Crawford's Creek

Crawford’s Creek          

By John W. Vander Velden

Throughout my life there have been stories about the woods along Witkins Road at Crawford’s Creek.  I place no stock in such tales…yet they persist.  The common thread ties in the unfortunate death of one Arnold Witkins more than a hundred years ago.  No one remembers the exact details, other than his bloodied body was found beside the bridge at the edge of the stream.  Some say that he simply fell off the bridge on a foggy October night, having partaken too much hard cider.  Others say he jumped.  Dying so would seem unlikely considering a height of only eight feet separate the bridge rail from the place he was found.  But the most common notion, among the locals, is that he was attacked, slain, and cast over the side.  

Even today that stretch of road is little traveled.  It goes and comes from nowhere anyone would want to be.  But the tale that Mr. Lyle Kindig told has given the stories new life.  It seems that one night Mr. Kindig got turned around, sidetracked, or though he would never admit to it, lost.  He had lived his 54 years in the county but had never traveled Witkins Road…before.  Going aimlessly about the dirt byways of the county for most of an hour his Ford pickup stalled on a narrow road just as he reached a bridge within a particularly dark wood.  Now he tells of how his headlights flickered and went out and of course turning the key didn’t even give a click, let alone engage the starter.  He sat there in that dark pickup rummaging for the flashlight he felt certain was buried among the tools and trash on the passenger side floor.  Seems nobody rode with Mr. Lyle Kindig.  When he found the flashlight he cursed, for it didn’t work either.

The man wondered what he should do but finally opened his door with a creak that seemed to echo in the silence around him and stepped out onto the dark bridge.  He tells how dark it was.  How the branches of trees on each side of the road had grasped each other overhead.  That their tangled and woody fingers intertwined so tightly to block out the sky.  “It was dark as a cave, on that bridge. And I oughta’ know, been in some…” is how he began to tell me the story.  I had bumped into Lyle at the corner café on a Saturday morning.  I’m not certain what set my old neighbor to talking. 

“When I stepped out of Lulu, my old Ford, had no idea what I wuz gonna do.  It wuz too quiet.  I mean weren’t not a sound commin’ outa the woods or down the road.  I could hear my heart thumpin’, that’ll tell ya just how quiet it wuz.  A fog had come up out of the creek.  Not that I could see it in the dark you understand, but I felt the wet air on my face and when I breathed it in it wuz thick like.”  The man paused looking into his coffee, and I waited.  He drew a breath and went on.  “I didn’t know what ta do.  The truck was dead that wuz for certain, but I didn’t know where the heck I wuz or which way ta go fur help.” Lyle swallowed shook his head slightly, drew another breath and let it slide out between his teeth.  “Just when I figured ta go back the way I come, I heared them.”

“Heard them?” I asked. 

He nodded firmly. “Voices…arguing voices.  The words just bounced around, couldn’t tell which way they wuz a commin’.  But they weren’t fur, no sir, not fur at all.  

“Your going stop seeing Betsy, you hear me!” Them the first words I made out clear. 

Another voice answered, “That’s for your sister to decide.” 

Then there came a third voice, deeper than the other two.  “She’s who sent us.” 

“I don’t believe you.”  The second voice said.  He sounded real close. 

The deep voice answered him. “Oh, you better believe us Arnold.”  

They seemed to be getting’ closer all the time. 

“Bess needs to tell me herself.” The second voice sounded riled up. 

“She’s afraid of you, Arnold, so we told her we would see you understood that you aren’t to come around no more.” That was the first voice.  He sounded as if he was standing less than an arm’s length away. 

“You’d best listen,” the deep voice said then, “‘cause if we see you bothering her again, well you won’t be leaving.” 

The second voice answered then. “You boys don’t scare me none.” 

That’s when the one guy started cursin’ and yelling.  I wus still standing just outside my truck holdin’ the edge of the open door.  It wus so dark and I couldn’t see a thing, but he had to be standing right next ta me, screaming.  “I’ll show you, you worthless piece of scum.” 

“Something hit the truck, thrown into it I ‘spect.  I felt ole Lule shake.  Sounded like things got fierce.  Things changed then and I couldn’t see a thing, but all around were the sounds of a fight.  There wuz a gruntin’ and a grabbin’, pushing and such. The door got tore from my hand and slammed shut.  I felt like I wus in the middle of things.  The sound of fists hitin’ their mark and feet scuffing the dirt.  I needed to get out from among those boys, so I grabbed the door handle but pickup’s door wouldn’t budge.  I yanked and pulled and then I felt someone thump against me, nearly knocked me off my feet.” 

The old man looked directly into my eyes as his coffee cup trembled in his hands. “Mister there ain’t much I’m a feared of, but I’ll confess that night….”  He set his cup down upon the counter. “When I found Lule's door handle again I wus able to pry the door open.  When I scrambled inside the door got slammed again nearly catching my leg.  The key wus still in the ignition, and I didn’t even remember how the thing wouldn’t start…cause it did.  Crammed the old Ford into reverse and sceedaddled.  Lucky I didn’t slam ole Lulu inta a tree or something. 

Now Lyle was known to be a storyteller so I asked the man.  “Lyle, you telling me a tale?” 

He shook his head firmly.  “If’n I wus I would have told ya I saw fiery eyes or bony fingers or such as that, but I didn’t see a thing…nuthin’.  What I’m a tellin’ ya is what happened…gospel truth.  And before ya start thinkin’ I had a bit too much drink.  I ain’t touched the stuff in sixteen years.  You can ask anybody.” 

I looked at Lyle and wondered.  Just the telling of the story seemed to have left him shaken.  The coffee had gone cold in his cup and he pushed it away, drew a breath, left a tip, and got up.   

“Believe me or don’t, makes no difference ta me.” He said as he looked into my eyes one last time.  “But you can bet I ain’t going ta drive that road again…never.  Not even by accident.  I learn’d my lesson about them woods at Crawford’s Creek.  And if’n ya got any brains in that scull of your’n you’d give that place a wide berth too.”  He shook his head and left Marcy’s Café.  Even with the dinging of the bell and the closing of the door the room seemed to hold its breath.  No one knew what to say about Lyle's adventure at Crawford’s Creek. 

Well, that was almost six years ago, and like I said, I don’t put much faith in urban, or in this case rural legends.  But last week Lyle Kindig’s old Ford pickup was found abandoned in the woods on a little traveled dirt road.  On Witkins Road to be exact, right on the center of the bridge that crosses Crawford’s Creek.  No one has seen hide nor hair of the man since and so the stories are a flying once again.  Maybe ole Lyle is pulling one over on us.  But if you were in Marcy’s that Saturday when he told the story…well… 

Though I roam around the countryside time to time.  I have no interest in finding that particular piece of dirt road.  Maybe it’s because I’ve a few brains in this scull of mine…maybe…. But it seems that Lyle couldn’t keep the vow he made to me that day, for one way or the other that truck found its way back to the bridge at Crawford’s Creek.

(1445 Words)                          9-15-2016—10-25-2016