Paranormal Short Stories

by Quincy J. Allen

  “Why?” Madge asked, not comprehending, but knowing deep down this was how things needed to be.

  “’Cause I made a promise.”

  Harriet pulled a postcard out of the pocket of her apron, extended her hand through the glass and placed it on the sink between them. The photograph on the front shocked and appalled Madge, but she’d heard of such things. Through the mirror her eye caught streaks of bright light come down from the ceiling behind Harriet. Madge reached down to pick up the postcard, and for just an instant their fingers touched, sending an icy-cold shock through her. Madge squinted her eyes with the pain of it, and her mind swirled as she pulled her empty hand back. When she looked again, she saw the card on the other side of the mirror in Harriet’s hand.

  In an instant Madge understood everything. She turned her head and looked at Heaven’s light streaming down behind her. Without a word, she turned, walked into it, and was gone.

  Harriet turned away from the mirror and stared down at white hands. They were smooth, soft and nothing like any hand she had ever felt before. She ran her tongue over someone else’s teeth and breathed air deeply into someone else’s lungs. A sad smile spread across her face, and she steadied herself for what was to come. Without another thought, she walked out of the ladies’ room and through the front doors of the building. She slipped the postcard into a postbox just outside and strode towards the waiting Cadillac like a soldier heading off to war.

  Stephenson’s man Earl Gentry helped her into the car, and she could smell the whisky on his breath. He drove her to Stephenson’s mansion and nearly dragged her into the kitchen. Stephenson and two other men—Shorty, the chauffer and Earl Klink, a bodyguard—were there, and they’d all been drinking. There was an empty bottle of illicit whisky lying on its side on the kitchen counter, a full one next to it, and a half-full one in Stephenson’s hand. His eyes were alight with drunken fury.

  “Reject me, will you?” Stephenson hissed and took a pull from the bottle. “Do you have any idea who I am?” Stephenson reached out his hand, motioning for Gentry to hand her over. Gentry shoved and Madge stumbled into Stephenson’s iron grasp. “I AM Indiana!” He glared down at her with dragon’s eyes. He set the bottle down and slapped her, his fury carrying a lifetime of senseless rage with it. Her face ached and stars danced before her eyes.

  “Please …” she whispered.

  His face split into an evil sneer. “What you need is to loosen up a little.” He tightened his grip on her arm, forcing a yelp from her, and then thrust the open whisky bottle into her mouth. It burned like nothing else she’d ever tasted before. Over and over again he repeated it—slaps and burning whisky poured down a raw throat. Finally, she simply blacked out.

  When Madge came to, she was lying on a bed somewhere in Stephenson’s house. Her body was numb from the alcohol, but she could feel his presence, as if she were sitting too close to a pot-bellied stove. She opened her eyes to see the dragon staring down at her framed in a moonlit window. Its eyes glowed with a hatred that seemed boundless as they burned into her. She knew what was coming, but she’d been waiting for it for a long time.

  With Madge’s voice, Harriet Truth uttered a prophecy to the evil that prepared to inflict itself upon her. “The law will get their hands on you,” she said with an easy and stoic confidence.

  He laughed mercilessly and boasted, “I am the law in Indiana.” And then it began. Stephenson inflicted his rage upon the lamb. He beat her first, then bit into her again and again like a rabid animal. The rape lasted hours. She never cried out, never gave him the satisfaction, which only seemed to spur him on into further atrocity. Hours later, after it had been quiet, Stephenson’s men came in and found them both passed out. Fear gripped Stephenson’s men when they saw what the dragon had done.

  Madge woke up to morning sunlight in a hotel room she didn’t recognize. Someone had dressed her in her torn, bloody clothes, and her whole body was alight with pain from the bruises and bites and rape. Stephenson wasn’t around but the other three men were. It occurred to her that they couldn’t have gotten her into a hotel without someone saying something unless it was owned by Klan.

  Madge begged Shorty to let her go to the drugstore and get some things … feminine things … and bandages to clean up. Of the three men there, Shorty was the only one who had even a remotely sympathetic look on his face. Maybe it was fear or some long-forgotten shred of humanity that made him acquiesce. Klink came along to make sure she didn’t try anything. Shorty ushered her to a Klan drugstore just around the corner where she picked up what she’d needed and then snatched a box of mercury chloride tablets.

