Dusk

         How did I end up here in the woods at dusk looking at a worn tombstone?  Well, it involves my job and a peculiar patient named Mr. Howard and, honestly, my own ego. 

         I dropped out of college early and found a job at the Millbrook Asylum as an orderly.  College wasn’t for me and I had some experience doing orderly work; part-time at the university hospital.  At 6’2, 220, I’m also a good physical fit for an orderly at a hospital for the insane. 

         I was introduced to Ron Wildon, the head orderly, who would train me.  Ron, at 6’6, towered over me with his large frame, which reminded me of an NFL linebacker.  I learned later Ron had played football in college, but blew out his knee and that was that.  Ron had a deep baritone voice and white hair that contrasted with his dark skin.  He was a nice guy, always professional with the staff and patients and always treated everyone with equal respect. 

         During my first couple of days at Millbrook, Ron introduced me to all the patients and other staff members.  The staff members were all older than me, and seemed resigned to do a job they hadn’t intended on doing their whole life.  They were friendly though, and all the staff members, including Ron, treated the patients with kindness and talked to them like they were regular people.  Most of the patients looked the same; dazed old people staring off into nothing.  I had a hard time talking to them like normal people as, either myself or Ron, would wipe strings of saliva off their chins or hose them off after they would lose bladder control.  Still, I did my best to view the patients as regular people.

One patient though, Mr. Howard, caught my attention.  Mr. Howard was 35, but his face was wrinkled and his hair was completely white.  It was the oddest thing to look at a young guy who was prematurely old.  His eyes looked frightened, like they were looking at death itself.  Most of the patients just stared out into nothingness but Mr. Howard was definitely staring at something, at least in his mind.  Whatever it was that he was looking at, nobody in the hospital could see it.  I just chalked it up to a different type of crazy.

         After a few weeks, Ron started to let me go solo.  The job was rather easy; these weren’t criminally insane people, they had just broken down, mentally, at some point in their lives and that was it.  They weren’t violent or uncontrollable.  Ron said, occasionally, one of the patients would snap and would require restraining, but those cases were rare.  All I had to do was ensure the patients took their medicine, made their visits to the doctors, and were kept clean.  The job became routine for me.  Walk up and down the sterile white corridors, checking on the patients; escort them to the soft, comfortable doctors’ rooms; and give them their trays of mass-produced hospital food.  I became used to soft hum of the air traveling through the overhead vents and I knew how one of the vents had a constant clicking noise because the frame was bent and they couldn’t fix it.  I knew which doors creaked and which doors you had to pull harder to get the lock to close.  I built up a tolerance to the smell of chemicals as the janitors were constantly cleaning the place.  I got used to the annoying voice of Janice, the head nurse.  I became accustomed to how some patients mumbled and how others were silent.  It all became very normal for me, all except Mr. Howard.  This relatively young guy with pure white hair and wrinkles; he just didn’t fit in with the other patients. 

         I asked Ron one day about Mr. Howard.  Ron shrugged, and said I was in an asylum, what did I expect?  I persisted that Mr. Howard was different than the other patients.  Ron sighed and said he’d tell me over lunch.

         “So you want to know why Mr. Howard is here, do you?” Ron asked, between bites of his sandwich.

         “Well yeah, what’s his story?” I answered eagerly.

         “Alright, well officially, he’s here because he had a nervous breakdown, just like 99% of the other patients right?  Well, unofficially, the story is he is here because he saw something out in the woods some years ago.”

         “What did he see, big-foot?” I joked, assuming Ron was toying with me.

         “Apparently, some of his friends bet him to go visit the grave of Harold Brown at dusk on a Friday night.” Ron raised his eyebrows at me in an expression indicating that I should have known the gravity of this statement.

         “So, who was Harold Brown?” I asked.

         “I forgot, you’re from the city originally.  You didn’t grow up with the local legends and ghost stories.” Ron said before sipping his iced tea.

         “Ah, is this like the ghost story of saying ‘Bloody Mary’ into a mirror three times and then seeing a ghost?” I said with a smirk on my face.

