The Story of Farmer Simpson

Won Third Place in

ID: 1817635   (Rated: 18+) The Classic Story Contest  Closed for judging and changes. by Lornda

The weather was turning colder. Last night must have dipped into the forties. Farmer had left the windows opened a good three inches, enough to fill his apartment above Simpson’s General Store with cold air. The alarm had just sounded drawing him from a torturous dream about her, again. The floor felt like ice as he hurried to the bathroom.  He sat to pee. He used to do it for her, but now it was because of his legs. The diabetes ravishing his body for the past thirty years left his legs weak. It was easier to sit.

His morning routine consisted of shaving his neck, below his beard line before showering, but this morning he lingered in front of the mirror, disgusted with his appearance. It was the doctor’s fault.

“You're depressed, Farmer,” Doctor Everett had informed him. “Do something to make a change in your life, that’s what you need to get your mind off her, change up your life.”

Even without his glasses on, Farmer sighed with disappointment. Yesterday, after a visit to the pharmacy, Farmer dyed his hair. It was the dumbest thing he’d ever done. What was on his head was now jet black and where there were no hairs; a dark stain circled the top of his head and most of his forehead. He looked like a monk, a black-headed monk.

It would be a long day. Half the town of Herrington came through his store during a day, and he was sure it wouldn’t take long for the other half of town to hear about it. There was no way around it, he had to face the day no matter what he looked like.

He sure wished he hadn’t done it, though. What was wrong with being fifty-four anyway? What made him think dying his hair would make anyone forget about his bulging stomach? He was an old fart and feeling older everyday, now.

Farmer put on his usual over-alls and white shirt, and tennis shoes. He used to wear boots but, his feet were like his legs—too many years of diabetes.

In the kitchen he poured juice into a small glass, placed an ice cube in it, and took out his insulin for the morning shot. He had his glasses now, sighting the marking on the needle to equal the right dosage required accuracy.  Taking his shot was no big deal. It didn’t bother him at all; it was the damn blood-sugar test that hurt. That finger prick was tortuous to the sensations on the tip.  His fingers were becoming insensitive; they often made him miss-grip a can, or jelly jar when stocking shelves. 

He was downstairs, unlocking the store doors at eight a.m. precisely every morning except on Sundays. On his day off he rode his motorcycle, and his over-alls were replaced with jeans and a leather jacket with patches showing his service days with the Marines and the new patches for the Legion.

“Morning Farmer,” his first customer of the day entered as he pulled the glass doors open and unhooked the screen doors, “new hat?”

He grinned and nodded.  At the last minute he had grabbed his Legion ball cap from behind the door to cover his shame. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad day after all.


         He went to bed that night with the same question; why did she leave?  There was never an answer.  His sleep was uncomfortable, filled with noise. His mind would not shut down. After an hour, Farmer gave up and went to his computer.  While he waited for it to power up, he flicked on the TV in time to catch the evening weather. 

The apartment above his store was adequate in footage for two people. There were times when the extra space seemed vast.  He turned on every lamp in the open room he used as a living room, TV room and office. The ‘everything’ room, Farmer called it. 

His face book page finally opened. There was no post from her, no answer to his question, no response to his doubts and loneliness.  He couldn’t figure it out. Sure, he had been rough on her, complaining a lot-- but what did she expect? She quit her job for Christ sake. Then she sat around all day, smoking cigarettes—which were probably killing him with second hand smoke—and watching TV. She had no intention of getting another job. So if he was a little rough on her, well, she deserved it. Someone had to tell her to get a job. He dropped his head into his hands and bawled like a baby.

The phone rang making Farmer jump.

“Farm Boy,” it was his friend Josh, “I’m broke down on Old 40. Grab a six pack and come pick me up?”

“Sure,” Farmer answered. He didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

It was a crisp, clear night; another autumn evening to enjoy.  The drive was refreshing. He saw Josh standing beside his old, blue Dodge. Farmer’s friend was taller than he, had broader shoulders, more hair on his head, and a lot less gut.

“How are you holding up, buddy?”  Josh slid into the car.

“What are you doing way out here?” Farmer ignored his friend’s question.

“I was on my way to an investigation,” Josh’s mouth opened wide, his eyes showed more white and he punched Farmer’s shoulder, all with the intent of a brilliant idea striking him. “Hey, that’s what you should do. Yeah, we need a tech guy, get you out of that house; it must drive you crazy working in the store all day then climbing the stairs to your bed…when do you ever leave that place? Yeah, you need to join the group. Turn left here,” he pointed to a dirt road.

Farmer made the turn.

“Is this your ghost hunting group?” Farmer asked.

“You will love it, Farm Boy, I’m telling you. It will be perfect,” Josh spoke quickly. He had opened a beer and was now sloshing it around as he emphasized his point.  “This place we are going to used to be a school back in the 1800’s. Reports are the place has its share of abuse and deaths…should be good for Electronic Voice Phenomenon recordings (EVP) if nothing else.”

Farmer could see the old building looming ahead. It was four floors high and long enough to be two football fields. He was familiar with the stories of the Sin Paul School. Closed in 1943, the school held a long record of mysterious deaths, a fire that wiped out the top floor on most of the building and burned sixty students to death. The building appeared as he remembered it, cold, dark and very scary. 

He pulled his car in behind a large van. The rear doors were open and inside was a make shift command center consisting of a lap top, recorders, extension cords, cameras and boxes upon boxes of parts and wires.

“Using the work truck?” Farmer asked.

Josh grinned and raised his eyebrows in a comic gesture.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to the others.”

