Fict File 13C

The train ride was not terribly unpleasant. I used the company’s short lines along the New River and north, until I was able to arrange travel east and south in Charleston. From there the train carried me past Huntington and out of West Virginia.  My

last stop on the western line was Lexington, and from there I switched to the south line, which took me all the way to Meridian, Mississippi. Finding myself in a city where I knew absolutely no one, I was still able to arrange a nice place to rest thanks to a friend’s arranging with family for me to have a room and bed for a few days. This was a nice break from the monotony and crowds of the train ride. After that it was back to the rail, westward into Texas until I reached Dallas. At Dallas I switched to a short line again, this time north, until I finally arrived at my destination, a rail hub town on the Red River. Denison, Texas.

Denison was actually a remarkable place. Founded by the Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad, it immediately grew as an important primary rail hub for traffic crossing the Red River. The busy streets bustling activity throughout the town was testament to the success of that plan.

My official business in Denison was to consult with a gentleman named Thomas Munson. However recent events in my life had given me reason to do some personal investigation while I was there. Hidden amid my papers on chemistry and botany, was an old newspaper clipping I had run across. It was my hope that this ragged little clipping might lead me to some insights regarding recent events. However I was obliged to see to my official responsibilities in regards to Mr. Munson first.

Mr. Munson received me at his home and we talked at great length as he proudly escorted me through his small private vineyard. We talked in detail about phylloxera and the damage it was spreading across Europe. The disease had been introduced when vines native to the Americas had been transplanted in Europe, bringing with them a disease which the European vines had no resistance to. It had become a serious epidemic. Mr. Munson’s work in cross breeding strains for a heartier variety had proven to his satisfaction that he was well on the way to solving the dilemma, however there were still details which eluded him. Because of this we spent much of the rest of the day in his study, with him asking me endless varieties of questions about soil and minerals. He has a strong belief that the real answer lies in the plant's root development and the particular nutrients it is getting from the soil content. After spending the day with him, I would have to say that I feel he is looking in the right direction, and may one day prove successful at his goal. However Botany is not one of my strongest of sciences, so I might simply be taking a rather Pollyanna attitude towards a project I was honored to be included in. I am not as often approached for such work since West Virginia 

University let me go, so I tend to revel in it when such arrives.

The days consultation seeming to prove fruitful, and with Mr. Munson seeming both satisfied and grateful for my meager contributions, the good botanist asked me to join him for dinner. I was happy to do so, and had expected our days scientific conversations to continue, however I found myself a bit surprised when Mr. Munson turned our conversation in directions more philosophical and political. It was at that moment that I understood why a pansy flower decorated his lapel. Thomas extolled at length about his particular viewpoint in which reason, logic, and empiricism held the greatest status, above tradition, religion, or even common law. I had heard of folks like Thomas, who called themselves free thinkers, though many considered them anarchists. After spending an evening of conversation with the man, I’d have to say my impression lies somewhere in the middle of those two labels. It was an enlightening and engaging conversation, but not one I’d be inclined to record the content of, lest our musings be misconstrued or taken out of context.  After brandy and cigars I complimented his home and company and made my way back to my simple lodging.

Compared to Mr. Munson’s fine house my snug four by nine room was as Spartan as a monk’s chamber. I am not sure if it was entirely discomfort which prevented sleep that night, it might also have been a childlike anticipation. Much like what occurs the night before Christmas or some other exciting event. One is so looking forward to the morn, that one’s rest seems short and fitful. Filled not with slumber, but instead long moments of laying in the dark with ones mind a swirling fog of hope and expectations, limiting actual rest to foggy snippets of sleep. Such a night of course left me cotton headed and thick the next morning. It required numerous cups of coffee for me to find my wits and set out on my mission. It took the rest of the morning, and a small amount of bribery, to learn the location I sought. A farm just a few miles out of town, near the wide gulch.

The five or six miles along the south road proved a dusty and dry walk. As I strolled along my way I admit my mind wandered to my previous days conversations regarding the local agriculture. Compared to the more fertile mountain land of my home, this location seemed very hard and cruel with respect to the land. I also think that I mused upon this subject as a manner of distraction, so that I could prevent myself from making suppositions or leaps of judgments about the encounter I hoped to have. Looking back, I think I might have clutched at that old scrap from the Denison Daily News the entire walk. The sweat from my hand caused the ink to bleed onto my fingertips, and smeared the original date of January 25, 1878 so much so that I had to pencil it later on the clipping. This same excitement quickened my pace and made the journey pass quite swiftly.

