Bottom of the Seventh [fiction]

© 2000 by Steven L. Campbell.
(Approximately 1,900 words.)

Young Michael Stone surrendered the gaze of his deep blue eyes to one of wildness mixed with flight. The air around him had become thin and dry, as though an unseen storm had sucked the very oxygen from the pale blue sky over Ravenwood High School’s baseball field.

The doorway at the far right end of the dugout framed Coach Walker’s short and heavy body. “Pray we get some hits,” he said around the customary tobacco pipe clamped between his teeth. He only smoked after the game. His superstition dictated that he never smoke before or during the games. That’s why the Ravenwood Fighting Eagles were undefeated this year, which would have had the baseball team celebrating. But tonight they were losing by two runs to the Willow Creek Yellow Jackets as the bottom of the last inning approached.

Coach Walker removed his pipe and ball cap and bowed his hairless head. Michael and his teammates hushed from their seats on the long wooden bench inside, until Coach Walker said “amen” and took his spot along third base.

“We need a miracle,” someone whispered. Michael saw in his teammates’ eyes the wonder and concern of whether they could win the game. Assistant Coach Andrews reminded the boys of their past wins in the last inning before he called out three names of the players scheduled to bat. Michael responded to the third name and the team clapped loud and in unison as Assistant Coach Andrews loped to his spot along first base.

The cheering died and Michael’s gaze wandered again through the wire mesh behind him, to the near-empty fifth row bench in the stands behind home plate, and the girl sitting there. The evening sun seemed to spark Holly Somers’s long, soft blonde hair. A halo of white surrounded her from the gown she wore. Michael practically hugged himself from a chill gripping his back. He thought about telling someone about the ghost, but quashed the idea when she glared at him.

On the field, Jimmy Richards laced a hit over the second baseman’s head and the Ravenwood players and fans cheered. Michael tore his gaze from Holly, put on a batter’s helmet, clomped up the dugout’s steps, and took his place inside the on-deck circle.

Immediately, Tyler Jones laced a hot bouncing double between left field and center field. The centerfielder quickly caught up to the ball and threw it to his shortstop, thereby keeping Jimmy Richards from rounding third base and scoring.

“Now we’re off and running,” Coach Walker yelled to the boys in the dugout.

The Yellow Jackets’ coach called for a pitcher change and Coach Walker hurried to Michael’s side.

“We need you to score Jimmy from third. Empty your mind of everything and just relax. See yourself hitting the ball, Mikey. Can you do that?”

Michael nodded and thought about Holly watching him.

Why was she here?

Hard fingers of anxiety clawed at his throat as a likely possibility sprang to mind. He’d been unable to go to her funeral. During those months, he’d been unable to visit her grave.

And now she had come for him.

Come for revenge, he thought. But he had never known Holly to be vengeful.

He looked at her. The angry look on her face made him certain she hated him now. He looked away, ashamed.

“See yourself hitting the ball into the outfield,” Coach Walker said. “Like we’ve practiced.”

Michael at once thought of the several pop-up outs he’d made during the season by swinging too hard. It had taken months for him to enjoy baseball again and to even swing the bat like he used to.

Sharp fingers of anxiety clawed across his shoulders and down his back. He wanted to run and hide from both Holly and his at-bat predicament.

“Put someone else in,” Michael started to say before the home plate umpire bellowed, “Batter up.”

Coach Walker whispered, “The guy’s a fastball pitcher. Take the first pitch.” He returned to his coaching spot and Michael glanced at Holly’s seat in the bleachers. She had left. He looked for her within the crowd, but she remained unseen.

He shivered with chills of anxiety. Was she really here for revenge?

He longed for the days of her warmth and the good times between them. They’d almost become boyfriend and girlfriend before she died, although they had never kissed. Well, she had pecked him on the cheek last year after a Varsity baseball game when he gave her the home run ball he’d hit during the game.

“It was the perfect hit,” he told her when he handed her the ball. “I knew I’d connected because the ball felt soft against the bat. Like hitting butter … barely a feeling at all.”

The newspaper had printed Holly’s picture and obituary. He had clipped and glued both into his scrapbook he slept with under his pillow.

As Michael shuffled into the batter’s box, a Yellow Jackets fan demanded that their relief pitcher strike him out. Michael’s teammates countered with a plea for him to get a hit. The pitcher responded with a nod to his catcher and a letter high fastball.