  Back at the hotel she retreated to the bathroom, cleaned herself up as best she could and stared into the mirror. It was Harriet’s face there in the glass, and none of the marks showed on her shining, dark skin. The time had come. She poured six tablets into her hand, cupped her hand under a running faucet and downed the tablets, chasing them with cold water. Then she went to the bed, laid down and waited. The mercury didn’t take long to send her into agonized contortions. It burned, and every ten or fifteen minutes another wave of pain would double her over. At first the men thought she was faking it, trying to draw attention, but they knew they were safe in a Klan-owned hotel. It wasn’t until she started coughing up blood that their faces went pale, realizing they’d run out of time.

  She begged them to take her to a doctor. Through her own screams, she heard the conversation about killing her outright. But each and every one of them lacked the courage, the mettle to deliberately and methodically take a life. Before, it had been the alcohol talking, but now they squeaked and squirmed like rats in a trap. Eventually, they figured she would be dead by morning, but they couldn’t leave her in the hotel. There would be too many questions.

  It was Shorty that saved her in the end. She never did know why. Maybe it was that he had suffered at least mild abuse and derision because of his height. Maybe he just had more humanity than the rest. Either way, at noon the next day, he gathered up Madge’s unconscious body, put her in the car and drove her home to where only the Oberholtzer’s tenant Mrs. Schultz was present. Shorty claimed that Madge had been in an automobile accident and left in a rush without leaving his name, confident that Madge would not live long.

  But Madge didn’t die. A doctor was sent for and a story told … a story that spread. It didn’t take long for the outrage and the arrests.

  * * *

  April 13th, 1925—Indianapolis, Indiana

  Madge’s mother stared down into her daughter’s pallid, sweating face and prayed for a second miracle, this one seven years after the first. Back then it had been a week of hell, starting with a cough that quickly turned into thick, throat-tearing heaves full of yellow and green that threatened to shake her weak, feverish daughter to pieces. Madge had gotten caught up in the influenza epidemic of 1918 and ended up lying in that very same bed. Back then the same doctor had said the same thing as he had only a few hours ago; there was nothing more he could do and the Oberholtzer’s should begin making final preparations.

  Her mother remembered the moment of the miracle like it was before her eyes once again. Madge hadn’t coughed for hours. Her cheeks glowed with the burning hue of deadly fever. Her breathing was thick and labored while her mother sat beside the bed and clutched her daughter’s hot, sweaty hand. Then Madge went into a fit of convulsions and fierce coughing, as if a devil were trying to rip its way out of her body. It subsided. Madge lay back in the bed, her face calm, and her chest still. Her mother screamed in despair and then felt the presence. The curtains flickered, even though the midnight air was still. She felt a chill and sensed something at the foot of the bed. A shift of air brushed past her check, and Madge’s matted hair quivered across her forehead. Madge took in a long, sucking breath, her chest heaving once followed by a long exhale, then her breathing returned to normal. Her mother couldn’t believe her eyes. She laid her hand on Madge’s forehead and found the heat gone. Madge’s chee
ks were losing the angry hue of fever. Madge opened her eyes the following morning, and everything went back to normal. So there her mother sat and prayed for a second miracle, not the least bit guilty for the asking.

  A knock on the door brought Madge’s mother back to the present and all-too-real fear of losing her daughter. “Come in,” she said, her voice sounding stronger than she felt.

  A thin, clean-shaven man stepped in, removed a faded brown cap off of short black hair and tucked the cap under his arm. “Mrs. Oberholtzer?” he asked. He wore a simple brown suit with worn elbows, and his black shoes were dusty and unpolished. He had a green bow-tie that seemed to dance over his Adam’s apple when he spoke. A fountain pen was tucked behind one ear.

  Madge’s mother cast a questioning glance at the man.

  “My name is Henry Walker,” he offered. “I take statements for the courts.”

  Realization flashed into her eyes. “Mr. Walker! I’m so glad you’re here.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “The doctor says that we don’t have much time.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Oberholtzer. How is she doing?”

