For several generations, a rumor has persisted among the residents of Benton, Mississippi that the swampy bottomlands south of town are home to a monster that is said to stand nine feet tall, have fiery red eyes and possess immeasurable strength and endurance. The monster is said to walk upright on its two feet and is said to swing its massive arms as it stomps through the countless streams, brooks and creeks that crisscross the thick woodland, the best is said to be covered from head to toe in thick, tar black fur that's often matted and muddy. You're said to smell it before you ever come close to seeing it. And at night when the moon is full, is said to roar loudly through the cypress and willow trees. My uncle Thomas Weller Potter, my dad's oldest brother who is an avid big game hunter and sports fisherman claims to have seen the creature first hand. This is his story.

I have always considered myself an avid sportsman and fisherman. I've always been more at home in the woods, surrounded by God's creatures and handiwork than say in town or at school. When I was a young man, I would often steal way to the bottomlands of Big Cypress Swamp and Haunted Hollow for days at the time. Now during the spring thaw, the Mississippi River tends to go beyond flood stage and that pushes water into the Big Black River and that causes the bottomlands to flood. That flood transforms the hilltops of the many small hills that dot that region into tiny heavy wooded islands.

It was during such a period of “High Water” as we locals call it that I decided to venture into the bottomlands. I can remember leaving my family's shop early that morning. I had equipped myself with a rucksack that held two pounds of flour, a pound of cornmeal, two pounds of salted bacon, a pound of ground coffee, a tin cooking kit, some matches, a bundle of old newspaper to use as fire kindling and finally a hunting knife. Latched to the side of the rucksack was an old shelter-half a kind of pup tent.

With my gear in hand, I then rode the tram down to the railroad station. From there I followed the train tracks for about three or four miles. Till I came to an old weather worn and beaten trestle. From there I climbed down the bank, and into a hidden tin boat. Loading my gear up into the bottom of an old pirogue that I hidden down among the brush and reeds and then I shoved off.

Now in the spring, the bottomlands become something of a seething lush green hell. Huge swarms of black gnats fill the air. Blood sucking mosquitoes land on any exposed skin, the air is sticky and breathing soon becomes a chore. Groves of palmetto's hide dangers, the brown water is home to water moccasins and gators. Here in the bottomlands, even a tiny cut can fester and become infected.

Despite the hardships, the bottomlands hold treasures no man can phantom. There is nothing like watching the world waking up on a foggy morning in the bottomlands, or watching a white tail fawn taking its first shaking steps into the new world. Or nothing so soul soothing as sitting by roaring cooking fire, the smell of roasted salted pork cooking on a forked stick over the dying embers while sipping a cup of warm coffee that has been flavored with cane sugar and powdered creamer. There also beavers, foxes and other fur bearing creatures that can be hunted for their fur. Fur that I often sell for a tiny profit to a fur trader that comes down to Benton once a season to swap with the local traders.

Now one night, I was camping on one of those tiny islands I was telling you about. It was late at night, I had just finished having a dinner of roasted salted pork, baked beans, strong coffee and piece of solid milk chocolate for the after dinner sweet. Anyway I had settled down for the night, and was snuggling under the plastic covers and about to fall asleep when something snatched aside the tent and there in the moonlight I saw it.

It stood as tall as a man, but was covered with thick black fur that covered every inch of its body. Its eyes burned like the deepest embers that were taken from the deepest pits of hell. Its hand were as big as hams and its fingers as thick as hot dogs. The thing loomed over me and then tossed its head back and released a loud booming yell that caused the trees to shake.

I remember peering at the thing, as as he started to advance toward me, it loomed over me and peered down at me, for a good long minute our eyes met and hair on the back of my neck stood up straight and my heart started to race as it started to advance toward me. What happened next, I don't really remember, I remember it swiped at me with its huge paw like hand, and I felt a stinging feeling on the left side of my face and then I saw stars.

When I came, the sun was shining and the birds were singing. My head felt somebody had slapped me with a piece of heavy scrap iron. The reflection of my face in the water revealed that the left side of my face was black and blue with one eye was swollen shut. Taking a deep breath, I started to poke around the campground, the camp ground was scattered with my personal items, my rucksack had torn to bits. I struggled to stand and struggled more to collect what gear I could savage. A lot I left there..

I somehow got myself together enough to paddle into town and to get myself to the local hospital. I don't know what attacked me, but I know it was no man. But whatever it was, I believe its still out there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to attack again. I never returned to bottomlands again, and shortly after that I gave up trapping for good. Instead I turned to fishing. And there my story ends.

The downstairs bathroom of our house has always given me the creepy-jeeps. Even when I was little, I hated going in there. It always felt wrong, like someone was watching me do my business from behind the mirror. When I was seven, My older sister Lily invited three of her best friends over for their weekly slumber party. This was around seven years before I discovered I was really a girl named Jamie. At the time, I was just a slightly underweight, blonde haired, blue eyed, petite boy with a round face and an extremely soft tone of voice. Lily on the other hand, was tall, blonde hair, blue eyed, athletic tomboy who towered over me. Being the youngest of the bunch and the only boy, it was my lot to be teased that night.

Now, the story I'm about to tell you is true, it's one hundred and ten percent true. Seven or so years have passed since that fateful night. And since that fateful night, I've learned so much about the occult and the spiritual realm. And the more I learn, the deeper my knowledge of the occult grows. The more nerves and concern I become, because what could have been a prank, a cruel prank and a very mean spirited one, but a prank nonetheless could have been an open invitation for something to mess with us. And the deeper I delve into my own occult research, the more I feel we conjure something up, something from beyond the shadows that night. And that spirit, or demon is still here, lurking in the shadows, biding its time, waiting for its chance to strike at us.

Anyway, returning to my story. On the night of the sleepover, I was holding up in my room, Lily and her friends had taken over the downstairs living room and had transformed it into their own personal domain The floor of the living room was littered with there unrolled sleeping bags, and made for themselves a fortress of pillows and blankets. They had feasted and gorged themselves on pizza, popcorn, potato chips, chocolate chip cookies all afternoon and had finally settled down for a marathon of rented horror flicks from the local BlockBuster.

About an hour or two into their marathon, and right as I had finally settled down in my bed for the night. I heard a loud knocking upon my bedroom door. Sleep still thick in my eyes, with one foot in the real world and the other still firmly rooted in the Land of Nod. I walked over the door, reached up and pulled the brass handle open. And there gathered around the doorway stood my older sister, standing to her left was her best friend Linda and standing to her right was her other best friend Joan.

“Hey there kiddo!” Lily said as she peered down at me with a small smile. “Me and the girls here.” She motioned toward Joan and Linda. “Have some talking you see, and we'll think it's wrong for you to be stuck up in your room all by yourself. So we decided we're going to make you an honorary 'Little Sister' for the night and just for tonight. As such we've decided that you should join us in the living room for some bonding time.” She said as she made the hand motion for me to step out of the comfort of my room.

Unsure of what would happen, but thrilled nevertheless to be invited and included, I followed closely behind Lily who guided Joan, Linda and I from the upstairs part of the house, down the staircase to the downstairs living room. The first thing I noticed was the floor of the living room was covered with pillows, blankets, Pizza Inn cardboard boxes, empty Coke-Cola Soda cans, discarded Milky Way, Baby Ruth, Butterfingers and Almond Joy wrappers littered the floor. The minute we reached the living room. Lily paused in her tracks, and started to look me up and down, after a few minutes of her nodding her head. She turned toward Joan and then turned toward Linda and Joan and whispered something into their ears. Both started to snicker and then all three both nodded their heads in wild approval. I twisted my lips into a frown and peered the trio, and for a brief second I considered turning around and retreating toward the safety of my room, but before I could act, Lily reached out and graphed my shoulder and offered me a little smile.

“Hey settle down there,” She said in a soothing tone of voice as she gave me a small smile. “Where you're speeding off too there sister.” She said as her grin reached from one ear to the other as she motioned her with her hand for Linda and Joan to tone down there giggling. “Not going to run off on you, jeez I thought you'd be cooler than that.” She said leaning in toward me, she was grinning softy.

At that moment my wit failed me, I could only look down at the wooden floorboard. Lily still smiling reached down and took my hand, she then looked over her shoulder and smiled toward Joan and Linda. She then looked up and down again.

“Hey girls.” Joan said, peering toward me. “Don't you think we need to change her outfit or something?” She said looking me up and starting. Starting at the very top of my head and slowly working her way down to my sock feet.

