In 1957, Kentucky had more bookmobiles than any other state in the country. But only one of them was haunted.
Marjorie Mae Crawford stood shivering in the parking lot of Little Flock Baptist Church. The early April breeze still carried the sharp edge of winter; it took spring a while to travel up the hollers in Sturgill. But Marjorie Mae hardly noticed the weather. She trembled with excitement as she strained for her first glimpse of the bookmobile.
Once a month, the sturdy white van growled its way up, down and around the hills of Southeastern Kentucky, its cargo area lined with shelves of books—everything from Dick and Jane reading primers to dog-eared copies of East of Eden. Marjorie Mae still couldn’t quite believe that the bookmobile lady allowed her to choose any book she liked and take it home for a whole month.
The town hadn’t had a library since the Roaring Paunch Creek, fed by days of unrelenting rain, had jumped its banks 20 years before, sweeping away the schoolhouse that had once stood on this very spot, along with 25 students and their teacher. The bodies of all but one had been found downstream in the desperate hours and days following. Rather than rebuild the school, the devastated community had instead erected the clapboard church.
Marjorie Mae read again the words engraved on the metal sign in front of the church: “In eternal remembrance of the little flock lost on April 3, 1937. Jesus loves the little children.” Listed below were 26 names. She lingered on the first one, Daisy Lou Allen, the 10-year-old who had never been seen again.
Marjorie Mae, who had celebrated her 10th birthday the day before, shivered again, but her attention was quickly diverted by the sound of grinding gears: The bookmobile was here! Miss Birdwhistle turned off the engine, opened the back doors, and lowered the three folding steps.
First in line, as always, Marjorie Mae climbed inside and breathed in the lovely, dusty perfume of the pages.
“Hello again, Marjorie Mae,” Miss Birdwhistle said, taking an E.B. White book from her hand. “What did you think of ‘Charlotte’s Web’?”
“Oh, I loved it ever so much. But I wish Charlotte could have lived longer.”
“Well, that’s nature for you,” Miss Birdwhistle replied. “Everything has its time and season.”
“I suppose, but it still doesn’t seem fair,” Marjorie Mae said. “I think she had more living to do.”
She started toward the children’s chapter books as usual, but something stopped her. Without remembering exactly how, she found herself in front of a section of books she had never seen before: Kentucky Folklore. Her hand was drawn to a slim, ragged volume with threads trailing from the worn edges of its cover. “The Bell Witch, the Gray Lady, and Stories of Other Haunts and Haints, by W.L. Montell,” she read softly to herself. She opened the back cover. The last date stamped on the checkout card inside the glued-on pocket was April 3, 1937.
This book hasn’t been checked out for 20 years, Marjorie Mae thought. But how can that be? The Bookmobile just started coming when I was 7.
Intrigued, she flipped through the pages until a story grabbed her. It was called “Trouble on Crawford Creek.” She began to read.
The chalk squeaked as Charlie Johnson applied too much pressure on the blackboard. Ciphering was his worst subject, and darned if Miss Harris didn’t always call on him first. I could see his ears getting red, which was never a good sign.
But before he could turn around and confess to Miss Harris that he had no idea what to do next, we all heard another sound. The low rumbling built like the thunder that had shaken the town for days, but unlike the thunder, it didn’t ease. It sounded almost like a train, but the train hadn’t run in Sturgill since the Kingfisher Mine had closed the year before.
Whatever it was, it drew closer and closer, and louder and louder.
The wall of the schoolhouse buckled. I saw Charlie’s puzzled expression and Miss Harris’ horrified one and then all I saw was water, a wall of it, shoving aside desks and benches and the coat rack and the potbellied stove and the trees and the rocks and I couldn’t swim and I couldn’t float and I couldn’t breathe and …
“Marjorie Mae Crawford! Are you going to check out that book or read the whole thing right here?” Miss Birdwhistle’s voice was warm with amusement and affection, but she did have other stops to make.
“What? Oh, my goodness, I got carried away,” Marjorie Mae said, shaking her head slightly. Her eyes, which had seemed slightly out of focus, fixed on Miss Birdwhistle’s. “Yes, I’d like to check this out, please.”
She laid the checkout card on Miss Birdwhistle’s tiny desk and carefully autographed it. The librarian had rolled the bands on her book stamp to display May 3, 1957, but she checked them again before pressing the stamp firmly into her ink pad and then onto the card.
“I’ll see you in a month,” she said to Marjorie Mae as she handed the book back to her.
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl replied. “I have more living to do.”
Miss Birdwhistle watched as she walked down the three steps and set off toward home. What an odd thing to say, she thought, picking up the checkout card. As she placed it in the box with the other cards, she noticed how yellowed it was. And the signature was smeared—highly unusual for that meticulous child. She looked closer at the autograph, then frowned with puzzlement.
Daisy Lou Allen.
Carla Carlton | Louisville