? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? 

? 

Halloween Contest Submission

? 

A Stranger at the Foot of My Bed

? 

By Barbara Deming

? 

? 

? 

Very seldom do I dream, or at least I don't remember if I do.?  But one night last fall I not only remembered the dream, I woke up absolutely sure I had not only seen but also heard the stranger at the foot of my bed.

I don't know much about dreams.?  I don't understand what causes some people to have these sleeping stories appear quite frequently.?  And others never to dream. I have always thought when I had a nightmare it was because I had read something scary or unsettling, or eaten something that did not agree with me at all. As for this night in particular, I can't remember doing anything unusual and the dinner I had at five-thirty was soup and salad.?  The only unusual thing I had done that day was my monthly dusting of the "ancestor" table.
? 

My mother-in-law had purchased a lamp table for a corner of her living room many years before I joined the family.?  It is a lovely Victorian piece, delicately carved pedestal and an open-weave hand-carved garland edging the inlaid top.?  A cut glass lamp sporting a stained-glass shade in Tiffany style sits in the middle of the table in our home.?  Surrounding this lamp are pictures of our ancestors, children, grandchildren and two great-grandsons.?  This day had been my day for polishing the table, cleaning the picture glass and dusting the frames.
? 

I went to bed at my usual time. I don't know how long I was in a deep sleep but I suddenly became aware of a tug on my quilt-covered toes.?  Half asleep, I wiggled away; probably thinking my joke-playing husband was at it again.?  But when another tug was accompanied by a calling of my name, I jerked fully awake.?  Raising on my elbows, my eyes focused on the foot of the bed.?  That's when I sat straight up.

? A man in long-sleeved white shirt, worn denim overalls, and a floppy straw hat stood there smiling at me.?  And, though chills crept up my entire body, I was fascinated.?  I knew this man-sort of.
? My grandfather, Gilbert Burl Dishongh (pronounced DeShawn), was born in 1898 in a rural part of the East Texas Piney Woods.?  His ancestors on his father's side had come from France, via Acadia in Canada, and after being thrown out of both places, finally rested in Texas.?  His mother's people, the Stones, had arrived to settle Texas with Stephen F. Austin in 1821.?  He and my grandmother had raised three sons and two daughters.?  I was his first grandchild, the only one he ever knew, the little baby girl who climbed onto the bed to play with him.?  I was a year old when he died and of course don't remember him at all.

Except my mother always talked about what a kind, caring man her father, my grandfather, was.?  He worked as one part of a two-man cross cut saw team, cutting trees for a lumbering company in the woods.?  When his health began to fail, the company offered him the job of saw sharpener.?  And it was in this capacity that the poorer, mostly black, workers came to him with their problems.?  As he worked on the saws, they would discuss problems with taxes, legal documents or trouble with the law.?  Grandpa Gilbert would intercede for them, write letters, read their mail.?  And Mama said he never raised his voice, believed that God had a place in his life, and loved his family.
? 

So, once the chills subsided, I actually was quite thrilled to think that my grandfather had come back to visit me.?  But what did he want?
? 

"Are you okay, Grandpa?"
? 

He didn't smile.?  In fact, he looked a lot like his photograph on the ancestor table-somber, a sort of fear, maybe of the camera, in his eyes.?  His voice, when he spoke, had that country twang I always heard in my grandmother's voice.?  "I'm doin' right smart well, girl.?  But I'm worried about you."
? 

"Worried? About me??  Whatever for, Grandpa?"

? "You're workin' too hard to please other folks.?  Your heart is in that writin' thing but you're not followin' that path.?  I've been watchin' over you all your life.?  You've been a carin' wife, mother, friend.?  There's still some years left to do for Miss Barbara."
? 

"You're talking about rearranging my life, Grandpa."
? 

"Yes ma'am, I certainly am.?  You were my own precious grandbaby and

? 

I want what's best for you. See that you mind my words."

