MRS. HUMPHREY’S HOUSE
On North Ninth Street, about eight houses away from where we lived, just where the street started down the hill, off to the left and set back among those old tall trees, was Mrs. Humphrey’s house. Three stories tall with beautiful large windows, the old place looked every part the mansion it once was.
But it was empty. Had been ever since that night.
The stories were many about the house. Yet one specific detail was always repeated every time the tale was told. The old lady was murdered there, a gruesome deed, a murder never solved.
Many townspeople swore long afterwards that they saw her ghost roaming the house long into the night. They talked of strange doings going on but only on certain nights and, it seemed, the conditions on those nights had to be just perfect. Apparently it had something to do with the weather because it always appeared to enhance the emergence of the spirits when winds blew and the sky was laden with dark ominous clouds and lightening flashed all about.
In the winter, when the street would get packed with snow, we kids would go sledding down that hill. The police would block it off, too dangerous for drivers, but great for sleds. You could do that in our small town. Morristown sat comfortably in the southern part of Illinois between the two great rivers. We had about six thousand people living there and everyone knew each other. Not too many secrets were kept quiet.
But somehow Mrs. Humphrey’s murder was.
On the nights that we would ride our sleds down that hill we’d see the house. The snow-laden trees, whenever there was a bright moon, would always look like giant ghosts hovering over that dwelling. They would bend inward with the long branches sweeping across the top of the roof and the smaller, lower ones jabbing at its frame. It was spooky all right. But we didn’t have time to give it much attention otherwise we’d slam our sleds into a tree along the street if we every looked up.
That old house was scary at any time, not just at night. When spring came and the thunderstorms flashed their lightening all about and the wind blew with great gusto, Mrs. Humphrey’s house would come alive with all kinds of possibilities. We’d run down there just to look at the sight, standing far away, frightened of what might happen. Nothing did, of course, but our imaginations made up for the lack of any actual weird adventures. It was something truly out of a horror movie.
Mrs. Humphrey was apparently a widow since there was no Mister Humphrey around and all of her mail was addressed to a married woman. She came to Morristown in her later years from St. Louis apparently having a great deal of money, building the mansion out of stone brought in from a quarry in Kentucky and exquisite furnishings from well known companies out of Chicago and St. Louis.
No one knew much of her background. She was a very private person. A maid would come once a week to clean the home and old man Collier would do the work around the house, mostly tending to her flowers and plants. They never talked about her. It was assumed that those two were paid quite handsomely to hold their tongues.
Seemingly, all of Mrs. Humphrey’s financial affairs were handled out of St. Louis, as she had no accounts set up at the local bank. The woman indeed was a mystery, which added all that much more intrigue to her rather bizarre death.
The maid found the body in early morning on that fateful day back in the mid twenties. Her screams could be heard echoing throughout the grove of trees that filled the small valley adjacent to the house. Everyone on the street heard it. It was a grotesque sound never heard before and certainly it would never be forgotten.
Some of the old timers would tell us what it was like, but confessed that their description could never match the actual experience of that moment. They said the maid went insane after that, living out the rest of her life alone, talking to herself in a mental hospital down in Anna-Jonesboro.
The room where the body was located was a rather strange chamber. It was neither a bedroom nor sitting room but more a small replica of an old Victorian throne room. There were no windows but a very high ceiling. And at one end was a large throne-like chair. It sat on a raised platform with two steps ascending. The walls were covered with rich tapestry. No other furniture was present.
Her body was at the foot of that platform as if she had just descended from the throne. However, unmistakably, Mrs. Humphrey did not fall, causing her death. One quick observation revealed it was a violent ending, definitely caused by another entity.
Sheriff Clarence Oberdon had never been involved with a murder before. His training didn’t include such matters. In fact, his training was done on-the-job and gradually he worked his way up in positions until he felt qualified to seek the head post.
He was elected only six months prior to Mrs. Humphrey’s murder. Now as he stood there reviewing the body his mind searched for the proper procedure. He knew an autopsy had to be performed and once that was concluded he would have more information, hopefully, with which to proceed.
But it was how to proceed that confronted him. And as the woman’s body left that weirdly fashioned room on a squeaky old coroner’s gurney, Sheriff Oberdon remained standing near the spot where dried puddles of blood once covered the floor trying to figure out what he should be doing next.
He had what appeared to be the murder weapon, a large log, apparently taken out of the wood stack next to the downstairs fireplace. It was lying near where the body was found with blood on it and there were pieces of wood tangled up in the woman’s hair where the blood had gushed out. His deduction seemed to be a most logical one. But that was the only deduction he had.
