The Pemberton Mall was the premier shopping destination of Vicksburg, Mississippi. The mall had been named in honor of the confederate general who had commanded all southern forces stationed within the city during the heroic forty seven or so day siege the city had endured. His name was John C. Pemberton and according to family lore, it was him alone who had approached my great-great-great uncle Mark Allen Bell and asked him personally to lead one last attempt to break through the encircling Federal lines of trenches and rifle pits and bring a end to the siege and relief to the citizens of Vicksburg who at this point had been forced to dig caves into the hillsides and survive on dogs, cats, rats and other critters that they could catch and cook.
And so my uncle, Mark Allen bell, whom I had once been named after mustered some three thousand or as some accounts say four thousand, half starved, battle weary southern boys, outfitted them the best he could, feed them the best he could and and with the stars and bars flying high he lead them out of the earthen works to lead them on one last forlorn attack on the Federal Lines, he had hopped to break through the Federal lines and route the whole Federal army from the city and lift the siege. Such grand desires are common among males of the Bell family.
Anyway according to family legend, it was here on the site that mall was to be built some one hundred or so years later that this rag-tag, half starving, famished, and dirty southern Confederate force meet some four thousand Federal boys in blue who were also rag-tag, half starving, famished, and dirty. The siege was hard on both sides. Those boys happen to be commanded by his older brother Matthew William Bell whom my uncle William is named for. The ensuring melee was long, hard, and drawn out. The roar of cannons deafen the ears of the attackers. The roar of musketry filled the air. Sabre crossed Sabre and bayonet crossed bayonet.
In the end both Matthew William Bell and his younger brother Mark Allen Bell would end up giving both their lives in the confusion of battle. One dying wearing Confederate gray, the other dying wearing Federal Blue. In a strange twist of fate, both would be buried beside each other in the graveyard that was attached to St. Katherine's Episcopal Church. The very church their great-great grandfather had helped establish and was one of the oldest parishes in Mississippi.
Now in the center of the mall there stands a beautiful concrete fountain. Jets of cool, blue water shoot up high into the sky at all hours of the day and the soothing, tranquil sound of running water fills the area. Half a dozen potted palm tree's provide shade and refreshing coolness and three wooden benches are provided by the mall for shopping wary feet and collect their thoughts and enjoy the beauty of the concrete fountain. Some even make a habit of tossing the their pocket change into the fountain to make a passing wish.
It was here late one afternoon I found myself sitting alone, watching the evening foot traffic pass up and down the main corridor of the mall. My older sister Kayla, who at this point had become something of a mother to me. And by that I mean she had stepped into the role, meaning she had become to me a mentor, disciplinarian, nurse, guide, tutor, mentor, and above all else a steadfast friend. Had once more decided she wanted to spend the weekend in Vicksburg and get away from the farm for a bit.
I'd treated myself to a little retail therapy. I'd started around ten o' clock that morning when the mall first opened its doors. My breakfast had been a cup of Cafe au Lait and a few beignets from a Cafe du Monde style coffee stand that was located near front of the mall, right across from a Ruby Tuesday's. Breakfast complete I started to shop.
And I mean I shopped. The first order of business was to get my hair trimmed and cut, since it had been ages since I'd gotten it cut and it was getting bushy and heavy. My hair grows thick and I've endured a terrible summer of struggling with it. And so at my Aunt Isabella's suggestion I'd dropped in to Pemberton Hairstylist for a quick trim. And I was treated like a princess. It's funny how something so simple as a haircut could make one feel more feminine.
After I got my hair trimmed I started to hunt up some deals, I bought a few skirts from J.C Pennies, a nice floral pattern sundress from D.H Holmes and a few Manga's and Light Novel's from Book Land along with a few Fear Street titles, I was still deeply into Fear Street at this time. Finally at the zenith of my shopping spree I swung by F.Y.E and picked up a few complete anime series, they were having a massive blow out sale. I'm not kidding, most things were fifty percent off and on top of that it was buy one get one.
And so after six hours of shopping I decided it was time to take a break, collect myself, take stock, rehydrate, tally up spending and see how much money I had left. And what better place to regroup than by the concrete fountain. It was four o' clock in the afternoon when I eased myself down upon the wooden bench. Breakfast had left me, and I was starting to get a little hungry. With an hour to go till dinner I decided to just chill by the fountain and take in the beauty of man made nature.
I was just about to doze off, when I heard something. A loud yell filled the air, and soon the yell was joined by a thousand strained voices, the empty corridors of the mall seemed to echo with the sound. The sound reminded me of a pack of coyotes howling at the full autumn moon. Then much to my amazement I saw them, phantom men dressed in gray, shoulder pressing into shoulder, marching in lines, muskets lowered and bayonets fixed. A ghostly phalanx of men moving in step with each other, shouting at the top of their lungs.
The phantom's passed right by me, and for a moment I was standing in the middle of them. I then saw him, a man who appeared to be in his mid thirties standing in the middle. His right hand held a curved sword and his left a cap. His eyes locked with mine and I felt my blood run cold. His eyes were blood red, red like rubies. For thirty long seconds we peered at each other. He then nodded his head before moving on.
Then all hell broke loose. All around me I could hear the roar of cannons, clouds of gray smoke started to surround me, the stench of burning black powder filled the air. The air soon became thick with the sound of men screaming for their mothers, some were just screaming out in pain. Begging God not to take them, some were pleading for their pain to cease. It only last for a moment. And then it was over.
For a long moment I sat there, professing what I'd just seen. It seemed like something straight out of a old black and white episode of the Twilight Zone. Slowly I felt my senses starting to returned as I gathered my strength and stood up. Once I had lifted my bottom from the cozy leather chair I quickly collected my things and started to run.
I'm not sure how long I ran, but I soon found myself being chased by a mall constable, soon the woman caught up to me and then in a commanding tone of voice wanted to know why I was running. I don't remember what I said, but I babbled something, I babbled the first thing that came to my mind. I remember I started pointing toward the fountain. One word in ten was nothing more than mumble jumble but soon I managed to spit the whole story out.
“Ghost!” I remember yelling at the top of my lungs. “I saw dozens of ghosts!”
The woman gave me a look that could have melted through a sheet of solid ice. But then her facial expressions started to soften as she started to look around. Finally she sighed, stood up and looked me straight in the eye.
“You need to come with me.” She said in a firm commanding tone of voice. “Collect your things and follow me.”
