Ghost Mine

DREAM MINE

By Dave Stone

In memory of Charles Chunk Davis.

My best friend in sixth and seventh grades.

"The prince of the power of the air;

the spirit that now worketh in the children of disobedience."

• Ephesians-

Regard not them that have familiar spirits, neither seek after wizards to be defiled by them. I am the lord your god.

• Leviticus-

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 – Dave Stone

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or in any means without the express written consent of the author.

readadventurebooks@gmail.com

Other books by Dave Stone

Matthew

Autumn Chill

Scout Camp

Bumps in the Night

Basketball Warriors

Carnival

CHAPTER 1

The Keeper

The moon hung low over the western hills. It was red, it was muted, and unique. The old man rocked slowly in his wooden chair. The weathered floor of the porch below him groaned submissively in mild affirmation. The cooling winds from the mountain slopes chilled his bones as they wended their way to the valley below. His eyes perused the valley floor as his mind reflected on days gone by. A sea of infinity blinked down from above; directives of light from the one true God.

Responsibility rested on the old man’s shoulders like a familiar cloak. The burden weighed heavily on his conforming frame, recounting too-many years of his diligent watch.

The old man was comforted, to some small degree, by his record of service. But now, after all of this time, he earnestly awaited the season of glory that lay imminently ahead. There was something, however, this particular year that was different from the others. There was something peculiar, something not quite right. The brightness of the lights in the valley below was irregular and erratic, not consistent with the patterns of previous times. Animals acted unpredictably. They seemed confused and uncertain of their seasons and cycles.

The beasts of the field were restless. The winds from the skies were frequent and fierce. They came from all directions, along with large thunderheads in giant formations of fire and light. They rumbled through the valley with noise and aplomb, to mask and conceal whatever may follow.

Most of these signs, though obvious enough, were still not apparent to the everyday folk. But the old man watched and the old man knew—that’s why he had accepted this troublesome task. The gift of discernment had always been his. It was subtle and slight, yet powerful and compelling. It had showed him the way in earlier years, through countless decisions in precarious times, and he had little doubt it would lead him again, in the uncertain days directly ahead.

His mind drifted to his granddaughter, asleep in her bed. She was innocent and pure, unmindful of the things of the dark. He ducked his head and whispered a prayer, as he would do many times more in the weeks ahead.

He often wondered how things might have been if his good-wife Jean had not passed from the world at such a tender, young age. Nineteen years had passed since she had left him alone. His heart ached still for the love they once shared. Once every year she would come in his dreams—gentle and lovely, peaceful and pure. He was reassured each time, through one more touch of his soul, that she waited him still.

The wind touched his face. He raised up his head and a smile parted his lips. What an old fool he was, sitting up here on this rickety old porch and watching the lights in the valley below.

The wind whirled again. He rocked back and forth as his senses informed him, one more time, that something evil was coming this way.

CHAPTER 2

Old Cliff

Hoo-dee-hoot! Hoo-dee-hoot! Chunk sent me a signal from his place of hiding. He was hunkered down and peeking out from the Bull Rushes on the far side of the Pond.

The moonlight glistened off the surface of the water. A hundred ducks quacked in response to the sudden disturbance of their peaceful slumber.

Old Cliff, the part-time cop, was out on the prowl. We had no idea whose late-night phone call had summoned him here this particular Friday night and we really didn’t care. We just didn’t want to be blamed for the shenanigans of someone else, that’s all. Besides, we knew in our unsullied, young way that we were as innocent as babes and had no desire for a confrontation with the cops or our parents at this unseemly hour of the night.

Ho-dee-hoot! Hoo-dee-hoot! I signaled back from my side of the waters.

I stood midst the boughs of a small, bushy tree, safely concealed from the bespectacled vision of our small town sheriff.

My ‘Barney Fife’ reply back to my friend, and his ‘Gomer Pyle’ signal over to me had the Sheriff confused. He stood frozen in place on the old wooden bridge. He had no idea how many of us he was up against, so in our calculations we were already one step ahead of the old man.

Alright you kids! the sheriff shouted, I know what you did and I know who you are! You had better give it up now…you hear?

A short silence was followed by an explosive burst of laughter from my friend across the way.

Cliff peered across the waters and shouted out, Who’s there?

Little Old Lady, Chunk answered.

Little Old Lady Who? Cliff stammered.

I didn’t know you could yodel, Chunk hollered as he sprinted up the grassy slope, disappearing into the city park. He wailed like a Banshee as he slid into the darkness beneath a large wooden picnic table. He turned quickly and peered back through the darkness, waiting for Cliff to make his next move.

We knew Cliff well, so we weren’t too concerned for our safety. Cliff was a farmer by day who moonlighted as the sheriff at night. He was as blind as a bat and walked with a noticeable limp. Chunk had commented many times that if you couldn’t out run either Frankenstein or Cliff you deserved to get caught.

Your turn’s a comin’, you little buggers! Cliff yelled from his perch on the bridge. He turned and limped slowly back towards his car to send a signal to the county for help.

But it was already too late. I had just opened the door of the car and squirmed my way onto the front seat. One hand on the clutch and the other on the stick and presto, the car was out of gear. I wriggled back out, scurried behind the car and placed both hands on the trunk. It didn’t take much, a gentle push, a mild shove, and the car began to move ever so slowly down the bank towards the pond. Gravel popped and tires crunched as the car slowly picked up speed.

