‘Tis the Season
Troll the Ancient Yuletide Carol!
The Trip to Texas
I paid Mrs. Hayes in advance and left an additional 200 dollars to cover any unforeseen need. I loaded my two bags, and set out for Chapel Hill, Texas. I timed my arrival so that I would be there late in the evening. My thinking was that I would wait to see if there were any winter storms before I left Oklahoma. I don’t care to drive myself at all, and certainly not in the snow. If I were in any danger of having to do so, I’d simply stay at home.
I rolled into Texas two hours later beneath falling snow and with a radio station still proclaiming that no winter weather was in sight. By the time I got to Rhone County, it was snowing heavily. When I turned onto Highway 80 toward Mackenson County, I was driving in near whiteout conditions.
I was driving about 35 miles per hour when I almost drove past FM 1821 and the Crossroads Community. There was a store there somewhere and I needed to find it. I finally saw the glow of lights. The store’s lighting was dim because of the snowstorm, but I found it. The store was called Cassie’s 24-7. I parked close to the building and struggled to get into my coat. This being accomplished, I pulled my hood over my head and grabbed my backpack. I got out and dashed inside.
The establishment was decorated nicely in two distinct styles. The convenience store part of it was so clean and technical looking that it seemed like you could eat off of the floor. The diner portion of the structure was built in a rustic fashion and reminded me very much of a log cabin, or perhaps a fancy medieval tavern.
A youngish blonde woman greeted me after I hung up my hat. “It’s not a very good evening for travel, is it?” She peered out the store’s large window. “Looks like we’re all stranded for a while.”
“Not me, Cassie,” said a man who was sitting in the diner enjoying a burger. I hadn’t seen him sitting there. “I’ll be able to get back to camp in no time. And hello, stranger. I’m Carl Douglas, from Tenby, Texas.”
“Good evening,” I said. “I’m William Roberts.”
Cassie seemed to be about to say something, but she did a double take in my direction. Carl ceased to chew for a second, but the pause was short. “You any kin to the Roberts family from Mackenson County?” He continued eating.
“Guilty as charged,” I said. “I was born and raised here and I was the last owner of the Roberts estate. Haven’t been here in years though, and I’m only here now to meet with a few others up at Chapel Hill. To my knowledge, the Roberts family doesn’t live here anymore.”
“I imagine you’re not going to make it to your meeting,” said Cassie. “We’re definitely about to get snowed in.”
“What makes it even worse,” I responded, “almost the entire way here, the radio was not calling for snow.”
“Sounds about right,” she replied.
“Well, William,” said Carl, as he pushed his plate aside, “I can help you out, maybe. See, even if someone came along in a snow sled, or heck, even in a brand new snowmobile, no one in the county would take you to Chapel Hill. See, folks around these parts operate with the foolish idea that Chapel Hill is haunted.”
“You’re absolutely serious, aren’t you?” It didn’t really surprise me.
“Indeed,” said Carl. “Some people call it the old Williamson place, because that family built it, but the family hasn’t lived there in quite some time. Fact is, they’ve been gone long enough that I thought they’d mostly abandoned the Chapel Hill manor. I guess it hasn’t been completely abandoned, or you wouldn’t be trying to get there.”
“Anyway,” he continued, “as few as five years ago or so, I heard strange tales about the place: Especially concerning those rocky hills behind the grounds. A few times people who had no business being back there in those rocks came back claiming to have run into one of the Williamsons. That is, they encountered what they thought was a Williamson. It’s not like they stayed around to have a conversation. It seems like those Williamson folks were always trying to spook the locals: They’d shout ‘Bolverk!’ and shake their fists at people. Or they’d raise their arms up to the sky and pronounce ‘OH BEE!’ as loudly as they could. I mean, it’s just a strange family. Maybe there’s nothing to it, but there’s enough to it that most folks wouldn’t drive you up there, even if it were in the middle of June.”
“I take it that you’re waiting on a ride?” I asked. “I didn’t see your vehicle outside.”
“You can’t see it because of the snow and because it’s parked on the other side of the building by FM 1821. I’m here at Cassie’s picking up some groceries for my deer camp.” He pointed at two bags sitting in the booth across from him. “I and three of my friends have a deer camp north of Chapel Hill. I can take you right to the driveway if you want to ride with me. The only thing is you’re going to have to walk almost half a mile. While I don’t believe in ghosts, sir, I’m not willing to venture onto that property.” Carl paused and took a sip of his coffee. “Well, you can ride with me if you want to; I have a four-wheel drive ATV with a heated cab.”
“Let me grab a cup of coffee,” I said, “and I’ll be ready.” Carl nodded.
I poured myself a large cappuccino and took it to the counter. I paid Cassie. “Are you going to stay open all night?” It didn’t seem too profitable; no one would be on the road. “I suppose,” she said. “I’ll probably close tomorrow because I know the area is going to come to a standstill. I live close enough to walk home, but I imagine someone will come get me. Everyone around here has an ATV like Carl does.”
“It was nice to meet you, have a good evening,” I said.
“You too,” she smiled.
I carried my backpack and one of Carl’s grocery sacks to the ATV and stowed them both in the back seat. We got in and Carl started the engine, turned on the heat and wipers, and pulled out on FM 1821. “Do you have a good-sized camp?” I asked.
“It’s not huge, but it actually is a cabin. It only has one large room and a single bathroom. We’ve got four fixed deer stands and one portable.”
“Have you got a deer yet?” “Nope,” said Carl. “But the season is new. We probably haven’t hunted for more than 24 hours in the past week.”
“I see,” I said. “I never was much of a hunter. My father fished. Oddly enough he didn’t like to eat fish.” Carl laughed. “Well,” he said, “nobody’s perfect.”
We rode in silence for what seemed like 50 miles, but was really only about three. I knew the road would be straight and that we should be close. I was about to ask Carl how far away we were when he began to slow down. He turned to the left, and immediately stopped.
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