Mishap on the Pennsy....

 

Welcome back to all my regulars...and a big hello for new readers

that may be joining for the first or second time. Hope you are all

getting some what back to some normalcy after this terrific year 

and a half we've experienced.  

This next tale was inspired by a friend I knew in the newspaper

business many years ago. The story is fictional, but if you are a

believer in luck, or bad luck, well, think this one will fit the bill.

It is not part of Tales Unleashed....this was a story published about

a year ago. 

‘Mishap on the Pennsy’     

 

     John Summer hadn’t traveled much by himself….living at 
home for the past fifteen years offered him little time to be
 adventurous.  His daily routine at the local newspaper office 
as a reporter kept him going to regular evening stops to gather, 
write and edit his stories for the next days’ 8:00 a.m. deadline.

   As John stood in the train station with his mother Martha…
he was most anxious….as much for her as for himself.

“Mom…do you really think this is a good idea? Traveling 
down to Scranton to see your sister Marge?”

“Oh I’ll be fine” she replied. “She’s not well you know…
and if I don’t make the trip today, well, every time the phone
 rings I worry about what news might be on the other end.”
 She continued with,  “You’re such a worry wart, I’ll be fine.”

     It was early in the day, just after eight, but Martha was always

the first to arrive for almost any event. “Mom…your train doesn’t

leave for another hour plus, let’s sit, get some coffee and relax

a bit.”  Martha closed her purse, shifted her hat slightly to the left

and responded, “Well, alright I guess…they wouldn’t dare leave

without me you know…my ticket number is 417 1313..and you know

that 13 is my lucky number!”

Giving a big chuckle John gently led her by the arm to the

coffee station, not far from her departing gate. For a woman

well into her seventies, Martha had kept her appearance up nicely

since her husband had passed many years ago.

As John and Martha enjoyed their morning coffee….John couldn’t

help but feeling very uncomfortable. “Mom…could you wait until

the weekend and then I could go down with you? I hate having you

on a train for two hours, alone, not knowing anyone.”

“Will you stop?” she said abruptly. “You’d think I was an

under-age child…or an invalid….I’ll be perfectly fine…and I won’t

talk to any strangers…unless of course they might be very

attractive older gentlemen and not wearing wedding rings.”

“Mother!” John quickly returned with, “What would dad say

if he heard you exclaim that?”

“He’d probably say go for it” which was accompanied by a

brisk and loud laugh that brought looks from two others

sitting close by.

As the pair enjoyed their morning coffee together, Johns’

feelings of uneasiness continued to nag him. He wrestled

with the newspaper in front of him, skimming quickly

through the sports section..and as always checking the

daily horoscopes.

Before reading his own for the day, he glanced at his

mothers’, she was a Gemini. John really didn’t believe in

all the mumbo-jumbo of astrology, but it was daily

entertainment…..just entertainment. Her horoscope

reading for this day said, ‘invest in oil today.’

John grinned and shook his head from left to right.

“What is it son?” his mother asked. “Oh nothing mom,

some things they put in papers every day to amuse you..

most of it is just a waste of ink.”

The time for Martha’s departure had arrived, and John walked

her to the gate, handed her the simple overnight bag

she had prepared. As he embraced her closely he said,

“Now give my best to Marge..and if you need anything..

just pick up the phone and call…you have the paper number

too right?”

“Love you son…talk to you in a few days” and with that

Martha took the three short steps up and into the railroad

coach.

 John returned to the office settling into the daily routine

 of the paper, making contacts on the phone for upcoming

stories he would be researching and writing. With almost

 fifteen years in, it just didn’t seem possible, but time has

a way of walking right by you.

It was well into the early afternoon when his boss walked into

his office and uttered, “John, you want to scoot down to the

Pennsy yard? Seems like there’s been an accident on the

southbound this morning heading into Pa….and there have been

fatalities.”

John’s quick deep breath and sudden jerk knocked over the

 stale coffee that sat near his note pad. Grabbing his hat

and jacket from the rack, John made a quick trip to the station

where just hours before had been his mothers’ departure point.