“Stee-rike one!” the umpire yelled.

The catcher taunted Michael with “No batter no batter no batter.” Michael wondered about the taunting as he stumbled out of the batter’s box. He looked at Coach Walker who gave him a signal to take the next pitch.

Michael eased into the box and swung his bat a few times. As he set himself for the next pitch, the pitcher face changed to Holly’s. She glared at him. “I’m gonna strike you out.” She released a fastball at him.

Michael shot to the ground as the baseball missed his head. He recalled the old woman telling him to pray for the girl lying unconscious in the dirt.

“I did pray. I prayed all night.” That should have been good enough.

Holly’s face scowled. Her mouth snarled at him. Anger burned from her eyes.

Coach Walker called for Michael’s attention and gave him another take sign. Michael spat away the bitter taste in his mouth and dug his rubber spikes into the dirt. Beyond the pitcher who still bore Holly’s wicked face, Tyler Jones danced at second base. Over at third, Jimmy Richards took a big lead. The pitcher-slash-Holly assessed Jimmy’s position as the third baseman leaned toward third base and the second baseman charged second base. Nothing happened, so Michael stepped out of the batter’s box and sniffed at the dust in the air and wiped at the tears filling his eyes.

“Allergies,” he said as he stepped up to the plate and smelled Holly’s perfume drift to him from the pitcher’s mound.

A high, inside fastball blazed past him, which caught his letters for strike two.

He called for a time out and wiped his eyes with the tail of his uniform shirt.

Don’t hate me, he pleaded when he looked at her. I’m so sorry for everything.

She spat at the ground.

I love you.

Holly’s spirit tore from the pitcher and plowed into him. She grabbed his mind and showed him the baseball strike her sternum.

“You killed me.”

I’m sorry.

Michael watched that horrible moment replay in his mind. She pitched the ball to him at the downtown playground and he hit it. Hard. A demonstration of how far he could hit the ball. But the ball went straight instead of lifting and sailing over the trees down by the banks of Myers Creek. The ball struck her sternum.

“You killed me.”

It was an accident. Your parents forgave me, although your father said there was nothing to forgive. But I asked him to forgive me anyway. Please believe me.

“You never came to my funeral. You’ve never visited my grave.”

Can you ever forgive me?

“I cannot love a coward, Michael. I cannot forgive you.”

Michael felt his heart flutter. It stopped beating and he fell to his knees. He tried hard to inhale but his lungs had stopped working.

I love you.

He pushed up his shirt’s right sleeve and showed her the tattoo. Below the heart that contained her name was the word Always.

I did it myself.

There was a long moment when Michael thought he would black out. Then Holly’s voice came through the ringing in his head. “Did it hurt?”

He showed her the memory of when the tattoo became infected and had to be treated at the ER and kept bandaged for almost two weeks, and how upset his parents were that he would carelessly risk his health and inflict such pain on himself over a girl.

The memory faded. Michael’s world darkened. Then Michael saw Holly smile at him as the darkness and ringing lifted and vanished. Wonderful air filled his lungs. He drank it in and gasped from the sudden euphoria he felt.

Coach Walker brought him to his feet and asked if he was okay. Michael coughed and sputtered and nodded.

“You can do this,” Coach Walker said.

Michael nodded again, thumped at the top of his helmet and stepped into the batter’s box.

He grinned back at the umpire and catcher, and then at the pitcher no longer bearing Holly’s face. She was still inside him. Her arms swung the bat along with his arms as he readied himself for the next pitch. Together, boy and ghost waited. When the pitch came, it loomed large and white in front of them. They swung together and felt the gentle sensation of the bat making direct contact with the ball.

“Like hitting butter,” Holly said. She laughed. Her voice swirled like a gentle breeze in Michael’s head.

The Ravenwood dugout and bleachers erupted with cheering fans. On the field, Tyler Jones, the tying run, raced on the heels of Jimmy Richards; the two sped toward Michael and home plate.

“Run,” Holly said. Michael felt a slight push inside. He dropped the bat and staggered toward first base, not wanting to let go of the feeling of Holly inside him. His legs were like butter. Hot tears flooded his vision and he did not see the ball clear the leftfield fence. But he knew that he … they … had hit a home run.

Michael located the first base bag and almost tripped over it. Then he found his stride and circled the bases. His teammates mobbed him at home plate before both teams lined up and congratulated each other. Afterwards, Coach Walker stepped onto the pitcher’s mound, lit his long-stem tobacco pipe, and smoked.

