Winter-Ghosts (Part One)

**An initial bit of fiction, more will be posted up later if anyone has any interest to read. This is just another one of my Tell County tales (a fictional county in Michigan's Upper Peninsula). Hope you enjoy it.

Uley**

Handsome Teller envisioned walls and stairs through the din of worrisome sensations, and the thick gray clouds which seemed to thicken the cold into a stillness from which winter storms are born. Handy, as he was more often called, due to the fact that he was a jack of all trades--and would take whatever work as it came. In times when work came slow, he could always hunt and fish for the basic necessities. It was always a struggle, which is partially what he had come to expect from life. That some much of that money was spent in the perpetual pursuit of a nice warm place, when and where no one else was around to recognize what ever little thing was wrong with Handsome Teller, pretty much amounted to a winter's stash of "Old Crow Whiskey," and a small once-upon-a-time hunter's shack that he had beefed up to endure these northern Michigan winters. It wasn't pretty, seeing as all that he had for insulation was a bunch of old coats and skins which he had acquired; along with an old barrel that he had rigged up with a smoke stack to feed the smoke out.

There were some folk that were a'scair't of Handy, as even back in those long begone days of his prime--there was always something that just was a tad left of right about Handy. They also tended to have some opinions of their own on what sort of man he should ought to be, which might-may be fine and well with Handy himself; only that just was not the sort of man that he had turned out to be. Even his Grand Josephine knew that Handy wasn't quite right, though he was not near so wrong about most things as he seemed to be now. There were no doctors back on The Pines that could tell her how to fix it, so she just dealt with it the best that she could-- which was fair-to-honest how it was that Handy went about things on his own as well. Folk didn't make much of a prize of his drinking, and so Handy had moved himself on along from them, so as they would not have to fret themselves into a dither.

Sometimes, the man called Uncle Johnny (an important man on The Great Pines Ojibwa Reservation) would bring him back some little something to tide him along. Handy was fair-to-certain that his mind was getting worse, a little more muddled up at times. That there were memories that seemed out of place, and things that normal folk just didn't see. Handy knew that his memory was kind of busted up, which was pretty much how it had always worked. He mostly didn't sort things out right, such as real things from those that he had imagined or dream't about. Grand Joe used to help him out with that sometimes, when it seemed necessary for him to understand something that he didn't. It wasn't that Handy was retarded, or nothing like that. He wasn't for certain whether the whiskey just kind of slowed it all down for him, or maybe he just didn't recall things so good anymore.

What came up clear as a bell, once he had noticed the snow clouds moving in, was that he had always been afraid of winter storms.

It was not really the snow itself, nor the likelihood that he might get snowed in. Sometimes, the snow did get really bad around these parts. His Grand Joe had tol't him that it was on account that they were surrounded by the Great Lakes, and that they were so far north seemed to account something for it as well. They hadn't had a really bad storm since Handy was little though, which was mostly good. Still, it made him a tad nervous every time the sky threatened to let go of something fierce that it had kept up into itself for too long. A couple of feet wasn't much, by Handy's considerations. It may slow him up some, and the animals that would keep him alive tended to hole up somewhere until the storm had passed as well.

But he was doing pretty alright, as far as supplies went. He had done that big job for Mr. Wyler fair-recently. Not to mention Uncle Johnny has sent his nephew out with some things to help to hold out through the winter. Mr. Wyler was a good man, though he shouldn't ought to eat so much. Handy and Mr. Wyler were near about the same age, and the poor ol' duff had enough of a hindrance with his age, and the achy-bones, to not abet to his labors. Of course, the same could probably be said about Handy's drinking, which used to calm him down pretty good so in as he could sleep through the night. That didn't happen near quite so often, and the booze-sickness was wearing him a bit too thin.

Handy could weather out whatever snow came down--even if it buried him up for a time inside of his cabin. He had spent most of the afternoon stocking up enough wood, after he had gone out and kil't him a few snowshoes and skinned them up. He had also used some of the money that he had got from Mr. Wyler to buy some canned food, which lasted better and well... The snow might kill him off someday, but it didn't seem none too likely to be soon. It wasn't the snow that concerned him, but what sometimes come out in the snow that had him worried.

"If Heaven ain't a lot like Dixie, then I don't want to go."

Handy sang aloud, which he didn't often do--mostly on account that he really didn't know the words to too many songs. That was one that his daddy used to sing sometimes, especially after he would get himself all snockered-up. Handy's daddy wasn't an Injun, like his mama were't. Truth be tol't, he didn't know anymore of the words to that song, though he did know who sang the song. His daddy loved listening to Hank Williams Jr. when Handy was young, and there were still some words that he could remember. Given to a whole parcel of money, Handy would probably buy himself some Hank Williams Jr songs. Of course, he would have to have something to play them on too, but Handy really didn't have that kind of money to spend. It wasn't that Handy could sing particularly well, so much as he he could recall how it was supposed to sound like in his head. He didn't pay much mind to the sound of his own voice, and it was kind of rare that he would take to singing at all--most especially in so as someone else might hear him.

