Ghost Story - Hands

The following is a true story. The year was 1979. I was 17 and living with my mother in the affluent northside of town. Unfortunately, we happened to be in the only poor neighborhood in the affluent northside of town. These were government subsidized apartments, but they were pretty tame as far as "projects" go -- no gangs, shootings or other such nasty stuff.
My neighborhood buddies and I didn't have much but we did have our cars. That was our thing. No one gave them to us. We worked crappy jobs to buy them, gas them and improve their condition. And we put in a lot of elbow grease to make our rides a source of pride.

Mine was a 1971 Oldsmobile Cutlass . It had a straight body with fresh paint and I had it purring like
a lion. However, I wasn't happy with the state of the interior, specifically, the door panels.
A neighborhood guy known as Brock, who was a year older than me, suggested we make a junkyard run to look for parts. He offered to drive me clear down to the other side of town, to an area I had never been. Brock knew it well though, it being his old stomping grounds.
So I hopped into his car, jammed a Rush tape into the 8-track player and we began the long journey. We each popped open a can of Schlitz Malt Liquor, Brock's favorite, for as he put it, "The boool be knockin' you on yo aaass." But more than ass-knocking, the purpose this time was thirst-quenching. It was a hot, dry, breezy afternoon in South Texas.

We spent nearly the entire ride laughing and joking, but as we neared our destination, we pulled off of the freeway and cruised slowly through a small, out-of-the-way neighborhood of little, old houses. The mood of jocularity ceased as Brock began telling me a story that I had never heard before but was, he assured, well known in those parts. In a low, suspenseful tone usually reserved
for telling scary tales around a campfire, he explained that decades ago, a school bus was making it's morning rounds and as it was leaving that same out-of-the-way neighborhood with a load of young passengers, it approached a railroad crossing. The tracks were just before a sharp right turn, so the bus had to stop over the tracks before proceeding. While over the tracks, either the engine stalled or it was switched off.
The driver never made an attempt to restart it. Instead, he just leaned his head on the steering wheel and stared into the distance. The kids behind him were preoccupied, chatting exuberantly amongst themselves about some school event to take place that afternoon. That spring morning was a foggy one, and the engineer of a rapidly approaching freight train couldn't see what was about to occur until it was too late. But eventually the students could, and began frantically screaming, "Let's go! Let's go!" Some even tried to exit out the back door but it wouldn't open. The train plowed into the bus with tremendous force, killing all ten children aboard. No word on the bus driver and the body of one boy was never found. But I was told all the streets in the neighborhood were renamed in memory of the little ones ... Laura Way, Cindy Circle, William Road, even the blacktop we were on, Shane Street.

Brock reached this part of the story just as we were pulling up to the very scene of that long-ago tragedy. According to the legend, if you stop your car a little ways before the tracks and put it in neutral, the ghosts of those poor kids will
push the vehicle up a slight incline, across the tracks and out of harm's way. And so we began the experiment. Brock shifted the car into neutral.

"Did you feel that?" he asked urgently, "Did you hear that? Look out da back window. See anything?"

He wanted to spook me and was really getting a kick out of trying to make me believe. And indeed, we began rolling, slowly at first, then a little faster up the grade until we crossed over the tracks and made a right turn. Then he parked, jumped out and ran to the back of the car.

"C'mere an looka this!" Brock shouted.

He showed me what appeared to be hand prints in the grime that he had let accumulate on his trunk lid. Brock wasn't so big into car washing.

"Them ghost did this!" Brock insisted, "Looka choo. You scared," he laughed, "You lucky it ain't night. You be all tremblin' and shi--"

"-- All right, all right," I interrupted.

But I let him have his fun, never letting on that I knew he had shifted the car back into drive when I wasn't looking and that I certainly wasn't inclined to believe in ghosts.

Brock teased me the remaining half mile of our trip until we pulled into the dusty parking lot of Southside Salvage. Southside Salvage (try saying that three times fast) was a vast repository of junked cars and other vehicles and had been there since forever. In fact, the twisted, caved in hulk that was the remains of the ill-fated school bus had been hauled there, it's metal salvaged and perhaps used to help build a warship or fighter plane. It was the middle of WWII, afterall. We asked an employee of S.S. for some assistance. Brock wanted a replacement driver's side mirror for his '70 Chevelle. The worker knew where to find one and they both soon disappeared into the sea of wrecks. I was left to explore the huge lot by myself. There were quite a few interesting relics to look at, some that would have made cool project cars. The place was eerie, though, as solemn as a graveyard, and I didn't see or hear another person as I wandered. Buzzards soared high above. The wind whistled through rusting cavities, making a sorrowful moan. Some of the cars were lined up in rows and some were deposited indiscriminately among stacks of big metal cubes which were the results of a huge compacting machine. I finally found a suitable donor Oldsmobile, directly under the shadow of one of those high stacks. Removing the door panels would be simple, pretty much screwdriver action, but I had to sit inside the car because the driver's side door wouldn't open all the way. As I neared completion of my task, I was suddenly startled by a child's voice. "Let's go!", the words pleading, piercing, echoing off every surface before fading away. I looked up and all around ...nothing. Someone brought their impatient kid to the junkyard? Perhaps. I was getting nervous, though, and didn't want to hang around much longer so I ramped up my efforts, ducking down on the floorboard for the final two screws, now one more and ... Ka-THUD! The loud noise made me pop up so high I nearly hit my head on the roof. I scrambled out of the car. I was astonished at what I saw. The high, uneven tower of heavy, compacted bales that had been hovering practically overhead had keeled over, it's crushing weight just missing the Olds by mere inches. I gazed upon the scene, and as an employee showed up and gawked and "Hmm"-ed and "Whatta-ya-know"-ed, I realized that it didn't make sense. When I climbed into that car, it was exactly where that multi-ton avalanche of metal had come crashing down. I was sure of it. That Cutlass should have been flattened, with me entombed inside. I was still in a daze when Mr. Whatta-ya-know said something about a crane and walked away. At that point I grabbed my door panels then -- I just had to look. And yes, there were hand prints all over the trunk lid of the Cutlass. Not wee, little elementary school children-sized prints but rather big, meaty salvage yard guy-sized prints.

Well, it was a thought. A silly thought, but I really had no explanation for what had just happened. Then as I was backing away, ready to leave, I spotted it. On the ground, just under the rear bumper was a small red, white and black leather bookbag. "This is nice," I thought to myself. It was very clean, not a bit of the dust that coated everything else out there. I tucked it under my arm, hoping no one would notice it there. I found Brock near the front building. The desk clerk just waved us through so we didn't have to pay for our parts. We beat a hasty retreat. I kept the book bag hidden until I got home. In my room I examined it more closely. Even though it's condition was almost like new, one could just tell by the construction and the materials used that it wasn't of recent vintage. On it was a picture of The Lone Ranger. I began reflecting on the day's experiences -- the junkyard, the haunted tracks, the story of the children, the names of the streets in that little neighborhood. I opened the bookbag. In addition to a couple of pencils it held a small textbook for young readers, "Streets and Roads" featuring Dick and Jane. Opening the book, there on the inside cover, I saw a list of the pupils to whom it had been issued each year:

1940 Karen McCollum

1941 Henry Schultz

1942 Rhonda Bishop

and the last entry...

1943 Shane Street