By Laura DeGrave
The music stopped.
George strained, looking back behind himself. There, skittering over the wooden planks, were dead leaves blown by a stray wind. Empty limbs creaked, alongside the murmuring waters below.
Twirp! Twirp! Twirp! Tweedle-dee!
A lone warbler cried. His heart thrummed to the bird’s call. The mysterious fiddler had vanished.
Earlier, he had traveled from Nashville to the Brown County Jamboree. George had caught a ride on a ballyhoo car, once he was inside Beanblossom. He almost went tone deaf from the horn speakers that blared on top of the roof.
The driver, Spurts, dropped him off at Williams filling station. A sizable crowd grew in anticipation. The mic and a small amplifier were being set up nearby. Folks came out of the hills, mills, and shops to hear bluegrass play. Some rode in on horses, others had cars, or like George, walked by trade.
Indianapolis broadcasting covered these Sunday evening events. Radio was life. Folks would go visit a neighbor miles away to hear the latest news or listen to their favorite show. Music became a gap filler for all generations. One couldn’t help themselves from tapping out a beat.
George picked up the banjo at a tender age and dreamt of plucking along with the Grand Ole Opry stars.
Who wouldn’t want to stand next to Bill Monroe, Lester Flatt, and Earl Scruggs?
The mic began to hum to life. Strings twanged into the cool Autumn air. Crooner’s song drifted notes of an unrequited love’s lilting melody. Skirts swirled over a field of grass like flower petals caught in a storm.
George’s picking dreams popped into the starry heavens. A black-eyed susan bloomed before him.
“Hello, darlin’! Care to dance?” she asked, swishing her cotton skirt with the tempo.
Drawn by her charisma, he set down his four-string to spin the turntable world in her arms.
She made him dizzy on raspberry lips. Then afraid for his well being when a sporting gent made of tan oak approached. It was her beau.
George had been pegged as her dandy. He scraped a parched gulp down his gullet. After all, the gent stood a head taller.
The gent laid a hatchet-sized hand on top of George’s shoulder. “Cuttin’ in,” he gruffly said.
The girl’s eyes sparkled on the prospect of a duel for her honor.
George two stepped in reverse, out from under the gent, and ran away from the girl’s siren charm.
He bumped into an oddly dressed fiddler. The fellow wore a colonial costume. George apologized, remembering his own misplaced instrument that got lost in the fray. He returned to where he laid it with trouble in sight. The girl’s beau had claimed the banjo as a prize.
What rotten luck!
Downtrodden, he chose to leave the jamboree and head back home on State Road 135.
High-pitched timbres struck out from the road behind him.
George glanced over his shoulder. He spotted the costumed fellow trailing after him. His brass buttons frolicked in the sway of merriment to an unnameable tune. George didn’t mind having a travel companion. The music would help shorten the miles ahead.
SCREE-EECH! TANG!
It sounded as if the fiddler had broken a string.
Thunderous hooves pounded the road.
A bugle sounded.
Foxhunting?
He peered down both lanes, coming and going. Not a soul presented itself. Even the fiddler had disappeared.
The fellow must have cut off through the field.
George continued and veered right, onto Covered Bridge Road. The breeze faltered, thickening the atmosphere. Lightning bugs lazily winked in reflection as the stars hung bright. Field crickets chirruped courting vows under the moonlight.
Up ahead, stood the red-painted bridge that crossed over Beanblossom Creek. It looked eerily dark inside. The opposite opening had shed some light upon a shadowed figure.
“Hello!” George called out.
The same unnamed melody from the costumed fiddler welcomed his racing thoughts. He chuckled at his foolish notions.
The fiddler knew a shortcut–that’s all!
George stepped into the pitch tunnel, keeping his shoes pointed toward the exit. The musical notes grew louder. A frigid gust greeted his heated cheeks. Droplets of water cadenced off the covered trusses.
He felt disoriented, grabbing for the fiddler’s melodious lifeline. George stumbled. His hands reached outward, catching himself on the wall.
Was he going the wrong way?
The music stopped.
George watched as the fiddler evaporated before his eyes.
Twirp! Twirp! Tweedle-dee!
About the contest: The Brown County Democrat asked readers for their scariest, spookiest Halloween stories, and you scared up some real winners! Links to all the winning entries are below and at the end of each of this year’s winning stories.
Read other winning entries
First place: “Halloween Wildflowers”
Third place: “Mr. Scare-No-Crows”
Honorable mention