It was kind of a strange thing to be worried about here, that someone might hear his gadawful singing-voice. It surely was not what had put him to the cause of singing in the first place. Handy usually sang when he was nervous or upset. It was the look in the clouds that tol't him this was going to likely be a pretty bad one. What had him all the more worrisome was that he had spent more bullets for his .32 rifle than he should have had ought to while he was out hunting this morning. He had bought a few extra boxes after he had finished the job for Mr. Wyler, but he was down to just a box and few stray rounds. Most of those were already in the old hunting rifle, and he had loaded and cleaned her up right after he had finished hunting this morning. He might have could found some more work and bought himself another box, but what he didn't have was the time to get all of that accomplished a'fore the snow would be coming down.

And he damn sure didn't want to be out in any winter storm.

He had considered going into town on the reservation, and staying with Uncle Johnny until the snows cleared. The tree-people didn't  seem to head in none too close to places where folk were gathered up. Trouble was that Uncle Johnny was one of those people that didn't hold much account of his drinking. Even in the best of times, Handy had to drink. It kept his head and heart civil. He just didn't see things that other folk said weren't there after he had been drinking. For most of his long-lived life, Handy hadn't so much of a concern for what was real and what just might not be. Uncle Johnny had tried to convince him that the tree-people weren't real. That his head had just thought something up on its own to account for something awful that had happened to his momma and daddy.

Handy figured a head would have to be a fairly wicked thing to come up with something like that. Handy may be quite a few not-so-rightly things, but wicked just wasn't one of them. He tried to do what was right... mostly. Most of the Jesus training he had had when he was living with Grand Joe didn't really take. He had been baptized and all, and spent more than a few Sunday mornings inside that big ol' church in Crystal River. Grand Joe was brought up Roman Catholic, which seemed kind of strange for an Injun. Grand Josephine was pretty much how it was that he had ended up living on The Pines, as he was only half-Injun.

Back in the day, when his parents were still alive, they had lived out fairly close to the town of New Junction. Old Junction was much closer to here. Most folk called it a ghost town. Handy wondered that the tree-people might ought to have come from there, though as clear as he could recall-- they came from the direction of the swamp. The north swamp ate up a some fair deep miles, and quite a bit of The Pines was actually in the soup. Even on a day that Handy might eat his boots, for fear of starving to death; there was no way in hell he was going to eat anything that had come up out of that swamp. He'd tried that once, though he surely didn't get too near the swamp itself. One of the ways that you could know a swamp animal from any other was that their coat was bog-black. There was a big ol' buck running out there that had scair't the bejeezus out of Handy when it had reared up at him. Folk with a lick of sense might have recalled that they were the one holding the gun, but Handy just took off on out of there like his pants were catching fire.

One of the other ways to know was the taste. Ol' Willa Connelly had herself a well. Handy had done some work for her a while back, and the taste of that scrawny ol' black snowshow-hare tastes quite a bit like her well water. That was some very bad water, and the swamp seemed to get into everything that got too near it. Ol' Willa had come up missing a few years back, after one of the really bad snow-storms had come through. Her son and his wife were living out on the north end of The Pines with her, and they had a few babies asides that. All of them just disappeared, and no one really knew what had become of them.

Handy was pretty damn sure that he knew, though there wasn't about to be someone else that might listen to an old nutter such as himself. The snow had ne'er seemed to have gotten so deep as it did back in 1971, though they had had a few bad ones since. Daddy had to dig out the front door, and it took him a few hours to even reach the garage. He had taken Handy out, after he had figured out that it was safe. Handy was around nine at the time, and he had wanted to help. He didn't recall helping out much, but what he did remember was that even he could get on the roof of their house with just a step up.

They didn't actually live on the reservation. Daddy had bought their own house, and he worked out with the lumber-guys. Mama would occasionally take him back to The Pines, mostly to visit with Grands William and Josephine. What they did live fairly close to was the swamp. They lived out on the Old Junction Road, which wasn't its proper name. Tell County Road 213 was what all the signs called it, but nobody actually used that name for it. It was the only road that led back to the town of Old Junction, which didn't seem to be among folk's fonder memories anyways.

Grand Joe had called it a boom-town, though Handy had absolutely no idea what in the hell that meant. She had told him that Old Junction had pretty much ceased to be when the Soo Line Railroad had decided to reroute their track around the swamp; on account that they were getting sick and tired of trying to dig their engines up out of the soup. She had said that was why the railroaders all called that place The Devil's Junction. Between the frequent derailments, and the travails that the men whom had originally laid the track went through, more than a couple of railroad men had met their end out at The Devil's Junction.

Grand Joe had went on a little to say that it seemed as if the folk were Hell-bent for election (which Handy didn't get either, though he kind of knew what she was trying to say by it) to earn that name themselves. Gambling, drinking and loose women was the causes that she would cite to account for her saying so.