Struggling to uncover more clues the sheriff drew a conclusion that perhaps some insight into the woman’s life might reveal the reason for her death. Was there blackmail being attempted or some kind of threat issued and if so could there possibly be some evidence of such a thing?
In order to uncover such possibilities a complete search of the house would be required, so he thought. Hopefully her personal effects or correspondences or even a diary would turn up the motive for the murder. It would be these types of objects he’d be looking for. And he decided he’d start at the top, which meant starting on the third floor where he stood at the moment.
Sheriff Oberdon had never before seen a residence such as this. Opulence would be the proper word to describe it. Cost had obviously meant nothing to Mrs. Humphrey. The structure was totally out of place in a small hamlet like Morristown. Hopefully it would yield its secrets. And hopefully it would be quick.
The top floor contained only Mrs. Humphrey bedroom and a small bath along with the throne room as he had come to call it. Surprisingly the bedroom was the least elegant of all the rooms. Yet in its simplicity it nevertheless remained ornate. A small bed, a simple dresser and a night table filled the north wall of the room. Up against the opposite wall sat a rather elaborate-looking desk.
Oberdon strolled over to the desk’s location and gave a cursory glance around. Papers were scattered about its surface. Books gathered next to it on the floor. He noticed a stain in the carpet that looked as if a bottle of ink had possibly spilled once. Obviously there was a faint-hearted attempt to remove the stain.
Oberdon looked at the papers. His eyes eventually focused on one particular letter, resting on top, addressed to what looked like “the Salem saints.”
Slowly he followed the text. To his amazement it appeared that Mrs. Humphrey had composed a message to a group of women who had been accused of and burned at the stake for being witches. In her narrative she offered comfort and consolation to the women and promised them that their souls would be freed soon, that full indemnification would be provided. The writing seemed to stop, however, at that point and only erratic scribbled lines moved across the page. The end of that scribble came to rest directly overhead of where the stain marred the carpet.
The scene intrigued Sheriff Oberdon. He reread the letter. Witches? Mrs. Humphrey had written to dead witches? His hand moved down to lift the paper so he could inspect the other writings but suddenly stopped thinking there might be fingerprints that could reveal more of his murder mystery.
Filled with a new sense of bewilderment Sheriff Oberdon decided that the rest of the house needed inspection before returning to the bizarre letter to the dead witches.
Moving out of the bedroom he descended the elaborate staircase to the middle level and stood on the landing momentarily to take note of its design. Three doors surrounded the area where he stood. The remainder of the stairs, spiraling down to the main floor, was off to the side. The doors were closed. He decided to enter each one of them.
The center portal opened into a rather large bathroom. Brass fittings and white marble fixtures glistened in the bright sunlight flooding the room. An oversize tub filled the whole back wall. It resided under the large window. The water closet was sheltered behind a tall screen featuring an oriental design of two black swans. Two pedestal sinks lined the opposite wall.
The room appeared to offer somewhat the insight the sheriff was hoping to find, but of what he wasn’t too sure. Placed throughout the space were a variety of votive candles in unique glass holders. Close inspection revealed that they had all burned at one time. A heavy aromatic residue of incense hung in the air. The room was immaculate, almost indicating that it had never been used. The sheriff smiled at the luxury of it all, bringing to mind the plain and crowded bathroom at his small house.
The other two doors revealed guestrooms, rather large and elegantly furnished. Both were decorated identically utilizing red as the predominate color. They too had large windows that allowed the sun to project itself into every corner of the space. Heavy drapes hung by the sides of those windows, the kind that could be pulled tightly closed when needed. As with the bathroom, there was no sign that the rooms had ever been used. The quarters were spotless and everything was impeccable. Mrs. Humphrey obviously was obsessed with cleanliness. It was hard to believe that one maid could maintain such a level of perfection with only one day of work a week.
On the main floor Sheriff Oberdon moved through the wide vestibule and entered the expansive living room. The motif of large windows continued throughout the area providing a commanding view of the miniature forest covering the sloping hillside that dipped down to the small creek below. A flower garden embraced the entire structure and the center window in the group of three extended to the floor to enhance the sight of those flowering plants.
A large fireplace dominated the opposite wall and above it hung an immense portrait of a very distinguished looking gentleman. He was an older man. Oberdon surmised it was either the lady’s husband or father. But not knowing anything of her past the question became a mute point.
However, at that instant, something attracted his attention that made the mute point valid once again. In the gentleman’s hand was an object that the sheriff found to be of great interest. Tightly griped in that gnarly and oversized hand was a piece of wood, a small log actually, similar to the one resting on the floor two stories above the room.
The coincidence was unnerving.
He quickly turned to inspect the rest of the house.
