(With apologies to my late pal Frank Capra)
As was usual on the night before Halloween, Precarious Jones sat in his chair before the fireplace with Little Owell, and the two roasted sausages they called Halloweiners
over the glowing red coals. Once more, Little Owell asked the mentorial old man to relate
the story of a local ghost believed to return at the end of each October to seek out and haunt down certain people.
“Tell about the Heelots,” Little Owell said between bites.
“If you insist,” said Precarious with a little bitty smile. And he began . . .
When this country was opened up to homesteaders, there were important people who wanted to capitalize on the poor folks’ need for jobs in the big cities, so they took about to make up stories about how if they traveled west to the wide open spaces, they could have unimaginable land to farm, freedom from crowded city life and a bountiful future.
And so men and women and their little kids –
“Like me,” Little Owell interrupted.
Yes, just like you. They came by wagons, by train and some maybe on foot to what they were told was the Promised Land. They settled here in great big numbers, and as they did, the mighty important people who made lots of money from their coming and staying grew richer.
“Those was the Heelots,” said Little Owell, for he had heard the story several times before.
Yes, they were the Heelots.
“And what’s a Heelot,” Little Owell asked, although he knew the answer.
Heelots? A lotta heels. A lotta people out to take advantage of other folks and not care whether the other folks are bamboozled in the process. Heelots have been part of what is humorously known as the Human Race for since it ever began, I reckon.
Well, this country and its land and weather were not so welcoming and generous as the immigrants had been told to believe. Why the story told them was even that the weather was so nice they could work outside all year round in their underwear. The ground was easy to work with just a horse and plow. But when some of that land turned out to be about hard as Old Billy’s boot, when the weather hit fifty below the zero mark, when the summer winds blew hot and dried up crops, when the grasshoppers came in and ate even
paint off their skimpy little shacks – well, many folks had to pack up what little they had and head for some hopefully greener pastures.
Which brings me to one family who came out here from Minnesota, I think it was.
“You mean the Muck family,” chimed Little Owell.
Yup. The Muck family. A name that was easy to mock. Husband, wife and two little daughters. About poor as churchmice but intent on making a go of things. A local real estate salesman, ever on the watch for another quick dollar, took them out to a plot of land he guaranteeeed was one of the best remaining sections in this whole county. And there the Muck family settled down, made a tiny homestead house of sod and what lumber they could afford. It was not a castle, but it was home on the range.
Well . . . the ground was hard to work. The Heelot real estater had lied. The Mucks were having one awfully tough old time making a go of their No So Heaven On Earth. And then one night after the rain had been falling too hard, and Mr. Muck was far out in a field, his boots started to sink into what we know as “gumbo” mud, and Mr. Muck became stuck in the muck of the homestead he had not even yet proved up on. About
that time, a big lightning bolt shot down and struck Mr. Muck as he struggled in the
muck.
“And he died!” said Little Owell with alarm.
Yes, he up and died out there, sort of like a statue to Failure. But things got even worse. At their little schoolhouse, the two little Muck girls stood out from the other children who were not by any means well-to-do but they felt superior to the Muck girls, and some of the other children began to make fun of the Mucks and their name and their shabby appearance.
“Heelot kids!” cried Little Owell. “Heelot kids!”
Well . . . It became too much for Mrs. Muck to tolerate, and on the day before Halloween, she up and walked away from their homestead. Sold their cow, packed a suitcase, and with the two girls walked for two days to get to town and the train station. They left the country and never were heard from again.
“But that’s not so,” said Little Owell, who knew how the story ended.
Yes, long years after, even into her final breathing moments, Mrs. Muck never forgot what the Heelots had done to her family and to so many others who were tricked and
preyed upon. And when she died, she made sure her spirit returned back here. On Halloween nights, when the hooty-owls are out and the big round moon makes spooky shadows on the streets and walls and windows. the ghost of Mrs. Muck comes back on little cat’s feet. Silently, quietly, step by step and breath by breath she comes.
That means the Heelots must beware. For where the Heelots go, and in their deepest sleep, they know the spirit of Mrs. Muck will be there, and they shiver in silent shame,
although they don’t know why they do.
“Would Mrs. Muck haunt me?” asked wide-eyed Little Owell.
Well . . . do you think you’re a Heelot?
“Oh, gee, no, I’m sure I’m not.”
Then you have nothing to worry about. She only haunts the Heelots, and there are lots and lots of them to haunt. You see, the Heelots took away her family’s chance to have a wonderful life. And haunting is her best revenge. . . But it looks like we’ve eaten up the Halloweenies, and it’s getting mighty dark outside.
“Oh, well,” said Little Owell, “at least we’ve heard the story. And I don’t have to worry.”
Yes, said Precarious, as he leaned back easy in his chair. The ghost of Mrs. Muck has others in her sights. But just in case -- be careful on the way home.