? He tugged at my toe again.?  And then he was gone.

? I'm still working at doing what he suggested.?  I know he is right about my needing to create more time for my writing and myself.?  But, in many ways, I am my grandfather's granddaughter-I inherited his need to help his fellowman.? ? 
? 

tejasbabs@aol.com
*****

? 

BIO: Barbara Deming lives, volunteers and writes in San Marcos, CA. Her next collection of short stories, "Pink Poodle Pie (and Other Tales of How Women Get Even) will be released soon.

? 

~**~**~? 

? 

HOUSES OF THE LIVING DEAD ??“ Written long before the tragedy that befalls New Orleans to day.
? ? ? ? ? ? By Barbara Deming

? 

? One of my favorite cities is in the South.?  Depending on where you come from you may pronounce it differently from the natives but most everyone knows it by the laid-back name, the Big Easy.?  Everyone who visits New Orleans falls in love with the French Quarter, the artists and musicians around

Cemeteries in New Orleans are like cities of dainty tombstone houses laid out in rows with colorful gardens of sweet-smelling flowers in throwaway pots planted on their doorsteps.?  These abodes face narrow streets with, like any city, intersections posted with directional signs.?  Though no cars move up and down these lanes, tourists stroll their cobblestones with maps guiding them along their way, reading the names of people dead for a hundred years or more.
? 

Few mourners come here now.?  The old folks are too feeble to traverse the distance from faraway homes even by streetcar, definitely not by driving themselves.?  Many of the family members too lie somewhere in some dusty cottage above ground.
? 

Young relatives of these ghostly saints shiver at the thought of scrubbing the face of one of the little depositories of their dead.?  Most think it useless to plant new flowers in plastic soil; the caring for ancestors was something their parents believed was an honor.?  They have no desire to carry on the tradition.?  They are modernists, smug in the assurance that if they don't acknowledge the bones of their dead, the past will remain buried.
? 

We, who have studied the history of these cemeteries and, believe in what we find, understand that something is going on in these antiquated cities.?  After midnight the musky-smelling breeze pushes in from the swamps surrounding the Crescent City.?  As night shadows deepen, the swell of air picks up, rustles the treetops, floods the realm of St. Louis Number Three with sounds, the soft voices of loved ones not heard for a century or more.
? 

And on moonlit nights if you dare venture out on the little streets, you will find lights behind the grillwork protecting entrances to the little houses.?  If you listen closely you might hear the clink of imported silverware against old-country French china, laughter as voices from the past toast each other to a new day.?  If you sit on one of the benches you might actually catch a glimpse of a figure in white float down the

"The dead don't remain dead in?  New Orleans."
*****? 
Bio:?  Barbara Deming lives, volunteers and writes in San Marcos, CA. Her newest collection of stories, "Pink Poodle Pie (and Other Tales of How Women Get Even)" will be released in a few months.

~**~**~? 

? 

"THE CEMETERY MARCH"

? 

? ? ? ? ? ? by Barbara Deming

? 

? 
? 
? ". . . Look away, look away, look away, Dixieland . . ."
? 

With eager soldiers following, unfurled flags waving, officers on horseback brandishing swords and cannons booming through clouds of smoke, General Earl Van Dorn arrived to surprise General Grant's secondary base at Holly Springs, Mississippi.?  On December 20, 1862, this small town was once again the scene of a raid.?  Van Dorn would capture 1800 Federal troops, destroy $1,500,000 worth of supplies, and allow Mrs. Grant to flee with her husbands' papers in hand, an act that would save this Confederate town from destruction when the tide turned.
? 

Holly Springs was raided sixty-two times, changed hands again and again, and it's lovely ante-bellum buildings served as both Confederate strongholds and home and stables for General Grant and his troops.?  The town now occupies a small place in the immense history of the War between the States as Southerners refer to this era but, if for no other reason, it will be forever remembered for the large number of Confederate officers who called it home, and were brought back from battles throughout the South to be buried in Hillcrest Cemetery.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  ? *? ? ? *? ? ? *? ? ? *

? 