         “It’s a real shame ghost stories and other legends seemed to have faded away.  Nobody believes anything anymore.  When I was a boy, we never went near Muddy Creek railroad bridge at dark because it was supposed to be haunted by a couple who had been killed by a train there.  Whether it was true or not doesn’t matter, none of us kids messed around there and we didn’t get hurt as a result.  There’s always a warning in ghost tales, don’t you think?” Ron said, returning to the present and me.

         “Eh” I shrugged and looked around.  I had hoped that Mr. Howard’s story was somewhat more interesting.

         “Oh you’re the smart, educated city boy, I forgot.  All this rural tradition is just nonsense to you.  Well the grave the Harold Brown is real enough, you can bet on that!” Ron said, looking at me with serious eyes.

         “Alright, Ron, I didn’t mean to upset you.  So what’s the story about this grave?”

         “Well, how much of this is truth and how much is legend, I can’t say.  There was a family named Brown who lived in these parts up until the 1930’s or so.  Well, one of their ancestors was apparently a really bad guy; a thief, a rapist, a murderer, you name the crime and Harold Brown did it.  Well, at some point, the law caught up with Harold Brown.  He was hanged for his crimes and even though the Brown family was ashamed for being related to Harold, they buried him in their family cemetery out near where their farm was.  That was around 1890 or so.  Well about ten years later, the Brown family decided to relocate their family graveyard to another location because, allegedly, a relative was out visiting the graves when he came face to face with the ghost of Harold Brown. 

“Appearances or Harold Brown continued to appear when family members visited the graves, and even continued after they got a preacher to go out and bless the land again.  Finally, the Browns just decided to dig up the coffins and relocate.  They left the grave of Harold Brown where it was, and allowed nature to reclaim the land.”

         “Must have been a bad dude for his family to leave him there,” I commented.

         “A lot of families have bad eggs, that’s just a part of life, but it wasn’t what he did while he was alive that made his family disown his remains.” Ron answered, taking a bite of his cake.  “I guess they were tired of seeing the black sheep of the family long after he had passed.  Anyway, they left his grave there and now it’s in the middle of the forest.  The Browns eventually all died off or moved away and even the farm has gone back to the land.”

         “So how does Mr. Howard fit in to this?”

         “Well, as I said, nature reclaimed much of the land and the old graveyard is now woodland.  After the browns moved away, the story of the ghost of Harold Brown spread and it became a dare for young people to go visit the grave.  Most people would go out there and only see an old tombstone, but every once in a while, people would get the fright of their lives.  Some people ran out of the woods and ran out of town and would die of exhaustion.  Others would simply never be found again.  It wasn’t until the 60’s that people made the connection on when you could encounter the ghost.  You see, in these parts back in the old days, people were executed on Friday’s.  It goes back to the Bible, you see; Christ was put up on the Cross on a Friday.  And apparently, the execution of Harold Brown was delayed either by a storm or due to public outrage at his crimes; that part has been lost in time.  Anyway, the story goes Harold Brown was hanged at dusk on a Friday instead of earlier in the day.”

         “So he only appears at dusk on Fridays then?” I asked, nodding.

         Ron smiled, “That’s right.  So in the last couple of decades, popularity in the Harold Brown legend has kind of died down.  It’s not as easy to get to his grave anymore and people have found better things to do with their time.  That and people just don’t want to mess with death; let’s face it, in a fight between you and death, death is always going to win.”

         “So Mr. Howard…” I said, hoping to move the conversation along.

         “Mr. Howard and some friends were involved in some sort of show of boasting at a bar one night, you know, daring each other to do stupid stuff, when one of them suggested that Mr. Howard pay a visit to Harold Brown’s grave.  Mr. Howard agreed and the next Friday, he went out there, while his friends waited just outside the woods with the car.  As the sun set, his friends heard a terrible scream and soon after, Mr. Howard was wildly crashing through the woods, his skin as pale as his hair is today.  It took all his friends to restrain him and they immediately took him to the emergency room.  Then he came here.”

         “So he saw the ghost of Harold Brown?” I asked, intrigued.

         “Don’t know.  He saw something horrible enough to drive him out of the woods though.  And it turned his hair white.  And he’s in here.  You tell me what else could do all that to a grown man?” Ron said, his brow raised.

         I shrugged and gave a half smile.

         “Of course, he could have just had a nervous breakdown out in those woods,” Ron said with a twinkle in his eye. 