I can clearly remember blushing deeply as her eyes traveled from the tip top of my head down to my sock feet. I was only clad in a light blue “Thomas the Tank Engine '' Theme night shirt that was eight sizes too big for me, the shirt kind of hung off me, and in my mind acted like a make-shift nightgown. Yes, at the age of seven I was madly obsessed with “Thomas the Tank Engine'' and I'm not ashamed to say it that seven years later. I still find myself watching it when it comes on Saturday Mornings. The episodes that tend to be my personal favorite have always been the ones that feature supernatural elements, mostly in the form of ghost trains. Its even gotten better, since they started to include more female steam engines in the main line up. Anyway I'm rambling on, it's time to return to the story.

“Nah, we can change her outfit once she passes our test.” Lily said, her grin now reached from one ear to the other. Joan and Linda both nodded their heads in solemn agreement. Lily then placed her hand upon my shoulder and then started to guide me toward the downstairs bathroom. As soon as we reached the doorway, Lily removed her hand and smiled something of a devil's smile. She then turned toward Linda and nodded her head. Linda understanding the motion then stepped forward, cleared her throat and in a solemn tone of voice said.

“Now before you can join the 'Most Ancient and Respected Sisterhood of the Benton Southern Belles'.” She said in a powerful, commanding tone of voice. “You must first pass a test of courage that has been handed down throughout the years.” She said grinning like a cat, who had just cornered a mouse.

“Hey, Linda, I think we should just skip the test today.” Joan said in a wary tone of voice as she looked up. “I mean she looked whiter than a bleached sheet. No need to put her through this. She might just raise a fuss and then Lily's folks will come rushing down the stairs like pigs at feeding time. And you know how her folks are, there's no waiting for the morning to cut a switch from that old tree in the backyard.”

“No.” Linda said in a firm tone of voice. “He has to pass the test before we let him join the sisterhood.” She paused and then folded her hands across her chest. “I mean, you are a boy right? And boys gotta be brave and stuff. Otherwise how are you supposed to defend your future wife? I mean, Lily, Joan and I both had to pass that test and were girls.” She said pointing first to my older sister, then to Joan and finally to herself.

“Linda that's, that's just going a little too far girl.” Joan said, but she let her voice trail a little. Almost like she was afraid to openly challenge Linda in front of her best friend, my older sister.

“Nah, Lily's brother just like my cousin Mark. The boy just needs to be shown some old fashion tough love. You know, to tough up a little. Put some hairs on that chest and all that good stuff. So what are you going to do? Are you going to take our little test and become one of us? Or are you going to run away all scared and shit and hide under your covers like a big old baby? The choice is yours, and yours along.” Linda asked me, with a sneer a good mile long.

I took a deep breath, and gathering up my courage, I nodded my head.

“I'm going to take your little test.” I said balling up my fingers into a tiny bite-size fist. Yep, I was tiny for a seven year old at the time. A bit underweight too. Like people that often passed me on the streets of town often mistook me for a well developed four year old. One who had a remarkable developed vocabulary. That or a four year old who somehow hit a sudden growth spur. I was never quite sure how people took me.

The three girls nodded their head and started exchanging looks, after exchanging looks for a good minute, they advanced toward me and then started to guide me toward the downstairs bathroom. Once we reached the bathroom door, Linda handed me a flashlight. She then cleared her throat. And in a very, very menacing tone of voice leaned in, and once her face was a mere inches from mine, she started to speak.

“So, Jamie.” She started in a very menacing tone of voice. “Have you ever played the game of 'Bloody Mary' before?” she asked as she reached over and opened the bathroom door for me. The inside of the bathroom was darkest than the deepest grotto, or so it appeared to my seven year old mind.

“No..” I said as I started to back up. The tiny hairs on the back of my arms started to stand straight up as I felt Linda touch the small of my back. “But I know the legend..” I said trying to sound brave. But I believe I only came across as scared and meek. I mean everyone knows the legend of “Bloody Mary” and the instructions on how to summon her are always recited at every campfire, slumber party and sleepover one ever attends.

“Then you know how to summon her right? You must take this flashlight.” She said shifting her eyes toward Joan who slowly held out the flashlight. “Take the flashlight, and go into that bathroom, shine the light into the mirror and take a deep breath and chant. 'Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, I have your baby! I have your baby! I have your baby!' six times before shutting off the light and wait for thirty minutes.” Linda paused. “If you can spend thirty minutes, along in the darkness. We'll consider you brave enough to join us for the rest of the night.” She said the last part with a smirk that was a good mile and a half long.

I took a deep breath and with trembling limbs, I reached up and took hold of the flashlight. I felt like a knight taking a sword. Turning the flashlight on, I released my deep breath and marched toward the bathroom. I felt like a brave knight, going off to slay the evil dragon that had captured the fair princess. When I reached the bathroom. Joan, Linda and Lily were there, they held the door open for me. The bathroom was already pitch black. Once I entered the bathroom, I heard the bathroom close behind me. With the way back barred. I found myself almost required to finish the task. So once more, gathering up the few remains of courage I could muster, I started toward the bathroom mirror.

I took a deep breath and with trembling limbs, I reached up and took hold of the flashlight. I felt like a knight taking a sword. Turning the flashlight on, I released my deep breath and marched toward the bathroom. I felt like a brave knight, going off to slay the evil dragon that had captured the fair princess. When I reached the bathroom. Joan, Linda and Lily were there, they held the door open for me. The bathroom was already pitch black. Once I entered the bathroom, I heard the bathroom close behind me. With the way back barred. I found myself almost required to finish the task. So once more, gathering up the few remains of courage I could muster, I started toward the bathroom mirror.

I flipped on the switch and shone the light into the mirror. Taking a deep breath, I started to chant the following. 'Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, I have your baby! I have your baby! I have your baby!' I started to chant, over and over I repeated those words, a sense of fear and dread started to build with each passing second. I soon turned off the light and waited. And I waited and I waited some more, till at last something appeared on the surface of the mirror. The face of a ghostly pale woman, with eyes that were pitch black.

A thick liquid, I think it was tar, was rolling down the woman's cheeks, starting from her eyes and streaming down her face. The woman opened her mouth, only to reveal a gaping black hole. I don't remember what happened next. I remember a sense of panic overcame me, overcome by fear, I slammed my shoulder into the bathroom door, knocking down Lily, Joan and Linda who had been holding the door shut,and I mean knocking them down, when I stepped over them in my panic retreat, they were sprawled out on the floor.

Without looking down, I stepped over them and bounded up the stairs. Screaming something about a woman with no eyes who was dripping blood down her face. That of course woke up the whole household. That led to Lily, Joan and Linda getting a good fussing at from my mom and dad. And come morning the whole matter was forgotten. But that image has haunted me, I think that women or whatever it was, wanted to drag me to hell or something. And like I said, I still think it's lurking in the shadows. Biding its time and waiting for a chance to pounce and once more drag me down into the underworld.

The End.

Benton Agricultural High School is one of the oldest public schools still in operation in the state of Mississippi. And if rumors are to be believed it's also supposed to be one of the most haunted. With no fewer than a dozen or so ghost laying claim to the school. One of the most famous and these stories is certain to a certain girl who is reported to have haunted the nurses office on the third floor of the school. She also reported to roam the hallways between classes.

Benton Agricultural High School first opened its doors in 1904 as part of an overall building program that was sponsored by the elite from Boston, Memphis, and New Orleans. The goal of this program was to slowly improve the standard of living in the Yazoo Delta through higher education and the teaching of Christina Morales. If the program failed or succeeded in its goals, it's still yet to be seen in this year of 2018. But returning to the story.

In the early years of the school, the school offered to to border students who lived far away. The cost of a room for the quarter was two dollars and it covered meals and bedding. Now, Benton was till something of a tiny settlement on the banks of the Big Black River, with very few people living in the town itself. Most instead lived on the surrounding plantations in one room shacks called “Sharecroppers Hovers”. And the presence of such a school did little to encourage people to move. Most of the students, inf act, came from either the more urban city of Yazoo City, the newly christen county seat of the newly formed Yazoo County, then a thriving settlement of seven thousand souls some twenty three miles to the north of Jackson, the newly built state capital that was quickly becoming the center of commerce and culture in the state that was located some twenty miles to the south.

Indeed most of the students came from neighboring Yazoo City with a modest few coming from Jackson and a token lot coming down from Vicksburg. Most if not all of them arrived on the newly built Yazoo Delta-Valley Railroad, a small railroad that's still in operation today. The Yazoo Delta-Valley railroad is more commonly called the “Yellow Dog” for the “YD” that was painted on the tenders of its locomotives and the doors of its Boxcars.

