Dark was the night, cold was the ground”. These words passed through my brain like a bullet as I set up my small sleeping pad and bag for a couple hours of shut eye. I should start off by saying I travel the country by any means necessary hopping trains, cars, hitching or simply walking when all other options are exhausted. I laid my heavy head on a jacket that I used as a pillow while those words kept passing in my mind “Dark was the night, cold was the ground” for those who don’t know this is a song by blues man Blind Willie Johnson. It was one of the few songs my Papa Charlie would play on his record player and now I’m living the song. With this thought I seen it was time to go home and say hello to my papa, we hadn’t spoken in several years but I knew if anyone would be happy to see me still alive it would be him.
A little back story on me and my family, Papa Charlie was a very quiet man, didn’t say much but he did it stuck, always. My grandmother had passed when I was a little boy so I never really got to know her but I spent many nights in my grandpas old house that was creepy yet oddly comfortable at the same time. Papa never talked about his past much, I didn’t know where he was from, how he met my grandmother or anything all I knew is I was never allowed in his room. Other than that I had run of the house when I was staying but I usually chose to stay close to papa until bedtime.
I met up with a friend and fellow traveler the next morning who said he would help me get back to my home state which I will not name but i will say it’s in the south eastern portion of the Appalachian mountains. That night my friend who we’ll call “George” helped me find a train that was heading in the direction I needed to go, we hid in the thickets for what seemed like hours until that train reared back and slowly started to move. We gave each other a travelers goodbye he gave me a small parcel that I stuffed into my pocket and then I jumped onto the back of a boxcar and I was gone again. This isn’t anything new for me, I’ve been running from place to place since I was 16 years old, so why does this time feel so different? Is it because I feel like I’m giving up the only freedom I’ve had? I wish I knew the answers. I don’t know if you’ve ever ridden illegally on a train before but it’s boring. One hour feels like four hours so to pass the time I just thought about papa, my protector, the man who stood between me and my abusers my entire life and I imagined what my home coming would be. Would they love me and congratulate me or hate me and tell me to leave.
Several days running back and forth to different trains and walking the highway with my thumb to the sky I finally made it back “home”. It felt like a dream, a place that I knew I would never see again is right there in front of me, but it’s different. No lights on inside, no smoke coming out of the chimney. Just lifeless brick and mortar. I wondered where papa was but no life in the house.
I figured since it was early Sunday morning everyone was probably getting ready for church so I found a weak point in the home and let myself in (as I had done many times in my childhood and adult life to survive). The air inside was cold, but not normal cold like what I had come accustomed too, this was different, thick. Remembering where my grandpa kept everything I found matches, paper and a stack of wood out back beside the shop. I made myself a small fire in the wood stove laid out my sleeping mat and bag in front of the stove and decided to relax.
What could’ve been three days or three minutes later I hear the door knob jingle. Jumping up in excitement hoping it was papa I stood up and pushed my hair down so I wouldn’t look completely homeless. I hear a click, the turn of the knob and a slow creak coming from the old front door. To my surprise it was not papa, it was my mother and father. “What’re y’all doing here” I said confused yet angry, they just stood there. My mother quietly and softly said “I guess you’ve heard” “heard what?” I said forcefully “Papa Charlie died last month” I felt as if ten pounds of bricks had been dropped on my chest, I looked around noticing the lack of upkeep on the house “he left you everything but honestly we thought you had died so we’re here to clean everything out” “no” I shouted back “I’ll take it, I’ll take care of it” my mother looked as if someone had showed her the most disgusting sight as she turned around and walked to the car slamming the door, my father just stood there then slowly followed her.
At this point the shock of the situation was just starting to hit me so after a few minutes of collecting my thought I decided to relax. I dig in my bag for the parcel “George” had given me days earlier until I finally found it at the bottom of my pack. I opened and just as I had hoped grade A marijuana, time to relax but damn papers.
Figuring papa may have something I could use I started to look around with no avail. Then it hit me, if he had anything it would be in his room. I turned and began walking to the back side of the cold house until I came to his shit door, I reached out grabbing the cold brass handle when I could hear a voice in my head “Boy, stay out of my bedroom” fuck that. I own this place now I pushed the door open and slowly stepped in. Feeling like I child sneaking around I rummaged through his night stand but all I found was a bible. Figuring what the hell I went to the back pages or notes and tore off a small corner to roll with, but curiosity got the better of me. Thinking I may find valuables or even more important information on my idol.
I had only seen inside of my grandpas room a couple of times as a kid but it looked the exact same. Twin size bed on one wall with a nightstand, small closet in the corner a small rug in the middle of the room and only one picture, a painting of the Virgin Mary. So at this point I began snooping but not finding much, just a few articles of clothing, a shot gun and the Bible that I had desecrated. Figuring I had disrespected my grandpa enough I began to leave the room when I heard a creak from under the rug when I stepped on it. I pulled my foot back then slowly applied pressure again and it creaked again. I fell to my knees and pulled back the rug to find a small door, Bingo.
I flung the door open hoping to find money, gold, deeds, titles anything but it was just a small black book and a cigar box. I pulled the box out first and opened it to see stacks of photos with dates and names written on the back “Teresa and I 1967” whose Teresa I wondered, I pulled out another one “Margret and I 1971” who is Margret? My grandmothers name was Peggy. Figuring my papa was just a playboy in his younger years I grabbed the box and book and went to the bed. This is when I realized everything I knew was a lie. As I dug deeper into the box of photos it got stranger. Women bound, gagged, beaten. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing “he couldn’t have done this” I kept saying to myself. Now physically shaken I looked in the book.
Every entry linked up to the name and date on the photos “Teresa sure was pretty and I hated to hurt her so bad but she couldn’t keep quiet, so I broke her jaw and tied her up. She died 5 days later tied up. What a waste. August 1967” Filled with more questions than answers I continued reading. Between entries of my grandfathers sadistic acts there would be entry’s that read things like “god forgive me I can’t stop” “please lord take me so I won’t hurt another woman” and so on. Realizing my grandfather was a evil, twisted man I grabbed my bag and fled without even packing my sleeping gear up, I just bolted.
This was several years ago and I returned to my life of traveling. I never spoke to anyone about the incident until now and the only reason I write about it now is because on some nights when I do decide to go out and be social I can hear my grandpas voice every time I young lady is around “she sure is pretty, I bet she would love the farm.” “Just invite her to your camp do what you do and then ride away like nothing every happened.” I’ve pushed these thoughts away as long as I can but I fear I’m nearing the ends of my sanity. Will these thoughts one day take over me just as they had my grandfather?