THE ALL-FIRED AXIS OF WEEVIL SCARY STORY BLOGBURST OF 2002

Well now, since I have used an entire 4/5 of a workweek building it up, here is a story my dad told me that never fails to give me a weird skincrawl.

As I have for the past few days, I will preface this by saying my family has never been superstitious, and whenever I was little and my sister would torment me with scary stories, my mom’s usual reaction was to simply say “Aw, pshh.” Nothing more—she’d just turn back to whatever it was she was working on. As if ghostes and boogermen really weren’t real! Imagine!

My dad was the same way, and even more so, for as my mom had some sense about her to not do things which were deliberately dangerous, not only was my dad completely devoid of fear of the otherworldly, neither did he have much hesitation about trying any danged-fool stunt that came along. He was a practical joker, and bullshitter extraordinaire. He took great pride in preying on the skittish, the unsuspecting and the superstitious. Luckily, no one ever got mad (much), because he was such a good sport about it.

In any event, to him ghosts and witches and devils and stuff were just tools to tease silly women and the weak-minded. He grew up in a harder time—when storebought shoes came once a year, when a trip to the woodshed meant something, when boys played football wearing open faced leather helmets. His growing up world was one populated by rough men, miners and railroad bulls and hoboes and moonshiners and Kluxers. He wandered through the jungles of New Guinea while still a kid, and came home to work in the steel mills of Jones Valley. He didn't need superstitions--he had already seen some of the worst of reality.

He started out his adult work life at U.S. Pipe as an ingot mold stripper, or ‘ignorant mold stripper,’ as he liked to say, and decided there had to be something better than the heat and backbreaking toil, so he took some classes and learned welding, and finally was able to swing a job with U.S. Steel, working maintenance of way.

“Maintenance of way” is mill-speak for fixing the miles of railroad tracks which laced Birmingham’s industrial west bringing in coal and ore and limestone and sending out millions of tons of steel and iron. Although similarly laborious, and occasionally dangerous (his motorcar was nearly hit by trains several times) it did give him some freedom, and he loved being able to set his own work schedule and be outside and riding around the tracks. This also allowed him to make maximum use of his natural garrulousness, and he knew folks all over Fairfield and Ensley. Again, these men were rough-and-tumble iron and steelworkers, proud, profane men who had fought Germans, and Japanese, and Italians, and Red Chinese; who had fought for their union, when fighting might actually mean bloodshed and death; and who would fight each other just for fun. But, as I said, my dad’s tools were a quick wit and a mischievous streak—he never went in for the drinking and fighting stuff, thankfully, but still he was a fearless man.

As the years wore on, the old Ensley works, which was built by Tennessee Coal and Iron in 1899 before it became a part of U.S. Steel in 1907, began to dwindle in importance, its old blast furnaces and Bessemer converters giving way to more productive technologies, and finally a decision was made to shutter it in the early 1970s.

It was one of the typical steel mills of the turn of the century, with rows of old brick buildings and sheds— here is a postcard of it from probably the early 1900s from a collection at the University of Alabama, and here are a couple from a postcard seller on E-bay--one shot… and then another. (It was reopened briefly in the mid-'70s, then almost as quickly shut down again, this time for good. It was eventually demolished between 1982-1985.)

During the first shut down, maintenance crews still performed routine repairs and checked security, which brings us the real story.

I don't really remember when my dad told me this story—since it was during that first shut down, I suppose I was probably about 13 or 14. I distinctly remember my mom being in the den when he was telling this, but I called her today and she doesn't remember a thing about it. Typical. To her it was probably just a bunch of forgettable BS as with most of the stuff my dad came up with.

However, I remember it mainly because it seemed the precise OPPOSITE of the corny hoo-haa he would make up—I knew the men he told me about actually were men he knew, and he never let on that this was a joke. His normal thing was to lead you on then drop the act and have a good laugh. Same thing with the guys from work—after the joke was told, you would start guffawing at reeling in a big suckerfish. This was different, though.

As far as I know, my dad was the only person that was told about this, and I think mainly because the man who told him was afraid of being teased and mocked for it. Which makes me wonder why he would tell my dad, given his penchant for doing that very thing, other than the fact that the fellow figured he could trust my dad. I only recall him telling the story once, and even with all the websites for Alabama ghost stories, this one is not listed anywhere.

I am not going to use the real names my dad's friends. I don't know if they are still alive, and if I have incorrectly remembered this story, I don't want them to have to put up with any mess should this ever find its way back to them. (I really doubt it would, but I'd rather just be safe). And again, maybe this was just some crap they made up. I don't know.

Anyway, enough build-up—the story starts back in 1971 or so right before the shutdown, when one of the old timers at the plant passed away. His name was Asa Reed, and had worked at Ensley since before the Depression, working at the rail mill, the rail car shop, and in later years in one of the small tool storage buildings. He was a big and friendly man, and knew all the ins and outs of the mill and everyone there and truly enjoyed going to work—he was one of the few who actually didn't mind working second shift. He passed peacefully at his home. My dad knew him to look at him, but as they were in different departments they never were really acquaintances.

Two of my dad's friends who were assigned to plant maintenance did know him, however—one was a machinist named Mince Hicks, and the other was a journeyman mechanic named David Gray. After the shutdown they were kept on with a few other men just to keep things from falling apart.

As my dad told the story, he said Gray (he always called everyone by their last name) came by one afternoon before my dad's quitting time to drink coffee. Gray mentioned that he and Hicks had a peculiar thing happen. My dad said Gray kind of laughed it off, but that you could tell it still bothered him. He related that Gray told him that he and Hicks were having to work second shift at the old plant. Since it was late, there was nothing to do but sit around, except for the occasional request from the Fairfield Works (the other, more modern mill which sits a few miles to the west which is still in operation today) to send something over by courier or for a spare repairman when something broke.

He said Gray told him that they got a call one evening earlier in the month to send over some sort of tool or part or something, and that he and Hicks walked over to the tool building to get the item. They unlocked the door, locked it behind them when they came in, and turned on one dim row of lights over on one side of the shop up above a storage mezzanine. They walked over to the staircase to go up and Hicks stopped him. "Look there." At the top of the landing was a big man, arms hanging at his sides, dressed in a ratty old thermal jacket, bib overalls and workshirt, and an old welder's cap pulled down over his eyes. Neither man moved—Gray said, "Hey there—what're you doing in here!?" The man on the landing didn't move or speak.

Gray told my dad both him and Hicks were standing there when Hicks suddenly called out, "Asa?" The man slowly turned to his left and walked on down between the rows of tall shelves full of boxes. Reed told my dad that he and Hicks just looked at each other, then shouted "Hey!" back up the steps. Again, no answer, so they decided to go on up and find out who this was. They reached the top of the stairs and switched on the rest of the lamps over the mezzanine. No one was there. Just shelves and boxes. They had just come up the only set of steps, and had seen no one leave, or heard anyone make any noise. It was just empty. On the old wooden shop desk in the corner of the mezzanine sat the part they had come for. They grabbed it up and quickly went back downstairs, once more having to unlock the shop door to get out.

Gray told my dad that he and Hicks didn't say anything else about what had happened the rest of the night. Gray said, "You know, I don’t no more believe that kind of s**t than anything under the sun, but that sure was a peculiar thing to have happen."

My dad allowed that indeed it was.
posted by Terry at 11:26:00 AM