Among those students was a young woman of sixteen named Scarlet Rebecca Saxton, Scarlet came from a rich family of merchants and businessmen that hailed from Jackson. She spoke with a refined accent and had been sent to this school in hopes of earning a diploma with heavy emphasis on the liberal arts and bookkeeping in hopes that with such skills she might one day help her father and three older brothers govern and expand the budding empire of trade they were building throughout the south. Little did she know that the minute she stepped onto the wooden platform in downtown Benton, under a cloudless, azure sky that the sand in her hourglass was quickly starting to run out.

You see, while the winter down south had been modest, the winter up north had been brutal, one with plenty of ice and snow, and as the spring thaw progressed and spring melted into summer, that snow and ice started to melt into water, water that flowed into the many rivers and creeks that feed the mighty Mississippi River and a Tsunamis the water started to roll down the Mississippi River . The water push the river out of its banks and and as it rolled toward the mouth of the Gulf of Mexico it pushed its water into the Yazoo River, Little Sunflower, Big Sunflower and of course the Big Black and as Mississippi rose from its banks, and began its assault the man made levees many locals knew that a flood of biblical proportions was in the making, the flood reached its zenith a few days after Scarlet reached Benton.

The levees that surround the Yazoo River had melted away, covering the fields between Yazoo City and Vicksburg on the Mississippi under sixteen foot of water. The flooding had also cut the railroad line between Greenville and Yazoo City. Now, Benton Agricultural High school being located on the high bluffs that overlooked the river was spared the worst of the flooding. And thus the students were safe for the moment. So Scarlet had little to worry about. But with the flood came the plague of mosquitoes and with them came the dreaded curse of “Yellow Jack”.

A few days into classes another levee this time one on the Big black caved in and busted and the sudden onrush of water knocked out the wooden trestle that spanned the Big Black River and severed the main lifeline of the town. You see the railroad was the main way in and out of Benton at the time and with that connection cut, the town was for the most part isolated. To make matters worse it would take months to repair it with the flood water rising in and around Yazoo City, the spur line leading into Yazoo City was also knocked out.

Leaving only barges or privately owned boats as a means of escape or to bring in goods and supplies. All of this mattered little to Scarlet who was ranked among the most wealthy of students and thus noticed little of the events unfolding beyond the walls of the school. As the flood water rose, the steady rhythm of school life kept going. Even the outbreak of the Yellow Fever, a viral disease with such colorful nicknames as “Yellow Jack” or “Bronze John” and as the local newspapers named it, “The Saffron Scourge”.

The suffering and rising death toll of the town people and the field hands in the surrounding farms did not bother the headmaster who refused to send the remaining few students home, instead, he ordered a grand gala to be held to keep the young minds off the horrors of the plague raging outside the safety of the school.
And so a gala was held, and it turned out to be a fine on. The gymnasium of the school was filled with teenagers swinging to the latest tunes while on stage an hired Jazz band hammered away. Girls in fine fine gowns, sipped punch that had been cooled with ice and spiked with local whiskey. They giggled and flirted with boys who wore woolen coats and ties. They took there whiskey straight, refreshments were served and the sound of laughter and music filled the warm night air. It was a night of wonder for all. Nobody seemed to notice if somebody coughed or complained about feeling a little too warm. Nobody that is till early the next morning when the first death was reported among the students a young man by the name of Oscar Joan was found dead in his bed the morning after the party.

By midmorning half the school was stricken, students and teachers alike were ill. Panic soon set in and the dead were often or not left to rot in their beds. Or were covered with sheets and put away, as the hours dragged on. Something of a sense of order and reason resumed as the area that is now the nurse's office became something of a make-shift morgue. A nurse and doctor were summoned from town along with the local Episcopalian minister and the local Roman Catholic priest, both who were called to tend to the dying to offer their respective last rites.

As the hours melted into days, the number of dead increased. Many who were given last rites quickly slipped from this world to the other. Once their final breath left their weary lungs, they were wrapped in their bed sheets and carried away to a makeshift graveyard that was located where the JROTC building is located now. Hour by hour they carted out the stricken till at last death's cold, bony hand reached out and wrapped its firm strong hands around frail little Scarlet.

For “Bronze John” had come a calling during the night and at his leaving he had given Scarlet a deadly kissed and on the morn of the next day, in the pre-dawn twilight she carried toward the sick bay, there the doctor on duty gave her only a quick once over and with a sigh he shook his head. She was beyond his help.

Scarlet died that very afternoon, sweating and vomiting up blood and vile. She was buried in the same gown she wore to the gala only a few days ago. Since then, many have reported a young girl around the age of fourteen strolling up and down the hallways between classes. The girl is always dressed in a fiery red gown. Other times she appears in the JROTC building, watching the instructors as if amused by something known only to her. Other times she is said to appear to be field behind the other. Other times she said to appear at the bedside of resting students in the Nurse's office. What is clear is that Scarlet Saxton, the young belle of Southern High Society is still trying to finish her diploma, though we'll be over one hundred or so years have passed.

The township of Benton has three main water towers, one of which has been closed down and is no longer in operation. That one happens to also be the tallest of the tree, the structure looms over the skyline of the town like a sleeping giant made out of copper, iron and steel. The rails lining the catwalk that surrounds the dome have turned to orange rust and are crumbling and decaying. The once bright navy blue letters that once spelled out the word “Benton” have become chipped and turned to an off color of blue.

At the bottom is an old pumping station, a small shed, a small brick building with a black slate roof and a few windows. Most of the windows though have been smashed in by stones thrown by rambunctious teenage vandals. The wooden door hangs at a crooked angel, its brass hinges barely supporting its weight and by the wooden door, almost hidden by the tall grass, covered in vines is a small granite memorial cross.
Engraved upon the center of the cross is a name. “Sterling M. Richard “Born August 18, 1984” followed by “Died October 31, 2000” and finally at the bottom, just below the name, the date of birth and the date of death there can be found the inscription of “Requiescat in Pace”.

But she does not rest in peace, no because on moonlit nights, when the moon sits high in the sky. People often report seeing a young woman, one with pretty blonde hair and baby blue eyes. She often reported wearing a stunning, red satin gown. She often appears to be leaning over the ledge of the tower, she appears to be deep in thought, then in a blink of an eye, she climbs over the railing and then people report hearing a loud scream followed by a loud thumb.

The story of Sterling is one of betrayal, heartbreak and drama. All centering on events that took place at the homecoming dance of Benton Agricultural High School in the autumn of two thousand. Rebecca Joan Fowler was the self proclaimed “Queen” of the school. The girls bathroom was her court and there she summoned all who dared to rise above their stations. Victorian Alice Baker was her right hand girl and the powerful muscle that powered her operation and kept her on the throne. A beg below her was a girl called Amy Alice Allen, she commanded Rebecca's spy ring. Silent as the grave and broody as a poet, God had given her a mind for schoolyard politics that most would kill to have. She was the brains behind the operation and the head of a system of informants that kept Rebecca informed on everything and anything. It was even reported she had moles among the staff and at the main office.

It was this circle of spies, informants and turncoats that brought Sterling to Rebecca's attention. Sterling was one of those girls who would never become Homecoming Queen or a member of the Homecoming Court unless really major, like an earth shattering, mind numbing event shook up the established social order that's been in place since kindergarten. She was a shy girl, who for the most part stayed to herself and had only a small circle of friends to depend on. She was also sweet on the star quarterback of Benton Gators. His name had been forgotten and lost to the flow of time. But what is known and remembered is that he too returned her feelings and the two had been passing notes through various friends between classes and exchanging late night texts.

Now, Alice had been intercepting those letters and text through her spies, one of those spies happens to be the very sister of the football player in question. Who's statues as cheerleader brought her under the all seeing eyes of Rebecca. Her spies would hand copy each letter before passing it off. It was through this method that Rebecca could track the movements of both Sterling and the football player.
And as the date of the homecoming dance approached, the amount of letters increased ten fold. With a growing unease Rebecca read as the flames of love were kindled. Between Sterling and her football player. Deciding to bring things to a head, she summoned Sterling to the girls bathroom on the second floor There, the orders were laid out plain and simple. Sterling was to stop talking to the football player and take a vow before her trio of acolytes and God never to dare flirt with the boy again. Or any boy for that matter till she finished high school.

Sterling bravely laughed the threats off. Smirking Rebecca polity asked Victorian to take her into one of the stalls for a little “Chat”. Despite the girl's protest, the stronger and older girl hauled the younger girl into the bathroom and after a few minutes of repeatedly dunking her head into the privy finally made her point quite clear. She then tossed Sterling out of the bathroom and onto the dirty floor of the hallway, soon to follow were her textbooks and her school papers. Looking like a drowned rat, she started to seek the attention of her lover.

