Below, I’m giving the start of a story I had begun to write. It was based on a true story that happened in 1902, a terrible miscarriage of justice. But, as I typed, I realized I really don’t want to write this story because I knew the facts behind it. I have the victim’s last words, preserved in a newspaper article. The story just made me terribly sad and I realized I didn’t want to write it. So, this story was nipped in the bud. Perhaps I can use this opening on a completely different story. I’ll think about it. But, here is the beginning. Names, of course, have been changed and so have a few facts to completely obscure the real people.
Miss Tootsie Shores hurried up the hill toward Bertha Mills’ house. She puffed a little, her black pocketbook clutched beneath one arm and an umbrella under the other. Thunder rumbled and a bolt of lightning cut across the early morning sky. Tootsie shook her head. Not for everybody would she get out this early, with a summer storm threatening and the streets almost as dark as midnight. But the urgency and fear in Bertha’s voice as it crackled and popped along the phone line told Tootsie that her old friend was in a bad way. She hadn’t heard everything Bertha had said, due to the storm, but she knew Bertha was scared, almost to death, and she needed Tootsie to come. Immediately.
Finally, she saw Bertha’s small house, light peeking through a slit between the curtains. Another crack of lightning and rain began in earnest just as Tootsie stepped up on Bertha’s front porch.
Before she could knock, Bertha flung open the door and pulled Tootsie inside. “Come in, come in. Oh, Tootsie, thank you for coming. I didn’t know who else to call and I didn’t want anybody to laugh at me and, well…”
Tootsie looked around. Everything looked the same in here; nothing seemed out of place. So, surely there hadn’t been a break-in. A kerosene lamp glowed on the mantel. The electricity in town was an iffy thing and, in a storm, the electric lights were completely undependable.
Tootsie leaned her umbrella against the wall and set her purse beside it. “Now, Bertha, just slow down. Of course I came. Goodness! What’s wrong?”
Wringing her hands, Bertha wet her lips and drew a long breath. “I thought I saw—Tootsie, do you believe in ghosts?”
Tootsie shook her head. “Bertha Mills, if you’ve gotten me out of my house in the middle of a thunderstorm to tell me some ghost story…”
“No, no, not a ghost story, but…let’s go into the kitchen. I’ll fix some coffee and maybe that’ll settle my nerves.”
“And, while you’re at it, light that lamp on your table,” Tootsie said, following her.
Bertha frowned. “Folks can’t see inside a house when it’s dark. You know that. And, I sure don’t want to see anybody else peek through the window.”
“Anybody else?” echoed Tootsie.
Bertha wrung her hands. “Oh, just wait a minute and I’ll tell you the whole story.”
A few minutes later, Tootsie sat at Bertha’s oilcloth covered table and cupped her cold hands around the warm coffee mug. Bertha pulled the curtains more tightly across the window. “Do you remember Sam Wilhite?”
“The man who was hanged for killing Mr. Winters about ten years ago? Of course I do. Such a sad, tragic thing and…Bertha, will you quit pacing and sit down here and drink your coffee?”
Bertha leaned forward. “Well, I saw him.”
“Saw who? Slow down, Bertha. Just take a deep breath,” Tootsie said.
“I saw Sam peering in my window.” She shuddered. “It was awful. The lightning flashed about that time, and his face was all shadowy and leering and—why did he appear to me, Tootsie? I sure didn’t hang him.”
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