My named is Virgil Ackerman. I prefer “Ace” to Virgil, it has a better ring. People say I’m brave. I’m not afraid of man or beast. I don’t run from trouble and I’m not opposed to fighting but, as a general rule, I have to be certain I will win before I start one. When it comes to the supernatural; being brave doesn’t matter. Ghosts don’t treat you fairly.

Having unfinished business in Mowbrey, Alabama and needing to get there quickly, the most direct route was by passing through Jenkins Thicket. Normally, it’s a quick trip but someone stole my horse so I was on foot. I’m not welcome in Mowbrey. Two years ago I was tried for the murder of my wife, Christy Ackerman, daughter of the town’s mayor. My acquittal was not well received by the townsfolk; most of them think I did it.

On the way out of the courthouse I was accosted by the town spiritual medium. A small, heavy set woman in a babushka and a faded print dress, she pushed through the crowd and, getting closer to my face than I wanted, yelled. “The spirits are not done with you. Beware, killer. They await your day of true judgment.”

She surprised me. Not wanting those gathered to see that, I said, “Please would you get outta here.” I didn’t want to give the impression I was bothered by her outburst, but I was. After that, things were fairly uneventful over the following two years until my trip back to Mowbrey but the image of that woman haunted my memories.

My journey started late which meant nightfall crept up on me more quickly than I desired. Being nowhere near the town or an inn, the chance of finding lodging faded with the sunlight. Having no choice, I followed the path as the darkness surrounded me.

A full moon dipped in and out from behind the clouds. It cast a flickering light, moving shadows of tree limbs across the path, each like a bony hand reaching out to grab me. Despite my displays of bravado, I found passing through the dark spots a bit nerve racking, especially since I was alone. It was during a brief lighted interval when I noticed the Bald Knob Cemetery where my wife was buried. Being in jail at the time, I had not attended her funeral nor had I since visited her, so I walked in to see if I could find her grave.

The gravestones were not ornate. They were the limestone slab type, some topped with arches, others simple rectangles. The ground heaved over the years, tipping the markers forward and back. Some had fallen over, others knocked down. In the dim light I could tell most of the occupants of this resting place were of the long term variety. When the moonlight peaked through the clouds I could read some of the stones. The dates confirmed my initial observation. I was unable to find Christy’s grave, though.

“Boy, dead lasts a long time.” I thought.

Given the extent of my fatigue and the lateness of the hour, I had little choice but to stop.  While the cemetery was not the most welcoming of venues, it was the best available resting place. Luckily, the night temperatures were cool, not cold. It was dry. I spied a wooden bench which seemed like a good place to lie down.      

At first, I had no reason to think spirits were afoot but, at that moment, a wind arose. The rustling of the branches and the whirling eddys of dead leaves and dust stirred my fear that the noise would awaken the residents. I brushed off those feelings and closed my eyes. I was able to sleep for maybe an hour or two when a scuffling sound startled me from my slumber. It wasn’t the wind; it sounded different. Then, I realized, a disturbance was occurring.

I stood up quickly but slipped, landing on the ground facing some gravestones. To my shock, there stood a woman and, what looked like a man, tussling. The woman occupied a spot on a grave. These two were not a man and woman as you and I know them to be. They were vaporous apparitions floating above the ground. I could see through them. The women’s features were well defined. If she looked like that in life, she had a nice figure. The male ghost’s features were more nondescript but familiar, I knew him from somewhere. The woman appeared to be holding something, and then she dropped it. The man looked like he was striking her but I was unsure what was happening. The scene was confused but the scuffling noises grew louder. I hoped they hadn’t sensed my presence for my fear was increasing.

Then, I noticed a large group of revenants standing off to my right, not three feet from my bench. They were a motley assortment of spirits also vaguely familiar. In the middle of this scrum appeared someone I knew quite well, Judge, Tobias E. Crenshaw; or, as I knew him, “Terrible Toby”, my presiding judge. The trouble was Toby died right after my trial. I wondered, “Did these specters have business with me? Was that old woman in the babushka right?” I didn’t have to wait for an answer.

Stepping forward, Toby said, “Virgil Ackerman, you stand accused of the murder of your wife.”

I took exception and said, “Hold on there, Toby. First, call me Ace. Second, I beat that rap. I was acquitted, in your very courtroom, remember. I can’t be charged or tried again, double jeopardy and all that.”

I never liked him and wasn’t about to call him, “Judge” under these circumstances. I figured being dead must have caused him to lose a step. So I said, “You can leave now.” but Toby and the spirits just stood there. Leaving the cemetery seemed like a good idea. I tried to get up but I found myself sitting on the bench unable to move.