“Why?” I said in a puzzled tone of voice. “I promise you, I know what I saw!” I said in a stunned tone of voice.
“So we can talk.” The mall constable said in a firm tone of voice. “Trust me, you're not in trouble. I just want to talk to you.” She paused. “Woman to woman.” She said in a firm tone of voice.
I nodded my head and with some doubt I followed her, I followed her from the fountain to the mall office that was located just off the side of the bathrooms. She guided me toward one of the empty offices, and motioned for me to step inside. Once I was inside she followed and stepped inside too, she then turned toward me and in a very weary tone of voice said.
“What you saw was a ghost battle. The mall was built atop an old civil war battlefield. And from time to time, we get people who see things. Now according to the owner, ghosts are bad for business. And he tries to downplay the ghost sightings as much as possible. I mean, nobody wants to shop at a mall crawling with ghosts from the Civil War right?” She peered at me for a long moment.
“Right.” I said catching her drift.
“Good girl, now, I want you to keep what you saw a secret, okay? Promise me that.” She said as she leaned in.
I peered into her eyes and closed my eyes for a moment. Then I placed one hand behind my back and smiled as I crossed my fingers together.
“I promise I said. On my mothers good name.” The last part of me was being something of an edgy teenager. My mother was dead of course, and the name she had left behind had been dark as ink, one that had stained the family tree, and had left quite a sore taste in my mouth. I've since accepted her death and have moved on. Learning in time to keep the few good memories I have of her in my heart, while doing my best to forget the ones that hurt or stung me. I still to this day find myself lighting a candle for her spirit. And from time to time I will drop to my knees and pray to Ave Maria for her and her soul.
Anyway, returning to the story. The mall constable seemed to accept my oath, though she gave me a sideways glance for a good moment before placing in the palm of my hand a small plastic card that was roughly the size of a credit card.
“Here.” She said, sighing. “Maybe this would help you keep your mouth closed. I know teenagers love to gossip. But sometimes a little honey or in this case a little money makes the pills go down.” She said with a sigh.
I blinked and blinked again as I looked down and noticed that in my hand was a mall gift card that, if the number written on it was true, was worth around a hundred dollars. I blinked and blinked again. I smiled and nodded my head and in my most polite, southern belle tone of voice I said.
“I promise not to speak a word of this to anyone.” And with that she let me go. And with that one hundred dollar dollars in my hand I started a second shopping spree, now a hundred dollars might not sound like a lot of money for a teenager in the mall. But for a street smart teenager who knows how to look for sales, and use her savings card, you'll be surprised what she can drag in. Safe to say that one hundred dollars netted me a nice dress, matching shoes, and tickets for the movie that night.
And that promise, what the harm in telling a little white lie from time to time. Anyway if you're ever in Vicksburg, and you have some free time on your hands. Be sure to swing by The Pemberton Mall. They have everything you might need for a fun filled day of shopping. And who knows, you might get lucky and encounter a ghost or two!
One of the most enduring urban legends of Benton is that of a supposed tree that is supposed to feed unwary travelers who stray too near to its trunk. The location of the tree is supposed to be a meadow that is located deep within the marsh that surrounds the north side of Benton. Now, though many consider it nothing more than a silly urban legend, something of an old wives' tale, something to keep curious children from exploring the mashes.
Now, like most children who grew up in the shadow of the marshes, I learned of this fabled man eating tree from older cousins, and wayward uncles who loved to tell spooky stories after one to many drinks. Now, the story I'm going to tell you is a little graphic. Those marshes are dangerous, and hopefully after I've shared my tale with you guys, you'll think twice before venturing into them.
I was twelve going on thirteen when I decided to venture into the marshes to see if the rumors of the supposed man eating tree were true. Now according to legend, the genesis of the tree lies in the moral panic that was coined 'The Satanic Panic' of the early eighties. Back in the early eighties a family called Hammers moved into town, the Hammers were a strange lot, and something of a mystery, most of their children were homeschooled. Now this was before my time, but according to the stories that were told to me around cackling campfires and around flickering candles, strange things started happening when the Hammers moved into town.
Pets would go missing, and often they would be found skinned and gutted and often nailed to trees, cats seemed to be the favorite of whoever was doing it. And while nobody could prove it, and while the local police department seemed almost powerless to stop them, the Yazoo County sheriff's department responded by increasing patrols in the more rural sections of the county. But nothing came from it. And while nobody could outright prove it, most blamed the Hammers family for the attacks, but nobody could pin the attacks directly on them.
Anyway according to legend, the Hammers family gathered together one night when the moon was full. The father of the family dressed in a dark purple robe wearing a white wooden mask dug a whole and in this hole planted a willow seedling. Once the seedling was in this hole they carefully placed a newborn babe into the hole along with the seedling. Then they also placed three or four kittens. The whole family then performed a Black Mass and at the height of the mass they shovel loads of dirt around the seedling, burying the newborn babe and the kittens alive. As the tree grew from seedling to sprout and as its roots developed it began to feed on the remains of the babe and the kittens.
The seedling also was supposed to have absorbed some of the dark magic from the Black Mass performed around it and the soul of the newborn babe was fused to the tree. Thus the two became one and since it fed on the rotten remains of the kittens, it was said to have developed a taste for flesh. The Hammers family was supposed to have returned each month on the night of the full moon to once more perform the Black Mass and offer another living offering to the tree. Whom they worshiped as a living, breathing god.
Now, the Hammers family have long since vanished. The people of Benton kind of ran them out of town around two thousand four. Long before I decided to explore the marsh. Now before the town finally ran them out they were supposed to have trained a number of acolytes. The witch who lived in the marsh was supposed to have been such a follower of the Hammers Family and their strange and twisted beliefs. And a year before my friend Lily and I had crept into the march and found out that such a 'Witch' if you want to call her that did indeed live in the marsh. So that made me wonder if the legend of the 'Man Eating Tree' was also true.
It anyway it was in the autumn of the year, a few days passed the autumn equinox when I left my home, bundle up in a pair of faded blue jeans, boots, and faded pink hoodie. My old Girlscout backpack was firmly strapped to my shoulders, the backpack held a first-aid kit, a few bottles of water, some salty snacks. And of course a change of clothing and a few plastic grocery shopping bags. In the south we've found numerous usages for plastic grocery shopping bags, we use them to haul our lunch around, we use them to line the waste cans in our bathroom and bedroom, and last but not least we use them to store dirty clothing in till we can wash and dry them. And the last most vital piece of equipment is a battery powered lantern.