The formal dining room was amply furnished, capable of comfortably accommodating thirty people. In size it rivaled the living room. Once again the color red dominated the décor and at the head end a large overstuffed chair was placed. The design and composition of the chair matched, in smaller proportions, the throne on the top floor.
It would appear that Mrs. Humphrey considered herself of royal personage. The sheriff wondered if the woman was, indeed, from royalty. The answer, of course, and many more would surely be found, he believed, as his investigation further explored this lady’s life.
The kitchen proved to be the most bizarre of all rooms in the house. The large walk-in icebox contained objects Sheriff Oberdon had never seen before, or at least not in anyone’s icebox. Heads of animals were hanging from meat hooks, all grouped together in the far corner. Several strange looking birds lay on shelves and bags of unusual plants rested on the floor. No regular and normal food could be seen, just this odd assortment of non-eatable items neatly gathered and filling all spaces. Oberdon shook his body as he exited, unconsciously ridding himself of these peculiarities.
There was sort of a back porch, screened in and extending out over the rear section of the property. There wasn’t a back yard per se, for the whole two acres of land were filled with trees. The porch ledge provided a type of roof for the rear entrance to the home’s basement. Oberdon took the stairs down from the landing to the ground level to explore the basement but to his dismay the door was locked. He peeked through a small window. Disappointingly it was entirely too dark to make anything out. Perhaps, he hoped, he’d gain access before the day was concluded.
On the cement slab, under that back overhanging roof, the sheriff found a small lawn chair and took advantage of its presence to sit and begin contemplating his tour of Mrs. Humphrey’s house.
He flipped the pages in his notebook back to the start of his writings and began reading the notations. Gradually several facts began to merge together to form a tighter picture of this reclusive and mysterious woman. Oberdon began to suspect that Mrs. Humphrey had to have dabbled in some form of witchcraft, be it as a curiosity or as a serious intent. The signs were all there, which, of course, only added to the complexity of the murder.
By now it was going on the lunch hour and Sheriff Oberdon decided he’d catch a bite to eat and then return to his office to await the coroner’s report. The report, he hoped, would get him started in finding out more about who had killed Mrs. Humphrey.
When the report finally did come in it was disappointing. Mrs. Humphrey had died, it said, from a blow to the head by a blunt instrument. Sheriff Oberdon stared at the single sheet of paper and shook his head. He already knew that. But then the next line caught his attention. From the analysis on the body it was determined that the woman had most likely died around midnight.
Midnight. Yes, the bewitching hour. How interesting. How very convenient.
He stared at the report trying hard not to draw any illusory conclusions, conclusions that would certainly eliminate logic, supplanting it with visions of the supernatural and unproven issues. Yet he couldn’t ignore the coincidence of it all nor did he want to, for at that very moment Sheriff Oberdon had no other basis with which to solve his murder mystery.
That night, long after most of the town’s residents had turned off their lights and had crawled into bed for a good night’s sleep, Sheriff Oberdon sat contemplatively on a deep-cushioned sofa facing the fireplace in the living room of Mrs. Humphrey’s house. Without knowing exactly what to expect he simply sat and stared at the portrait above the fireplace and waited, waited hopefully for some kind of revelation that he felt would only come at midnight.
Then, as if someone had fathomed his intent, he noticed a slight movement.
The whole frame of the large portrait tilted slightly to the left and then back again into its regular position. Sheriff Oberdon shook his head surmising he might be showing a slight sign of fatigue. However, the frame tilted again, this time with quite an audible creaking sound.
That, he realized, was not the result of fatigue. He was not hallucinating.
Suddenly, in a bounding swift motion, the whole portrait came falling down, crashing over the mantle and slamming to the floor. The sound reverberated throughout the entire house.
Oberdon jumped out of the sofa and stood poised. Cautiously his hand moved to the holster strapped to his side and he loosened the leather latch securing his revolver. Instantly bellows of laughter erupted, flooding the room, swirling, fading in and out and then shrieking to full volume until, abruptly, it all became unnervingly quiet.
The man remained motionless.
And as he stood frozen he began to notice the slight fragrance of incense filtering into the room. Turning to look in the direction from where it appeared to be coming his eyes caught the glimmer of flickering lights reflecting off the wall adjoining the large staircase. The aroma intensified, almost to the point of gagging the man.
With deliberate steps he slowly made his way up the stairs, his hand always on the ready with his revolver. As he rounded towards the top onto the second landing he saw the source of the shimmering lights.
There before him the multitude of candles in the large bathroom were flickering, creating weird shadows on the walls and filling the air with the powerful scent of the incense.
