Ghosts
by Sheldon Lee Compton
They said the ghost of a black man haunted a section of railroad tracks behind your aunt Carly’s house. That your grandfather’s brother Charles killed a man there for no other reason than because he was black.
Carly tried to rid the town of the story. She said her uncle killed the man because he was an electrician with Apache Mining and well off, not because he was a black man. She said money was the motive, adding, besides, it was never proven Uncle Charles did it in the first place. Folks in town said she talked like she knew more than she was telling.
But you went to the section of tracks one night when a half moon lit the rails up like streaks of mercury. Chunks of coal, some big as softballs, shone in the moonglow, flinted sparkles everywhere. You ran off after a couple minutes, prey to fears found in a young boy’s heart.
Still, courage restored, you went back. Staying much longer, you soon saw a figure far down the tracks. It tightrope walked along one rail.
When it drew closer, you saw the figure was a man, his long arms held out for balance, he now and then tilted his body to shift his weight back and forth. His pants bunched in heaps at his boots, he also wore a coat much too big for him.
You watched the man move in flutters beneath the milky moon. The only sensation you were aware of was the crunching of your steps along the track ballast down the slope to your aunt Carley’s house.
Of course you didn’t go in, brave now as you were. But her porch light was lovely and peaceful, a lighthouse in the dark. Then you saw the man was getting closer. Twenty feet, fifteen feet, ten feet, and you started to make out features. A black man with sad eyes, mouth drawn down clownishly. Slumped forward, his long arms dangled jointedly insect-like. His hands moved like river water in the dark, ebbing and rising in tiny crests. He finally held them out and seemed to fall into deep study.
There was no feeling when he walked through you, maybe a bit of a chill, and then he was past, loping his way down the tracks.
The next morning you told your grandfather what you’d seen. He listened closely, never changing his flat expression. But when you finished, he spent several seconds only rubbing his hands together, then finally explained it had been a story he made up. Or his uncle made up, rather. Anyway, it was made up, he said.
But it was easy to tell; there were no protestations or sideway looks. He didn’t chide you for making up a ghost story. No, he believed you right away.
The next night, he went with you. He brought along his old .12 gauge just in case, he said. With less moonlight and thicker cloud cover, the section of railroad and the land where Carly’s house sat was much darker.
As quickly as the night before, the man appeared far down the tracks, standing on the rail balancing himself again. Your grandfather whispered something to himself and fired the shotgun.
The blast popped your ear and sent you to the ground clutching your head. Over your shoulder, your grandfather’s legs were still set in firing stance. Before there was a chance to see what had happened down the tracks, Carly’s door swung open down the slope.
She only looked up at the two of you then turned around and went straight back inside. It was as if she’d seen the same thing a thousand times before and could care less.
by Sheldon Lee Compton
They said the ghost of a black man haunted a section of railroad tracks behind your aunt Carly’s house. That your grandfather’s brother Charles killed a man there for no other reason than because he was black.
Carly tried to rid the town of the story. She said her uncle killed the man because he was an electrician with Apache Mining and well off, not because he was a black man. She said money was the motive, adding, besides, it was never proven Uncle Charles did it in the first place. Folks in town said she talked like she knew more than she was telling.
But you went to the section of tracks one night when a half moon lit the rails up like streaks of mercury. Chunks of coal, some big as softballs, shone in the moonglow, flinted sparkles everywhere. You ran off after a couple minutes, prey to fears found in a young boy’s heart.
Still, courage restored, you went back. Staying much longer, you soon saw a figure far down the tracks. It tightrope walked along one rail.
When it drew closer, you saw the figure was a man, his long arms held out for balance, he now and then tilted his body to shift his weight back and forth. His pants bunched in heaps at his boots, he also wore a coat much too big for him.
You watched the man move in flutters beneath the milky moon. The only sensation you were aware of was the crunching of your steps along the track ballast down the slope to your aunt Carley’s house.
Of course you didn’t go in, brave now as you were. But her porch light was lovely and peaceful, a lighthouse in the dark. Then you saw the man was getting closer. Twenty feet, fifteen feet, ten feet, and you started to make out features. A black man with sad eyes, mouth drawn down clownishly. Slumped forward, his long arms dangled jointedly insect-like. His hands moved like river water in the dark, ebbing and rising in tiny crests. He finally held them out and seemed to fall into deep study.
There was no feeling when he walked through you, maybe a bit of a chill, and then he was past, loping his way down the tracks.
The next morning you told your grandfather what you’d seen. He listened closely, never changing his flat expression. But when you finished, he spent several seconds only rubbing his hands together, then finally explained it had been a story he made up. Or his uncle made up, rather. Anyway, it was made up, he said.
But it was easy to tell; there were no protestations or sideway looks. He didn’t chide you for making up a ghost story. No, he believed you right away.
The next night, he went with you. He brought along his old .12 gauge just in case, he said. With less moonlight and thicker cloud cover, the section of railroad and the land where Carly’s house sat was much darker.
As quickly as the night before, the man appeared far down the tracks, standing on the rail balancing himself again. Your grandfather whispered something to himself and fired the shotgun.
The blast popped your ear and sent you to the ground clutching your head. Over your shoulder, your grandfather’s legs were still set in firing stance. Before there was a chance to see what had happened down the tracks, Carly’s door swung open down the slope.
She only looked up at the two of you then turned around and went straight back inside. It was as if she’d seen the same thing a thousand times before and could care less.