What We Already Know
By: B.S. Tucker
In the South, we love our ghost stories. Not just the ones about old houses and graveyards, but the ones that drift on rivers and settle in the woods. Stories of wounded soldiers, grieving mothers, and lost children. We don’t just tell them—we carry them. Because down here, ghosts don’t stay gone. They haunt the land, the water, and the bloodline.
I’ve heard the story of Tommy my whole life. A tale of good times, fast money, and bad blood. Folks say it’s a warning—but you can't understand Tommy, not really, until you know about Jay Bird’s.
The Norfolk Southern Railroad cut our town clean in two. On one side: hounds, single-wides, and Sunday yard sales. On the other: golden retrievers, cul-de-sacs, and HOA newsletters. And tucked right up against the tracks, like it dared you to cross it, sat Jay Bird’s—a cinderblock dive where even the deputies didn't respond.
I’m not proud to say it, but most of us grew up in the shadow of Jay Bird’s. Summers were spent walking the tracks, barefoot and sunburnt, heading south toward Otter Creek. We’d swim in the deep hole till our lips turned blue, then air-dry on the rails as we drifted toward the bar’s back door. Inside was cheap food, cold soda, pinball, and pool tables—all ours until the grown-ups stumbled in at dusk, bringing the heat and the stories with them.
His story was before my time, but Tommy was no different from the rest of us. He spent his youth walking those same tracks—barefoot and wild—until he turned eighteen and stopped going home at nightfall.
Tommy was what folks called a cool kid. I’ve heard him described as a good-looking, shaggy-haired teen in faded jeans, with a pack of smokes rolled into the sleeve of his t-shirt. The local girls liked him. The local boys wanted to be him. But he carried it well—never mean, never cruel. He didn’t pick on people, and he had a way of stepping in when someone else did.
Scared of nothing, they say he was the first of his crowd to jump from the trestle into the creek below. He was the high-water mark the rest of them hoped to reach. So it wasn’t surprising when he was welcomed into the nightlife that pulsed out of Jay Bird’s. Taken in by the very fold that would, in time, consume him.
Coke and weed were the party favors back then, brought up from the New Mexico border. Major players—connected to places we never heard of—called Jay Bird’s home. Locally bred and raised, they moved easy through the crowd. They never said too much or flashed their cash, but we could always spot them. Birds of a different color stood out, even when they tried to blend in.
Sometimes someone disappeared for a few weeks and came back different—grittier, smelling like dust and their sentences bending toward Spanish. We knew where they’d been, and what they brought back with them, but no one said a word. There were unspoken rules in a place like this—and number one was: don’t talk about what you already know.
Things had gotten real western in our little Southern town and Tommy leaned into the vibration. He was quick with his words and sharp with a pool cue. He used both to hustle the randoms who wandered into Jay Bird’s after dark. A few dollars here, a few there—and soon enough, the old heads took notice.
He never made it out west—too green, too untested. They started him small, pushing dime bags along the way. No disputes were settled and no dirt got dealt inside Jay Bird’s. That’s what the rock pile was for.
Across the street from the bar, in an empty lot, sat an abandoned mound of state gravel—left behind after flood repairs a few years back. It was tall enough to block the view from the road, and it backed right up to the woods, offering an easy getaway on foot. They called it the rock pile, and every kid in town knew better than to go there.
Tommy spent most of his nights crossing that street. Cars would slow for a second, then quickly turn to taillights in the distance. The local kids saw less and less of him. He didn’t swim the creek anymore, and he kept different hours. Sometimes they’d pass him on the tracks, heading toward the bar, but few words were exchanged. Then he bought that old El Camino, and after that, he wasn’t seen in passing at all.
A few years went by, and the stories about him started to fade. Tommy was grown now—making big-boy decisions. He’d even taken a shine to a girl from across the Norfolk Southern. She wasn’t from his kind of stock, but she liked to play in the mud with him.
One night, driving her home, they were pulled over on her side of town. Tommy had been drinking, and that was all the cops needed to start digging. They found cash, drugs, and a gun. He took the charges willingly to keep the girl out of trouble, but he knew—nothing good would come of it.
News of Tommy’s arrest spread like wildfire, though only in whispers—making his return home just a day later all the more shocking. He hadn’t been in trouble before, but they had him dead to rights. Wrong kind of guy, in the wrong part of town, with the right amount of felonies to put him away.
In their minds, he’d broken the number one rule.
So when he walked into Jay Bird’s that night, he was met with cold shoulders. He tried to ease their fears, to reassure them everything was on the up and up—but they’d already thrown away their need for him. Their love too.
The story goes, that night, Tommy sat at the end of the bar and drank alone. When he’d had enough, he walked out with his head down. No car, no license—he took the only path he knew home.
The next morning, Tommy’s body was found on the tracks. He’d only made it about halfway. The cops opened an investigation into his death—his wallet was missing, along with his grandfather’s pocket knife. There were marks on his body that some said looked like cigarette burns, but it was hard to say. The trains had done their damage. They were lucky to find him at all.
Nothing was ever proven, and no fingers were pointed.. All the witnesses said the same thing: Tommy left Jay Bird’s alone that night. And around here, we don’t talk about what we already know.
I never met Tommy, and I couldn’t pick him out in a photo. But I remember walking those tracks in the summer heat. I remember cooling off in Otter Creek. And once or twice, walking ourselves dry toward the back door of Jay Bird’s—I remember passing a guy. Shaggy hair. Faded jeans. Cigarettes rolled into his sleeve. He never spoke. Just smiled as he passed, carried by the summer breeze.