As expected, after our last adventure, Lily, my best friend, declined my invitation to join me on this little adventure. Looking back, I think she made the right choice. Anyway lets get on with the story.
I took a deep breath as I pushed through the jungle of cattails and water reeds and splashed through pools of stagnant water. The night air was hot and humid and swarms of mosquitoes buzzed around me. The very air I breathed was a terrible miasma, the stench of rotting vegetables, waterlogged wood, and sour mud filled the hair. Along with the putrid smell of dead fish.
Through this nightmarish landscape I traveled. I'm not exaggerating when I say danger was around me, from malaria caring mosquitoes flying around me, and the venomous water snakes that call the marsh home. I'm not sure what kept me going as I splashed through the horrible smelling water, and braved the perils of the swamp. But soon I came to this little clearing.
In the center of this clearing there stood an old willow tree. Its branches hung low to the ground, a faint wind caused the long, drooping branches to sway back and forth. For a moment I thought it was just another willow tree, after all willow trees are a dime a dozen here in the lowlands. The bank of Wilson's Creek is lined with willows after all. But there was something different about this tree, this tree almost seemed sentient. Almost as if it was alive. Streams of silver moonlight broke through the thin, narrow branches that seemed almost alive.
At that moment, I thought about turning around and walking off. But I still curse my curiosity to this day because something within me wanted to inch toward that tree. And so I did, I started to move toward the tree, as I moved through the tall grass that surrounded the tree I noticed the skeleton remains of dozens and dozens of woodland creatures. Bones, bleached by the elements, seemed to lay scattered around the tree. You know that should have been a warning for me, a red flag, a sign that something was off. Instead my mind just blanked out.
Then it happened. Those lovely little branches soon took on a life of their own. Those thin tendrils wrapped themselves around my legs and then around my arms. I was then caught, caught like a rabbit in a hunter's snare. It was at that moment, I came to my senses. Just as I was coming to my senses though something happened, the bark on the willow tree started to transform. A ghastly humanoid face appeared in the trunk of the tree. The eyes of the face glowed red, and its mouth, its mouth was open and much to my horror it seemed what appeared to be rows of pearly white teeth within its open maw.
I screamed and something in me snapped, a sense of doom and gloom started to creep up my shoulders. At that moment I thought all was lost. At that moment, the tree would draw me into a void. But then, something happened, I found an untapped source of strength that had been hidden away in my tiny, frail frame. With this newfound strength I snapped the branches that held me in place. My arms and hands free, I was allowed a moment to reach into the pocket of my jeans, and pull from the confines of my pocket, my trusty girl scout pocket knife.
I flipped the blade of my knife open and started to hack at the vines that held fast to my legs. As I hacked at the vines, the face on the tree twisted, and at last I had cut from my legs the shackles of the willow branches. It responded by sending out its other branches... Those low hanging branches started to surround me, and in a fit of rage, I started to hack at them, each time I managed to cut one from the branch, it wiggled on the ground, like a worm.
At last after a few moments of desperate melee the tree started to withdraw its branches. I saw my chance to escape and I took it, I ran, like the wind through the marsh, puddles of brackish water splashed on the legs of my jeans, the horns of thorn bushes cut at my exposed skin, I stumbled once or twice, but I dared not to look back, through the cattails I ran till at last I felt my feet touching pavement again.
Once I was safe on the street, I turned around and faced the marsh. And for a moment I started to wonder if what I'd seen had really happened. And who would believe me? After all, who's going to believe a twelve year old girl who broke curfew? And so I decided to keep what I saw a secret until I learned my friend Madeline was collecting ghost stories for her book. And well, I decided now would be the best time to share with the world what I saw that night. I believe the person who wrote 'The Melodies of the Heart' an popular Light Novel/Manga Series. Was inspired by this fabled 'Man Eating' tree. As one of the stories featured it.
Anyway, I don't expect you guys to believe me, and I won't be surprised if you don't believe me. But as far as I know that tree is still in that marsh. Still waiting for his next meal. If you're brave you can try to find it. The marsh changes with the seasons, paths open and close. But sometimes it tells me that if you want to find the tree, the tree will guide you through the marsh. How will it guide you? Its magic will act as a compass and direct your soul to it. Yes, I believe the dark magic cast by that Black Mass was that powerful.
In the foyer of Albert Sidney Johnston's Memorial Library there hangs an old oil portrait of a woman who is dressed in a black dress with a high lacy white collar. Her raven hair is gathered at the back of her head and is tied back in a nice, neat bun. Her face is set in what seems permanent scowl and her high cheekbones seemed sunk in. At the bottom of the painting one would find the name of the woman. “Mercy Anna Howard '' Followed by “Head Librarian” and beside that “1870 till 1920”. The woman is not pleasant to look at, in fact many of the children who visit the library often complain to me almost on a daily basis how the portrait scares them. Some even claim they have seen the woman marching up and down the maze like shelves of books. As if she was on patrol.
Now according to the stories that have come down to me from older employees, stories we often share with each other on slow days, because let's be real here, we really don't want to go around and say that our library is haunted. Because let's face it, most people are deathly afraid of ghost and shun anything dealing with the supernatural. And the fact that you might encounter one at the your library is more than likely to drive people away than get them to come in and check out a book. Or use our free WiFi. Anyway, the stories that have been passed down from one generation to the other, does not paint a very flattering picture of Ms. Howard.
Ms. Howard was a lifelong spinster who hated children and the noises they often made. They say she hated the sound of laughter and play. She also had a strong distaste for anything modern too. According to some of the stories I've been been told even hinted that at one time she might have had a lover, but he was tragically killed in the Argonne in World War I. She was also a very old fashioned typed woman who firmly believed in the old English proverb of “Children Should be seen and not heard.'' She was also a hard boiled Southern Baptist and according to some she was also a racist as well.
The scant remaining records of her I've found tucked away, hidden almost in historical archives of this town seem only to confirm this. My research into her has uncovered that she belonged to the local chapter of “The United Daughters of the Confederacy '' and the local chapter of “The Women of the Ku Klux Klan” she firmly believed in their dogma. I shudder to think what would have happened if she had been alive and kicking when I arrived here in Benton about two and a half years ago. I also shutter to think what would happen if I ever encountered her spirit. I wonder how the spiteful woman would respond to me being among the growing LGBTQ+ crowd. Then again I often wonder how she'll respond to Benton's small, but growing transgender population. Maybe she'll conjure up a few of her Klan friends from beyond the grave.
