Haunted Spring

After school I walked over to the historical society. A brass plaque on the door said:

Leesville County Museum and Historical Society

Opened 1924

Hours: Monday-Friday 9:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.

Saturday 10:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m.

Closed Sunday

Donations accepted

I pushed opened the door into a cool quiet room that smelled of books and furniture polish and dust. At the desk in the middle sat a middle-aged woman with half-glasses perched on her nose and a beehive hairdo. She looked up at me, not smiling, and said, 'Can I help you, young man?"

"Yes ma'am," I replied, somewhat haltingly. "I need some information."

"Information about what?" she asked. She acted a bit as if I were disturbing her.

"I've got a report for school," I said, continuing the lie I had told my mother.

"A report about what?" she asked, pursing her lips.

I took a deep breath and mustered my courage. I wasn't going to let this woman intimidate me. "A report about a battle late in the war that took place not far from my home between some Confederate militia and some Yankee raiders."

"Hmm," she said. "You're talking about the Scarlet Hill Skirmish."

"Yes ma'am," I said.

That battle has practically been forgotten, especially since we did so poorly. All those young men killed."

"Is there any way I could find out who was in the battle? I mean, who was in the militia?" I asked.

"You're the second one to ask about that battle and that group of militia," she said.

"Oh? Who else asked?" I said.

"A young girl about your age asked about it just last week."

"Uh, okay. Can I look at the records now?"

"Yes you may," she said.

She left her desk and want over to a bookcase. Underneath the book case were drawers. She opened a drawer and pulled out a package, wrapped in plastic. She brought the package to a table. She removed the plastic wrapper from an old, worn ledger book. It was covered in aged green canvas with leather bindings. One the cover was a single word: RECORD.

She carefully opened the book to the first page. Across the top, in arcane though legible handwriting, was the heading: "Roster of 1st Company Leesville Militia, Formed July 4, 1864, Captain James Field, CSA, Commanding." Below the heading were columns labeled "Name," "Rank," "Age," "Date of Enlistment," "Place of Enlistment," "Enlisted By," Date and Place of Discharge," and "Reason for Discharge."

They were a small company. I counted twenty-five men, including Captain Field, one lieutenant, two sergeants, and twenty-one privates.

'What exactly are you looking for, young man?" the lady asked.

"I'm looking for a particular soldier, but I only have a first name," I said.

"Oh? What is the name?"

"His name was Everett," I replied.

"You don't say," she said. "That's the name the girl was looking for as well."

"Is he on the roster?" I asked.

"Yes, he's right here," she said. She slid her finger down the column of names until she came to the last entry. It read: Caldicott, Everett, Private, 18 years, Leesville Courthouse, January 17, 1865, Enl. by Capt Field. The discharge columns were empty. As a matter of fact, all the discharge columns were empty.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but why is there no discharge information?" I asked.

"Because, young man, the Leesville Militia was wiped out in the battle. Every last one."

"Why is Everett Caldicott the last one on the list?"

She pursed her lips again. "Probably because he wasn't old enough to enlist when the militia was formed in 1864. The Conscription Act of 1862 specified males of 18 years and older.

I looked down at the names carefully written in the ledger. 'So he joined in January when he was old enough and was killed in April."

"The Scarlet Hill Skirmish was the one and only battle the Leesville Militia fought. They were mostly young boys with little training or experience in fighting. They went up against trained Union soldiers. They were outnumbered two to one at least. They probably saw that they were going to die as soon as they saw those blue uniforms. According to the legend, our boys got off one volley. But then the Union boys laid into them, and in a few minutes it was over."

I swallowed. "Ma'am, what happened to our boys' bodies?"

Tears came to her eyes. "The damn Yankees buried all of them in a common grave. All 25 of them. No, I take that back. There were 24 bodies in that grave."

"Excuse me, Ma'am, but how do you know?"

Her face became hard, her tone sharp. "Because the day after the battle, a party of men from this town went up there to that battle site and exhumed the bodies. All of them that they could find, that is. Like I said, there were only 24 bodies in that grave. We weren't going to leave our boys and men all alone up there in the woods. No, they were brought back to town and buried in the town cemetery. They're there today, 24 bodies, all accounted for. Except for one.

"So they never found one body?' I asked. "Who was it?"

