Ghosts of Black Bear Mountain

  Ghost of Black Bear Mountain

  Marc Middlebrooks

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Epilogue

  1

  Saturday, October 31st, 1964

  Sunrise 6:56 am Sunset 5:37 pm

  * * *

  The gates of hell were at the gas station at the end of the street in my small suburb north of Atlanta.

  Today was the day of my grand escape. I'd even changed my diet of laced pills and arrived sober. My brain itched and kicked at my skull every time the facade of one of my many bad dreams fell and shattered, revealing that each dream was, in fact, reality. I was never surprised at how unforgiving the "real" was.

  My car, a 1960 Ford Falcon, had been running on fumes for days. Someone had finally agreed to meet with me about a job, but getting past the gatekeeper wouldn't be easy. The station's owner hated me, and rightly so.

  I parked at the small, simple gas station and sank down in the seat twisting my beard. For a clear Saturday, the station was lifeless. It could have been due to the cusp of winter-cold, or . . . I stopped myself. I didn't dare jinx it. There was no such thing as luck. People who lived lives as tragic as mine couldn't believe some random metaphorical wheel of fortune could be so cruel. We have God to blame for that.

  I shuddered.

  I needed to get Mr. Marbert alone. Maybe then he would listen to my weakly formulated plea, rather than taking another swing at me. But he wouldn't agree to anything if anyone else witnessed it. Except the truth was terrible and unforgivable. It was his youngest daughter, eleven-year-old Darlene, I assaulted.

  It happened during one of my blackouts after I'd taken more pills than usual. I needed them.

  I was told I snapped in my classroom and attacked her in a drug-induced rage. I couldn't believe I did that. I usually gave myself plenty of time to enjoy my LSD trips, but that morning I’d taken more than just acid and lost track of time. It was a miserable excuse.

  I sighed again and slid my glasses back up the bridge of my nose. I deserved to get fired. I deserved the punch. Either way, I'm glad I didn't remember the incident.

  The service attendant tapped on my window, and I jumped.

  The attendant was a former student. Four years ago Zack was the smart, twelve-year-old redhead with freckles from my first class. He used to think I was a riot, but Zack's sorrowful eyes reflected my shame.

  I cranked down the window.

  His face was cautious and full of regret. "Mr. Christian, Mr. Marbert told me to tell you I can't pump your gas."

  "Good grief," I muttered.

  "He told me to tell you some other stuff too, but, oh boy, I won't repeat it." Zack glanced back at the station. "You should probably leave before he comes out."

  "Thanks, Zack," I said with a flat grin. I could understand his situation.

  He paused. "Sorry about everything. Hope it works out."

  He was a good kid, and his kind words were the first I'd heard in over two weeks. I tried to smile, but couldn't. "Hey, how's Darlene?" It was an honest question. No one would talk to me, so I hadn't been able to check up on her.

  Zack lowered his head and glanced quickly at Marbert, Darlene's two-hundred-and-fifty-pound father. "Oh man, Mr. Christian, I don't wanna get in trouble."

  I nodded and peered into the station. Marbert glowered at me through the window, his arms tightly crossed over his round belly.

  "Damn it," I hissed.

  Even if Marbert was fuming, I couldn't detour from my plan. I'd lost my remaining pride months ago. I had no problem saying I wanted to run, but for me to split I needed Marbert to do one thing: forgive me long enough to spot me a tank of gas.

  I ran my fingers over the little, laced aspirin in my shirt pocket, but I left it there.

  Drumming up my courage, I forced myself out of my car. With what little wisdom my twenty-four years had given me, I took off my suit coat and laid it on my seat. Lowering my eyes to the pavement, I moved toward the station door like a man walking to the gallows. My heart was in my throat. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry.

  The door flew open, and the little bronze bell clanged to the concrete.

  "Do you want me to cream you again?" Marbert shouted.

  I avoided his eyes. "If you have to. You're the only one who can—"

  The pitch of his voice rose to near laughter. "What? Help you?"

  "I'm desperate."

  He shoved his finger in my chest. "I'll beat you to death if you don't leave right now."

  "I don't want money. I need a tank of gas. Just one tank—"

  He grabbed my shirt and twisted it in his hand, causing the collar to tighten around my neck. He pulled back his massive arm, and his fist shook in anger.

  I squeezed my eyes. "I didn't mean to do it! You know that!" I blurted out the words as I braced myself for the punch.

  "You hit my little girl, you piece of shit," he barked, shoving me against the brick wall of the station.

  "You know I lost everything!"

