad scar was all that remained of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. Glancing at his watch for the third time in as many minutes, he wondered why his new client had wanted to meet him here at dawn. Privacy, he guessed. The area was vacant, except for the ghosts of 168 recent victims. A scratchy voice behind him said, “Don't turn around. No need to see who I am.”

The sudden intrusion caught Buck by surprise. He lowered his arms that had shot toward the sky. “I don't recognize your voice, so I guess you're here on business.”

“Good guess,” the man said.

When the stranger's voice dissolved into a moist cough, Buck could smell his sour breath. He didn't turn around. The client wanted privacy and anonymity and expected him to comply with his wishes. The voice sounded familiar, despite what he'd said. He was trying to remember where he'd heard it when the man placed a sheet of legal paper into his hand. It was a mineral lease though dim light and morning haze precluded him from reading the document.

“You know what it is, hotshot. You were a lease broker during the boom; a City cop before that. You didn't become a P.I. until after the oil bust.”

“You know about me. What about you?” Buck said.

“Everything you need from me is on that lease, and in this.” He placed an envelope in Buck's empty hand. “Your retainer and a name. When you finish your investigation, I want you to give him a hand-delivered written report. Now give me five minutes to vacate the premises before you turn around.”

“That's it?” asked Buck.

“You're smart. You'll figure everything out.”

“Maybe, but a hint would be nice.”

When the man started to speak, morning air sent him into another coughing jag. When his damp hack finally subsided, he said, “Vengeance is best served on a cold platter.”

Five minutes later, Buck McDivit was alone again.

***

Noisy diners crowded the tables in Cattleman's Cafe. Buck didn't notice. He was too busy studying the lease while working on a plate of steak and eggs and side of lamb fries. Pushing thirty, he'd yet to consider the possible ill effects of too much cholesterol. A semi loaded with cattle screeched to a halt outside on the street.

The envelope contained ten Ben Franklin's and the name of a reporter for the local newspaper. The document provided a bounty of information. The term, date of execution, lessor, and lessee, and the legal description of the mineral lease. At this point, it all seemed meaningless. Somewhere amid typed details lay a mystery the unnamed client had already paid Buck a thousand dollars to solve. He finished his coffee and used one of the hundreds to pay the tab.

The mineral lease named Clayton Jones as its owner, his address the Lazy J Ranch. The ranch lay just outside Okarche. Buck cranked his Dodge Ram's big engine and headed up the Northwest Passage to pay Clayton Jones a visit.

A week had passed since wheat harvest. Now, rural roads were finally clear of combines and grain trucks. Buck liked it that way, nearing eighty as he reached the turn-off to El Reno. From there, he didn't have far to go. He found the Lazy J Ranch a few miles south of the Northwest Passage, just off Highway 81.

Fresh white paint graced the barns, sheds, and fence surrounding the property. This was a working ranch, a life-size replica of an Oklahoma Paint Horse advertising its main product. He followed the drive to a sprawling ranch-style house, parking beside a red Corvette with a vanity tag that said Tushie.

“Anyone home?” he called when nobody answered his knock.

He followed a manicured path to investigate a commotion in the backyard. There he found a young woman galloping a horse around several barrels. She didn't immediately notice him. When she did, Buck tipped his Stetson, waiting until she'd dismounted and tethered her horse to the fence.

“I'm looking for Clayton Jones. This his ranch?”

“You're at the right ranch, but Daddy's at the horse auction, over in Oklahoma City. Maybe I can help you.”

“Wish you could,” he said, returning her smile. “I think I need to speak with your dad.”

“Too bad,” she said. “Sure boring around this big ol’ place, all by myself and all.”

A cattle truck passing on the highway blasted its mournful horn as it disappeared over a hill. Too busy considering if her reply had a hidden meaning, Buck didn't notice.

“Oh, I'm not in any particular hurry,” he finally managed.

“Mama has peach pie fresh out of the oven. I'll fix a pitcher of iced tea to go with it.”

“You got yourself a deal,” he said, following her up the walkway to the house. “What's your name?”