Now, gentle readers, before I move on and tell you of my friend's encounter with the ghost of Ms. Racist, I would like to share with you some juice urban legends that seemed to surround Ms. Howard when she was still counted among the living here on earth. Yes even when she was alive, she was surrounded by a miasma of horrible rumors. Now, Ms. Howard had this well earned reputation of being a firm disciplinarian. She believed in two things, the first one was the rod or in her case a braid line of willow branches she had fashioned into a make-shift whip that she often used to flog disobedient children. And the Holy Bible and her favorite verse to quote was from the Book of Proverbs and that was the most famous one. “Spare the rod and spoil the Child.”
To that end she was famous around Benton for administering corporal punishment to children and teenagers who dared speak above a whisper or failed to return their borrowed library books back on time. She was feared and hated by many yet all respected her.
Now the most famous rumor that surrounded her was this, according to some: Ms. Howard had made a deal with the devil one moonless night down at the crossroads on the east side of town. In return for her for mortal soul and her hope for eternal salvation she was gifted a bejeweled black box that would steal and seal away the voices of children and teenagers, those repeated offenders who dared to violate her treasured “No Talking” rule were rumored to have had their voice stolen from them by the demonic magic contained within this tiny black box.
Now the tale I'm going to tell you was told to me by my close friend Cerridwen Circe Whitethorn. She is the pagan of my little tight knit circle of friends and in an oddball kind of way she is kind of like the little sister I've always wanted but never had. She is also the token Gothic girl of the group, as most if not all of her casual clothing I'm going to assume from from either Hot Topic, The Underground, or Spencer's. Don;t let her looks fool you, she really shy and often hides behind me when she scared.
She is also like me a transgender girl. Enough about that, back to the story, anyway Cerridwen comes from something of a different family. Her family does not live here in town, but out in the countryside in an area called by us local's Haunted Hollow. Most of the Hollow families as we call those who live there are not as well off as those who live in town.
And Cerridwen, well to be honest the girls an darn hard worker, she is always on the lookout for an odd job, I think she is saving for college or something or maybe she is saving up for a used car. Anyway she is always on the lookout for extra work, so with that in mind I decided to get her a little side job here at the library shelving books. That is returning borrowed books to their proper place in the stacks. And from time to time she might do a little cleaning.
The work is low-key and not at all very hard, and most importantly of all Cerridwen seems to enjoy the work. She is really good at it and always gives each job we give her one hundred and ten percent. I really think in time she is going to climb the career ladder if you will. Anyway it was one dreary, rainy afternoon last autumn that Cerridwen and I were sitting around the front desk. It was slower than molasses in winter as most rainy afternoons are. So without anything better to do Cerridwen and I were just sitting around and shooting the breeze with each other like most teenage girls do.
You know talking about the latest fashion trends going around town, gossiping about different people, talking about our boyfriends and who was dating whom, and of course the latest development in our favorite manga or light novel series. What can I say we were both young otaku's and oh yes, we were also talking about whom we were going to cosplay as for Anime Weekend, an upcoming two day anime convention that was going to be held in Ridgeland. Cerridwen was debating on either going as Kiki from the heartwarming classic “Kiki's Delivery Service” or as Sailor Mars from the retro classic anime “Sailor Moon” I mostly just sat back and listened as she weighed the pros and cons of both. Then she said something that caught me totally off guard. Like a sideways pitch.
“Hey Madeline, is this place haunted?” She asked me as her baby blue eyes started to dart around the room. She seemed on edge, like she was walking on eggshells and almost seemed hesitant to talk. And for a chatterbox like Cerridwen that was odd. It was cute however in an odd sort of way. You see Cerridwen is normally a very outspoken type of person and always, almost always says what is on her mind. She is always brave too when it comes to the supernatural, claiming as a pagan witch she could easily vanish any demon, creature of the night, and or spirit that dared to cross paths with her.
“Yes.” I remember deciding to have a little fun with her as I swerved around in my rolling chair. Her Doe-eyes seemed to be on the verge of tears though when I said that. And just like that, a mental switch was flipped somewhere deep inside of me. I went from teasing mode to overprotective big sister mode. “That is if you believe the silly stories that people love to tell around here. Which if I'm honest with you I don't believe, I mean they're just that girl, stories, silly urban legends, bored teenagers made up to scare each other.” I said, forcing myself to laugh. Okay that sounded so dumb, because at this point in my life I've had more than my fair share of encounters with the paranormal. I tried to force another laugh at this point to disarm the tension that was building in the air. Instead Cerridwen only peered at me. I sighed a little and then cleared my throat.
“Okay,” I said, pulling a little closer to her, you know, narrowing the gap if you will, “Tell me what happened.”
Cerridwen shifted her eyes all around the room. It was like she was scanning the room for somebody or something. She then sighed and took a deep breath. Slowly she released her breath.
“Okay.” She started her tale. “I was cleaning up the basement yesterday, you know that was one of the tasks I had to do. You know it's been years since anybody has even been down into the basement. And so there was a lot of junk just laying around down there.” She paused.
I nodded my head. Everyone who has ever worked here knew that that basement was nothing more than a catchall junk room. The last time anybody tried to clean the thing out was way back in the nineties. And even then they had gotten only halfway through before throwing their hands up and deciding that this job was not worth their time nor effort and that poor soul just walked away, shame faced and defeated. Yep, every time we had to get something from the basement we had to follow these narrow little trails that had been cut through the clutter by that brave soul some thirty years prior.
Anyway, since it was summer break and school was out, Cerridwen was in need of some extra pocket money that week. Something about wanting to buy a new bathing suit, it seemed her mom was finally giving the go ahead for her to start wearing a two piece instead of a one piece. Anyway, since she needs extra pocket money, we decided to make a deal with her. We'll pay her ten dollars an hour off the books, that means we'll not hold out any taxes or anything if she came in on one of her days off and cleaned the basement from top to bottom. Or at the very least tried to make a dent in the massive jungle of clutter.
Cerridwen at the time had been overjoyed at the prospects of getting to attack an looming mountain of clutter and I believe she already had the money spent before it greased the open palm of her hand. But as the old saying goes, you never count your chickens before they hatch or judge your work before it's finished, and my personal favorite, you never count your money sitting at the table, there will be time enough to count it when the dealing is done.