She did not find her lover, instead she found only scorn and ridicule from her peers because of her appearance. What happens next will forever go down as one of the darkest days of Benton AG. Sterling, in much turmoil, walked back to her house, a two story Victorian located in the influential “Town Creek” district. An area of town known for its fine Victorian and Edwardian houses that line the brick paved streets. Historically the towns Elite chose to settle and live within that district.

As she started to walk, she started to text her lover, but by fate, her love phone had been stolen by his sister who was keeping it in her possession. But her text fell on death ears, and with each block of town she put behind her, her text became more and more frantic till at last she was at the end of her rope. Finding herself along and emotionally shattered, she sneaked into her father's office and broke into the chestnut liquor drawer. She reached for the first thing that came into her sight. A large gallon bottle of Gentleman Jack.
Shot by shot she started to empty the bottle. Her text became more frantic, soon she found herself tripping over her own shoe laces. It was then, in this moment of drunken madness, she thought up a plan. Reeling from the day's events, hurt, confused and scared and above all feeling abounded. She walked up the stairs and waltzed into her bedroom, there she went into her closet and dressed herself in the gown she and her mom had picked out for her homecoming dance. Once the gown was one, she did her hair and make-up and put on her best pair of shoes and started to walk, she walked down the stairs and out the front door and onto the streets.

For what seemed like hours she walked the narrow, bricked streets of Benton, till at last she stood before the looming iron water tower. Dropping her phone on the ground she started to climb the iron rungs. Soon she was standing over the railing. Taking a deep breath she eased her grip and jumped. Thirty frantic beats of her heart and she was no more.

They found her body the next morning. She snapped her neck during the fall and the dew had soaked her gown. Only the family of Sterling and a few close friends grieved for the loss of the young girl. And since that day, on clear nights, when the moon is full and the wind is still, people often report seeing a woman climbing the tower, others hear a loud, ear piercing stream followed by a loud thump. And still others yet report passing Sterling as she makes that long trek toward the tower.

Tales of the monsters Rougarou have been passed down from one generation to the other. The Rougarou, is something of a werewolf type creature that is said to stalk the underbrush of Big Cypress Swamp, searching for its favorite prey, a careless hunter, trapper or fisherman. It's also said to prey on household pets when the picking is lean. It's said to favor cats more than dogs. Its also said to make the many hidden hollows and vales that dot the thickly covered area the locals call “Haunted Hollow” its home.

I was raised in “Haunted Hollow” , an area just fifteen miles south of Benton. Now, the township of Benton is surrounded by a half ring of hills the locals have given the colorful nickname of “Haunted Hollow” too. And if you look at the map, Benton itself is kind of sandwiched between this half ring of hills to the North and and by the Big Black River to the South.

Anyway my name is Cerridwen Circe Whitethorn and I'm an apprentice witch. My mom, Pandora Whitethorn is a herbalist and practitioner of herbal medicines. Now part of my apprenticeship is learning how to identify various types of healing herbs and plants that grow in the hills, swamps and marshes of this region. I'm also tasked with collecting them and bringing them back to mom so she can make her potions as she calls them. It was on such an expedition that I know I came very close to being the Rougarou's lunch.

It was late July and the weather was hot and sultry. The Dog Days of summer were upon us, I started out that morning dressed in a light cotton dress, a broad straw hat with a pink ribbon tied around it. A pair of leather saddles, an old leather bag that held a bottle of water, clippers, and a pair of leather work gloves and finally an old basket. Mom had gone into town to buy a few odds and ends and had instructed me to go out and look for some herbs that should be coming into bloom. And with my gear in hand and my marching orders pocketed, I started out on my quest.

The woods that surround our house are rich in herbs, finding them is not a problem, the problem is getting to where they grow, they grow deep in the woods, so find them one will have to traverse through thorn bushes, over creeks and brooks, up hills and down hollows. And in summer, the forest can become a lush, green hell. Timber Rattlers and Copperheads love the forest and often lay ready to strike from the shadows. One bite from those and you might as well say you're prayers. Beside snakes there's also ticks, leeches, gnats, black flies and mosquitoes.

Anyway returning to my story, I had been hiking for about three hours and I was drenched with sweat, my dress clung to my body and I had just guzzled down the last bottle of water I had brought with me. It had to be pushing close to a hundred and ten that day. I had only filled my basket half full with roots, berries, and herbs, enough to last my mom a few days I was sure. And so with the sun high in the sky, and sweat stinging my eyes I turned toward home.

I was almost home when a powerful thirst overtook me, I became light headed and dizzy and I started to crave water, I needed water, knowing I was still a good mile and a half from home, I decided to bend down and fill my water bottle from one of the many creeks, brooks and streams dot our woods. The water is pure, mom and I have visited the sources of these creeks, brooks and streams many times, and all the water for moms potions come from them, I'm pretty sure there safe to drink. With my plastic bottle in hand, I bent down and caught some of the fresh, flowing water, being spring water it was frigid despite the heat and the minute I lifted the bottle to my lips was the minute I felt blissful relief from the heat.

I quickly swallowed that little bit of water and bent down to fill up my bottle again when I heard a low growling sound fill the air. I looked up and there on a low rising hill I saw it. A beast that stood as tall as a man, it was covered in matted black fur, its paws were the size of tractor tires and his muzzle was black as tar. The beast threw its head back and released a howl that caused my blood to run cold. Then, it started to run down the hill and to my horror it was running right at me!

I don't know why, but I bent down and picked up a small rock that was laying at my foot, I picked the rock up and tossed it with all my strength, then went sailing through the air before smashing into the face of the beast. The beast was stunned and for a moment paused its advance. This pause allowed me to find another sizable rock and once more I tossed it, this time aiming for the head of the beast. The rock smashed into the head of the beast.. And this time it howled in pain. Its eyes became red and it pulled back its lips to revel row upon row of sharp, white fangs.

And for a good long minute we stood there, facing each other down, then sniffed the air and howled once more vanished into the woods. I then took off running, I ran faster than I had ever ran before. I did not stop running till I reached the front porch of my house. Mom at this point had returned from running around.

“Mommy” I cried as I dropped my basket on the ground and rushed toward my mother, I quickly threw my arms around her and squeezed her sides and buried my face into her blouse, I could feel hot tears running down my cheeks.. I was so scared, I thought the thing was going to eat me! And we'll be safe and sound and in my mother's arms. It was a relief let me tell you.

What happened then? I told my mom about it, she listened and made notes, she also told me to go into my room and to use my best penmanship to write down everything that happened, and I mean she stressed everything, I was told to leave nothing out. Once I had finished writing my report, she ordered me to get into the bathtub and bath. She said a nice, warm, bubble bath would help. She even drew the bath water herself, and she went a step further and washed my back and hair for me. After that she fixed me a light dinner of chicken tenders and french fries. After dinner she brought me a mug of chamomile tea and tucked me in. Tired from the days events, I quickly fell asleep in the cool darkness of my room.

I woke up around midnight to we'll make water, once I had finished I returned to my room. The moon was full that night and not a cloud could be seen in the sky. The stars shimmed like millions of fairy lights in the darkness. But then, in the garden below I saw something that made my blood run cold, the same beast before was standing near daddies tool shed. And the beast was peering right up at me, my blood turned to ice water as it tossed its head back and once more howled its howl before vanishing into the woods.

The End.

There seems to be a national trend right now in the nation to remove all monuments and statues that were put up to honor the memory of the short lived “Confederate States of America” while in this piece, I will not express my personal views on the matter. I will say this, removing them will not remove the ghost the “American Civil War” Created. My hometown of Benton, Mississippi a small township located in a bend of the Big Black River, like many small towns and villages in Mississippi has its own monument to honor the fallen sons of the south. A statue of a bronze confederate soldier dressed in full uniform with a rifle in one hand and a blanket wrapped around around his shoulders. The soldier is being handed a banner or battle flag by a woman. The monument was donated to the town in the autumn of nineteen ten. The monument is supposed to honor the perpetuate memory of and I quote, “The perpetuate memory of the noble courage and self-sacrificing devotion of the woman of the Confederacy.”.

The twenty four foot tall thing sits right across the street from the town's Episcopal Church, “St. Mary's Episcopal Church” and beside the town's library that is named after the Confederate general who commanded the town's defense in the “Battle of Benton Road” General Albert Sidney Johnston. I mention all of this, because while they may remove monuments, the graves and change the name of certain buildings, they will never remove the stain or cleanse the sin. The war between the North and the South ripped the heart out of our nation, it pitted brother against brother, son against father, father against son, mother against daughter and daughter against mother. The war spawned a hundred thousand of ghost too. Every major battlefield and every minor one is supposed to claim its fair share of ghosts. From the high bluffs of Vicksburg that overlook the mighty Mississippi River to the rolling farmlands of Gettysburg, stories of ghosts are abound. Serving future generations of Americans a perpetuated reminder of the horrors of war.

