“From ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggedye beastyes

and things that go”bump” in the night.

”Good Lord deliver us.”

17^th Century Anglican Book of Common Prayer

This is a ghost story.  What makes it unique is that the man who told it actually lived it.  I have known this man for a long time and his honesty is beyond doubt. He doesn’t drink, smoke grass, or tell lies  You may not believe in ghosts, and that is your prerogative; but what happened to my friend during a terrifying six hour period one summer night some 50 years ago was as far as he is concerned, real.  Knowing him as I do, I concur. The names in this story are changed because my friend, now in his early 70’s, isn’t sure he wants to be known as the man who sees ghosts. As you will see, “experienced” is perhaps a better word.

Thompson Quetone, “T.Q” or “Teek” to his friends in Albuquerque, New Mexico, is a full blood Kiowa Indian.  He says he’s been an American Indian too long to ever become a “Native American”, and besides, he thinks that anyone born in the U.S. qualifies as “Native American”.  Teek hails from Southwestern Oklahoma where the Government in 1868 settled the Kiowas. Like many of his fellow tribesmen, he has an excellent singing voice.

So it is no surprise that in early summer of 1960, Teek’s friends back in Oklahoma asked if he would be the lead singer for group of dancers, they intended to sponsor at the annual Fourth of July Pow-Wow in Flagstaff, Arizona.  He agreed, thinking it would be great time to see old friends and sing the old Pow Pow songs, not to mention a chance to pick some extra cash that he badly needed.  Teek and his wife Claire had a four-month-old boy, and while Teek found being father was a delightful experience, his machinist’s paycheck just never seemed quite enough to cover all the bills.

The long weekend had gone well, and the time spent with old friends and relatives seemed cruelly short.  As a result, Teek was late starting his 6-hour trip back to Albuquerque.  In fact, it wasn’t until after 10 PM that he finally started up his old 1950 Chevy and headed east on Santa Fe Avenue that became eastbound Route 66 at the Flagstaff City limits.  It had rained late that afternoon, leaving the thin mountain air chilled and damp.  Teek closed his windows, zipped up his light jacket, and settled in for a long drive back to Albuquerque.

When he reached the outskirts of Flagstaff, he noticed as sign that said, “Winona 8 miles”.  Immediately, the Nat “King” Cole recording of “Get Your Kicks on Route 66” came to mind, especially the phrase, “..Kingman, Arizona.  Don’t Forget Winona”, and he began to chuckle.  His wife had a cousin named “Winona”, and he was certain that no one ever forgot her.  Some liked her, and some didn’t; but you never forgot her.

East bound Route 66 loses elevation quickly as it descends eastward from Flagstaff.  Within 20 miles, you drop more than 1000 feet, and the air that was cool and fragrant becomes hot, dry, and smells of the desert.  Teek lowered his window, opened the dashboard vent, and realized he would have to shed his jacket at the next stop.  As the warm draft circulated through the car, he became more and more annoyed at what sounded like paper rustling on the floor of the back seat.  “Damn it”, he muttered. “I guess I didn’t get all of those hamburger wrappers picked up.”  He been sleeping in his car for the past three days, and wasn’t too surprised that a few scraps of paper may have slipped by him.  The next town, Winslow, was less than 10 miles away by this time, so Teek decided to stop there and finish the job with an old whiskbroom that he kept under his seat.

In Winslow, east bound 66 becomes Second Street East, and he found very few streetlights.  He parked beneath one, and started sweeping out his back seat.  Oddly, there were only a couple of wrinkled napkins on the floor, and nothing in the seat itself. The night was getting away from him, he thought, and he still had a long way to go.  He shrugged, slipped off the light jacket, and slid behind the wheel.

Back on the open highway, he noted that Holbrook was a short 30 miles away.  After that, he knew there would be only scattered traffic and some roadside trading posts shuttered for the night.  Across the state line, seventy miles further on, the booming city of Gallup, New Mexico would make an ideal place for a rest stop and maybe a cup of coffee. For a time, the back seat was quiet; and Teek was relieved that the noise had stopped.  By the time Holbrook came and went, he had all but forgotten the back seat, but as the lights of Holbrook disappeared in his rear view mirror, the noise started again.

