Kentucky Hauntings(27)

The dove was one bird they did not shoot. Many believed it to be a sacred bird. Children were told the story of the dove bringing an olive branch to Noah on the ark to show that the danger from the flood was gone. The dove became a Christian symbol of the Holy Spirit and the international sign for peace. Some Native Americans believed it was bad luck to kill a dove because it was believed to contain the soul of a lover. Some people also believed that the dove was sacred because it was the one bird into which witches and even the Devil could not transform.

Twelve-year-old Eugene Long had heard these beliefs for as long as he could remember. He had just received a twenty-two rifle for his birthday, so he was not surprised when his mom and dad reminded him of all these things. They stressed that he must never kill a mockingbird, a dove, or a songbird of any kind. Eugene assured them that he would not do that, so they allowed him to go out alone with his new rifle.

It was late afternoon the day before Thanksgiving, and it was Eugene's plan to kill a turkey all by himself for Thanksgiving dinner. Yesterday, he and his dad had spotted some turkeys down by the creek in the edge of the woods in back of the field behind the barn. Eugene was very excited as he walked past the barn and his mother's chicken coops.

He could hardly wait to surprise his whole family by bringing home a turkey all by himself. The idea made him feel very grown up and important.

He approached the creek and wooded area very quietly. His eyes searched along the creek bank as he waited for the turkeys to appear. The minutes crawled by without any sign of the turkeys, but Eugene was patient. The sun dropped out of sight behind a dark bank of clouds in the west, and a cold wind picked up and made Eugene shiver. The clouds moved closer as he waited, and the air felt damp.

“It feels like snow!” Eugene said to himself.

The shadows deepened and began to close in, and Eugene had to admit that no turkeys were going to show up today at this location. He thought maybe he could go out again early Thanksgiving morning and try again. Disappointed, he started through the field toward the barn. With his hunt over for the day, he was now looking forward to the warm house and the delicious dinner his mother would soon have ready.

As he walked along, Eugene saw a bird land on top of the barn. It had appeared in a flash and he couldn't see it clearly, but the sound of startled chickens in the coops convinced him it was a hawk. His instinct was to protect his mother's chickens, so he stopped and took action without thinking. He placed the barrel of the rifle on the fence post to steady it, took quick aim, and pulled the trigger. His aim was perfect. The bird toppled from its perch and slid down the roof of the barn to the ground. Excited by the thought that he had killed a hawk, he ran to the bird and stopped abruptly when he saw his mistake. It wasn't a hawk at all. It was a dove, bleeding and dead, on the ground before him.

Eugene was stunned. How could this have happened? He had never meant to shoot a dove! He should have taken a closer look before shooting, but he was so thrilled at the chance to use his new rifle that he had neglected to do so. What was done was done, though. He couldn't change it. He knew he would be in trouble with his parents, but it was better to take the dove to the house and tell them what he had done than to leave it here and let them discover it. He picked the dove up and saw drops of its blood where it had landed on the ground. Guilt-stricken, he carried the bird home and showed his parents.

Their reaction was not as bad as he expected. Of course, they were unhappy about what he had done, but they could see that Eugene was truly sorry. They helped him bury the dove and then said no more about it.

Eugene had trouble sleeping that night. The clouds had moved in, and the wind howled and whistled and kept him awake until almost dawn. When he woke the next morning, there were three inches of freshly fallen snow on the ground.

While his mom cooked breakfast, Eugene went to the barn with his father to feed and milk the cows. As they approached, they noticed something unusual in the snow. They walked closer to examine it. There in the deep snow was a circle about the size of a large lard can lid. The ground inside the circle was in plain view. Not one flake of that three-inch snow was inside that circle.

“Dad,” Eugene said in a hushed voice, “that is the spot where the dove fell after I shot it.”

It was a long time before Eugene took his rifle out again, and he always made sure he knew his target before he fired.

Eugene had good reason to think of the dove during the rest of his years on the farm. When the winter snows came, the circle where the dove fell remained completely clear. When the green grass of spring and summer grew, it surrounded the circle of brown earth, but nothing ever grew in that circle.