Now that we got that out of the way, I can tell you about my ghostly encounter, this is my third story, I've added to this little collection of ghost stories and urban legends. My story today focuses on a little bayou that is located twelve miles from town. That twelve miles as the crow flies, its more like twenty five if you follow the winding course of the river. If you were, by chance to go down to the court house right now and look up the survey maps for this region, you will find the bayou I'm talking about. It's called “Millers Bayou'' on those government survey maps. But the locals in Benton call it a different name, the name we go by is always 'Haunted Bayou” and there is a reason for that. Now when I was a young man, I had been taken under the wing of several local commercial fishermen who earned their keep by harvesting catfish from the many bayou's, channels and cut offs that dot this region. It was on one such night that I spotted the ghost of the old Confederate ironclad, the CSS Arkansas.

But before I tell you about that, I feel I should tell you a little about the history of the doomed ship the CSS Arkansas and how it came to rest at the bottom of this tiny bayou located some miles from town. Now in this region, a region that at the time of the American Civil War lacked railroads and had only a handful of roads, and what few roads that existed were hard packed dirt roads that often kicked up a dust storm during the dry winter months and became deep rutted holes in winter. And so the various rivers and waterways chief among them in this region were the Sunflower, Little Sunflower, Big Black and Yazoo these four rivers quickly became the main means of moving people and good from one small settlement to the other, these small river front settlements would over time become the first true towns and cities in this chiefly rural area. Anyway as the fortunes of the southern armies faded more and more columns of Federal forces pushed into this region. Yazoo City soon fell to advancing Federal Forces, their objective was to capture and destroy the make-shift shipyard there. They failed and the bulk of the garrison some six hundred rag-tag, threadbare soldiers, many of them lacking shoes and many of them armed with old flintlock muskets withdrew from the town and moved down the Yazoo and then finally the Big Black till at last they reached the safety of Benton.

Once they reached Benton, they were joined by several hundred “Volunteers'' and formed a chain of defensive works including trenches and rifle pits. The outline and remains of these old earth works can still be seen in the field and woodland east of town. That is, if you look hard enough and know were to look, many have been plowed under, but many still remain. Once these crude and one would say primitive defenses were in place, a small make-shift shipyard was thrown up. A historical mark stands at the sight of the old shipyard right now. Only one ship would ever be built in the yard though before an attacking Federal column would come crashing through the ill constructed and undermanned. The column would as history records put the town to the torch, houses would be burned, business looted and warehouses filled with cotton taken. All told over two million of dollars of damage would be done. Anyway returning to the story, there would be only one ship built in that yard and she would be called, CSS Arkansas. She was named in honor of her state where construction on her first began. Professional and amateur Civil War historians both agree that the ship was doomed from the start, her boilers had been made of salvaged copper, the wooden planks used to construct her keel and hull had been savaged from scrap, the metal plates attached had likewise been savaged from a dozen or abandoned projects.

She was not a beauty nor was she easy on the eyes, she was a squat square of a ship. Neither was she fighting fit, her crew was ill trained and morale was low, despite these well known facts, she was ordered forward to help with the relief efforts of Vicksburg, that had been placed under siege by Federal Forces, she never made it. Accounts from the period say she took on water and sank in “Millers Bayou” others say a fire doomed her, whatever happened, the ship never reached Vicksburg, and two hundred men perished with her.

Anyway it was a moonless night, and the water was smooth as glass. I can remember how my old aluminum pirogue cut through the murky waters. The wind was motionless, the area silent as the grave, only the faint sound of my old wooden paddle being dipped into the water broke the quintessences that hung over the area. I was about to haul in my last net when it happened. I swear to you on the Holy Bible, the water started to boil around me. And I mean that, the water started to boil, and boy it boiled like water in a copper kettle over an open flame on a gas stove. Then, a sudden and powerful wind rose up from the east and pushed the dark clouds away from the face of the moon.

Streams of pale, broken, silvery moonlight then started to stream down from the heavens, I could see the reflection of the moon and how it shone on the pale, glassy water and the water just kept boiling away, then I saw it, right out of the corner of right eye, the water broke and then from its muddy depths of the bayou there came a old smoke stack, bent and half and hanging low. Soon the whole of the ship popped up from the water and then she started to float. She was surrounded by a light greenish glow.

I just sat there in my old pirogue, my fingers wrapped tightly around the paddle, my eyes glued to the phantom ship. My mouth hung open, my eyes became as wide as saucer plates and the warm blood that flowed in my body became like ice. And I swear to you, I felt the front of my bluejeans become soaked with pee as that ship just floated along, no waves she made and then it happened. When she reached the deepest part of the bayou, the place I had cast my nets and put out a few lines. I saw sheets of fire, orange and yellow shoot out from her side, fire balls the size of a bulls head burst from her decks and shot into the night sky like fireworks on the fourth of July. A second later, I heard a big old bag, like somebody had mashed two pieces of iron together. That was followed by a big old boom, the boom echoed across the water and nearly caused me to lose my balance.

And then I heard it, a sound I can only say sounded like the screams of the damned, screams of men who were trapped below, a horrible noise of pain and suffering, a noise that rose as the flames licked away at their flesh and burned away their clothing.

And to my horror, humanoid shadows started to fill the night, these humanoid shadows were covered in flames, they illuminated the night and the smell of roasting human flesh that filled the air, though phantom made me toss what little supper I had into the water. And then as quick as it appeared it vanished. Well, I soon collected myself and paddled away, I left my lines and my nets there. I've never been back to collect them, too scared to. And so, I end this story like I started it. You can remove the flag, tear down the statues, remove the headstones and do all that. But the ghost will still remain. I'm telling you, that war left a stain on the fabric of this nation. And nothing, I mean nothing is going to get that stain out, those ghosts will keep reminding us of our sins.

I was something of a tomboy growing up. And I often spent my summers here in Benton, helping my grandfather the late Albert John Brewer around the family farm when I could escape the attention of my grandmother Sabbath Mari Brewer who was a Croft before she married my grandfather in a simple “Low Church” service down at St. Mary's Episcopal Church, the towns only Episcopal Church and the cradle of bourgeoisie of the Benton. My grandfather owned a two hundred acre parcel of land just north of town, a parcel of land that became a modest, successful farm that was started by his great-great-great grandfather Hershey Alex Brewer, who had passed it down the family line till finally it came to him and then was willed to me at his passing.

Anyway, I'm rambling a little. I'm not a writer, nor do I consider myself a skilled storyteller. I was never really one to tell stories. I'm just trying to help my sister with her book here. Anyway, back to the story. Now the town of Benton has a large Hispanic population. Most of them come and go, a few have settled down in our town and have added their own colorful flair to the otherwise dull fabric of southern small town living. The bulk of them though are migrant or seasonal farm workers. They come when the corn, wheat or cotton is ready to be planted, once the crop is in the ground they leave and return a few months later when the crop is ready to be harvested. This lucrative trade is the one reason why Benton despite its small size can boost a modern Holiday Inn and the only reason I feel while the historical Benton Hotel, located downtown has remained open and withered the many ups and downs of our small town.

And I ramble again. But I feel it's best if we understand that. Because I spent a lot of summer helping my grandfather around his farm and because he often employed these seasonal workers, I often spent a lot of time around them. I would bring them lunch in the field, peddle out coolers of cool drinking water and I often attended Mass with their families down at All Saints Catholic Church, the only Catholic Church in town. Grandmother was a Roman Catholic before she married grandfather who was an Episcopalian. As such I was raised in both churches. Attending both services on any given Sunday.

Again, I'm rambling on. Anyway, the point I'm trying to get across is this, I spent a lot of time around them. And from them I learned how to cook some amazing dishes, like I can fix fajitas, taco's, burritos, enchilada's and taquitos with the best of them. And I also learned about their folklore, I quickly became engrossed by stories of blood sucking chupacabra and the mournful soul of La Llorona. Whom I swear I had an encounter with one hot, summer afternoon. When I had just turned twelve.

Like I said before I was a tomboy growing up. And while grandfather and grandmother had a television, you could only pick up your basic channels. It was like thirteen or fourteen channels maybe. And I only ever really watched Nickelodeon for the occasional reruns of “Are You Afraid of the Dark?” and “My Brother Peter” and of course the cult classic “Double Dare” and sometimes I would catch a rerun of the red haired stepchild of Nickelodeon “What Would You Do?” Those shows along with the “Elizabeth's House Party” and the many Ken Burns documentary films formed pretty much the core reason why I would stay in and watch television when the weather outside was too cold or too hot for me to ramble the hills, hollows and hidden meadows of the countryside.

