The Ghost of Vernon's Corner

Leslie Bessant

"Young man, I'm here to set the record straight. I'm going to tell you the truth about the ghost of Vernon 's Corner."

The middle-aged sergeant glanced at the clock and tried to smile. Whatever this little old woman had to say, he didn't really have time for it. "Ma'am, that's just an old story. There ain't no ghost."

"That ain't what Jimmy Sunderland says."

"Ma'am, Jimmy Sunderland's been drunk for the last thirty-five years."

The old woman rapped on the desk. "He's been drinking for forty years, young man. Started two days after he saw the ghost."

The sergeant sighed. "All right, ma'am, just calm down. What do you mean, you're here to tell the truth about the ghost?"

"I mean I'm here to tell the truth about my son, Vernon Turner, and his friend Hamp Fulton."

The sergeant's face sagged. He'd heard it all before -- not from her, but from lots of other folks. "Ma'am," he said softly, "we know the truth. Your son was lynched, and Fulton ran away because he didn't want to go to Vietnam ." He gave her his most sympathetic nod. "I'm sorry."

She sniffed. "Young man, you don't know nothing. That boy they hanged, he wasn't my son. That was Hamp Fulton. I saw Pettibone and Sunderland drag him out of my house that night." She looked down at her hands. "My son Vernon , he died this evening."

"I see," the sergeant said slowly. This woman had clearly gone off the deep end. "Ma'am, maybe you should talk to somebody else. There's a nice nurse--"

The old woman stiffened. "I didn't come to talk to no nurse. I came to tell the truth about Vernon and Hamp. You going to listen or not?"

The sergeant drew a breath. Maybe it would be easier just to let her have her say. He gestured to the chair next to his desk. "Go ahead."

"Thank you." The old woman sat down. "It all started on July 31st, 1965, the day Emmy Lou Naismith had her baby. Oh my, that baby was beautiful! Big, soft brown eyes, a head full of curly black hair, and skin the color of sweet caramel." She looked at the sergeant. "How much do you know about this story?"

"I know the Naismith girl had blonde hair and blue eyes."

"That's right. Tongues started wagging, and Emmy Lou's daddy didn't like it. He made Emmy Lou say she'd been raped. But it wasn't true."

The sergeant frowned. Some folks just refused to face up to the facts. "Now, Mrs. Turner, we know your son attacked Emmy Lou. It's a matter of public record."

"Oh, you white folks will believe anything so long as it matches what you think you already know. My boy didn't force himself on her. They loved each other."

"It don't matter. He was still breaking the law."

The old woman's head jerked back. "You think I don't know that? Vernon knew all about those Jim Crow laws, and so did Emmy Lou. Something made them foolhardy, though. Maybe it was because of those white kids who were down here that summer, signing folks up to vote. Freedom Summer, they call it now. Kids being kids, there was some romance going on, too, some of it between black boys and white girls." She shrugged. "But then, they probably didn't need any help. I worked for Emmy Lou's family, and she and Vernon used to play together all the time. Vernon used to say he wanted to marry her."

The sergeant looked away.

The old woman sniffed. "Anyway, I got scared. One word in the wrong ear, and Pettibone and Sunderland would set the Klan on my boy."

"Why didn't he just run?"

"He was going to, but Pettibone's flunkies were watching the roads, so I told him not to." The old woman sighed. "Then I got too fancy for my own good."

"Ma'am?"

"I went down to the corner and called the police. I told them Vernon was the father of that baby, and that he was ready to surrender to the police. But I was going to trick them. I was going to have Hamp Fulton sitting there in my living room, and I'd let the police think Hamp was my son. I figured that if I could get them to take Hamp, Vernon could sneak out of town while everybody else was down at the police station. Then Hamp would show them his dog tags and his Army papers. He was all set to ship out for Vietnam , so he had all kinds of official orders and such. I figured the police would have to let him go."

The sergeant gave her a sideways look. "Don't you think the cops would know the difference between those two boys?"

"No, sir. The police didn't have any reason to know either one of them."

The sergeant snorted and shook his head.

The old woman nodded broadly. "Back then, when the police went after a black man, they weren't particular about who they got."

The sergeant nodded wearily. There wasn't any point in arguing. "All right. What happened next?"

"So me and Hamp were sitting there, and Hamp said, 'Auntie, whatever happens, it's all right with me.'

"I said, 'Hamp, what're you talking about? Nothing's going to happen to you.'

