BooAlert-Vol I; Trail of Tears

By Moe Mae

Lauren Macon is a sensitive. In other words, she sees dead people. Her dreams and waking visions are filled with Awinita, a young Cherokee Indian girl, Lawrence Raleigh, a soldier who claims her tribe as his family, and an Ancient Evil that threatens them all.
Hoping to leave her past experiences as a paranormal witness behind her, Lauren moves from New York State to outside of Nashville, Tennessee to continue her work as an appraiser. But she soon sees the same ghostly “pioneer” woman in two separate client houses and is strangely affected by these sightings, which feel strangely more terrifying than those she’s experienced before.
Spirit visitations, realistic nightmares, and waking dreams force a reluctant Lauren to take on the role of paranormal investigator to unravel the meaning behind events that began during the pre-Civil War Cherokee migration known as the “Trail of Tears”. Working with a mysterious Cherokee shaman and self-proclaimed witch, Lauren discovers evil possession from long ago. At the same time, she struggles with guilt from an event from her own past and fears she will soon fall under the control of an entity hell-bent on destruction.
BoolAlert, Volume 1: Trail of Tears is pre-civil war historical fiction combined with current ghostly events and is the first in a series of paranormal fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moe Mae
• Release date: Aug 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733227537

Moe Mae

BooAlert: Volume 1; Trail of Tears, is the first book in a series. Thank you for reading! You know that many events in this world can’t always be explained logically, and you may have your own unusual or ghost stories to tell. Like Lauren in the book, many who have experienced the supernatural have been labeled insane, especially if we relate those events to them. So, we have created a Website where those of us who have had paranormal visitations can share them. Won’t you go to our website, http://www.booalert.com, and share your thoughts about this book? If you have questions, we’ll answer them. If you want to offer ideas, we’ll treasure them. We also invite you to share your own experiences with the unexplained, the unusual, and the terrifying, including ghosts. We want to hear about everything paranormal. We’d love to read about your encounters and share even more of our supernatural experiences with you. On the website, users can post photos, share stories, connect with one another, and find and share haunted locations. Please join us to explore your “sixth sense.”

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

LAUREN

Lauren Macon tried to compose her thoughts. She balanced Abner, her gray Scottish fold, on her lap and stared out the window at the beautiful rolling hills of the Tennessee farmland surrounding her rental house. Taking a deep breath, she began to write.

Dear Diary,

Hello, Old Friend. It’s been a while since I scribbled my nonsense on your pages…

She paused and scratched the cat’s ears and remembered how Dr. Greene, her psychiatrist, had suggested she keep a diary of all her encounters and her feelings about them. She recalled his words: Write everything down, dear. The very act of this task will help you gain control of your emotions and help you deal with all your anxieties. She sighed and continued writing…

Yesterday, I was in the middle of an appraisal on a small ranch in a new subdivision. As I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I was stopped dead in my tracks at the sight of a ghost sitting at the table drinking coffee! She returned my gaze with a smile and a curt nod. My gut wrenched as if I had been pushed off the side of a cliff.

She looked to be in her late 70s or early 80s and wore the clothing of a pioneer from the 1800s. Her long-sleeved green cotton dress was fitted with white buttons up the front to the neck surrounded by a small collar the same color. The dress fell to her ankles, hiding her feet. She wore her white hair very old-school, up in a bun with a whalebone comb to keep it all together.

…I know others think I’m insane, but I know I’m not. This is real.

Musing on the memory of the incident, Lauren wasn’t aware of anyone on the porch until a loud knock on the door jolted her back to the present.

She jumped and dropped her pen as Abner leaped from her lap. The pen rolled off the table, hit the slanted floor, and travelled down the worm-holed worn wood. Without thinking, she scraped her chair back over the weathered oak floor, got up, and located the pen’s final resting place. Pushing back long strands of pale blonde hair from her soft blue eyes, she hurriedly bent down to retrieve it while inhaling the odor of age. Mild anxiety shot through her as she wondered who the unexpected visitor might be.

Miss Macon! came the call from downstairs.

