Money. The root of all evil. Right? But you can’t live without it. Ain’t much left to make a living with down here since the cotton mills all shut down. You can make a little picking peaches or watermelons in the summertime, but you got to live during the winter too.  Me and my friends all been getting the welfare and if they find out you made a little extra, they want to take some out of the next months check. Who the hell do they think they are? They ought to try living on what they give us. What’s wrong with making a little extra? I believe I can do better. I just got to figure out that one little thing that can make me some money without the welfare or the ex –wife’s lawyer finding out.
 

Me and a couple of my friends were sitting in the beer joint drinking Milwaukee’s Best, cause it was the cheapest they had.  Why did I ever listen to these two inbred idiots? Skip Knox is ‘bout the ugliest white man you ever seen.  He’s pig eyed and always squints.  His teeth have ‘bout all rotted out and what’s left are that orangey yellow color, like old corn.  He’s about the best candidate for town drunk we got.  My other intellectual friend is Ernest Amerson.  Everybody says he got clean through the fourth grade and it was the hardest ten years of his life. Earnest can’t read well and ain’t got no schooling to speak of, but he thinks a lot, like them philosopher people and he gets some good sounding ideas once in a while. But, now that it’s too late, I realize mostly he’s full of shit.  Following their redneck advice is going to cost me my life.  

     After consuming a couple of six-packs each, we started to discuss my dilemma of how to make some money quickly and without working too hard. I was willing to go for something that might not be totally legal, within limits of course.  Skip starts telling me about some liquor stores in them new strip malls over in Lancaster County. He says if you rob one of them, they so far out in the sticks, you can be running with a good head start before the law can get after you.  I told him he’s as crazy as a shithouse rat. Robbing liquor stores is for Mexicans and niggers. It ain’t got no class about it. I want something that takes brains and a real thought-out plan.  Besides most of them store owners will blast your ass with that shotgun under the counter if they think they gonna get robbed.  This ain’t the way. 

     Ernest decided at this time to unload a stream of brown tobacco spit into the empty beer can he keeps between his legs. I believe he kept it between his legs instead of on the table so he wouldn’t get the beer can he was drinking from mixed up with the beer can he was spitting into.  Then, giving me his best “I’m thinking hard as hell look”, he says “I know a way hows a fella can make some money and if you get caught it won’t be no big thang. All you got to do is dig up some of those old Confederate graves around here. They buried them boys in their uniforms with guns and swords that them collectors will pay real damn good fer.  All their relatives are dead too, so nobody will complain if you get caught. The worst that can happen is probably thirty days on the chain gang”. 

     “Yeah”, I tell him, “ that sounds good, but the graveyard is in the middle of town.  Everybody will see me”. “Did your Momma have any kids that lived” Ernest says to me. I don’t mean that graveyard, dumb-ass, I’m talking about the old timey ones in the woods.  Remember the big one that is supposed to be lost somewheres up in the Holler? Find it and dig up a grave there. 

     Hot Damn! This is the best idea I’ve ever heard of. Why didn’t I think of it? But there is a problem. Nobody and I mean nobody goes to the holler. The story is the whole place is haunted.  I don’t believe in that hillbilly bullshit, still a whole bunch of strange things have happened in them woods. Like that Bermuda place where boats and planes disappear, coon hunters and bootleggers went into the holler and never come back out.  

      Back in the old days, after the war and all the slaves was freed, a man who lived in the holler, didn’t come back. I reckon he was killed in some battle with the Yankees. So, his wife stays on working the farm, being helped by one of the old former slaves. Well, time goes on and people noticed he was no longer in the slave house but he was sleeping in the same house as a white woman. Probably sleeping in the same bed.  This didn’t set too well with some of the local boys. One night they did the proper thing and hung him from a tree right there in front of the house.  The woman run back into the house, which was in the process of being burnt-up, and she got burnt-up too.  Not long after this, the strange things, like weird noises and people disappearing, started happening and people claimed they seen a something shaped like a woman walking through the woods. She was cloaked in a dim, greenish yellow light.  Every body started calling the place “White Wife Holler”.  Nowdays we just call it the “Holler”.  Nobody goes in there no more cause of the strange going-ons. Even the  worst bootlegger, old Lefty Parrish, won’t go in there.  In his younger days, he was so mean he would sandpaper a bobcat’s ass for fun. He won’t say why he don’t go there, but he won’t go.    

     Leaving Skip and Ernest to continue drinking, I went home to my old trailer house to think about this golden opportunity.  All I need to do is clear up a few tactical problems, dig up a few old graves and move over to Easy Street for the rest of my life. The first problem is that I don’t know where the graveyard is. I ain’t never been in the holler. Since I was a kid, I’ve only heard stories about what’s up there. There is only one person who might know. I got to get him to tell me everything about the place without him catching on to my plan. 

