The Grave - A Short Story
Outside of the town of Hibbing Minnesota, an old ore mining town in northern part of the state, lies a cemetery on a hill covered in sugarmaple trees.Aptly named, TheMaple Hill Cemetery.
Nothing unusual about it, standard for the area, beautiful in the summer, forbidding in the winter.
Strange things have been happening there for the last year. People visiting their loved ones have reported that they sense another being there with them. Some, it terrifies, others it calms.
It's been reported as being nothing but a feeling, others say that a mist descends on them and they can feel someone or something next to them.
The stories have been getting more and more frequent over the last couple of months and rumors have been running wild in town.
At the ''Androy Barber Shop'' a local gathering place that's been there for 50 years with it's barber pole slowly circling in front, the old timers tell of a time when a ghost walked the grounds of the cemetery. A local myth that some say was the ghost of a iron ore miner killed in one of the frequent accidents in the mine. Others said it was the ghost of Frank Hibbing, the person the town is named for and the one that started the ore mines. At one time they produced most of the iron ore for the entire United States. Either way it was only a myth.
But these stories were not old, they were from respectable citizens of the community and happening today, which made it more interesting.
Soon, the local newspaper, the ''Hibbing Daily Tribune'' ran a story on it and the letters came pouring into the newspaper. Many more people then first thought had experienced ''something'' while at the cemetery.
A reporter from the paper decided to go out to the cemetery and check it out. Donning his heavy winter coat, hat and gloves, Arnie Williston took the five mile ride in the dead of winter. February was a cold month in northern Minnesota and this year is was exceptionally cold, far beyond the normal 10 degreesbelow zero. Today the temperature was hovering around 25 degrees below zero. The wind blowing in from across the plains of central Canada.
As Arnie drove through the cemetery gates he noticed tracks in the snow. Puzzledhe followed the tracks until he came upon a fresh grave site, now this was unusual in the dead of winter, at -25 below it was strange that there would be a funeral today, it did happen, but not often.
Getting out of his car, and walking to the grave site he stood beside it. The grave was on the highest hill in the cemetery, under a huge maple tree that was over 100 years old. There was no marker, and no foot tracks in the snow, just an open grave.
Arnie stood there thinking that it was very strange but he didn't really seen anything that would fit into the stories that had been circulating. The snow started to swirl from the wind, only a few feet from the grave he was unable to see it as the swirling snow became thicker and colder.
Totally engulfed in the swirling snow he felt the presence of someone or something, panic set in as he whirled around but there was nothing behind him that he could see. Calming down he laughed to himself, damn your acting like a kid, or an scared old lady Arnie, he said to himself. Then he felt the hand on his shoulder, a heavy hand, one that wouldn't release him from it's grip, then it was gone.
As soon as the hand let loose it's grip on him, Arnie raced back to his car and out of the cemetery. Was he dreaming this or did he really feel the heavy hand on him.
Arriving back at his office, he locked his office door and called his best friend, Tom Foley. He told Tom that he needed to talk to him right now and would be at Tom's house in ten minutes.
Arnie was pounding on Tom's door when Tom swung it open and Arnie rushed in and spilled the whole story to him.
Tom sat back, both men were in their late 40's, graying around the temples and the start of bodies going soft. Tom sat there and didn't say anything for a long time. Then he looked Arnie straight in the eye and said to him, Arnie I have something to tell you.
Arnie, my grandfather told me this story and it was told to him by his father, around 1890 or so a group of men from town, my great grandfather and your great grandfather wanted some land that belonged to some Indian guy. It was valuable land and they didn't see any reason that the Indian should have it. He wouldn't sell so they decided to take it from him. The story goes that they they lured him to a secluded spot where they said they wanted to trade for some pelts. I believe that his name was one of those foolish Indian names, Yellow Sky or Yellow Cloud or some such nonsense. Anyhow, they got into an argument and they killed him and dumped his body in the swamp and it was never found. Yellow Cloud or whatever his name was,his grandfather came looking for him and would walk the streets in town asking everybody if they had seen him. Before long most of the town knew that they might have killed the Indian, but no one would say anything to the old man.
The years went by and our great grandfathers took the land, land today that the cemetery is on. They sold it and made a hefty profit from it. Some of which we enjoy today.
YellowClouds grandfather never stopped looking for him and when he died, he was heart broken, and died a broken man. Nobody gave it much thought, he was just an old Indian. But it's said that the old Indian put a curse on the our great grandfathers, one that would last forever, and pass on to each generation.
Well Arnie, Tom said, I never thought much about it, but with these strange goings on maybe there is something to it.
As Arnie headed home he kept thinking about the hand on his shoulder and chills ran through his body.
Arnie kept thinking about it and called Tom...Tom, Arnie said, we have to go out to the cemetery together to see if we can figure this out. I'll pick you up in half an hour...
As they drove to the cemetary neither one said anything. Getting out of the car the day was cold, skin biting cold. The cold went right through their heavy coats, their fingers getting numb as they reached the edge of the grave.
