Nothin' Strange Goin' On

The trees shielding the pond that was located 10 yards behind the old graveyard swayed menacingly in the humid breeze that heralded a downpour. This motion caused Caleb Weaver's eyes to focus on a strange formation of the leaves and branches that resembled a cackling silhouette, like a sinister clown delighting in the knowledge of an imminent disaster. Walking into the kitchen, Weaver kept his gaze on the sylvan mirage, continuing to observe as he poured a mug of steaming coffee, which he seasoned with a generous dose of Irish whiskey. He looked away, unconvinced.
He plopped into a creaky rocking chair that faced an ancient hearth, and sipped his acrid libation while staring at the blackened bricks. A plaintive whine sounded to his right, accompanied by the protuberance of a pair of pointy ears and a glistening snout. Weaver put a restraining hand on the upraised head.
"Easy, Ruby. Good girl."
The German Shepherd scrambled to all fours and dashed into the bedroom, which looked out on the cemetery. In the distance stood the familiar wooden structure that was Southfork Baptist Church. The skies were slowly darkening, but there was no rain yet, and sufficient light to see for another half hour. Ruby gave a short bark. That was when Weaver saw the solitary figure with a hurricane lamp in one hand.
"Let's go," he told his canine companion, and grabbing the shotgun stashed under his bed, he barged out the front door, which he left open and swinging in the warm summer air. The dog trotted alongside him obediently, conditioned well enough to refrain from bolting full speed toward the intruder. Weaver marched briskly, keeping the firearm perpendicular to the ground.
Setting the dimly-glowing lamp on the grass, the figure pulled out a writing pad and a lead pencil, and began scribbling notes, periodically glancing up at a tombstone.
Man and hound stopped about 15 feet from the stranger, who paused and regarded the pair calmly. As the mysterious visitor slipped the pad and pencil into his pants pocket, Weaver leveled the shotgun at him. The stranger held up his empty palms.
"Don't shoot!"
Ruby growled.
He looked harmless enough, though freakishly tall, with thinning red hair, freckles and a sharp, jutting nose. Weaver lowered the barrel of his 12-gauge.
"What're you doin' here? Visiting hours are eight to six every day. The gates are locked."
"Yes, I know. Name's Whit Cedric. I'm with the Riverwell Review."
Weaver nodded. "Cal Weaver. You lookin' for someone in particular, Mr. Cedric?"
Cedric motioned toward the thin white stone that he had been studying. MARY A. MORRIS 1880-1913.
Weaver struggled to curb his rising anger.
"Look, mister. I don't know what you heard, but there's nothin' strange goin' on. Now get outta here, and don't come back no more."
Cedric wasn't so easily scared, either of shotguns or spirits. "You say that, but there've been enough tales to warrant further investigation. I won't disturb anything. I just wanna look around."
"You're disturbin' me! If you start spreadin' rumors, we'll have people overrunnin' this place. I've been caretaker for 22 years, and I never seen nothin' unusual." He recalled the face in the trees, but said nothing.
Cedric persisted. "Avery Morris hacked his wife to . . ."
"I know what he did."
"What about the little boy who drowned in the pond last year?"
"What about him?"
Ruby snarled in solidarity. Cedric picked up his hurricane lamp, backed away from the crusty caretaker, then turned and started walking. Weaver watched the lanky figure recede into the distance and step over the low stone wall to the other side. A crack of thunder marked his departure.
Three days later came the deluge.