Standing there in awe, Sheriff Oberdon began to fear the ghastly meaning of it all, speaking to something he vehemently rejected. Yet what he was witnessing was certainly very real and there was no logical explanation he could provide.
His thoughts became twisted and muddled. Could it be, against all that was rational and sane, that the ghost of Mrs. Humphrey had returned and was casting her witch’s spell over the house? Was it possible that the woman was, indeed, a witch and the supernatural universe had now taken control to chastise the living world for the misdeed suffered by this woman?
Turning quickly to descend the stairs he stopped suddenly. Both guestroom doors flew open slamming against the wall causing a slight vibration. Ethereal noises shrieked from both rooms. Oberdon lurched against the wall and looked upon a startling sight. Both chambers were in total disarray, a shambles from their previously over-neat condition. Once again the laughter boomed from all corners of the house, growing louder and more petrifying than ever before.
The man had seen and endured enough.
Bounding down the stairs he raced to the front door. Leaving it wide open he stumbled over the decaying fallen tree branches and large stones in the yard, dashing to where he had parked the patrol car. Within seconds the car’s engine was racing hard as tires squealed and a metallic white and black blur peeled out of the driveway and shot down North 9th Street.
Intriguingly, at that precise moment, it was the only sound to be heard.
The house would not be revisited again for the next thirty years. Sheriff Oberdon had immediately obtained a court order to have the house boarded up on the pretext that it was vulnerable to thievery and vandalism and that such actions could very well destroy any evidence in what was apparently going to be a very long investigation.
No one really suspected why the case of Mrs. Humphrey’s murder slowly faded from the Sheriff’s department’s priority list. When inquiries were made that first year people were told that it was ongoing. That explanation soon became so redundant that the whole status of the murder eventually shifted from current event to legend. And it was there that it rested.
In 1956 a young couple purchased the Humphrey property from the State of Illinois. With no heirs and no will Mrs. Humphrey’s estate reverted to the government. It was published that the house on North Ninth Street was the only thing the woman owned. Records from a St. Louis bank indicated that she spent all of her money on the house and its furnishings. She lived on a small pension from an unnamed source. The State of Illinois could not find a buyer for the place and the records where subsequently archived and eventually forgotten.
It was only when the young couple made an inquiry that the State remembered it had owned the property. Wishing, of course, to disposed of it rapidly the State practically gave the real estate away, much to the delight of the young people who had expected to pay a premium price for what was still the most elegant house in all of Morristown.
The new owners decided to refurbish the entire interior of the home. They would gut the inside except for the structural beams and supporting walls. Local workers would be employed to do the job, contrary to the initial construction of the house. Back then Mrs. Humphrey had only specialists from St. Louis build the home under a seal of strict secrecy, an action, of course, that only increased the mystic of it all.
Naturally the refurbishing brought out the curiosity of most people in that small town. The place had been a source of intrigue all those years. Folks would gather to watch the trappings and furnishings be hauled away marveling at what they saw.
And as the gutting of the place reached it’s peak, the editor of the local newspaper gathered together with the workers to hear of their efforts inside the alleged haunted house.
Their revelations were startling.
It seemed, they said, that the house was rigged like some kind of carnival fun house that could only have been done, the men surmised, for Mrs. Humphrey’s amusement. When pressed for more details one of the men cited trip wires on a large picture over the fireplace that caused it to appear to fall.
One worker told of fake candles in the bathroom that would flame up every once in a while and an old wire recorder that played bellicose laughter over radio speakers throughout the house.
Another carpenter said the whole house was set up to perform crazy actions, almost appearing like magic tricks, making rooms become in disrepair and things of that nature. There were even fake animal heads made out of rubber hanging in the old icebox.
The workmen could only shake their heads as they talked to the editor. A strange place, they said, a very strange place indeed.
The story in the newspaper, of course, fired up everyone’s imagination. But Sheriff Oberdon was not around to read it. He had died three years before. It was a shame. He died harboring a secret that had eventually driven the man into a state of ineptitude constantly asserting that no one should ever overlook the occult when it came to unraveling criminal mysteries.
The old mansion sits majestically once again up on that hill on North 9th Street in Morristown, Illinois having never lost its allure. The stories of it being haunted have long melted away but there remains an underlying curiosity that can never be erased.
Throughout all the many years of the house’s history no one had ever been able to uncover the one true secret it held. Who killed Mrs. Humphrey and why?
And, ironically, there was good reason for that.
Mrs. Humphrey had inadvertently destroyed the investigation into her own death by her fixation into the world of witchcraft. If it hadn’t been for her fantasy accidentally being played out that night when Sheriff Oberdon sat in her house alone, the investigation would have continued. But having effectively frightened the man witless the case was immediately closed never to see daylight again.