An old man poked his head through the screen door as Lauren stepped onto the floor at the bottom of the stairs. She didn’t know the small, short, older man with thinning, long white hair who grinned at her with a full set of perfect, but obviously false, teeth. He wore painter’s pants. A hammer hung from a loop in them, and he carried a metal tool chest.

Lauren approached slowly not sure what to do.

The man’s smile widened. Hello. Name’s Wayne Burlman. I’m the owner of this place. His arm motioned toward the inside of the house. I apologize for barging in on you like this. I became aware the faucet’s leaking, and I like everything to be in working order. I do apologize for this inconvenience.

Lauren’s place was a two-story rental. The wooden-clad farmhouse had a covered wraparound porch. The single-paned windows rattled in protest to the slightest breeze and moaned during thunderstorms. Fireplaces stood in every room. The house sat off the road, situated on a knoll offering panoramic views of the farm below. Lauren was grateful to her cousin Doyle for recommending the management company that handled this property. She remembered calling the number Doyle had given her and asking for Evelyn. It was fortunate for Lauren that Evelyn had left for the day since the agent she contacted said this property had just became available and was anxious to get it rented. It was north of Nashville in a place called Barrens. The agent, who had introduced herself as Amy, had asked Lauren her rental budget and an area in which she preferred to live. After Lauren had given the agent a price range within her budget and a preference for a peaceful, quiet place, Amy had immediately told Lauren about this place. She had emailed pictures, a location map, and a lease agreement to be filled out if interested. The minute Lauren saw the place, she knew she wanted it. Still on the phone with Amy scrolling through the pictures she sent via email, Lauren had told her she would take it.

She had rented places through property management companies numerous times and never met the owners of the place. But Wayne seemed like a very nice person, and she immediately liked him and opened the door for him to enter.

Wayne scooted past her. I’ll be out of your hair in no time; just don’t like things not working right, that’s all.

Lauren gave him a smile, and her pale-blue eyes sparkled at him. You’re fine. I appreciate you fixing the leak.

The old man walked to the kitchen sink and immediately grabbed a screwdriver from his tool box. Popping the top of the faucet knob, he started to unscrew the handle and mumbled, Where you from?

Lauren walked around to the side of him so she could watch Wayne work. I’m from upstate New York, Newburgh. It’s on the Hudson River about 60 minutes from New York City. People always think I’m from the city when I tell them I’m from New York. They forget it’s a good size state.

That’s a really pretty place up there. I’ve been that way several times. It’s prettiest in the fall with the leaves changing and all. Wayne dismantled the faucet as he chatted. Those hills look like a motley shag carpet of red and orange. I have relatives that live in Plattekill and have visited them on several occasions. They have a farm up there. Apple orchards, vineyard, and they grow pumpkins; they even have a store on the place to sell their produce. Funny though, I remember driving up there this one time and noting these towns, Fishkill, Wallkill, Peekskill, and I’m thinking to myself, what’s up with all these killing towns.

Lauren smiled and rubbed her chin. I think the name reflects the Dutch influence of the area. If I remember correctly, ‘kill’ means water or creek in Dutch.

Wayne looked up from the sink and put his tools back in the box. Well, that’s interesting. I always like to know the history of places. Why, look at this house. It’s got history too. I bet you didn’t know that this house is over 150 years old.

Lauren face registered her surprise. Really?

My great-great-grandfather built it. Yeah, it doesn’t have the glimmer that other houses do in these parts, but it’s built solid. Leak’s all fixed. Wayne motioned for Lauren to follow him onto the covered porch. Look over yonder in that field. My grandfather, like his father before him, timbered that area of land and used some of the wood to build this here house. I think my grandfather’s brother had a sawmill that he used to cut the logs into building planks. Back then, they didn’t have these big tree-cutting machines like they have today. They had to cut the tree down with an axe and felling saws and then get mules to skid the logs. Some called it snaking logs out of the woods. I bet that was a sight back then. I’ve seen it done but never had to do it myself. Wayne leaned against a porch post as he reminisced. A man had the reins of one sometimes two mules with a big log chained and connected. Them mules were strong and had a slower walkin’ gait than a horse and not as jumpy. Standing up straight, Wayne turned and pointed to an area behind the house.