Toby said, “Well, Ace, things are a little different here and now. See, you did a right good job of making it look like your wife slipped on that soup and bashed her head. It wasn’t till after the trial, the sheriff found the bloody fireplace poker you buried under the woodpile.” He continued.

“Maybe you remember some of the gentlemen standing by you. A few served as jurors at your trial. They are willing to do so again. You see, here in Jenkins Thicket things are done a bit different. You came to us, we didn’t come to you. Our jurisdiction is over those buried in this little cemetery and those that should be. If you hadn’t stopped, we wouldn’t be talking now.”

“Hey, that’s great,” I said. “Sounds interesting but I didn’t kill her. She fell and hit her head. We’ve been through this already. Leave me alone.”

“Is that your defense? You want to go with, ‘she fell and hit her head’?”  

“I will swear to it. Case closed and then I’ll leave.”

“Not so fast. This time we have all the evidence and can have a proper trial but, first, let’s hear from her.” Toby smiled.

“Her? Who’s her?”    

“Why, our first witness, your late wife, Christy Ackerman.”

Dumbstruck, I said, “You can’t call a dead person.”

I was sweating now. Of course, during my first trial, Christy was unavailable because I’d killed her. Yet, here she was about to raise her hand and swear to tell the truth, a subject with which she has little familiarity, alive or dead.

She started her testimony. “I’m Christy McNerney Ackerman. Ace, well, Virgil Ackerman is my husband, or he was, until he kilt me.” Her voice start to climb the octaves from mezzo-soprano to soprano; her decibel level grew. Toby sought to keep control of the proceedings.

“Now, Mrs. Ackerman, please, no need to shout, we can all hear. On the day in question please tell the jury what you and your husband, Mr. Ackerman, were doing?”

Resuming her regular voice, she said, “Yes, your Honor. It was a normal day for us. We had been busy working around the house and the garden. We were quite happy. I asked Ace to perform a few chores both inside and out. Throughout the day I had some observations about the tasks I desired to have done. I did my best to help guide him on the way I hoped the projects would turn out.”

“What happened next? Toby asked.

“As it got closer to dinner time, I was in the kitchen, preparing a pot of soup, Ace’s favorite, beef with noodles. At the same time I was reviewing some of the chores he completed. I was making some comments on the quality of his work. Then, I attempted to bring the soup pot to the dinner table.”

“Then what happened?”  That gaggle of apparitions and phantoms calling itself ‘the jury’ leaned in so as not to miss anything.

“I dropped the pot from my hands because that big galoot had his mitts around my neck choking me, screaming, “Why can’t you shut the hell up, bitch?” He then grabbed a metal poker from the fireplace and started pounding my head. I felt very dizzy and uncomfortable, especially with his language. It was the most unpleasant dining experience I could remember.”

Continuing, she said, “I slipped, or maybe I was pushed, to the floor. The next thing I knew, I woke up here in the cemetery. Now I’m talking to you. One thing is for certain, I wouldn’t have dropped that pot of soup if he hadn’t been choking and hitting me.” I sensed a hint of hostility in her voice.

Toby then held up the fireplace poker she described. “Is this the object he beat you with?” he asked.

“Yes it is. Please take it away.” She said.

I thought, “This is the reason I hid that thing the first place so some grandstander, like him, wouldn’t pull this stunt.”

Then I heard Toby say, “Ace, did you want to see this?”

“No, I’ve seen it before and I never hit anybody with anything.” I said.

Toby said, “You’ll get your chance to speak.”

He continued asking my late wife questions.

“What do you remember about the chores your husband had been working on and your comments on the quality of his work?”

“I pointed out that he had not chopped enough firewood. A household needs firewood. I was surprised at the number of weeds in the garden after he had claimed to have removed them all. Next, some of the floor boards in the bedroom were loose. I thought them to be unsafe and reminded him that they needed to be tightened down. Oh, I don’t want to forget, the roof still leaked. I was unimpressed with his repair and mentioned it. One of the window panes was cracked and needed to be replaced. I’m sure there were others but I can’t remember them now.” She said, smiling at the Judge.

“How often did you serve Ace, his favorite meal of beef and noodles? He asked.

“Why, every night, your Honor, that’s how I know it’s his favorite. I even brought fresh flowers into the house to brighten up dinner time. Nothing says love and caring like flowers.”

She concluded her testimony in tears by saying, “I will never know why he acted in the rude and unkind manner he did. I always loved him.”

Before she stepped down, Toby asked me, “Do you want to ask any questions?” The jury was staring at me. “No.” I said.

It was time for me to clear the air. Toby swore me in. I went along with it because none of this mattered. After preliminary information was put on the record, he said “Was it your late wife’s cooking that attracted you in the first place.”

