Metaphysical Times

Home ArchiveArticles by AuthorStoreLinks ContactFacebook



\

 

I moved back from San Francisco in 1971 to Ithaca - my home town, and rented an old deserted house fifteen miles west of Ithaca from the sweet farmer who owned it, and worked for him milking 115 cows at 5:30 in the morning, five days a week. I had not seen much of the countryside beyond Ithaca, except the places I walked and hitchhiked to as a teenager, or that I went to with my parents when I was a child.

I loved living and working on the dairy farm. On nice days when I was done with work, and the kids were home from school we often explored the area surrounding Ithaca in my little red Volkswagen bug. It was always a great adventure - any time we saw a dirt road, I took it.

At that time there were many deserted houses in the area – most of them so far gone – they were too dangerous to go into, but sometimes there were rooms that looked safe enough and we almost always found some little treasure to take home: marbles, a whole box of filthy canning jars, a lovely blouse and a faded yellow sundress that cleaned up nicely and I wore for years, a musty smelling cookbook from 1952, a pair of black leather high heel lace-up shoes that I wore until they died, beautiful chipped plates, vases, bottles, and a silver chain necklace.

One time, the kids and I stopped to explore a large deserted house on Townline road near Trumansburg. It still had its roof and didn’t look too bad, so we squeezed through a door coming off its hinges. Plaster and lath which had fallen from the ceilings in the three spacious rooms we could see - littered the floor. Carefully, the three of us made our way to a big room that still had a few glass panes in the windows. A wide staircase beckoned, and I made the kids wait while I went up. It seemed safe enough so I waited for them to catch up to me.

At the top of the stairs we looked down a long dim hallway, its floor also littered with plaster and lath. I was about to say, we won’t find any treasures, when about fifteen feet away I saw three people looking at me – a small girl about five - the same age as my daughter Cody, a mom, and a boy younger than my nine-year-old son Storn.

The mom was holding her children’s hands. Storn had wandered off, but I still held Cody’s hand. I knew these people were not real, but there they stood smiling at us in their worn clothes from an earlier time – perhaps about 1840. They were black people. The mom was beautiful - her children adorable. We looked at each other silently. I looked at the mom and it seemed to me that the mom and I were connecting with each other to such an extent, it felt almost like falling in love. I wanted say something to her, but before I did, they faded away.

I called to Storn, we made our way out to our car, and before I started the engine, I asked, “Did you see those people?” Storn said, “What people?” Cody said, “The mom and her kids. They were black people, and the kids were really cute.” Well, I never believed in ghosts, but there seemed to be no other explanation.

A few years went by, and I saw a friend I had not seen for a long time in a grocery store. Kathy told me that she and her husband had bought an old deserted house that was a mess, but they had fixed it up. She invited me to a party to celebrate it. The house was the same one where Cody and I saw the ghosts!

When I arrived, I could not believe how much work they had done. The place was beautiful. I told Kathy my ghost story. She didn’t seem at all surprised. “Come here,” she said, I want to show you something in the basement.

We went down old worn steps into a large dry basement. Kathy led me to the back wall. “See this huge old oven? It was a bread baking oven, and back here,” she said as she walked along its side to the back wall where she patted a spot, “is the hidden door that leads to a tunnel that used to go to the barn out back. This place was part of the Underground Railway. The runaway slaves actually baked bread down here, until they could go on the next phase of their trip to safety. But, if any one came poking around that seemed suspicious, they’d crawl into the tunnel that went to the barn out back, and hide until it was safe again.”



 


IN THIS ISSUE–––

• OREN PIERCE, GuestEditor
Welcome to the Weird Issue
• DAVEY WEATHERCOCK
My Heart KnewWhat the
Wild Geese Knew

• DAVID S. WARREN
Natural Bone Chapter 2
TheHeadUnderground
• FRANKLIN CRAWFORD
21 Things You May or May Not
Consider Weird
• RHIAN ELLIS
fever cat
• GABRIEL ORGREASE
Perry City Dinks
• ANNIE CAMPBELL
The Deserted House
•STEVE KATZ
DEW
• SUE-RYN BURNS
Black Beauty
•GEORGIA WARREN
Weird Happens
• GEORGIA WARREN
The Soldiers' Story

POETRY
• SUE-RYN BURNS Wild Turkeys
• MARY GILLILAND Kitchen Theater
• PETER FORTUNATO
Cocks of the Walk (Key West)
• COVER
Copernicus under cover
________________________

Welcome
to the Weird Issue

by Oren Pierce, Guest Editor
(short excerpt here, read it all
on the home page)

Weathercock (I feel) has presented us not with just an honest meditation on the uncanny nature of everyday life that an unsensational treatment of the theme requires, nor is it either fact or fiction, but just plain fake news.
Not wanting to be too negative, I won’t get any further into that. Read and judge for yourself.

