Smith's Monthly #15

by Smith, Dean Wesley

  He laughed. “I promise, I won’t miss a detail, no matter how small. But I suggest we do nine at a time, stop, and I relay everything I got to see if it matches what everyone remembers from the experience.”

  “Very good idea,” I said. “That way we won’t be totally stressed.”

  “Oh, we’ll be stressed,” Patty said. “I never thought I’d have to relive those hours of sheer terror again.”

  “I didn’t either,” Screamer said. “I had nightmares for years about bodies materializing inside of each other.”

  “We got to do this,” I said, shuddering at the memory of that exact same nightmare. “And we have to get it right.”

  “Because if we don’t,” Screamer said, “we’re destined to relive what we are about to try over and over and over inside a time loop.”

  “That’s not a time loop,” I said. “That’s hell.”

  “I’ve been down on a visit to hell,” Sherri said. “This would be worse.”

  Everyone but Screamer looked at her. I think I had my mouth open.

  She looked around and smiled. “What? An old boyfriend is all. You know how kids are.”

  “Before my time,” Screamer said, shaking his head.

  To be continued…

  Imagine the past masters of the game of golf getting a chance to play the top players of the 1980s.

  Imagine a ghost golfer gag getting a little out of hand.

  There’s all that and more in this crazy story. This is the first publication of “Gus” anywhere.

  GUS

  July 17th, 1986

  Dear Bill,

  Thought I’d better write you real quick like and tell you what’s going on. Since it was your crazy idea that started this mess, I figure you just might have a way to get rid of Gus.

  You remember Gus, don’t you? That was the name you suggested. You know, the idea for the invisible golfer?

  Gus?

  I’m sure you remember. It was in your Christmas letter. You said, Wouldn’t it be funny if someone got one of those new remote controlled golf carts (not the ride-in kind, but one like a pull cart, only with a quiet little motor and a remote control switch) and hooked up a tape player in an empty bag with all the sounds of a golfer pulling a club out of the bag, hitting a ball, and putting the club back in the bag?

  Then, from a hidden spot, someone could drive the empty bag and cart up near some unsuspecting golfer, stop the bag and start the tape. After the imaginary shot was hit and the imaginary club put away, the bag would head up the fairway as if pulled by an invisible golfer chasing an invisible ball.

  That’s exactly what you said because I went back and got your Christmas card.

  “Funny as hell,” you also said.

  Well, like a damn fool, I agreed with you. I’ve got to stop doing that. Every time I’ve gone along with one of your crazy ideas, it’s gotten me in trouble.

  Remember that belly dancer? I’m still sending her checks.

  Anyway, stupid old me followed your instructions and rigged up one of those remote controlled carts with a tape player in the bag. It took me a good month to learn how to steer the thing so that I wouldn’t run it into trees. Did all my practicing in the back yard so no one would know about it over at the course. I’d stand up in the kitchen window and steer it around and around the back yard. Even chased my dog with it once. Scared hell out of the poor thing.

  Alice thought I had flipped totally until I told her it was your idea. Then she just shook her head.

  Mostly she wasn’t real happy with me spending that much money. Just the empty bag alone cost sixty bucks. She’s on one of those kicks lately about saving every penny for retirement. She scares me with that kind of talk. Hell, I’m only forty. I got a few good years left in me, don’t I? Besides, I’m still technically recovering from “the accident.” You spend all your accident money, yet?

  Anyhow, it was two Saturdays ago that I finally had enough courage, matched with good weather, to give the cart its first run on the course. I picked hole number fifteen.

  You know, the par five that runs along the edge of the river. I figured I could hide down in the trees alongside the fairway and steer Gus from there. My intended first victim was Carl Stevens, a new member at the club, just down from Boston.

  I think I introduced you to Carl last time you were here. Tall guy, skinny, bald, always wears yellow. He usually gets a real early start and plays alone. I figured he’d be out on fifteen by about eight-thirty. So I was there at eight.

  I hid the cart over behind the pump house and got down in the trees where I could see the tee. Old Carl came off fourteen green ten minutes later, walking fast, head down, not looking real happy.

  Just as he reached the tee, I sent the cart in motion, bringing it around from behind the pump house and up toward the tee box. Carl didn’t even see it coming until it was almost up to the tee.

  I guess I didn’t tell you. I added one little feature to your idea. Instead of just having the sounds of the clubs, I added a few lines of talking.

  You were right about one thing. The entire gag was damn funny.

  The look on Carl’s face when that empty cart pulled up and stopped beside the tee box was almost more than I could stand. I bit my lip to keep from laughing and started the tape. I had used my own voice on the tape and talked through a tennis ball can to disguise it.

  Sounded really strange.

  Almost spooky.

  “Excuse me,” my tennis can voice said, “Would you mind if I play through?”

  At that point I had recorded the very clear sound of clubs rattling and then one club being withdrawn.

  “Nice weather, huh?”