And her murderer went free.
POPPA DAY
In the little
State route 85 passed through the hamlet but
was seldom traveled. The road came from
nowhere and went to nowhere and was basically there only for the convenience of
the inhabitants who resided in this isolated space. Even the choice of the village’s name had
been considered strange. “Ferule,”
being a rod or cane used in punishing children, especially by striking them on
the hand, was a logical choice. The place once served as a detention center for
incorrigible youngsters, isolated in this remote mountainous region and
accessible only by boat. Thus the words
ferule and landing were automatically coupled to form the center’s name, an
attempt at practicality no doubt.
However, the lake that once served the place had dried up many years
ago, and that was the reason for the road being built.
When there was no longer a need for this
hellish prison for young hoodlums the Federal Government decided to sell it off
to the highest bidder. The facility had
an assortment of buildings used for a variety of reasons. In addition there were small homes used by
the staff and the large dormitory like structure that served as the actual site
of incarceration sat directly in the middle of the whole compound. The place had electricity, running water
piped in as well as a sewage system that connected to a county line.
Of course, what use it could serve was not
totally clear and no attempt was made to offer any suggestions. It was suspected that might have been the
reason why the government had no success in finding a new owner for the
place.
Therefore, faced with that perplexity it
decided to see if individuals would be interested in simply taking it over and
create some sort of commune out of it.
Ads in the newspapers of those towns in the general vicinity of Ferule
Landing announced this “unique” opportunity, stating that the government would
be giving away any choice of buildings on a first come first serve basis.
And in doing just that the Feds managed to
assemble a most unique collection of human specimens that ever lived; oddities
who chose to make Ferule Landing their new home. There were 185 people who
signed up and move onto the property, eager to remove themselves from whatever
sordid kind of life they had before in order to start this new one.
For the most part, not surprisingly, the new
residents of Ferule Landing kept to themselves in the beginning. Gradually a community of sorts began to mold,
only through the fact that these people started to realize their similarities
in lifestyles.
They had slowly come to realize that they had
all once been social outcasts of one kind or another and had somehow migrated
to this place of previous dubious reputation to join together in forming a new
way of life. And there they were, all
together, life’s misfits creating community.
The area primarily became self sufficient
with most residents developing a garden of sorts. There was one small country store that
sprouted up and it contained those essentials that couldn’t be grown, hunted or
milked. A lot of the so-called
purchasing was done by barter, but some cash was exchanged at times. Essentially the same dollars kept going
around in the village. Most of the
people who live there were middle-aged or older and none of the people there
really worked. There was no form of
economic base and actually there was no need for one. Nobody really bothered to find out where
everybody got their money, as little as it was.
Didn’t matter. Not in a place
like Ferule Landing.
One of the folks who lived there was Poppa
Day. His real name was Benjamin Alfred
Day and he chose to live in Ferule Landing to escape the hubbub and noise that
would constantly eradicate his craving for absolute serenity. He was in his mid- sixties when he moved and
had never married. Back in his previous
time, before moving out there, he was a mail deliverer. He had never practiced any kind of religion,
didn’t believe in it, and for the most part he kept pretty much to himself.
But there was one characteristic about this
man that gave him a certain type of distinction. He was an animal lover and he would take in
strays that might have wandered into his couple of acres or were injured in
some way and brought to him by other villagers.
That’s how he got his nickname, Poppa.
Folks began calling him that ever since he started caring for the
animals.
Poppa Day was a big man, standing close to
six feet, seven inches tall, weighing perhaps three hundred pounds. A bushy white beard covered his face and he
never really bothered with haircuts. He
was a gentle man for his size, almost elf-like in behavior. His speech was soft and deliberate, that was
whenever he actually spoke, for he never engaged in long conversations or
discussions.
And the unusual milieu of the village didn’t
bother him. The “strange ones,” as he
would call them, stayed out of his way and he avoided them as well. He knew of the town’s reputation, conjured up
by the outsiders. But it didn’t bother
him and life in general for Poppa Day was easy, uncomplicated and
enjoyable. Most of all he had found his
precious serenity.
That was until he started making predictions.
Well, it wasn’t really that he made
predictions as predictions go. It’s more
like he answered a few questions or offered some simple advice. Unfortunately, everything he said came
true.
For instance, there was that one time the
storekeeper threw out a very simple, generic question about the run of deer
that year and would there be good hunting.