A red sun in a rose and violet sky slipped behind the tree-lined slopes of Ravenwood Cemetery. There, Michael parked his car and went to Holly’s grave. They talked—boy and girl, mortal and spirit—until, in the final moments of twilight, a breeze stirred through the trees of the cemetery and Michael embraced its warmth, everlasting.

Ghost Lights [fiction]

© 2002 by Steven L Campbell.
(Approximately 1,600 words.)

I write this alone somewhere within the outer bowels of Myers Ridge. I hope that I will survive to get this to the proper hands for publication. And as implausible and of unsound mind as it will seem, what I am about to write is true.

Myers Ridge is haunted.

I made that claim thirty years in my last book about Myers Ridge: “Ghosts of Myers County.” I was twenty-seven when I wrote about the supernatural events around my hometown of Ravenwood, Pennsylvania, citing references to stories from the town’s newspaper and the Myers County Historical association, and investigating the contributions of dozens of friends. Little has changed since that book’s publication. Things still go bump in the night. Strange lights and noises are reported from Myers Ridge and Ten Mile Swamp, and every five years or so someone mysteriously disappears from one of those areas.

Myers Ridge is a large hill outside of town known for its caves, abandoned mines, and cozy hillside where teenagers park with their dates. It isn’t as popular as it used to be and the state has been slowly selling the land for its timber. A Michigan businessman named Mort Jacobs recently purchased parts of the south side and put in some ski slopes and a lodge there. But those of us familiar with the hill know that the area is populated with sinkholes—the kind of thing you don’t want to be falling into while skiing down a five-mile slope.

Also plaguing the hill are the mysterious lights seen at night. Local legends call them will-o-wisps, jack-o-lanterns, and phantom orbs. Earth scientists claim they are luminous protean clouds rising from deep within the hill. However, eyewitnesses allege that these glowing clouds sometimes emit arrays of flickering hypnotic strobes of lights, causing confusion among both people and animals who witness them.

Long before Ravenwood was founded by settlers, the Seneca people living along the fertile lands below Myers Ridge knew well of the event and spoke of it within their oratory, which was later recorded to text by early settlers. The Seneca knew never to look at the lights lest the lights dislocate the mind from the spirit and cause the victim to live the rest of his or her days tormented and mad.

The first recorded casualty made by a white settler was in 1702 when, upon viewing the strange lights, he killed his wife and children and stuffed them in the belly of a slaughtered cow.

Nothing more is mentioned about the lights until 1852 when some miners looking for gold allegedly stumbled upon the lights and went crazy. One survivor, an Irish fellow named O’Grady, claimed the hill was cursed by Goblins, Trolls, and Boggarts.

In 1901, Myers Ridge was officially named after landowner, Norman Myers who helped survey and map the area during the building of a railroad through Ravenwood. Myers discovered gold in the deforested hill in 1901, and immediately miners hauled out ores and precious metals. In a dash to become rich, miners squabbled and fought over land rights until a sighting of strange lights on the hill caused over seventy men to lose their minds.

That year, Myers disappeared. Soon, reports to law officials stated that his ghost was haunting the lower parts of the hill, and that his spirit was searching for his murdered body inside one of the many abandoned mines.

Reports, however infrequent, about the mysterious lights that cause victims to go insane also continued. These sightings are on public record and cause me anxiety when I go to Myers Ridge. How does one debunk the allegations made by our town’s founding fathers?

Reports about the lights and Myers’s ghost continue today, although our police force no longer fields those calls. Those calls come to me. Once in a while, some hiker or camper claims to see Myers’s ghost. Even my father says he saw the ghost while hiking the hills with his Boy Scouts’ troop. I have never been as fortunate, and with so much land becoming private property over the years, I believed my chances of ever seeing Myers dwindled with the addition of every new fence line. Then I received a telephone call that finally gave me a chance to see the famous poltergeist myself.

The call came from Melissa Laine, the town’s art gallery director who wanted me to see a piece of coal that her father had left her. Curious, I went to her gallery and saw what appeared to be a copper coin protruding from the black rock. Melissa told me that she had sent a piece of the coal to the state’s university to be analyzed and that it had come back with a letter stating that it had been formed more than twelve million years ago.