Just about everything else in this issue is fine with me and I recommend the writings to you without further doo doo. ______________________


by Rhian Ellis

The letters came, and the letters came, and then they stopped. The last came in the autumn, with the falling leaves and the clotting sky, but through the long grayness of winter there was nothing.
Ruth continued to write even though it felt as though she was dropping her pages into a bottomless well. She asked questions that were never answered and told stories that seemed unheard. She wrote faster and more frantically as the snow blew into the city and hid the dirt and the trash and the broken things. She imagined her sister in her little house, out there in the wilderness, burning logs and nursing babies and what else? What did she do? Life was so different out there, so hard to imagine...

And then a letter came, on the same rough paper, written with the same too-sharp pen that scratched. But the hand was unfamiliar. And inside, the letter was hard to read and cramped and was almost like the writing of a child. Perhaps it was the writing of a child.

Sister Ruth-- I hayte that I am the barer of the world’s moust dreaded newes but the truth is that our dearr Jane is dead and so are the chyldren tifuss came to our small house and we coud not stop it. First the older chyld then Jane then the baby went to the arms of Jesuss. Wheeler is the only chyld left and I am left too tho to what purpose I

(go to story)
______________________

Natural Bone Chapter 2 with recap
by David Warren

Noah had stared at the falling water for he didn’t know how long, when his eyes began to wander around the yellowish chamber floor and he saw a helmet lying there: a battered metal helmet with stubby horns. And then, only a few yards from the helmet, he saw a bodiless head in a nest of its own hair among the rocks. It’s eyes were wide open, and the grisly thing spoke to him, although in an understandably weak and sighing sort of voice.

“Don’t be afraid!” said the Head “I’m just a head.” click here for the recap of chapter 1 and all of Chapter 2
______________________



The DesertedHouse

by Annie Campbell

One time, the kids and I stopped to explore a large deserted house on Townline road near Trumansburg. It still had its roof and didn’t look too bad, so we squeezed through a door coming off its hinges. Plaster and lath which had fallen from the ceilings in the three spacious rooms we could see - littered the floor. Carefully, the three of us made our way to a big room that still had a few glass panes in the windows. A wide staircase beckoned, and I made the kids wait while I went up. It seemed safe enough so I waited for them to catch up to me.

(go to story)
_____________________


Weldon packs a yellow umbrell athough he doesn’t expect to use it. “If I carry a yellow parapluie jaune,” he tells Mathilde, “it might fake out the rain sprights. Energize them. Maybe drought will start to end. Vive la pluie.” He finds his French words exhilarating, as he does his French girl friend.
(go to story)
___________________________

Perry City Dinks
by Gabreal Orgrease

“Fire so hot and quick that when they opened the trailer door they found my father sitting smack in front of the tube with his reading glasses melted around his nose still holding an instant coffee on his lap only the skin of his fingers was stuck to the melted thermal mug.” (go to story)

Weird Happens

1 I was at a crosswalk and the oncoming motorist stopped to let me pass.

2 Rocks along the train tracks are of consistent size and shape, composed mostly of basalt. They are excellent throwing rocks, as if quarried and broken for that purpose. I hit a RR sign with one on a quiet creosote-rich afternoon and it made a startling racket. Some deer broke out of the sedge. I felt lonely all of a sudden.

3 Toenail fungus is a form of life that is hard to evict from the body. It has generated a whole line of quackadoodle remedies. The only surefire way to get rid of it is to have all infected toes removed.

4 When I checked my pants pockets this morning, I found 77 cents in quarters, nickels, dimes and two pennies. I don’t normally keep pennies. Pennies are not worthless, but we don’t use them for cadavers any more so why save them? There is nothing significant about 77, except it was in the title of an old TV show called "77 Sunset Strip."
For numbers 5 to 21 click here


by Georgia Warren

I was taught hand reading in the 1960s by a doctor from India who was getting certified to practice medicine in the US. It took me two years to learn the intricacies of the India-style of hand reading. When Dr. Singh said I was ready to go out on my own.I got a seat working steadily in a coffee house in Akron Ohio.

One night a couple of soldiers back from Vietnam stopped by. Their hands were in their coat pockets.. They said they wanted me to read their hands. They were laughing, and I was sure they’d probably had a “couple” of beers. I didn’t have the attitude that I gained years later to say, “I don’t do readings for people who have been drinking.” The two of them sat down, still smirking. They took their hands out of their pockets, they were prosthetiucs. Neither of them had any hands for me to read. (go to story)

___________________

POETRY

MARY GILLILAND
Kitchen Theatre (go to)

SUE-RYN BURNS
Wild Turkeys (go to)

PETER FORTUNATO
Cocks of the Walk
(Key West) (go to)

___________________


 

© 2019 The Metaphysical Times Publishing Company - PO Box 44 Aurora, NY 13026 • All rights reserved. For any article re-publication, contact authors directly.

 

Share
Tweet
Pin
Email
Share