Lauren’s gaze followed his hand.

Now right there was the outhouse. Wayne laughed. No indoor plumbing when I was a youngster, nope. No electricity hooked up to this house back then as it is now. We had to prime the well and haul buckets, and we had to haul ourselves to the outhouse too, he said with a grin. Swinging around, he waved his hand toward the land. At one time I think my great gramps had over 3,000 acres, but as the family grew, the farm was divided amongst the family, so it dwindled down. I have 350 acres that this here house sits on. I don’t farm it anymore; I lease it out to the Zimmerman Boys now.

Wayne was on a roll, and Lauren had little chance to interrupt or get a word in.

Oh, I have a few head of cattle on the back side of the place, but that’s pretty much all I do with the land. Look, over there, they planted soybeans. You see it turning yellow?

Lauren nodded.

Well, that field won’t be ready to harvest for another six weeks. It’s got to get good and dried out. Now over there in that field, they are cutting hay. You smell it? The talkative landlord took a deep breath… Mmm, I love the smell of fresh-cut hay.

Lauren also breathed in and muttered, Me too.

Wayne nodded further on. Way back yonder is field corn that’ll be harvested soon.

Lauren turned and pointed to numerous scaffolds with big green leaves. What the name of that crop?

Wayne looked in the direction she pointed and answered, That’s tobacco.

Lauren’s face reflected her confusion. For cigarettes?

Nah, that’s dark-fired tobacco, and they use that in cigar and chewing tobacco.

Oh. Lauren looked back at the green leaves.

Tobacco is a hard crop to raise ‘cause it’s time consuming.

Lauren looked at Wayne. Why? Why grow it then?

It’s a good money crop. We used to call it our cash crop. A good size farm could have anywhere from three to six tobacco barns. Nowadays, it’s not considered a good money crop as when I was a boy. Ya see, back in the day it was the sale of a man’s tobacco that got him caught up on his bills of credit with the stores, mostly share croppers though.

Lauren sat on the porch railing and waited for what she knew would be a long explanation. How do you grow tobacco, and why is it such a hard crop to grow? Her mind wandered as he described the blow-by-blow process of planting, harvesting, and smoking dark-fired tobacco.

Wayne finally took a deep breath and drank from a bottle of water he pulled from his back pocket. What did you do in New York, if you don’t mind me asking?

Not at all. Lauren pushed away from the railing. I was and still am a certified residential appraiser.

Wayne seemed surprised. Appraiser?

Yes. I render an opinion of the value of homes for banks. If a person wants to purchase a house or refinance their home, the lender will hire an independent appraiser to give an opinion of the market value of the house.

So, what brings you to Tennessee?

My cousin Doyle moved to Nashville and strongly encouraged me to move down here.

Wayne shrugged. Looks like I have kept you long enough.

Not at all, Wayne. I’ve enjoyed talking with you.

Well, I do go on a bit. Sorry. Walking back into the house toward the kitchen, he pointed to the sink. Hopefully, this won’t be troubling you anymore. I believe the new washer will keep it from leaking again.

Thank you, Wayne. I appreciate you coming by to fix it.

The phone rang.

Wayne headed toward the front door. Time for me to git. If you need anything, just holler.

She grabbed the phone. Hello, this is Lauren.

Hi, Lauren; it’s Jones at Chase. Are you available to take this order? It’s a conventional refinance.

Sure. Lauren grabbed a pad and pen.

Jotting down the necessary information, Lauren committed to the appraisal on Thursday and would check her email later for the order.

When Lauren got off the phone, she glanced around for Wayne, but he was gone. She really liked him and hoped he would drop by again and tell her more about the history of the area, or maybe she’d let him know that his house had been rented to a woman who could see ghosts. She laughed out loud. She’d moved in less than a year earlier, driving down from upstate New York, looking to escape. Twenty-three years old, Lauren had been a certified residential appraiser since graduating from Mount St. Mary’s College in Newburgh, New York, with a degree in psychology. She’d gone into appraisals at the suggestion of her cousin Doyle, to make some money around her academic schedule. The course load was 75 credit hours which she took over the summer months within a four-consecutive- week training period. She had to train for two years with a residential appraisal firm before taking the state test to become certified and able to work for herself. The schedule was flexible and allowed her to generate an income to help support herself through college.