The other members of the team seemed to be straight up people. Being in the van wasn’t so bad; he preferred it over walking through dark halls full of debris

“Are we set?” Josh asked, peering into the back of the van.

Farmer pointed to each camera view and identified their location within the building. “Camera One is the lobby view, Camera Two is that back staircase where they see the woman in green, Camera Three covers the boy’s locker room and Camera Four is on the third floor staircase for the mist.”

“Listen to you!” Josh exclaimed. “You are a natural.”

Farmer pointed to the sticky notes on each camera view, “Yeah, well, I can read anyway.”

“All right, you stay here in the van and monitor the equipment,” Josh instructed Farmer, “and we’ll go in teams of two; Rick and I will cover the third floor and the boy’s locker room, and Judy, you and Dan cover the lobby area and those back kitchens. You’ll have to use the mini DVD’s for that area.”

The four gathered their hand-held equipment and headed for the assigned locations. Flashlights guided their way throughout the dark building. Farmer watched through the building’s broken windows as the beams bounced around corners as they climbed the stairs.  The camera views from the stationeries, now showing on the lap top computer were recording, so he stepped from the van for fresh air. He pulled out a piece of gum from his shirt pocket.

Suddenly, his eye caught a shadow moving toward him from the side of another vehicle.

“Hey,” the man nodded a head’s up nod as he approached. His hands were in his pockets. He was wearing a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans.  He turned, indicating the building, “You guys investigating the old school building, huh?”

Farmer eyed him closely. Where exactly had he come from?

“Yeah,” he agreed, “name’s Farmer.”  He offered his hand, but the stranger kept his in the pockets of his jeans, and politely nodded.

“Mark,” the man answered. “They shouldn’t go in there,” he added flatly.

“Excuse me, but who exactly are you?”

There was a radio call of his name from inside the van. It was Josh giving him instructions to mark the time for possible evidence. Farmer climbed inside and carried out the instructions, when he peered back out, the stranger was gone. He walked around the van and other vehicles, but there was no one.  Suddenly, Farmer felt cold to the bone, the hairs on back of his neck stood up and goose bumps broke out on his skin.  What had just happened? Should he report it? Maybe not, who would believe him, anyway?  He climbed back inside the van and pulled the door shut. It was getting cold out this evening early.


         The next morning, Farmer was late unlocking the store’s door. Jenkins was pounding on it.

“Hey Farmer, never seen you late opening up,” the man said as he squeezed through the opening doors. “I gotta have a new hammer. Busted mine yesterday on the job.” He was walking straight to the hammer rack while he talked over his shoulder.

Farmer went behind the counter and opened the register drawer. He forgot to bring the money downstairs with him. The man laid the hammer on the counter and opened his wallet, waiting on the total. He glanced up at Farmer, who grimaced and suggested he’d just put it on the bill.

“Thanks,” Jenkins waved the hammer as he left the store, “in a hurry anyway.”

There was an hour before the next customer came in giving him plenty of time to organize his store and his thoughts. It was last night’s dream that hung around. She was in it. She was beautiful as always and they were on a picnic, out by the lake where they first met. He woke with a headache.

Why did she leave him? Each time he thought about it, he was able to cite another maybe. Maybe it was because of Blue. When the dog died it had separated them. He blamed her for not taking the dog to the vets sooner.  At the same time he knew it wasn’t her fault. It broke their hearts when they lost that dog.

“Hey, Farmer,” Mrs. Babcock tugged on his sleeve again.

“Sorry, Mrs. Babcock,” Farmer smiled weakly at the old woman. “Guess I was deep in thought.”

“She’ll be back,” the woman offered.

“What can I help you with?” Farmer asked.

“I’m looking for the light bulbs, why’da’cha move them?”

He hadn’t. He went to the shelf over the ice cream freezer and handed her a box of four light bulbs.

“Any thing else I can help you with?”

“No,” she laid her items on the counter, “that’s all I need.”

He rang up the items, placing each one in a bag as he did so. “$12.83,” he stated.

Mrs. Babcock searched her purse for a twenty.

“Are you doing okay, Farmer?” She asked. Then not waiting for a response, “we were talking about you at the meeting the other night.”  Mrs. Babcock was a member of several town groups, including the Women’s Auxiliary at the church, and the Library Fundraiser.

Farmer knew she could be referring to any of five different meeting’s. He frowned. It was as bad as he feared; he was the talk of the town.

“And, I told Clara Little that what you needed to do was to get right out there and meet yourself someone new,” she handed him the twenty. He rang the sale and stuck the change in her hand as quickly as possible. “Now, my niece, Sara is single again, she’s a lovely woman,” she fumbled with her wallet.

Farmer went around the counter and picked up the bag for her carrying it toward the door slowly.

“I’ll give her your number, or tell her to stop by and see you.”

Farmer opened the door encouraging her to make her way to the opening. She closed her purse and followed to the doorway. He handed her the bag.

“You have a good day, Mrs. Babcock,” he fake smiled her.

She stopped short of the bum’s rush out, “And Farmer, when Sara comes by-- don’t wear that hat. It’s not very flattering and everyone knows you don’t wear a hat indoors, dear.”

She hurried to her car and Farmer turned the sign on the door to CLOSED and locked up. He headed to Josh’s place. It was Saturday so Farmer knew right where to find his friend-- at the lake, putting up a futile fight with a catfish he named, ‘Skunk Face’.

