char *(null)="
asu2.ghost
asu2.ghost
Newsgroups: alt.folklore.ghost-stories
From: brianbet@netcom.com (Brian Bethel)
Subject: Oops!
Date: Sun, 24 Jul 1994 00:23:15 GMT
Well, I'm back again with more Tales O' Terror. :)
For those of you who missed my previous post, "Ghosts, the Universe
and Everything," it contains a lot of background detail on this first item.
I'd be happy to E-mail you a copy if you want it.
To get you up to speed, all you really need to know is that a young
girl was killed by a jealous ROTC cadet at the college I attended, Angelo
State University in San Angelo, Texas. The mid-1970s murder occurred in the
Journalism Building, where I spent many late hours.
The fellow killed her with a pair of scissors, by the way. This is all
verified through various news clippings and back issues of the campus paper.
For reference, I graduated in December, so these stories are not very
old. :)
++++
One of the most annoying things about the "Ram Page Ghost" as we staf-
fers called her was that she seemed to know when we were talking about her.
It became sort of taboo to talk about the lady while in the building, espe-
cially at night.
One particular example of why we chose not to speak ill of the dead
sticks out in my mind. This story is from my senior year, during my tenure
as Managing Editor.
One evening, I was busily writing a column for the Thursday edition
when one of our new staffers came in, along with Kay, our Editor. Kay and I
discussed layout options for a bit, then she and Rachel -- the new staff
writer -- left. I muttered some offhanded, rather flippant comment about
the ghost, more to try to scare Rachel than anything, and then returned to
work.
Now, I knew better than to do this. Being a rational fellow who also
just happens to believe in ghosts, I know that having a supernatural entity
pissed at you is not a good thing.
Too late, though.
With the exception of one other evening, that evening had to be the
most frightening experience I had at the newspaper.
I know it was frightening, but the funny thing is I don't remember a
lot of it. My good friend Chad -- a very psychically attuned individual --
tells me that I called him in what sounded like a blind panic. He told me
later that I kept muttering something about "worrying the lights were going
to go out."
I vaguely remember that, but the fear has thankfully been blanked out
for the most part.
Chad drove up to the office -- I remember I was surprised to see him
actually come -- and gave me a ring of his to wear in "defense." I think the
at least psychological effect of the ring was all that kept me going.
What I DO remember -- and will for the rest of my life -- is that this
particular evening was the first time I saw her. It was a fleeting glimpse,
but it was enough.
I typed my column, wrote another story, and left.
The hallway was a nightmare. Earlier in the evening I'd heard the
ever-popular "voices-at-the-end-of-the-hall," but they were louder than
ever. More frightening than that, though, was the total, utter silence in
the hallway. My own footfalls did not even echo. The hall was ice-cold, a
chill that racked me to the bone.
As an aside, an interesting thing we noticed was that the upper hallway
-- her hallway -- had numerous "cold spots" and was usually cooler than the
lower hall. This does not agree with the laws of Thermodynamics. Warm air
supposedly rises, and cool air supposedly falls.
The air conditioner in the building was usually turned off to save
electricity. The bottom floor and the Ram Page offices themselves were al-
most stifling in the summer. But that damned hallway remained ice cold.
Entropy reversal is apparently the providence of ghosts. Wonder what
Maxwell's Demons would think?
The elevator (see previous post) did not do its tricks. This made me
even more nervous.
I walked down the stairs, glanced for a second at the red glow of the
Coke machine and looked from my vantage point over into the foyer.
Someone was standing there. A young woman stood lost in shadow. She
walked as if toward the front door and was gone.
I chose to take the back door out.
I went over to Chad's apartment and gave him his ring back. He asked
me if I had experienced anything else untoward.
I told him about my experiences, and watched a frown cross his face.
"Well, I didn't want to tell you, but while I was in the parking lot I
though I saw ... something," he said, indicating the "something" was in the
foyer area. "I didn't want to worry you, though."