In retrospect, residential appraiser is the last thing you should have chosen as a profession, Lauren had written in her diary after the first year. Given your predilections.

Lauren believed herself to be a medium, rather than a schizophrenic as her mother seemed to think. She’d always had this uncanny ability to sense, see, and feel the mysterious, which in her case meant ghosts, voices, and dreams.

She preferred the label empath or sensitive. She still marveled at the terminology. It was good to be empathetic or sensitive as opposed to being a freak or oddball or just plain crazy as her parents thought.

Lauren’s cousin Doyle—who seemingly possessed the same abilities or suffered the same affliction, depending on how one looked at it—had moved to Nashville three years ago and had claimed to love the place, which is why he had suggested Lauren come too. Doyle was twenty-five and a professional musician of sorts, only slightly successful, just enough to keep at it, he often said. He had played in a string of local and regional bands growing up—guitar and keyboards—for as long as Lauren could remember. He possessed an unmistakable talent in what everybody knew was a cruel profession. Now in Nashville, he sat in on sessions, played solo at various bars around town, was associated with a couple of bands, and just recently seemed to have found a niche recording backup on demos for other artists.

Dreamers and schemers, Doyle called them, without admitting both terms applied to him as well.

Lauren climbed the stairs to return to her empty room with just a small desk and a chair. She thought the surrounding farmland beautiful. Even though she herself had never smoked, she was soon taken with the smell of the burning tobacco leaves—dark, earthy, sweet, like hot chocolate on a cold night. The smoke from the barn billowed out ever so slowly, caressing the building containing it, before relenting, drifting lazily away. In the mornings looking out the window, Lauren sometimes felt she was atop a mountain looking down at the clouds hovering around the mountain peaks awaiting the sun to break apart the balls of cotton to reveal the sea of grass underneath.

At this time of year, the trees’ leaves, brown and red, had mostly dropped to the ground, but the place was still gorgeous in a winter’s coming sort of way, at least in Lauren’s eyes.

As she walked toward the small desk that held her diary, she picked up Abner who was napping on her chair and dubbed this space the calming room. His purring and this room brought her comfort. Glancing at her diary, she thought of it as the diary room as well. It would make the room and her writing special. Sighing, she decided to finish her diary entry later. She felt better about renting the house—far too much space for a woman alone—but here she didn’t feel trapped, caged, penned. She wasn’t free—she’d never be free.

Lauren made herself supper: roast chicken, potatoes, and salad—nothing special. She wondered whether she shouldn’t invite Wayne to supper at some point. He probably lived alone and appeared in need of company. Maybe it would present an opportunity to learn about the area and his past. There was something interesting about Wayne, but she just couldn’t put her finger on it. Well, she thought, the last thing I want to do is become some sort of detective to figure Wayne out!

Lauren shook her head. That was her problem—one of them anyway—letting her imagination run wild, carrying her to distant worlds—the future, the past. Her imagination often became more of a problem when combined with her dreams and visions.

Lauren enjoyed good food but had never been ambitious enough to truly learn to cook. She didn’t eat alone in restaurants and didn’t like takeout. She knew she was socially awkward, shy but smart, and she had never had a real boyfriend, which she and everyone else considered weird. But as unmoored as she could get sometimes, Lauren had never turned to food for relief. She wanted to keep her five-foot-six-inch frame at about one hundred and fifteen pounds where she felt the most comfortable. The anxiety she experienced with ghostly visions and often terrifying dreams, along with not being a foodie, helped to keep her body in shape. That, and her love of walking. She knew she was attractive. Her long blonde hair hung down the middle of her back. It framed a somewhat pale face with expressive eyebrows and a slender nose and full lips. Men were interested, and sometimes she was interested in them—for a time, up to a point, until her visions became a distraction.

