Captainkirk's Duster project

Chapter 4

“Ghost in the Machine”

…I DO believe in spooks…I do, I do, I DO!”
The Cowardly Lion; The Wizard of Oz

Ghosts; funny things, they are. People have been recording tales of ghost and spirits since, well, since man first put pencil to paper (or papyrus, for that matter). Now, I’'ve heard some interesting ghostly tales in my time. One in particular that comes to mind is that of my sister’s ex-boyfriend David (who lived down the road from SuperMan, the original owner of the L’i'l Red Minx, if you recall, from part one of this Tale Of Epic Proportions). David lived an old farmhouse sort of out in the boonies. The barn and whatever else was part of the farm was long-gone, just the house and a ramshackle shed-thing remained with a rather large tract of wooded land next to their property. David had all kinds of tales to tell, many of them involving the fact that the farmhouse he lived in was haunted. No, really haunted. Things being moved around, scary noises in the night, things like that. One tale in particular still stands out in my mind.
The house David lived in had been built in the late 1800'’s. Supposedly, during the late twenties or early thirties the owner, by then a reclusive old widower, had died while sitting at the kitchen table drinking a glass of milk, dressed in his skivvies and a tank-top tee shirt (now commonly referred to as a “wife-beater”). I'’m not sure how David knew this; whether by his own research or word of mouth, or whatever. He never told me that. I don'’t believe he made it up, though; all his neighbors seemed to know the stories, too. At any rate, one night a bunch of us had been knocking back a few. Somehow we got on the subject of '“sperrits'”…...not the kind we were drinking, mind you…...and we were telling these tales we'’d heard of, and then David gets real serious all of a sudden and starts to tell us this tale. At the time just he and his mother were living at the house. His mom had come down with a serious case of indigestion in the middle of the night and had gone into the kitchen to get some sodium bicarbonate (baking soda) and water. As she turned from the sink, she swears she saw an old man, bald as a cue ball on top with long, scraggly locks down the back, sitting at the kitchen table. She screams and drops the glass, shattering it into a million little shards on the kitchen floor, and runs out of the kitchen. About this time, David is awakened by the noise and sees his mom come high-tailing it into the living room, screaming bloody murder. He grabs the shotgun from his room (remember, this was a farmhouse in a different era, folks…. You could keep a loaded shotgun in the house and not be considered “armed and dangerous” with an “arsenal” at your disposal) and asks his mom what'’s wrong. She can barely get the words out. Grasping the shotgun in a death-grip choke hold, he cautiously approaches the kitchen and peers inside.
OK, you'’re thinking; now here comes the funny part…; the punch line! That'’s what we were thinking, anyway. He continued the story. When he peered into the kitchen, he saw exactly what his mother had seen…. Right down to the last detail. He stared at the old man. And the old man turned and looked him square in the eyes. And what he saw in those eyes was not real…...or holy. He said the man's eyes met his, and then he stuck out his long, red tongue and grinned at him; a wicked, evil grin. And being seventeen and having a loaded shotgun between his quaking mitts, he did what any of us would'’ve done in a similar situation. He threw the shotgun on the floor, turned and high-tailed it out of the kitchen, almost knocking his mother down in the process. The two of them ran out the house, jumped in the car, drove to the neighbor’s house and called the county sheriff.
They cautiously returned with the sheriff an hour or so later. Everything was as they'’d left it; shotgun on the floor, door still open, etc. Except…..there is a glass of milk sitting on the table.
Now, the only way someone could’'ve gotten in the kitchen without walking past their open bedroom doors was to come in through the back door, or a window. The sheriff walks all around the house; all secure. No tracks in the snow around the back stoop or windows. Nothing. Just a glass of milk……..still cold.
So we'’re looking at him with these half-cocked grins on our faces waiting for the other shoe to drop. It doesn'’t. And I, for one, can see the color had drained from his face, and hear the tremor in his voice. And I can feel the little hairs on the nape of my neck standing up and I'’ve got goosebumps. For real. Whether or not this actually happened doesn'’t matter…...he believed it did. That much we could see. That much a blind man could see.
Neither one of them could stand to be in that house alone after that, and shortly thereafter his mother sold the farm and bought a little house in town. Creepy.
Why bring all this up? Well, as far as ghosts and “'sperrits'” go, I'’ve never seen one. No floating shadows, objects spinning through the air. I'’ve never heard one either; no ghostly moans, insane laughter, clanking chains, etc. Until tonight, that is…….

So now that I have your rapt, undivided attention, allow me to explain. OK, so I didn'’t have an intake manifold hurl itself through the air at me, or see my Hurst shifting itself or see my crankshaft floating through the air spinning around and around (that would be really cool, though). Actually, I didn'’t see anything. I heard something. I heard a voice from the grave.
This was not the voice of Jacob Marley, (or Bob Marley, for that matter), or even the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present or Future. Nor that of Yorick, (alas), nor any of the famous spirits we all know and love. No, this was a voice I knew quite well.
“Well, it’'s about time you got busy. Saddle up! We'’re burning daylight!”……
(this, as my finger was poised at the garage light switch preparing to engulf the garage in darkness again)……John Wayne? The Duke? But…...you'’re...……
“I’'m WHAT, pilgrim? Say it. Say it, and I'’ll shove those words right back down your throat!”
Ummm...…What I meant to say is, you were sleeping…..
“Does it LOOK like I’'m sleeping? Let'’s MOVE!”
I told you with all honesty that I’'d let you know if and when this car revealed it’s true identity to me. And I knew that it would…. Eventually. I had no idea at the time that The Duke was still present in that hulk under the tarp. I thought, like the real Duke, that identity buried with the dead. But I needed no glass of milk on the table to prove anything…..this thing spoke to me. In John Wayne'’s voice. And as I switched off the light that night, I swear I heard the whirring, ratcheting sound of a six-gun cylinder being spun behind me…….

Richard Boone: “Who'’re you?”
John Wayne: “Jacob McCandles”
RB: “I thought you was dead”
JW: “Not hardly…….”
John Wayne, "Big Jake"