Copyright©1996
by
Jim C. Carpenter
[Note: This is a true story just as it happened . . . to me.]
My dog, Bulger, and I lived on a small farm in Northeastern Oklahoma and loved to roam and play like farm boys and their dogs all over the world. We must have been about the same age for, in all my twelve years of life, I couldn't remember a time when he wasn't there.
On this particular evening Bulger was at my side, as usual, as we entered a heavily wooded portion of the farm known as Northaven Woods. This hodgepodge of blackjack trees, thick brush and tangled vines was a favorite play area for us as we wandered from one adventure to another throughout the long, hot, Oklahoma summer.
The dense shade and the approaching sunset brought relief from the heat of the day, but it also cast a spell of mystery and adventure throughout the woods. Familiar objects took on new shapes and dimensions as they were transformed through the miracle of imagination, and the wonderworks of twilight. This evening was no different from any other at the beginning, but the events that occurred that particular evening changed the image of Northaven Woods in my mind forever. (It didn't seem to make much of an impression on Bulger.)
"Hey, wait for me," I called to Bulger, as he trotted far ahead into the dense woods. "Come back here, wait for me, you dumb dog," I shouted again. Bulger answered with a short bark and a whine, which I recognized as meaning, "Hurry up you slow poke, time's a wasting." He was right about that. It was getting dark quickly and we needed to get all our playing finished soon and head for the house.
The sounds of the light evening breezes moaning in the treetops, and the constant chirping of tree frogs and crickets filled the warm, evening air like background music. The lonesome call of the night-birds and the distant cry of the hoot owl, blending their voices in the symphony of nature were hardly noticed as we frolicked and played in a small clearing in the midst of the woods.
Suddenly, there was a new sound, unlike that of nature -- a sound so faint, at first, it was hardly noticed. Then it grew louder and, out of the corner of my eye, I detected the movement of a ghostly, white object darting through the shadows and creeping around the trees and brush about 50 yards away.
"Bulger," I whispered with a trembling voice. "Go get em boy, sic em boy," I stammered, over and over, in a low voice still shaking with fright. Bulger looked in the direction I was pointing and answered with a playful growl and a short groan, which meant, "Don't bother me now, I'm too busy playing to listen to any of this 'Go get em' nonsense." I wondered if he could even see what I was seeing. Maybe it's invisible to him, I thought, and only I can see it.
Just listening to the dreadful moaning, groaning, and wailing sounds, and the eerie sight of the ghastly white "thing" made my blood run cold. (It didn't seem to have any affect on Bulger at all.) Horror-stricken and in total disbelief, I stood for what seemed like an eternity and listened to those ghost-like sounds.
"Get em Bulger," I insisted, somewhat louder this time to be sure he heard. "Get em, boy, go get him Bulger," I commanded, again, pointing in the direction of the -- ghost. Bulger looked around in the direction I was pointing, raised his ears, wagged his tail, and went back to whatever dogs do when they are totally uninterested in what is taking place.
Giving up on any help from Bulger, and with trembling hands, I reached to my hip pocket for my trusty, homemade slingshot. I quickly gathered some suitable stones, which lay in abundance at my feet, slid one carefully into the pouch, took careful aim and fired. "Take that," I shouted, "you -- you ghost." I missed, fired again, missed again. I knew what Bulger must be thinking -- lousy shot. Finally a stone found its mark and I heard the loud "THUMP" as it impacted the monstrous white figure in the shadows. Again and again, miss after miss, stone after stone, thump after thump, I pelted the "thing" and the brush around it until my ammunition supply grew scarce. At last the grizzly form was no longer moving about, but seemed only to flow lifelessly in the breeze, and those horrifying ghost-like sounds were gone.
"I did it, Bulger," I screamed in an uncertain voice, "I did it, I did it." I wasn't exactly sure what I had done but, at least, the dreaded monster had been stopped in its tracks.
A great sense of victory came over me as I edged closer for a better look at the defeated white object in the brush. Visions of David and Goliath filled my mind as I remembered my Sunday School lessons of little David slaying the mighty giant with only a slingshot. I wondered if David had a dog. And if he did have one, did he get any help from him or did he, like me, have to do it all alone. (Bulger didn't seem to care, either way.)
As I edged slowly forward, the fear gradually subsided as I got a closer look at the object of my great fright and panic. Though the suspense lessened, the mystery only deepened when I recognized an old, white, bed sheet draped over a clump of bushes.
Realizing I had been the victim of a practical joke, I fully expected to see my dad hiding behind the old sheet as I ran forward to investigate. To my surprise, no one was there. I looked all around but found absolutely nothing or no one. Bulger wagged his tail and uttered a playful bark as he sniffed around the area. I recognized this as meaning, "What ghost? I didn't see any ghost."
By this time I was going around in circles, trying to figure out what had taken place, and not really sure what to think. Finally, I decided that whoever (or whatever) had given life to the old sheet must have escaped, undetected, into the dark shadows during that first barrage of stones. I expected to see my dad come out of hiding, any minute, laughing his head off. To my great surprise, this didn't happen. The only movement to be seen was the gentle swaying of the thick grass and weeds, prompted by the evening breezes that still whispered and moaned in the treetops. The long, dark shadows still cast their spell of mystery throughout the woods. The songs of the night birds still blended with the voices of the tree frogs and crickets. The hoot owl's eternal question, "Who, who is it?" still rang from the distant treetops. Everything had returned to normal just as it was before -- everything, that is, except that "Danged" old bed sheet that defied explanation.
In total bewilderment, I ran the quarter mile to the house where I found my dad sitting in the living room awaiting supper, which my mother was preparing. If he had been the ghost behind the old sheet, I reasoned, he would show signs of fatigue, being an old man of thirty-eight. For him to have arrived home ahead of me, without being seen, would have required some fancy footwork and skillful maneuvering. Besides, I knew he wouldn't be able to keep a straight face for long.
"Hello, Son," he said, as I walked calmly into the house, trying to act as if nothing had happened. "Better get washed up for supper; it's almost ready," he suggested, matter-of-factly. I was dumbfounded. He wasn't tired, he wasn't perspiring, and he wasn't even breathing hard. Obviously, he wasn't the ghost but I had no other suspects.
For some reason I never ask him directly about the incident but, as the years passed, I always felt that he knew something about it. (I'm also sure that Bulger knew, but he wasn't telling.)
And now, like the old bed sheet that finally fell to the ground and returned to dust, they are both gone and I will never know the identity of the "Ghost of Northaven Woods."
But one thing I will always remember about my dad, is how he loved ghost stories.
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