“Did ‘cha get ‘em?” Farmer asked. He was standing right behind Josh, who didn’t hear his approach and now jumped, losing his fishing pole.  Farmer grinned and then took a step back from Josh’s glare.

“That wasn’t Skunk Face,” he pointed at the water and the sinking pole, “was it?”

“You better have a good reason to be sneaking up on me,” Josh stated, as he pushed past Farmer on the river bank.  He headed for the truck and another pole.

“Sorry, man,” Farmer offered, “I thought you’d heard me.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Josh shot back. He walked up to Farmer’s face and stared him straight in the eyes, “I had him, Farm Boy; I had him. He was fighting hard, thrashing around, but I reeled him in and reeled him in; he was running out of fight when you came along, you big…bumble head.”

Farmer laughed at the insult.

“What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn’t you be at the store?”

Farmer grabbed a beer from the cooler, held it up at his friend, and once he got the nod of approval to have one he popped the top. He sat on a log and watched Josh bait the line.

“How long have people in town been talking about me?”

“Don’t know,” Josh walked out on the bank and cast his line, “probably since the day after she left. So what? You know this town, you know these people, what else they got? Is that what’s got you riled?”

“Why did she leave?”

“Are you back on that? Farm Boy you need to get past this, move on, when you fall off a horse; get on another one right away. Who knows why women do anything?”

“We probably fought too much,” Farmer stated flatly.

Josh stared at the water.

“Seems like every day I was yelling at her about something. Some times she’d yell back, but some times she’d just walk away and lock herself in another room.” Farmer stared at his tennis shoes. He was wondering if he had taken his shot this morning.

“I need some food,” he stated.

“Low blood sugar?” Josh questioned.

“Most likely,” Farmer answered.

“Let’s go to the diner,” Josh picked up the beer cooler and placed it in the back of his truck.

It was warm inside and smelled of apple pie and coffee. The waitress met them at the counter with a cup of coffee for Josh, and a cup of tea for Farmer.

“Did you catch anything, Josh?”

The glare she received answered her question.

“You boys want the special? Cheeseburgers and fries,” she told them.

“What so special about Cheeseburgers, you have them everyday,” Josh asked her.

She nodded at the cook, peering at them through the order window behind her, “Because he says, today the special is Cheeseburgers and fries.”

“Two specials,” Farmer told her.

“Hey, how did you like last night? We got some good EVP’s out of that place.”

Farmer scratched his chin whiskers. He was considering telling his friend about the stranger, Mark, who walked up to the van, had a conversation with him and then vanished into thin air.

“Just EVP’S? Anything else happen?”

“What do you mean?” Josh asked.

“Well, inside the place, did anything else happen? Did you see anything? Did you get touched? You know-- anything else?”

“Naw, just the recordings,” Josh answered.

“Have you ever had anything happen?” Farmer could feel his friend’s glare, could see his wheels turning, it wouldn’t be long and Josh might figure it out.  “Hey, if you don’t want to talk about it,” Farmer shot at him, “I was just making conversation. Sit there and drink your damn coffee and wait for your grease burger.”

“We’re going back out tonight, want to go?” Josh grinned.

Farmer nodded.


                             He pulled his truck in beside the van and shut it down.  The team was there, pulling wires and cameras from the van and taking them inside for the investigation.

“Farmer,” Josh gave him a heads up nod, handed the investigator standing next to him a recorder and then walked forward to meet Farmer.

“Glad you came.”

“Looks like storms coming in,” Farmer said.

“Good!” Josh handed a box of cables to one of the investigators. “Storms increase paranormal activity. Oh hey, look at my new toy,” Josh reached inside the van and produced a new piece of equipment. “It’s a spirit box. It captures voice recordings in real time. When the booger says, ‘GET OUT!’ I’ll be able to hear it at that moment.”

Farmer laughed, “Like you are going to listen?”

Josh dashed off to the building and Farmer climbed inside the van. The back door was open. He could hear the rain start. It was a gentle shower like the medium setting on his bathroom shower at home.  He connected the lap top to a larger unit showing four screens split into sections. The thunder rolled making Farmer instantly looked up at the roof of the van; he laughed at himself and then went back to work.

The rain was splattering off the leaves; it sounded like footsteps. Farmer kept looking over his shoulder, at the empty blackness outside the back door of the van.  He peered into that dark void listening to the rain hit the leaves, waiting for the sound to be actual footsteps and a stranger’s familiar face to appear.

“Farmer,” a call came across the radio from Josh.

He grabbed the radio, “Go for Farmer,” he answered.

“Are you watching the third floor hallway?”

Quickly his attention went to screen three in the upper right hand corner of the monitor. He could see the stairwell due to the infra-red camera. There was a slight mist in the bottom of the screen which would be the top of the stairs.

“I’m watching,” Farmer reported.

“Is there anyone walking up there?” Josh asked.

“No. Just some fog or dust, or mist or something floating on the floor, no people,” Farmer reported.

He heard conversation on the radio as each team verbalized their effort to get to the third floor hallway. Farmer watched as they left one screen view and soon arrived in the hallway. 

“They get excited over mist, huh?”

Farmer swung around. There standing in the shower of rain drops was Mark. He peered into the van and smiled.  He was wearing the same clothes as before and no rain coat or hat. Water ran down his face, dripping from his hair and his eyebrows and hanging momentarily to the tip of his nose before plunging off. Farmer composed himself and offered Mark step into the van.

“I’m fine,” came the answer.

Farmer had his hand on the camera. One photo would do the trick, but should he just pick it up and aim, or somehow push the button while it was sitting there casually unnoticed?

