("You'll never be a man, George. You'll always be just a little boy.")

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The Ghost Of Silver Trail

Author: george harold fulks/Tuesday, September 11, 2012/11:15 A.M.

Introduction:( Friends, relatives, and associates of Rummage Ira and Ella Fulks delighted themselves by sharing stories of haunted places, bogey men, ghosts, and many other eeiry events experienced during their lives. As a child and observer then, I was often in their company within areas dimly lighted by lamp or warmth of fireplaces or antique stoves.

Also important to record is that my dad was a good listener, but he would most often comment: "Those people in the graveyards are not coming out.Those dead people are not going to hurt anybody. I've walked by cemetaries many times after darkness ever since I was a little kid. I've never seen a thing that even suggests that there's such a thing as ghosts.")

Years have passed now. Mother, Daddy, and most of those listeners and tellers of ghost stories are deceased and in cemetaries themselves. To my dad I don't intend to be disrespectful in debating you for reason of your skepticism. There are ghosts. I've seen them. And here's the story of one.

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The Ghost Of Silver Trail

Stories and songs on the subject of ghost riders have long inspired and intrigued me; stimulating my imagination. Retelling some of those stories and having others listen were methods used for encouraging others to read for recreational purposes when I taught reading improvement to elementary students.

As for personal interests, seldom did I bypass opportunities to read and listen to materials on the subject of ghosts and apparitions. Those were subjects generating mind energy and enthusiasm. That aversion, kindled by an interest in comics books, movies, radio, and television, swelled into my high level of interest in the possibilites of a spiritual afterworld. Truth to tell is that I've encountered several such mysterious entities. My ghost herein is a non-fictional entity. I'm requesting that my readers classify my story in that manner.

The story I'm relating to readers here has the possible effect of changing the skeptic into one who might commence to study such phenomena and then into one who is a believer in such things. It is such a believer as that am I, the composer.

Mark I:

Along a fourteen mile long blacktop highway stretching north to south and separating Grand Rivers, Kentucky from Golden Pond is a seldom traveled and scenic dreamland known as The Silver Trail. If ever there was a gateway openings into the photogenic and historical splendor of that part of western Kentucky encompassing Lyon and Trigg Counties, it is along and within that route one must take when visiting The Land Between The Lakes Recreation Area. While there, a traveler may opt to turn right or left off The Silver Trail and find themselves in a multitude of places. He is quite likely to find himself lost. That can happen quickly and easily. I know for reason that I, the author, was born in that area during 1940. Finding oneself lost?? That's happened to me.

Dixon Cemetary And Energy Lake

Energy Lake can be reached by a left turn at Dixon Cemetary as one travels along Silver Trail, a well-maintained and smoothly surfaced blacktopped two lane highway heading south out of Grand Rivers. That lake was my destination on a spring day during the 1980's. During those times, I was a "stand on the shore" bass fisherman; and a good one.

As I made that left turn, the sight of all the cemetary headstones at Dixon Cemetary caught my fancy. Those stones suddenly seemed worthy of attention. Pulling my automobile off the roadway and stopping at that cemetaries' edge, I longed to view and read some of the headstones there.

From that time, I recall thinking: "Grandmother Carie Pinegar Fulks lived not far from here in a town called Ironton. That was many years ago. She was just a child then and attended a one room school there near that town. Ironton was just a couple of miles away from here. I have a photo of her and all of her classmates. Someone wrote 1900 on the back of the photo but no names. I'd speculate that she might have been acquainted with some of those buried here. I wonder..wonder..wonder.

While time and space do not allow for sharing of all of what I might have thought there at Dixon Cemetary, I do recall a sense of remorse: a special sadness upon viewing the graves of children and younger people. How it hurts to lose a child, an infant, a toddler, teenager friend or relative!!How heartbroken the mothers and fathers must have been!! What solemn occasions funerals are!! How pityful were those tears shed long ago!!Ago!!Ago!!Ago!!Ago!! Those tears must have hurt as much as those of mourners in our times.