         “Like everyone else in here?” I asked rhetorically.  Nobody said “insane” anymore; everyone just had a breakdown.

         “So where is this gravesite?” I asked.

         “Why?  So you can go out there and have a look for yourself?  I think not.  Remember, I believe there are important lessons from ghost stories and there’s a reason you don’t need to be poking around an old graveyard in the woods.” Ron said, picking up his trash.

         I laughed, “Oh come on Ron, I was only asking because you said you didn’t know how much of that story is truth or legend.”

         “Oh the grave does very much exist, that much is truth.  Harold Brown was a real man; that much is truth; I’ve seen the court documents at the library.  People have gone missing while going out there, that much is truth.  Does the ghost of Harold Brown rise from the grave at dusk on Friday nights and attack anyone who is nearby?  Who can say for sure.  Those who have been out there at the right times are either not around to ask or…” Ron pointed down the hallway to the patients’ rooms.

         “Well wait.  How come this ghost didn’t attack his family members, the ones who first saw him?” I asked as Ron was getting up.

         “Man, how do I know.  Maybe he tolerates family members.  Maybe ole’ Harold just doesn’t like strangers at his gravesite.  Maybe it’s all just legend.  Anyway, it’s time to get back to work.” Ron said nodding to me.  I picked up my trash and followed Ron.



         I was intrigued, really intrigued.  I grew up on ghost stories as a kid and I was always the one who took the dare.  I’d summon spirits on the Ouija Board, recite chants into mirrors, stay in supposedly haunted buildings at night even as my friends would wet their pants and run away screaming because they had scared themselves.  I never saw anything closely resembling a ghost.  Sure, I might have heard sounds which could have been a ghost, but was most likely an old house settling, or I might have seen something with my eyes that could just have been a trick of the light or my mind playing tricks on me.  I was a skeptic on the paranormal but I was willing to be convinced.  Seeing Mr. Howard and hearing how he became a patient at Millbrook Asylum made me really curious.

         I began to spend more time with Mr. Howard.  I decided I should try and gain his trust, or as much trust as you could gain from someone who isn’t all there.  I’d give him an extra jell-o cup with lunch and I’d make sure he got a good seat during TV time.  I’d talk to him when I would bring him back to his room.  Most of the time he’d just stare off into space but sometimes I’d get one-word responses.

         One day, I decided that I’d try and get some information out of Mr. Howard.  After getting him back to his room, I sat him down on his bed and I pulled up a chair.

         “Mr. Howard, can you hear me?  Look I was talking to Ron, you know Ron right?  Well Ron was telling me about…about how you came to be here.  Do you remember?”

         Mr. Howard just continued to stare. 

         “Mr. Howard,” I paused and then dismissed my reservations, “Does the name Harold Brown mean anything to you?”

         Mr. Howard began to breath heavily, and he looked at me with terrified eyes.

         “Calm down, Mr. Howard, calm down.  It’s okay, I’m here.  Don’t wo-”

         “The terror!  He…he…looked at me!  Oh God!  Oh my God!  I was so cold…so cold!  He looked at me with those terrible eyes!  Those terrible yellow eyes!  Jesus!” Mr. Howard buried his head in the pillow and was shivering with fear.

         “It’s okay, I’m here.  You’re safe, Mr. Howard.” I said, shaken by Mr. Howard’s emotional breakdown.  Even as I was comforting Mr. Howard, I was smiling.  I sensed a challenge.



         It wasn’t all that difficult to locate information on Harold Brown’s grave.  The local library had everything I needed.  Just off state route 30, there was an old road that ended about a half mile from the highway.

         Friday couldn’t come fast enough for me.  Once I got off work, I quickly changed out of my uniform and then jumped into my car and headed towards Harold Brown’s grave.  I got out there about an hour and a half before dusk, which gave me plenty of time to have a sip of whiskey.  A little liquid courage never hurt, I reasoned.  Funny, I was never nervous about paranormal stuff before.

