The Kingdom Bell of the Night

By Roy Pace

Mother saw a ghost, and we believed her when she described her terrifying experience. This collection of ghost stories is based on Mother's ghost and other real stories passed down in the family for over 100 years. Each story tells of an incident or event experienced by a family member. The resulting stories can be scary, strange, or even unbelievable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roy Pace
• Release date: Aug 8, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452378152

Roy Pace

Roy Pace is a Lecturer in English at Valdosta State University in Valdosta, Georgia. A native of Nashville, Tennessee, he is the son of the well-known primative woodcarver, Roy Pace, Sr. With generations of his family dating back nearly to the beginning of Tennessee, he has grown up hearing tales of ghosts and strange happenings that come from the mountains and hills of Middle Tennessee.

Book preview

The Kingdom Bell of the Night

By Roy Pace

Illustrated by Maruth Hall

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Roy Pace

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Contents

Preface

Russellville

Four Poster

Minnie

The Kingdom Bell of the Night

The Rocker

Rosemary’s Stairway

L&N

The Prophet of Death

Preface

This collection of ghost stories is based on real stories told in my family for several generations. I heard these stories many times as Mama told us about family members who had seen ghosts, and we often repeated the stories around scout troop and church group campfires.

Mama’s main story was about a ghost she and her sister saw when they were girls. They never varied their descriptions of what they saw. Even now, over 60 years after she saw the ghost, Mama still tells the story with awe and a little fright.

Other stories were not much more than the results of pranks. At one slumber party when Mama was a girl, she and her friends sat on the porch late in the evening telling ghost stories. My grandmother, being the prankster, hung a sheet from a rope, tied the rope to a pole, climbed out onto the porch roof, and listened for just the right time to swoop the sheet over the edge. Her timing was perfect, scaring the girls just as the story reached its climax. Granny claimed not to believe in ghosts, but I don’t remember ever hearing her tell my sisters and me that any of the real stories we heard were not true.

The stories in this collection are fictionalized accounts of each of the stories I heard from my mama and others in the family. Many times, ghost stories passed down over generations are nothing more than bits and fragments of incidents that have often been repeated. Some of these incidents have been reported in only a few sentences. I have endeavored to place each story into a context that dramatizes the story.

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Russellville

I confess I indulged Penelope too much as she grew, but she was my only child and I denied her very little. I don’t know why I feel the need to confess when I tell her story, but I guess I still feel guilty. Don’t get me wrong; Penelope was a beautiful and charming young lady. I knew in my soul that she would be the belle of Russellville because so many people in town loved her so much. Still, her mother and I made some mistakes when we tried to protect her from the hardships and realities of the life that we had experienced. We bought her pretty dresses and fine ribbons from Sam Walter’s dry goods store on the square. We sent her to Miss Thelma’s school where she got the best training in being a knowledgeable and refined young lady. We took her to church every Sunday for worship and every Wednesday for prayer meeting, and we were proud that she had begun to assist Miss Martha with a Sunday School class for young children. We never had problems with Penelope; we thought she was the perfect daughter.

Late in the year 1899, Penelope turned sixteen. I knew a boy from town was sparking her, but I swore to myself that I would protect her from all but the purest attentions by any of the local boys. I let Penelope have visitors on the front porch or in the parlor, but I would not permit her to accompany a boy to any function. My wife, Henrietta, agreed with me about most things, but she thought I should let Penelope go to group events with a boy as long as we knew him and his family.

The boy from town was Frederick Allen Tompkins, III, whose father was the proprietor of the Tompkins Machine Works. I liked Frederick, and I often sat on the porch and talked to him when he came to visit Penelope. Over time, I grew to trust him, and I encouraged Penelope to have him over for meals and for some of our family celebrations during the holidays. Frederick was a tall boy, but he was a bit skinny and awkward. I’d often watch him arrive in his father’s buggy and marvel at the way he would grin at me, rein in the horse, and spill out of the buggy seat all in one confused motion, yet when he hit the ground he always seemed to regain his height and some degree of grace before rounding the buggy to shake my hand and say, Thank you for letting me visit, Mr. Andrews. That’s what I liked about him; he was polite and formal and friendly at the same time.

Frederick visited on a regular basis through the winter of 1899. Even on the coldest days he and Penelope would bundle up with coats and blankets out in the porch swing. Henrietta and I both nagged them to come into the warm parlor, but they wanted to talk without the two of us listening to every word. I always had a clear view of the two of them sitting outside the parlor window, and I often thought back to the times when Henrietta and I were first getting to know each other and had to conspire to get some time alone away from her parents. Even though I liked Frederick, I still wanted him in sight at all times.