"The Caldicott boy," she said. "Everett Caldicott. The same one you're asking after." She turned and went back to her desk.

I made notes of everything I had learned and closed the book, leaving it in on the table. I had already been there an hour, and it was time for my mother to pick me up. As I walked past the reception desk, the lady spoke once more.

"Young man, please sign the guest book on your way out," she said. "And, if you'd like, you can leave a donation."

I went over to a large book lying open on a pedestal. Beside it, on a table, was a large glass jar with a slot in its top. Inside the jar was a small collection of paper money, but mostly change. I reached into my pocket. I had thirty-five cents for my lunch tomorrow at school. I decided that this trip had been worth my lunch money. Besides, I could carry a sandwich. I dropped the quarter and dime into the jar, and then looked at the guest book.

Apparently, the historical society had few visitors. This was a Monday, and I had been the only one. There were a few names written in the book during the previous week.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I said.

She looked up, slightly annoyed, from the book she was reading and said, "Yes?"

"The girl who came and looked at the ledger. What day did she come?"

"Let me see," she said, pursing her lips once again. "I believe it was last Tuesday or Wednesday afternoon. She left a dollar donation." This was an apparent reference to my paltry thirty-five cent offering.

"Thank you," I said. She went back to her reading.

I looked at the book more carefully. I counted back the days to the previous Tuesday and Wednesday. On those days, there had been a total of four visitors. Two were from out of town, just tourists passing through. One was a barely literate scrawl, probably a male. But one signature was neat and precise, written in purple ink. It looked feminine, and the name bore it out. She had come in on Wednesday, and she listed her home as "Leesville, SC." Her name was Rikki Chesterfield.

I signed my name "R. Barrett" and walked outside to the steps just as my mother pulled up. As I got into the car, she said "Well, did you find what you were looking for?"

"I'm getting there," I said.

***

That night, after I finished my homework, I laid on my bed trying to remember anyone in my classes named "Rikki." I was in the seventh grade, my first year of junior high—and we went to different classrooms, under different teachers, for our various subjects. I didn't know everyone in my class because I hadn't grown up in the area. We had stayed after my father left the Air Force. My only real friend was Bobby. Try as I might, I couldn't place Rikki.

It got dark outside, and as it did so, I noticed a chill creep into the room. After several fairly warm days, this seemed a little strange. I got up to go to the bathroom and noticed that the rest of the house seemed comfortable. Then I had an idea. I went to my window, opened it, and looked out. Everything seemed fine. Then my insides froze as I heard it: the same eerie whistle I'd heard on Friday and Saturday nights. I looked to the corner of the yard and saw a bank of swirling mist. For just a few seconds, I watched as it seemed to assume a definite form. And then I pulled my head in, closed the window, and pulled the curtains.

I sat there on my bed, shaking. Well, there it was. I was being haunted. By a ghost. I didn't really sense any malevolence from the spirit, but I was still scared. And then I noticed something else. The room had suddenly gotten warmer. Mustering my courage, I opened my window again and peeked outside. All was normal again. The crickets chirped, the air was only slightly cool, there was no spectral fog bank at the corner.

But I had to face the fact that I was known to the spirit now. And I had to assume that what I was experiencing was the ghost of Everett Caldicott, the young soldier whose body was never found when the men of the town retrieved the bodies of the other fallen soldiers. What did the ghost want? What was he trying to tell me? I did not know, but I could guess that his appearance that night was a reminder that he knew that I had his long-lost love letter, and that I had better ascertain his purpose in showing himself to me.

The next day at school, I asked Bobby if he knew a girl named Rikki.

To my surprise, he said, "Sure, I know her. I mean I don't 'know' her, but I know who she is."

I had asked him this while we sat at lunch in the cafeteria. "Is she in here now?"

He ate a piece of fish stick, drank some chocolate milk, burped loudly and said, "No. I don't see her. I think she's in second lunch."

"What does she look like?" I asked.

"What? Are you going to ask her out on a date?" he said teasingly.

"No," I said defensively. "I'm just curious, is all."

I didn't want to tell him, yet, what I had been doing, mainly because I didn't want to be teased about it. But I needed to talk to Rikki Chesterfield.

"Well, what does she look like?" I repeated.