     The man I got to talk to is named Brown Elliott, he is the oldest man I ever seen. He’s a strange old dude. He’s colored, but not just brown, he is actually black.  I mean shiny black, like that real good coal we used to burn in the old stoves. His hair is snow white and he smiles at you with these pink gums, the teeth left years ago.  He was a friend of my dear old dead daddy. Daddy said if he ever heard me call Brown a nigger, he would whip my ass. He said to give him respect and call him colored. When Daddy got around to whipping your ass, it was usually when he had a belly full of moonshine and it was hard to get him to stop whipping your ass once he got started. So I treated Brown with respect. He was the local root worker.  Down in Louisiana, they call what the black people do voodoo and things like, but here we call ‘em root workers. Brown was the best, he knows all that old stuff.  And I reckon he knows about the holler.   

     You can always find Brown sitting in a chair out in the yard of the old sharecroppers cabin he lives in.  He just sets there sipping whiskey and smoking. He loves to talk. Guess nobody ever visits the old man and when he starts talking he never shuts up.  I got down there early in the morning.  Of course he remembers me and we make the normal small talk you always do. He tells me it’s a shame my daddy got killed when that still blowed up, but the whiskey he made and drank was eating up his liver and was going to kill him anyway. 

     I had brought a bottle of real store bought whiskey. Jack Daniel Black Label. Brown was shore happy to get into that. And he started talking. After he loosened up a bit, I popped the question, “Have you ever hear about an old timey graveyard up in the holler?” “Oh hell yea, I seed it once when I was a young’un. Scared hell out of me. That place is hainted”.  So he claims he actually seen it, he ought to be able tell me how to find it, if he can remember anything and ain’t lying. “Where ‘bouts is it?” I asked. “You don’t want to go up dere, it’s a bad place. The white wife haint, she bees  awalkin from the old home place to graveyard ebery night. The graveyard got both the slaves and the masters buried there and all of dem is tormented souls. I don’t know if it was what they did during the war or because peoples was kept like livestock and treated like de other farm animals.  But dem souls ain’t at rest like you ‘posed to be when yo’ in yo’ grave. The Lawd don’t want ‘em and the Debbel don’t want ‘em neither.  Dey just lost souls. You best leave dem alone, theys all  bees looked after by de Soul Man.” 

     Couldn’t help it, I started laughing. I told him “All you people think about is singing and dancing. Which Soul Man you talking about?”  Even through the whiskey, I saw his expression change. I knew he was serious. He exhaled slowly and started talking again.

“Damn, you young people is so stupid. White or black, it don’t matter. Thinks yo’ knows eberything. Yo’ wont listen to de old folks and don’t learn about important stuff. Yo’ stupid as pig shit. I ain’t talking about no singing city nigger.  I bees talking about de real Soul Man. He walks dem woods and looks after dem poor souls until de Judgment Day comes and de Lawd calls him home.” 

     “I ain’t never heard tell of anything like that walking in the woods, nobody never seen your Soul Man.” Dat ain’t so” says Brown, “plenty of folks have seen him. Trouble is, he’s de last thang dey eber see and dey don’t get to tell nobodys ‘bout what dey done seed”. I don’t believe in haunts or spooks and I’ll give you fifty dollars to tell me how to get to the place”. Well, fifty dollars is a lot of money, so Brown tells me that I got to go at nighttime alone and the graveyard will just appear out of the mist. Does this crazy old coon think I believe this?  He says I go in and look for the ghost of the white wife and she will me lead to a spot where the graves just rise up.  If there wasn’t money to be made, I would say to hell with all this foolishness. But, why not? I’m going to try. 

     I figure the ground in there is going to be fairly soft, so I got a sharp shovel and I need a mattock for cutting any roots. The mattock will be just right for plying open coffin lids. I got this old gas lantern with them two cloth bags that hang down inside and light up. They always remind me of the nuts on a young billygoat. I got a flashlight with almost dead batteries, but, it should be enough. I also got me a burlap feed sack for carrying out all the treasures I’m gonna find.  I’m ready. 

     I picked Wednesday night around midnight cause ain’t nobody going to be out on a week night.  I park my old truck behind some brushes and started walking down what’s left of the old logging road that is supposed to be the way into the holler.  It’s a warm night and the mist has started to rise. It’s not so bad and I can see a ways down the old road, which really is not much more than an overgrown path.  After a while of walking, I ain’t seen nothing, so I set down on this pine stump to think a about the situation. 

     While drinking a couple of the beers I brought along, I realize I been conned out of fifty dollars by a hundred year old nigger. I’m going to get that money back. Damn his soul. As I’m stomping the beer can, I glance down the path. What in the hell is that? There is a faint light, no, it’s more like a glow, down the path. Like a thousand lighting bugs in a ball.  Cold shivers run up my back. Don’t get spooked here, it’s just a ball of that swamp gas about the size of a warshtub, I tell myself. Don’t let a wood fart scare me out of this money.  