My rule about Penelope’s being alone with Frederick was challenged in late March of 1900. One morning, as Henrietta was boiling coffee and I was sitting at the table reading the previous day’s edition of the weekly Russellville Courier, Penelope came into the kitchen with a serious look on her face. Looking up at that stern face, I knew from experience that I was about to be asked a question that Penelope felt was terribly important. I also knew that she would consider my answer in the gravest sense; if I answered the way she wanted me to, her world would be wonderful, but if I answered in any other way, her life would be over.

You have a mighty serious look on your face, I said.

I have a problem, she said.

Is this a serious problem, I asked, knowing the answer already. I looked up at Henrietta, and her stern face confessed that the two of them had already talked about this question and agreed that the best way to handle it was now taking place in our kitchen.

I want to go to the church picnic next Saturday, she said.

We always go to the picnic, I said, again looking at Henrietta for clues.

I want to go with Frederick, she said.

The Tompkins are always there, I said, so I’m sure Frederick will be there. I knew what was coming, but I stalled to buy time to think of a good answer to the question that I had been dreading. I looked up into Penelope’s face. Her serious look had blossomed into a broad smile.

Daddy, may I please have Frederick pick me up in his buggy and take me to the picnic. I know it will just be the two of us, but we’re going to the church and you and Mother will be there, and it’s not far.

Once again, I looked at Henrietta to see if she showed any sign that she approved or disapproved. Her face was blank. She was playing innocent.

I’ll have to discuss this with your mother, I finally said. Go get ready for school.

Henrietta thought Frederick driving Penelope to the picnic would be okay, and I knew that we would be riding along the road not far behind them. We agreed that this was one case where we could relax the rules a little, but I insisted we both remain united in our insistence that Penelope was too young to go out with boys.

I always have happy memories of the days leading up to the picnic. Henrietta had been making a new spring dress for Penelope, so she worked each evening to finish it in time for the picnic. I left the fine details of dressmaking to Henrietta, but I marveled at how much prettier that dress got with each fitting. It was light and delicate, and it danced with each step and each turn. Penelope was so pretty in that dress that I almost changed my mind about letting her go with Frederick.

Early Saturday morning, I went to the paddock to catch Daisy. She trotted around inside the board fence in one direction and then suddenly reversed herself. She bobbed her head and shook it from side to side. She didn’t act like she was running away from me, but I had the devil of a time catching her. I led her into the barn and put her into a stall, and she calmed down a little. I had no idea what was wrong with that horse; I figured something had spooked her before I got there--probably one of the barn cats that shot out of the darnedest places without warning. After laying the tack out for the buggy, I headed back to the house for breakfast. The sun etched several bright lanes across the shingles at the peak of the roof and the sky was full of fat, white clouds that seemed to puff out their chests as if to challenge the sun’s rays to a fight. I caught a whiff of rain as I stepped up on the back porch; a nearby spring shower was settling the dust and watering the daffodils of a distant neighbor.

Henrietta was at the stove. The blend of coffee, sausage fresh from the smokehouse, and fresh bread mixed so many rich memories of my mother’s kitchen with an anticipation of the fine breakfast that was to come that I couldn’t help but feel that all was perfect that morning. I kissed Henrietta on the cheek.

I put your clothes out on the bed, she said, gesturing with a spatula.

Thank you, I replied. Do I have to ask if Penelope is up?

Henrietta smiled and answered my question without speaking. I walked by Penelope’s room and looked in. She was seated at her dressing table in front of the window, still wearing her gown and leaning close to the mirror to check every perfect curl in her hair.

Just wanted to see if you were up, I said.

Go away, I’m busy, she replied.

I couldn’t tell if she was teasing or nervous or cross, but I didn’t want to ruin the morning. I went on to my room to dress for the picnic, but I called out to her as I was leaving that she should take along a wrap in case of showers. She muttered something I didn’t understand, but I assumed she was acknowledging what I said. After dressing, I noticed her door was closed.

Is Penelope coming to breakfast? I asked Henrietta.

It will take her all morning to get dressed, she said. She said she wasn’t hungry. Henrietta scooped generous portions of sausage, eggs, biscuits, and gravy onto a plate and slid it in front of me as she left the room.

I’m going to get dressed, she said. Leave the jelly alone. I’m taking it to the picnic.

Yes ma’am, I replied as I put the jelly jar back into the pasteboard box on the table. The food was extra special. I wonder why I always think of the food when I think of that morning. Of all the unimportant things, the food always returns as a pleasurable memory.

As I sopped up the last of the gravy, I heard a low rumble outside. I walked to the front door and stood at the screen. The sun’s brightness dimmed but reflared as clouds played chase across the sky. The tone of the door spring and the pop of the porch floorboards were followed by the slap of the door as I stepped out and looked at the sky back toward town. Down the hill, the white steeple of the First Baptist Church competed with the even whiter steeple of the United Methodist Church to gather the most sunlight and reflect it back to the east. I realized the steeples