Several other members of the press, and some radio reporters

were all on hand… and had been shuffled into a meeting room

just twenty feet away from the main ticket windows.

As he and the others around him took seats, an elderly man

in his late seventies, looking very official, walked in and motioned

for everyone to be seated.

The silence in the room was deafening. The fifteen reporters,

photographers, broadcasters all straightened themselves with

bent ears for the news.

“At 1:13 p.m. this afternoon, the Pennsy train bound for Scranton

was T-boned by a Sinclair oil refinery truck which failed to

stop at a crossing near Groves Creek. I’m sorry to report that

there were thirteen casualties. We expect to have notification

to those families by nightfall. We’ll have more details to you

about the accident by ten p.m. tonight.”

And with that, the man at the podium adjusted his tie, did a

one eighty and left the room before any questions could be

brought.

John climbed into his station wagon and headed for the

newspaper offer…it was only a fifteen minute drive. His

boss, meeting him at the door started questioning him about

what he had discovered at the station.

John dropped his note book on his desk, looking up at his

boss and exclaiming, “I have to go home now…my mother…she

was on that Pennsy train today…and I know.. I know she

didn’t survive.”

Before his boss could reply with any comment at all, John

had left the building, heading home to receive the call that

he knew was coming.

His uneasiness that morning…her ticket number 1313…her

lucky number as she had reminded him. Then there was the

horoscope reading for her, ‘invest in oil today’… and the

accident itself at 1:13 p.m. Thirteen casualties.

Upon arriving at home, John hung up his jacket and put his

hat on the counter. Should he nap he thought? Maybe all

of this dizziness of the last few hours would just go away.

No, he wasn’t tired, he was just numb and limp. He knew the

 phone call would be coming before too long.

John knew that this was one story that he would not be

able to write for the paper.

John sat in his over-stuffed chair, put his feet up and flipped

on the television. He could see that there was a Yankees game

in progress and he turned up the volume as the announcer

said, “Can you believe it folks? We’re actually heading into

inning 13 here!”

John settled into his over- stuffed easy chair and waited.

The old AT&T rotary dial telephone was next to him…John

knew it would be ringing soon…bringing him the grim news

about today’s mishap on the Pennsy. 

Undertakings on a new high in the UK...

Amazing.  The world wide web is just that, amazing...

I just learned on my author page of my publisher Book Stand

Publishing that Undertakings sold a whopping 20 copies of 

the book at Amazaon.UK in June. Go figure....no speaking

engagments there...no advertising there...just word of mouth

I'm assuming. Naturally the publisher and I are both thrilled

with those numbers. Perhaps, in a few years, if I'm still on 

the planet...a follow up of the book might be in the offing...

we shall see.

For now...it's finish up the western novel I  started two years

ago...and I have a lot to go before 'putting it to bed' as they say.

Thanks for all your support, where ever you are reading this...it has

meant a lot to me knowing you've supported my work.. and I

hope that all of us may get back to 'semi-normalcy' before

the years end. Take care and thanks for checking in. SS

A Walk in Fog and Time...

 

Settle in and enjoy story #3 from Tales Unleashed.....

A Walk in Fog and Time

Is it possible to move through time? Is it possible that certain events are destined to repeat themselves, never coming to completion? Yes, yes indeed, it is possible. The story below is one of those events. Possibly a tragic event that would not allow the participants ever to have rest . . . read on, then decide for yourself.

The twilight was settling in quickly now. As I peered out the kitchen window, the impending darkness was bringing with it a thick fog bank, a result of the late afternoon rain and cooler temperature. The trees on the hillside beckoned me to take a walk among them, so I grabbed a light jacket and headed out the back door, paying little attention to the wet grass that clung to my scuffed-up oxfords. I’d been up and down these hills behind the house so many times, it seemed that I knew every tree, ditch, rock, and gulley that made it so friendly. As I made my way up the hill through the oaks and maples, their leaves rustled gently as the fog continued its downward spiral. I sat to catch my breath, feeling a bit faint from my fast ascent. No hurry, I thought. Sit and absorb the moment.