She laughed when she thought of Wayne, who was so obviously harmless. In fact, he reminded her of her own seemingly unthreatening relatives in upstate New York, whom she missed sometimes—the ones she’d run from when her troubles had started. Except for Doyle, who lived close—on the other side of Nashville—close enough to get together easily, far enough so it wouldn’t be an everyday sort of thing—Lauren had made sure of that.

A chill ran up Lauren’s spine as her thoughts rushed back to the subject she had dreaded to consider further since before Wayne’s visit. Why had she seen the apparition during her appraisal? What would this bad omen bring with it?

CHAPTER 2

AWINITA

Awinita raced alongside the river, dodging waterlogged thick tree limbs, vaulting over brush piles made of congregated twigs and grasses that were driven ashore by its receding waters. She had spied the covered wagon moving along the road and sprinted toward it to get a better view. It was the fourth wagon that had come down this road in two months, peaking Awinita’s curiosity to investigate further. Bare feet splashed water as she slipped past moss-covered stones and rested in a brush pile alongside the road. She waited, out of sight, for the wagon to pass.

At twelve or thirteen years old—nobody remembered for sure—she had been without a care in the world and a delight to her mother, Gola, and father, Dustu, and her brother and sister, plus the dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins who lived in close proximity in Cherokee Nation, North Carolina, Georgia, and East Tennessee.

A dark storm had descended over the tribe, with talk of relocation, and Awinita worried this might be her last frolic on the Land of her People her grandfather had owned before the Unakas. After him, her father was supposed to have possessed it, but everybody knew the land belonged to Mother Earth and Father Sky, for use by the People—but you couldn’t convince the Unakas, the hated Long Knives, of that.

Equoni! she shouted, calling for her dog, a big goofy mutt, who had been the runt of the litter. She’d grown into a loyal friend of nine years. They’d named her Equoni, which meant river—a joke really—in honor of her habit of urinating at every third or fourth tree, marking her territory, one leg up, like a male dog, though she was female. Equoni’s bladder had no limits.

As Awinita waited for the wagons to draw nearer, she thought she could hear her name being called by the breeze.

A-win-ee-ta!

Smiling, she remembered her grandmother telling of her naming. Your brown eyes were big like a fawn, and you never made a sound.

Like all Cherokees, she would have several names through the span of her life, she supposed. Others would give her those names—not her own choice—and these names would make a statement about her and what she was like or had accomplished.

For now, Awinita used the stealthy ways of the fawn, her spirit animal and namesake, to learn about the happenings of the community.

Their community was located by the river with a form of leadership like the governing forces that administers justice in the colonies. Substantial farms with houses were meticulously maintained. A local newspaper kept the residents abreast of local news and events.

Awinita pulled her feet out of the river and hugged her legs. Her long black hair cascaded around her. She sighed as she remembered a few weeks ago when her father’s cousin had charged into the house yelling that someone had set his house on fire and killed all his livestock. Then, several days ago, the soldiers had come to speak with the elders in a place two days ride off to the east: New Echota, capital of the Cherokee Nation. Awinita had been told angry words were spoken, with the Unakas insisting that her people needed to leave their nation for other lands to the west. Awinita had asked if there would be creeks, trees, and eagles in their new home. Her parents had shaken their heads and said, We don’t know.

Even the Adawehis—the medicine people—did not know, and they knew everything from the beginning of time and could tell it on feast days using words so ancient and forgotten even the oldest elders hadn’t heard them.

Awinita had never been so shocked and frightened to the core. She’d always been certain her father had the answers to every question under the sky. Never in her life had she heard her parents say there was something that could not be known, provided the family was thoroughly consulted and given time to contemplate the question.

The wind rose as if in response. Rain would come soon—maybe days of it—and the creek would rise. Awinita wiped the tears streaming down her cheeks at the thought she might be taken away from Equoni or this place. She might never again be the stealthy fawn in the forest.

Awinita wondered who could provide an answer to what awaited ahead. Perhaps a ghost-witch born of the dead body of a shaman who practiced black magic? But it was forbidden.

She wiggled her toes and thought of water and the river, or the Long Man legend of a