Old Man Magic: Mind Over Manor

Nick Wolf • August 9, 2024

Deckbuilding
Halfdane by Melissa A. Benson

Hail from Marietta, the Ever-Changing James

So the mark of success is how many exterior doors you have. I have many doors. My house has three doors. My cabin has two doors. That's five doors.

I fear no storm, blaze, or marauder. I always have an exit strategy. But there's something about today that feels very threatening to me.

I enjoy success because of my doors, or I enjoy my doors because of my success. But there's always going to be someone more successful than you, and to compare your number of doors to your neighbor only works when you ignore the neighbor with more doors and focus on the neighbor with fewer. I have more doors than the neighbor across the way, the one with the sanctimonious attitude about conservation and the love for deer. 

There are fewer deer now, just as she has only two doors on her house. And to my knowledge she doesn't even own a cabin. One might wonder why, for a person who lives in the woods by a lake, would you even need a cabin; to that I answer with a question of my own. How many doors do you have? 

How many lawns must your Husq shear? Just one? Do you not relish in the ritual of mowing your lawn on a summer's day, only to complete the task, load up your trusty Husq into your flatbed trailer, drive the 93 minutes northwest to the cabin, unload, and do it all again? Do you not relish in expanding a morning chore to an all-day affair? Do you not relish?

I said I fear no storm, blaze, or marauder. My doors ensure I am never cornered. And if I must flee, I can do so to my neighbor's cabin, only a quick New Balanced sprint through a copse of trees that separate my property from his. My neighbor's name is Travis Tritt. Maybe you've heard of him.

And one grim and foreboding night, with the October chill gripping the air and wresting the emblazoned leaves from their branches, it was Tritt that fled to me. I awoke to a staccato trio of knocks on one of my cabin's many, many doors. "The things that have happened to me, and my family, in this cabin definitely give you a different look at the supernatural," he said as I greeted him. 

[eerie music]

Commander

Halfdane

James Travis Tritt erupted from his mother on the ninth day of the second month of the year 1963. This occurred in Marietta, Georgia. It is unlikely he was as fully coiffed upon birth as we've come to love about him today, but stranger things have and continue to happen to Travis. Indeed, he is not the only one that on that fateful February day was foisted upon the earth. He was followed moments later by Travis James Tritt, his twin brother. 

The first eight years of life experienced by James Travis and Travis James are a mystery lost to time, but we do know one detail: the twin boys developed a fierce and bloody rivalry. Some time during the Spring of '71, Travis James disappeared. It was rumored that James Travis put his twin in a shipping crate lined with straw and mailed him to East Germany, but this was never confirmed. It's also true that the boy known as James Travis, who grew into the man known as Travis Tritt, might have been Travis James all along and assumed his twin brother's identity. Their parents, James and Gwen, have reportedly said that of their remaining son, "That boy ain't right."

Creatures

I was enveloped inside my Monster Energy Drink sleeved blanket I won by eating the most pickles at the county fair the prior summer. It makes me feel like a sailboat, and I was told when awarded the sleeved blanket that I am legally required to point out that it is not in any way affiliated with the Snuggie brand of products. By referring to my Monster Energy Drink sleeved blanket as a Snuggie, it becomes classified as apparel, similar to a "priestly garment" as per legal designation resulting from a 2017 United States Court of International Trade ruling. 

These facts seemed not to impress Tritt, who stood on my porch upset and bewildered. His goatee trembled, though whether that be from fear or lack of Snug sleeved blanket to protect him from the autumn evening's chill, I cannot say. The platinum-selling artist and two-time Grammy Award winner stamped his feet and moaned, in the way a petulant child would when the kitchen at Bob Evans takes too long on those silver dollar flappies. "I am having terrifying paranormal experiences in my lakeside cabin!" he stammered expositionally. "I am looking for answers!"

There are no answers here, I told him. Here's a quarter, I mimed. Call someone who cares. 

That's a Travis Tritt song. 

Is this man before me the real Travis Tritt? Who is the real Travis Tritt? Just hearing the spirits in these woods and seeing signs of them in the woolly darkness that encroaches into the corners of your vision, it can scare the heck out of you. Less indicative of success is the number of your windows, and frankly, I believe windows to be overrated. Nothing good comes from having windows. There's an entire world out there that wants nothing more than to kill you, consume your body and appropriate your belongings, and through windows they can see inside your home. Tonight, when all's still, open your window and peer into the darkness. Imagine the world peering back, waiting for you to succumb to slumber. 

[screaming]

Those woods are haunted, and filled with violent energy. "I've got three children, and they're all frightened to come up here," pleaded Travis. 

I asked him what he thought I, a person with no discernible skills, convictions, or loyalties, could do to dehaunt his cabin. I could set squirrel traps; I do very much hate squirrels. I could also just wing it. Would that help you, Travis Tritt? I smelled the air and allowed myself to appear lost in the haze of thought. Maybe I was searching with my mind's eye a way through the veil between our world and the next. Maybe I was wondering what specifically separates a pavilion from a gazebo.

