The Slave Who Died Twice

The Full Story

I recall talking to the old man that night, the one who said that he knew of a famous "ghost town" as he called it. I remember tipping my hat to him and asking him what he knew, for we were sitting together, in an old abandoned shack that had been lost to the world for over a hundred or so years. The look of the place was awful, with mice scrambling around the floor, looking for scraps to eat with no luck in the world for them, and with chipping floorboards underneath our feet, scraped with age. I looked up at the man and realized that he had already begun speaking while I was investigating why in the world that he wanted me to meet him HERE of all places.

I nodded at him as he continued, relieved that he had only spoken of where it had happened, not WHAT had become of it. He told me that it was a rainy evening in 1864, and the Civil War was in it's final stage, only a year before it would end. The old man had told me, with a cigar in his mouth, constantly breathing in the smoke like he depended on it, that the night had seemed eerily quiet.

I couldn't see his eyes for the entire time that he spoke, yes, I remember. He told me that the Underground Railroad was still in progress as well, that even though the Civil War would last only a year longer, the slaves had had enough and felt as if their treatments as slaves lasted forever. So they ran away, through houses, rivers, swamps, anything that could hide their scent from the... The old man shivered slightly and put his head into his hands like he had just learned that he had lost his entire family in some unknown accident. I pushed him to go on, not literally of course, for it looked as if the poor bag of bones would fall over and break all of the muscles and organs that was holding the man together. His voice quivered and shook with coughs as he said it.

"B-b-b... Bloodhounds." He whispered with fear.

He continued on, shaking his head and continuing in his monotone of a voice. He told me that dreadful night that slaves would run, not just for fear of getting caught or beaten, but from the terror of being found and mauled by a Bloodhound. A Bloodhound is a large, brown dog with long, floppy ears. They have a nice nature in general, but back in the slave times, they were taught to kill and hunt slaves down with their lives.

He cringed at the thought and I placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, calming him, only to snatch it away again. I couldn't see the man's skin, for I could only see the dark silhouette of the man sitting on his rickety chair. But I knew something for sure the moment that my hand met his skin. Touching his skin was like poking ice. Why was he so cold? The man shook his head again, breaking me from my thoughts once more, and I focused on him again as he continued his tale. There was a special town on the right side of the Mississippi River that was truly a "ghost town", as he told me.

He couldn't remember the name, for he had told the story many times and his old mind couldn't help him recover it. I jotted this down mentally in my head, telling myself that I would try to look it up later, and nodded at him. He told me that there was a man by the name of Drew Yagaren who had been a slave and had tried to escape from his Slaveholder on the Underground Railroad, and that he had come up to this strange, un-nameable town that seemed like a good shelter.

Drew had walked inside, only to find that he wasn't alone.

He felt as though someone was watching him, and he had investigated the strange place for a few more moments before finally settling in a large, dusty house. Not permanently, the old man recalled, but for awhile. He remembered that Drew had heard then what he feared the most and the man shivered at the memory of it. I pressed him on, not fearing for his happiness or offering to comfort him anymore, I just wanted to know more. I felt that if I didn't, then I would never figure out what had happened to the poor man.

Howling. An echoing eerie howling, and the sound of loud barking. Drew was confused as there was only one. Where were the other Bloodhounds? Shouldn't there be more? But there was only one. The next thing he knew, as he looked out of the shutters that bordered the walls of his dusted shelter, he saw a dark shape hurtling out of the shadows of the night.

I was on the edge of my seat, quite literally in fact. The chair wobbled dangerously under my weight. I huffed and sat myself back farther into the damp wood, eager but not trying to show it. The man, not noticing my moment of excitement, whimpered and held his face in his hands, guarding his face as if he couldn't bare to recall what he had been told.

I tried to make him go on again. He wouldn't budge. He just sat there, in the same, mournful position, his hands pressed to his face and held there like cement. "Excuse me?" My voice sounded strange against the cricketing and rustling sounds of night coming from outside of this little house, "What happened next?"

I remember poking him and speaking louder, thinking that he didn't hear me, but no response came. I got up from my chair and pushed the man, harder this time and almost yelling. He still did not budge. I was almost infuriated. What happened to poor Drew after the shape came out of the shadows? Was it a bloodhound? It had to be.

I rolled the man over and gasped. The man's face was white, pale white like a ghost. Wait... Ghost?

I didn't know what was happening until it did. A blue substance floated upwards from the man before drifting around in the room like a cloud. I could not speak, I could not move. All I could wonder was how this poor man died in front of me while telling me a story that wasn't even his

"It WAS my story..." I heard a whispery voice, so close to my face so I jumped. "So now you know... Don't let me die in vain. Tell my story to others, let them know of me and how I died. DON'T LET MY MEMORY LEAVE YOU."

And with that, the blue smoky substance of Drew Yagaren faded away, leaving me collapsed on the floor wondering how a poor old man in a raggedy old house had lived, and how he had died twice.