The Ghost of Weasel's Valley
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While staying with his grandmother and his uncle in the hills of Perry County, Arkansas, fourteen-year-old Sammy Wallace hears strange noises in the valley behind the house. His grandmother and uncle tell him a curious legend that exists in the area. While investigating, Sammy discovers an odd boy called Weasel, who lives up on Knob
Sam L. Sullivan
Sam Sullivan lives on a farm in northeast Arkansas, near the town of Jonesboro. He is a retired public school counselor and Licensed Professional Counselor. He has worked with kids of all ages. He and his wife Jan have two sons and one grandson.
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The Ghost of Weasel's Valley - Sam L. Sullivan
Written by Sam L. Sullivan
Illustrated by Nathan Adam Sullivan
To my son Adam, who worked tirelessly on the illustrations for this book. It was our first time to work together, but I hope it won’t be the last.
© 2018 Sam L. Sullivan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN: 978-0-9998226-3-0
CHAPTER 1
Strange Noises
I
f you had come right out and asked me whether I believe in ghosts, there was a time when I would have said no. If I did believe in ghosts, I would say, I’d go looking in a rickety old house somewhere, not in a place like Weasel’s Valley.
But I saw something a long time ago that changed my mind, something I never forgot, something I never really got over. When it happened, I was scared. Scared plumb half to death. I’m not ashamed to admit it. You would have been scared, too.
It started
the day after Christmas the year I had just turned 14. My folks and I visited my grandma, Ona Wallace, and my uncle, Woody, who lived in the hills of Perry County, Arkansas. In a letter, Granny had invited me to come prepared to stay for a few days. Granny’s house was long and narrow, what we called in those days a
shotgun
house. It was heated by two cast-iron stoves that stood in the front room and the kitchen. Granny slept in an iron-frame bed in the front room, which was the warmest room in the house, besides the kitchen.
Uncle Woody’s room was next, then the kitchen, which had a small bathroom added onto the back. The last room had started out as a screened porch but had been boxed in for guests. Not that there were that many guests to put up. As far as I knew, there never were any but me.
Don’t worry,
Granny had told my folks, Woody’ll get Sammy into town to catch the bus home before school starts back.
That really won’t be necessary,
I said, and everyone laughed.
It was cold that winter. Man, was it cold! I spent most of the time at first standing practically on top of one or the other of the stoves, turning around and around so as to roast evenly on all sides.
That first night, after I had stood and turned for about a half hour, I slipped off my shoes made a dash for the cot out on the back porch and then dove, clothes and all, beneath the covers. Every bed in the house was piled high with thick homemade quilts that felt mighty good on those nights when you could see your breath coming out of your mouth just the same as if you were sleeping outside.
I lay still for a while, until the spot where I hit was warm. Then I began to move my arms and legs one at a time in order to get a larger space warmed up. I heard Uncle Woody’s heavy footsteps come through the kitchen and go out the door that stood opposite the one to the room where I lay. I raised up and looked out the curtainless window just in time to see him disappear into the woodshed that stood several yards from the house.
The moon was nearly full and shone almost as bright as day. Frost had begun to settle on everything, giving a magical glitter to the world outside. The shallow valley that fell just behind the house was silvery gray in the