I opened my eyes and pointed at him. There's something about your family, Travis Tritt. There's a pattern. That is crucial to what may be going on in your cabin. Somebody gave you an artifact that killed a human being. I see blood dripping into the dirt. "Do they have any ill intent toward me?" he whispered. 

I don't trust what they're up to, I replied. We must investigate. I offered him my hand and he took it. His grip was clammy, like holding hands with a man comprised entirely of moist latex. He led me off my porch and into the darkness, and I hoped my Monster Energy Drink sleeved blanket wouldn't catch on a bramble as we slipped away to his cabin.

Artifacts

Blue Ridge has always been a well-kept secret in the state of Georgia. It's very secluded, and the seclusion is what drew Travis Tritt there in the first place. This is a man for whom an entire holiday was renamed. No longer is it simply just Christmas, but rather since 1993, it's known as A Travis Tritt Christmas. It's a loving time of the year.

Celebrated every Dec. 25 is A Travis Tritt Christmas. Praise Otis.

If you asked him, he'd say that, for most of his life, he was always skeptical of stories that he heard about the supernatural or about the spirit world. "But the things that have happened to me, and my family, and my friends, in this cabin," he murmured into my ear as we stepped into the light emanating from the floodlamp attached to his cabin's awning, "are things that definitely give you a different look at that whole world."

We're in a very remote area. If Travis Tritt killed me like he probably killed his twin, no one would know, at least not for some time. My lawn would go into neglect, my Husq abandoned. My doors would do me no good if Travis Tritt murdered me. Travis Tritt is nothing by T-R-O-U-B-L-E, and I am a fool for allowing myself to be led by the hand away from the safety of my windowless cabin into the dark. Before we go in, I have to ask. He stopped, one hand on his doorknob and the other still gripping mine. His skin continues to exude a fine layer of moisture making that grip difficult to maintain. "What do you need to ask?" he replies.

"Can I trust you with my heart?"

"Yes, and with everything else as well." He winks. I am made even more uneasy. Travis Tritt is a very famous country music singer, and he has sold more than 25 million albums, but there's some kind of negative energy that hovers over this place. Over his cabin. Over him. There's something about today that feels very threatening to me.

[eerie music]

We all search for peace. I do it in the saddle of my Husq, or in the reassuring grip of my Monster Energy Drink sleeved blanket. Travis Tritt searches for peace in his rural cabin home, but instead, he found only terror. 

We've entered into the living room of the cabin now. It's empty, as far as I can tell. It's decorated like the interior of a steakhouse next to a mall, but not a nice mall. There's a full elk, dead and stuffed, posed on a plinth as if it were still bounding through the brush. "In 1993, my career was up and running, and I was having tremendous success, but I was also looking for a place to just sort of decompress for awhile," he said as he flicked on a lamp shaped like a rocking chair. "I found this place through some friends of mine. It was one of those types of places where you could forget about the entertainment world, forget about the hustle and bustle of being on tour, and just relax."

Travis, is there a point to this? And please, release my hand. I think we'd both lost track of the fact that our hands were still clasped together, but upon remembering, he only gripped tighter as he led me on a tour of the cabin. "Shortly thereafter, I noticed that there were some strange events that were taking place inside my cabin," he said as we passed a bathroom. "On my first overnight stay, at about 4 a.m...."

He trailed off and pointed with his free hand at the side of his head, implying that it was time to see with our ears. Or "hear" as I recall now is the word I had forgotten then. 

[muffled voices]

Enchantments

We were in his bedroom now, upstairs, but I heard clear as a church bell that there were voices bubbling out from the living room, where we'd been only moments before. Were these accomplices of Travis Tritt, aiming to scare me? Does my blood need to contain more adrenaline before Travis Tritt can consume it to steal my breath? Did he leave the television on?

I take a step back toward the living room and he grips my hand tighter. He shakes his head and again points at his ear. 

[voices stop]

Okay, maybe I was just hearing things. I should go back to my cabin. Forget about it. It's all good.

[muffled voices]

There was a distinct voice, talking in a very low tone in a dialect that I didn't recognize. "Tell no one about your experience because nobody will believe you," whispered Travis. "This happens on a very regular basis."

What burden this must be for Travis Tritt. He's a millionaire country singer, fans around the world, but tormented by foreign ghosts. He cannot share this tale for fear that his fans will ridicule him. His own family thinks he's ridiculous. What are they saying, I asked. What are the voices saying?

Travis looks me in the eye. "Do you not speak German?"

A few years after Travis Tritt bought his cabin in Blue Ridge, he met his wife Theresa. He brought her to the cabin for a few days, just for a little getaway. "As soon as we got there, we walked ot the downstairs bedroom and looked in -- didn't even walk into the room, and the room was freshly vacuumed, the bed was made perfectly, everything was gorgeous," he said. "And that night, she heard the same voices you hear now."

