FICTION SPECIAL FEATURE Ray House (continued from page one) Gary Gray       On the porch sat a young woman rocking gently in an old wooden rocking chair. She wore an ankle length dress of the period and on her head was a tightly wrapped scarf. Her gaze was focused on a distant hillside and she made no notice of me -- a curious site, as I recalled the park ranger telling me that the house would be closed. Having lost my concentration, I momentarily veered from the road onto the grass. Regaining control of my vehicle, I felt a bristling of the skin along my arms and neck. I punched the accelerator pedal hard with the toe of my shoe and my tires spun dirt as my car jerked back onto the roadway, beyond sight of the porch.      As I proceed along the lane, I sensed a rubbing from the rear of my car. I assumed that I picked up some debris when I swerved off the road earlier. The map indicated "Sigels Second Position." I studied the description of the battle at this point. An open field -- once the Sharp cornfield, a dirt road leading into the trees behind me; "That must be the Old Wire Road." I whispered to myself as I scanned the map. Two corroded green cannon sat in the field next to the road, all that remained I supposed, probably brought in from some other place.      I examined my tires; the right rear was nearly flat. I found my spare tire, it was flat too. Exasperated, I knew that I'd have to walk back and find a phone to call for a repair. A good two miles of hiking, if I took the dirt road through the woods, three or more if I walked the main road, the closest building to me was the Ray House. I'll talk to the lady on the porch; surely she had a phone or a portable radio.       The Old Wire Road was little more than two tracks of matted dirt that crept along the hillside and into the woods over Wilson's Creek and onwards past the Ray House. With the sun setting, I would have to hurry. The wind was increasing, and the branches of the trees were shaking in violent synchronized dances as I entered the woods.       The coolness of forest shadow was a welcome relief from the heat. Sheltered from the storm looming about me, I hastened my feet along the rock strewn path, wary that I may not reach my destination at the Ray House before the sun had set. The shrill concert of cicada reverberated, ringing, screaming through my ears into the depths of my psyche, with each step deeper into the darkened forest.      A half mile into the woods, the drone of the cicada has stopped and the mysterious sound returns. I pause, standing perfectly still, the sound enveloping me from every direction. Hooves, as if I'm standing amongst an invisible pack train; the groans of men, tromping, rattling, everywhere about me. I can see nothing, no, I see it...dust rising from the ground, translucent, swirls of fine powder wafting gently in the air. I'm loosing my mind; I race along the path, through the sea of noise, attempting in vain to flee. Another half mile of dirt, a glint of light ahead, I rush for the safety of open ground. Stumbling, I fall. Rising from the dust, I behold my hands, soaked in blood. Pitiful drops of black viscous serum abating from my dirt smothered fingers.       The thrashing wind dizzies me, now in full stride as I find the Wire Roads exit to the main road across from Ray House. I lurch across the lane and up the hill, using a trail of chimney smoke as a beacon. The silhouette of the little white house glared against the darkening sky, a faint glint of yellow light profluent through the porch window. I stumbled up the steps of the portico and pounded feverishly upon the wooden door. "Somebody be here!" I chanted.      The door opened. A female of fair skin, demure in her stature, beckoned me with a motion of her hand. I hurled my body from the windy porch and through the door. Gathering my wits about, I gazed around the modestly furnished house. A historical landmark it did not seem. The wooden table with tin plates sat in a small kitchen. A spinning wheel, laden with wound white thread, sat passively in one corner. The bed, replete with disheveled hand-stitched quilts sat in another corner. A fireplace, bristling with hot red embers and fired logs; this was not a museum, it was a home; a living, breathing home from the 1860's. I turned and focused on the small woman, her simple grey dress catching my eye. As I trained my stare upon her face I was startled. Above her welcoming smile, within her pale, fair skinned scarf wrapped face, eye-sockets that were filled with iridescent blue cloudlike orbs. Tiny wisps of white circling within darker blue smoke. These were not the eyes of a human. I raised my hands to touch her, the blood was gone.       "Don't be afraid." She whispered.      "What is happening here?" I shouted, shaking my open hands before her.      "I've been waitin' fur ya."      "Waiting? Waiting for who?"       "You. You've been here before. Don't-cha know that?" She said, with a gentle smile crossing her lips. "You've come here many a time. I've always been here fur ya too. It's no different."      "I don't understand. Who are you?"       "I'm Robin. You still don't remember do ya? I keep thinking one day you'll know, but-cha never do."       "Know what? I don't understand what's happening. My tire's flat, I need to use a telephone."       "Sit, I'll explain it again."       I sat on a wooden chair. She touched my face lightly with the tips of her fingers. Warmth coursed through my body.      "It was after the battle when you met me. You were down yonder at the spring house. Daddy and I brought you up here to the house and laid you in that there bed. You were in a bad way too."       "After the battle? I've never been here before in my life."       "Not in this life, but one before. You were here at the battle, you died in that bed. You've been coming back time and time again ever since. I've been here for you all this time, just like I was-a here for you when you died."       The weight of the conversation had settled on me. I'm talking to an apparition, hallucinating. I'll awaken soon and everything will be back to normal.       The woman continued..."You're-a Reb deserter. We sat up a hospital here after the battle, when everbody left, you came up out of them-thar woods." She pointed through the windows to the woody area I had visited earlier that afternoon. "You were grief strucken, we tried to save you but yur wounds was mortal."       Listening intently, I knew there was truth in what she was saying. This wasn't a dream, it was real. The familiar smell, her face, the rolling fields; I knew it was true in the depths of my soul.       "How was I wounded? Why couldn't you save me?"       "You did yur-self in after you realized what you had done. When we found ya, you was barely alive but able to tell us."       "What did I do?" I asked, not certain I wanted to know the answer.       "You killed your daddy over thar on that bloody hill."       The bloody hill! The old man mentioned the bloody hill. It was a stop on the tour, the scene of the most vicious fighting during the battle.       "I killed my daddy on Bloody Hill?"      "Thats-a right. He was a Yankee soldier and you killed him during the fight'n. You were so overwrought, you hid in the woods for days and then tried to kill yourself in our springhouse down yonder."      "You said something about having been here many times? What's that mean?" I asked.       "Well, your soul I reckon. You've had many faces but your soul keeps drifting back here to find something. You're a-look'n for somebody."      "You?"       "No, not me...your daddy. You buried him on Bloody Hill. You keep coming back to find him, he's a-been here too. Maybe it'll be over now, you found him today."      "I found him? I don't understand."       "He's the old man with the shovel. He's looking for his bones up on that hill. He's a-like you. Keeps a-come'n back, look'n for something."       I'm dumb stricken. I've been returning here in different lives to find the father I killed over a hundred and forty years ago. I'm talking to a ghost and I believe every word of what she is telling me.       "You ain't the only one ya know. There's others too. Ya'll keep coming back here. Over and over, year after year, ya'll keep coming back. That's why I stay here. To help ya make it on through I suppose. The land has a way of reclaiming its own. I reckon this is the way." She stood and straightened her dress. "I reckon you best be goin' now. It's pert-near dark, they'll be look'n fur-ya."       I stood on the wood porch. I could see a man in a cart waving at me from the roadway below. I waved back as he turned and drove to the house.       "Hell mister, you're hold'n up the show. I saw your car down the road, but couldn't find ya. We can't go home till ya get out-a here."      "I'm sorry, I had a flat and was trying to find a telephone." I said as I stepped from the porch to the lawn.       "Flat tire? You're driving the blue car parked down the road that-a-way aren't ya?"      "Yea, over by the cannons."      "Mister, you're loose'n your mind, your tire ain't flat. I was just down there and the engine's running and the doors hang'n there a-wide open. What the hell's going on with you?"       "Hell, I don't know. I think you're right. I've lost my mind. Can you run me down there?"      "Get in. I'm gett'n hungry."      After returning me to my car, he followed me along the road towards the exit of the battlefield. In the twilight of sunset, I gazed from a distance towards Bloody Hill and saw the lone silhouette of a man carrying a shovel.      IF YOU ENJOYED THIS FICTIONAL SHORT STORY AND WOULD LIKE TO SEE MORE OF THIS TYPE WORK IN THE MESAGE TREE......PLEASE LET US KNOW BY CLICKING HERE AND SENDING US A MESSAGE