** It’s been awhile since I posted this series, I know many if you have asked me about it. I’ve been busy, I’ll try and keep it more regular, thanks ! **

There were certain areas in our county that always gave me the heebie-jeebies. Even though I had several guns at my disposal, just having to go to these areas always increased my pucker factor tenfold.

One of these areas was known as “Henleyfield”. Now, not all of that area was heeb inducing, just a few spots. And only at night. During the day I was fine, but throw me out there around 2am and I was checking the back seat for haint’s about every 5 seconds. If you don’t know what a haint is, click here …….

So anyway, one night I got a call out to Henleyfield to check on a loud music complaint. Luckily, I had my friend and reserve officer Beau riding with me, and being the manly man he was is I was only had half the heebs I usually did. Right then.

Normally loud music complaints are routine, teenagers or drunken adults jamming out to the music of the moment or someone wanting to show off their ride. Normally. But as I learned early on in my law enforcement career, nothing in Pearl River County is normal !

We got close to the location of the call and pulled off to the side of the road with the windows down to listen out for the alleged noise. Immediately we could hear music coming out of the woods and see lights through the trees from the house. We slowly crept along the road and then up the long dirt drive that led to the house. Upon entering the clearing where it was, it looked like something put of a scene from a weird movie. Old cars, junk and even a school bus littered the yard, and every light in the house was on and the yard was lit up with floodlights. And there was music. Loud, haunting music.

Courtesy of Miss Patsy Cline.

Good thing I peed before we left town.

Beau and I walked all over that yard, through the fully lit, every door and window open shack house, cleared each bus, van, and ramshackle car on blocks, and never found anyone. Not even Miss Cline. Only her incarnation, recorded forever on a cassette tape blaring out of the rotting husk of a Chevy Cavalier. We silenced Patsy, tried to secure the house and got the hell out of there. I never did find out where the owner was, and I never got called back to find him rotting away in the woods, so I guess he’s still there.

Crazy.