“Oh, great!” Teek said aloud, “I must have picked up a ground squirrel or a chipmunk, and damned if Claire didn’t borrow the flashlight and then forget to replace it”.  In an instant, he realized that the sounds were much too loud to have been made by any small animal.  Teek’s heart skipped a beat.  He realized the sounds he was hearing were not rustling papers but hushed voices, speaking in a language he didn’t understand. The skin on his back began to crawl as he identified the soft rasp of soft denim clothing sliding across old upholstery. “This is crazy!” he muttered to himself. “There’s no one back there…I ate too much fry bread and honey and got too little sleep; nothing more”.  As if in agreement, the rustling sound died away, leaving only the sound of the summer desert air flowing through the old Bel Air.

Darkened houses and filling stations closed for the night flickered by as he passed Sanders and Leupp. Suddenly, his neck and shoulders tensed and a cold tingle crept up his neck as he heard the springs in the seat creak as if a body were moving forward to the front edge of the seat.  Reflexively he twisted hard to his right, trying to catch a quick look at what lurked behind him.  He was able to gain no more than a split-second glimpse of a young girl moving quickly out of his line of sight.  The move caused him to pull the steering wheel to the left and swerve into the oncoming lane.  Fortunately, there was no westbound traffic within a quarter of a mile at that moment.  He regained control of his fishtailing car, and shuddered as he realized how easily he could have suffered a head on collision. 

Teek was completely mystified and on the edge of panic. Gallup was coming up quickly, but he knew that had neither the time nor the money to get a room and then continue the trip in daylight.  He absolutely had to be at work by 8:00AM or risk being fired.  Side roads or a shoulder wide enough for parking were nonexistent for many miles, and anyway, sitting in a parked car all night with whatever was back there was unthinkable.  Teek had no choice but to continue and he couldn’t risk stealing another glance behind him.  The drive on to Gallup was pure torture, with the second of the beings in the back seat, a teenage boy by the sound of his voice, joining in taunting and laughter.  As he crossed the state line into New Mexico, Teek regained his voice and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Who are you, and what do you want of me?  I’ve done you no harm!  Why are you bothering me?” For the briefest moment, there was silence.  Then the sound of muffled laughter resumed, followed by more whispering.

The highway topped a long hill, and the outskirts of Gallup appeared, Teek knew needed to stop and get his senses back together.  He longed for the sound and sight of other human beings; but most of all, he desperately needed to get away from the malignant presence in the back seat.  He pulled off at the first truck stop he came to, parked under the brightest light he could find, and sat motionless.  There was no noise from the back seat!  Maybe the bright lights chased them away!  A few minutes later, when he began to trust his wobbly knees, he got out of the car and walked into the diner.

The bright lights of the diner hurt his eyes as he sat down at the counter.  “What’ll you have, Chief?” asked the thin, sharp-faced waitress.  Teek didn’t like being called “Chief:”, but he only answered, “Coffee, black”.  It came immediately, scalding hot and strong enough to walk, but it was what he needed.  After finishing his coffee, he washed his face with cold water in the Men’s room and prepared to resume his ordeal.  “This can’t last much longer.  I’m not that far from home”.  He wasn’t sure he believed that, but he felt better and started the car.

Teek gripped the steering wheel and waited.  For several minutes, there was silence, and he was starting to believe that he might have shed himself of his uninvited guests.  However, as soon as the lights of Gallup faded into the night, the rustling began again, softly at first, and then increasing in intensity.  By the time he reached the Continental Divide, things were as before; and Teek felt the cold fingers of fear around his throat.  He passed through Grants, only sixty miles from home, and noticed a pale band along the eastern horizon.  The relief he felt was countered by the worry that 8:00 AM would arrive too soon.  He clenched his teeth and continued.

As he neared the tangled of heat-seared lava the Spanish called Los Malpais, The Badlands, the night grew steadily lighter.  As if his tormentors sensed that night was nearly over, there was a final, almost overwhelming wave of incomprehensible shrieks and strange words, screamed instead of spoken.