“Sheila. You?”

“Buck McDivit. I like your jeans, Sheila. I'll bet your friends call you Tushie.”

The young woman didn't turn around, but he knew she was smiling and could almost feel her face turning red. Her jeans were tight, faded and shiny from wear, thin fabric almost nonexistent across the seat of her pants. When he dropped back for a better look, she yanked off her hat and used it to block his view. Her reaction sent them both into a convulsion of laughter. Stopping at the house, she shook her thick mane of wheat-colored hair, sat down on the back porch and thrust a boot toward him. It was then he first noticed her big green eyes and pouty lips.

“How about a hand, cowboy?”

Buck needed no goading, eager to revel in the young woman's attention. Once free of the boots Sheila led him into the kitchen, removed the pie from the oven and began making tea.

“I love this ranch,” Buck said.

“You like horses?”

“You bet. I live on a horse farm myself, over in eastern Oklahoma County. Thoroughbreds.”

“You own a thoroughbred horse farm?” Sheila asked.

Buck smiled and shook his head. “I wish. I help run the place and do a few chores. In exchange, the rich lady that does own it furnishes my office space and a place to live in the horse barn. I have my own pony, though.”

“What else do you do for the rich lady?”

Sheila giggled when he said, “Oh, this and that.”

Young Miss Jones seemed taken by Buck's wavy hair and brown-eyed good looks. After waiting until he finished his second slice of Mama's pie, she walked him to his truck.

“Where'd you say your daddy is?” he asked.

“Bidding on fall stock at the horse barn. Won't be back till late tonight.”

Ignoring Sheila's innuendo with some difficulty, he said, “I sure need to see him today and ask him about this.”

When he showed Sheila the lease, she said, “This is Grandpa's signature, not Daddy's. He's at Eischen's in Okarche.”

“A little early for lunch.”

Sheila grinned. “Gramps likes drinking beer and yakking with the customers. I guess you can do most anything you like when you're ninety.”

“That's a fact,” he said, climbing behind the wheel.

After starting the engine, he cranked down the windows to release the cloud of super-heated air trapped inside the cab. Before driving away, he gave Clayton Jones granddaughter an assessing look.

“Say, Sheila. How'd you like to go two-stepping Saturday night, or maybe take a moonlight ride down by the river?”

Sheila waved and said, “Sorry. I have a boyfriend.”

Buck wanted to spend more time with her. Find out if she did have a boyfriend. Next time, he thought. Today, he was in a hurry. Spinning his tires in the dirt, he headed north, burning rubber when he reached the highway.

He arrived in Okarche in five minutes. Eischen's bar, famous for its cold beer and Okarche Fried Chicken, lay a block off the main highway. The oldest bar in Oklahoma had closed only once since opening in 1896—the result of a recent fire. Now it had reopened. Its bright new awnings proclaimed it had returned better than ever. Buck found Clayton Jones sitting at the bar.

“You Mister Jones?”

“Who wants to know?” asked the old man in faded overalls.

The barroom was dark, air-conditioning icy cold. Clayton Jones hadn't bothered removing his cap, and Buck suspected he rarely did.

“Buck McDivit. Got a minute?”

When the old man smiled, Buck recognized a glimmer of his granddaughter's features. Jones raised his hand to get the bartender's attention.

“About all I got,” he said. “And not much left of that. Hey Johnny, bring the boy here a Coors, and another for me.”

Buck took a moment to savor the icy draw before showing Clayton Jones the lease. The old man slipped his reading glasses out of his overalls and perched them on his nose, squinting to read the document.

“Leased the minerals under the ranch to Darrell Lamm for fifty dollars an acre. He turned the lease to Winchester Oil for ten times that amount.”

“Sounds like you should have held out for more.”

“Might have, if I’d known about the gusher Winchester would find. Thousand barrels a day.”

“Oil?”

“I don't mean soda pop.”

Buck reflected on the old man's answer and sudden change in demeanor. “Lamm wouldn't have any way to know that before he leased you, would he?”