Hmmmm. :)
++++
FROM THE FILES:
As I mentioned in my previous post, I've been collecting ghost lore
for about a decade now. Texas' folklore is rich in ghost stories, many of
them with frighteningly true phantoms. Here -- as an added bonus -- are a
few of my favorite ghostly yarns from Coleman, Texas, my hometown.
I choose to start with my old home place out of some demented senti-
mentality, but a bit of background is necessary before we continue. Cole-
man is a small West Texas town of about 5,000 people, 22 churches and more
ghostly lore than you'd expect. I've got literally dozens of these stories.
And in case you're wondering, I fully believe in the ghosts. I disbelieve
the churches. :)
Here we go!
HELL'S VALLEY
Nestled among a copse of mesquite trees, lying at the end of a series
of deserted country roads, Hell's Valley sits alone.
Usually.
It's a peaceful place by day. A fence, unfortunately, separates one
from the beauty of the open field (why it's a "valley" no one can say), but
the spring and summer flowers take root there and spread the brilliant reds
of Indian Blankets and the pale blue of the Bluebonnet for miles.
Years ago, the story says, a sharecropper's home rested there. He was
a good, hard-working man who had been blessed with beautiful wife and a
small child.
The story varies on why he went out on a day he knew could bring
storms. But the point is, he left. His wife and child waited for him to
return, watching the anvil-shaped clouds build in the West Texas sky.
Tornadoes are a fact of life in Texas. But the one that ripped
through the valley was huge. The sharecropper had not been able to make it
back before the storm had overtaken him. Hiding under a swathe of trees to
protect himself from the elements, he rode out the blinding rain and wind
and returned home.
Or at least, he found what was left.
His small shack was destroyed, obliterated by a swirling funnel cloud.
Bent trees and splintered wood from his home marked its path.
He looked for his wife and child for days, they claim. Scouring the
woods by day, continuing by lantern-light on into the dusk.
Finally, he resolved that they were dead. Maddened by loss, embittered
by loneliness, he took his own life.
But that was not the end of our sorrowful friend.
He walks the night still, they say, lantern in tow, looking for his
wife and child. A common ghost story, to be sure. But even a common ghost
deserves our sympathies.
I did not see anything I can really verify on my late-night trip to
Hell's Valley. There was, though, a very distinct, sorrowful feel in the
air. Most of my companions were trying to scare the girls we had brought
with us, but I stood there looking at the valley, feeling something there
just beyond the edge of perception.
We decided the ghost was sleeping if not at rest, and turned to leave.
I thought that as I turned to leave, I caught a flash of lantern-light out
of the corner of my eye, but that could have been anything. Moonlight on a
stone, reflections from a nearby pond.
Anything.
We left Hell's Valley to its own devices. I climbed into the back
seat of my friend's car and watched darkness reclaim its own as we left,
our tail lights casting the place in a red glow.
I am very glad there was not an answering flash from a ghostly lantern
from long, long ago.
ECHO JAMBOREE
Located about eight miles outside of Coleman are two old buildings,
all that remain of the Echo Jamboree Opera House in what was once Echo,
Texas. Echo was always pretty much a spot in the road, but on Saturdays,
rural types from all over would come to play their fiddles, pick their bas-
ses and make some of that Good Ol' Country Music (Ick!).
I actually attended one of the last few Echo sessions. I was six or
seven (I'm 22 now) and had not developed my distaste for country twang. I
think Echo actually was the beginning of that hatred. :)
Anyway, things change, and many of the old fiddlers died off. The Echo
Jamboree closed its doors officially, leaving only silence and dust behind.
At least, most of the time, anyway.
Because sometimes, long into the night, some say you can still hear the
music play. That good ol' country twang strikes up again in the deserted op-
era house, sweet, low and ethereal.
The pickers and the grinners have come home for one last number. Who
can blame them?
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::"To see a world in a Grain of Sand :::: brianbet@netcom.com ::
:: And Heaven in a Wild Flower, :::: S E E K E R * O F * W I S D O M ::
:: Hold Infinity in the palm of your :::: S E A R C H E R * O F * T R U T H::
:: Hand, and eternity in an hour." ::::S P I N N E R * O F * S T O R I E S::
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