  I could see Carl’s head nodding in stunned agreement with the voice on the tape. He just stood there and listened to the sound of a ball being hit. He even glanced down the fairway to see if he could see the ball. I damn near fell over laughing, let me tell you.

  “Damn slice,” the tape said, followed by the sound of a club being put back in the bag. I started the cart just as the tape said, “Thanks again.”

  I steered the cart down the fairway to the right and then off into the trees like the owner of the thing was looking for a sliced ball.

  Poor Carl. He looked almost white, standing there.

  Finally, after I had the cart and bag out of sight, he teed up his ball and topped it down the fairway. I waited until he was completely out of sight around the dogleg before I moved the cart from where I had steered it behind the maintenance shed.

  As fast as I could, I got the cart back in my car and headed up toward the clubhouse. I wanted to be there when Carl came in and had his usual breakfast in the coffee shop.

  I’ve got to hand you one thing. At that point, I was laughing. In fact, I didn’t know if I was going to be able to keep a straight face around Carl.

  I got myself a stool at the lunch counter just as Carl came in from the back nine. He dropped down into a chair at an empty table and just sat there shaking his head. Besides Carl and me, there were only about a dozen other men in the coffee shop.

  Perfect for part two of my plan.

  “What’s the matter,” Doris asked Carl as she slid a glass of water in front of him. “Bad morning?” Doris is the normal Saturday waitress in the coffee shop. All the guys like her, even though she talks too much and doesn’t know a thing about golf.

  Carl shook his head no. “Just saw the damndest thing,” he said, almost to himself. “Out on fifteen.”

  “Oh oh,” I said loud enough for Carl to hear, “Gus is back.”

  “What?” Carl said, looking over at me.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said, waving off his question as if it didn’t matter. “What’d you see?”

  I swung around on my stool to face him.

  At this point five or six of the other men were listening, but Carl was now talking to both me and Doris.

  “This pull cart with an empty bag on it came up on the tee and—” He shook his head. “No, t
his sounds so stupid, I can’t even tell anyone.”

  “And this voice asks to play through,” I said, acting real serious.

  “Yeah,” Carl said, nodding his head like a toy in the back window of a car. “That’s exactly right. How’d you know?”

  “That’s Gus, the course ghost. You fellows remember hearing about Gus, don’t you?”

  I turned to the table of three Saturday morning regulars. I had learned a long time ago that if you directly ask a group of men a question that puts them on the spot and has a yes or no answer, they will usually nod their head in a vague yes.

  I suppose it’s just easier than looking stupid in front of their friends by not knowing some obvious sounding piece of information. This time, two of them nodded while the other just looked at me blankly.

  I turned back to Carl. “You just had a run in with the course ghost, that’s all. I’ll even bet he sliced his shot into the right trees. Right?”

  “How’d you know?” Carl’s face was again white.

  “He’s been hitting that same shot for eighty years,” I said. “Ever since the course was built. I’ve seen him twice. Lucky for you he didn’t ask you to play along.”

  “No, he just asked to play through,” Carl said.

  “Lucky for you, right guys?”

  This time five men in the room nodded, and one even said I sure was right.

  “Why?” Carl asked.

  “Well, the last time Gus was around a lot was back in the middle thirties. Almost exactly fifty years ago, now that I think about it, since this is nineteen-eighty-three. The stories go that he usually just did what you saw this morning. But one Saturday, he asked to join this twosome. They both knew about Gus and the story goes that they said yes just for the hell of it.”

  Carl nodded so I went on.

  “The three of them played off down the fairway and no one has ever seen those two men since. Of course, there have been lots of reports of people sighting them playing early in the morning when the dew is still fresh on the greens. In fact, you know when you’re out there real early and there’s footprints already in the dew around the flag?”

  “Yeah,” Carl said. “Happens all the time, but I never see who’s ahead of me.”

  “Take a guess,” I said and took a long sip of the coffee Doris had brought me. I didn’t want to tell him those footprints were really made by the green’s keeper changing the pins every morning. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  “Oh,” was all he said.

  “You think maybe this means Gus is coming back?” one of the other men asked.

  I shrugged, fighting like hell to keep a completely serious face. “Maybe. All I know is that I’m certainly not going to get near that empty bag if I see it.”

  I tossed Doris some money for the coffee and headed out the door before I exploded trying to contain myself.

  And the rest of the week I just kept laughing. Gus was the talk of the club. Most of the members didn’t really buy into the tall tale. But people talked about it. Carl even got invited to join a regular group on Saturday mornings so he wouldn’t have to play out there alone.

  For me, I couldn’t leave well enough alone.

  The following Saturday, I got down to the course real early, had Gus hidden behind the pump house, and me down in the trees way before anyone was around.

  Forty minutes later, Steven Forbes and Franklin Jones came off fourteen green and headed for fifteen tee. You haven’t met them. They work for a law office downtown and play golf a few times a week. I had heard them laughing about Gus Wednesday afternoon in the bar. I also had heard Thomas Sullivan, a regular member, warn them to stay away from the ghost cart if they saw it. Just in case.

