Hauntings of Avalon: Harold Edwards side of the Story

By Flo Swann

Harold Edwards adopted by a small town after his discharge from the Marines in 1969. He landed at a roadside motel where he made his home for over 43 years. He became a well-respected citizen, women loved him, and most men feared him. Harold met interesting characters in his time and knew important people in his town.

Harold takes us on hi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rushmore Press LLC
• Release date: Mar 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957943015

Flo Swann

Flo Swann lives in the Midwest with her husband and little dog, Sweety Q. She enjoys writing fictional stories, blogs, and poetry. She also loves spending time with her six [e-mail]

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ISBN 978-1-957943-00-8 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-957943-01-5 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Flo Swann

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Submitting cover designs credit artist; Lisa Gladin

Rushmore Press LLC

1 800 460 9188

www.rushmorepress.com

Printed in the United States of America

I dedicate this story to my wonderful husband, Big John, my family and friends for all the support one could ask for.

Also, my friend Lisa Gladin, who helped me find the vision of the book cover through her artwork.

Contents

Introduction

My Beginnings

Beginnings of a Love Affair

Long Winter, Long Distance

Summer Fun to Be Had…

The Incident That Changed My World

Transformations

1976, When the Snow Blows into Town

My 40s in the 90s

Retirement…

INTRODUCTION

Before the break of day, cops from different law enforcement agencies gathered by the old train trestle behind the Avalon Motel. Someone found my cave entrance and stumbled upon the bones I left behind.

Helicopters from all major media outlets flew overhead, casting light on the field while the forensic teams brought out all the bones in my cave and loaded them into the van. The media was calling it a Mystery of the Boneyard Cavern, since no one had a clue on how many victims, or who they were, and how they got there. My secret wasn’t discovered until five years after my death. That’s how skilled I was at my craft.

I had many friends in this town. Hell, I was on the bowling team with the county sheriff for over 10 years. I had the same barber for 30 years until he passed; I had the same route for 26 years as a mail carrier. Everyone knew who I was and respected me, being a Vietnam veteran and all.

I’ve no reasons left to lie or cover up the side gig I had while I was in my physical body. Now that the world knows about my cave and all my guests I invited over the years, I can tell you my side of the story.

I’m sure all those investigators involved with my case wondered, how did this mass killer stay under the radar?

They can profile the serial killer all day long. All the experts can only imagine how diabolical I was from the evidence I left behind.

They will never have all the answers to their questions.

I watch from here in purgatory or whatever it’s called. Maybe now my soul can move on to where it’s supposed to go. I want to tell my story so that everyone can know the facts. The best place to start is at the beginning. Books will be written and movies filmed, that’s cool with me. Just get the facts right is all I ask.

MY BEGINNINGS

Iwas told my mother was a healthy 17-year-old girl when she gave birth to me on Dusty Ranch in Kaufman Texas, about 30 miles outside of Dallas. A midwife and my sisters helped deliver me into this world on January 4, 1949. The ol’ man was conducting his business in Dallas for a couple of days. We had no transportation to get my mother the medical help she needed, my mother bleed out. If she made it to a hospital, she may have survived.

Up on his return, he was told that his young bride had passed away. Sara said he lost his mind. He wouldn’t look at me, hold me, or even acknowledge my existence for months. My sisters Sara and Jane, who were 15 and 13 years old at that time, raised me for my first 2 years. Jane became pregnant at age 15 by a ranch hand. They married her off, and she didn’t bring her family by for visits. I understood why.

Sara took my mother’s place and raised me while the ol’ man became a filthy drunk. Sara slept in our father’s bed for as long as I could remember, that’s how fucked up he was.

She made sure I graduated from high school and I feel she had my best interest in mind. Sara had to drop out of school after my birth. When I left our family ranch, Sara was 33 years old with an 8th grade education.

In 1967, on my 18th birthday, I enlisted for the Marines. They waited for me to finish my senior year and I was off to boot camp. Sara cried and hugged me tight that day I left. I informed the ol’ man I would never step foot on Dusty Ranch again; I kept that promise. I figured they assumed I died in Vietnam. That was cool with me.

By the time spring of ’69 rolled around, President Nixon was feeling the heat from social unrest from across the country over the Vietnam war.

He drafted the Nixon Doctrine to bring troops home. I was on my second tour by then.

For most of my time in the Marines, they assigned my platoon to seek and destroy missions in Cambodia and Vietnam.

July 5, 1969, we walked into an ambush. The enemy surrounded us, popping up from the ground and falling from the trees. I went full-on guerrilla warfare on all those little cockroaches. Before I took a bullet in my left shoulder, I made several headshots. It pays to be a foot taller than the enemy.

When the bullet hit me, I couldn’t hold the gun, so I charged with my knives. A few I grabbed by the head and slit their throats.

We heard our planes coming. We all started running and helping our wounded. Our leader said choppers were landing in the rice field. We were a few hundred feet away from the pickup spot. I carried four soldiers out of there before we bombed the area. We left no man behind that day.

