Moonshine & Magic: A Beauregard the Monster Hunter Collection by John G. Hartness

Author:John G. Hartness [Hartness, John G.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Falstaff Media
Published: 2015-12-10T05:00:00+00:00

A Haint in the Holler

A Beauregard the Monster Hunter Short Story

By John G. Hartness

“Dammit, Tavvy, I ain’t got not interest in pokin’ around down in that mine!” I even stood up to say, so she’d know I was serious. I mighta lurched a little, which probably didn’t do any help to my seriousness, but I needed another drink anyhow, so I stomped off the porch and around to the back of the house.

Tavvy followed close behind, chirping all the way. “But Beauregard, the miners are terrified! They can’t go down there without somebody telling them that it’s safe. And who better to do that than the Hero of the Hollow?”

I turned to where Tavvy stood with her arms crossed. She was dressed like she was going down in a mine, her normal skirts traded in for a pair of brown canvas pants tucked into what must have been a pair of Daddy’s old work boots, to be as beat up as they were. I wondered how many pairs of socks she had on to make ‘em fit. Her hair was braided in a thick brown rope that hung halfway down her back, and she had some kinda helmet in one hand with what looked like a shiny dinner plate to the front of it and a big loop on the back where it looked like some kind of bottle was supposed to go. I stared at it for a second and then decided that as long as she didn’t try to make me wear it, especially somewhere that people might see me, I wasn’t going to ask. Half the times the gadgets didn’t work, and the other half the explanations didn’t make no sense anyhow.

“I might be the Hero of the Holler, but I won’t get to enjoy my Hero-ness if I end up dead at the bottom of a mine shaft. And in case you ain’t noticed, Tavvy, I ain’t exatly of a size to be running around in tunnels with a couple of million tons of mountain on top of my head!”

“Are you scared, Bubba?” She used that same sing-sony little voice that she used to use when we were little kids. The one that always got me to do something stupid. I swore to myself that it wasn’t going to work this time.

“No, I ain’t scared!” I reached the edge of the creek behind the house and reache down for the piece of twine that I had tied off to the base of a little loblolly pine tree. I pulled on the twine and a crate came dragging along the rocks in the creek until it rested against the weeds on the bank. I reached down into the crate, brushed a couple of crawdaddies out of the way, and pulled a mason jar out. I shook the jar a little to get the water off it, then shoved the crate back into the creek as far as I could reach without stepping in the water. Even in July, that creek runs ice-cold all the way off the top of the mountain where my cabin sits.

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