Ghost Stories

Halloween meant nothing to the children in the house on the hill. I can't remember even hearing the word until I started to school. That doesn't mean our house was void of ghosts and goblins.

A good ghost story has screeches and howls and things that go bump in the night. The house on the hill had all that built in. On a windy night, you could hear creaks and groans as the house bowed to the wind. Loose boards and shingles would bump and slap, defying the wind. And the wind literally whistled under the doors and around the windows.

On such a night, Daddy would go to bed early. The single coal-oil lamp flickered with the wind and cast moving shadows on the walls. Mama would pull her rocker a little closer to the pot-bellied stove. Bobbie and I would sit in the corner behind the stove at Mama's feet and beg her to tell us a ghost story. Not made up ones, but those she'd experienced and swore were true.

"Well, she'd say, "Not long after Glen was born there was that light that came in the house. It was a hot sultry night. The bed we slept in was in a front open window. We had gone to bed and I had made a pallet for Glen in the floor at the foot of the bed. He was just a month or two old and a little sickly. I was laying there listening to Glen breathe when I glanced out the window and saw this light coming toward the house. This ball of light kept coming, came through the window and danced for just a moment over my sleeping baby and then went back out the window and into the woods. I could see it disappearing behind the trees."

"Did it hurt the baby?"

"No, just came in and then left."

"Tell us another one."

"Well, there was the time I saw your Grandmother McCoy."

"Was she a ghost?"

"She had been dead about a year. The twins, RD and Rrean, were just about a week old. I had been in bed most of the time since they'd been born. I was laying there one day looking out the window. and saw a woman coming up the path to the door. I told Winnie to open the door for Mrs Hornbeck, our neighbor. She opened the door but noone was there. I knew I had seen someone! After thinking a minute I knew it was Grandma McCoy. I recognized her dress and bonet. I had promised her before she died, that I would name the next girl after her. Her name was Rachel. I believe she had come back to remind me that I had not kept my promise."

"Then there was the time we lived over around Elbridge in a house that had a dog trot. A dog trot was an open hallway down the middle of the house. There were two big rooms on one side of the hallway and two big rooms on the other side. Occasionally at night you could hear a horse gallop up the road and stop at the gate. You could hear the gate open, and in a minute hear heavy footsteps walking all the way to the end of the dog trot. They would wait a bit and then the heavy footsteps would come back down the dog trot and out to the gate. You could hear the gate close."

"Did they leave?"

"Can't remember them leaving."

"Did you see anything?"

"Nothing."

Gone are the days of wide-eyed wonder. No blood or gore, just enough of the inexplicable to stimulate the imagination. What could have happened there at the end of the dog trot? Did the dancing light mean anything? Was it a fore warning to Mama that little Glen was a precious gift, lent for a short time? Was it an angel checking on heaven's treasure? Did Grandma McCoy really visit or was Mama delirious? Perhaps Grandma just want to see the new babies. We don't know.

My Place

At the top of the stairs was a large window facing west. As I passed from childhood into my teen years that window became my favorite spot. From there I looked through the dancing leaves of a big mulberry tree to the road leading to the rest of the world. Outside that window I could see the rock pile beside the gravel road that led to highway 61 and routes beyond. I could see the little brick-siding house where my brother, Horace and his wife Marie lived. It was small and neat and cosy. Marie had a real living room.There were no beds in her front room. The pump was in the kitchen. How unique! Something not even considered at the house on the hill. I dreamed of someday having such a cosy, convenient home.

My place by the window was perfect during the hot summer days. I could count on an occasional gentle breeze through the window. It cooled my moist face and twisted and turned the big mulberry leaves, showing their white fuzzy side. The gentle whisper of the leaves brought peace to my heart and life. How perfect were those hours spent sitting in the window.

My seat by the window was a box of old clothes and rags, crushed and torn to fit the shape of a young slim teenage girl. Many dreams and plans were fashioned there. Someday, I'd be a wife and mother. I'd read and play with my children. I'd tell them stories and we'd sing and plan and wait together for Christmas. I'd sew little girls' dresses and little boy's shirts. I'd take them to church and teach them about Jesus. I'd cook and then gather my family together at the end of day.

I spent many rainy hours sitting in the window. I could hear the rain on the roof and it's gentle patter on the leaves of the mulberry tree. The dim light from the window fell on forgotten stories from the pages of old magazines and newspapers. I reread the comics and scanned articles with intreging head lines. If the day was cool, I would pull an old skirt tail from my seat of rags to wrap my arms. With a damp breeze in my face I'd visit faraway places and live a life of vicarious wonder from the discarded papers and books on the landing at the top of the stairs.

The subdued light faded into the shadows behind me, lost in the boxes of junk and clothing and dusty pieces of broken things, even the small unopened box at the top of the stairs.