I analyzed the coin, which looked like an American penny. Its exposed face and back were worn, but its edge had that familiar ridge caused by stamping. While I puzzled over the coin and wondered how it got there, Melissa told me that her father had given the coal to her the day before his death. He had told her that when he was a boy and during a visit to one of the old abandoned mines, Myers’s ghost appeared to him and gave it to him. Melissa never truly believed her father’s story until this past April when she happened upon my earlier book at the library.

We readied for a trip to Myers Ridge, and despite inclement weather, she directed me to the old coalmine. To the side of the mine we found a cave. The entrance was small but big enough to allow us to crawl inside. Our flashlights revealed a large vein filled with marble and limestone, and on the walls, white flower-like formations called cave pearls. Dripstones hung from the ceiling and white putty-like flowstone called moon milk covered the floor.

That was when I saw Myers’s ghost.

To write it now sends chills down my back, but it is a chilling event to stumble upon a ghost, even a friendly one.

My fear passed to a feeling of accomplishment. Melissa, however, remained frightened. When I finally shushed her, the ghost said to her, “Did your father like the gift I gave him?”

I knew he referred to the piece of coal. So did Melissa after a false start.

“Yes,” she finally said, forcing some calmness into her voice. “My father cherished it. When he died, he gave it to me.”

The spirit seemed pleased that Melissa now owned her father’s gift. I felt him leave us before I saw him disappear. At the spot where he had stood, a chunk of gold the size of a soccer ball sat upon the floor.

Upon inspection, I found the initials NWM carved in it, something miners did to mark their property. I must believe the initials stand for Norman Wesley Myers.

There was no possible way for us to carry out the gold, so we headed out into a downpour. We ran toward our cars when a wall of rain hit us. I turned to tell Melissa to stay with me when the ground suddenly sloped away. I fell and rolled along, almost free-falling at times before I was ejected from the hilltop.

I fell. I plummeted on my back and for a moment, I thought I was floating. Raindrops hung in the gray air all around me. Then my landing came abruptly and bristly, yet softer than I expected. Boughs of pine and spruce bent and broke as I tumbled from tree limb to tree limb. Branches snapped off in my hands as gravity pulled me down to a dry mattress of pine needles. Unable to breathe for moment, I gasped for air until my lungs and stomach hurt. When my breathing became normal, I closed my eyes and rested. I may have napped, for when I opened my eyes, the storm had lessened and evening had fallen.

I called for Melissa over the drizzle. No answer. Cold rain dripped on me through the towering canopy of pine and spruce branches stretched over me. I called again for Melissa and waited.

Still, I wait.

Six hours after my fall and further into the night I have tried to stand; my legs refuse to work. Pain knifes through my lower back and left hip. My left leg is numb and looks twisted. I am certain that it is broken.

I used pine branches to pull myself into a seated position so I can write. My backpack has given me food and drink as well.

The lights are out there beyond the trees. There are five of them. Are these the lights that have driven men insane?

I fear it to be so.

Over the past hour, one of the pulsating lights has moved within twenty yards from me. I have tried not to stare at it, but an attractive humming sound emits from its bluish white center.

I am going to turn off my flashlight for a while to see if the lights move away.

After ten minutes, the lights remain. The light closing in on me has not changed course. Its pleasant sound is difficult to ignore.

It sings to—

Dear God, I must have dozed—the light is upon me. It has overtaken the glow of my flashlight while I write this.

I pray that it is friendly.


In the Meantime [news]

I’ve been working on some projects, reading a lot, watching baseball games, and have fallen behind in my blog posts, for which I apologize. Anyway, for those of you who are following my blog, I am busy writing and making headway for another e-book from the weird town of Ridgewood, propelling Vree and her friends deeper into mystery, sure to keep you intrigued and wanting more.

I’m Planning A New Facelift For My Blog

My last post was March 11, during which I have been busy writing my next e-book. Currently untitled, the book will feature Vree Erickson and the cast from her first book, Night of the Hellhounds. Although her stories are considered YA, or teen literature, I aim my books for a general audience that includes adult readers. I write what I like to read, and that keeps me excited while I write.

While my current book project is nearing publication (I finished the first draft today), it will sit for a month or three before I edit. So hang in there everyone.

In the meantime, I hope to face-lift my WordPress website’s appearance so it represents me well. As both a visual artist and a writer, I could have different “homes” for my passions. But I like the idea of having one website, thus keeping what I do easily accessible.