  Well, Bill, your idea worked twice. I ran the cart up beside them just as Franklin was teeing up his ball. Startled him so much that he stepped back and tripped over the tee marker.

  I ran through the entire tape and had the cart headed down the fairway before either of them even thought to move. Damn that was funny. My side hurt from laughing without making a sound.

  Again, I hid the cart over behind the old maintenance shed. That’s where I think I made my mistake. You see, I left the cart there while I went up to the clubhouse to listen to the fun. And when I went back down an hour later to get it, there were just too many people around to get it over to the road and into my car without being seen.

  So I had to come up with something fast or blow the entire gag. I don’t know if you noticed the old white house sitting off to the side of sixteen, way back in the trees. It’s been abandoned for years and there was talk at one time among the men’s association about turning it into a club, but nothing has ever been done.

  I decided to hide Gus there until there were fewer people on the course. I put him down in the fruit cellar of the house and tossed some old newspapers over the bag. No one had been down there in years. A great hiding place. In fact, at the time, I was really happy I found the spot. Beat hell out of lifting it in and out of the trunk of my car.

  Monday I was sitting in the coffee shop, after playing with my usual group, when Hector, the assistant pro, came in. He’d been about three groups behind us. He started in about how he and three guys had just seen Gus. Only this time Gus was playing sixteen and had hooked the ball.

  Let me tell you, I scrambled out of there and down to the old house faster than I had moved in years. I sure didn’t like the thought of just anyone messing around with Gus. I planned on using him for my own golf cart when the joke was done.

  Well, you guessed it.

  Gus was gone.

  I searched everywhere, but couldn’t find a clue as to who took him. I even walked the golf course and sat out beside fifteen for a few hours in hopes that whoever had taken him would strike again.

  I looked all day Tuesday, too.

  Nothing.

  Wednesday (yesterday) Gus found me.

  Gus and his friend, Horton, that is.

  This is where I’m hoping you might have an idea or two. You see, normally on Wednesdays I have my match with the “Cold Crew.” That’s what we call those of us who play golf most of our lives instead of working like our wives think we should.

  I was playing with old Doc Rule, Howard Erickson, and Scott Golden. We were out on twelve, the short par three, when Gus and this other empty bag come up onto the tee box. Let me tell you, I was one scared fellow right at that moment. And trust me, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.

  Why?

  Because the other empty bag was a carry bag. And some invisible person or thing was carrying it about three feet off the ground and the shoulder strap was full of something that I could see the trees through.

  Gus excused himself and asked very nicely if they could play through.

  Bill, it wasn’t my tennis can voice that asked. No sir. It was just as spooky as my made up voice, but it wasn’t mine. And it didn’t come from the bag.

  At that point the empty carry bag dropped to the ground with the sounds of clubs rattling.

  After a moment there was a sound of a golf ball being hit.

  “Nice shot, Horton,” a voice said from the area of Gus.

  “Thanks, Gus,” a slightly higher voice said from the tee box.

  You could have knocked me down with the old proverbial feather.

  All four of us just stood and watched, or listened would be a better way of putting it, as Gus hit his shot and then the two bags headed up toward the green.

  Just before they reached the green, though, both bags just sort of faded away.

  Now I’m not kidding.

  Remember, twelve is a short par three. Those two bags vanished not more than eighty yards in front of me, right out in plain sight in the middle of the fairway.

  One moment they were there, the next, bingo, they were gone.

  Well, we waited an extra long time just to make sure they were off the green, then tried to finish our round. Ruined the day, though.

&nb
sp; And back in the clubhouse, I learned that we weren’t the only ones to see Gus and Horton. They had played through three other groups as well.

  Bill, any idea as to just what the hell is going on?

  Or any ideas as to what I might do to get rid of Gus and Horton and maybe even get my cart back? You know more about this stuff than I do. I’ve really gone and gotten the club and myself into a mess, this time.

  People are getting scared and if word of this gets out, it will close down the course. If that happened, there would be no way I could talk Alice into letting me buy another membership.

  Please send any ideas you might have as soon as possible. Hope you are well.

  Say hello to that beautiful wife of yours for me.

  Desperately,

  Fred

  Dear Fred,

  I looked up the name Horton in one of my golf reference books and it just so happened there was a great golfer back in the early part of the century named Horton. Horton Smith, to be exact.

  Track Gus and his Horton friend down and find out if it really is the same Horton. If it is, I’ve got an idea or two that just might work.

  In response to your question, my “accident” money is holding out just fine. But in about five years we might have to try that again.

  What do you say?

  Say hi to Alice for me.

  Keep it hooking,

  Bill

  Dear Bill,

  Are you kidding? Just how the hell am I supposed to find out the last name of a ghost?

  The situation is getting worse. Gus and Horton were seen three times yesterday. And this morning I heard that they played through a group of women, and on women’s day, to boot. And there was a third bag with them. They called that bag “Harry.”

  Hoping for help,

  Fred

  p.s. Repeating the “accident” might just get some folks a little suspicious, don’t you think?