The Musical Forest, located on the southern tip of Hot Springs, Arkansas, is host to a legend handed down from an ancient Indian tribe, which dwelled in this area some 300 years ago.
The eerie sound of Indian drums,’ or the haunting tones of flutes were said to drive those unlucky enough to camp overnight into seeing hallucinations of demons and ghosts.
Over the years, musical sounds have been reported by campers and local townspeople alike. Some claim to hear screams of wild creatures, while others reported ghosts and dark figures roaming in the woods.
Frank Turner, born and raised with the knowledge of the Musical Forest, was never concerned with the local folklore. He enjoyed the forest with his best friend, Harry Carmichael. From boyhood to senior citizen, the forest was a large part of their lives.
Frank, a happy, yet moody type, stood almost six feet tall and was bald, except for some gray tuffs of hair around his ears. He was lean except for a small pot-belly, not uncommon for a man of his advanced years. Playing pranks on anyone who was gullible enough to fall for them brought him great joy. But woe unto those individuals who dare challenge him, for he would dig in his heels and stand his ground like a true ancient warrior.
On his retirement, Frank was presented a German shepherd puppy. It was thought it would bring him enjoyment, and help pass the idle time. Instead it guided him in the direction of service, as he trained his new pet with instructional schools in search and rescue programs.
A fifteen year friendship of trust, dedication, and personal protection developed between the two. Frank at all times maintained complete control of his pet, or was it the other way round some might argue.
Frank’s wife, Virginia, had gray hair rolled up into an old traditional bun, similar to what her mother had sported throughout her later years. She was only five foot five, and had a few extra pounds, but she carried them well. Supporting Frank’s rescue efforts, although she wouldn’t be caught dead in the Musical Forest after dark.
The ranger forced his way deep into the forest. Climbing through dense honeysuckle, and unyielding briers, that ripped and scratched at his exposed bare skin.
It was easy to see how one could find their self lost in such a place. There were no trails or paths to guide one through these thick woods. Curtains of sticky spider webs clung to the ranger, and seemed to defy his many attempts to scrape them off. Mosquitoes buzzed and dive bombed him incessantly causing him to lose his concentration. Swatting with both hands and moving ever faster gave only short periods of respite from the imposing winged demons.
Hearing a strange sound, he suddenly stopped and turned in its direction. Without warning, he stumbled, lost his balance, falling feet first through thick ground cover into a deep crevice. Its narrowness held him in an upright position as he slid deeper into the earth. He fought against its rough edges until he wedged to a halt in the darkness. His legs were painfully twisted beneath him. Dirt, rocks and dust continued to fall as the fear of being buried alive now entered his thoughts. As momentary panic overcame him, he tried to shout, but his mouth quickly filled with dirt. Spitting and clawing wildly at the sides of the crevice, desperately seeking a handhold.
As the falling debris settled and stopped, and his panic attack subsided he became aware of a sharp pain in his right leg. Straining to see how far he had descended, his heart sank when he saw it was nearly twenty feet.
Rose, the housekeeper, shuffled across the porch. The flip-flop of her worn house slippers snapped his mind back to reality. The horror of that long ago event still haunted him.
Now retired, Ranger Larry Smith—Detective Donny Smiths grandfather—relaxed in his favorite rocker. He and his wife Marty built a humble cottage together some forty years ago. Marty’s sudden heart attack last year left her husband feeling his life had also ended.
Now he sat and reminisced how she loved the little cottage located near the Musical Forest. He once marveled at how Mother Nature brought forth the masculine aroma of the beautiful woods. Rocking quietly, he awaited the arrival of his grandson, who was dropping by to celebrate his seventy-first birthday.
Rose was a thin, small framed woman with a feisty temperament. She came out three times a week to clean and aggravate the retired ranger. Somewhere between the age of thirty and forty-five, according to who she’s telling, she had the heart of an angel, and the vocabulary of a lumberjack. The old ranger liked to tell everyone she could fight her way out of any tavern in the county.
Rose was also known for her occasional psychic predictions, making known future events and whatnot that uncannily came to pass more often than not.
Watching from the front window as the old Ford LTD turned onto the gravel drive, she went out on the porch to join the ranger, “Wake up lazy, your grandson is comin’ up the drive. I want to see a smile on your wrinkled old face, and no cussin’ nor arguing, is that clear?”
“Jesus H. Christ I’m not deaf. Stop bitchin’ at me, and I wasn’t asleep,” he snapped back.
Rose held the porch door open for him, and watched as he slowly moved from the rocking chair. “Hurry up, you’re letting flies in.” He went in the living room and sat on the couch.
Rose pulled the door open before Donny had a chance to knock. “Wipe your feet before you come in, I just vacuumed this old worn out carpet. Where did you get your driver’s license? You squealed in here on two wheels. Kids today shouldn’t be let out of the house without proper supervision,” she rambled on.
Entering, he ignored her as he greeted his grandfather, “Happy birthday gramps. Look what I got. Eric baked you a white cake with crème cheese icing, and I know it’s your favorite.” Handing the cake to Rose, he sat next to his grandfather on the couch.
Rose was aware that Eric was Donny’s male lover and companion. Out of respect for the old ranger she held her tongue. But deep down she knew in her heart the Bible was the word of God. A man who lay’s with another man is damned to hell for eternity.
She took the cake and flip-flopped into the kitchen. Soon returning with a tray filled with pieces of cake, and a small pot of coffee, “I’ll eat the cake, but I won’t wear a party hat.” She fussed.
“How’s things at the police department?” Grandpa Larry asked.
Rose took care of the dishes after they finished their cake and coffee.