I slipped back into the trees, parted the branches and peeked back out to watch the show. I had no intention of missing what would happen next.

The old man came to a stop at the end of the bridge. A low moan emanated from the depths of his soul. He stood alone in the darkness and watched helplessly as his civic transportation dropped into the waters and floated slowly out to sea. The trunk of the car rose up in the air like the back end of a large bug. Shortly, only bubbles remained of the city’s total fleet. Cliff muttered out an oath. It was mostly unintelligible but obviously crude. I watched in amusement, a smile covering my face. The old man muttered something more. Then he turned as if to shout out to my friend, but he hesitated, and then, seemingly resigned to the fact, stuck his hands in his pockets and hobbled up the road towards town.

Hoo-dee-hoot! I signaled to Chunk.

Hoo-dee-hoot! he squawked back.

We met on the far side of the pond and shared a few laughs before beating a quick retreat towards Chunk’s back lawn. We knew it was not a good night to be caught outside of the confines of Chunk’s back yard, and we also knew that is exactly where we had been all night long. After all, we really hadn’t done anything to speak of on this quiet Friday night.

CHAPTER 3

Fleas

Chunk had always been my best friend, at least it had always seemed that way. We had played together for several years on the same Little League team and had developed a sure and unshakable camaraderie. I was the smallest kid on the team, a line-drive hitter and a speedy little shortstop. Chunk was our power-hitter and a third-baseman of defensive repute.

My hair was cut short in a buzz and freckles splattered my ruddy cheeks. Chunk had muscles in places where the rest of us never even had places. I guess that’s how he got his nickname. His real name was Charles and I figured that was reason enough to come up with another name. Curly, brown hair hung down onto his forehead, just above his bright green eyes. He always wore a grin, simply because he was cheerful by nature and easy to like.

In our sixth grade class we had sat just across the aisle from each other, as if we had intentionally planned it that way.

And today was Monday, not just any Monday mind you, but the Monday leading into the last week of school. We could hardly contain our emotions as we eagerly anticipated the freedoms that lay shortly ahead. The teachers seemed a little stiffer and acted somewhat sterner as of late, but it hardly seemed to matter because we knew that in a few short days they would lose their control and have no further power over the days of our lives.

The school was abuzz with the electrifying news of the recent baptism of old Cliff’s cop-car. Kids openly questioned who might have been the perpetrators of this nefarious incident, but Chunk faded into the crowd and I too melted away. We smiled blankly as we listened to the talk. We had pledged an oath of secrecy in a pact sealed with blood, and it was certain that neither of us would spill our guts.

.The bell rang insensitively, meaning lunch was nearing its end. An army of kids hung reticently by the school’s front doors, awaiting the summons of the final bell, when three singular girls, a trio of flea bags came sauntering by. Now these three girls happened to be sixth-graders just like me, and on the surface they seemed as normal as anyone else, but somehow, sometime, in the years that had passed, they’d had the label of flea bags daubed on their innocent young souls.

Now what exactly was so different about these girls could be debated long and hard, and indeed frequently had been argued back and forth by many a kid in the school. Chunk and I had pondered the question a few times ourselves.

Life is usually not fair, and times do occur when innocents are picked for the slaughter by the winds of fate, especially in elementary school.

Norene Butler had the clearest problem. She had been affected by an insidious childhood disease that had left her left leg withered since the days of her infancy. She was often mocked for this innocent blight, by countless students who were heartless and cold, as she hobbled to and fro through the halls of the school.

Becky Nabors was really kind of cute if you just stepped back and looked at her, but for whatever reason she had received her label a few years back and once an ID is attached to a kid it takes a minor miracle to shed that notorious stamp.

Skye Cloward was the last of the Three Amigos and her problem was obvious—she should have been a boy. Her brunette hair was cut so short it almost looked like a buzz. She never wore makeup and dressed each day in worn sneakers and jeans. She played shortstop for the Blue Sox and liked to spit.

A boy tagged Skye on the shoulder.

Oooohh, I have flea bag’s fleas, he moaned. He feigned a swoon and then tagged someone else.

Oooohh, now you have flea bag’s fleas, he shouted.

Before you could mutter, life-just-isn’t-quite-fair, everyone chased everyone else, wiping the fleas from one kid to another. The party was lively with laughter all around at the expense of three, innocent girls who slowly ambled into the school without looking back. Regrettably, they were accustomed to this kind of behavior and resigned to their terrible fate.

The ring of the bell was the only reason this coldhearted spectacle came to an end. Kids laughed raucously as they swarmed back into their classrooms, totally oblivious to the feelings of the three harmless girls, and caring for nothing more than a few cheap laughs.

CHAPTER 4

Marbles

Eventually, after a tiresome and much too lengthy month of May, the last day of school finally arrived. They released us early and kids disappeared in every direction, free at last from the books and the bells and the grind of daily homework that never seems to end. Kids scattered randomly like leaves in the wind, dispersing in all directions to far-away homes, houses of friends, and secretive places in furtive and distant corners of the world. The wind combed their hair, the sun touched their brows, and smiles lit their faces, as they ran freely, with an exhilarating thirst for the future that only a summer full of days can bring.

I waited for Chunk as he bid goodbye to