“You pop up from no where,” Farmer accused. He was staring at the stranger’s face, watching for something, anything that would give him an answer.

“That’s the way it is,” Mark grinned, “when you least expect it the unexpected will happen. It’s true of life and love.”

“Farmer, do you still see the mist?” Josh called on the radio.

Farmer checked the screen, “No, uh, no, it’s gone.”

He turned back to the blackness in the empty door of the van. The rain still fell. Thunder rolled and a strike of lightening made the driveway light up. He could see his car parked behind the van, and two other cars parallel to his, but nothing else.  In the sound of rain splattering off fallen leaves he thought he heard footsteps walking away. He dashed from the van and searched the driveway, there was no one.

He climbed back into the van, dripping water and feeling very cold. He didn’t have time to ponder what had just happened because a few moments later the others were joining him. They loaded up the equipment and headed for the diner to discuss the night’s investigation.

“I just hope we caught that mist on camera,” one of the female team member said.

“Did we catch it, Farmer?” Josh asked.

“I’m sure we did,” he answered flatly.

“I’m looking forward to the EVP’s,” the other team member piped in, “especially that one-- Emily…”

Josh grabbed the guy’s arm to stop him. Farmer looked up, interested at last.

“What was that?”

“In the infirmary we heard a voice on real time calling, or saying the name Emily,” Josh explained and then quickly added, “but, that doesn’t mean anything…”

“Josh,” Farmer interrupted, “we need to talk.”

The other team members excused themselves and left the diner for home. 

“Look, Farm Boy, it doesn’t mean it is your Emily, it could mean anything,”

“Yeah, I know, or it could mean that ‘when you least expect it the unexpected will happen. It’s true of life and love’.  Someone told me that tonight. Look, there’s something I haven’t told you.”



                   Steve Langley, the head of the Topeka Sunflower Paranormal was tall, a foot higher than Farmer. He shook Farmer’s hand and then took a seat at the table. They were meeting at Applebee’s.

“Josh filled me in on some of what was happening to you, but why don’t you give me your take,” Langley said. He was opening a recorder and a notebook as the waitress approached the table. He gave his order and then turned back to Farmer.

“I don’t know what to say,” Farmer started, “I don’t know what I saw.”

“Tell me about that,” Langley urged. “What did the guy look like?”

“Average,” Farmer shrugged, “just an average looking guy with a black t-shirt and blue jeans.”

“Could you see through him, or was he solid?”

“Solid,” Farmer answered.

“How did you feel when he was around you?”

“Cold, weird”, he struggled to explain. “Like my hair was electrified, all tingly and chilling.”

Langley made notes with every question and answer. Farmer didn’t have bad feelings from the guy. He wasn’t there to make fun of Farmer or anything like that, he was sure of that. Farmer liked the guy; he seemed intelligent and ready to help.

“What was your opinion of the EVP of Emily they picked up?” Langley asked.

It caught Farmer off guard. His eyes teared and he quickly looked away; his voice caught a little when he answered so he cleared his throat.

“Not sure it means anything,” Farmer offered. “What’s your take on it?”

The ghost specialist raised his attention from the note taking, “I don’t know, yet. There is a connection to you somehow or why else would this apparition be contacting you? There is a connection between you and a name –Emily—and it might be nothing that the EVP was of that name. Emily is a common enough name to have belonged to someone else now passed, beside your wife.”

Farmer’s attention sharpened, “You think my wife is dead?”

“Whoa, that’s not what I said,” Langley quickly corrected. “I have no idea about your wife, just that the name is common and could have been someone else’s name. Look Farmer, I don’t know what is going on here. Are we even sure this apparition you saw is an apparition? I need to ask more questions before I can get to the truth.”

The waitress arrived at the table with their order. It was going to be a long night.

         

                   The holidays were getting closer and Famer was stocking the shelves. Even before Christmas there would be plenty of shopping to do because folks around here made their gifts. Two shelves in the back of the store were converted to Christmas items like, lights and bulbs and plenty of batteries.

He hired two of the high school boys to help with re-arranging the shelves, unloading the truck when it arrived and then stocking the shelves

He busied himself in the store. For the past week he was not thinking of ghosts, just the truck arriving from Kansas City with all his Christmas stock.

Langley called often. Josh and Langley told him he needed to face it in order to solve it. Langley wanted to go to the school with Farmer and call out this Mark, one way or another. He wanted answers; Farmer wanted it to all go away.

“Mr. Simpson, the truck’s here,” one of the stock boys called from the back of the store.

By the time he returned to the front of the store, he found Josh and Steve Langley waiting for him.

“Mr. Simpson, you want us to start stocking the shelves? We got all the boxes stacked like you said.”

“No Jerry, you two go on home. Be back here tomorrow morning at eight a.m.”

“On a Saturday?”  The boy’s voice broke and the men at the front of the store chuckled.

“Yeah, Jerry, even on Saturday,” Farmer called back at him. He turned to Josh and Langley, “Let’s go upstairs and I’ll get ya a beer.”

Farmer locked the front door, turned the sign to closed and turned out the lights to the downstairs store. He hurried upstairs where Josh was playing host in his absence.

“There are just too many variables,” Langley was explaining.

“Farmer, I think we should set you up in the building, put some recorders and cameras in there and see if this apparition shows up,” Josh told him.

“Use me as bait?”

“Sure, you can handle it,” Josh said. He shrugged a ‘what?’ at Farmer, “You afraid of ghosts or something?”

“Look, let’s not worry about this small stuff,” Langley urged. “Let me bring in my colleague on this and we can get more answers.”

