When my niece Madeline came to me, and asked me to share with her any paranormal or supernatural encounter I might have. I will freely admit at first I was hesitant, but then I decided to go ahead and share one my most frightening encounters. First allow me to introduce myself to you, the general reader. My name is Percival Alexandra Bell, or Percy for short. I'm an Episcopal Priest and current rector of St. Mary's Episcopal Church here in Benton. I was the second son of John William Bell and Joanna Maria Bell.

The Bell family is an old southern family. We are, I should say part of the fading southern gentry. I was educated at St. Katherine's Episcopal Academy, from which I graduated with honors. I was also confirmed at St. Katherine's Episcopal Church. Once I finished high school, I attended as family tradition demanded Sewanee, Sewanee is an Episcopalian institution of higher learning and a leading seminary of the Episcopal Church. I attended classes there for several years before being ordained into the priesthood. Since my older brother, William was the oldest, the law firm went to him.

St. Katherine's Episcopal Church was the first church I was in charge of. Fitting enough as the Bell family helped to found the church back in the olden days. I was rector for eight years or so before accepting the call to minister to the small folk of St. Mary's Episcopal Church here in Benton. Now St. Mary's Episcopal Church is a small, wooden church. It's painted all white and trimmed with pink. It's a very beautiful church, and a very old one at that. It's also historically speaking one of the oldest churches, having been built around the time Benton was first coming up, the tiny settlement was then called Hannah's Landing. The town was named after Hannah Potter, the wife of the first mayor. The Potter family I learned shortly after my arrival is one of the oldest families of the town. The number of Potter tombstones found within the attached graveyard behind the church attest to the fact that generations of Potters have worshiped here.

I tell you all of this, because with this church being as old as it is, there are bound to be a number of spirits that have taken to living here. I believe I've encountered a number of them. But one encounter stands out in my mind above all. It was Septuagesima Sunday, and I was preparing the church for services. I had already vested and was kneeling before the altar in prayer. A young woman named Madeline Brewer was to acolyte that day and I was waiting for her. I was deep in prayer when suddenly the doors of the church flew open with a bang.

I quickly, as in a matter of seconds finished my prayer, crossed myself and stood up unsure what I'll find. And there in the doorway stood a fellow, who must have been no older than eighteen. He was unshaven and his eyes were hollow. He wore a button down tunic that was gray in the color with matching gray trousers and black leather shoes that were coming apart.

I was stunned, really stunned for soon more appeared. Dozens of them, all dressed in Confederate gray, all hollowed eyes. Some had what appeared to be strips cloth tied around their hands, I could see blood oozing out from around the edges of the cloth. I also smelled smoke, these fellows flood the church.

I'm not sure how long I stood there, but many more appeared. Some walked in on there own power and dropped down upon the wooden floor. Others were carried in and dropped into the corner of the church. And then to my horror, a wooden table appeared in the middle of the walkway, right in front of the altar. Strapped down to this table was a boy, who was crying out for his mother, his pitiful wails caused my heart to leap into my throat.

Standing to the right of the boy was a middle aged man that was dressed in a white button down sleeve shirt. The sleeves were rolled up and he wore a leather apron. In his hand was a meat saw, he was sawing on the boy. With each pull of the saw the boy yelled louder and louder. Finally it seemed he had sewn through the bone he was working on, for he tossed it side and the boys wailing stopped. I watched in horror as the doctor grunting rolled the boy off the table and made a notion for another man to take his place. I could feel my face drain of color as another fellow, hauled another one down on the table and strapped him down. By the table, the boy lay, lifeless as a log.

Then it was over. Everything seemed to vanish. Only the heavy wooden church door remained open, confused and a little frightened. I slowly started to move toward the open door. I air I walked through, reeked of the smell of blood, of shit, of piss and sweat. I reached the door of the and stood atop of the concrete porch, all was quiet. The town was silent as the grave. A few minutes later, my helper Madeline arrived and services went on as normal.

I told no one about my encounter, as I think, they would have thought me quite insane. But one day, while doing some research at the local library, one that was named after the Confederate general who commanded the defense of the town during the Civil War, I stumbled upon an article from an old newspaper clipping. One that told a new episcopal church was to be built on the site of the old one. The old one, had suffered tremendous damage following the Battle of Benton and had been used as a make-shift field hospital by Confederate forces, during the battle.

I was starstruck, had those phantom's I'd seen that day been the long lost souls of Confederate soldiers returning from battle? What had caused them to appear to me? What connection did I have to that Civil War that made them want to appear to me? These are questions I can not answer and will not propose to answer. I can only say that since they appeared, I have taken to praying for the souls of those six hundred Confederate dead that lay buried in a mass grave just north of town. May Heaven, Our Mother, and God shine his light upon them and bring them into his kingdom.