  Marbert jerked me but held his punch.

  Words raced out of my mouth. "You went to the funeral. Darlene offered to sing, remember? She said every funeral should have ‘Amazing Grace,’ remember?" My eyes stung with tears. "Pound me, do it. Do it, please, but then let me get out of here. Just one tank," I pleaded.

  Marbert stood frozen in a tense ferocity. I searched his face hoping for some glint of mercy, but then his expression narrowed, and his right fist plowed into my stomach, causing me to fold around his punch like tissue paper. He let go and I hit the ground, struggling for air. Zack rushed toward me.

  "No, leave that trash on the ground," Marber
t warned.

  I gasped.

  The adrenaline coursing through me wasn't enough to mask the dull, warm pain in my gut. I rolled onto my hip and hauled myself up, holding onto the wall.

  Marbert stood over me. "Get out of here before I call the police!"

  "One tank and I'll leave town," I pressed, emphasizing each word.

  "I'll kill you," he spat.

  "Please!" I coughed. "I'll never come back ... Just one tank."

  Marbert didn't say anything, instead he left me there and stomped back into the station. Part of me was grateful; my stomach burned. Another punch would have put me in the hospital, then I'd miss the interview for sure. He would call the police, and that would hold me up as well. Either way, it was time for me to leave. I'd failed.

  I pushed off the curb thinking it would help me stand. It didn't. I crumpled and staggered back to my car.

  Leaning on the hood for support, I circled to the driver’s door.

  My thoughts raced. I had to find a way to get some money. Some of the ideas were new lows even for me, but it didn't matter. There were always people who could find a use for someone down on their luck, but there was no use in doing any of those things clearheaded.

  I reached into my pocket and put the LSD-laced aspirin under my tongue.

  Ding.

  The gas pump rang behind me.

  My soul froze.

  I trembled as I turned toward the station, but I stopped short. Who cares who turned on the pump, I thought.

  Shoving the nozzle into my car, I kept my head low and counted the seconds with extreme fear as the pump flowed. I waited for it to shut off. The sweet fumes wafted up into my face until gas spewed out onto the ground in front of me. I inhaled it, the smell of freedom.

  Holding my aching stomach, I slid back into the Falcon. I cranked the car and watched as the gas needle moved to Full. Giddy with excitement, I pulled out of the gas station and left my past behind.

  2

  My last teaching job hadn't ended well, but there I was in my Falcon swerving to yet another damn teaching job. It might not be a different career, but at least it was a chance at a fresh start in a new state.

  I'd been calling around for work for weeks, but no one would talk to me after the school informed them about my predicament. I received rejection after rejection. Until last week. After calling eight times about a position in north Georgia, the school secretary must have felt sorry for me. She gave me the scoop on an older, unlisted post in eastern Kentucky. She was a friend of a relative of someone in the town. Until she mentioned it, I'd never heard of Middwood, but then again, I'd never been north of Nashville.

  All I knew of Kentucky was from a spread in Life Magazine titled "The Valley of Poverty," which may have influenced President Lyndon B. Johnson's War on Poverty. When I thought of Kentucky, what came to mind was the popular Sunday funny, Barney Google and Snuffy Smith. The strip told the tale of an old hillbilly, Snuffy, and his hefty wife, Ma. My grandmother—who I called Rose-Mary Grand—stated on numerous occasions, while she sipped her coffee and flipped through the paper, that if she were the size of Ma she wouldn't have married such a tiny man. But then there's someone for everyone, she'd say.

  The secretary warned me it wouldn't pay much, but perhaps their dire need would overlook my situation.

  So, I searched all through my car, and even walked the roads searching for change on the streets, but fifteen cents was all I could find. That's how I ended up on the receiving end of Marbert's merciful fist.

  In Middwood, no one would know me at all, and my past would stay buried. Maybe in the new town, people would think I was just quiet or shy. Perhaps if I got the job, I could move out of my car and afford to rent a room. I missed having running water and sleeping on a bed. My face stretched with the foreign sensation of a smile. My grip loosened on the steering wheel and my knuckles returned to their natural, pale color. Heck, maybe get a place with a little porch.

  The euphoria of my escape carried me two hours from Atlanta and into Tennessee. Even in the middle of the fall, the Tennessee grass was still green. I loved the large, plush fields on the tranquil, sloping hillsides. The sky was open with picturesque blueish-gray mountains in the distance. It was lovely. The roads swelled, and, because I was tripping or because I'd lost my mind, I imagined the hills were the laughs to come. Maybe that was silly, or hopeful, or it might have just been sad. Over the last few years, any happiness I was allowed was short-lived.