“Colleague,” Farmer questioned?

“Gail Johnson, she’s a paranormal psychic. She’s worked over a hundred investigations and she’s perfect for this kind of a haunt.” Langley explained.

Josh rolled his eyes. It was obvious he did not believe in psychics.

Langley spoke directly to Farmer, “We need more information before we can really determine what is going on here. Gail can….”

There was a loud crash from the store below cutting their conversation short. The three men raced downstairs with Farmer leading the way. Halfway down the stairs the rush slowed as the men’s view of the store below improved. Every shelf in the store was turned over. Every can, box or plastic bottle was now on the floor. The lights swung back and forth with an eerie shadow casting effect. Farmer reached the bottom step and stopped

Everything in the store was damaged, opened, or ruined in some way. He turned quickly and looked toward the back of the store. The boxes from the delivery were ripped open and emptied. The store was a total loss.

“Langley,” Farmer called over his shoulder, “call your lady psychic.”

         The stock boys arrived at eight a.m. as instructed. They stepped through the mess of broken shelves, smashed and crushed cans, opened boxes with the content spilled; uttering amazed and shocked comments. Farmer gave each of them five dollars and an envelope. He instructed them to go to the diner and have breakfast on him and precisely at nine a.m. to deliver the letter to the insurance office of Peterman and Peterman on Main Street and then come back prepared for clean-up.

He walked around the rubble of his store snapping photos of the damage.  He made a sign for the front door: Closed for Two Weeks.  By nine o’clock he was ready.

“Mr. Simpson,” one of the stock boys called as he entered the back door, “we’re back.”

“Better use the phone and see if any of your buddies want to come help clean up,” Farmer told them. “We have to wait for the insurance guy to come before we can move a box.”

“He said he’d be right over. I think your letter made him anxious to get here,” the boy answered.

Ten minutes later, Ronald Basilman appeared at the door. Farmer sighed as he sighted Ronald peering through the glass. He was ready for the idiot from high school. Ronald Basilman was a pip-squeak by all definitions of the term. He was five foot three, dressed like Danny Divito in the old TV show, Taxi and chewed incisively on the butt of a cigar. He was plain nasty.  Farmer opened the door and stepped back.

“Well Simpson,” Ronald was shaking his head and grinning at the same time, “I wouldn’t have believed it unless I came over to see it for myself.”

“I’ve been taking photos of the damage,” Farmer offered.

“Photos? Taking photos have you?” Ron Basilman spat at him. “You can take all the photos you want but Peterman and Peterman is not going to cover damage you did yourself.”

“Did myself?” Farmer could feel his blood pressure rising. “Just what are you implying, squirt?”

Ronald’s eyes narrowed and then one eyebrow raised and his mouth sported a smirk.

“Peterman and Peterman is not responsible for a drunken rage…”

Farmer moved closer to the small man and pointed his finger in Ronald’s nose.

“Drunken rage,” He screamed at the man. “Didn’t you read my letter?”

Basilman held the letter up but did not step back.

“Yeah, I read your letter. Ghosts? You want a fine insurance company, a company that’s been in business for over fifty years to believe that a ghost came into your store in the middle of the night and destroyed your inventory?”

“It’s the truth,” Farmer told him. He stepped away from Basilman. “It’s the God honest truth.”

Basilman chewed on his cigar butt.

“Look Farmer, maybe you believe, really believe that a ghost did this but there’s no way to prove it and the insurance company is not going to cover this loss when it is possible that you did this yourself. You’re lucky I’m not charging you with fraud.”

“Fraud!”  Farmer’s anger was past its limit. He grabbed Basilman by the coattails and threw him out of the store. He slammed the door and locked it as Ron Basilman, shook his fists at the door and screamed threats of calling the police.

Farmer looked around the store. How would he be able to recover from this loss? He shouldn’t have said it was the ghost, that’s what he gets for telling the truth. He should have reported it as a break-in and robbery. That would have been the smart thing to do.

“Mr. Simpson,” the stock boy was standing right behind him.

“Yeah,” Farmer answered.

“We got a couple of buddies coming to help.”

“Be sure to wear gloves, there’s broken glass everywhere. I’ll call and get another dumpster brought in. Thanks boys.”

He climbed the stairs to his apartment as the boys picked up broken pieces of his store for the trash bin. He closed the door and slumped on his couch. He picked up her picture and stared at her. She always gave him comfort. What would she do, if she were here?  She would have slapped Ronald Basilman’s face for one thing.

He stayed in his apartment all day thinking the same thoughts over and over, never reaching a decision, and never sorting out his confusion.

The boys had worked in his store long enough to know what to do. He told them to save anything savable and pitch the rest. He didn’t need to watch them, he could hear them downstairs. Someone had their music blasting and he could hear them talking over it, while boxes and shelves were moved around. He couldn’t face it.

The straw that broke the camel’s back.

He knew what that meant now.  He pulled one of the kitchen chairs over to the window and there he sat, staring out at the town and beyond that-- Herington Lake. Off to the right side he could see a little bit of the fields and the train track weaving into town. The trees were nice to look at, very colorful. There was a breeze slightly blowing branches against branches and more leaves fell in confetti showers. It was a beautiful day. The kind of day you remember with a picnic, or a walk through the park; the kind of day that gave hope for a brighter future.

He had a farm once, until the damn diabetes came into his life. He sold the farm and bought the store, and then he lost her.  They had a child once, well, almost; that would be a good summation of his life—almost.  The child was born dead and he buried the boy out there on the farm. Put up a stone and everything.