     I walk towards the glow and all the night noises stop. No owls hooting, no crickets, no nothing. Just total silence around me and the sound of my heart pounding in my chest. I ain’t scared, I’m just excited. Keep going. For some reason, even though I’m walking toward the glow, it seems like I ain’t getting any closer. Somehow, it’s keeping the same distance away from me. Holding the lantern higher, I try to see through the mist. Suddenly, my toe hits something hard and I stumble and almost drop the lantern. I shore don’t want to lose my light. Looking down to see what I stumbled over, I see a broken piece of white stone laying in the path. Why didn’t I see that? Turning it over I see the word “Amos”engraved on it. Holy Shit! It’a a gravestone. I found it! Thank you, Jesus! I’m here! And about to become a rich man! 

As I walk around looking, I see what looks like small stumps.  A closer inspection shows they are gravestones. All dirty and moss covered. Trees are growing from some of the graves.  It has been many years since anyone took care of this cemetery.  I’m searching for the right grave.  I don’t want to waste my time digging up a slave grave cause won’t be nothing in there but bones. I got to find me a rich persons grave. 

     After about twenty minutes of searching through the trees, I found it. Perfect. A big tombstone with a marble slab laying on the tomb in front of it. This going to be so easy. Hell, I won’t even have to dig.  Just slide that marble slab over and there will be the coffin. I hold the lantern up and read what is written on the slab: 

Issac Stuart McCloud

Commander 1^st SC Volunteers

Army of Northern Virginia

A Patriot and a Man of Honor Who Gave His Life for

His Country and His Cause 

     Can it get any better than this? I have found the grave of not only an officer, but he sounds like some kind of hero. Might even be buried with jewelery. I heard that was done in the old days. So I gets to work.  Pushing and prying, it takes a while, but, I get the slab to start sliding and finally it falls over the side of the tomb. An old  coffin looks up at me and seems to invite me to open it. While I catch my breath, I notice again the quitness and now there is a stillness.  I feel as if many eyes are watching me. No problem, I think. This is a graveyard, you ain’t supposed to feel normal in one.  I’ll be done soon and I know I’ll feel good on my way out. 

     There isn’t much room between the coffin and the walls of the tomb, but still I managed to get the flat blade of the mattock worked into the lid of the coffin. Holding the handle with both hands, I pull upwards to open the lid.  Nothing happens. This lid is very heavy or it’s nailed down real good.  I’m shifting my position to get a better spot to pull from. I feel the lid starting to give. Then the wood gives way. Rotten pieces of wood go flying. I just keep on pulling and the whole lid is splintering and falling around and back into the coffin.  I move a couple of the biggest chunks and look on the dead face of Issac McCloud. 

     There is a moment of dread. Maybe this ain’t the right thing to do. You supposed to respect the dead.  I don’t plan to hurt the body, just to remove some things he’ll never use again. So I talk away a moment of conscious and continue.  

     The head still has a clump of reddish colored hair attached. All the flesh is long turned to dust and is surrounding the body like dandruff.  Sure enough, he is wearing the uniform of a Confederate Officer. I can see the brass and leather handle of a saber laying beside him. LOOK! This is wonderful! There is a genuine Griswold and Gunnison 1860 revolver. It is worth about twenty thousand dollars according to Shotgun News Magazine. Yes sir, my new friend, Mr. McCloud, is going to make me one rich son of a bitch.  I climbed down into the coffin with a foot on either side of the old boy and started to unbuckle the holster. Then it happened. 

     It came so quickly, I couldn’t react. The entire bottom of the tomb just dropped out from under me. I remember falling and hitting the ground in some kind of hole.  Bones and dust are falling with and the decayed old body is laying here with me. It is total darkness. Electrifying pain shots up my leg as something is crawling across my legs.  Screaming, I kick as hard as I can.  I feel my boot connect with something and feel it go flying backwards. On both hands and one knee, I scramble away as fast as I can. I’m in some kind of a tunnel. Like a big rathole or something. Just enough room to sit up in. I crawl as fast as can, I reach the end of the tunnel and can go no further. I find the flashlight that is still in my back pocket. It won’t come on. I bump it with my other hand and a weak light appears. My leg is bleeding badly and I feel faint. Then I hear the sliding sound coming towards me. Closer and closer. 

     Instead of total panic, a calm feeling settles on me. OK, it’s wrong to steal from the dead. I won’t do it again if I get another chance. The sounds are almost here. The flashlight goes out again.

As I start to bump it with my other hand, I feel or sense something evil, very close to me. I hit the light. A skull with strips of dried flesh still hanging from it, is inches from my face. I see the holes where eyes once were. The triangle where the nose once set. I see the teeth standing in a gumless jaw bone. 

Damn. Brown was right after all. The last thing I will ever see is the face of the Soul Man. 

THE END 

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