  Four hours in, gray clouds gathered on the horizon, and a storm loomed. The storm clouds hung frightfully low. It took me several minutes before I realized they weren't clouds, they were mountains, ugly and oppressive. Without looking at the map beside me or even seeing a sign, I knew it was Kentucky.

  There was a sense of flying, soaring in the air as though the Falcon had become her namesake, like a bird rising beyond the canopy. I could see all of Appalachia. The various sized pointy, gray and black mountains were covered in naked trees and cloaked in mist.

  I didn't realize how high I was until my stomach quivered, somewhere between floating and crashing. I looked down at my speedometer, which read fifty-five miles per hour even though there was no road beneath me. Several feet below, the road pitched heavily downward, like a death-drop on a roller coaster.

  I screamed, "Holy—!"

  My car slammed into the pavement, throwing me forward onto the steering wheel. My hand knocked the gear shift into neutral. And I must have hit the radio as well because it sprang to life, preaching at me with imperative anger: "Though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death..." The prophetic words blared as my eyes bulged at the steep slanting road ahead. I cranked the gear shift back into drive, making it kick back with a nasty growl.

  "...I will fear no evil."

  Gravity pulled me down and my speed increased to over sixty. I pressed the brake, but the car barely slowed. "For Christ’s sake!"

  My vision blurred as I frantically gripped the wheel and quickly put on my seatbelt. For the first time, I was glad my Rose-Mary Grand had insisted on the seat belt option when she bought the car.

  "A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at your right hand..."

  I gasped, peering at the sharp elbow-curve below. "Come the fuck on!" Panic seized me. I wasn't going to be able to stop.

  I stood on the brake pedal. My car groaned as it fought to resist the building momentum. The Falcon slowed a bit, but it didn't matter, at my current speed, I'd lose control on the curve before tumbling off the mountain.

  "Shit!" I shouted, clenching my teeth and butt cheeks.

  "...but it shall not come nigh thee."

  I glanced over my shoulder, out the window at the trees whipping by like a switch being beaten down on a child by an angry father.

  "...with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked."

  I returned my gaze to the road ahead while I continued to bear down on the brake pedal with both feet. The car barreled toward the turn in the road. "Come on, Matt! Think!"

  I spotted an extra-broad shoulder along the curve below that looked wide enough for two cars. It could have been a sight-seeing spot, a turnout—or a place designed for idiots like me, who had never driven in the mountains, to stop. Whatever it was, that extra chunk of the shoulder was my only chance at saving myself.

  I released the brake pedal, then slammed down on it again, trying to stay on my bitter course.

  I ran off the road and hit a dip between the pavement and the dirt. There was a loud pop. The car's momentum shifted forward. My car spun around, dirt and rocks pelting the undercarriage.

  My heart pounded as the vehicle slid with a fluttering resistance, grinding toward the cliff. My eyes widened as the expanse of dirt and gravel that made up the shoulder quickly diminished, and the vast view of sky and treetops opened. I threw up my arms.

  BOOM!

  * * *

  The car crashed with the driver's side taking the brunt of the impact.
Glass sprayed across me, biting and slicing into my exposed neck, hands, and head. The Falcon finally rocked to a halt, slamming my body against the crushed driver's side door.

  Everything was silent. Everything was numb. If my heart was beating, I couldn't feel it.

  There was a sense of judgment buzzing in the air, a debate. I was on the scales of fate. There were distant hisses... chants calling for my death, my poor soul that dared to change it’s destiny by crossing over the mountain.

  3

  Am I dead? My mind demanded to know.

  I gasped and opened my eyes as cold autumn air, and gnawing pain rushed over me.

  "The altar is open, brothers and sisters. Tomorrow is not guaranteed to anyone and—"

  My chest heaved as I gaped out the windshield at the now-calm mountain road. The radio preacher droned on. I tried to reach out to shut him up, but my arms wouldn't obey. I wanted to throw up. I fought both of those urges.

  "It's okay. I'm okay," I told myself, then took a breath. I pushed out my hand, the broken glass on my coat glittering in the sunlight. I didn’t remember putting my jacket back on. My fingers trembled as I managed to turn off the radio. I flipped the rearview mirror toward me and lightly touched the sides of my head, checking myself for injuries. I winced as I ran my fingers over tiny pieces of glass sticking out of my scalp. When I looked down at my fingers, there was blood, but the pain wasn't bad. Luckily, I had thick hair. It was the one trait I didn't mind sharing with my father.