Now, his store was gone. He should have known better than to tell Basilman that ghost story. Hell, he had a hard time believing it too.  Now what was he going to do?  Probably have to sell, but then what? Rent an apartment in town; buy a trailer out on 17, maybe he could live in his truck down by the lake.

He figured he had enough in savings to pay the boys for the clean up and the dumpster rental but then where would he get the money to re-stock? There were too many bills, and when Emily left-- she left her job, her paycheck, and him with nothing. He didn’t deserve that, no matter what he had done. He didn’t deserve this. Maybe he’ll get lucky and a tornado will hit the store. 

He leaned back against the counter. He picked up the phone and tried her number again. No answer. She never remembers to carry her phone. It could be lying on the dresser back at her mother’s apartment. The phone was never important to her. He used to fuss at her for not having it with her, and then when she did—not having it turned on.

“What good does it do to have a phone, if I can’t reach you?”

She was a stubborn, hard headed woman who gave him the strength to make it through another day.

He went to the top of the stairs and called to his workers.

“Hey guys, that’s enough for today,” Farmer told them. “Come back tomorrow around noon and we’ll get started again.’

“Mr. Farmer,” one of the boys, named Gary called up to him, “uh, what about pay? I got a date tonight…”

Farmer took the stairs with an old man’s groan. His knees buckled a little, but he recovered quickly. No one noticed. He opened the register and divvied out the money to the five boys.

“That’s half, give you something to go out on tonight,” he told them, “I’ll total up after the job is finished, okay boys?”

They agreed that was fair and happily left the store for their evening’s plans. Farmer looked around the store. They had cleared a lot of the debris away, but the place still looked dreadful. It was too depressing. Farmer went up to bed.


         It was late afternoon when Gail Johnson, Langley’s psychic friend arrived at Simpson’s store. Farmer noticed she appeared normal looking, not as he had expected. He was ready for a woman wearing lots of jewelry, maybe four inch nails, probably dressed like a sixties hippie or maybe a guru type, but the woman who arrived wore slacks, a black jacket, no jewelry-except for a wedding ring, and appeared as a normal soccer mom.

She shook his hand and greeted him warmly. He noticed that she made a point of looking into his eyes; probably trying to read his mind.

“Now, it’s important that you don’t tell me anything,” she urged, “let me tell you.”

Farmer could see Langley and Josh standing out by his truck as he shut the front door. Gail Johnson was already moving through the store.

“Uh, boys,” Farmer called to his workers. Heads popped up from various stacks around the room. “Let’s call it a day.” 

“Quite a mess you have here Mr. Farmer,” she said over her shoulder.

The boys gathered their coats and headed for the door.

“Simpson, the name is Farmer Simpson,” he told her.

“Sorry,” she offered.

You’d think a psychic would know that.

“There is a spirit here, Mr. Simpson,” she paused in front of a large stack of cans to be re-shelved.  “I’m getting a young spirit, male, angry, he’s very upset about something.”  Her voice trailed off as she moved to another part of the store.

“Would you ask Mr. Langley and your friend, Josh, to come in, please?”

Farmer went to the door and motioned for the two to join them. The psychic was still reading her environment when they entered.

“There’s a connection to the Sin Paul School,” she turned to Josh and Farmer, “are you familiar with that school?”

“Yes, we have been investigating it a couple times now,” Josh offered.

“Careful,” she warned, “don’t give me extra information.”

Josh laid a recorder on the counter and switched it on.  Langley was making notes of the psychic findings.

“This boy did not go there, but there is a connection,” she shook her head and moved toward the stairs going to Farmer’s apartment. “I keep getting, Left Behind,” she turned to Farmer, “does that mean anything to you?”

He shook his head no and then said, “Maybe.”

“Frustration, not heard, left behind, that’s all I’m getting now, sorry,” she turned to face the others.  “You have a very active spirit trying to make their presence known.”

“My house is haunted?” Farmer asked. He couldn’t believe it. This was some sort of joke, at any moment Josh was going to admit to this ridiculous scam.

“Oh no, Farmer,” she quickly corrected him, “not your house, you. You are haunted. The spirit is connected to you.”

He must have turned very white because Josh stepped forward and took his elbow.

“Have you checked your blood sugar today?” Josh worried.

Farmer pulled away from Josh’s hold, “Yes, I’ve checked my blood sugar. I’m not having a reaction to my diabetics; I’m having a reaction to being haunted!”  The final word came out loud with a high pitch.  “I’m trying to deal with my wife being gone, possibly seeing apparitions, my store being trashed by unknown forces, an insurance company that laughed in my face, the whole town thinks I’m a loser and now I’m haunted. What else could possibly happen to me?  Tell me Josh, what else could possibly happen?”

“What we need to do is gather more evidence and more information so we can determine what is going on here,” Josh said.

“I’m just not in a position to be messing with this stuff right now, Josh, I’ve got problems to solve, and I have to raise some money fast,” Farmer held his hands out in a pathetic shrug. “I don’t have time to be messing in this stuff right now.”

Josh nodded his head that he understood. “Yeah, but this stuff is messing with you, right now.”

“Maybe we can get enough evidence to prove you deserve that insurance money,” Langley suggested.

“Gentlemen,” Gail Johnson said, “there is something around me right now.”

Her hair was obviously electrified, as someone who had rubbed their feet on a carpet and then brushing their hair made it stand straight up---static electricity. Farmer and the others watched as she removed her jacket and held out her arms, revealing goose bumps running the length to her shoulders. She smiled with excitement. Langley reached for his camera and began shooting the event.  A cold fell between them. Josh blew out to show his breath in the frigid air. Langley caught it on camera.