“Anyway, I put in my earbuds in my ear and put on my favorite anime soundtrack, cause you know I like to listen to a little music while I work, once the music was playing I rolled up the sleeves of my blouse and started to cleaning.” Cerridwen said. She paused for a moment and looked around. “After I'd been cleaning for about a hour and okay maybe two, this woman, this old woman, walked up to me and snatched my earbuds from ears.” Her face started to pale.
“But this woman! Life if you call her that. I mean her aura was hard to read, as it was black, black as tar. And the moment I touched it, it seemed to send a shock me, and the force of the shock knocked me back a few good feet, and caused me to bump into a stack of books. Of course those books landed on the ground and made a huge racket.” Cerridwen seemed engrossed in her tale at this point. “Anyway as the books came crashing down, other objects started falling down and before you blink. And it was a massive avalanche of junk all sliding down on the concrete floor making all kinds of noise.”
I nodded my head at this point in the telling. I'd been working at the front desk that day. The noise had made me jump and for a moment we had assumed that our sweet Cerridwen had met an untimely end down in the basement, her small frame having been crushed by a rocks slide of old books, discharged pieces of furniture, and piles of junk that contained all manner of things. We were just about to form a search party to recover what we expected were Cerridwen's remains from the landslide when our sweet little Gothic girl came bounding up the flight of wooden stairs. Her long legs taking the steps two at a time.
“Go on.” I said, gently encouraging her.
“Anyway the woman howled something fearsome.” Cerridwen said, shivering yet again. “I then got a good look at her eyes, they were slits like the eyes of a snake. My blood ran cold and it felt like I could feel ice cubes forming under my skin. Then before I knew it, she had conjured up from thin air this tiny little black box. The moment she flipped open the lid of that box was the moment all the noise in that room just seemed to stop.”
“Okay.” I said leaning back in my chair at this point. At this point I knew I had another story to add to my ever growing chronicles of supernatural encounters that have taken place in and around Benton.
Anyway the noise just stopped, like something had sucked it straight out the room.” Cerridwen took another breath and peered up at the ceiling. I think she was trying to zoom in on the ceiling fan trying to stir the stale air in the room. I could tell she was deep in thought. “At that point, I freaked and ran like hell. I mean dropped everything, broom, dustpan, trashcan, she could have earbuds. I brought those from the local Dollar General.” She paused. “Anyway, what was strange about that woman was the way she was dressed, she looked like an Edwardian housewife. And looked and smelled like a trapped beaver.”
I nodded my head again. But then Cerridwen said something that made my blood run cold too, at that very moment she shifted her eyes toward the foyer.
“She kind of looked like the woman whose picture hangs in the foyer. The one that always scares the children. Like I'm being real girl, she could be her twin.” Cerridwen closed her eyes, “Also I'm not going back down in the basement ever again.” She added.
At that moment I felt a chill run across my arms. And that is how the story ends.
As a paranormal researcher, I sometimes stumble upon a story that just moves me in ways that I did not expect to be moved. This story is one that hit very close to home for personal reasons I'm really not going to go into detail about here. The following story has all the hallmarks of a classic ghost story, the main character dies a horrible death, in fact he is murdered outright by a gang of thugs, on Halloween night of all nights, and his vengeful spirit returns to the claim the life of his attackers.
It seems like the kind of story a best selling horror novelist would write, no doubt the book would become a New York best seller and in time be made into a huge blockbuster film that some Hollywood critic will heap piles of praise on. But alas, I'm not a best selling horror novelist, I'm just a simple country girl who loves the paranormal and has a knack of writing. Now before I go, this is oddly enough one of the least known and least talked about ghost stories in my town. I had to dig deep to uncover the story behind this haunting.
I'm not lying when I say that, I had to dig deep, it was like many in my adopted hometown were deeply ashamed of this killing and wanted to forget about it. But nobody can hide a good story and with a bit of snooping I was able to uncover enough facts to piece together what happened on that fateful night.
Now north of town, in the outlying suburbs of Benton, there is found a gully, Deer creek, a small creek that sometimes swells to the size of a mighty, torrential river after each rainfall flows through the bottom. Deer Creek is a tributary of The Big Black Rover. Deer creek empties into the Big Black a few miles above town.
Now, spanning this gully is an old wooden footbridge, the footbridge connects Mulberry Street with Chine Street. Halfway across this wooden footbridge one would notice a bundle of plastic flowers that have been zipped tied to one of the wooden beams that support the wooden railing. The bundle of plastic flowers marks the spot of a tragic murder that has forever stained the moral fabric of this town. Here one foggy, bitterly cold Halloween night some thirty something odd years ago, a confused, young man was killed because he refused to surround a bucket of candy he'd collected for his little sister who was sick in bed with pneumonia.
The name of that unfortunate youth was Sean Shoemaker, but to his family and friends he was often just called Sammy. Sammy at the time of his death was a freshman, he was fourteen years old and was attending Benton Academy. The old report cards of his I've somehow managed to recover and unearth in my research shows him to be a pretty good student who was rocking a solid 'B' average. He was also like I said before a freshman and seemed to have precious few friends. Sammy did however have a little sister whom he loved with all his heart and soul. And the few people I've interviewed who remembered Sammy always remarked that he was two things, the first one was he was a dotting big brother and the second one was he was a bookworm.
Anyway, like most ghost Sammy is said to appear annually on the anniversary of his murder at the halfway point of the old wooden bridge. Now I'm going to tell you two separate stories. The first story is the complete telling of the urban legend and the second on is what I'm going to assume was my personal encounter with the spirit of Sammy who might have bent the rules a little of his yearly tradition of appearing at the anniversary of his murder to drop in and say hello to a kindred spirit.
Now, in order to get the full story, because nobody in town wanted to talk about this, a rarity among Southerners who love to sit on the front porch swing, with a tall glass of homemade lemonade in one hand and a paper fan in the other and twiddle away the time telling old stories. Anyway I had to travel about sixty miles one way to the small village of Sharbrough's Landing. It took me about an hour to drive from Benton to Sharbrough's Landing, I had to pass through Yazoo City to get there. The village is located right on the edge of Yazoo County. Belzoni, the county seat of Humphreys County is right down the road and so is Rolling Fork, the county seat of Sharkey County.
Now with all that being said, the town is in the middle of nowhere, a tiny island of houses, small shops and one or two churches that is located in a sea of cotton fields, soybean fields, and corn fields. I'd traveled here to meet with none other than Melody Sharbrough who was the authoress of the popular “Melody of the Hearts” Series.