Sitting on a stump I knew so well, I watched the fog gain intensity . . . rolling down the hillside and enveloping me with a force I could actually feel through my thin summer jacket. I pulled up the collar around my exposed neck as the fog tried to invade my naked skin, giving me a chill that was unusual for this time of the year.

I listened intensely thinking that I was hearing a voice from further up into the woods, but I couldn’t imagine anyone else being out here at twilight. Zipping up my jacket to the top, I again headed up the hill, stopping every fifty yards or so to give listen.

Still, a faint voice, muffled by the fog, was descending to my ear . . . a man’s voice, soft-spoken, but authoritarian to some degree. I continued on and within a few moments I had crested the hill enough to look down into a bowl in the terrain. The man’s voice was slow and deliberate. The words spoken, I could not make out, but it was clear he was speaking to someone or a group. I moved between the large oaks, trying to hide behind trunks as I moved closer to make my discovery. And there before me, maybe a hundred yards ahead in the fog, were four figures cloaked in long grey capes with very large sleeves, almost choir robes. They all wore hats. The three shorter figures I presumed to be women, had bonnets tied at the chin, and the taller figure wore a wide brimmed, pitch black hat. He had in his left hand a seven-foot staff which towered above all four of the figures. Who were these people?

I moved closer . . . trying to look through the now very thick fog which was cloaking my view. Within another thirty yards or so my position had changed and my neck strained as I peered around the tree which hid me. On the ground in the middle of the group was a wood box, looking to be three feet long—perhaps a storage box for valuables, or a child’s casket.

All of a sudden the taller figure looked my way, sensing that he was being watched. I froze, hoping his eyes would not pierce the thick fog veil which surrounded me. He looked down at the book he had in hand and continued his speech to the group.

I’d had enough. My flight sense told me it was time to move away.

Slowly I backed away from the solemn scene, retreating back down the hill, my mind quickly trying to understand what I had just witnessed. The forecast was for clearing weather overnight, and tomorrow I would return to the bowl to see what I could find. In the meantime, I went to my encyclopedia and started to scan through examples of period clothing worn through the ages. When I got to the page of Quaker clothing my jaw dropped. Yes, this was the type of clothes these figures had on, right down to the length, cut and color. Now I had to know more.

The next day, the weather had cleared and I made my way to my local historian’s office. She was a gal just shy of being a hundred and she would know about my house, my town, and my hill. Sure enough, upon inquiry, she told me that Quakers indeed were some of the first settlers here. She asked me why I wanted to know, but I was not ready to relate to her my story of what I had seen.

Later that morning I retraced my steps to the bowl. The birds were singing. One lone turkey scratched for food as I entered the oaks that led to the bowl. I located the spot at which I thought I had seen the figures hovering over the small wooden box. The immediate ten feet of ground there was completely bare. There were no leaves, no twigs, no grass . . . just rich black earth. I had seen many times before spots in the woods that would be scratched by turkeys as they sought their daily feed, but this spot was beyond that. Not wanting to leave the ground looking so bare, I gathered a handful of leaves and twigs and covered the spot, trying to blend it in with all that was around it. The spot felt very lonely and strange, even with the mid morning sun now finding its way onto the site. I left the bowl and found that tree stump I had sat on the night before in the fog.

What had I seen last night? In the fog, a group of four in the forest standing around a small wood box. I had to think I had somehow been lost in time, or perhaps they had been lost in time. My conclusion was that I had witnessed a Quaker burial, but how could that be? It made no sense at all to me.

Now I’ll have to give serious consideration about going back to that same spot again. I won’t give up on the hill, it’s a fantastic place . . . but I know I will not return there in the twilight, and definitely not in the fog.

Stories to entertain you.....

 

A Walk in Fog and Time....a young man strolling thru the woods near

his home comes upon a very odd ritual...

A brief stop at Level Two....a young woman in a car accident suddenly

finds herself.......briefly in another place. 

A Skate on Strange Ice...a girl ice skating sees a mysterious face 

under the ice which she is skating on.