"First of all, she's in the eighth grade," Bobby said, "and the she's way out of your league."

"What the heck does that mean?" I asked.

"Rikki Chesterfield is a fox. Long blonde hair, pretty, smart. In short, she wouldn't look twice at you. Me, on the other hand..." he said, grinning.

I punched him in the arm. He cackled and punched me back.

"Anything else?" I pressed.

"How would I know?" he said, exasperated. "I think she has Mrs. Ellison for homeroom."

Okay, I could work with that. Mrs. Ellison's room was right across the hall from my homeroom. If I hung out in the hall, I would see Rikki as she entered. Then I'd catch her alone sometime and talk to her.

"Thanks, man," I said.

"Now don't get all dreamy-eyed, Barrett," Bobby said as we picked up our trays. "Like I said, she's an eighth grader and way out of your league."

I let the comment pass. I wasn't interested in Rikki romantically. I wanted to find out what she was researching at the historical society.

That night in my room was uneventful. No coldness, no vapor. I did look outside once, but could see nothing through light misting rain.

The next day I hung around outside my homeroom as long as I could, waiting for Rikki. The bell rang, giving me five minutes before the tardy bell. People started crowding into their rooms. I saw her in a group of about five or six girls coming down the hall. She was blonde, like Bobby said. She was wearing a flannel shirt, jeans and a jeans jacket. I couldn't tell much else from a distance, except that she was a little taller than her friends.

"Mr. Barrett," said Mr. Peterson, my homeroom teacher behind me, "time to take your seat."

"Okay, sir," I said and went to my desk.

We didn't spend much time in homeroom. Mainly it was to take attendance and listen to school announcements. I spent the time planning what to say to Rikki. I had to get to her quickly, because I didn't know when I'd see her again during the day. So when the bell rang I bolted out the door and waited outside her homeroom for her to come out. When she did, I walked over to her and got beside her, which got me a few mean stares from her friends.

"Hey," I said. "Are you Rikki?"

She looked at me suspiciously. "Do I know you?" she asked.

"No," I said quickly, aware that the time was ticking down fast. "My name's Roy Barrett, and I think we're researching the same thing."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"The historical society. I was there the other day and so were you. I think we're looking for the same thing."

"Look, I've got to get to class..." she started to say, but I interrupted her.

"Can I call you tonight? I need to talk to you."

She looked wary, then took out a pen and scribbled a number on a scrap of paper.

"Not till after eight," she said, turned and left.

"So what happened?" Bobby asked after school. We were out in front of the building. Bobby walked home because he lived in town. I rode with my mom every day because we lived a few miles out.

"Nothing, really, "I said. "I got her number."

"No way!" he said, punching me in the shoulder. "When are you going to call her?"

"Tonight after eight," I said.

"Gonna ask her out?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said evasively, "maybe."

"You better tell me everything tomorrow," Bobby said. He left me, walking down the street toward his house.

In truth, I wasn't sure what I was going to ask her about. I could see myself stupidly telling her that I'd seen a ghost in the woods behind my house and now he was communicating with me. She would think I was crazy for sure. Most likely, she was researching a report. It was April, and I knew that some of the eighth grade teachers assigned a big report late in the year. Probably she was just working on that. I was still pondering that when my mother drove up and tooted the horn.

"Didn't you see me drive up?" she asked as I got in.

"Sorry, I was daydreaming," I replied.

"Hmph," she said, and drove off.

After supper that night I went to my room and hurried through my homework. It seemed to take forever. By the time I finished, it was five minutes to eight. My bedtime was ten, so I had two hours to talk to Rikki, though I doubted it would take that long.

At five past eight, the phone rang. My mom picked it up and said, "It's for you, Ted," my mom said.

I groaned inside. Depending on who it was, my dad could be on the phone for an hour. It turned out to be his brother Melvyn, who lived in North Carolina. Melvyn wasn't a long-winded phone talker, thankfully, and he and my dad ended their conversation in about fifteen minutes. As soon as Dad put the phone in the hook, I was there to take it.

"Well, sport, you're awfully anxious to get to the phone. Calling a girl?" he said, winking.

I stared at him dumbly. I didn't know what to say.

"Not very talkative tonight, are you?" he said.

"Uh, no sir."

