Things That Go Bump in the Night

You see misfortune. We saw 'scary'!

There was a haunted house in Milk River.

Haunted.

Really.

Demons lived there.

Witches.

Hags.

You name it. If it was slimy and scary, it had a residence in that house.

We children in the town skipped past on the far side of the street.

Even in broad daylight.

With our ears plugged and talking volubly, so as to drown out any and all noises that might escape that house.

Even so, I'm sure that, on two occasions, I heard screams coming from it.

And no, they didn't come from me.

Sheesh.

At one time, Milk River's haunted house had been just another normal, ordinary, rather elderly little home.

Situated about half-way down the block.

A family had lived there.

Mother. Father. Children.

But that was where the 'normal' part ended.

At least that is what my friends had informed me.

Often.

One night, the mother had asked her little boy to go down into the cellar to look for the family cat.

It was dark in the cellar.

He had lighted a match to see more clearly.

And dropped it into a vat of kerosene.

I didn't know what that was, but it sounded dangerous.

And why a vat of it would be sitting in someone's basement, I wouldn't know either.

Suffice it to say that my facts really didn't hold well under scrutiny.

But I was four.

Who was scrutinizing?

I was too busy shivering in delight.

Moving on . . .

So the little boy dropped his match into the vat of kerosene.

It lit up like a huge torch.

The kerosene, that is.

He and his family barely got out alive.

No one knows what happened to the cat.

The family then disappeared.

Never to be heard from again.

Ooooooooo!

Actually, none of us really knew what happened to start the fire.

It was just one of those terribly unfortunate things.

The family moved away, maybe to a family member's house to regroup.

But reality wasn't as interesting to us kids as the stories we made up.

Once, a group of us actually sneaked into the house and got as far as the kitchen.

Standing in the center of the room was a partially-charred table, still covered with an equally burned cloth and decorated with a bowl of blackened fake fruit.

We were horrified.

And ran from the house screaming.

I know, I know, intrepid explorers we weren't.

The house was eventually demolished.

Mainly to keep us from scrambling through it like some sort of ride in a carnival.

But even after another house had been erected and another family moved in, it remained the 'haunted house'.

Where the family lived.

Before the fire.

And maybe they're there still.

Making noises and screaming at odd hours.

The four-year-olds in the neighbourhood would know.

Summer in a Quonset Part Seven

The only existing picture of Mom's 'kitchen' in the quonset.
Behind her are The Shelves.

Our popping bolt friends announced the rising of the sun and we found we didn't need any other alarm. In fact, we weren't just exactly ecstatic about rising at 4 A.M.!

Sleep became impossible as flocks of birds began their daily effort of trying to gain a foot hold on the slippery dome of the shed.

They chirped excitedly as they scratched and slid.

We could see the shapes of their fluffy little bodies and wings as they lit on the sky light.

They were having such great fun sliding and flying.

We snuggled down in our warm beds watching and listening.

Soon, our bull chorus greeted the day with their lusty song.

Where is everybody this fine day!

Where is my breakfast, my grain and my hay?

We quickly shivered into our clothes and rushed through breakfast.

I filled my canning kettle with cold water and set it on the stove to heat while we ate.

I was always anxious to finish dishes and straighten our 'apartment' before a veterinary client came.

On this particular morning a Matt Clemens was bringing his cat for a rabies shot.

He brought him in a sack.

Mark laid the sack on the clinic table (three boards over two saw horses), put on some leather gloves, and began rolling the top of the sack down to the wild cat in one corner.

Two beady eyes gleamed from the depths of the sack.

Before the cat could spring, Mark clamped one hand on the neck and head, and the other hand on his back through the sack.

He extracted the cat and held him out flat on the table.

Then it was my turn to hold the creature.

I had done this many times but my courage had not improved with the practice.

In each hand, I clamped two legs just above the claws and wedged my wrist on the neck of the cat, forcing the jaw over and the vicious teeth away from me.

He flexed every muscle as he strained to be free making a desperate attempt to turn his head and slide it out from under my arm. His head was small and he could turn it almost completely around.

Like an owl.

His sharp teeth were just grazing my wrist.

Just as the needle penetrated into the muscle of his hip, I moved my arm a little to try to get a more secure clamp on the cat's jaw.