The Martin farm was of modest size but obviously well tended and cared for. It’s appearance spoke well of its owner John Martin and his family. I was greeted by one of his sons immediately upon arriving at the farm, and without suspicion or frowns as academics such as I often receive when arriving unannounced. The boy cheerfully introduced me to his father and after the customary polite exchanges I explained my interest in speaking with him, bringing forth the newspaper clipping I had carried so many miles.

“That was a long time ago.” Mr. Martin related. “I remember it happened not too long after Doc Holliday closed his practice in town. I was hunting when I saw it.” It was at this time that the farmer slowed his words, making sure the seriousness of what he was relating was imparted. It was a tone meant to assure the listener of the veracity of what was to follow. “One moment it was there, just a dark speck in the southern sky, and then all of a sudden it just seemed to dash right over us. It was moving at a frightful speed, reminded me something of a hummingbird in flight. Fast, then stop, fast, then stop. “

I asked him what it looked like and without hesitation he pointed to the saucer under his coffee. “Flip that over, that that’s what it looked like. Like a round saucer. I don’t know what it was, but I am glad that some learned science man like yourself is looking in on it. I am reassured by that, even if it did take ten years before someone did.”

He went on to tell me that the object then flew off in a northeastern direction, and that he was certain it was not a balloon, and that he actually saw it. I inquired if he had seen it land or had perhaps come across any place on his property where it might appear that it had come to earth. He assured me he had found nothing of the sort on his property nor knew of any neighbors who had discovered anything.

“The only thing that was odd about it was the Preacher who arrived a day or so after the story had been printed. Friendly enough fellow, all smiles in his black suit. He spent some time trying to convince me that I had seen some planet in the sky or something called a bowl-ride.”

“A Bolide?” I asked, to which he nodded.

“He said it was rocks that fell from the sky, which sounded like a lot of rubbish to me.” Mr. Martin added, obvious humor to his tone. “He pestered me for a few hours about my not really seeing what I told the paper I saw. After awhile I got annoyed by it and told him so, and threw him off my farm. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that, it wasn’t Christian of me,” he said, emphasizing, “but there was just something about the manner of that Preacher. So soft spoken and always smiling.”

I asked Mr. Martin why he thought the stranger was a Preacher and was told, “His coat and manner of dress, all black and funeral like. Only folks I see dressed like that are usually preachers and undertakers. Now that you ask that, I admit I never heard him say one word of scripture. He just talked planets and falling rocks with that odd smile. Guess I just felt he was mocking me.”

With that I finished the notes I was taking and thanked Mr. Martin for his time. As I was getting ready to part company with the farmer I begged one last indulgence of his time as I took a ferrotype from the safety of its paper cover and showed it to him, asking if the gentleman in the picture resembled this preacher he had spoken with.

John Martin confirmed that indeed the man in the picture could be the preacher he had thrown off his farm ten years prior. This was something that dominated my thoughts the long train rides back to West Virginia. John Martin, a farmer in Denison, Texas, had witnessed the exact same thing I had, except almost a decade prior.

And like myself, he too had encountered, the man in black.

From the Journal of Professor Tot

November 1888

Author'sNote: FictFiles are works of Fiction.  The FictFiles posts here in this blog are one of my ways of both sharing these stories with a wider audience, and collecting them in a easy to locate place.

FictFile 13B

Odd little Doodlebug

This was near where Leading Creek meets the Tygart. Senator Davis had sent myself and some others there, to give a scientific survey. It was an area Senator Davis and another Senator had an eye to develop for Coal and Timber. That morning I was surprised to find the stranger standing in the field near my canvas home, seeming content to simply admire the landscape. His arms were folded in the quirksome manner he employed, with his hands shoved up under his armpits as if taken with a chill. I was told later, by our cook, that my odd friend had been standing in that same spot for several hours. The cook had taken him for some sort of minister, given his square cut black suit. 

The stranger greeted me with the same cordial smile, and asked me several questions about the foliage of the area, many of which I found to be very specific and unable to give proper response to. He mentioned a fondness for a nearby mountaintop, though he confessed he did not know the local name for it. As we talked he took from his pocket what appeared to be a brass winged beetle about size of the palm of his hand. It’s ‘face’ was made from a chunk of amethyst, with the filigree body terminating in a frosted faceted quartz. The legs appeared to be segmented pearl, and it was covered in springs which seemed to continually tighten and release. The stranger then set the clockwork ‘insect’ into the grass where it immediately scurried out of sight. 