Anyway getting back on topic. One of my favorite pastimes during the warm summer months when I was not helping my grandfather around the farm, or attending socials with my grandmother around Benton was to stalk the creeks, brooks and streams that flowed from hidden sources from hidden pools deep in the half ring of circles of hills that surrounded our town. One such creek was Wilson creek that is born deep in the hills of Haunted Hollow.

From these hidden areas of the fable Haunted Hollow it trickled down gaining strength as it did. Starting off as nothing more than a small dribble it quickly became a brook as it left the hills and greeted the flatland. As it flowed from the hollow, it wound its way across our farmland before reaching Benton. Once it reached Benton it had become something that amounts to a small river as it flows through the neighborhood that borders it. Finally it empties itself at the bottom of the neighborhood when the blacktop gives way to reeds, cattails and ferns.

Anyway it was on that section of creek I spotted her, it was one of the hottest days of the year. The weather bulletin had accurately predicted it would be one of the hottest days of the year. With the high reaching into the temperature reaching into the triple digits. It was the kind of heat that could kill you. I remember the sun reflected off the bare sandy banks and how it hurt to walk across the stones, worn smooth over thousands of years of water running over them.

The water was freezing cold too despite the heat. I waded through the water barefooted as the day I was born, an old fishing net held high above my head. I was crayfish hunting. Why you may ask, for grandmother to make into a wonderful bisque. Crayfish Bisque for those poor souls that have not been enlightened to the taste of good southern cooking is a treat that is only served around Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. I had a good bucket full of them at this point, I had been searching the creek from one end to the other. Stalking the banks were the tiny little lobsters love to hide.

Then I spotted something, it looked like the outline of a woman, she wore a long, flowing white dress and her hair that reached down to her shoulders was dripping wet. I remember her hair most of all because it was the color of charcoal and hung down around her shoulders like thousands of tiny mop strings.

The woman had her back turned away from me and she was kneeling down. Then as if aware of my presents, she stood up and quickly turned to face me. Her face was pinched and gray, her lips were kind of blueish and her eyes, they were the purest color of red I've ever seen. Looking into them caused me to break into a cold sweat. Visions of hell filled my head as I looked deeper into them. She then started to move toward me. She seemed to float along the water. I tried to move, but I found myself rooted in place, like some supernatural force was holding me in place. I tried to pray, but the words got caught in my throat. A sense of dread started to come over me, and a feeling of doom.

Time seemed to come to a complete halt. The woman kept inching her way toward me, a wicked little smile crossed her face. I felt like I was living a rerun of 'Are You Afraid of the Dark'. I mean here I was, facing down a monster that had just appeared and was closing in on me. And what happened next still kind of puzzles me. I had just been baptized into the Catholic Church and later that month confirmed into the Episcopal Church, like I said, grandmother and grandfather could never make up their mind when it came to me. Anyway one of the gifts I've received from the Catholic Church following my baptism I had given been a three blessed saint medals. Those saint medals hung around my neck at this very moment and somehow they started to glow.

They glowed the prettiest blue light I've ever seen. And that glowing blue light seemed to surround me and form something like a force field around me. This force field kept whatever that woman was away from me and made her retreat down the creek, but she never broke eye contact with me, no she kept looking me dead in the eyes as she started to move down the creek. And much to my horror, she started to fade into the thin air.

We'll, that was enough for me, I started running away as fast as my two feet could carry me. Net in one hand, bucket in the other, heat be damned I scrambled that bank and as soon as my feet touched that gravel road that connected the various parts of our farm together I took off like a bat out of hell. I ran for a good twenty minutes before I was forced to slow down and even then I still formed myself to break out into sprints. I only allowed myself to really slow down and breath when I reached the safety of the farm house. I can remember setting my net down on the front porch of the house, and then dropping my bucket of crayfish and then breathing like a dragon I reached down took hold of the brass door handle, gave it a twist and pushed it in.

The door flung open and I quickly rushed inside. Once I was inside, I slammed the door shut, bolted the lock, fastened the chain and locked all the windows. I then fixed myself a snake, stuffed pizza pockets and then I tried to push that sighting out of my head.

For generations the legend of 'Jenny Greenteeth' has haunted the imagination of the children of Benton. The tall tales of the malevolent water hang with green, mottled skin, long hair and sharp, pointed teeth. That is supposed to lurk out of sight beneath beds of duckweed in ponds, canals or gravel pits. Biding her time, waiting for her chance to rise up and snatch from the banks careless children or the elderly that had strayed too close to her hiding place. And with an almost supernatural strength she would then reach out, quickly wrap her longer fingers around their legs and with one quick jerk, she would drag them into the water and under a floating mass of duckweed. Once they had succumbed to drowning and had stopped struggling. Jenny would then proceed to devour them before returning to her hiding place.

Stories like this are common to very young children to scare them straight if you will and to warm them away from dangerous places. But the story of 'Jenny Greenteeth' stands out to me. I was never told the legend growing up, nor did my older sister ever mention it to me. I only happened upon it late one night while I was browsing the internet. When I first came to Benton about a year and a half ago. I was really digging the supernatural scene, I would spend all of my free time down at the local library. There I would pass the time by reading dozens upon dozens of cheap, paperback books that focused on like myself encountering the supernatural. In fact, I was becoming so much of a bookworm that my older sister, Kayla, was quite alarmed at how much time I was spending inside my room and stuck in front of the computer booting me out of the house one morning.

I mean, what she did was this, she packed me a lunch bucket, a very big lunch I should add, two peanut butter sandwiches, a few snack cakes, a big chocolate car, she also filled a tiny cooler with crushed ice and filled it with a few can sodas, a few bottles of water, a juice box. She loaded all of this stuff in the back of my Schwinn Meridian Adult Trike. She then told me to get some sun. I honestly felt like Bilbo Baggins being hurried out of his nice warm Hobbit hole by the meddling wizard Gandalf the Gray in the opening stages of 'The Hobbit'. And so with thirteen hours of sunlight ahead of me, plenty of provisions and not a care in the world, I started to roam the countryside.

By chance I ended up peddling down this lonely section or road. And by lonely I mean both sides were surrounded by tall trees that cast shadows down upon the pavement, the many potholes that had formed as one season melted into another had been filled in with very rough white stones. The trees that grew on both sides of the road also grew so close together that it blocked out the gentle wind that was blowing that day. There must have been some houses nearby because there was a power line running the whole length of the lane. A dozen or so years must have passed since anybody had been out there to tend to them because the power line drooped down and hung low to the ground. So low in fact that one could stand flat footed on the side of the land and if they so desired reach up and touch it. I know I could, and I'm far from the tallest person in the world.

The whole area was pretty eerie too and really put me on edge. But I pushed those thoughts away from me and pushed on anyway, you know how the old saying goes, curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back. And I knew myself well enough to know if I turned back now, I'll be kicking myself later that evening. So I peddled on and soon I came to the end of the lane. The lane all of a sudden opened up to this big, wide, open space. From where I was standing I could tell the road once made a circle around a pond. Then I noticed that there were a few old houses here as well.

The houses themselves seemed abounded, the two front yards were choked full of weeds and nettles and the grass had grown to the height of the old mailbox. The drain gutters were likewise choked with leafs, sticks and stuff. The driveway was starting to crack and the window of the house to be dirty with cobwebs growing in their corners. Across from the two houses there could be seen what I thought was the remains of a pond.

I think at one time it might have been a duck pond or a fishing pond. My eyes were drawn toward the tiny dirt island that stood in the middle. The pond though had silted in and was chocked full of duckweed, its banks overgrown with cattails, water reeds and other water dwelling plants.

As I drew closer to the pond, I noticed that floating upon the beds of duckweed were about a dozen children's kicking ball. A few orange and black basketballs floated next to a few brown footballs, and a few white soccer balls. The balls floated toward the center of the pond. There was nothing odd about that, as one could say a careless child had kicked the ball too close to the edge of the pond or a bully had tossed a young child's ball into the pond.

My curiosity piqued, I started to walk toward the edge of the pond. As I did so, I started to feel like the whole world had shifted its attention toward me. I felt like I was being watched, like somebody was taking note of every step I took. A sudden silence fell over the whole area. The surrounding woodland that had been just a minute ago filled with the sounds of nature had fallen silent. The gentle breeze had fallen. I felt like I was being judged, sized up if you will. And that feeling of being watched grew stronger and stronger with each passing second and the closer I drew near to the edge of the pond, an overwhelming feeling of doom started to shadow my heart. I drew toward the edge of the pond. Finally I reached the edge of the water and I felt a sense of dread overcome me. I could see three children's trikes half submerged in the water. Then it happened. I did something I could not explain, it was like that idea just clicked in my head.

