A Piedmont Porchlight Story
There are two kinds of people who work nights. Folks who enjoy the quiet… and folks who simply drew the short straw. Clifford Monk belonged to the second group.
He’d worked evenings at Magnolia Mortuary for longer than anybody could remember. He wasn’t an undertaker. Wasn’t an embalmer. Mostly he answered the telephone, greeted late-arriving families, kept fresh coffee on, and made certain everything stayed exactly as it ought to be.
If you’ve ever been inside Magnolia Mortuary after dark, you’ll know it ain’t the least bit frightening. Matter of fact, it’s one of the calmest places in Piedmont. The grandfather clock in the foyer ticks like it’s got nowhere else to be. The furniture always shines. Fresh flowers sit in the front parlor. Even the lamps seem polite.
Death visits there from time to time… but disorder never does.
One chilly October night, Clifford found himself behind the front desk, halfway through what had become his fortyleventh attempt to finish an article in the latest issue of Casket & Sunnyside.
The headline read:
“Are Decorative Urns Making a Comeback?”
He still hadn’t reached the second page. Truth be told, it wasn’t the magazine’s fault. Every time business slowed down enough for him to read… something interrupted him. Usually the telephone. Sometimes a family.
Once, a stray beagle wandered through the front door and refused to leave until somebody fed him a ham sandwich. Clifford figured that was about as unusual as life ever got.
Then came the knocking.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just three steady knocks on the front door. Clifford sighed, folded the magazine shut, and looked toward the foyer.
“Probably ain’t a flower delivery at this time of night,” he muttered.
He straightened his tie out of habit, walked across the polished floor, and opened the front door. Cool October air drifted inside. The porch stood empty. No delivery truck. No car. No people. Just leaves skittering across Magnolia Street.
He stepped outside and looked both ways. Nothing.
“Hmph.”
Back inside. Coffee. Magazine. He’d just found his place again when…
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
This time he frowned.
“If that’s teenagers…” he mumbled, “…I’m too old to chase ’em.”
He opened the door quicker than before.
Again… Nobody.
The porch lights glowed across the white columns. The magnolia leaves shimmered in the breeze. Not a soul. He walked as far as the sidewalk. Still nothing. Back inside.
He marked his place with the obituary section. Poured fresh coffee. Sat down.
Read exactly two paragraphs.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Now, Clifford Monk was not the sort of fellow who frightened easily. He’d spent more nights in a mortuary than most people spent in their own living rooms. He’d seen grief. He’d seen joy. He’d seen families reunited after years apart. The dead never bothered him.
The living occasionally did.
He set the magazine down very carefully. Adjusted his glasses. Walked to the front door one last time. Opened it. Nobody.
No footsteps.
No laughter.
No running away.
Only silence.
As he stood there wondering whether he’d imagined the whole thing… his eyes drifted toward the hitching post beside the front walk. Leaning against it… was a blackthorn walking stick. Dark as fresh rain. Amber handle shining beneath the porch light.
“The Irish Blackthorn,” Clifford whispered before he could stop himself.
He knew whose stick it was. Everybody in town did. “Well now…” He started toward it. A pickup truck rolled past on Magnolia Street. Its headlights swept across the yard. For just a second, the light caught the stick. Then the truck continued on.
The shadows settled back into place. The hitching post stood alone. No walking stick. Clifford stared another moment. Finally, he chuckled to himself. “Well…” he said aloud,
“If whoever owns that thing comes back, I’ll put it in Lost and Found.” He locked the front door. Finished his coffee. Never did finish the article.
I heard that story years later while buying light bulbs over at Blackwelder’s. When I asked Mr. Blackwelder whether he believed Clifford… he finished wrapping my package before answering.
“Clifford never embroidered nothin’.”
He handed me the sack.
“But then…” He smiled that little hardware-store smile. “Truth don’t always need explainin’. Sometimes it just needs rememberin’.”
I carried my light bulbs home. Never broke a one. Though I couldn’t help noticing…
The Irish Blackthorn was leaning beside my own porch chair when I got there.
I don’t rightly remember taking it with me.
⁂
Have You Seen The Irish Blackthorn?
Clifford always insisted he saw The Irish Blackthorn only once at Magnolia Mortuary. Other folks claim they saw it there more than once. Clifford never argued with them. He simply said, “I only tell the stories I know.”