  “She’s still asleep, but …”

  “I’m awake, Mr. Walker.” Madge’s voice drifted up from the bed as if from a great distance and through dense fog.

  “Miss Oberholtzer, I’m sorry I disturbed you, but I’ve come to take your official statement.” He paused, his eyes focusing on the gaunt, black-and-yellow bruised face that stuck out from the blankets. “I can come back later if you’re not up to this.”

  “No. I’m afraid I don’t have much time.” She winced, and Walker watched an arm slide up from under the covers, push the blankets down and beckon him. He had to swallow when he saw the bruises and bite-marks that painted the white skin in a mottled pattern of tormenting abuse.

  Henry turned to Mrs. Oberholtzer and saw tears rolling down her face.

  “I’m sorry….” she started, closing her eyes and turning her face away. “I can’t hear this again … it’s too ….” Her body shuddered with sobs. She covered her face with one hand, grabbed the doorknob and rushed out of the room. Walker heard her burst into violent sobs as she ran down the hall.

  Walker swallowed again, pulled a small, black notebook out of his pocket and sat in the chair next to Madge. He looked at her with tender eyes that recognized suffering and wanted to do something about it.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked out of habit and then wanted to kick himself for the stupidity of it. The embarrassment on his face gave him away.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Walker. It’s okay. How I feel isn’t important anymore. What is important is that you’re here. This is the last piece,” she said and tried to sigh. She got half-way through it and her whole body winced with deep pain. The agony seemed to last for seconds, and her face twisted into a grimace like something was tearing at her from the inside. “How about I just tell you what happened,” she managed when the pain abated slightly.

  She began the tale.

  He nodded, pulled the pen from behind his ear and started writing as she spoke. As her story unfolded, Walker found himself filling with fury and sorrow and even shame for being a man when it was men who had committed such evil.

  “How did you endure it?” Walker asked finally, full of horrified sympathy.

  “It was like I wasn’t there. I knew what was coming from the moment he first grabbed me,” Madge said. Harriet had known what was coming from the first moment Madge Oberholtzer saw the fiery eyes of David Curtiss Stephenson. “I guess I just turned my back on it all while he did what he did … it was as if I wasn’t there.”

  Life passed from Marge’s body that night with her father looking down and her mother weeping while she held Marge’s hand. The cries turned to a long, drawn-out wailing full of agonized sobs and screams of bereaved askance hurled at Heaven and He who ruled it with such apparent indifference.

  * * *

  September 15th, 1925—Indianapolis, Indiana

  “Stephenson! You got mail!”

  Stephenson sat in his cell with a blank stare on his face, convicted of second-degree murder. All he could think of were the men, Klan, who had turned their backs on him. He thought of how he would roll them over and bring them down with him. A guard’s hand stuck through the bars and held out a postcard. Stephenson stiffly reached out, snatched it, and peered down at the photograph. The Hemphill dogwood image brought back memories that warmed him, and it was enough to put a smile on his face after months of frowns and scowls during the trial. He flipped it over. The smile disappeared, turning to agonized shock. The poem on the back was not as he remembered it.

  You were the root of the Dogwood tree;

  A heartless soul of white supremacy.

  And though once taught in the Pioneer's school,

  This land is no more under the white man’s rule

  The Red Man once in an early day,

  Was told by whites to mend his way.

  Yet this lamb, by God’s eternal grace,

  Has shown you truly the dragon’s place.

  Across this land, a place to be free,

  Let true, blind freedom forever be.

  Let this a promise to all evil be,

  I am salt in the roots of your dogwood tree.

  A single sentence was scrawled awkwardly next to the poem in a child’s hand, and a signature.

  I got you.

  Harriet Truth

  Author’s Notes

  Harriet Truth is a composite of many. She is the spirit of Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth, but she is also a tribute to every person who suffered so horrifically at the hands of white men and had the indomitable courage to make a stand, including Madge Oberholtzer, who faced evil with a courage most couldn’t comprehend.

