On a moonless night in January of 1974, the Vietnam war had ended & I had returned stateside. The only visible light on the road was from my brand new SS Chevelle’s highbeams, and the only sound was the roaring V8 engine as I tore my way down the two lane blacktop.
I was some where in Oklahoma, formerly known as Indian territory, and about to cross the state line into Kansas. It’s so lonely out here, I thought, as I yawned. I hadn’t seen another car for hours.
I looked down at the clock on my radio, as it turned from 2:59 to 3am and I sighed in exhaustion. I had been on the road for 8 hours straight, and there wasn’t a stop in sight. Trying to stay awake, I started fooling with the radio, and Donovan’s “Season of the witch.” came on. when I looked back up to the road, there was a man crossing right in front of me!–I stomped my brakes, and swerved just in time, narrowly avoiding the man.
“Crazy jackass!” I yelled out the window, as I looked in the rear view mirror. The man suddenly disappeared. I blinked a few times, and looked back. Nothing was there. Must be hallucination from lack of sleep, I thought. I looked back a second time, and I couldn’t believe my eyes.
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Seeing this man’s reflection, in my rearview mirror– I noticed he emitted a green glowing aura. I blinked, and did a double take, looking again to reveal this man, stood around 7 foot tall and was dressed in an old cowboy duster, down to his boots, and a wide brimmed black hat. The unnatural glow surrounding his figure caused me to shake my head, and give my face a hard slap to try and snap out of it.
I couldn’t register what was happening in my mind. I couldn’t believe my eyes, this can’t be happening, this isn’t happening, I thought. I gazed upon this sullen highway wanderers figure, and was filled with a deep sense of dread, and a feeling of utter despair and hopelessness.
No, no, no, my lips mumbled on their own as I dropped down to second gear, causing my transmission to grind and squeal. I slammed my boot down, hard on the gas pedal. The cars engine roared to life on all 8 cylinders as the rear end fishtailed and I left a trail of rubber 50 feet long.
Smoke bellowed from the tires of my car, covering the highway, but I could not pry my eyes off the rearview mirror amidst this eerie green glowing cowboy. “You’re not in Nam’ no more, Tom, I’m back home, back stateside.” I told myself, but watched in horror as the ghostly cowboy visage raised up his arm and pointed in my direction. I shuddered, as his jaw unhinged unnaturally wide, and he let out a piercing wail that rang in my ears and shook me to my very core.
I heard it still as he disappeared from view over the hill in the road. Suddenly, my car begin to bog down and backfire, as I lost control and began to swerve left and right off the road. I fought desperately with the steering wheel, until I lost control.
My engine stuttered to a complete stop when my front tires made contact with a giant ditch. The impact caused my head to bang violently on the metal dashboard, as the fog grew thick in the airaround me. I felt it’s moisture creeping through my open windows, causing my body to grow cold and shudder while hot blood dripped down my brow. It dripped into my eyes, blinding me. My eyelids started to grow heavy, and I blacked out.
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“Tommy!” I heard a familiar voice call to me. “Tommy! Wake up!” A soldier grabbed me under my arm, pulling me to my feet. “Get up Private, on your feet!” Move, move, move! It was Sergeant Dan. No. How could it be? Sergeant Dan died in Saigon in the spring of 68. He was shot in a trench, right next to me, by two Vietcong guerillas. “Where am I?” I asked, hazily, rubbing my head. I felt myself wearing a helmet. “You’re in the shit, soldier!” He yelled, dragging me beside him into a muddy trench. “
Lay down suppressive fire!” he barked at the soldiers behind us. “Damn Vietcong have us pinned down, they’ve captured our radio tower, sonbitches’ are using it to draw in nearby ally troops.” “It’s an ambush!” An explosion went off behind us.
“Get down get down, crawl and shoot, they are throwing grenades!” I steadied my helmet with my free hand as I moved forward, squeezing the trigger of my colt walker sixgun, firing it blindly, as I pushed myself forward with my feet. Over the explosions and gunfire, I could hear a radio transmission being relayed from a tower within eyesight.
This tower broadcast echoed an ominous sound, of white noise and feedback, as if it was trying to tune into the right frequency. I shut my eyes tight over the white noise and prayed; “I wish I was back home, please let me be back home, please.” Suddenly the static stopped, and I heard “Season of the witch” by Donovan playing. Why did that sound familiar? What the hell is going on, I thought?
