Trevor Holliday

Ferguson's Trip Trevor Holliday

HOCKEY, BIG RIGS, BANK ROBBERY Deep in the woods, Thane Ferguson, closed the front door of the lodge, shaking the latch one more time to make sure it was locked. It was late afternoon. The sun was setting and the temperature would drop before he reached town. Tonight he would play in the last hockey game of the season and maybe the last game of his career. Probably the last game of his career. His team wasn't even close to contention for a playoff spot in the Northern Maine/New Brunswick Industrial Border League. The lock on the front door was secure. You would need a battering ram to get through the door of the old log camp, but Ferguson was a creature of habit. Even in the middle of the woods, he locked the doors. In the morning Ferguson would say his goodbyes from the Black Hawk Diner. From the diner, Ferguson would head southwest on 95. His destination was the bottom of the Grand Canyon, twenty nine hundred miles away. Just getting out of the lodge in the morning would present a challenge with the expected storm. The Bide-a-Wee was located a few miles south of Houlton, in the Haynesville Woods. Almost anyone from the county could give one account or another of ghostly occurrences which had taken place in the Haynesville Woods. Ferguson knew all the stories. No haunts. No phantom truckers. No spectral hitchhikers. Ferguson had never experienced anything eerie at the Bide-a-Wee. The lodge gave him a feeling of home. People always tell stories about remote places like the Haynesville Woods. Ferguson knew worse things could happen in real life.