The movement released the animal just enough for him to twist his head a fraction more and he clamped his teeth into my wrist.

“He's got me!” I whispered, transfixed as numbness crept through all of my muscles.

Very slowly, Mark said, “Let . . . him . . . go . . . both . . . hands . . . at . . . once . . . quickly!”

I couldn't move!

The cat couldn't move!

There was no pain.

“Let . . . him . . . go . . . now!”

I suddenly came to life and obeyed.

The cat, too, came to life. Extracted his teeth and shot like a bullet off the table and across the floor and up to the highest far away place.

Which happened to be the steel shelves where I had all of my dishes and kitchen supplies.

There he sat, with every muscle tensed for a spring, looking down on us with all the venom of a rattle snake.

Our 8-year-old, Blair, had been watching all the proceedings with much interest.

He suddenly grabbed the sack and said, “I'll get him Dad!”

For a moment, we were so astonished we couldn't move.

The he advanced towards the cat.

I climbed a ladder at one end and Blair climbed the table at the other end and held the sack open near the cat's head.

The creature turned its head and looked at me and leaped right into the sack!

Well.

I thought I had a face that would stop a clock, but I didn't know it would scare a wild cat!

At that moment, my arm began to give me the most excruciating pain.

Feeling faint, I lay down for a moment while Doc called the M.D.

He advised us to get a tetanus shot immediately, which we did.

Three or four hours later, my arm was aching from my finger tips to my shoulder and the swelling was beginning to move into the upper arm.

As night came on I became increasingly nauseated and dizzy.

I can't remember too much about the next three days except the pain and dizziness.

I spent most of the time in bed.

However all 'good things' must come to an end.

At the end of the third day, I was out pulling weeds in the lane of new trees we had planted in May.

The Root Cellar

Somehwere inside that red circle was . . . the stronghold

Under the floor of the old garage was a dark, mysterious, magical stronghold. A place of adventure. Of devious deeds and dead bodies long kept hidden. Where pirates, coming down the Milk River in ships, hid their treasures. And their secrets.

A place of adventure. Of wonder.

And vegetables.

Accessed only through a solid, well-camouflaged wooden door, this place was known only to the best and brightest . . . and bravest . . . that the ranch had to offer.

I was definitely one of those.

Okay, I admit that I had to wait until one of my larger, stronger minions actually grasped the great iron ring and pulled the door up on its protesting hinges to grant me entry, but from that point . . . I. Was. In. Charge.

Yes, okay, so they also had to reach up to the single hanging bulb and pull the string because it was too far up for me, but from then on . . .

Geeze.

I spent hours there.

Or at least as long as it took my mom to collect her baskets of vegetables and start back up the stairs.

At that point, I would abandon whatever scheme I had launched and scamper up behind her.

I could conquer worlds. Defeat any foe. Accept any challenge.
I just had a bit of a problem with being left in the dark.
The heavy door would be lowered into place with a theatrical thud, and the hideout's secrets would once more be hidden.
Entombed. Quietly, patiently waiting until the next time the sunlight briefly, piteously exposed them.

I loved the root cellar. I loved its mystery. Its possibilities.
But I should probably mention here that the south fork of the Milk River never, ever could have floated anything larger than a rowboat.
Well, except, maybe during the flood of '64. But a pirate raid, then, would have had to be brief. And fast.
So, my stone-walled, dirt-floored stronghold probably never concealed a treasure. Or a body.
I think a cat got mistakenly shut in once for a few hours, but as it emerged unconcerned and completely unscathed, I don't think that counts.
I don't know if that particular root cellar still exists. It had been years since I was back there. But my memories of it are still sharp and clear.
The damp, cool air. The 'heavy' feel of the stone walls and dirt floor. The . . . fuzzy-looking boards that formed the staircase.
But most especially the smells. Earth. Fresh vegetables. Wet, aged wood. Things growing. Things crumbling back into earth.
There is a addendum.
My husband and I have spent many hours travelling on the underground in London, England. It is a remarkably run, efficient system.
But in the deepest tunnels, we met with an unexpected bonus.
Stepping off the escalator, I took a deep breath.
Earth. Old timbers. The natural smells of molder and decay.
I smiled.
It smelled like memories.