Donny removed three old photographs from his shirt pocket. Handing them to his grandfather, “I found these pictures in the bottom of an old cardboard box. Who is the man with the German shepherd? What’s the story behind these pictures?”
He reached for his reading glasses,’ put them on, never bothering to clean the smudged lenses. Holding the yellowed and age wrinkled pictures at arm’s length, he carefully studied each one.
The first picture showed a man holding a puppy in his arms. The second showed him wearing blue jeans and a white tee shirt, standing by the steps of a ranger station fire tower, with a half-grown German shepherd. In the last picture, the shepherd was fully grown, and it had him by the leg dragging him across the yard.
“Gramps, I never saw a black shepherd that large, he’s huge. You know that guy?” Donny coaxed.
“I’ve told you about my forest adventures, haven’t I?” His grandfather said looking puzzled.
“I’m not sure who you told, but it wasn’t me, Gramps.” Donny figured if he could get him reminiscing about the past, he wouldn’t feel so sad and lonely on his birthday.
“Well then, lets’ go out on the porch and I’ll tell you about my friend and his dog,” he said as Donny followed him out. Seated in his rocker, the retired ranger began his trip down memory lane. Donny sat on the old porch swing.
Rose emerged from the house with a chair from the kitchen table and plopped herself down. The old ranger tossed her a long look.
“What? I can listen if I want too, just start talkin’ and there won’t be any trouble,” she said folding her arms over her chest.
It was the spring of 1951. Frank Turner and his wife, Virginia, always got up early for breakfast. They were relaxing, sipping coffee, when Frank noticed every light in the house next door were on. He watched from the kitchen window for a short while.
“This is strange; the Carmichaels never get up this early. I can’t stand the suspense, I’m goin’ over there.”
Virginia parted the curtain for a better view. “If something was wrong, I’m sure they’d phone us. Sit down, and drink your coffee, and behave yourself.”
Ignoring her he removed his hunting jacket from the hall closet, and reached to the top shelf for his flashlight.
The Turners lived next door to Harry and Ann Carmichael for nearly thirty years. Frank Turner had followed in his father’s footsteps, and entered the plumbing business and the two worked alongside each other. After his father’s passing, he continued to make service runs, while his wife efficiently ran the office.
Harry Carmichael, was a husky likeable fellow, always in a cheerful mood, and enjoyed a joke as well as anyone. He was chatty, which was an asset in his career as a salesman. During his lifetime he sold everything from; real estate, automobiles, farm equipment, furniture, and even false teeth for a short time.
Ann, his lovely wife, had been an elementary school teacher, and she also enjoyed sewing and gossiping. She was heavy set and of a sunny disposition. The Carmichaels retired around the same time as the Turners.
Frank slipped his jacket on, and quietly opened the back door. Stepping outside into the early morning darkness, he turned his flashlight on. Crossing the back yard to his neighbor’s house, he stopped by their back door and listened. Virginia watched him from the kitchen window as he finally knocked on the door. When no answer came, he realized something was wrong and opened the unlocked door and proceeded inside.
Straining, he tried to hear any sounds coming from inside the house. Suddenly, he heard footsteps pounding from the bathroom, heading in his direction. Frank steeled himself for whatever encounter might face him.
Harry bolted from the bathroom at full speed. He was carrying an arm full of towels, and a sloshing pan of hot water. “Follow me to the basement, we have an emergency!” Yelling as he raced by.
Frank stumbled as he hurried down the stairs, but quickly regained his balance as he charged down to help deal with whatever the emergency might be. There before him he found Ann on the basement floor surrounded by five squirming newborn puppies.
“Everything is under control. Queenie and her pups are all right. I have all the towels and hot water I need,” she said taking one of the towels to wipe the sweat from her face.
Frank sat on the stairs, and held his chest. “I thought I was havin’ a heart attack comin’ down the stairs. I’m glad everything is okay.”
Donny listened intently as his grandfather continued the story. Rose, too, was all ears.
Queenie, a registered shepherd, had won search and rescue awards from all over the state. Two years earlier, her right foreleg was injured when she inadvertently stepped into a steel trap while on a training exercise. Harry retired her from service when her leg didn’t heal correctly.
As Queenie nursed her pups, Ann stood up and let the towel fall to the floor. “Come on boys, lets’ go upstairs, and have some coffee to celebrate.”
“What about the dirty towels?” Harry asked pointing at the bloody mess piled on the floor.
“Forget the towels, I’ll clean up later,” she said starting up the steps.
The men followed her up to the kitchen. Harry pulled a chair from the table and sat down. He sighed deeply, “I’m glad that’s over. Running up and down those stairs is exhausting. Next time Queenie has pups, let her have them in the living room,” he laughed.
“Put your mind to rest about the next time. The vet said this would be her last litter. She’s old, and her health isn’t as good as it used to be,” Ann said as she washed her hands and started the coffee.
Harry pulled his pant’s leg’s up, and began to massage his tight calves. Without looking up he spoke, “Frank, you’ll have the first choice. You get the pick of the litter.”
Frank sat across from Harry at the table, “That’s an easy choice. I’d love the little solid black one. But you really should let me pay for him?”
Ann spoke as she placed cups on the table, “That’s not necessary, you’ve been a good neighbor, and with your retirement coming in a few months the puppy will be ready to leave Queenie. By then, you’ll be ready to take on the pups training and the like.”
“You’ll have no trouble with training. Contact those fellows I told you about, and enroll him in their training school. They’ll do the rest,” Harry assured him as he rolled his pant’s leg’s down.
Frank finished his coffee before excusing himself. He returned home to tell Virginia all about what had taken place at the Carmichaels.