Thorn Street

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. 

There are no houses east of those on Thorn Street.  Behind those ordinary homes a strip of grass grows.  But beyond that narrow pasture, stands a grove of trees known as Baker’s Woods.  Eldon Baker, young and ambitious, farmed the land that included Thorn Street, but that was long ago.  Few know who owns that wood, and far fewer have roamed beneath those twisted boughs, for within lies the remnant of a grand farmstead, now enwrapped by old and gnarled pin oaks and blue beach, a place long abandoned. 

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)