"Okay, just don't tie it up too long," he said and walked back into the living room. I heard the easy chair squeak as he settled into it.

We had one phone at our house. It was mounted on the wall in the hall. Beside the phone was a table where we kept the phone book, along with a pad of paper and a pencil for taking messages. What we didn't have was a chair to sit on. Luckily, the bathroom was right by the phone, so I quickly dialed the number Rikki had given me, and went into the bathroom to sit down on the toilet. I closed the door.

The phone rang five or six times before being picked up. A girl's voice said, "Hello?"

I swallowed hard and said, "H-hello, is this Rikki?"

"Yes, it's Rikki. Is this Roy?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"I've been waiting for you to call. What took you so long?"

"My dad was on the phone," I said sheepishly.

"Oh. Oh well. What did you want to talk about?"

At first, I was going to tell her that I thought I'd seen and been haunted by a ghost. But then I thought better of it. I would make up some story about a report we could work together on, then gradually break the ghost story to her.

"Well," I said, "I was over at the county historical society the other day doing research for a report, and the lady there told me you had been there earlier checking out the same stuff I was. I thought we could maybe work together. That is, if you're doing a report, too."

And then she told me: "I'm not researching a report. It's, it's something else."

"What?" I asked.

"I don't want to tell you over the phone," she said, almost whispering. "What lunch do you have?"

"I have first lunch," I said.

"I have second. How do you get home?" I asked.

"I walk home. I live with my grandmother in town."

I thought a moment. "I've usually got a few minutes in the afternoon before my mom comes to pick me up. Can you meet me in front of the school tomorrow? We should have a couple of minutes to talk."

"Okay," she said. "I'll try."

"Sure you don't want to give me a hint?" I said.

"Not now," she said, "maybe tomorrow. See you then."

"Okay," I said. "'Bye."

I left the bathroom, hung up the phone and went back to my room. As soon as I walked in the door, I noticed the coldness. I felt the fear wash over me, but then took a deep breath, closed my eyes and said to whoever was out there, "Be patient. I'm working on it."

My mother was walking past my door. She stopped and said, "Who are you talking to, Roy?"

"Nobody, Mom, just going over some test questions," I said.

"Hmph," she said. "Say, I'm going outside for a moment. Come with me."

I didn't really want to go, but I went anyway. I knew she was going outside to smoke, but she usually went alone. I wondered what she wanted.

We sat on the back steps. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. I worried about Mom because I could hear her cough sometimes.

"You should quit those," I said, indicating her cigarette.

"Tell me something I don't know," she said drily. She took another puff and said, "So how are things going, Roy?"

"All right, I guess," I said.

"Any plans for the summer?"

"Find a job. Hang out with Bobby."

"Is there a girl?"

"Mom!" I said. "No, not right now."

"Who was that with you on the phone tonight? It was a girl, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, but I hardly know her. We may we working on a report together."

"Umm hmm," she said. Then she looked around and said, "I'm not sure about living out here, Roy."

"How so?"

"Oh, I don't know. Sometimes I get the notion that these woods have something in them." She put the cigarette out.

"Well, according to the history books, a Civil War battle took place not far from here. Maybe you're sensing something."

"I don't know. It's just that lately, I've been having cold flashes. They just come on suddenly out of nowhere. And then they go away. It's weird. How about you?"

"No," I lied. (This was getting to be a habit.) "I haven't felt anything."

My mother rubbed her arms. "I'm getting a little chilly. Let's go inside."

As I held the door for her, I looked over to the corner of the yard. A tendril of fog was starting to creep out of the path, along with a dim glow. The pit of my stomach clenched. Through gritted teeth I muttered, "Leave us alone. I'm working on it." I followed my mom inside.

The next morning, at school, I waited as long as I could outside my homeroom for a glimpse of Rikki. I ducked inside at the last minute without having seen her. All day long I kept looking for her, but the eighth graders' classes were in a different part of the school, so I didn't see her. At the end of the day, I said goodbye to Bobby, then waited in front of the school for Mom.

"Hi," said a voice behind me.

I turned around and Rikki was walking up. She was carrying a heavy book bag and looked tired.

"Hi," I said.

She put her book bag down and asked, "So what are we doing here?"

"Well, you said you wanted to tell me something," I said.