Poppa Day right away told him there’d be no deer to hunt that
season. Of course, that was a pretty
severe answer, one that could have a profound effect on the people living
there. Most of them depended upon a
good hunt, and to hear someone right out of the blue say there would be no deer
would naturally stir up a few emotions in that small village. As fate would have it, however, no one would
ever take into consideration that Poppa Day based his answer on the fact that
no deer had wandered into is place for the last five months. Regularly, he’d have one or two there. Therefore, that fact would naturally lead a
sensible man to conclude that the deer, for whatever reason, had moved on and
wouldn’t be in their region come the next hunting season. And sure enough, there were no deer. And Poppa Day had made a prediction that came
true.
Then he told Mrs. Cavender that her well
would dry up. And it did. Another prediction that came true. She preferred to rely on that old well of
hers, one that she had Crazy Lenny dig up, instead of the regular piped-in
variety because she didn’t trust those folks up at the big city. You’d never know, she would say, what all
they’d be slipping into that water. It
was well water for her, period!
But Poppa knew the small underground stream
that fed that well was quickly drying up because that was also the source of
water for the deer further up the valley.
You see, it was when the deer moved out that Poppa began his search for
the reason, and his discovery eventually exposed the logical conclusion why
Mrs. Cavender’s well would dry up. Simply,
the deer had left because the water source was practically gone, and the water
source was dwindling because there was no heavy snow for the past two years and
the area was experiencing a drought. No
snow, no rain, no deer, no well. Too
logical. But Mrs. Cavender wasn’t
interested in the logical conclusion.
She, like most of the folks there, never associated logic with anything
in her life. So Poppa Day had made a
prediction, and by god it came true, much to Mrs. Cavender’s chagrin of course.
It seemed that after those two experiences,
no matter what Poppa Day said would happen, strictly from his observations,
they always came true. Merty Bronson’s
house did indeed burn down after Poppa Day warned her that it was going
to. Of course, Merty failed to recognize
his words as the warning it actually was, telling her to be extra careful with
those many candles she used, used them because she was afraid of
electricity. Nope, it was a prediction,
and others heard it too.
Well, it didn’t take much of a fool to see
that when the lady’s carelessness and inertia was mixed with old dried out
lumber the building would naturally become a tender box just waiting to catch
fire. And that’s what he told her.
Fortunately, when it did Merty wasn’t harmed. But she avoided Poppa Day from that moment
on. He could see into the future. And she told anyone who would listen that he
could.
In fact a lot of the folks in Ferule Landing
began to look at Poppa in a strange way.
Some even suggested that maybe Poppa had become enchanted since coming
to this place with its haunting memories and grim occurrences and he was
turning into some kind of a wizard.
Of course, there were those who wanted to
“test” his powers even further and these turned out to be those extra strange
ones in the village that he avoided because, as everyone knew, they were
dangerously unpredictable.
It was precisely at
There were four of them, coming from an
assortment of backgrounds, all framed in bizarre circumstances. It wasn’t like they were suffering from some
kind of mental illness. That could be understood and something with which you
could sympathize. But that wasn’t the
case. These certain townspeople simply
enjoyed teasing the others with their erratic behavior and far out ideas. For them it was a game and at times they went
to extra lengths to get that shocked reaction from their victims. That’s why Poppa Day and most everyone else
avoided them.
And so they showed up on Poppa’s front porch
that evening. Knocking gently, as
opposed to their usual boisterous selves, they waited patiently for the big man
to open the door. And when it did it
quickly closed. The four knocked again
and heard the voice from inside tell them to go away.
And then it happened. Poppa Day told them, some say it was a
definite prediction, that if they didn’t leave they would end up getting
hurt.
And they didn’t leave.
And they stood there laughing.
And one of them said he wanted to come in and
see the wizard’s gown that Poppa Day certainly had to wear at night when
conjuring up all of his new magic.
Another shouted out a date and demanded that Poppa tell her what was
going to happen on that day. They said
they wanted proof and, if he was real, they wanted to form a new cult and have
him as their new master.
Then suddenly they heard Poppa Day’s voice
behind them. There he stood, shotgun in
hand, aimed at the four of them. And he
fired a shot over their heads.
Unfortunately, the shot hit an old rotting beam that served as the main
support for the porch’s roof and the structure came crashing down on top of his
four agitators. Both the shot and the
screams could be heard throughout the valley and soon a crowd had gathered to
determine what had happened.
Immediately upon being dragged clear of the
debris the troublemakers swore that Poppa Day’s magic just about got them
killed. When asked what had happened that
old stuff about predictions came up again.
Poppa Day scoffed at that nonsense and told everyone it was simply a
warning. That’s all. And his shot was
poorly aimed. And that’s all. No
prediction that came true. And then he
told everyone to get off his property and leave him alone.
But they didn’t.
The next day the village was abuzz about the
doings that went on that previous night.