Clayton Jones chuckled. “Son, you're pretty smart. Darrell Lamm's more than just an oil man; he also owns a bank. Guess who banks there?” Buck shrugged. “Seems I had a mortgage, and Winchester a seismic survey pegging the Lazy J as the hottest oil property in northwest Oklahoma. Lamm got a look at it while visiting their office.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don't, for a fact, but I have strong suspicions.”

“Sounds like Lamm got the best of both of you.”

“That's about the speed limit around these parts,” Jones said. “Far as I'm concerned, the only thing more crooked than an oil man is a banker. Lamm has both bases covered.”

Talk of Clayton Jones' crooked banker further exasperated the sudden ill effect on the old man's demeanor. When he closed his eyes and slumped against burled walnut, Buck signaled for two more beers.

“Didn't mean to bring back bad memories. At least Winchester drilled you a good well.”

The oil well immediately raised Jones' spirits, his smile restored by the time he'd finished his fresh draw. “I reckon you're right about that. I'd almost forgot about the damn lease, anyway. Winchester drilled the well while I was spending the summer with my daughter in Texas. With the royalty money from the well, I paid off the mortgage on my ranch and all the rest of my debt.”

“Then there's your silver lining,” Buck said.

“No thanks to Darrell Lamm. I'd still love to give him a little shot of reality.”

“Maybe you can. My client seems to think something's wrong with this lease. Mind taking another look?”

Clayton Jones didn't mind and reexamined the lease. Closer this time. Finally, he shook his head. “Afraid I can't help you. That's the lease I signed all right”

The news wasn't what Buck had wanted to hear. Finishing his beer, he patted the old man's shoulder. “Guess I better run over to El Reno and check the records myself.”

Clayton Jones stopped him before he reached the door. “Say, Buck, I don't see a wedding ring on your finger. You single?”

“Still holding out for the right woman,” he said, grinning.

“Why don't you give my granddaughter a call? I sure need someone to hurry things up if I'm going to see grandchilluns before I die.”

“Thanks, Mr. Jones. I'll keep that in mind.”

Buck saluted as he walked out the door. Kids were the last things that worried him as he headed south toward the Canadian County Courthouse. Pumping units and tank batteries lined the road. Black gold. Life's blood of Oklahoma. He passed a large building that gave him other thoughts.

The Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes had constructed a huge bingo hall unlike any he'd ever seen. It looked like a Las Vegas casino, complete with flashing neon lights. He gunned around the last sweeping bend, finding the Canadian County legal complex near the center of El Reno.

Two new buildings, both labeled County Courthouse, sat a block apart. Buck took a chance and chose the closest building. Refrigerated air swept over him as he entered the new facility. The hall led him to a large open room that looked like a bank, complete with tellers. A prominent sign stated the kinds of business handled. Divorce, civil domestic abuse, domestic relations and issuing of process server's licenses. His favorite was beer, bingo and pool halls licensing. A friendly clerk informed him he was in the wrong building.

In the Hall of Records, he realized why his client had researched his employment history before hiring him. What other private investigator knew how to check records? Likely a bunch in Oklahoma City. Within ten minutes, he'd located the file copy of the lease Darrell Lamm had taken from Clayton Jones. He spent a moment browsing through the documents in the book before having a clerk make copies for him. Sitting alone at a booth in the corner, he studied the copied documents. Finally, he had it.

Once he realized the mistake in the lease, it stood out like flashing neon. Except it wasn't a mistake. Someone had altered Clayton Jones' lease with correction fluid, the culprit likely Darrell Lamm. He'd typed in a new date, adding six months to the term. All this he did before assigning the lease to Winchester Oil. The insinuation was clear—fraud and deceit, Lamm's motive to add value to an aging lease and make it more marketable. And maybe there was something else.

Buck broke all existing speed limits, blowing past cars and trucks as he raced down Interstate 40 toward Oklahoma City. He needed to reach the geologic library before it closed at five. He made it with ten minutes to spare, winking at Cyndi Gates the cute librarian as he hurried past the front desk. He found what he needed in a musty file cabinet.

