The Maple
Street Terror
It was a hot,
clammy late summer day. The early morning showers followed by a humid afternoon
hinted that fall was coming soon, better than any date on the calendar. A few
weeks would pass, and those long, bright summer days would be gone; everyone
would be back in school with only Halloween to look forward to.
I never purposely
spied on my brothers and sisters, but discovered early that a little blackmail
was sometimes profitable in our large family of sibling rivals. The social currency
of our realm at the time went something like this; “If you tell on me, I will
tell on you.” The threat was often enough to guarantee silence. I knew where
John hid is girlie magazines, Judy knew Bill was not at basketball practice,
and who he was making out with at the time, Jackie knew I was the one who
dropped and shattered mom’s prized ironstone pitcher and bowl set. And everyone
had something on Jackie. As the youngest
in the family, I watched my brothers and sisters closely; noting any
inconsistencies or clues to anticipate trouble before any family dramas would
occur.
On this
Saturday afternoon the house was unnaturally quiet, always a bad sign. Dad was
at the hardware store, Mom, Jackie and Judy were shopping, Bill was at
basketball practice with the Betts brothers, (of course he was), and I had just
finished the Battle of Little Big Horn on the front porch with my Fort Apache Playset.
This time, Custer won. But where was John?
I left the
front porch mostly to see what John was up to, and when I rounded the corner of
the Addison’s place next door, I saw John hurriedly take some white bed sheets
from the Addison’s clothesline and scurry off. I wasn’t surprised about John’s
theft, he was always planning some outrage, but I was puzzled why he needed the
sheets. Later that day, old Mrs. Addison stopped by during dinner and
complained that someone had stolen her sheets off her clothesline, and was
thoroughly confused by the event. I watched John closely knowing the truth, but
kept quiet, as he unexpectedly snickered and somehow managed to make it sound
like a cough, and left the table.
In the early
sixties in our neighborhood, in Cambridge, Ohio, the long hot summer was the
best part of the whole year. Back in those days, there were no I-Pads or
sophisticated video gaming systems, TV was still in its infancy, and not many
folks had air conditioning. Back then, busy Moms encouraged their kids to go
outside and play so that they could finish the household chores. In those days,
parents had a naïve, trusting view of the world, and believed that living in
America was not unlike an extended episode of Mayberry R.F.D. It sounds
unbelievable today, but it was customary and not unusual for children to be
allowed to have the run of the neighborhood at all hours of the day until dark. Nearly every day was spent rounding up enough
kids for a football game, Kick the Can, a bike race, or small larcenies at the
Royal Blue grocery store.
The very best
attraction for us, was the Haunted Mansion on Maple Street. Everyone knew for
certain that it was haunted. Long abandoned, and left with every piece of
household items and furniture intact, the old house stood on Maple Street,
dark, sinister and silent. Early on, one of our number of domestic terrorists
discovered an unlocked door, and we inevitably found our way inside. In
retrospect, the house wasn’t really a mansion, but just an aging, neglected,
Victorian pile that once was the gem of Maple Street. A thick layer of dust
covered every room; there were old daguerreotypes of the family that had once
lived there, and an overwhelming, shadowy sense of decay and death. Our
explorations of the Haunted Mansion never lasted more than a few minutes, the
absolute limit of our frayed nerves. It was here, in this dark place that our
story begins.
I’ll admit,
I had been watching John closely since the events of the day before, but lost
him in the late afternoon. Certain now, because he was missing, that ‘the game
was afoot’; I was surprised to see our battered station wagon pull into our
driveway with Mom and John inside. Still
suspicious, I approached and discovered Mom had only taken John shopping for
school clothes and gym shoes.
Somehow,
John had managed to persuade Mom to buy him a pair of Red Ball Jets! At the
time, Red Ball Jets were the first canvas-topped rubber sneaker to be mass marketed
in America. John would instantly be the envy of the neighborhood. Daily
commercials on TV loudly proclaimed Red Ball Jets could make you ‘run faster,
and jump higher’ than anyone of the block. Deflated, and more than a little
jealous, I watched John happily pull the sneakers on in the driveway, and
proudly rub the distinctive Red Ball logo near the heel of the shoes. I turned,
and walked away knowing this would not be the end of it.
It began
that very night. I had given up monitoring John’s whereabouts, and found myself
on the front porch watching the lengthening shadows as the night approached.
From down the street, near the intersection with Maple I heard running
footsteps, a curious metallic sound, and a surprised scream, followed by
another, and yet another. In the awful silence that followed, my brother Bill
had emerged from the house, and we both stared open-mouthed at each other,
unable to understand.
Bill bolted and ran down the street towards Maple
and the Haunted Mansion, and I followed close behind. We found a small crowd of
kids surrounding Mary and Becky Balts, nearly in hysterics. They said they had
just seen a ghost.
Within a few
minutes a small crowd of neighborhood kids had turned out we peppered them with
questions. It took a while, but Mary and Becky said that they had just crossed
Maple Street past the Haunted Mansion, and suddenly a ghost appeared and chased
them, and they were nearly caught. Bill and I looked at each other, and I could
read Bill’s doubts in his face. I was at first unconvinced, but looked closer
at Becky’s face and saw her terror as she said quietly;
“I saw his
face, it isn’t a ghost. It is a scarecrow. We never should have gone into the
Haunted Mansion.” Bill and I exchanged serious look, and didn’t say much as we
walked the Balts sisters home.
The events
of that night were only the beginning. The following night the Stimson kids,
little Joey and Sarah were surprised by the specter in white tattered shrouds
wrapped in chains that relentlessly chased them clear to Court Street downtown.
Later, that same night old Fred Deshler spotted the ghost tearing past on the
street as he left the Humble Gas Station. For the better part of a week the
Maple Street Ghost terrorized our neighborhood, and seemed to content himself
with chasing kids, sometimes with a tortured howling for effect.
One night,
the sightings abruptly ceased. To this day, no one has been able to offer a
plausible explanation for the events for that week so long ago. It remains just
a small town legend, local folklore bereft of evidence, and any corroboration.
That is,
until now. I’d like to offer my version of the story on that last night, and
close the door on this riddle. It was late Thursday night, and I had put off
taking out the trash as long as I could. Honestly, I wasn’t very keen on the
idea, I was more than a little scared to be outside in the dark, all by myself,
with only a howling ghost for company. Mom reminded me that Friday was trash
day, and I had “Better get to it; else there would be trouble with your father.”
Given the choice between the two possibilities, I quickly chose to take out the
trash.
By the time
I managed to build up enough confidence to leave the safe confines of the
kitchen it was completely dark outside. I had to move slowly as the stairs
outside were poorly lit, and I was carrying the bundles of garbage to the trash
barrels. It took a while, and as I returned to the safety of the door leading
to the kitchen I came face to face with the Maple Street Ghost!
Unable to
breathe, rooted to the spot, I can still remember his terrible face, and heard
a frightening howl begin. And I have to admit, I ‘lost some water’, as the
saying goes. The monster seemed surprised for a moment, but regained his
composure, silently put his index finger to his lips, and turned to go. As he
turned to go, his white tattered shroud fluttered at his feet, and I saw dimly
the unmistakable Red Ball Jets logo.