  The multiple lynchings in 1908, one of the largest mass-lynching in American history, did indeed take place. After Hugh Dean was shot to death, six blacks were arrested by the county sheriff and incarcerated in Sabin County Jail in Hemphill, Texas. On the first night, the prisoners were taken from the jail by a mob of roughly 150 men and women brandishing torches. Five of the six were hanged in a nearby tree, while the sixth was shot trying to escape.

  Over the next few nights three more black men were hanged by similar but smaller mobs. Not only were no whites brought to justice, but their actions were celebrated by the good, white people of Texas. As proof of such common-place celebration, the postcard described in this story is also real. Apparently, such postcards were commonplace in the aftermath of Klan lynchings across the US.

  The influenza epidemic of 1918 killed millions globally. It’s been speculated that its wide-spread nature was a result of birds carrying it across the world. The speed with which that little virus decimated our numbers certainly lends itself well to the notion of an avian-borne killer.

  Finally, the kidnapping, rape, and death of Madge Oberholtzer as well as the downfall of the prominent David Curtiss Stephenson (born in Houston, Texas only 80 miles southwest of Hemphill) is also true. The Ku Klux Klan had been reborn in 1915. It gained momentum and membership throughout the twenties.

  According to my research, in the spring of 1925, Klan membership under Stephenson was 250,000 strong in Indiana alone. His trial and conviction shed light upon the evil of the Klan. Rats abandoned the sunken ship in hordes. By 1928 only 4,000 members of the Indiana Klan remained. Stephenson had been the root of Indiana’s dogwood tree, and the death of Madge Oberholtzer was enough salt to bring it down for good.

  It was Billie Holliday who sang “Southern trees bear a strange fruit.” As a culture, each and every one of us should take any steps necessary to forever pour salt upon the roots of dogwood trees when we find them sprouting in our midst and ensure that they never bear such horrible fruit again, regardless of race, color, or creed.

  Tasty Morsels

  I didn’t want to do it.

  Instead, I tore my eyes away from the briefcase perched on my table and took a sip of what could only be describe
d as perfect café au lait. That goddamn briefcase had been tormenting me all afternoon, like a vulture waiting for fresh meat to finally drop to its belly.

  I turned and let my gaze drift along the passers-by beyond the window.

  Guilty, I thought as a dreadlocked skateboarder in baggy cammies rolled by. The kid looked like he hadn’t eaten in a month—that death camp kind of skinny found in shitty meth-houses down by the river … on the Jersey side. I contemplated what his crime was. He’s white enough to be a serial killer, I thought, but those whackos are always clean cut. I set my cup on the briefcase, stealing yet another excuse not to open the fucking thing. I’d spent all afternoon sipping and playing Who’s Guilty with the civies walking by, trying to avoid the inevitable. Well, that and pissing like a race horse every thirty minutes. I’m pretty sure I had enough caffeine in my body to jolt a corpse back to life.

  As the kid passed out of view, I snapped my fingers. Informer! The kid was an informer for dirty cops. Yeah, that had to be it. I took another of sip and leaned back with a satisfied grin on my face.

  My first partner and I invented Who’s Guilty when we first got assigned together. Shit, that was a lifetime ago. Basically, we would pick the next stranger that passed by and guess what he or she might be guilty of. Years later my partner got shackled to a desk job after three circus seals shoved him down a flight of stairs. They were witnesses in a case, oddly enough, not perps. The seals didn’t shove him because of the case though. They just didn’t like him. It’s a long story.

  Part of me wanted to reminisce about the good old days, but I was just about out of time. With daylight fading and New York’s canyons of concrete, glass, and steel morphing from gray to black before my eyes, I needed to bite the bullet … get the damn thing over with. If I didn’t now, I’d be forced to do it at home and risk tearing my apartment to pieces in an apoplectic rage.

  Sitting, however, in the booth of Effeté (my favorite French café, by the way), I’d have no choice but to restrain myself from violence. Any sort of outburst would risk having a civie or even Francois, the owner, calling the cops … and I didn’t want to get into it with the boys in blue. They hated Feds. I’d be forced to break out my badge, and they’d bust my balls, and I’d tell them to fuck off, and they’d call the Bureau and find out I was … well … that’s why I didn’t want to open the goddamn briefcase.