As the sun itself appeared on the horizon, a wide turnout became visible, leading to a small playa, surrounded by tumbled blocks of lava on all sides. Teek steered off the pavement, turned off the ignition, set his emergency brake, and jumped out of the car.  There was a faint whimpering, then silence.  The air was cold enough to make his lungs ache as took a deep breath outside the car.  He shivered in the early morning breeze, but it felt good.

As the sun cleared the eastern horizon, Teek turned towards the car and said, “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know where you came from.  But I do know that you are creatures of the night, and that’s where you belong.  The sun is coming up, and you don’t belong here anymore.  You must go back where you came from”.  Somehow, he knew they were gone, and after a long moment, he reentered the car, started the engine, and drove away.

Teek clocked in at his job at 8:02.  He was bone tired, smelled gamey, and his whole body ached; but he was back in world of men and their machines.  He immersed himself in his work, thankful for the precision it demanded.  He went home that night and went to bed immediately after supper, and slept soundly the entire night.

In the morning, and for the next several days, Teek felt a growing anxiety and wondered about his own sanity.  Sane people, he believed, didn’t see ghosts.  Was he going insane?  A short time later, he had a chance to sit down in private with his friend, Hollis Overton.  Hollis was from Oklahoma also, but came from a different tribe.  He was also older than Teek, and made his home in Albuquerque after retiring from the Air Force.  After Teek had shared his story with Hollis, he asked him if he could be losing his mind.  Hollis looked thoughtful for a moment and then replied, “No, Teek, you’re not going crazy.  I saw plenty of guys who did when I was in the service, so believe me.  You’re not crazy.  But this is what I think happened:  You were raised by your grandparents, and that’s something you can be grateful for.  You are fluent in Kiowa, know hundreds of songs, and you learn new ones easier than anyone I’ve ever known.  But when your grandparents became Christians, they didn’t quit being Indians.  The also raised you on Indian legends that make the supernatural appear commonplace.  If you had been raised to believe in “little green men”, you’d have seen “little green men” that night.  You’re not crazy.  Your upbringing and some fatigue just set you up for a terrifying experience.  But it wasn’t real, so let it pass.”  Teek wasn’t entirely satisfied with that explanation, but he left the meeting feeling much better.  At least Hollis took his story seriously and tried to help.

Several days later, Teek shared a table in the lunchroom with Gabe, another machinist, who came from one of the Laguna villages that are scattered along Route 66 some 50 miles west of Albuquerque.  He hesitated to tell the story again, but he hoped that Gabe could shed some light on what happened that night.  Gabe’s face was relaxed and amiable as Teek began his story, but by the time, he finished, Gabe was looking him directly in the eye with a grim look on his face.  After a long silence, Gabe began talking:  “You know that back during World War Two, Flagstaff quit having its Fourth of July celebration because no one could get the gasoline to make the trip.  It wasn’t until 1947 that they could get it going again.  “After a lot of talk”, he hesitated, “the Lagunas decided to send some dancers over.  You know, the Butterfly, Eagle, and Buffalo dances are real crowd pleasers.  We didn’t own any buses at that time, so we all went over there in cars, pickups, and a pre-war Dodge two-and-a-half ton truck.  We loaded the bed of that truck with the bags holding our Indian outfits, blankets, and street clothes we were going to need, and put the six kids that were with us on top of the bedding we were to sleep under when we camped in those pine trees.  We started off feelin’ good and everybody was looking forward to having a great time after missing the event for three years.  But things went wrong before we even got there.   For reasons we’ll never know, the driver lost control of the truck a few miles west of Winslow.  The truck rolled over, killing the driver and two of the kids that had been riding in back, a boy 15 and a girl 13.”  Gabe paused for several seconds, shook his head, then continued, “Those kids have been trying to get home ever since”.

Teek felt the anxiety drain from his mind as his fears turned to sympathy.  Finally, he looked up at Gabe and said, “Those poor kids.  I hope they make it someday.”

Golden, Colorado

2009