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Shadows in the Moonlight

There are no mountain lions in Kentucky

An original short-story by
Nathan Gregory

Once a thriving hub of social life and commerce, Sherburne is now a virtual ghost town. The river bisecting the town once provided easy access to distant markets for farm products and goods until the railroad arrived. Competing towns got rail lines, opening up competition and even greater markets. Sherburne had the river but railways provide more dependable transportation than rivers, which are subject to the whims of the seasons and the weather.​

Local businesses fell casualty to the railroad terminals of neighboring towns.

​One of the last holdouts was the Sherendale Flour mill. Large flatboats loaded with grains and meal from local farms found ready markets in New Orleans, owing to the ease and low-cost of simply floating down the river. But that too ceased in time, falling victim to the inexorable march of progress.
 

At the time of our story, Sherburne still thrived as a rural farm town, complete with churches, stores, and even a vibrant dance hall that was a popular social center. Saturday nights were well-attended by young people of all ages, there to dance, socialize, and perhaps find other enjoyable activities.
 

A farmer’s son did not drive everywhere so easily in those depression era days. Gasoline was scarce and expensive, and not everyone owned a car. If a farmer had a vehicle, it was a rough and dirty farm truck, unsuitable for social outings. A farmer’s son had the choice of the farm truck, horseback, or walking. A few miles walk on a warm Saturday night under a bright moon was not a hardship for a strong young man used to rough farm work. Plus, a shortcut through the neighbor’s field shortened the distance considerably. Such casual trespass was the norm.
 

One such evening, our young man was walking home to Sunnyview, the family farm, from an exquisite evening when his senses jangled in alarm. He felt a powerful sense of being followed, sensed rather than heard the rustle of grass behind him. Freezing, then slowly turning around, he looked back across the field he had just crossed. The waxing gibbous moon hung bright and heavy, just shy of full, and casting a silver glow over the landscape. The field had few trees and there was no one, or thing, in sight.
 

He stood still as a stone, heart thudding loud enough to drown out the crickets. “Fool!” he muttered to himself, “What’s gotten into ya? You’ve walked this field a hundert times, and ain’t a thing in it but grass and air. Ain’t no sense gettin’ all jumpy now.”
 

He eased out his breath, slow-like, telling himself it was just the wind stirring up the grass, like it always did. But no matter how much he tried to calm himself, that uneasy feeling gnawed, like a rat that’s found a sack of grain.
 

“Ain’t no use listenin’ to old wives’ tales ‘bout haints or wild critters lurkin’ in the dark. You’re walkin’ home from a dance, not starin’ down a demon.”
 

His feet seemed planted, as if his boots had rooted themselves to the earth. The moon, hanging in the sky like a phantom’s lantern, pulled at the shadows, stretching them thin across the ground. He shook his head, gritting his teeth. “Nothin’ out there but your own nerves. T’ain’t nothin’—never was.”
 

With a jerk, he wrested his feet free of the ground and resumed his homeward trek. His pace was just a little too quick, and his bound over the fence between the neighbor’s field and his own was a bit more spritely than normal. He was almost running across his own field, headed for home, when he heard someone climbing over the fence behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw no one, and accelerated his pace, nearly to a dead run.
 

He was upset. Not scared, he insisted. Nothing to be afraid of, he told himself. But he was upset, filled with a dread, a fear he couldn’t fully explain.
 

The next few days kept him busy from can-‘til-can’t, as only a farmer understands. Harvest is a race against time, weather, and exhaustion, but he welcomed the feel of the earth in his hands and the weight of the freshly cut stalks in the wagon.
 

Tobacco harvest was a grueling yet rewarding time, steeped in the rich scent of freshly cut tobacco leaves that filled the air with a heady, earthy aroma. He moved methodically through the rows, deftly plucking the stalks with their plump green leaves and gently stacking them in the wagon, to be stripped and placed on stalks at the barn. Each leaf felt familiar against his fingertips, a connection to the land and the labor his father had instilled in him since childhood.
 

The ache of absence tugged at his heart. It was in moments like these that the weight of his father’s absence felt most profoundly.
 

He could almost hear his father’s voice: ‘Take care with those, son. Fine tobacco deserves respect.’
 

He paused, hands on his hips as he gazed out over the field. A sense of longing marred the beauty of the moment. He couldn’t help but wonder what his father would think of the harvest this year. Would he have praised his efforts, or pushed him to work harder? Each stalk he cut was a fresh reminder of his loss.
 

Each day bled into the next, the hours marked only by the changing light, but the physically demanding work left his mind free to roam, to reconsider the fear that had so terrified him that night.
 