Lost at the Drive In....a young couple head for the drive-in but aren't

found until 16 years later.

Reflection at the Ardmour...a cleaning lady has a reflection in a mirror

at work follow her home...with dire consequences.

The Mason's Mark...a woman is drawn to buy a house that indeed had

very special signifigance.

A Rose in the Cemetery...a man doing photography has an encounter

with a young lady on a snowy day.

These are just some of the 28 enchanting short stories you will find

in Tales Unleased (Book Stand Publishing). You can see and open the

book at either Amazon or Barnes and Noble and read the first two

stories free!....now that is enchanting itself. 

Thanks for stopping in....drop a  note anytime at undertakings@inbox.com 

would love to hear from you. SS

It's just a number.......

 Do you believe in a lucky, or perhaps and unlucky number? Joshua Cobb's number was

3.  But  why a 3? Most of us are born with a number attached to us in some manner.

The story below is number 10, in Tales Unleashed.

The Haunted Belfry

The church near Berkley Creek, Pennsylvania has been closed many years ago. It’s pastor who had been loved by all, had been dismissed by the elders after engaging in an affair with a woman on the church’s finance committee.

And so it was that the church sat idle, entangled by the yearly growth of weeds and invasive vines which choked at it’s very shingles, decade after decade. The glorious Sunday morning worships which echoed the organ and choir sounds down the hollow were now silenced, replaced by the calls of wayward crows looking to roost. An occasional passerby walking on the dirt road out front would stop, give pause and try to imagine the building when it was king of the hill. It was now indeed a lonely place. The building had witnessed the baptisms, marriages and funerals of hundreds of it’s followers…..but now only silence, except for the occasional thrice ringing of the church bell. It was not a regular alarm in the tower….it only happened about three times a year, and it was usually on the third of the month, and it was always at 3:00 a.m., when all men and beasts within it’s range were nestled into their beds.

A bit unsettling to say the least, especially for neighbors who lived within the half mile separated only by the tall pines and sugar maples which buffeted the sound.

It had been rumored for years that the church was haunted…haunted by it’s organist Joshua P. Cobb, an elderly man in his 70’s who had played and maintained the pump organ for over sixty years. Joshua had met an untimely death in the church while practicing for a recital late in the fall of 1940. The custodian who discovered Joshua was stunned to find him face down, heading down the set of steps which numbered twelve. But Joshua had only made it part way down, his foot breaking thru the old board on step number three, his foot still lodged there… his body dangling down the remaining steps causing his demise.

The number three was Joshua’s number indeed.

Church records showed that he had been born on March 3^rd, 1873, and was one of three children.

So when that bell tolls three times at that ghastly hour, people think little of it….. they know that Joshua is still there, kind of a perpetual caretaker. But on that 3:00 a.m. ringing, people have a tendency to pull the covers up a little tighter and hope for early daylight.

Start your story......

 

You've thought about writing that story for some time now...but there

was always something else to take up that time....or perhaps you just

didn't know where to start. Both are possible explanations for not 

getting at it.....but maybe 2021 is the year you get it done....or at least

started.

So where do you start? One of the best places is to just sit down with

pen and paper, or at the keyboard and begin outlining the story you

want to tell.  

A good story, whether it's true or fiction will have a beginning, the

story, and the end. Some of the great writers will let you make up

the ending yourself....making for a real let down if you are looking for

that 'hook' that ends the read. 

Start your outline....put it down for a few days and go back to it.

You can change or re-organize the outline as you write....as new

ideas come to you...you'll incorporate those into your story...so 

the outline is not set in stone. 

So, with that in mind.....why not start your story.....it is a relaxing

way to spend some time....and down the road...who knows....

share with friends....publish on- paper or on line.... so so many

possibilties. Have fun with it, and stay safe. 

Lost at the Drive In.....

Great memories of decades ago. What great entertainment it was....out in the open

under the stars.....not a care in the world. This is story 25 in Tales Unleashed.....it 

would be a night remembered for years to come......for many. 
 