I started to search the area for a stick, I wanted to see if I could pull one of the balls that floated close to the shore toward me, I wanted to take one of those toys home with me, a souvenir if you will. A memento to remember my travels that day by

In short order I found a stick a very long stick. Stick in hand, I carefully started to make my way down to the edge of the pond. I then leaned out with my stick In hand, then something happen, a hand, a green h and reached up from the bed of duckweed and took hold of the stick. It then started to pull upon the stick, quickly I dropped the stick into the water and without thinking I started to scramble quickly up steep banks and onto the remains of the old road. Stunned and frightened, I ran toward my own trike and started to peddle away as quickly as I could.

I peddled for what seemed like hours. And to be honest, I was too afraid to turn around and look behind me. I was scared out of my mind, afraid that if you will that you know what ever had reached up and latched onto the stick might be behind me. I reached the front porch of my house a few minutes before the streetlamps came on. I can remember parking my trike on the front porch, chaining it up quickly, once my strike was secured. I bolted into the living room and locked the door behind me. That night around dinner, I told my sister about my encounter on the pond bank. Kayla being Kayla the down to earth farm girl she was just shrugged it off and warned me about reading too many horror stories, telling me I was going to scare myself silly one these days. And with that she returned to her dinner.

I later learned of the legend of 'Jenny Greenteeth' a few nights later while doing some research on water dwelling spirits that I came across a mention of her. All the stories I read on goggle that night matched that encounter I had at the pond bank a few days ago. It matched it so well that those tiny hairs that grow on the back of your arm stand straight up. And I felt a cold chill run down the spin of my back. I swear, I considered myself to be alive.

This next story is a bit personal for me. It's one I'm still having trouble coming to terms with. One one hand, it could have been a trick of the mind. I was on some pretty powerful painkillers at the time. My life too it seemed had fallen apart, like a piece of priceless china that had been dropped on the floor. The tiny porcelain shards scattered to the four winds. I guess I should start at the beginning of the story.
Hospitals by their very nature are supposed to be among the most haunted places on earth. Many people take their first breath there and many take their last breath there. They are supposed to be a place for healing. But for every miracle that takes place there, another tragic event plays out. For every new life born another life must by the laws of nature come to an end. I feel like I could write a whole another book that is completely devoted toward haunted hospitals. And maybe I will, when I have more time to devote to my craft. But for now this humble collection of ghost stories must do.

The legend of the phantom nurse first appeared around thirty or so years ago. According to the legend there was a popular nurse named Amanda Bowman who was assigned to the pediatric ward. She was a petite woman with honey blonde hair that barely reached the collar of her scrubs. She had pretty blue eyes and was known for her loving bedside manner. She often went by the nickname Mindy. And was affectedly called Nurse Mindy by the children of the ward and her coworkers. She was quite popular and well loved by all. She was tragically killed one foggy morning in a car wreck as she was leaving work.

Now since her wreck, rumors of her returning from beyond the pale to care for the children of the ward. Her mission now seemed to go beyond caring for the sick. According to my sources she also acts like a guide. Often appearing to terminally children, offering them gentle assurance that she would be there to help them make the move from this world to the next. These terminally ill children who often report encountering her often seem more at ease and are reported to pass away with something of a smile and a look of peace on their face.

But being a guide from this world to the other is only one of her many duties, she also said to appear on the bedside of children and teens who are in deep emotional distress who suffer from homesickness or depression. With gentle words and a loving touch she guides them away from such thoughts and encourages them to push through them. She also said to patrol the hallways. Searching for children and teenagers who are roaming the ward at night or are breaking curfew. Those who are caught breaking curfew or roaming are often scolded on the spot and marched back to their room. And according to my friend Jamie Sarah Potter she also reported to employ corporal punishment in some cases. How she came about this information, she did not tell, but her cheeks flushed at the mention of it.

Now I've told you what little I know about the ghost. It's time I tell you about my own encounter with the fable ghost nurse. I remember that night because it was the coldest night of my life. I was in the Hospital and I was dealing with a lot of guilt. My mom had discovered me about a week ago wearing her new church going dress. Not before we go any further, I have an confession to make. I was not born Madeline Brewer, I was born Mark.

And let me tell you something right quick. I promise this would only take a few more minutes of your time. And it kind of sets the scene to my tale. I made a very poor boy, unlike my father who was tall, dark and handsome. Who had the strength of a hundred men, and could swing a twenty seven pound hammer from dawn till dusk. He worked on the railroad you see. Or he did till he was killed in a tragic accident at his work that left my mother a widow, I was ten years old at the time.

The death of my father had far reaching consequences for me and my mother. I could tell my mother was heart broken, I was too. My father though he was a strong man had been a weak willed man and had remained silent when my mother kicked my older sister to the curb a few years after I was born when she discovered she had been exchanging romantic messages with another girl over the internet. Anyway that is a story for another, a story I'll cover another time.

But again her discovering me standing in her room wearing her shoes, her panties, her bra and her dress sent her into a wild tailspin. She bawled and ordered me to march out to her car. It was a week after Christmas I believe a sudden cold front had dropped several inches of snow on the ground, enough snow remained that the front of the yard was covered in a good four inches of the stuff. Still in her dress, I was ordered to march through this frozen slush.

Once I was in the car, she jumped into the driver's seat, started up the car and pulled out of that drive way like a bat straight out of hell. She flew down the highway, she was still bawling me out as the bright lights of the city vanished behind us and the darkness of the open country swallowed us. She was taking me to my uncle, a small time hill farm in the country. There she said I would finally learn to be a man.

I never made it to my uncles. She took a hairpin curve too fast and rolled down the steep embankment. The car finally came to a halt when it crashed into a dozen or so close growing trees. My mother was killed upon impact her neck snapped and her head busted open like an overripe watermelon. I myself remained conscious through the whole thing. I remembered everything from the car swerving off the road to the roll down the embankment to the crash to the sight of my mother snapping her head and having her head slammed into the windshield. I was battered and bruised and wished for death too as I was removed from the twisted metal and broken glass.

My breath turned to frost before more as I loaded up on the stretcher and carried up the hill and pushed into the open door of an awaiting ambulance. The last thing I remember is the door to the ambulance being closed and locked and that it.

Anyway back to my story. Back to the night I encountered Nurse Mindy. Now I have been in hospital for a few weeks. My strength was returning and my desire to roam and play was returning. And so feeling bold, I tossed my covers to the side and started to inch toward the door of my room. Gathering what little strength I could muster I pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway.

I wandered the hallway for a good thirty minutes before settling down in the children's playroom. Now the children's playroom was a wonderland. In the far corner of the room there was a bookcase with around four wooden shelves, I remember the shelves were overflowing with books. Classic hardbound copies and paperback copies too. In front of the bookcase there could be seen a dozen beanbags scattered around in something of a circle. In the center of this circle of beanbags there could be seen a small coffee table.
A wooden toy chest that was filled with toys of all kinds. From where I stood in the doorway I could see an old hand sewn doll, a wooden locomotive, an orange and blue ball, a hobby-horse and clear box that held a collection of tiny metal cars and finally what appeared to be an old barbie dollhouse.

And finally across from the toy chest there could be seen a small television, hooked up to the television was vintage old SNES with a few games laying beside it. And in the center of the room, like in the very center. There was a large neon pink oval rug with a small table sitting in the center of the rug. Placed around the low legged table were three small plastic chairs. On the table I noticed an open coloring book and a few crayons.

As I entered the playroom, I felt a sense of wonder take hold of me. I felt like I was a child again. Being a bookworm by nature, I felt drawn toward the overflowing bookcase, there I found a book that reminded me of my long forgotten childhood. The book was a children's book, the book showed two lines of six little girls all wearing yellow dresses. At the head of the group there looked like a gentle nun who was leading them toward an old manor house. The title at the top of the book was “Madeline” and at the bottom was the name of the author being “Ludwig Bemelmans”.

