Rural Banter

Author: ERICA GOODMAN

A granite pad lays cracked and moss-covered over the old Colonel's remains, the stump of a diseased elm tree splitting the gravestone down the middle. In light strokes, the dedication across the top begins, "Here lies Colonel George Wray, who died in the year of our Lord 1804..." then fades into indecipherable script. The veteran of the Seven Years War has comfortably lain in his final resting place for over 200 years. His tombstone was originally located under a fruit tree in his farm's orchard, yet now he rests surrounded by hossta and lily-of-the-valley in my family's backyard.

Our dearly departed neighbor has offered his spooky presence over the years. More than once the giggles of a girls' slumber party have abruptly ceased and the void of sound is filled by an eerie silence when someone claims to have seen the Colonel's ghost whisper across the living room. He has been the leading character in many fireside ghost stories over the years. And whenever a full moon lingers in the autumn sky, we all pass his grave with hurried, cautious steps.

But it is not the late Colonel whose spirit has caused the most commotion. At the mouth of the dirt drive stands a whitewashed farmhouse whose late-night visits have frightened away many homeowners. In his day, Wray owned a prosperous farm, powered by the hard work of his seven slaves. The slaves, as history has it, rest in unmarked graves around the orchard where their former master was laid to rest. No bones have been discovered, yet a wandering spirit haunts the old farmhouse. The brawny figure of one of Wray's slaves has been known to appear in the house's back room, silently staring at any living being who dares enter his domain.

The ghost of a middle-aged woman and a little, curly-haired girl also haunt the white house. The young girl is, according to rumor, a cousin of the Goodmans who lost her life in a tumble down the stairs. The two figures have since floated down the main staircase, warning of its deadly descent.

But why give attention to these tales of visits by the supernatural? In somber customs we place flowers near the graves of those who have left us in our lifetime. Our reverence for the long deceased, however, is not love and affection, but a singular respect in the fear of the ethereal that keeps their spirits alive. Each of us holds an apprehension in our souls for the mysteries of the deceased. Halloween is fast approaching, a time when visions of goblins and ghouls, ghosts and zombies excite in us a sense of horrific thrill. We tiptoe through a darks cemeteries, blue in the face from holding ones breath, and utter our Hail Mary's while driving past a graveyard. As we suffer from candy induced stomachaches, toilet paper the trees, and spook trick-or-treaters, let Halloween also be a time of remembrance for the dead of generations long since passed.