“Grab hands,” Gail urged, waving her hands, “quickly, form a circle and grab hands.”

Langley put the camera on the counter and hurried to fill in the circle by taking Josh’s right hand and Gail’s left hand.  She closed her eyes. Farmer eyed her suspiciously.

“What is your name?” She called to the entity.

Farmer looked around, watching for anything that might be circling above or behind him. He knew about sneak attacks from seen enemies, he wasn’t sure what the unseen could do.  Suddenly, his glasses were removed from his face and flung across the room to the bottom step.

“Don’t break the circle,” the psychic yelled. “What is your name? What do you want?”

The atmosphere in the room changed. It became warm again, it didn’t have an eerie feel to it, the goose bumps disappeared from the psychic’s arms and suddenly four people felt uncomfortable standing in a circle holding hands.

“Wow!” Langley whispered. “We need to review the evidence.” He tugged on Josh’s sleeve, and after reassuring Farmer that they would get back to him, rushed off.

“Farmer,” Gail Johnson announced, showing a little pride and excitement in her declaration, “we will get to the bottom of this. Now, point me in the direction of a good hotel.”

Once more Farmer found himself alone amid the wreck of his store. It was decided that the four of them would meet in the lobby of Gail’s hotel at eight that evening. He sat down on a step and let out a big swoosh of air.  In return he felt the same against his right ear. He jumped. No one was there. He decided to wait for everybody in the lobby of Gail’s hotel-- now.

As soon as Farmer stepped outside he realized he’d locked the store’s door with his keys inside. He stared at the truck. The Herington Hotel was only five blocks away, he’d walk. Clear his mind. Calm his nerves.

It was dusk. Street lights were just coming on. Stores were closing.  He was acknowledged as he walked along the sidewalk from those leaving for the day. The air was crisp, and a cool wind occasionally blew.  The last block was in front of the car dealership. The lot was covered in lights shinning down on new cars and trucks, balloons and sale signs. It was long closed for the day.

As Farmer passed the first row of lights, they went out. He stopped, stared up at the light fixtures and then looked around quickly. No one was there. As he continued each row of lights went out as he passed them. He quickened his steps and soon found himself running. The sidewalk was not even and his tennis shoe toe caught throwing him forward. He hit the concrete and slid.

All the lights were out now. He lay on the sidewalk with scrapes, bleeding from his knees and hands, and his left elbow. His heart was pounding. He wanted to get up, but he was slow to his feet. He realized then that he was breathing irregular. He stepped forward and walked into a space that could only be described as a void. There was blackness upon blackness. There was no sound, no air, just nothingness. Farmer could not remember a moment in his life, not even in Nam, when he felt this afraid. There was a moment when he thought he would die of fright knowing that this was obviously the work of someone dead.

Why was he being attacked? What had he done to deserve this fear?

He kept moving forward and soon he walked out of the dead space, out of the void and back into air and sound. The first thing he heard were the crickets, then a car driving down the side street across from him, then he heard the whisper in his ear.

“Why did you leave me behind?”

His head jerked around in spasmodic moves trying to catch who it was. He resembled a dog chasing his tail. There was no one there.  He was moving backwards, staring at the space where the whisper happened. The lights from the car dealership lot came back on, Farmer made a few more steps before collapsing against a building and sobbing.

“Who the hell are you?” He screamed into the night.

He stumbled his way to the hotel, wiping his face before reaching the door. He went straight to the men’s room and threw water on his face. Then he went to the bar for a beer.  He was still there when Josh slapped him on the back.

“You’re here early,” Josh said.

“I had another experience,” Farmer said.

Josh suggested they move to a table and chose one away from others.  Farmer related the events to Josh, leaving out his breakdown episode. 

“Have you any thoughts on who this guy is?” Josh asked.

Farmer’s head was drooping forward. He had avoided eye contact from the moment Josh slapped his back. He wasn’t sure if anyone could tell he had been so frightened he’d cried.  He worried that he was going insane.

“I have no idea. I’ve gone back to memories I never wanted to visit again, and I can not remember a single time that someone in our unit was ever left behind, much less someone directly abandoned by me. I don’t know who this is,” Farmer insisted. “Maybe he’s haunting the wrong guy?”

Josh shrugged. “We’d have to ask Langley about that sort of thing. This is the biggest case I’ve ever had. Most of the time I’m dealing with an EVP or a shadow; this is my first actual haunting,” realizing his excitement was at the expense of his friend, he quickly added, “sorry man.”

Farmer’s cell phone rang. It was her. She must have been in a bad reception area because he could not get the conversation clearly.

“Farmer? I finally got through,” she said excitedly.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

He couldn’t hear her answer and then he heard, “…I was just so scared…”

The phone blipped out and the connection was gone. He didn’t know where she was and he didn’t know if she was all right, but she was talking to him. He tried to call her back and walked outside for better reception. He made Josh go with him. There was no answer to his phone call so he left another message.

Farmer raised his gaze to Josh, “What the hell? What the hell is going on with my life?” Suddenly, Farmer felt anger pulsing through him. He felt strong, empowered from the fire of indignation. “This is going to stop,” he demanded.  “I want some answers. Get the others, we have a ghost to hunt down and send back to hell.”

         An hour later the four-- Farmer, Josh, Gail the psychic, and Langley, the ghost expert stood outside the Sin Paul School. There was no moon, and except for the lights from their vehicles they stood in pitch blackness.

