Thorn Street
A Halloween Story
By John W. Vander Velden
Thorn Street, on the edge of
Carterton, is much like other streets. Small
and moderate houses, framed and painted, stand among a few brick
residences. In late October
Jack-O-Lanterns glow on front steps as in other neighborhoods. Yet few children include Thorn Street on
their route to goodies on Beggar’s Night.
For residents of Carterton have heard the stories, and even those who
put no stock in such tales do not put children at risk.
.jpg)
There are no houses east of those
on
Most know the story of young Eldon
Baker and his beautiful wife Lana. Eldon
worked hard to reach his dreams, and among those dreams was Lana Carter. For many years Lana paid no heed to the
affections of the big handsome man. None
know the reason she at last consented to marry, perhaps it was the house. For Eldon built, with his own hands, the
grandest house in the county, a large brick edifice, standing proudly upon a
gentle hill among barns of red. Word of
that house’s splendor spread across the state.
On the eve of Eldon and Lana’s
second anniversary, the lovely Mrs. Baker vanished. The distraught Eldon told how Lana had left
him, going west with a traveling tinker, a tall young man young with dark eyes
and coal black hair. Neighbors wondered,
for though many had seen the tinker, none had witnessed Lana in his company.
Eldon Baker shut himself off from
the world. Even the hired men only
caught glimpses, as the broad farmer moved past the upstairs bedroom window. Then on a late October night, a night when
the moon failed to shine, a night clouds hid the stars. That grand house -- that house of stone and
oiled wood -- burned. Far the blaze could
be seen, as the house standing on the hill, was consumed by the red-orange
flames reaching into the pitch dark sky.
The morning’s light revealed the
hollowed out brick shell, crumbling walls around charred wood and deep piles of
ash. No trace of Eldon Baker was
found. Many shook their heads that day
and wondered. Some said the man set fire
to the house he had built -- built with blister and callus, built for the only
woman he loved -- out of grief. Others
certain that guilt overcame the big farmer, for they believed Lana’s blood, a
burden unbearable. With years passing
and no word or sign from the beautiful Lana Baker, the farm lay abandoned, the
buildings crumbled, slowly becoming surrounded by the trees that now make
Baker’s Woods.
But on nights of the new moon, dark
nights when thick clouds block out even the brightest stars, the houses on
Thorn Street lock their doors and bolt the east windows, hoping to lock out the
dreadful wailing that comes from that block of trees. The bravest watch from behind sealed glass as,
from time to time, they see eyes -- glowing as white-hot coals -- watching from
the woods, watching the houses on Thorn Street.
(585 Words)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg){kind=link}