Spooked

According to legend, the ruins of the old Titus place, on the back side of the ballfield, were haunted. It sat in a shelter of trees and rocks overlooking the water but hidden from view - children didn't play there and the adults, most of whom had lived long enough to learn to avoid tempting the fates, hardly spoke of it at all. No one believed in ghosts, naturally, the islanders were a pragmatic lot, concerned with day to day living and the reality of the weather and the tides, but as Uncle Shad said, No need in takin' foolish chances.

Ayah, John Sullivan told Ruthie and me, one late Saturday afternoon, I recollect Clarence Titus, a cold, mean son of a bitch with a quick temper. Beat his woman and 'twas those that thought he poisoned the wildlife, though 'twasn't ever proved. Jacob, sitting by his brother as they baited hooks for the morning run, stopped to roll a smoke. Some said she killed him, he said softly, then set the house afire. But that weren't never proved neither. The brothers exchanged a glance and John have us a warning look. Long time ago, he muttered, bad business, best forgotten.


Ruthie and I stumbled on it by accident, a glade of sorts, filled with blackened timbers and remnants of a structure. The ground was scorched and surrounded by dead grass, there was an old, smoky smell in the air although the fire had been decades past. Without being told, we knew that no one had even tried to save it and that whoever had lived here had been allowed to perish. How we knew was a mystery and why we knew not to talk about it, not even to each other, was something we didn't understand. We skirted around the edges of the charred wood and broken glass and dead trees and began to run until we were well clear, breathing hard and half expecting some ghastly burnt up and not quite dead figure to appear and snatch us underground. Ain't no such things as ghosts, Ruthie panted and like Alice and the Red Queen, we ran faster, hoping for wings and the sight of a friendly face. We ran like the wind, clearing fallen logs and lichen covered rocks with ease, sending birds flying out of their nests and squirrels scurrying for cover. We ran until we were out of the woods and back in the light, then collapsed on the edge of the ballfield, laughing hysterically with relief and feeling foolish. Let's get ice cream, Ruthie said, And root beer. And let's not go back there again.


It was a sensible decision even if we'd been threatened by no more than our own imaginations but children often learn their lessons the hard way and their memories can be short - the following week we armed ourselves with cap pistols and the slingshots Uncle Len had made for us, stuffed our pockets with rocks made magic by a secret spell Rowena had taught us, packed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and made for the woods, determined to see, confront, and conquer any unfriendly spirit that might be lingering in the Titus ruins. It was often said of us - and all island children - that we were powerful long on curiosity and a mite short on good sense but the day was bright and clear, the ocean a deep and rich blue and the sun was high in the sky. We were well fortified, determined, and secure in the knowledge that there were no such things as ghosts. By noon, a fog bank was rolling in fast and the woods turned dark and misty, shadowy and fearsome with possibilities. By the time we reached the clearing, we could barely hear the sea and even the gulls were silent - it was wet and gloomy and we felt trapped and smothered in the dull layer of fog. Uncle Bernie's stories of gory monsters with red eyes, wicked fangs and a taste for children came back to us and the cap pistols gave us very little comfort. Should we encounter a vengeful spirit, we agreed with crossed hearts and spit, we would put all our faith in the magic rocks.


It happened very suddenly - we heard the muted hoot of an owl, a lone gull shrieked, and then the sound of hoof beats - a rider appeared on the other side of the ruins, a thin and shrouded figure, cloaked in a flowing black cape, astride a fire breathing steed. A voice of steel cried out Who dares defile this sacred ground? and the great stallion reared with a whinny of fury, hooves pawing at the air and mane flying. Who dares? the voice thundered. Ruthie and I broke our paralysis of terror and ran for our lives, never even thinking of the magic rocks and never noticing that the fiery steed had an uncanny resemblance to Miss Clara's painted pony or that the enraged rider looked and sounded suspiciously like John Sullivan We had unleashed the hounds of hell, a gruesome and bloody death was on our heels - we never slowed down, looked back or stopped screaming. We finally emerged from the woods just before Old Hat's, bruised, scratched and thoroughly terrorized, but profoundly grateful for having escaped with our young lives. The old woman barely spared us a glance, occupied as she was with shooting tin cans neatly arranged on the fence line and we flew across her property like wild animals on the run - at the time, nothing her old scattergun could have threatened us with seemed as dangerous as what horror might be hot on our trails. We kept running until we reached the safety of the breakwater. Ghosts can't swim, Ruthie told me in between ragged breaths. Neither can we, I reminded her and we took off again, running all the way home through a swirl of dust and fog and laughter.