Looking down into the grave they both were stunned to see a body there, no casket just a body lying there. The eyes staring at them, dead eyes but eyes that pierced to their very soul.
Then the chant started, in the bitter cold air the chant was one of death...To terrified to move, they were frozen in place, the chant surrounding them, closing in on them, their minds screaming, but no sound would pass their lips.
Their minds were telling them it was their Death Chant. As they stood there, looking into the grave they saw a transformation of the dead one. Now it wasn't a dead man lying there, it was an Indian, face painted and his eyes would not release them. Terrifying eyes, it's body nothing but ripped flesh, lips that could not hide the hideous teeth that were more fangs then teeth. And the smell, a horrid smell, the smell of death was coming from the grave.
The hands of death reached up from the grave, heavy hands, Stone Hands grabbed Arnie and Tom and dragged them into the grave and to their death.
High in the sky, a cloud, a Yellow Cloud looked down, his endlessjourney was over, he was home again.
Kavika 2013. All rights reserved. Do not use without permission.
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The sins of the father.
WOW!!!
That's good!!! Scary-good!
Great writing Kavika!
E.
Thanks niijii. Happy that you enjoyed it.
Tip toe past the graveyard Dowser..
Thanks RW, happy that you enjoyed it.
That story gave me the chills. Fantastic story-telling as usual, Kavika. These days, at my age and how I feel physically, I don't like to thnk about graves.
By the way, isn't Hibbing where Bob Dylan is from?
Happy that you ''enjoyed'' it Buzz. I know how you feel about graves my friend.
Yes, Bob Dylan (Zimmerman) is from Hibbing.
I don't know if I asked this before, or someone else did, but have you ever thought of publishing a book of your stories?
Yes, a few people have Buzz. Mostly, I tellthe stories at schools, when I'm invited to do so. It's quite enjoyable, since many of the students will start asking questions on American Indian culture/history/language. Something that they know little about, and are anxious to expand their knowledge. I also do storytelling on Ojibwe legends and myths.
The students seem to really enjoy them.
Great story Kavika! I really enjoyed it. We each do our part and you are doing yours. I love to see more of these stories. I think they are good for several reasons.
Thanks Sixpick, happy that you enjoyed it.
Thanks for that RW. To the Ojibwe it is much the same.
Glad that your enjoying them Guuny.
And don't go near any open graves....
I agree Dowser..
LOL, GUNNY, there fixed it. Plus it's very early and my finger are made of stone this morning.
Not just perhaps, but in reality. Many of today's tribe have member in both Canada and the U.S. The border was placed between us, it is not of our making. The Ojibwe have half their population in the U.S. half in Canada, as do many other tribes RW.
The only real difference is that in Canada we are called First Nations, in the U.S. American Indian.
Having been born and raised on the border, I'm familiar with Ojibwe, Oji-Cree, Cree, Metis, Sioux and Blackfoot. All have similar beliefs.
That's what happens with age Gunny.
I liked this story Kavika, in a chilling kind of way, thanks for sharing it.
I can tell I like something, without even knowing why, at times.The readingcarries on a thought processonceit is complete. For example, you were asked, if you've ever considered compling a book. The story as well as the commentcaused me to consider whether or not there is also an oral historyat play too. Which can mean versions unique to each story teller, also true in written form.
Happy that you enjoyed it One. You are correct on the oral history, and to the story teller it's important that the story/legend/myth is passed on as correctly as possible.
Thanks for stopping by One.
RW, you are quite correct. The stories all have a moral, and are meant to teach that to listeners. We have been doing this for hundreds and hundreds of years.
Thanks sister.
Happy that you enjoyed it ambiv.
And that was a true story ambiv...LOLOLOL, I don't bring it up around the Redhead though...
Love that one, too!
Kavika, I think I will rename you the Indian Stephen King. That was one well told chilling story.
LOL ambiv, I sent it to my brother in law and he called me and laughing. He said that Red had alluded to an ''incident'' in Sydney...
Thanks Perrie. ''The Indian Stephen King''....next, they'll make a movie of one of my stories...LOL..
hehehe, just one smart Indian.
Your story inspired this
Damn Mac, you have to do illustrations for all my stories.
That is very cool.
Holy shit!!! Not just cool, Kavika, it's a brilliant illustration for your story. Made me shiver when I saw it.
Your right Buzz, it's beyond cool...What an illustration!!!!
Oh damn Mac, your addition just showed up...I love it.
A.Mac, you KNOW I tend to call them the way I see them and I KNOW you're not offended. One can do that with good friends. Okay, here it is. I think the addition reduces the fantasticly intense fearfulness of the original picture. If Kavika were illustrating the story, the yellow cloud image could be on a separate page.
Mac, I tend to agree with Buzz on this. It would be wonderful on a separate page. If somehow it could blend into the lower portion it would be terrific.
Mac, I posted another story entitled, ''Message in the Moss'', please work your magic with it.