It was an event so riveting I can still recall it scene
for scene, decades after it happened. But just how it
began remains a mystery. No, that is not true. For it began
suddenly and ended with a frightful crescendo of which
I have yet to recover. So how shall I initiate this
story? Should I start in the middle and leave out the
gruesome details? Or start at the beginning and tell the
story as my grandmother and I experienced it 70
years ago? Yes, that is what I will do, I will start at
Lancaster Road and the little house in the woods. And
from there we will meet in the middle.
My grandmother was without a doubt the world’s greatest
storyteller. Her tales of romance and adventure were
teeming with intrigue. However, it was her mystery stories,
which created the greatest impact. For example, growing
up in rural Alabama, our house, a two-room shack
consisting of wood and clapboard stood across from a
cemetery known as Tucker Hill. Reportedly, the most
corrupt folks to inhabit Alabama were buried there. Which
explains why whenever I misbehaved, my grandmother chided
me with the warning “If you don't stop acting up, I'm going
to take you to Tucker Hill and throw you on the grave of
one of those mean hants.” That was all I needed to
get back on the right track. Of course I didn't believe
her, but all that changed one night in April of 1933.
On that night the sky was clear, with the stars radiating
in their furnace. Also, there was a slight wind, and if
you listened closely you could hear the trees rustling.
As I recall, my grandmother and I were sitting outside
when we saw an elderly man pass by. The man was stooped
over and dressed in a gray suit with a black tie. The
moon, clear and brilliant spotlighted each feature of his
rugged face. Raising my hand to wave, my grandmother
caught my hand in midair. “Why did you do that grandma?” I
asked, feeling as if I had done something wrong. But
grandma didn't answer. Peering at her, I noticed a strange
look on her face. It was a look I'd seen many times before,
only this was more frightening. Clutching my hand, my
grandmother cautioned me to be quiet.
Visibly frightened, I watched as another man passed by
dressed in the same style as the man before. But he was
younger, and covered with a beard that hung to his
chest. “Grandma, who’s that?” I asked nervously. “I told
you to be quiet,” she screamed. “Now don't ask any more
questions ya hear?” “Yes mam,” I nodded. As we sat
there, we counted 10 people in all. Watching the men, I
noticed that they were all headed to the same place,
Tucker Hill Cemetery. At that moment I refused to let my
imagination run amuck, and convinced myself that the
men were mere travelers. Suddenly, I heard a thump, and
turned around to see my grandmother staring at me. Not
surprisingly, the look on her face terrified me more than
any ghost could ever do. Her face, which was usually
glowing with warmth, was screwed into a frown, and sweat
trickled from her forehead. At that point I turned to go
into the house. Then, my grandmother’s hand touched my
shoulder, where it rested; cold and devoid of all flesh.
Before I could say anything, the woman with the protruding
elbows laughed and went into her Satan persona. “Gal you
better get out of here.” The strange words coming from her
mouth terrified me, causing my hair to stand on edge. Even
more frightening was the blue foam oozing from grandma’s
mouth.
As she moved closer, I detected an odor that could only be
described as rotten flesh. At this point I realized that
this was something evil, something not of this world, an
oddity of grotesque proportions. Turning around, I
noticed my grandmother’s teeth, gaping and unusually long.
Moving toward me with outstretched arms, my first instinct
was to run toward her. But common sense sank in and I ran
into the house, where as luck would have it, the door was
locked. As my grandmother moved toward me, I reached out my
arm to ward off whatever blows I thought would occur. Then
just as suddenly as the odyssey began, it ended. “What’s
wrong with you gal?” “Nothing grandma” I said
trembling. “Remember child, no matter what happens I will
never leave you,” said Grandma smiling once again.
Two weeks later my grandmother died in a fire. At the
funeral I was the only grandchild in attendance. As
everyone stood in line to view the body, my mother picked
me up so that I could peer into the wooden box containing
her body. Straining to get a final look, I thought I saw
grandma’s right eye twitched. ”No, that can't be,” I
thought. It was just my imagination.
Following the funeral we returned to Grandma’s house,
where I along with my three cousins sat around the
kitchen table reminiscing. However, since their stories
seemed normal in comparison to mine, how could I tell them
about the night grandma became one of the living dead.
Getting up from the table, my eyes were suddenly drawn to
the kitchen window. As I looked up, I saw what appeared to
be grandma. Oh yea I know the mind can fool you, especially
the imaginative mind of a child, but it was her. Looking
directly at me, she smiled and quickly disappeared.
Pointing at the window, I told the others that I saw
grandma. My oldest cousin, who was all of 18, said it
was “just a hant,” the term grandma used to described
ghosts. Shaking, I said, “But what did she come back
for?” “I don't know, my cousin uttered. “But be ware, he
said “for those who see the faces of hants are forever
unlucky.” Those words haunted me then, and they haunt me
now.
Now nearing 80 my life has been a series of bad luck and
ill-fated incidents that go bump in the night. Some people
have even said that I'm cursed. C-u-r-s-e-d. Somehow the
words don't seem so funny. For I have seen things that
would drive the average person to seek refuge in the
nearest psychiatric ward. Case in point: I‘ve seen a
curio cabinet topple to the floor without anyone touching
it, and mysteriously slide across the room. So what would
you call that? A supernatural flash or merely an
accident waiting to happen? You be the judge. To add more
thrills, I've been described as an individual so
strange; I actually make people feel uncomfortable, or so
I've been told.
As to whether I'm really unlucky, I don't know. However,
curiosity regarding my unusual personality intrigues me to
the point where I often wonder if I'm a phantom
dwelling among the living. Speculating on my life, the
sound of lightning pulls me back into the future.
Staring into the mirror, the reflection swirls between
fantasy and reality. Then as the mirror grows more
distant, I am seemingly aware of a presence. Realizing
that if I turn around, I will be lulled into another
mysterious quagmire, I maintain my composure. But curiosity
gets the best of me, and as I turn, the image comes into
focus. The face is old and wrinkled and the smile belies
the terror behind it. Suddenly my fear vanishes and is
replaced by laughter. The image now moving toward me at
warped speed smolders in the back ground. I try to speak,
but the words are frozen in my throat. Yet, somehow I must
find the strength to communicate with this vision. Now, I
am calm and my voice is returning. Turning around I watch
the shadowy figure move toward me once again. “No
grandma,” I scream. As expected, the screams become louder
and quickly dissipate. Now all that’s left is silence, as
my grandmother and I are transported back to 1933 and to
Tucker Hill Cemetery, to take our rightful place among the
ghosts and other ghastly creatures who only come out at
dusk.
Dedicated to my grandmother, Mrs. Janie Thigpen (1919-1987)
the world’s greatest storyteller.
Contact me here: Butler@Psbwrite.com
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