Several geologists spoke to him in passing. He responded with only a salute, intent on looking at the completion report for the Winchester Oil #1 Clayton Jones. Like the old man had said, the well had blown in for more than a thousand barrels of oil a day. It had already produced a quarter-million barrels of oil. It was a hell of a well making Winchester Oil, Darrell Lamm, and Clayton Jones happy. But something was wrong. Now, Buck knew what it was.

According to the date on the report, Winchester hadn't begun drilling in time to save the lease. Clayton Jones hadn't noticed because he'd been in Texas that summer, visiting his daughter. Winchester Oil had drilled a well, a fabulous well, on an expired lease. Now, Winchester was producing and selling oil it didn't own. The company was guilty of stupidity and lack of due diligence, and Darrell Lamm of civil fraud. The severity of their crimes mattered little. When Jones found out, both would have the devil to pay.

***

After dropping off his story with his client's appreciative reporter, Buck exited the high-rise. At the front door lay a stack of the newspaper's latest edition. He stopped to glance at the picture on the front page. State Judge Indicted for Malfeasance, the headline read. Buck recognized the man in the picture.

Judge Henry Lang. He remembered the ousted judge's scratchy voice ruined by too many cigarettes. A Grand Jury had indicted him for taking bribes and rendering prejudicial court decisions. Buck didn't find it unusual that Darrell Lamm had instigated the investigation. For reasons unknown, their business relationship had gone awry, and Lamm had taken the judge down.

The reason didn't matter. Lamm had made a big mistake in calling for Lang's ouster. The Judge likely knew the location of many of the oil man’s skeletons. Instead of getting mad, he'd gotten even. If he were to go down, Lamm would go down with him.

No one would miss Judge Lang except for the companies and individuals that had paid big bucks for his decisions. As for Lamm, if he died tomorrow, a telephone booth would suffice for everyone who would attend his funeral. Tossing the newspaper back on the stack, Buck headed for his truck.

Right now, he had problems of his own—thirty hungry horses waiting for supper. Scattering gravel in the parking lot, he headed east. Maybe he'd call Sheila when he finished his chores, give her another chance to go two-stepping Saturday night. Maybe, but not before drinking an icy Coors and taking an evening gallop on his faithful pony.

####

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.

Interview with a Sensitive

It’s widely known that I consider Louisiana the nation’s most ghostly state and New Orleans perhaps the most haunted city on earth. Today my special guest is Louisiana psychic/paranormal investigator Paula Bergeron. Paula is more than an investigator; much more. Check out these twenty questions and you will see, as I have, that she is a very special individual. Enjoy!

Q: Tell us where you were raised and a little about yourself.

A: I was raised in the little country town of Branch, Louisiana where everyone knew everyone else.

Q: Were you fascinated by ghosts, spirits and paranormal tales as a youngster? What piqued your interest at an early age?

A: I was always interested in the paranormal, even before I knew what it meant. I have been able to sense and see spirits since I was around 7 years old.

Q: What was your first paranormal experience?

A: My first paranormal experience was in an old house that we lived in when I was a child. I heard a noise coming from my closet and there was a man standing there, but he wasn't scary to me. He told me not to be afraid and that I was going to be safe. He would visit me often and I would read books to him and color pages with him watching over me.

Q: For our readers, a highly sensitive person, HSP, is someone that has an increased awareness of feelings, noise, emotions, mental, and paranormal intrusion. Are you a sensitive?

A: I am a sensitive, some people call me a medium, I prefer sensitive because I don't always see the spirits as much as I can feel them. I can also hear and smell some of them. By smelling them I mean that sometimes I associate a certain smell to them. Like sometimes when my Grandmother is around me, I can smell Ivory soap because that was all she could use because of her allergies. Sometimes it's the scent of a cologne or cigar or cigarette smoke, if they were a smoker.

Q: Do you work alone, or with a group?

A: I usually work alone, but people have learned of my cleansing abilities and call me when someone has a real "ghost" problem.

Q: How do you prepare for a paranormal investigation?