"Hamp just shook his head. 'Auntie,' he said, 'I ain't got nothing but trouble ahead of me, no matter what I do.' He started to cry. 'Mr. Purdell told me what the Army's going to do with me. They're going to make me crawl down into holes where people are hiding and blow them up. He said they'd choose me because I'm sort of small and can get down in those holes easier than a big fella.' He wiped his face and looked me right in the eye. 'That ain't right, Auntie,' he said. 'Killing soldiers, that's bad enough. But little children?' He pushed his dog tags through a hole in the floor. 'I cain't do that.'"

She lifted her hands and let them fall back into her lap. "Well, I couldn't let Hamp suffer for what Vernon and Emmy Lou had done, so I got up to go call the police and tell them Vernon had run off. But just then, Pettibone and Sunderland kicked the door in and grabbed Hamp. Soon as I saw them, I knew they were going to take him out to the hanging corner -- the place they call Vernon 's Corner nowadays. I tried to stop them, but they kicked me out of the way like an old dog."

She took a deep breath. "They threw Hamp in the back of Pettibone's truck and took off. Vernon was hiding under the house, and he heard the whole thing. He ran after them, but . . . " The old woman squeezed her eyes shut. "They hurt Hamp every way they could. Beat him, whipped him, burned him, and cut him. Then they hanged him from the big bay tree at the edge of the swamp."

The sergeant nodded. He'd read the file. What she said was true.

"There was a crowd waiting for them at the hanging tree, so all Vernon could do was watch while those devils tortured Hamp to death. Then he came running home. 'Mama, I've got to do something,' he said. 'I've got to do something for Hamp.'

The old woman shook her head. "I told him to go to the FBI, but he said no. 'They didn't do nothing to the men who killed the Mims, or Emmett Till, or Medgar Evers. If I'm going to do anything for Hamp, I've got to do it myself.'

"He grabbed a piece of paper, scribbled a note on it -- 'I saw you. Meet me at midnight, at the hanging tree' -- and handed the paper to me. 'Will you put this under Pettibone's door early tomorrow morning?'

"I said yes." Tears ran down her face. "He was my son. I had to help him.

"He just looked at me for a minute. 'Mama,' he said, 'I know you're hurting, but I've got to do this. Whatever happens, remember that I love you.' Then he hugged me and ran out the door."

The old woman sobbed softly. "Lord, I wanted to tear that note up! But that would've been selfish, and Hamp and Vernon were being so brave. So I went out at four that morning and slipped that note under Pettibone's door."

The sergeant leaned closer. This was all new to him.

"I couldn't stand the thought of my son having to face those killers by himself, though. So I went and hid in the brambles behind the bay tree. A little before midnight, Pettibone and Sunderland drove up. They stopped right under the tree where they'd killed Hamp.

"Vernon was hiding way down by the water. 'Here,' he called. 'Down by the swamp.'

"Pettibone laughed. 'Boy, you're dead now,' he said.

"Vernon made his voice sound scared. 'Please, sir,' he said, 'I don't want no trouble.'

"Pettibone laughed again. 'That's a shame,' he said, 'because trouble is all you're gonna get.'

"Pettibone and Sunderland got in the truck and headed for Vernon . They were about halfway there when the road collapsed, and the truck flipped over and rolled into the swamp. Vernon had busted up the culvert underneath the road, right where the swamp was the wettest. Pettibone and Sunderland climbed out -- and sank up to their waists in thick, black, stinking mud.

"Vernon came walking up the road, and I tell you, he looked like he'd come straight from Hades! He'd covered himself in ashes, so he was all gray and black and brown, and his eyes were fiery red from all the dust. He'd stuck five or six lit kitchen matches in his hair, too, just for good measure.

"Pettibone was shaking like a leaf. 'Wh-who are you?' he asked.

"Vernon just laughed. 'You know me. I'm Vernon Turner.'

"Sunderland 's mouth fell open. 'Y-you cain't b-be,' he said. 'We killed you.'

"Vernon laughed even harder. 'That's right, you killed me. Now I'm here to take my revenge.' He climbed up on the truck and unscrewed the gas cap. 'First, though, we need some more light,' he said. He tore a piece off his shirt, held it up to one of those matches in his hair, and set fire to it. 'I'll just set this here,' he said, and he stuck that burning scrap right in the gas tank.

"Pettibone wailed like a baby. 'Oh, please, Mr. Turner,' he cried, 'don't do that. We'll be roasted alive.'

"Vernon pointed his finger at Pettibone. 'I'm giving you more of a chance than y'all gave me. I don't know if you'll live, but if you do, you just heed these words: white man, behave or beware. If you go after a black man or woman, I'll drive you insane.' Then Vernon shook his head real hard. The matches blew out, and Vernon vanished."

"Guess the ghost flubbed up," the sergeant quipped. "Pettibone and Sunderland made it out alive. They told a pretty different story, too."