Vacationing through the South for several weeks, my husband, Ray, and I had been tracing our heritage through battlefields, museums, old mansions, and National Parks.?  We both, one with ancestors who fought under Abe's direction, the other with her butternut-clad kin following Jefferson Davis, were drawn into a feeling of closeness with this part of our past, a time that had brought Americans on this land to fight for what each side felt was right.?  As we immersed ourselves in this history, we sensed the Southern love for the land and responded to the feeling of emotional upheaval those people must have had to deal with as war reached their doorsteps.
? 

One of the previously unknown realities I faced was the fact that I couldn't find my Confederate dead in any of our National Parks/Cemeteries.?  Time and again, Ray and I were told that to find the Southerners we must seek out the oldest city cemetery near the particular battlefield; although these battles were fought by men who were born to the land as well as men who were considered invaders, the triumphant Blue were the only ones allowed to be interred on sacred United States soil.?  Equipped with this knowledge, we visited many such places throughout the South.?  But the most memorable was to be found in the northern Mississippi town of Holly Springs.
? 

It was Sunday.?  Sadly, we couldn't view the inside of the many homes and buildings the townspeople had so lovingly restored.?  Armed with a map found on a rack outside the Chamber of Commerce Building, we could at least view the wonderful places that have been placed on the National Register for Historic Places.
? 

Then we found the cemetery.
? 

The only visitors on this day, we walked among the gravesites admiring the stone monuments . . . commanding figures on horseback, soldiers with shouldered rifles, and the smaller headstones of many fallen men.?  Holly Springs had been the home to ten Confederate generals; they are all buried here along with other officers who had fallen in nearby battles.?  Although we lost count of the number who rest here, there seemed to be dozens of men with high rankings.?  It was an amazing gathering of deceased heroes and this small cemetery honored them all.

As we continued our walk among the well-kept plots, the first feeling of sadness lifted to be replaced by a certain kind of joy that pushed aside the sense of loss.?  We now saw only the beauty in the headstones, the sheltering arms of the large trees hovering over them, and the gentle breeze that brought the sound of birds singing to us as we read names and dates and lists of battles fought.?  As we spent the morning with the respected dead there seemed to be a presence with us, something or someone, offering a serene point of comfort for both visitors and the spirits of the ones resting here.
? 

Ray started it all.
? 

He began to hum . . . "Wish I was in the land of cotton. . . ."?  I was suddenly caught up in the moment and the history surrounding us.?  I tucked my arm in his and we marched down the lane leading out of the cemetery, not humming now, but both singing?  . . . .

? "Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land . . . ."

? If we had listened closely we might have heard the clatter of hoof beats, the music of voices, the bugler's reveille.?  If we had looked around we might have seen the gray-suited officers on prancing horses leading the columns of men double-stepping behind them.
? 

But neither of us dared look over our shoulders as we sang our way out to the car.?  We each wanted to cherish the illusion that they were there.

******

? 

? 

~**~**~? 

? 

? 

? 

The Haunted House

She sat back,

Crouching in the wood -

This still, dark house

That saw no good.

? 

Sat there waiting

In a misty shroud,

Beneath a cold moon

And black, stormy clouds.

? 

Her inhabitants filled the night

With desperate, mournful cries,

These souls of ages past,

Not seen by mortal eyes.

? 

And as I warily approached her,

Fear embraced my soul -

A chilling wave swept through my veins

Where warm blood once had flown.

? 

Yet I was drawn still closer,

With an obsession to know her fate,

And so laid a trembling hand

Upon her rusted gate.

? 

The gate screamed its reluctance,

And with the screech of every hinge,

My heart beat faster and faster,

And every nerve would cringe.

? 

I started walking down the path -

Closer I was drawn.

My mind said "Stop! Go no farther!"