I thought it an odd thing to ask but I was sworn to tell the truth, so I started saying, “No, that wasn’t it. She had the nicest ti—. Before I could finish, he yelled, “Objection! The proprieties will be observed at all times during this proceeding.”

“For Christ sake, Toby, you’re the one who asked.” I said.

Sustaining his own objection he then said, “One more outburst like that and I will hold you in contempt.” After his ruling, Toby said, “Let’s move on, shall we?”

I think the jury wanted a little more information on the above objectionable topic. That’s just my feeling, though. Toby continued his questioning.

“Mr. Ackerman, in your own words, please tell us your side of this matter.”

I began. “I am a simple man, not too ambitious. I am handy with tools and I can follow instructions and requests but…… this woman is unequaled in complaining and nattering about anything and everything. She never shuts the hell up. I couldn’t stand the sound of her voice then and can’t now. Five minutes of listening to her made nails on a chalkboard sound like a light summer rain with chirping birds. She could only make one type of food, beef and noodles. Her ‘honey do list’ was a mile long every day. No matter what you did she had some nitpicky thing you didn’t do right. Not only did she ‘rule the roost’, she’s a tease.”

Realizing my testimony was not all that helpful; I regained my composure and adjusted my tone. I pressed on.

“On the day in question, after our chat, I thought about what I hadn’t done right. Maybe I needed to try harder. It was close to dinner time so I picked some Oleanders from the garden and took them inside, a peace offering.” I said.

“What happened next?” he said.

“I noticed she had also picked some Oleanders. Bits and pieces of them sat on the counter next to the pot with the beef and noodles. It was like she was cooking them in the soup. I ask her if she was.”

Her response, “They add flavor to the soup.”

At that moment, I thought, “Yeah, but what kind of flavor?” I knew Oleanders are poisonous. When she attempted to bring the soup to the table I jumped up. “What are you trying to do?” I said.

“Just eat your soup, dear. You can fix everything after dinner.”

“If I eat that soup, there will be no ‘after dinner’.” I said.

Toby interrupted me and asked, “Why not just leave if you thought you were in danger?”

Now, I was in a predicament. If I stayed with the story ‘she fell and hit her head’ all my complaints and suspicions about the poison flowers meant nothing. If I admitted I hit her because I thought the soup was poisoned, I would get more questions, none of which I wanted to answer. I had two choices, neither good, but I had to pick one.

“Maybe she was startled or something when I jumped up but that’s when she fell and hit her head. That’s right, before I could get out the door, she slipped, fell and hit her head. It was an accident.” I said.

With furrowed brow, Toby looked me in the eye and said, “Nobody found any Oleanders in the mess of soup on the floor but a bloody poker was found buried under the wood pile. You’re the only one who could have put it there.”

I shifted gears, some might say I cracked. “OK, she was trying to kill me. I had to defend myself.”

Pausing for what seemed like an eternity, Toby said, “It can’t be both, son. Either, ‘she fell and hit her head’ or you hit her in ‘self-defense.’” I concluded my testimony with silence. No one sought to cross examine me. There seemed little need.

Overall, compared to my first trial, this one was most unsatisfactory. The first time, they had no witness, no poker and no motive because I didn’t testify. Now, they had Christy’s testimony, the poker and motive from my own words. It’s unfair. How could I be expected to beat a rap the second time when they had evidence like that? I wasn’t worried though; all this had to be a bad dream. I would wake up soon and be on my way.

It was getting close to dawn. Toby turned to the jury, “We’ve heard everything we need.”  He sent them out to deliberate. They were back in fifteen minutes, the verdict was read, their decision rendered.

When the sun rose the next morning, all was in its place at the cemetery, save for one new addition, a body swinging from the tree over Christy Ackerman’s grave. The townsfolk figured, ‘Ol’ Ace must’ve missed his wife so much he walked into Jenkins Thicket and hung himself in the cemetery.’ A day later, they buried my body in the plot next to Christy; figuring a man should be with his wife, forever. They meant well.

If you happen to be an individual who still has business with spirits of any kind and ever are walking through Jenkins Thicket after dark, as you approach the cemetery, you might hear a tremendous row coming from within. It could be the wind but, if you see two gauzy figures having it out over a pot of soup, keep walking.

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Edward N. McConnell is a happily retired trial lawyer, a former adjunct professor of trial advocacy and a former State Archivist of Iowa. He started writing flash fiction and short stories in 2020. He enjoys a good story with a twist and tries to write one every once in a while. His flash fiction and short stories have appeared in Literally Stories, Terror House Magazine, Refugeonlinejournal.org and, soon, in Rural Fiction Magazine, Drunk Monkeys, and Down in the Dirt. He lives in West Des Moines, Iowa with his wife.

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