It seemed that Ms. Sharbrough had once encountered the ghost of Sammy one spooky Halloween night years ago when she first started writing the “Melody of the Heart '' series. And since she did not live in Benton she was the only one willing to talk about what she saw that night. In fact the encounter had made such an impact on her she had included it in one of her stories. It took me less than five minutes to find Ms. Sharbrough's House, a large, wooden, three story house located on a high bluff that overlooked a gentle, curving bend in the Sunflower River. A tributary to the Yazoo River. According to lore, riverboat captains used to land at the bottom of this steep bank to load up cotton that had been grown and ginned by the Sharbrough family.
The Sharbrough's were among the first to settle this area in the turbulent years that followed The American Civil War. Melody Sharbrough was one of the handful of still living Sharbrough's that lived in the area. Anyway, returning to the story. Ms. Sharbrough, like all good southern women, met me at the door and ushered me into the living room. She then gave me an impromptu guided tour of her old house, that she proudly said had been in her family for generations and had been among the first houses built in the village. After our little guided tour of her house we settled down into the kitchen and there over an ice cold coca-cola she started with the following story.
Now according to the legend there was a gang of three trouble makers that haunted the hallways of Benton Academy in the early nineties. Their names were Ronald ``Weasel” Clark, “Charles “Fox” Smith, and last but not least the leader of the gang Robert “General” Lee. All three came from the wealthier, more conservative families of Benton. And all three also looked like they stepped right off the pages of a Steven King's Novel. By that I mean they were all tall, lean, and muscular, they often wore tight form fitting blue jeans, tucked into high black leather engineer boots with big brass buckles, leather bomber jackets, and their short cropped hair was always slicked back with pomade. All three also belonged to Benton's now defunct chapter of “The Sons of the Confederacy”.
All three had the reputation of being bullies in Benton. But because of their families wealth and social, and political connections, the local law enforcement often turned a blind eye toward their antics. Including how they always seemed to focus their attention on one, shy, lonely little boy called Sammy Shoemaker. Sammy by all accounts was an feminine boy, which was one of the worst thing a boy could be in the early nineties in rural Benton.
While his peers enjoyed going out and tussling with each other, or spending their weekends hunting deer, turkey or rabbits, shooting shotguns and rifles, and generally being loud and annoying. Sammy by all accounts enjoyed staying inside and reading. While most boys his age, indeed most of his classmates, had their hair almost shorn to the scalp, Sammy wore his hair long and tended to keep it pulled back in a ponytail.
Now, nobody will ever say that Sammy was weak, in fact he was quite strong. You see at the time Benton had its very own Karate Dojo. It was opened as part of the “Karate Craze'' and has since closed its doors. I think it's a liquor store now. Anyway Sammy's mother had to enroll him there to learn some self defense moves since he was always getting picked on and his stuff was always getting stolen from him and the school seemed helpless to do anything about it, or just seemed content to let it happen. From what I've been told though, the training there was pretty hard and the instructor was pretty unstable too, and had something of a drinking problem. And the fees were pretty low too.
Anyway the fact that Sammy practiced karate painted an even bigger target on his back. And so, the three goons decided that Sammy needed to man up and taught a lesson. The fact that Sammy still watched cartoons and worse yet Japanese cartoons. You have to remember this was the era when many in Benton still considered China a communist threat and still remembered that Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor. And so Sammy, who was feminine, practiced karate, and most damning of all watched Japanese cartoons was not only seen as a weakling, but a communist pariah and a turncoat for loving Japan. It was clear to the trio that he needed to teach a lesson and it was up to these three golden old boys to do it. And so they decided to do it on Halloween night.
That Halloween was one of those rare Halloween's when the weather is cold, windy, and rainy. According to the story, tossed caution to the wind and decided to dress up as a princess for Halloween. After all he had the looks, a slender hourglass frame, soft, sandy brown hair, dark chocolate eyes, and puberty had yet to catch up with him, So his voice was still soft, mellow and still had something of a high pitch to it.
Now according to the legend. Sammy started collecting candy as soon as the sun had set and as soon as the full autumn moon had risen. He started his adventure on Croft Street, then worked his way down to Town Creek, then onto Wilson Street, then from Wilson he cut across the cornfields till he reached Mulberry street, by the time he had finished Mulberry street his little plastic bucket was overflowing with candy, and with one more street to go, he was sure to haul in a ton. And best of all his costume had fooled all, and many people thought that he was a she, a thoughtful big sister who was just collecting candy for her little sister who was sick in bed.
As soon as he had finished collecting all the candy he could from Mulberry Street he set his sights on China Street. Now he could have walked down Mulberry Street till he came to Berry Farm Road. Then he could have East on Berry Farm Road till he reached the turnoff to China Street. It would have been out of the way and would have added a good two miles to his hike, but it would have been a lot safer. But the winds were starting to blow hard now, and a thin sheet of ice was starting to form on the deep potholes that dotted Mulberry Street and frost was starting to form on the cattail crowded banks of Deer creek and Wilson creek.
And so Sammy decided to take his chances and walk down the narrow, dark footbridge. Full darkness had fallen and Sammy could barely see two feet in front of him. Halfway across the bridge he bumped into the trip. The trio had been hanging out on the bridge, tossing small rocks down into the creek below. Cursing their luck, they had been searching Benton all night for Sammy and had just about given up the chase when Sammy walked right into their mist.
What happened next has been unfortunately lost to time. But I'm going to assume there was a fight. But then again there might have been a fight. What happened though was Sammy Shoemaker was never seen alive again and his lifeless, bloated body was found the next morning tangled in the branches that lay at the bottom of the gully.
Once the body was recovered the town's coroner John “Big Boy '' Smith who quickly concluded his finding a few hours after the body was recovered. His closing remarks were as follows. “I'm going to say that the boy must have fallen off that old bridge when he was trying to cross it. The bridge was iced up and he must have slipped and fallen off the railing. The bruises and lacerations clearly came from the plunge off the bridge. Deer creek was swollen at the time and it's clear to me that the silly costume the boy was wearing at the time dragged him under the raging water. We must consider ourselves lucky that the strong current of the creek pushed his lifeless body up into the branches of those moss and willow trees that grew thick on the banks, and became tangled in the vines. Otherwise he might have been swept out into the Big Black River and his body would have never been recovered.”