Lost at the Drive-In

It was 6:00 on a Friday night and Jerry was looking at the clear sky over the perfect farmland which butted up to his dad’s property. It was the ideal place to live . . . a hundred acres outside of a little town of less than twelve thousand people. Two minutes into town to the malt shop, the bowling alley, the tackle shop, and the best of all, the Starlighter Drive-In. Jerry remembered going to the drive-in as a kid, sitting in the back of his father’s Hudson while his mom and dad were in the front. His memory brought back the great smells of the drive in—the hot dogs and relish,  the popcorn, the hot fried dough.—but all that was years ago. Now it was June 1965, and a glorious night it was. 

Jerry got on the phone with his steady girl Cindy and they agreed he would pick her up at 8:30 . . . maybe stop for a quick vanilla cone then head to the Starlighter for the show. What was playing? Was it even important? Heck no, the Starlighter was the make-out spot for the whole high school it seemed. Jerry cleaned out his red ‘57 Chevy and made it look very inviting for Cindy, as this was the first time they were going to the drive-in alone. No double dating, no chaperones. Just the two of them, under the stars and watching the big picture show.

Jerry’s jaw dropped as he drove up to Cindy’s house and saw her bopping down the steps. She was gorgeous tonight . . . a white blouse and pink sweater, pleated skirt, bobby socks, and penny loafers.

Jerry thought that this girl could actually be the one . . . the one that they always tell you about as a kid, the one you have to never let get away under any circumstances. Jerry’s smile was wide as he opened the door and Cindy slid over the white leather car seat to be as close to him as she could.  As Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me” played on the radio, Jerry put the Chevy in gear and they headed for their night out.   

It was 7:00 am and Jerry’s dad was up and getting his fishing gear together for the day. He had promised Jerry that the first Saturday he had off, they would head out to Brier Lake and try their luck for some rainbow trout. The locals said the rainbows were large and mighty plentiful there. As Jerry’s dad made the coffee, he looked out the window and noticed the ’57 Chevy was not in its usual spot. That’s odd. He knew that Jerry was taking Cindy to the drive-in, but that was last night. He chuckled to himself . . . could they have fallen asleep and not noticed the early daylight? He had heard of it happening before. Such an incident would surely be met with grave words from parents upon returning home.

As the hours passed, there was no sign of Jerry, Cindy, or the red ’57 Chevy. The local Sheriff and state police put out an all-points bulletin for the vehicle and its occupants. The day turned into three days, then to five, then to an agonizing seven days with no resolve. Jerry and Cindy were both level-headed kids, the kind not to run off or to make bad decisions, so it stumped everyone in the small town. Both popular kids in the same class, these two were the least likely to be in any sort of trouble. 

Time continued to pass. A year turned into five years, the sixth year stretched into the tenth, and then into year sixteen . . . but it wasn’t to be sweet sixteen. After failing health and no son returning, Jerry’s father passed away, a desolate and frail man.

It was in the 17^th year that a young man scuba diving in Brier Lake found himself in very dark, murky water and swam headlong into a vehicle entwined in seaweed and muck. He recognized the swept- back tail fin. The young diver knew in an instant that this indeed was the profile of a ’57 Chevy.

 Within two hours the local Sheriff and coroner stood on the bank of the boat launch and watched as a wrecker gently pulled the vehicle out of the water. As the vehicle emerged from its long-held place in the lake, the bright sun reflected off of the rusted bumper and trunk lid of the old car. It was indeed a red Chevrolet.

Jerry and Cindy had been found. What had happened that night would remain a mystery, though. Did they go to the show as planned? Did they make a detour and head elsewhere for more privacy? Did they become lost in the twilight, or worse yet, become victims of some insane person? All unanswered questions. 

As the tow truck operator pulled the vehicle up on to the flatbed, he lit a cigarette and started whistling a very melodious tune.

 “Say”, said the Sheriff. “I know that tune. What is it you’re whistling there?” 

 “Oh, it’s an old Sam Cooke favorite of mine. ‘You Send Me.’”

 The Sheriff nodded and said, “Yep, remember it well.” He got in his patrol car and headed home.