Farmer assisted the other three with their equipment as though they were going in for a ghost hunt; instead the group was going with Josh’s plan to use Farmer as bait.  The van’s equipment was pointed at the open van door.  All the cameras were positioned to cover the open blackness, infra red cameras were now positioned on the hood of the car behind the van, pointing at the open van door. Recorders were on and distributed around the vehicle, inside and out.  The team going into the building would be positioned in the lobby , the hope being that if whatever or whoever tried to contact Farmer sitting in the van pretending to be running the equipment, it would be captured by Josh, Gail and Langley sitting inside the school watching the monitors.

It wasn’t long before the plan unfolded. Farmer was sitting inside the van when the hairs on his arms rise.  He looked over at the van door, but the darkness was all that appeared. Realizing that he was holding his breathe, he slowly released the air.

“Spooking myself,” he said softly, knowing that Josh, Gail and Langley could hear him.

“It’s easy to do,” the voice came from the opened van door.

Farmer turned his head, “Hello Mark,” he managed to mumble.

Mark smiled at him.

“Do I know you, Mark?”

“Sure you do, but by a different name. Emily knows me by both.”

“Emily?” Farmer couldn’t hide the surprise. Suddenly he felt very angry. Who the hell was Mark? Why is he interfering in his life?

“You spoke with Emily?”

The ghost nodded he had.

“What do you want? Who are you? Why are you haunting me?” Farmer screamed as the ghost image began to evaporate.

Josh was the first to arrive at the van, “We saw it, and we got all of it on tape!”

“Did you hear what he said?” Farmer demanded excitedly, “he spoke with Emily—don’t you see, Josh? She called, got through once, all I heard was ‘I was so afraid’ –that’s why she left, Josh, this ghost, Mark was reaching out to her and it scared her so bad, she ran.”

“So now,” Gail said as she walked forward, “we need to find out who Mark is.”

“No, we have to find out where Emily is,” Farmer hurried to his car and sped away.  His first stop was the Herrington Sheriff’s Department to file a missing person alert. He gave all the information on her car, tags number, her cell phone number, a recent photo of Emily, everything he could think of to speed up the process. Within the hour her information was across the state and shared with four bordering states.

By early the following morning, a vehicle matching Emily’s car description, found at the Menninger’s Health Clinic on Belmont Ave., in Salina.  It took Farmer, an hour and ten minutes to reach the clinic. He pulled his motorcycle beside her car and peered into the windows, and then he peered up at the of the three story building.  She was there. He saw her, standing in front of the large window on the second floor stairwell.  She smiled slightly and waved at him.

They sat in the office of her admitting doctor, smiling at each other. He couldn’t stop looking at her. Her eyes kept searching his, what was she searching for? Approval? Forgiveness? He smiled at her again.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he started, but his voice caught and not trusting his ability to calm that urge, he said nothing more.

“I guess, I went crazy or something,” she explained.

“Oh, no,” Farmer quickly corrected her, “You didn’t go crazy, he visits me too.”

“Who visits you?” Dr. Edward F. Franklin asked, entering the room. He moved around the desk to his side and reached across to shake Farmer’s hand. “Mr. Simpson,” he nodded and sat in his chair, “who visits you?”

Farmer looked at his wife, “Mark, the ghost.”

Emily caught her breath.

“He started coming to me after you left,” Farmer told her.

“Mr. Simpson, really?” Dr. Franklin frowned, “Surely, you don’t believe..”

“He trashed the store, tore everything up, I don’t think we will recover from the loss.  There’s a ghost specialist, Langley and a psychic, Gail and of course, Josh figuring out what is going on,” Farmer couldn’t tell her fast enough.

“Mr. Simpson,” Dr. Franklin insisted again.

Farmer turned his attention to the man. “What?  When can my wife check out, we need to get back to Herrington, as quickly as possible,” he turned back to Emily for the last part of his statement, “we have to figure out who Mark is…”

“Your wife is suffering from delusions,” Dr. Franklin began.

“I know who Mark is,” Emily told him.

“Who is it?” Farmer asked her.

“Mark is the name I called our son,” she answered.

“I thought we named him David Lee,” Farmer questioned.

“No, dear, you don’t understand. Legally his name is David Lee Simpson and that is what is on his stone, but my first choice was Mark. I saw no reason to push it after his death and allowed his name recorded as David Lee, but when I speak to him, I call him Mark.”

“We do have package plans where one or more relatives can enter with a savings of 20%,” Dr. Franklin explained. He picked up the phone on the desk, “Rachel, can you send in one of the admitting officers to visit with Mr. and Mrs. Simpson?”

“Why did you leave me behind?” Farmer whispered. “That makes sense, now, when we sold the farm…when I sold the farm…oh, Emily can you ever forgive me?”


                   It took four months of negotiating with the new owners to have David Lee Simpson’s remains transferred from the property once belonging to Farmer and Emily. They chose a lovely spot in the town cemetery just three blocks from the store.  They never re-opened the grocery store; instead it became the Simpson’s Psychic Retreat. They sold candles, incense, ghost hunting equipment, books, pamphlets and held weekly séance. They were never contacted by a ghost again. On weekends Farmer was the tech guy for the Sunflower Ghost Searchers led by Josh.

Dr. Franklin found other patients for the package deal. Farmer and Emily took two weeks off that spring and flew to Vegas to renew their vows in the presence of an Elvis impersonator. The bride was beautiful but it was the groom’s crying that went viral.

WC 9,156