A few days later Sammy Shoemaker was laid to rest in St. Mary's Episcopal Cemetery. Very few people attended the burial and fewer still attended the funeral mass that was held a day afterwards. And with that many people thought the matter closed.
A few nights later though the trio were joyriding around the old, gravel back roads of Benton, they were drinking ice cold beer and tossing the empty bottle at road signs, maybe they were still celebrating their victory. The trio were driving around in a nineteen sixty nine Dodge Charger that had been painted a bright orange and also had the Confederate battle flag painted on its roof. At the wheel was none other than Robert “General” Lee.
Then something happened. A bony, Phantom hand reached over Robert's shoulder and took control of the wheel. With supernatural strength the unknown, unseen force wrestled the control of the wheel away from Robert, as it was crossing a bridge, the car jumped off the railing of the bridge and plunged off the side and smashed into the rocks and water below. Robert “General” Lee was killed on impact. Charles “Fox'' Smith who was also in the front seat passed away before help could arrive. And finally Ronald “Weasel” Clark was transported to Mississippi Medical Center and admitted to what many of the doctors and nurses who worked there called “The Turnips and Cabbage Ward ''. The two Mississippi Highway Patrol officers who arrived on the scene though, once the bodies had been cleared away and the ruined remains of the car were towed to the junkyard noticed something strange laying on the ground. A small piece of pink cloth lay discarded on the ground.
Ronald “Weasel” Clark lingered on for three weeks before a phantom hand pulled the plug on his ventilator. The only clue left at the scene was a trail of wet footprints and a piece of pink fabric that had been left upon Ronald “Weasel” Clark's chest. About a week later John “Big Boy” Smith was found hunched over his desk in his office in city hall. His face was drained of color and his neck had been twisted all the way around. A tiny stream of blood ran from the corner of his mouth and trickled across his desk.
It was clear to all he had been murdered. But by whom, what living man could have the strength to turn his neck all the way around. There was no sign of a struggle and the windows had been locked and the wooden shutters had been locked too. The only clue was a set of wet footprints that seemed to appear out of thin air in front of the desk, the trail seemed to walk behind his desk and stop right behind where John “Big Boy” Smith had been sitting. A puddle of water could be seen by the chair and stranger still was the present of a square piece of cloth found resting upon his desk. The small, square piece of pink fabric that matched the one that had been found at the wreck that had killed “Charles “Fox ``Smith and Robert “General” Lee. And had also been found upon the lifeless body of Ronald “Weasel” Clark.
And normally that would be the end of it. But something happened. The following Halloween people started to report strange sightings on the old wooden bridge. Sightings that included colorful orbs of light that seemed to dance around the gully, ghost fire the local's called it Other times people reported seeing a phantom dressed in a tattered pink dress walking from one end of the bridge to the other. The phantom always started to pace back and forth, starting at sunset and always seemed to vanish at sunrise. It seemed the phantom was patrolling the bridge, maybe trying to prevent another death. And that is how the legend ends.
Now I promised a personal encounter with the ghost did I not? Well my encounter took place at the height of summer. I remember that day, it was hot, and even in the shade of an old oak tree you could feel the heat waves making your eyebrow's crawl. It had been about a week and a half since my interview with Ms. Melody Sharbrough and I decided to check out the bridge for myself.
Now, I live in the center of town if you will. I mean a twenty minute walk could take you to the bustling downtown area of town. Where both sides of the street were lined with thriving mom and pop owned businesses. But Mulberry Street and China Street were located on the fringes of town. I mean it honestly took me a good thirty minutes on bike to reach the foot of the bridge. The bridge at this point had seen better days, the wood was warped and had inch long nails sticking out.
The railing was almost gone, and chunks of it seemed to have broken off and was floating at the bottom of Deer creek below. Deer creek had almost run dry. And the stench was horrible, brown turds lay drying on the bank, used panties hung in the branches, and trash a good inch deep blanket the banks. What might have been once a picturesque landscape had been transformed into a living, breathing hell. As I stood there, rooted in the ground the sound of running water was heard and a moment later from a nearby drain pipe a fresh surge of brown and gray water came shooting out. Adding another layer of fifth to the already twisted and fucked up scene.
I decided not to risk it and instead laid my bundle of flowers down at the foot of the bridge. I closed my eyes, folded my hands together and started to pray. It seemed like the right thing to do, it broke my heart knowing the spirit of Sammy was trapped here, among all this decay, filth and utter misery. Even the houses that lined both sides of the room seemed run down, their front yards choked with weeds.
Decorated with cement blocks, rusting lawn chairs, the roofs starting to sag in. This was not the Benton I knew and loved, this was the other side of town, the side of town I'd been warned away from. The side of town nobody wanted to see. Here the poor and forgotten clung to what little hope they had. I sighed and stood up and hoped that Sammy could finally move on. Then something happen.
Before my eyes there appeared the phantom form of a small boy with sandy brown hair, he was dripping wet, he wore a tattered pink dress, his head was down, but slowly he raised it up and smiled at me. Once his eyes meet mine he vanished, never to be seen again. At least by me.
Anyway, I still have about four more to share with you guys before this volume of “Ghost stories and and Urban Legends of Benton: More Ghost stories and Urban Legends” is complete. So stick around. We have more bone chilling stories to share with you!
The following story was told to me by my friend Lana Tiffany Edwards, Lana Edward's grandfather, Elijah Edwards was Benton's undertaker for decades before he passed away from old age. He was also an avid collector of ghost stories. And one of those stories he loved to tell all those who would listen was about a farmer who was expecting his first child, when his child was born he was overjoyed to find out that his exhausted wife had given birth two twin boys. But his joy quickly turned to horror and shame as he noticed that the twins were conjoined. Ashamed, the farmer hid them away, and kept them locked up in the loft in his barn.
Now as the twin's grew older it became clear to the farmer and his wife that one of them was good and the other was pure evil. The two often fought and bickered among each other. The good twin, often taking the blunt of the punishment from the evil twin who tormented him from dawn to dust and from spring to winter. The evil one, it seemed to relish the pain he brought to his twin and to his mother and father. And would often try to spat on them and even bite them if they came too close while he quarreled with his other half.