My heart said "Go on! Go on!

? 

I kept walking ever closer

Moving like the dead,

And as I drew nearer with each step,

My heart filled more with dread.

? 

I finally reached the threshold,

After what seemed an eternity,

And pressed upon its oaken door -

Fighting the desire to flee.

? 

The door swung slowly open

Upon a dusky room,

Full of cob-webbed corners,

And musky, oppressive gloom.

? 

I stepped cautiously inside;

The floors creaked with every step.

The house moaned and groaned its rejection;

I?  felt that it almost wept.

? 

The tension mounted in the room,

My body was bathed in sweat.

I felt my every muscle tense.

The hair raised on my neck.

? 

It seemed I was in battle,

As the house forced me to flee,

Assaulting with violent emotions,

And screaming "Let me be!"

? 

I started swaying where I stood

Fighting off each new blow.

As wave after wave swept over me,

The house kept crying "Go!"

? 

I fought the impulse to run,

And there stood my ground.

Surely all of the world

Could hear my frantic heart pound.

? 

A chilling wind swept through the house,

Whistling in my ears.

The floors seemed to rock beneath my feet -

I'd never known such fear.

? 

And just when I felt I could stand no more,

I saw a grisly site -

A gaunt and bloody woman

With hair as black as night.

? 

It fell almost to her knees

In matted, wispy strands.

Her teeth were bared - her eyes were fire,

She had taloned claw-like hands.

? 

I backed away and turned to run-

I heard her eerie laugh,

She hissed and lunged -like a panther -

And fell upon my back.

? 

Her arms were wrapped around my neck.

Her nails dug in my flesh.

I fought to break her strangling hold

And saw the face of death.

? 

Her fetid breath blew in my face;

She smelled of long decay.

Her screeching laugh filled my head.

I fought to get away.

? 

As I staggered around the room

'Neath my gruesome burden's weight,

My head began to swim and throb.

I prayed I wouldn't faint.

? 

Her cackling laugh rose higher,

Bouncing off the walls.

The wind blew ever stronger -

I bled from knife-like claws.

? 

I swayed and staggered to the door -

A red mist before my eyes -

I fought to make my mind stay clear

In spite of her manic cries.

? 

I fell across the threshold,

Rolling upon the ground,

And found - blessedly - I was free

From my ghostly hound.

? 

I stumbled to my feet and ran

With a strength I'd never known,

And finally reached that rusty gate

I'd entered so long ago.

? 

I stood there torn and panting.

The blood ran down my face.

I shook as if with fever.

Now free of that evil place.

? 

The house seemed to settle back -

Her intruder successfully spurned.

I knew that there would come a day

When she would see my return.

? 

Debra Shiveley Welch?  Copyright 1978

merribuck@aol.com

? 

Writers Feedback

? 

? 

Lovely, Carol.?  Your joy is contagious.?  I'm so glad that you shared it with all of us, as in the sharing it will multiply and spread throughout the world of Storytime Tapestry and beyond.?  ??“Sherri

? 

Carol,

? ?  This story was simply beautiful.?  It is so wonderful when we can take the pains and trails of life and use them to lead us back to even greater joy.?  Thanks for scattering it across the world and sharing it with us all.?  Wishing you every joy, Joe

? 

? 

? 

? 

Prayer Requests and Updates

? 

? 

Carol;

? 

I got a e-mail from Loren Moore's wife, she said Loren was very ill and to please hold

all the e - mails till I heard from him. So I thought I would send? up a prayer for? our

great friend Loren Moore.

? 

Father God in heaven I come to you in prayer asking that you reach down your? 

almighty hand down and touch Loren, Father take away any sickness or pain and

heal our friend Loren.? It is in the name of Jesus Christ the holy son that I pray.

Amen Amen!

? 

? 

Walking In His Loving Light

? 

Richard & Jackie Sims? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?  Online Prayer Warriors?