Everyone was totally convinced that Poppa Day had turned into a wizard
and that he had come upon secret powers that allowed him to tell the future and
do powerful magic. The scuttlebutt was
that those four rascals didn’t get seriously hurt because they were on Poppa
Day’s porch; that Poppa Day also had healing powers and he could prevent harm
from coming to anyone.
The excitement grew as each story became more
and more embellished and soon there was talk that Poppa Day could perhaps
become the village’s spiritual leader.
After all, with his newly found powers he could give to them what was
missing in their lives before coming to this place. They could find a new reason to have faith
and hope in their purpose on earth, that their lives were not wasted and that
they could draw from Poppa Day’s wisdom and inner strengths. Their enthusiasm was obviously being
generated by the desperate need for them to make some sense out of their
otherwise miserable lives. And Poppa Day
just so happened to have come up with the right combination of ingredients they
were looking for - that special kind of magic that would transform these misfits
into something respectable and upright.
How they ever came to that conclusion, based on an assumption that a
human could accurately predict the future, was never questioned. But the whole surge of their irrational
thinking just grew unbelievably out of hand and this poor man unwittingly
became their target.
By sundown a committee had been formed to
approach Poppa Day and anoint him as the new guru of Ferule Landing. With the sun fully set and only a soft orange
glow remaining on the horizon the believers quickly moved towards the man’s
home with great zeal and passion, twinkling candles in hand. Nothing like this had ever happen before in
Ferule Landing and they were honored to be selected to bestow this new position
on the chosen one.
But the chosen one was not going to have
anything to do with this mass hysteria that was obviously controlled by
misdirected minds. As the honored
committee members stood gathered in front of the quickly and crudely restored front
porch they held hands in support of their combined deep fervor and wild
anticipation of anointing their new guru.
Collectively they called out for Poppa Day, some beginning to quiver and
shake, their emotions swelling rapidly and tears could be seen running down
their trembling faces.
And then, suddenly, there he was, standing in
that doorway with a burst of light spilling forth from the room behind
him. He stood there, silhouetted by
that light, his huge frame filling the door, hands on his hips, legs spread
apart and his eyes glowering out at the crowd.
And then he spoke. What the hell
did they think they were doing disturbing him like this at night? Didn’t they have anything else to do but
this nonsense? Go home, he told them,
and leave him alone.
There was silence, stunned silence. Rejection.
Blatant rejection. The chosen one
had told them to go away. Their hopes
and wishes had been rebuffed and it appeared there would be no anointing that
night. And then Mrs. Cavender cautiously
stepped forward and walked up to Poppa Day. Slowly and softly she revealed the village’s
awakening to his new magical powers and that he was now an instrument of hope
and inspiration and comfort and protection for all the people because he could
see the future and could prevent harm to all.
He had no choice but to accept their demand that he become their
designated spiritual leader and anointed guru.
Poppa Day continued to stand there, not
responding, not reacting, not saying one word.
He looked at Mrs. Cavender and could see the tears rolling off her
cheeks. Her small mouth was trembling
and her hands were folded as if in prayer.
Poppa Day couldn’t help but view this vision before him to be nothing
more than a pathetic sight. How
unfortunate, he thought, that this silliness had gotten so far out of control
that this poor little innocent lady was standing there trying to convince him
to become their next god. How pathetic,
he thought.
He stood there for a short while. And then he began to smile. And that smile grew bigger and bigger until
it was as if he was roaring with laughter. But nothing could be heard.
And then he spoke once again.
This time his voice was soft and gentle but
filled with enthusiasm. He’ll accept
their most humbling of all humbling offers, he told them, to live among them
and guide them in their ways of life. He
said he would treat this newly anointed position they have bestowed upon him
with serious intent and that he would respect their admiration of his newly
acquired powers.
His acceptance speech continued for several
more minutes and then he suggested they all return to their homes and get a
good night’s rest. No sooner had he
spoken the words of his first command that the front yard was rapidly cleared
and within seconds a new purpose had entered into Poppa Day’s life.
The village people didn’t see Poppa for
several days after that fateful evening.
Nor did anyone attempt to make contact with him or determine if he was
all right.
Unknown to any of them, Poppa Day had left
early the next morning after the gathering on his front lawn and drove into
The next morning, following his sneaking back
into the village, he strolled down towards the general store. As he passed each house along the way heads
would pop out to see the great man take his walk and soon members of the
village would be following. Once there
at the store and seeing what he had hoped would happen, he stood on the short
porch-like step and looked out over the crowd.
There was a silence, the kind usually reserved just prior to someone
important about to make a startling announcement.
And Poppa Day would be doing just that.