White-tailed Deer And Fawn

After a while, I drove on toward Energy Lake, my choice of fishing places for that day. As I rounded a blind curve along the road, a beautiful doe and her fawn were crossing in front of me. The two were headed into heavy forest to our right. Then as I braked and came to a complete stop, that deer child stumbled onto the pavement in front of me; falling onto its knees and then skillfully balancing itself so as not fall on its side. It balanced itself and watched its mother gallop out of sight and disappear into that woods. Mother deer had abandoned her child to an uncertain fate. But the fawn was no worse off from encountering me.

That spring day long ago, I was a tourist, a philosopher, and a fisherman. It would have broken my heart should I have killed or injured that fawn with my automobile. Waiting for the deer child to regain its footing, with love in my heart, I saw it cross that road, run away into those woods in search of its mother.

Oh, happy day! I have never killed a deer. Not in my whole life.

Fishing At Energy Lake

Of light only two hours remained, but that was plenty of time. I reached Energy Lake and was so fortunate as to land nine large-mouthed bass; none which were smaller than three pounds weight. Two weighed-in at seven pounds or more. That was a successful fishing trip.

I used a green spotted top-water lure with spinning tackle and clear nylon line. And as is usual, no one else was present at the lake. As I cast among some lily-pads some thirty yards from where I was standing on shore, I had found fine companions for a married man- solitude, peace, and no competition. That spring day at Energy Lake near Barkley Lake had been a fine day for angling.

As that fishing trip ended, not enough light of day remained for me to reach Grand Rivers before twilight. I did make it back to Dixon Cemetary where I had made a stop earlier for sentimental purposes.

Important for me to share with readers is that the second drive by Dixon Cemetary was not without incident. That time when I reached there, a surprise of a different kind awaited me. I tell here no lie.

A setting sun struck me square in my face, obstructing clear vision. Then I just happened to glance into patches of brush and hardwood forests to my right before a turn back towards Grand Rivers. Dixon Cemetary was to my left and a forest to my right. Then....a solar like wave of brillance approached me, came nearer to me from the hardwoods and brush. That wave swept over my car and me and continued on across Dixon Cemetary.

Ghost Rider

Then I braked again to a complete stop because I could not see clearly enough to continue.

As I sat there somewhat frozen and hesitating to steer into a right turn, I just happened to glance into my car's inside rearview mirror. Suddenly I realized that I was no longer the lone passenger in my automobile. Feeling a chilly sensation- one cold enough for easy detection on that pleasant evening. And darkness was drawing near. The hairs on my full head of hair seemed to tingle and stand on end as did that on my arms. A mild electrical shock- it did not cause pain. But as I peered into that mirror, my blurred vision cleared into near perfect focus.

In th middle of my car's rear seat was a blond-haired, female- a young lady perhaps fourteen. Blue-eyed and very lightly complexed, her eyes and mine met as we stared at each other into that mirror. As she viewed contently into my eyes, especially noticeable was that she was sad but beautiful.

Momentarily, her face disappeared from my view, and then I turned north, heading in the direction of Grand Rivers. Steering and rapidly accelerating, I sped away, not fully able to handle well the occurrence of such an episode.

Darkness came, and I was frightened by what had happened.

That teenaged girl whom I've come to know as Heidi disappeared for a time, but one thing is certain. She returned with me to The Corn Belt here in central Illinois where I chose to teach elementary students before retiring in 1994. But I've seen her twice since that first incident during the 1980's.

When I taught school, my family and I lived in Harvel, Illinois from 1968 until 1996. Heidi came and stood beside me there. Once she stood beside me as I lay resting on an old sofa.

Upon sharing that incident with my immediate family who are now married, of age, and have their own children, none were at all surprised. They've reported weird events also.

Here in Hillsboro where I moved during 1996, I have a long driveway that reaches at least fifty feet onto South Jefferson Street. One dark evening just before darkness, I spotted Heidi walking out of an opening beneath a small trestle. It's a trestle that allows water to run through The Cities' drainage ditch. My ghost walked out of that drainage ditch and climbed a steep incline. She was headed toward a neighbor's open garage. Could my ghost have taken-up residence there?

Do any of you here in Hillsboro have a ghost that could be described in same detail- a manner similar to what I've written about Heidi. Blond- haired, blue-eyed, about fourteen years old. If you do indeed have a ghost in your house or an occasional visitor who resembles a haunt, it may be my ghost.. I brought Heidi here from Kentucky, and she's mine. One thing I know is that she will not harm you.

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