         I locked my car and headed into the woods.  The leaves were just beginning to turn; reds, oranges, yellows and browns were replacing the faded summer green.  The late afternoon sun cast beams of light through the trees and made everything appear golden, radiant.  A near-constant breeze made a ruffling noise through the dry leaves.  The forest was a mix of old growth and new growth; old oaks interspersed with saplings and underbrush.  It was a cool, crisp early autumn day and I found the woods very pleasant – hardly the stuff of a ghost story.  I would have to embellish on this if I ever decided to tell anyone I actually came out here.  Soon I was in a part that had only an occasional older tree and I knew I was on the old Brown farmland; this had all been reclaimed by nature in the last several decades. 

         There was only about 30 minutes to go to dusk when I finally found the old graveyard.  It looked like the ideal set out of a horror movie, at first I thought it was a set but it was real alright.  The remains of a wrought-iron fence could barely be seen for the vines and weeds that obscured it.  Before the graves were moved, the little cemetery might have held twenty plots.  Now there was only one and I got cold chills when my eyes found the faded stone tombstone. 

         I found it a little difficult to get my legs to move forward, but I finally did and each step felt like my legs encased in concrete.  I had never felt like this before; I actually felt fear.  Had Ron’s story really spooked me, or was something else at work?  I got to within a few feet of the gravestone and I stopped.  Curiously, there weren’t any weeds or vines growing over the slab of stone, as if living things wouldn’t stay long if they lingered near Harold’s grave.  I could just barely make out the eroded writing:

Here Lies:

Harold A. Brown

October 31, 1855- October 31 1890

Put to Death for his Crimes

May God Have Mercy on His Soul

         I could hardly believe the dates.  Put to death on his birthday?  I wondered how that had escaped the legend Ron told me, it surely would have added to the myth.  Put to death on his birthday; that’d give one reason to be angry, I thought.  I took a couple of pictures of the gravestone with my phone, and then crouched down.  The earth was cold when I put my knee down on the ground.  I realized that I was crouched over the actual grave of Harold Brown and I quickly moved to the side where I found the ground significantly warmer.  It gave me shivers to think that only a few feet of earth separated me from the remains of this criminal. 

         I looked up through the trees towards the west and saw the sun was just about to set.  The woods have almost lost that golden glow, and it is now a faded brown color and not radiant, but lifeless. Only a few minutes now, until dusk.  Only a few minutes now until I learn the truth about Harold Brown, and Mr. Howard and, the entire legend about this grave. 

         The trees have become very still and the breeze from earlier is completely gone.  The forest is also deathly quiet; birds and squirrels had been busy gathering up food as I had been walking in.  It is as if the forest is holding its breath in anticipation of some great or terrible event.  I even find myself stifling my own breathing out of some subconscious desire to be very quiet and very still so as not to attract some unseen threat.  The air has become cold, unnaturally cold for this time of year.  I rub my arms to keep warm.  My pulse increases with the anticipation.

         It’s getting darker now; the shadows are taking over from the light.  I’m breaking out in cold sweats and I can’t take my eyes off the gravestone.  I begin to question why I am out here.  This is stupid, I tell myself.  Another voice in my head tells me to run, run before it is too late!  Too late for what, my rational side asks, too late to run from a ghost?  Ghosts don’t exist, I tell myself, but I can’t quite make myself believe that now, out here next to this sinister grave.

         It’s getting darker, darker, darker; I’m shivering, but I don’t know if it’s from the sweat and cold, or from some primal fear that is telling me to escape from this place.  My eyes are glued to the gravestone and to the name:  Harold A. Brown.  Mr. Howard’s words return to me:  “He looked at me with those terrible eyes!”  What if Mr. Howard was once as brave as me?  What if Mr. Howard was just like me; arrogant and stupid?  What if I’ll end up sharing meals with him at Millbrook Asylum or worse, never found again?  There’s now an eerie hue to the air; it’s like a dull green fog or mist and the whole forest seems submerged in it.  Even though the light is almost gone, I can still clearly see the words on the gravestone and I begin to feel sick to my stomach.  Again, I think about Mr. Howard’s words, “those terrible eyes,” and I dread seeing them for myself. 

Suddenly I don’t want to know if Harold Brown is indeed a ghost or not.  I don’t want to know if Mr. Howard really saw him.  All I want is to run away from that grave, from these woods, even from this town, but I realize it’s too late because it’s now dusk and I now know the truth because my scream is echoing through the woods and I can’t run fast enough…