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I opened my eyes, and jerked my body upright. I gasped, oh shit!– Jerking the wheel of my Chevelle, I managed to straighten out the car on the road, nearly avoiding a ditch. I must have been driving, and dozed off. I looked down at the clock on my radio, as it turned from 2:59am to 3 and I sighed in exhaustion. How long was I out for? Did I dream all of that, I wondered. “I’m alright,” I mumbled to myself.
“Everything, is going to be okay..” Just as the song ended, my radio started catching static and I looked down at it. Suddenly, my radio’s tuner was jumping all over the place, and as I looked over at my instrument cluster with all the gauges, I noticed they were all jumping back and forth too.
I gulped, closing my eyes for a second, and took a deep breath. Just then, the radio seemed to have found a frequency and settled on a station.I gulped for a second time, as the tuner had settled on the radio station 66 point 6 –“What the–” Just then, a voice came on the radio. My cars engine hummed in sync with the voice on the radio. “Iteration number 8, 6, 7, 5, 3, 0, 9”
I listened intently, as if under a spell. My eyes remained glued on the road ahead. The voice was a deep southern drawl, but sounded almost, supernatural. “I keep reliving it. Again and again…and again… and again.” the voice said, gravelly and weary sounding.– “It was the sixgun, I tell you. The colt walker revolver, that thing is the damned devil itself in the wrong hands.”
“Non-sense!” I heard my own voice say, but it didn’t come from me. My voice, came from my own radio. Almost, as if it were having a conversation with the other voice. I shook my head, and blinked a few times– but when I opened my eyes I wasn’t sitting in my car, I was sitting–at a bar. An old timey’ saloon. “I’m telling you, William it’s cursed!” The voice continued.
“You’ll be cursed too, if you don’t leave it be” This was the voice, of an old man who sat next to me at the bar. His clothes were worn and tattered, and he had a white beard that had been stained yellow from years of tobacco spit.”Yeah yeah.” I heard myself say, but I wasn’t the one who said it. “That whiskey you been drinkin’ must be mighty powerful, old timer.” I continued. The old man’s blue eyes had a glint of foreboding in them, yet he said nothing; just putting his head down, as if, in sorrow.
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I felt myself get up from the bar stool, and watched as I threw a silver dollar on the counter. Keep the change,” I heard myself say. “You need it, running a shit hole like this.” The old man ignored my insult, and begged me a final time “Don’t you go down to boot hill, you stay outta that cemetery youngster, if’n’ you know what’s good for ya!” I pushed open the saloon door as I stepped down onto a dirt road, a ratty town with a broken sign that read “Ledwater.”
What the hell is going on? I thought to myself. This isn’t my body, this isn’t me, is it? My name is Tommy, not William. What in hell is going on? My thoughts, are my own– but, I have no control of these words or actions. I watched, helplessly, merely a spectator of the body I was in, as a man on crutches hobbled towards me. He looked like a war veteran, this man was missing a leg, and looked very downtrodden.
“Spare a buck, mister?” he pleaded. I grabbed him by the throat, shoving him back and sweeping my boot under his leg as he tripped and fell to the ground.”Not a chance, you son’bitch’.” I heard myself say as I laughed down at the poor man’s face, and kept walking. My conscience winced at the thought of ever doing such a thing.
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Okay, so I was a spectator in the body of an evil man, apparently. What the hell is going on, I thought, as I watched myself walk toward two giant rusty wrought iron gates at the edge of this town I was in, called Ledwater. I looked down at the filthy ripped jeans I was wearing. They seem to have dried blood on them. On top of that, I wore an old cowboy duster, down to my boots and a wide brimmed black hat.
I felt the side of my hip, but I wasn’t carrying anything. Don’t bring your guns to town, I thought to myself, sharing the body of this stranger. Just then, I stared up at the gate–it read “Boot hill cemetery.” This tall cowboy I was riding shotgun with, seemed to know where he was going, anyway. Looks like, I was just along for the ride..
.The one legged man, lying on the ground in pain, called out to me “You’ve a black heart, boy, and you’ll burn for it.” I scoffed as I passed through the cemetery gate,and it creaked on my way in as I made my way up the hill. There was a stench in the air, something foul and rank. I knew that smell all too well, unfortunately.
I ascended the grassy knoll, adjusting my wide brimmed cowboy hat as a cool breeze whistled through the dead trees. It was early morning, and the sun had barely begun to rise above an unmarked grave I was clearly headed towards, up at the very top of the hill.
The man began to sing, with his deep southern drawl. “In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand to live and die in Dixie, Away, away, away down South in Dixie.” Why did that song sound so familiar? Have I been here before? What year is it? I had so many questions.
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