I listened closer. I do not speak German. Only American. I pulled out a few words, but they were gobbledygook to me. "Zwillingsbrüder." "Versandkiste." "Antifaschistischer Schutzwall." Like I said, gobbledygook. "The next morning, my wife went downstairs, and let out a scream," said Travis.

[screaming]

Instants

We returned to the living room on the first floor. We were still holding hands, but I no longer cared. In fact, I took comfort in the warm, wet, finger-locked embrace. There, clear as day on the cream-colored carpet beside the bulky cedar furniture, were footprints. Those weren't there before, and they definitely weren't from us. I was wearing my Weekend Getaway New Balances, and he was wearing the kind of cowboy boots you wear if you have a lot of money and no practical need for cowboy boots. 

But these footprints were unshod. The impressions of ghostly toes were as visible as a new day's dawn. Those prints lead to a couch, and there was an imprint in the leather, as if some malevolent entity entered the cabin and sat, shoeless, like a barbarian. "These are physical signs that someone -- or something -- has been inside Tritt Manor. Also Tritt Manor is the name of this cabin, if that wasn't clear," said Travis. "There is no explanation for it. This is one of those things that makes your skin crawl."

I inspected the footprints more closely. I lined my own New Balances against one print. It was half the size of my adult male American foot. Travis, I said, these are child feet. You are being haunted by a child ghost. I can't quite figure out if that's good news or the worst news.

Why might you be haunted by the spirit of a child, Travis? 

"Over the years, these voices started happening on such a frequent basis that we were afraid to come up here," he told me. "And the biggest questions that I have are what, or who, is it?" 

I paused. I could again hear something. Another voice. Or several. But these didn't seem spectral. These seemed earthly in origin, but muffled. Far away. Do you hear that, Travis? He shook his head. But there they were, distant, but clearly emanating from somewhere. There's no way he couldn't hear them. I asked them if there was a basement to this cabin, and with his words he said no, but his eyes couldn't help but flick to a door off the main floor hall between the living room and kitchen. It was locked on the outside. 

I know you can hear the voices, too, Travis. What's behind that door? "I guess the whiskey ain't workin'," he said. 

That's another Travis Tritt song.

[suspenseful music]

Sorceries

When James Travis Tritt was eight years old, he convinced his twin brother, Travis James Tritt, to climb into a wooden shipping crate. Their father, James Tritt, was a collector of fiberglass Big Boy statues. There were always wooden crates coming and going from their Marietta home. No one would notice if instead of a Big Boy statue, one of the crates was filled with a human child. But James Travis Tritt was the good boy. Why did he resort to trickery? Why did he mail his brother, Travis James Tritt, the bad boy, to East Germany?

Maybe we only know half the story. 

The man standing before me claims he goes by Travis as a tribute to his brother. But behind the locked door in his cabin, down the rickety steps into a stonewalled basement illuminated only by a dangling, exposed lightbulb, were four more shipping crates. These were not addressed to East Germany because East Germany no longer exists and Travis Tritt is nothing if not up-to-date on current geopolitical happenings. No, these crates were addressed to North Korea, Antarctica, Siberia and Vermont, the four worst places a good ol' boy from Georgia could imagine.

And the voices I heard are coming from within.

"I'm a hunter, a fisherman, an outdoorsman," Travis said from behind me. I ran my hands along the crates looking for a place to wedge in my fingers. My Monster Energy Drink sleeved blanket was bunched up under my armpits. There was no way I could pry open these crates without a crowbar. He'd nailed them all shut. Don't worry, I said. I'll get you out. 

"That elk upstairs, I killed that about five years ago." Travis's voice was no longer flecked with fear. There was now a venom in his words. "It took a long time before I could get it shipped here, after the taxidermy." I turned. Travis was beside a fifth crate. "I still have the box it came in."

There can only be one Tritt, I heard him say from the other side of the wood. It was near-perfect dark, save for strands of light seeping through the small airholes he'd drilled in each crate. No wife, no kids, no twin brother. They always said he was the good one and I was the bad boy. But I wanted to be the good boy for once. So I became him. Now, he said, drift off to dream. This one's gonna hurt you, for a long, long time.

Lands

There's no telling where I'll end up. And isn't that really what life's about? I've got my Monster Energy Drink sleeved blanket, I've got my New Balances. Things could be worse. I can smell sea air, and I know that I will not be going to North Korea, Antarctica, Siberia and Vermont: Travis Tritt is an innovator, he'd never repeat the same destination. Where would be similarly terrible for a man like Travis Tritt to live, I wondered. France?

No number of doors can save one from Tritt trickery, but this isn't over. Stuff me in a crate once, shame on me. Stuff me in a crate twice, well, Lord have mercy on the working man at that point. 

That's a Travis Tritt song.

Oh, and if you're reading this, mow my lawn until I return.

Some do, some teach, the rest look it up

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