A: I usually meditate before an investigation and ground myself. If the area is known for paranormal activity then I also say a prayer of protection.

Q: Do you truly believe ghosts and spirits are real, or is part of your purpose as a paranormal investigator to try and prove that they are not real?

A: I know that spirits are real because I have seen them many times. My job as a sensitive/medium is to pass on their message and send them to heaven where they were meant to go in the first place.

Q: Does religion play a part in your investigations?

A: I am religious. I believe God gave me these abilities for a purpose and he allows me to do these things. I don't really believe that you have to be religious to have an experience with the paranormal. I think that a skeptic can usually see more because spirits sometimes like to show off to people who don't believe in them.

Q: Most of us think of ghosts and spirits when speaking of paranormal activity. Louisiana is rich in tales of other paranormal beings and beliefs: rougarous, sasquatches, black panthers, crop circles, American Indian mysticism, voodoo, aliens, etc. Do you believe in any of these other supernatural beings and events, and have you had any personal experiences you’d like to relate?

A: The cleansing that I do was taught to me by a Native American Shaman, so I would say yes I do believe in some other parts of the supernatural circle.

Q: Tell us about the most haunted place in Louisiana you have ever visited.

A: It was a cemetery here in Branch that has been reported by the natives to be haunted. I went there with my then boyfriend and another friend. When we reached the cemetery there was a man sitting in a chair at the entrance. Only my boyfriend and I could see him. My friend couldn't see him.

Q: Which cemetery in Louisiana do you consider the rifest in paranormal activity?

A: I have only been to a few cemeteries, but the one that always comes to my mind is "Hookman's" near Robert's Cove. It has been known to be haunted and some devil worship has taken place there.

Q: Many fortune tellers, tarot card readers, mediums, etc. claim the ability to see into the past, and the future. Are these people charlatans, or do some truly have psychic abilities?

A: Being able to see the past or the future would depend on the person. Sometimes the spirits that I connect with will show me a mental picture of how things used to be and sometimes they will give me a picture of how things will be. I would say that some people are truly blessed with the gift and some are not.

Q: What frightens you most about paranormal investigating?

A: I have seen a lot so not much scares me. I think my biggest "fear" is to have a spirit follow me home, but then again I know how to remove them.

Q: In your opinion, what is the most haunted town or city in Louisiana and why?

A: I think the most haunted city would be New Orleans, only because of the devastation and deaths that NOLA has seen and been affected by. There are many other cities with their fair share of paranormal activity though not as much documentation has been done on them.

Q: What is the question people ask you most when they learn you are a paranormal investigator?

A: When people find out that I am a sensitive they usually say "cool" or "really". Most of them don't understand what that means so I usually have to explain that I can sense "ghosts" or as I like to refer to them "spirits”. Most people nowadays know all about the paranormal from TV or movies, so when I talk to someone like that, they usually think it's cool.

Q: Is there a paranormal investigation you wouldn’t consider doing?

A: I would try anything at least once. I don't scare easily so there is no place I would not investigate.

Q: What would you consider the most definitive proof that ghosts and spirits are real?

A: I think the fact that you have seen a ghost or spirit gives you enough proof, but you can't make people believe in what they don't want to believe.

Q: Speaking only of Louisiana, what would be your dream investigation?

A: That's easy, the LaLaurie Mansion or the old State Capitol building. I have been to New Orleans, but it was a very long time ago. I would love to go back.

Q: Do you have any other thoughts about ghosts, spirits, and paranormal investigation you’d like to share?

A: I would just like to say that if you are interested in paranormal investigation, try to remember that if it is a home you are investigating, put yourself in that person's place and see how it would feel if these things were happening at your house and you tried to tell someone about it and that you needed help. Treat each person and "spirit" with respect and help those in need.

Thanks, Paula. Our conversation has enlightened me, and I’ll know who to call when I have questions or problems concerning the paranormal and supernatural.

Eric Wilder is the author of the Paranormal Cowboy and French Quarter Mystery Series. If you liked the interview with Louisiana Sensitive Paula Bergeron, please check out Eric's books on his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and iBook author pages