In the South, we love our ghost stories. Not just the ones about old houses and graveyards, but the ones that drift on rivers and settle in the woods. Stories of wounded soldiers, grieving mothers, and lost children. We don’t just tell them—we carry them. Because down here, ghosts don’t stay gone. They haunt the land, the water, and the bloodline.
I’ve heard the story of Tommy my whole life. A tale of good times, fast money, and bad blood. Folks say it’s a warning—but you can't understand Tommy, not really, until you know about Jay Bird’s.
The Norfolk Southern Railroad cut our town clean in two. On one side: hounds, single-wides, and Sunday yard sales. On the other: golden retrievers, cul-de-sacs, and HOA newsletters. And tucked right up against the tracks, like it dared you to cross it, sat Jay Bird’s—a cinderblock dive where even the deputies didn't respond.
I’m not proud to say it, but most of us grew up in the shadow of Jay Bird’s. Summers were spent walking the tracks, barefoot and sunburnt, heading south toward Otter Creek. We’d swim in the deep hole till our lips turned blue, then air-dry on the rails as we drifted toward the bar’s back door. Inside was cheap food, cold soda, pinball, and pool tables—all ours until the grown-ups stumbled in at dusk, bringing the heat and the stories with them.
His story was before my time, but Tommy was no different from the rest of us. He spent his youth walking those same tracks—barefoot and wild—until he turned eighteen and stopped going home at nightfall.
Tommy was what folks called a cool kid. I’ve heard him described as a good-looking, shaggy-haired teen in faded jeans, with a pack of smokes rolled into the sleeve of his t-shirt. The local girls liked him. The local boys wanted to be him. But he carried it well—never mean, never cruel. He didn’t pick on people, and he had a way of stepping in when someone else did.
Scared of nothing, they say he was the first of his crowd to jump from the trestle into the creek below. He was the high-water mark the rest of them hoped to reach. So it wasn’t surprising when he was welcomed into the nightlife that pulsed out of Jay Bird’s. Taken in by the very fold that would, in time, consume him.
Coke and weed were the party favors back then, brought up from the New Mexico border. Major players—connected to places we never heard of—called Jay Bird’s home. Locally bred and raised, they moved easy through the crowd. They never said too much or flashed their cash, but we could always spot them. Birds of a different color stood out, even when they tried to blend in.
Sometimes someone disappeared for a few weeks and came back different—grittier, smelling like dust and their sentences bending toward Spanish. We knew where they’d been, and what they brought back with them, but no one said a word. There were unspoken rules in a place like this—and number one was: don’t talk about what you already know.
Things had gotten real western in our little Southern town and Tommy leaned into the vibration. He was quick with his words and sharp with a pool cue. He used both to hustle the randoms who wandered into Jay Bird’s after dark. A few dollars here, a few there—and soon enough, the old heads took notice.
He never made it out west—too green, too untested. They started him small, pushing dime bags along the way. No disputes were settled and no dirt got dealt inside Jay Bird’s. That’s what the rock pile was for.
Across the street from the bar, in an empty lot, sat an abandoned mound of state gravel—left behind after flood repairs a few years back. It was tall enough to block the view from the road, and it backed right up to the woods, offering an easy getaway on foot. They called it the rock pile, and every kid in town knew better than to go there.
Tommy spent most of his nights crossing that street. Cars would slow for a second, then quickly turn to taillights in the distance. The local kids saw less and less of him. He didn’t swim the creek anymore, and he kept different hours. Sometimes they’d pass him on the tracks, heading toward the bar, but few words were exchanged. Then he bought that old El Camino, and after that, he wasn’t seen in passing at all.
A few years went by, and the stories about him started to fade. Tommy was grown now—making big-boy decisions. He’d even taken a shine to a girl from across the Norfolk Southern. She wasn’t from his kind of stock, but she liked to play in the mud with him.
One night, driving her home, they were pulled over on her side of town. Tommy had been drinking, and that was all the cops needed to start digging. They found cash, drugs, and a gun. He took the charges willingly to keep the girl out of trouble, but he knew—nothing good would come of it.
News of Tommy’s arrest spread like wildfire, though only in whispers—making his return home just a day later all the more shocking. He hadn’t been in trouble before, but they had him dead to rights. Wrong kind of guy, in the wrong part of town, with the right amount of felonies to put him away.
In their minds, he’d broken the number one rule.
So when he walked into Jay Bird’s that night, he was met with cold shoulders. He tried to ease their fears, to reassure them everything was on the up and up—but they’d already thrown away their need for him. Their love too.
The story goes, that night, Tommy sat at the end of the bar and drank alone. When he’d had enough, he walked out with his head down. No car, no license—he took the only path he knew home.
The next morning, Tommy’s body was found on the tracks. He’d only made it about halfway. The cops opened an investigation into his death—his wallet was missing, along with his grandfather’s pocket knife. There were marks on his body that some said looked like cigarette burns, but it was hard to say. The trains had done their damage. They were lucky to find him at all.
Nothing was ever proven, and no fingers were pointed.. All the witnesses said the same thing: Tommy left Jay Bird’s alone that night. And around here, we don’t talk about what we already know.
I never met Tommy, and I couldn’t pick him out in a photo. But I remember walking those tracks in the summer heat. I remember cooling off in Otter Creek. And once or twice, walking ourselves dry toward the back door of Jay Bird’s—I remember passing a guy. Shaggy hair. Faded jeans. Cigarettes rolled into his sleeve. He never spoke. Just smiled as he passed, carried by the summer breeze.
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