The heat clung to Weaver like boiling pitch as he plodded across the flat, grassy field of green and granite that stretched before him. His overalls and thick leather boots intensified the discomfort, and the gaps in the brim of his worn straw hat admitted thin shafts of sunlight that stuck his eyes like needles. He gripped a swaying bucket of gardening implements as he made his way toward the iron gates. Halting at the entrance, he scanned the ground for the first trace of weeds.
Hearing faint laughter, Weaver turned and saw half a dozen kids, the oldest maybe 12, scampering around to the back of his modest caretaker's residence. Setting his load down by a stone cherub, he wiped his brow and proceeded in their direction. One of the gang, a stout, tomboyish type with short blonde hair, pointed at him as he approached.
"Maybe that old man knows," she announced.
Weaver was unfazed by the "old man" remark. At 61, he must have seemed ancient to this group.
"What're you kids doin'?"
His question elicited another one in response.
"Where's Mary Morris buried?"
"You leave Mary Morris alone," he told the lone female in the bunch.
Another child spoke up, an eight-year old with long, curly black locks.
"I saw Lloyd Butler walking by the pond at night. His eyes were red and his face was all bloated."
Weaver snapped. "You didn't see nobody walkin' by the pond at night!"
"Is there a devil dog that lives here?"
"I heard there's a woman with no head."
"How do you know it's a woman?"
"'Because she's got titties." A giggle.
The "old man" had reached his limit. "Where did you hear all this baloney?"
The tomboy handed Weaver a folded newspaper. The Riverwell Review. A headline screamed CARRANZA, U.S. TROOPS, HUNT FOR VILLA. Underneath, in smaller print, was GHOSTS IN THE GRAVEYARD? A HAUNTED HIKE THROUGH SOUTHFORK BAPTIST CEMETERY. The byline was Whit Cedric's. Seething, Weaver crumpled the paper and tossed it to the ground. The six youngsters absconded.
That day, Weaver threw out no fewer than four more groups of ghost hunters, as well as an amorous teenage couple making out by the pond. On Sunday he spoke to Reverend Patterson, who assured him that things would soon calm down.
"We've been through this before, Cal. It'll blow over. Don't worry."
But Wednesday night was too much for Weaver to bear. He'd spent most of the preceding afternoon digging a grave for George Walker, who was found at the foot of his basement stairs with a broken neck and enough liquor in him to kill an elephant. Weaver could only imagine what sort of tales this particular death would spawn.
After the funeral, he tossed a few shovelfuls of dirt onto the crude pine coffin, then deciding to finish tomorrow morning, returned home. But he couldn't sleep, which was rarely the case. He dressed, fetched his large gas lantern, and headed out toward the open grave. Accompanying Weaver were his faithful hound and trusty shotgun.
The shovel lay atop the mound of dirt next to the rectangular hole. Weaver began his task without delay, listening to the soft sound of freshly-dug earth raining down upon the wooden coffin lid. Ruby watched him intently, her angular face tucked between her front paws.
Ruby snarled, baring teeth, and sprang to attention. Her tail swished in a threatening cadence. Weaver spun around, slipped and nearly tumbled into the pit. He cursed, scrambled to his feet, and saw the source of Ruby's agitation.
Whit Cedric was calmly sitting about 50 feet away, his back to a massive gray marker, and his hurricane lamp, unlit, next to him. In between the reporter's feet was a large glass tube with steel caps on either end.
"God damn it!" Weaver spat.
Armed with lantern, shotgun and watchdog, Weaver stomped forward, closing the gap between him and his new nemesis. When he stopped, he realized that he was panting, soaked with perspiration and irritation.
"Cedric!"
The insufferable scribe nodded. "Hello, Mr. Weaver." Smug son of a bitch.
"How did you sneak in here past me and Ruby? How long you been here?"
Cedric's calm demeanor was patronizing, infuriating.
"Which question do you want me to answer first?"
Weaver just glared. Damn beanpole.
"Okay. As for the first question, the answer is an equal combination of surreptitiousness and baking soda. I snuck in real quiet-like, and the baking soda masked my scent. How long have I been here? About an hour."
Weaver grimaced, then pointed the shotgun barrel at Cedric's weird glass and steel contraption.
"And what the hell is that?"
Cedric pushed the deadly barrel away from his gadget.
"That there is a spirit finder. In the presence of supernatural beings, the thin filament inside glows light blue."
Ruby barked. So did Weaver, albeit slightly more coherently.
"Spirit finder, my ass!"
"No!" Cedric shouted as Weaver lifted the barrel of his gun to one side, as if preparing a golf swing. Struggling to his feet, Cedric grabbed the barrel, while Weaver simultaneously pulled back.
What happened next was purely accidental, according to the inquest. No charges were filed, and Sheriff Nichols, who had known Weaver for years, believed that "Cal didn't mean no harm." Reverend Patterson asked Weaver why he needed a shotgun for patrolling the cemetery.
"I sure hope that some mischievous child isn't next," he told Weaver, who was truly ashamed.
As sorry as he was for the deadly mishap, Weaver was more concerned that another "scandalous" occurrence would bring the barbarian hordes once again. But all was calm and quiet in the small necropolis. Until one Fall evening about six weeks later.

The scrapple crackled and spat angrily as taunting blue flames from the gas burner licked the underside of the small iron pan. Weaver turned the gray blob over with a spatula, pressed down, then tossed back a splash of his familiar Irish coffee. Ruby sniffed the air eagerly, aroused by the smell, yet knowing that begging was to no avail. In another five minutes, the caretaker was seated with the steaming mass before him. With a shaky hand, he lifted a fork.
Ruby whimpered.
Weaver knew that he couldn't just sit there.
He was soon out the door, clad in trousers, flannel shirt and cap, still brandishing his 12-gauge, despite Reverend Patterson's admonition. He brought a flashlight instead of his gas lantern this time. Ruby followed.
The rustling of dead leaves alerted the pair to their quarry. But where Weaver expected to find a bunch of kids, he instead discovered a young man with wide eyes and cropped blond hair.
"I-I saw it. I never would've believed it, but there it was, just like they said. Then it vanished."
Weaver's skepticism was undiminished. "What did you see? A little drowned boy, walkin' around the old pond? A headless lady? The Angel of Death? What?"
The response hit Weaver like that fatal shotgun blast of weeks past, the echoes of which still resounded in his head every time he laid down to sleep.
The fellow shook his head. "No, nothing like that. A man. A really tall man. Carrying a hurricane lamp."