The Ghost of Old Jeb Brown

Childhood memories of walking home from school on Halloween Day; cool breezes under overcast skies, the scratching of dried leaves on the pavement as the wind pushed them by. They crunched under my feet and made a swoosh, swoosh sound as I walked through them. When I got home, I raked them up into mounds and cannonballed into them with a splash like crunchy water. My old labrador retriever with his grey face would find the energy to join in the fun, pouncing on top of me with a vivaciously wagging tail.

The neighborhood was always decorated for fall. There was nothing creepy or scary at all. Haybales and scarecrows peppered the subdivision along with the old, dried-up corn stalks. Every house had a jack-o-lantern. We’d spread out old newspaper over the table to carve my pumpkin, cutting off the top. I’d scoop out the sticky fruit and separate the seeds. Mom would wash the seeds and salt them up before baking them in the oven while I cut out triangular eyes, a nose, and a goofy smile with only a few teeth. A candle was always placed in the center, giving the pumpkins a ghoulish glow.

Homework was done with haste. A shower was taken early. Dinner was served before dark. My costume was never anything fancy. A plastic character’s suit with a hard to see through plastic mask that was held on by a thin rubber band. Yet, I was proud of my costume, excited to be for one night the character I chose, all ruined by an overly concerned mom who demanded I wear a jacket.

The streetlights came on and the subdivision filled with kids accompanied by adults. There were vampires and princesses, robots and witches. Some costumes were homemade, some were store bought. Some were extravagant, and some were cheap. None of us kids cared. It was operation candy. My parents released me like I was a hungry jackal looking for a carcass to feed from. Mom would always stay home to hand out the candy while dad double timed it to keep up with me as I ran from house to house.

The Fambrough’s house was always a good one. Their mom would dress up as a silly scarecrow, much like the one from the Wizard of Oz, and sit out on the front porch. She would ask us if we wanted a trick or a treat. If you answered trick, she would do cartwheels or sing and dance, something funny to entertain us kids. I’d pick trick just for a laugh.

The Bedwell’s home was my favorite. On their porch, they had a scarecrow they called Old Jeb Brown. It was made of denim overalls and a red & black plaid flannel shirt stuffed with straw, boots for feet, gloves for hands, and a jack-o-lantern for the head. Inside the head, they put a speaker. Mr. Bedwell would sit on the couch inside and wait for trick-or-treaters to walk up and then scare them. Even though I knew it was coming, he always managed to scare me. They would always invite us in and tell us the story of Old Jeb Brown.

Old Jeb once owned all the land the subdivision was built on. For many years he lived a reclusive lifestyle on the edge of town. He rarely accepted visitors, and never when they were unannounced. He built a rickety barbwire fence around his property and posted signs that read: No Trespassing. Violators Will Be Shot On Site. He posted those about every fifty yards or so, according to the story. People for the most part took that warning seriously. However, every Halloween, there were those few who would bang on his door and yell trick-or-treat. Old Jeb would greet them at the door with a rifle in hand. People would go scurrying away. Jeb would always fire a warning shot to let them know to never come back.

Late one night, on Halloween, 1953, a group of teens felt it was their place to teach Old Jeb a lesson in politeness. They snuck up his driveway, threw a flaming bag of poo on his porch, banged on the door, and hid. Jeb never woke to put out the flaming bag and it caught his porch on fire. The teens who were hiding in the shadows ran off. Jeb died in the house fire. Mr. Bedwell went on to tell us that the following Halloween, those kids went missing, and that they weren’t the only ones. There have been cases of missing teens on Halloween over the decades. He believes it was the ghost of Old Jeb Brown exacting revenge on bad kids on the anniversary of his death.

As a young kid, the story did a good job of scaring me straight, but when I turned thirteen, it was just a bunch of malarky. At that age I hit a growth spurt and was too big to trick-or-treat. The little things like jumping in the leaves, carving jack-o-lanterns, and the magic of autumn were lost on me. Frankly, I hated the season because it meant school was well under way.

That year, Halloween fell on a Friday, and two of my friends stayed the night at my house. They told me there were other ways to have fun on Halloween than trick-or-treating. We waited until my parents went to bed. We grabbed toilet paper, all the eggs we had, and a couple ball bats. We snuck out of the house late that night. We found a neighbor’s house with no lights on and threw toilet paper in their trees, covering it. We then egged their car, using half the eggs we had. Then we destroyed their decorations and smashed their mailbox. A light came on in the house and we took off running, dodging behind another house so we wouldn’t get caught. We found it all exhilarating, laughing at our antics.

We took a shortcut through the yards to the opposite street, Mr. Bedwell’s street. My friends saw Old Jeb the scarecrow and immediately wanted to ruin it. I told them I didn’t want to mess with that house, that I knew the guy, but they didn’t want to listen. They started with the toilet paper, just like the last place. Then they moved on to egging the front of his house. My one friend, Jimmy, grabbed a large landscaping stone from Mr. Bedwell’s yard and threw it through his bay window. They turned to run, but Jimmy didn’t get away. Old Jeb jumped up and grabbed him. Me and my other friend, Ricky, screamed in fright, but were not about to leave our friend. We started hitting the scarecrow with the bats, but the bats didn’t phase it. By then the lights were on in Mr. Bedwell’s house. He was furious but ran outside to help Jimmy. The scarecrow knocked Mr. Bedwell down and ran off with Jimmy.

We chased Old Jeb all the way to the graveyard. There, Jimmy started sinking into the ground and the scarecrow fell into a limp pile of clothes and straw. We grabbed a hold of Jimmy and pulled with all our might, but something stronger was pulling him down. We screamed for him to hold on, but the dirt was rising up over his face. His hands slipped from our grasp, and he was gone. We didn’t have time to mourn or dig. The scarecrow stood back up, alive, and stomped towards us with intent.

We scrambled to our feet and ran, but not fast enough. Old Jeb caught Ricky and started dragging him down to the grave. I grabbed Ricky in a bear hug, hoping to keep him above the soil, but I started to sink as well. I let go of Ricky and climbed out. I looked at Ricky, I saw terror in his eyes, but I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to end up like him and Jimmy. I was scared, so I ran, and I didn’t look back.

When I got home, I quietly snuck back inside and went to my room upstairs. I looked out the window and there it was staring up at me. I sat on my bed watching it. It never moved. Not until the sun came up and it collapsed into a pile of straw and clothes again. Thirty years later, and I still have to lock myself in my house every Halloween night. The ghost of Old Jeb Brown sits outside and waits.