Then when both were about six years old, the good twin fell ill from a mysterious malady. A few days later the evil twin himself came down sick and a week later both were dead. Now the farmer was both grief stricken and relieved at the passing. He was heartbroken for the loss of his good son, and yet oddly relieved that the evil son would no longer haunt him. In his grief he asked the town's undertaker Lucas Edward, who happens to be Lana's grandfather's father to saw the two apart. He wanted his good son to be given a proper christian burial and laid to rest in the town's cemetery and for his evil son to be hidden away in a long forgotten place. And so Lucas Edward did as the farmer wished.
But he had to get drunk to do it, once he was liquored up, he started to saw the two in half, but there was a mix up, the evil twin was the one who was given the christian burial and buried in the the towns cemetery and the good twin was buried at the end of a dead end country road called Spinners Lane. It was here hidden among the thorn bushes, cedar trees, pine trees,and moss trees that a shallow earthen grave was dug and the good twin, wrapped in an old gray army woolen blanket and bound in twin, was laid to rest. No prayers were said as the clumps of earth were shoved in on top of him and on top of the dirt, wash rocks the size of a man's head were placed. No cross, stone, or plague marked the spot. And the heartless farmer considered the matter to be tended too and decided to move on with the rest of his life.
But this terrible mistake would soon come back to haunt the good townspeople of Benton, because a few nights after the boy had discharged their lone traveler, traveling down Spinners Lane reported the sound of a baby crying. It was a terrible sound, a high pitch whine that filled the air and seemed to echo loudly into the hot, humid, night air. Nobody could explain the sound, but since it sounded like the cries a baby makes, people started to call the road Cry Baby Lane and the name stuck like glue.
There is more to the story, now one night several years ago, before I came to live here in Benton with my older sister and her wife. The Edward's were hosting a family reunion at the old home Edward home place. It was a big event that kicked off on Friday afternoon and planned to last all weekend concluding with the whole Edward's clan going to Mass at St. Mary's Episcopal Church that Sunday Morning a large fried chicken lunch was to follow Mass. Now as the sun was starting to set, the whole family gathered on the front porch and started to tell ghost stories.
Now some of those stories I've included here in this collection. Others I hope I can include in future collections. If I'm lucky enough to hear them.
Lana who had just returned from a wilderness girl scout retreat had own stories to tell. She was about twelve at the time, she is seventeen now so this must have been a good five years ago. Anyway as the hours ticked on, more and more tales of the supernatural were shared.
Till at last, one of the grownups mentioned the story of how Cry Baby Lane got its name. And so old Elijah who was now one sheet to the wind started to tell the store. Now instead of frighting the gathered collection of tweens and teens as Elijah had oped, the story only piqued their curiosity, for many this was the first time they had heard the story, and with the fable Cry Baby Lane being only two miles away, many decided to mount their bikes and start off an midnight expedition to Cry Baby Lane to see if they too hear the wailing of the lost and forgotten child.
Lana and her many cousins arrived in the rural lane an hour after midnight. There was no moon that night and since it was late in the summer around September, the leaves on the trees had started to fall and the first taste of autumn was on the breath of the cold wind that blew across the farmers field. Now ghosts do not appear on command them to appear and at first the group was disappointed that the ghost did not appear.
And so the group was forced to settle into an uneasy wait. As the minutes ticked by, the tension in the air started to build. And soon the group started to get jumpy, then after an hour of waiting, the group was getting ready to call it quits and return home and call the whole thing a bust. But then something happen. A faint crying sound was heard from deep in the forest that surrounded the dirt and gravel road. The sound was so faint that the gathered group had to strain their ears to hear it. At first, but as the seconds melted away into minutes the sound grew louder, and louder and louder and soon it seemed their ear drums would bust wide open as the wailing grew louder and louder.
At first the group of teens thought that one of their cousins had strayed away from the group and was now hiding out in the forest and was the one making the noise, or so they all had a good laugh at themselves, but when they looked around the first thing they noticed was nobody was missing. It was then their laughter turned to tears and fears. The wailing seemed to get louder and louder with each passing second. Soon the frightened teenagers were jumping on their bikes and speeding away, dust and gravel flying behind them in their wake.
Now there are many areas of Benton I've never explored before. And Lana's story had succeeded in rousing my curiosity, so one night a few weekends ago I too decided to pay “Cry Baby Lane” a visit. Now at the time our new Chief of Police had decided that there were way too many teenagers running the street after dark, so a curfew had been mandated. The curfew had kind of damped the late night storytelling sessions around a roaring campfire that me and my friends had been enjoying. So with that in mind, I decided to visit “Cry Baby Lane” around dust. Not quite nightfall, but close enough I'd hoped. After all, I love legend tripping as much as the next girl. But I'm not going to run the risk of getting a foul with the law over it.
Anyway I parked my car at the beginning of “Cry Baby Lane” Once the car was in park, I pushed open the door and started walking down the rural road. As I walked the wind started to rise and blow through the gaps of the trees, and the trees started to sway, dark gray storm clouds rolled in and blocked out the sun and I could feel the temperature starting to drop. I was shivering when I reached the end of the lane. I quickly turned around and started to walk slowly toward my car when I heard it.
A soft crying sound started to rise from the surrounding woods. At first I thought it was just the winds starting to blow through the pines and willows. But then the crying became louder, and louder, and louder and louder still with each passing second. I thought my head was going to split open. I started to sprint toward my car and then something told me to look behind me and I did.
The moment I looked behind me was the moment I felt my blood turn to ice, I felt those tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. Of all the supernatural encounters I might have had, and I might have shared with you, from encountering Jenny Green Teeth in an abounded, overgrown fishing pond, to a phantom train that drags you to hell, to the murdered spirit of a teenage boy. And finally that one odd ball encounter with a ghost nurse, none of those could have ever prepared me for what I saw standing no more than three or maybe four feet behind me.
Standing in the middle of the dirt road, wrapped in a dirty gray blanket was what appeared to a child who appeared to be around six or maybe seven years old. Black blood oozed from his eye sockets and half of the blanket was soaked in what I'm going to assume was blood. Then the child threw back its head and started to scream and its scream seemed to echo and fill my ears, it pounded my ear drums and a foment I thought they were going to bust.
In a panic, and stricken by fear, I jumped into the driver's seat of the car, cranked the car and sped away. I never looked back. I want to say that I drove straight home, but in truth I drove down a local dairy bar called “Chuck's Choice Burgers”, whose tagline was “Home to the world famous Chuck Burger”. Once there I ordered the biggest hamburger they had on the menu, with the biggest basket of steak fries they offered and their biggest coke and I did my best to process what I saw. And that is my story.