She glared at him. "Oh, yes, I know all about what they said. Pettibone claimed they'd been attacked by a whole mob of black men. That lie got white folks even more riled up, and everybody thought there'd be more trouble. But the next morning, Pettibone and Sunderland found their yards filled with rotten, smelly garbage. On each of their doors, there was a note. It said, 'White man, behave or beware.'"

"Ma'am, you don't really--"

The old woman kept talking. "That's when Sunderland started drinking, when he saw all that trash in his yard. But Pettibone didn't scare so easily. He got some cronies and made a lot of trouble that night. They shot out windows, busted into houses, beat folks up, and burned crosses all over town. I bet he felt like a big man when he got home that morning. Until he saw Mrs. Beal, his housekeeper, that is.

"She said to him, 'Mr. Pettibone, it ain't right for you to come home all smoky and sooty and tramp around the house. Just look at all that dirt you left in your daughters' room. Now I've got to mop the floors and wash their sheets.'

"Pettibone said, 'What are you talking about?'

"Mrs. Beal stuck her hands on her hips and said, 'I'm talking about all those ashes you tracked around your daughters' beds.'

"Pettibone's eyes got real big. 'Show me,' he said.

"So Mrs. Beal showed him the girls' beds, and there were footprints and a trail of pale gray ashes around each of them, like somebody had been walking around the girls while they were asleep. Well, Pettibone was just standing there, his jaw flapping but no words coming out, when his wife screamed. He ran back to their bedroom.

"'What's wrong?' he yelled to her. 'For God's sake, what's wrong?'

"She was too busy screaming to do anything but point down at her belly. So he looked, and what do you think he saw? Big, sooty handprints all over her nice clean nightgown."

The sergeant cocked his head. He'd heard that something bad happened to the Pettibones, but nobody he knew would ever talk about it.

"Pettibone ran and asked the neighbors if they'd seen anything. One woman said she'd seen something gray and dusty float out of Mrs. Pettibone's window. Pettibone turned as white as one of Mrs. Beal's freshly washed sheets. 'The ghost,' he said. 'Vernon Turner's ghost.' He went inside his house and he never came back out. Six weeks later, Mrs. Pettibone found out she was expecting. Pettibone shot himself the next day."

The sergeant blew the air out of his lungs. She really had him going there for a minute. "You don't mean the youngest Pettibone girl. She's got red hair and freckles. Vernon ain't her daddy."

"That's right. Vernon never touched those women. He just wanted Pettibone to know that the ghost could go anywhere and do anything." She nodded firmly. "The ghost has been keeping white folks in line ever since then."

"Oh, come now," the sergeant grumped. "Our town has the best race relations in the state."

The old woman snorted. "Well, if that's true, we've got the ghost to thank for it. You remember when those ruffians went around beating up black boys who went out with white girls? You remember that?"

"Yes, ma'am. That was just a couple of years ago."

He'd been assigned to that case. It wasn't anything, really. Just some local boys getting up to the usual high jinks. Nobody got hurt. Not too badly, anyway.

She gave him a cold look. "Maybe you remember the police said they couldn't do nothing about it, because they didn't have no way to tell who those white boys were?"

The sergeant looked down and shifted in his chair.

"Well, the ghost knew who'd done it. And he let them know by driving a rusty coffin nail into every one of their tires. He left a note, too. 'White man, behave or beware. One tire for every blow a black man receives.'" She nodded. "I heard he left another note for the police."

The sergeant shrugged nervously. "I really couldn't say."

There had been another note, though, and he'd seen it. He and the other guys had even laughed about it. It read, "White man, behave or beware. If the police don't protect the people, then who'll protect the police?"

Somehow, it didn't seem so funny right then.

He tried to swallow, but there was a big lump in his throat. " Vernon 's gone now?"

The old woman sighed. "It's sort of like a Br'er Rabbit story. I mean the real stories, the ones the slaves told. The rabbit pulls a trick, but he has to pay. Well, Vernon paid. He got thrown into the briar patch, but the briar patch ain't all it's cracked up to be. It's wet and cold and full of snakes. When you live in the briar patch, you got to live like an animal. That's what my boy's been doing for forty years, and it finally wore him out. He'd been sick with pneumonia for three weeks." She wiped her eyes. "He died around six o'clock this evening."

The sergeant slowly rolled his head back and forth, trying to work a kink out of his neck.

The old woman's shoulders slumped. "Maybe he can finally find some rest." She stood up and pushed her chair to the side of the desk. "Young man, thank you for listening to me."

"Ma'am." The sergeant watched her walk away. He shook his head and glanced at the chair she'd been sitting in.

A sooty handprint stood out against the orange seat cushion.