That morning, my platoon was 30 men strong, then 18 dead and 5 wounded before noon. The entire battle lasted 15 minutes. It seemed like a movie while it was happening, but once I boarded the chopper, I lost consciousness. I woke up in a med camp and did not know where we were.

July 7, 1969: I received papers telling me I was going back to the States to a military hospital in Virginia. President Nixon gave me an honorable discharge and a couple of medals for my help to get my brothers out of the jungle.

After 4 weeks of recovery, they gave me a few bucks and a bus ticket back to Texas.

During mid-afternoon, 4 days later, I arrived in Dallas. I went into the terminal to see when the next bus was going north. I bought a ticket to Montana, and that bus leaves in the morning.

Since I was downtown, I got a locker for my bag, then ventured the streets and got some supper. I was happy to see the city one last time. I knew I didn’t want to set foot in Texas again, once I boarded the bus for Montana.

I sat in the bus terminal and slept on a bench till 4 a.m. My bus ticket was for 6 a.m., and that was the longest 2 hours of waiting in my life.

Three days on that Greyhound bus, I pondered where I wanted to settle. Seeing the Midwest, with lots of trees and foliage, made me want to stay.

We stopped for supper at the 76 truck stop that was right off the Interstate. I was glad to stretch my legs and go to the restroom.

They had a small diner and our bus filled up the tables. They had a counter area, and I sat down on a stool, looking at the menu. The food smelled so good; I couldn’t decide what I wanted.

The meatloaf is superb, the man sitting next to me said. Yeah, that sounds good. With mashed potatoes and green beans, I said. I looked at the guy. He seemed friendly. Hello, I’m George Wiseman. He had his hand extended out for a handshake.

Hello, I’m Harold Edwards, nice to meet you. I shook his hand.

Likewise. Where are you headed?

I got this bus ticket to Montana, man I’m sick of riding the bus, I said. Then a blond server walked up to the counter. What can I get you, gentleman?

I will have the meatloaf platter with mashed potatoes, green beans, and a large glass of milk, I said. I will have the same, except I will have a coke to drink, George said.

Where are you from? You sound like Texas, he asked.

Yes I am, Kaufman, 30 miles outside of Dallas.

And you don’t like Texas? Y’all don’t get a lot of snow, do ya?

I have seen it twice. I grew up on a cattle ranch that’s dusty and dry.

I have never been there. I’m from Tennessee. I met my wife here when I was passing through, on my way to California. I fell in love with her and this little town.

Man, that sounds nice, I said.

If you want to stay on, I know a place you can stay, and I got a friend that always needs labor for his construction business.

You would help a stranger like that? I said with eye contact. George looked serious. It wouldn’t hurt to take a chance. I can always get another bus ticket.

Ok, it sounds good. I left the military hospital 7 days ago. They gave me a ticket to Dallas. I spent the night in the bus station and got on this bus 3 days ago. I would love a bed to sleep in tonight, I said.

Well, my friend, I saw him earlier, he said he had too many empty rooms.

I will take a chance, I said. After I finished my last bite, I told George I would be right back. I walked over to the bus driver and told him I was getting off here. He said okay and informed me my ticket was good for 24 hours in case I changed my mind.

I followed the bus driver outside to get my bag out of the luggage compartment. Well, good luck to ya, son. I hope you find all of what you are looking for, the driver said. Thank you, sir, you have a safe trip to Montana, I said as I walked toward George. He was standing next to a 1969 Chevy El Camino, and it was a beauty—shiny black leather seats and 454 big block: white narrow pinstripes and chrome rims. I made the decision that I will have one just like it one day.

Man, this is a badass ride. I want one too, I said.

You will, so how long were you in Nam? he asked.

I had 23 months in before the ambush happened. We lost 18 of our brothers and 5 wounded. I took a bullet in my left shoulder but kept running. I went guerrilla warfare on their asses when I couldn’t hold and fire my weapon.

Well, if I was a Cong, and you were coming at me with knives, I’d shit my pants. You’re 7-foot tall, and they don’t grow past 5 ½ feet tall. He had us both laughing.

We pulled into the parking lot of the Avalon Motel, and he parked in front of the office.

George walked in first and a short, heavy-set bald man greeted George. Hey, man, what’s going on?

Well, I met this soldier at the diner. He needs a place to stay, George said.

Nice to meet ya, son. My name is Smitty James, he said, and we shook hands.

I’m Harold Edwards.

Well, I need to get home now. Harold, I will talk to ya soon. Here’s Bobby Fentress’s phone number. Call him before 9 a.m. I’m sure he can put you to work, George said. See ya and thanks again for helping me out, I said.

No problem, we vets have to look out for one another, he said and walked out the door.

That’s right, Smitty said, looking up at me.

How tall are you, son?

I’m 6'5."

You could almost step on those short-ass Commies. I hope you killed a bunch of them, Smitty said with a fat cigar hanging out his mouth. I had to laugh. I got a bunch of them, I assured him.