I inquired from him what he was hoping to detect with this new contraption. He simply looked at me with that bobcat grin of his and replied that this particular ‘critter’ didn’t actually detect anything, but rather assisted the others. He attempted to explain how this was the case, but I admit I failed to understand it with any certainty. We had coffee at the Kit, and as usual Cook’s coffee was poor and well burnt, but the stranger did not complain. I did note he added even more honey than his usual copious amount, which drew grins from several of the men working the survey. As we sat together the stranger again turned the talk towards the local foliage, which I was unfamiliar with. This seemed to disappoint him a little. Afterward he simply shook my hand and walked away from camp into the woods with the same manner a gentleman might stroll a street in Wheeling. 

It would be several weeks before I saw that stranger once more. I confess I never did see that little gold brassy bug again, though I frequently found myself looking for it about the camp.

-From the Journal of Professor Tot, 
Oct 1888



Author'sNote: FictFiles are works of Fiction. Recently I had been composing various stories to accompany different sculptures and jewelry I've been working on. After sharing them else-site, I was encouraged to collect and produce more of these stories. The FictFiles posts here in this blog are one of my ways of both sharing these stories with a wider audience, and collecting them in a easy to locate place.

FictFile 13a

I could tell when I entered the room that the two officers had already questioned the suspect at great length. The room was stagnant, and the sputtering oil lantern didn’t help. Instead it gave the air a shrouding mist that hung irritably about the throat and nose. I introduced myself as the Detective on Duty and began to question the suspect, a one Richard ‘Dickie’ Crest. Dickie was the owner of a pub Elkside of Charleston, a place were questionable things were rumored to happen. Tonight he had been brought in on charges of attempted arson.

The officers [Names Redacted] informed me when found it appeared Dickie had removed all the money from the register and the safe, and had attempted to set two fires. When the officers found him he seemed dumbstruck, staring at the small burnt spots with the monies in a carpetbag beside him upon a table, next to which sat an empty small shallow box, which they assumed he had kept the tinder in.

Richard told me quite a different tale, once I had calmed him and convinced him I had no plans at start to resort to violence. The monies from the register and the safe had been taken that evening to the basement lock up and were still upon the premises. (A fact which was confirmed.) The cash he had been found with had been brought by two gentlemen, who were meeting him to purchase a necklace Richard had come to possess. (He claimed this was what the box had contained.) Covered in pearls, tourmaline, citrine, and other stones, all Richard knew about the necklace was that it was valuable. He admitted he thought it looked ancient, despite many modern elements of design. Richard claims that while meeting with these two other gentleman that a third individual interrupted them. He described the man as having a wide smile despite being dressed for mourning. He raised an object that looked like a candlestick at them which erupted with a great flash like that of a camera's powder. When Richard had recovered from the dazzling light, he realized that his two companions had been reduced to small piles of smoldering ash, and the stranger in black was calmly walking away with the necklace.

“She would find it distasteful, her treasure bartered in a back room like this. She was a Queen. But then again, your history holds no memory of her I imagine. Pity. See you in time, Mr. Crest. Perhaps next April, on your birthday.” Richard claimed the man said, adding he had a pleasant and polite tone. He was certain he remembered the words exactly, and it was at this time in his story that Richard seemed to display genuine fear.

He would not reveal the identity of the individual who had supplied him with the necklace, nor those of the two alleged ‘victims.’ So there is no way to verify this story.

At this time I recommend we at least continue holding Richard Crest until Dr. Perrin can decide if he is sane. I have my doubts.

-Report filed by Rodney Jacobson, Detective, CPD
Oct. **, 1882

Mr Crest's Stranger?

Author'sNote: FictFiles are works of Fiction. Recently I had been composing various stories to accompany different sculptures and jewelry I've been working on. After sharing them else-site, I was encouraged to collect and produce more of these stories. The FictFiles posts here in this blog are one of my ways of both sharing these stories with a wider audience, and collecting them in a easy to locate place. I hope folks enjoy. 

I would also like to apologize for the gap in postings, October was a very busy month for the Captain and I, however I have had some great experiences I hope to share with folks soon.