Handy hadn't ever been back to Old Junction, as that was dead up in the swamp by a few miles. He had heard others talk about it some, but he tried never to eavesdrop much into other folks conversations. Only time that most felt the need to address Handy personally was when something needed to be done.

"Because we shared a love for Dixie
now she's where were going to be...
And I'll go back to her someday just wait and see"...

Handy knowed that the two songs didn't belong together, but they had both come to him from the same place. Handy could recall the day he had asked his Daddy who in the hell this Dixie was, and he laughed near until he could cry. A day that he could make his daddy laugh was a good one, by his own considerations at the time. Whether he had actually intended to or not didn't hold much sway o'er a good memory of the man.

"Dixie isn't a person, its a place Handsome. You might hear some other folk say its a lot of places, but if you were to ask me-- Dixie is in Alabama." He had tol't him, which kind of made some sense with the song--he supposed.

It kind of tear't him up a little to think on him too long, and he tried not to think of his momma none too often. Folk in these parts accused him of talking like a hillbilly, but Handy had been born here. Sometimes, on the rare occasion that necessitated conversation with someone else, Handy would lighten up his talk some. He could do that whole Yooper talk as well, though he didn't try in front of anyone else. Not everybody talked like that, and those that did, not all of the time. Funny thing was though, when one took to speaking it, the folk around him would take to following suit. That was kind of how it was with Handy too. It was how his head worked, and he suspected that was some due to his father's way of talking...

Which was the only thing fair about the coming of a winter storm.  He was strange that his mind seemed to clear up a little once the skies began to threaten some hard snow. Fear might account for some of it, but it seemed to allow him some kind of liberty to think back on his parents. He'd miss them again, sure enough. Yet there was a sense of closeness to them whenever he seen the thick and heavy clouds coming out of the north-east. That was usually were the worst winter storms seemed to come from. Grand Joe always blamed the Canadians for the snow, no matter which direction it came in from.

... "So, if you're leaving in the morning
some day I'll be joining--
Lord save a place for me, in the heart of Dixie."

Handsome Teller sang the rest of what he knew from the old Jerry Reed song, though he knew the story that went along behind the song. That it was about a man who met a hobo on a train that he didn't know was his daddy until he'd heard him singing the same song that his mama used to sing to him. That song seemed more right to him now, as he noticed that darkness was settling in fast along the woodland ridge. He had also noticed the first puffy white flake as it descended downward slowly, like a feather.

Handy envisioned the walls and stairs of his old house, where he had lived with his parents, until the tree people came up from out of the swamp and took them. Handy knew what they had done with them, though he really didn't at the time. Handy had found some old bone pits while he was out hunting back in the woods. Handy knew animal bones pretty good, but he didn't have to piece them back together to figure out what he had found there. Handy didn't have to ever have seen any people bones to know what they were. Handy didn't know how many of them were dropped down into the natural land kettle, as he did not take any time to sit around counting bones.

He had considered telling somebody about that, but no one had ever believed a word he had told them about the tree people. Still, he probably should have ought to have tried. He suspected that ol' Willa Connelly's bones might likely be down in that bone pit. Willa still had a few family members left living on The Pines that might would want to know, though Handy had no idea why they'd want to know that. Handy didn't want to know that they had ette his momma and daddy, as it seemed even worse than not knowing. Still, it was worrisome to him that he might not have done the right thing... again.

Handy stopped up short, as he was about to kneel down and gather up a few more logs to burn later tonight, when he noticed movement near the edge of a thick scrub of pines. His heart stammered, and then sped up as he tried to peer beyond the gathering shadows that filled in all of the empty spaces between the pine bows and trunks. Handy kept staring into the pines, half expecting some kind of wild looking, gray-dark skinned thing to come rushing out at him, with blood in its teeth and a stench that would put a bear off'n a gut pile. It would pro'ly have sunken eyes, a dark golden-yellow around large, crazy looking pupils. Their skin would be cracked, especially their lips, and they had really long nails. He knew that the creature could tear him apart with those claws. Apart from a very basic resemblance, the tree people were not really people at all.

Handy quickly gathered up a few logs from the cut pile, and headed inside of his cabin quickly before bracing the old two by four to secure the one and only door. Handy had already built some make-shift shutters over the only two windows in the single room shanty a long while back, near about the time he decided to move in. Handy had secured everything down that he could this afternoon, and done everything that he could think of to assure that nothing could get inside of his home. Given that it wasn't the strongest of shelters that had ever been designed, Handy grabbed the rifle. He had no intention of letting the gun get far  from where he could snatch it up and do some damage.

Handy sat across the bed, and leaned his back against the wall as the fire was still burning pretty hot from the old barrel stove. He cracked open a fresh bottle of Old Crow and drank from it deeply, the rifle lain over his lap. It was kind of bad that he could not see outside, though he was for dang certain that he would know if the tree people were coming after him.

He thought he could hear the snow drop as it tapped lightly against the tin roof.