With a calm and steady voice, he told the
crowd that he had spent the last two days in deep concentration having received
a vision the very night that his fellow townspeople had anointed him as their
guru.
His face drooped into a pose of sorrow and
his voice lowered.
Slowly he revealed his vision, one of
devastating destruction for Ferule Landing, a disaster brought on by an
unprecedented earthquake and massive landslides that would crush the village as
if dried leaves were stomped upon by large boots.
The scene he revealed was frightening to say
the least and there were some of those in the crowd before him that began to
cry and clasp their hands over their mouths.
And Poppa Day continued to reveal his
vision. There would be no one left in the
village and all of their hopes and dreams for a better future would be
eliminated with this one crushing blow from Mother Nature.
The gasps grew louder.
He stood there, his body slumped, his eyes
moving slowly back and forth over the crowd making eye contact with each of
those still looking at him. There was a
dramatic silence being sustained by Poppa Day, letting the sobbing and fright
subside.
Then someone from the back of the crowd
spoke. Poppa Day was asked what the
villagers should do. And before the big
man could answer several other voices shouted out in a profusion of words that
the village must be abandoned, that no one could remain in this place, that
sure death was imminent and that an immediate evacuation must begin.
Mass hysteria once again gripped the people
of Ferule Landing as they began to disperse and run towards their living
quarters. Several of those who had
maintained some kind of friendly relationship with Poppa Day, before all of
this predicting stuff began, remained in front of the store. And what about Poppa Day they would ask. Were you leaving too they wanted to
know.
Poppa Day gave them a benevolent smile and
assured them that his newly anointed role required him to be the last to leave,
as his presence in the village would assure the safety of all others. For some reason that rationale didn’t seem to
be a very sound policy for those who heard it and they began to argue that he
need not remain behind, that he could evacuate with all of them, that his
presence among them in route would assure the same protection. But Poppa Day countered with the wise advice
that fate shouldn’t be tempted and that he should be as if a lightening rod
attracting danger away from his people.
He assured them that he would sustain no harm in remaining behind until
the last of the villagers had left.
And so it was that the people of the small
And little by little the village expired.
Four Days after his prophetic warning Poppa
Day stood all alone in Ferule Landing.
Only the sounds of his animal friends were heard mixed with the soft
breezes that filtered through the valley on warm afternoons in the fall. The trees had begun to change their colors,
transforming the area into an artist’s pallet. And the sun’s new golden shroud
peeked in and out of the canopy under which stood this wise and all-powerful
guru.
He remained standing there in front of his
home surveying the sight of the empty village before him. Then moving inside he retrieved several signs
he had constructed a few days before.
They were given to him by the Federal Government’s Office of Land
Management, the place he had visited in
Poppa Day had successfully convinced the Feds
that the area was no longer suitable for human habitat, citing dangers to both
body and mind as a result of the town’s rapid deterioration. He told them that he could successfully get
the residents to abandon the village. He
didn’t elaborate on his methodology for bringing about that quittance, but he
did remind them that with this abandonment the property would once again revert
back to the Federal government. He
subtly suggested that that piece of land could certainly serve a much better
and worthier purpose as an animal refuge.
He would volunteer, at no compensation of course, to remain there as the
caretaker of the area to see that the property would be protected from any
encroachments and violations.
The Feds gave the idea only a few minutes of
consideration. They quickly foresaw a potential significant liability
confronting the government if the townspeople of Ferule Landing were to suffer
any harm on land that the government gave them without protected rights. Yes sir, if that were indeed to ever happen,
then all hell could and most likely would break loose. Poppa Day’s suggestion and offer immediately
became most attractive.
And so the approval for the conversion to an
animal refuge and the immediate evacuation of the town was quickly sealed. Poppa Day drove back to Ferule Landing late
that evening with the paint on the newly done signs still wet.
And the earthquake began forming.
By the time the signs had been firmly planted
in the designated areas the sun had started its slow decent behind the western
ridge of the Blackstone mountains. The
chilly night air tugged at Poppa Day’s thin coat and he reminded himself that
his winter duds will most likely need to be brought out of storage and become
the apparel of the day. He smiled. The sounds of the approaching night were
starting up once again, sounds he had almost forgotten when all of that
hullabaloo began about his predictions and magic.
He had truly missed the way the night talked
to him and how the day would surround him with everything that nature could
provide. But now he could have it all
back once again, for he had successfully removed the sources of all his
distraction.
Little did those people know that they had
handed him the perfect opportunity to achieve, once and for all, his absolute
attainment of everlasting serenity.
And the wizard of Ferule Landing sauntered
capriciously down the empty road whistling a little tune that echoed through
the valley.