After all, he wasn’t harmed; nothing had chased him, even—only groundless fears and commonplace noises. He’d surrendered to groundless fears and superstitious folklore and haints and demons. He redoubled his efforts and fairly threw himself into the brutal physical labor in a drive to quell the internal voices.
 

Finally, with the fields emptied and the farm at peace, he allowed his mind to drift to more pleasant thoughts—particularly to the young lady he’d spent time with the last time. The memory of her laughter, the scent of her perfume, pushed aside the unease he still felt from the high strangeness of last time. This time, he vowed things would be different.
 

No, not that!
 

Although, if she were willing, he would do his best to oblige. But he swore there’d be no walking home alone through the dark fields tonight. He’d already asked his cousin for a ride and felt better for it.
 

The evening was perfect—Indian Summer warmth under a waning Harvest Moon, clear skies, lively music, and the warm, friendly chatter of familiar faces. As the festivities wound down, he was glad he’d come. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in weeks. But the hour grew late, and his cousin was naught to be found. At first, he figured maybe he’d lost track of time or gotten distracted, but soon realized his cousin had disappeared with his date; along with the promised ride home. Apparently, he was on his own, after all. His heart sank as he realized he once again faced making the long walk home, alone.
 

He hesitated at the edge of the dance hall lights, staring out at the moonlit fields. The Harvest moon hung like a silver coin against the velvet sky, casting eerie shadows that seemed to reach out toward him. Memories of his last walk home clogged his mind. He sighed. No use waiting around. 
 

He steadied himself with a slow inhale, letting the chill of the evening air sharpen his senses, followed by a calming exhale.
 

The walk began uneventfully, with crickets chirping, and a gentle night-breeze rustling the grass. But as he entered the neighbor’s field where panic had gripped him just days before, a shiver ran down his spine, and the crickets quieted. The hair on his neck bristled, and he pulled his jacket tighter, quickening his pace.
 

He thought he heard soft, padded footfalls in the grass behind him, accompanied by the faint sound of heavy breathing. Was his imagination playing tricks again? Head down, walking resolutely, he lengthened his stride, heading for the fence, not daring to stop or look behind.
 

He hit the fence nearly at a run, scampered over in a bound, and headed for home at a rapid clip. Just as before, he was sure he heard someone on the fence. This time, he heard a rush of movement, a strangled grunt, and a vicious big-cat yowl. He fought down the urge to break into a full-out run, steeled his resolve, and turned to face his pursuer.
 

Emerging from the shadows illuminated by the gibbous moon stood his father—an unmistakable apparition in denim overalls. The young man felt a chill ripple through him.
 

“Dad?” he whispered, dread clenching his heart.
 

His father stepped closer, the tension in the air thick enough to slice. “It’s too late, son. I’m sorry,” the apparition said, sorrow etched into every feature. Tears streamed down the ghostly face. “Mountain lion! Your panic made you its prey. You never saw it coming.”
 

“Wha?” the young man stammered, stepping back as memories of his father’s death flooded his mind—a memory he had tried so hard to bury. “You’re not real! You can’t be!”
 

Yet his father’s spectral form remained, the sadness in his eyes a painful reminder of what had been lost. Wordlessly, he pointed to a still, bloodied and ravaged form on the ground beside the fence.
 

As realization dawned, the shimmering edges of his father’s figure flickered like a candle in the wind.
 

His father’s gaze softened, yet the gravity of his words remained. “It’s time to let go.”
 

With trembling hands, he reached out and took his father’s spectral hand. “Come, son,” his father whispered, and together they faded into the darkness.

The End

Epilog:

This tale is set in depression era Kentucky, in the region where I spent my youth—though not in the depression era. I'm not THAT old! The basic story is one my father told me when I was a child. For years, I thought it was true. Now, I know he was pulling my leg. I think.

----------
I tried to capture the time and the locale as well as possible, but there is one glaring discrepancy—There are no mountain lions in Kentucky!
Just ask the Kentucky Department of Fish and Wildlife Resources!

The Dept. is adamant that there are NO mountain lions in Kentucky. Never mind that WKYT News carried a story about a Mountain Lion euthanized in nearby Bourbon County not long ago. Or the surveillance video of a mountain lion, or a cougar, in Harlan County a few years ago. Or the one in Madison County. Or the documented sightings at: https://www.fkgoldstandard.com/wild-cats-found-in-kentucky/


So relax. There are no mountain lions in Kentucky.

​

They've been gone for a century, according to officialdom. But wait... A century? So they were here before? Oh Yes! Indeed they were quite populous when Daniel Boone and his crew arrived, but the coming of settlers chased them away. 
Or did they? And the depression era setting of the story is nearly a century ago, so I feel safe enough including a mountain lion in my story.

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© 2022 by Nathan Gregory

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