Ok, Harold, let’s walk down to room 1. Smitty grabbed his keys and I followed him down the sidewalk.

He opened the door, and we walked in. This is my biggest room. I used to have 2 beds here. But business changed when the Interstate opened. So now I have this section for long-term guests.

It looks good to me. I’ve spent 7 days total on 2 different buses to get here.

Yeah, I’m sure you’re worn out. Now here’s your key, and phone calls are free for locals. Dial 9 before the number you are calling.

How much to stay here? I asked.

"We’ll work it out. I know Bobby needs help, so we will talk about it when you get paid.

Thank you, sir.

It’s all good. Don’t worry about anything. If you’re a good worker, Bobby will pay you well, Smitty said, then he shut the door behind him.

I sat down at the small round table with 2 chairs and looked around.

I’ve a long dresser, six drawers, with a tall mirror center on top. A13" black-and-white tv sitting on one end of the dresser, and a coat rack with a shelf on top by the front door.

I threw my bag down and got out the few outfits I own to wash up. I’m a clean individual, I had to wash up every morning when the bus made a rest stop. I don’t see how people could go a week without a proper bath.

I took a long, hot shower and wrapped a towel around my waist. I looked in the mirror and it looked like a mini skirt on me and I could barely make the fold and tuck to stay on my waste.

I washed my shirts and underwear and hung them up to dry. I turned the TV on in time to catch Walter Cronkite’s report of the daily news. This August evening, there’s a big music festival going in upper New York. There were thousands of people, a vast field full of tents, camping out in between shows. First, I heard about this big festival.

I felt re-energized from the shower, so I explored my room.

I had a backdoor with 2 concrete steps. All I could see was a cornfield and the highway.

Coming in the back door, I stumped my toe on a floorboard under the rug. I flipped the rug to the side to find a cellar door.

It opened to the side and rested on the wall across from the bathroom. I put my boots on and went down the steps.

The cellar looked like it was under rooms 2 and 3. I walked the length to see if there was another door. I liked that I had only access to this cellar. I already know where I’m going to hide my money. I didn’t like banks and I feel my money is safer with me.

I come back to my room with a neck cramp from having to hang my head low to walk around down there.

I like my room; I felt excited about my new ventures. I ain’t been here a couple of hours and I’ve got a bed and will have a job.

My ol’ man trained me to be a work horse, working me before and after school back when I turned 7 in first grade. I know what I’m about, but I was nervous and my stomach had knots for a week. The hot shower washed it all away.

I lay down and slept hard for about 7 hours. Best sleep I had in 2 years.

I watched the sunrise from my back door, a habit from Nam. We watched the sunrise every morning, thankful we lived to see another day to begin.

My clothes were dry, so I dressed and got ready to go. I called Bobby at 8 am; he answered.

Fentress Construction, with a deep, gruff voice.

Hello, sir, George Wiseman gave me your phone number. I’m new in town and I need a job.

Is this Harold Edwards?

Yes, it is.

Yes, George called this morning about you. He said you’re 7-foot tall. Is that true?

No sir, only 6'5." I chuckled.

My address is 100 W Maple St. Now coming from the Avalon, you want to make right at a 4-way intersection, then another right on Maple St., first house on the right.

I will be there shortly. Thank you, Mr. Fentress. I hung up the phone. I took a whizz, then headed out the door.

Harold, wait a minute. I heard Smitty yell out. I turned around and walked toward him.

You wanna ride to Bobby’s?

It’s okay, Smitty, I can walk there in 30 minutes or less.

You need to save your energy for work. Get in my truck, he said. On the short ride, he puffed on a cigar and filled the cab with thick smoke while making small talk. When we reached our destination, my eyes hurt a bit.

I walked up the sidewalk to a small house. Fentress Construction signs were in the front yard. I walked in the door. Bobby hollered for me to come back to the end of the shot gun style house. He was sitting in the kitchen, behind an enormous desk with stacks of papers on one end.

Have a seat, he said. You want some coffee? I took a seat in one of the 2 chairs in front of his desk.

Yes sir. I replied. He stood up from his desk and poured us a cup. Do you need sugar or cream?

No, sir, I like black and strong.

That’s good, cuz I’m out of cream. So, Harold, tell me about yourself.

I’m from Kaufman, Texas. I enlisted in the Marines on my 18th birthday. They waited for me to finish my senior year, and a week later, I was in boot camp. I was in Nam 23 months before they ambushed my platoon, and I took a bullet in the left shoulder. That was 5 weeks ago. I got an honorable discharge and a couple of medals. Nixon’s Doctrine got me shipped back home. That’s my life story at 20 years old, sir.

Why didn’t you go back to Texas and your family?

I hate East Texas. My ol’ man has a cattle ranch, but I hate him too. I don’t intend on ever going back. Nothing there for me, I said with conviction.

How’s your shoulder?

It’s good enough to work. I have to if I want to eat.

"Alright, son, that’s what I want to hear. I will drive you to the job site here in town. We are constructing a parking lot for the square. My work supervisor’s name is Mike Bennett. He will