I stood there thunderstruck. My fingers reached up and pulled the book down from the wooden shelf and as I held the book in my hands, I started to recall a powerful childhood memory. One that caused me to break out in a cold sweat, my breathing became shadow. The force of the memory was causing me to shake, I could feel my knees starting to buckle. My fingers gripped the book tightly. This book, this book had been what started it all. I started to recall those lazy summer mornings when me and my older sister would gather in the living room of my grandmother's house in rural Benton, a township some fifty miles from where we lived in urban Canton.
Returning to my story, as I stood there rooted almost into the ground, gripping that book so tight my knuckles turned white, I started to almost remember why I had started to dress like a girl in the first place, I had been enchanted by the whimsical adventures of Madeline.. and in play, I had started to go under that name, even know the name seemed to stir hidden emotions, it not only stirred them but brought them to the surface were they could get the attention they so desired and undoubtedly deserved.

Then I heard a voice, a choice that echoed across the chamber and knocked me out of musing. It was a woman's voice, and she seemed quite cross. Today I can still hear her words knocking around my head, because it was the last time anybody called me by my old name. It was the last time I was ever called “Mark”.

I quickly turned toward the source of the voice and there in the doorway stood a nurse, she was dressed in pastel pink Her hair was the color of honey and in the dim light it had an unearthly glow about it. Her baby blue eyes too seemed to shine and when she spoke, she spoke with the authority of a woman who was used to giving orders and having them obeyed without a seconds delay.

I remember locking my eyes with the woman and a chill ran down my back. The way she looked at me, the way she peered at me The way she moved her eyes up and down, starting at the very top of my head and slowly working her way down to my bare ankles struck me like a verbal tone of bricks. I felt like I was being sized up. Already breathing hard, I felt myself breathing even harder when she placed her hands upon her hips and leaned in as if preparing a stern lecture.

What happened next surprised me. Her facial expressions softened and she took me by the hand and guided me back to my hospital room. When I told her my name was 'Madeline' instead of 'Mark' she accepted and even made me look the part. What followed was a very special but brief period of time that lasted no more than an hour or two but had the most profound impact on my life.
So, I'm going to finish this story with this note. Yes I believe I encountered the spirit of Nurse Mindy that lonely night in Mississippi Medical Center. I believe she is the guardian of the hospital. I hope one day I will get a chance to thank her. Because of the love she showed me that night and the love, support and kindness shown to me by the rest of my medical team gave me the strength to vow to live the remainder of my years as 'Madeline' and to make something of my life. Something worthy of that new name.

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.

In a clearing eight miles north of Benton there stands an old wooden railway depot. It's a simple white wooden building with a rusty tin roof. It stands next to another wooden building that was once the town's post office and beside that another building that was once the town's trading post. Beside the depot there's an old steam locomotive resting in an old section of line. A quiet section of road runs pass these three buildings before crossing the mainline of the “Yazoo & Mississippi Valley Railroad” that runs straight to Benton.

Across from the depot one would find an old white Methodist chapel. I mention all of this, because this is all that remains of the once thriving village of Vaughan. Vaughn was never a city, at its height it consisted of a railway depot, an Methodist chapel, a trading post, an post office and around one hundred handsome wooden houses, most of whom have fallen in or have been abandoned. By all means, Vaughan, like dozens of other tiny hamlets in Mississippi, with names such as Liverpool's Landing, Cutters Bluff, Willow River and Sand Hills should be forgotten.

But I doubt it will, all because of the death of one train driver by the name of Casey Luther Jones, who ghost according to the local lore is supposed to be seen wandering these tracks, waving an old railroad lantern in his hand. When I started doing research into local ghost stories and legends, I knew I had to check out the supposed legend that on foggy autumn nights when the moon was full, and the air was still and all the world was sound asleep that the phantom of Casey Luther Jones was said to come forth from his grave and pace these abandoned rails. Other accounts said that on such nights, one could hear the cry of the brass whistle of the doom locomotive, yelling out into the night.

Now, my sister hates driving at night. So she was a bit annoyed with me begging her to drive me out to the remains of Vaughn late one autumn night. But finally my prolonged campaign of pleading, begging and sulking had worn down and rolling her eyes and folding her arms across her chest she finally agreed to take me one night to check out the wreckage site. An historical marker is supposed to mark it.

The night my sister selected was in late October, just a few days before Halloween. A sudden cold front had pushed into our region, bringing with it near freezing temperatures add in seasonal rainfall and you had a cold and foggy night. Mist hung in the air and one's breath turned fine white smoke in front of them as they breathed out. It was around Eight O' clock at night when my sister pulled up at the old railroad crossing that located in the heart of remains of Vaughan to the right stood the old depot, post office, and trading post, to the right the old wooden church house and across the tracks there stood a dozen or so abandoned houses.

I sat there for a good solid minute, taking all of this in. My sister just turned off the car and turned her head and gave me a look. I understood that look, she wanted me to get down to business. And so gathering up my courage I reached down and pulled upon the handle and pushed the car door open and into the inky darkness I ventured.

I remember the minute I left the warm confines of the car a chill came over me. Darkness out here in the country is different from the darkness in the city. For one, you're not going to find any streetlights, and two, the houses are scattered out here and finally number three, the whole area is really wooded. And so as the gravel crunched under my feet, I really had to gather my courage and push on.

The weather outside the warm car was pretty nippy, with frost already starting to form on the old metal rails. The wind too was starting to blow, and I could feel bits and pieces of ice on its breath. The wind smacked me right on the face and caused me to shiver.

I remember the moon was full that night and the sky was clear. The light of the moon provided just enough light for me to see by. I soon put the crossing behind me. The historical marker is about a quarter mile from the crossing, and the true site of the wreck is around a bend about a mile from the marker. My intentions were to walk to the site of the wreck and then turn back around. I did not intend to spend all night walking up and down these railroad lines. Not on a school night and not with my sister sitting in the car keeping time. Unlike those professional ghost hunters you see on television I don't have the luxury of staying out all night. I have school and chores.

These thoughts tumbled through my mind as I passed the historical marker and started to the sharp curve in the tracks. A hundred or so years have passed since the wreck and so nothing remains. They still use this section of track from time to time. And so when the iron rails started to vibrate and a small ball of white light was spotted ahead, I thought I was peering into the headlamp of an oncoming train. Quickly I started down the steep embankment and soon I had reached the safety of the ditch. I figured once the train had passed I would start toward home, I had been walking then for twenty minutes had seen nothing, heard nothing, and sensed nothing. It seemed the expedition would in the end turn out to be a bust.

Waiting on a passing train is nerve wracking experience let me tell you, the ground shakes under your toes, the sound of the whistle pierces your eardrums and everything starts to rattle around inside your head. The passing seconds turn to hours as the whistling grows louder and louder. And so while I stood there in that ditch, my eyes firmly fixed on the track, I waited, then it appeared.

The locomotive that appeared was not one of those huge diesel kinds. No, this one was a steam powered locomotive, and she was all black and trimmed with gold. She looked sleek, and her whistle also sounded a bit magical, she was clean too, not a spot of coal dust on her, she reminded me of a lady going formal in her little black dress. But then I spotted her number on her tender and I knew then, that this lady was no lady at all, but was the devil himself, for painted upon her tender were the numbers “666” the mark of the beast.

I froze because I could see in the drives cab a beast of a man, half goat, half man dressed in a tux. His eyes are solid black and void of life. As the train passed he looked down at me and smiled a wicked smile that showed row upon row of sharp white teeth. The train was pulling three old Pullman cars, the cars though were on fire and I could see shadows pressing upon the windows and feel the flickering yellow and orange flames that danced. Then the silence of the night was broken by the screams of those trapped inside and the smell of burning human flesh filled the air.

Then to my horror the train came to a halt and the driver started to step down.

“Room for one more!” He chuckled. “There's always room for one more soul on the ten O' clock express train to Hell.” He said with another chuckle and then he started to move toward me, moving down the steep embankment with ease.

Then something clicked inside me, a voice from deep within told me to run. And run I did. I took to the woods like a deer and ran like hell. My chest heaved up and down, up and down as I forced myself to leap over rotten logs and narrow ditches. I pushed through thick patches of briers and moved through big swaps of low hanging vines that wrapped around my arms and legs. I snatched these up and kept pushing. I dared not turn around because I felt like that creature might still be chasing me.

Half an hour later. I reached the crossing. My sister was standing by the car, her arms crossed and a mild look of annoyance crossed her face as she watched me come running out from the woods that surrounded the crossing. My jacket was torn, my face was scratched and my hair hung loose around my shoulders. I had lost in my flight the ponytail holder. I could feel small rivulets of blood starting to ooze down from the scratches. My throat too was raw from the inhuman screams that had filled the night air halfway through my flight when screaming was the only thing I could do to keep me sane.
“Have fun?” She asked as she looked up and gave her head a quick shake. “Because it looks like you got into a fight with a tree or something. Please, don't tell me there's some kind of fight club out here in these woods and you had to try your luck?” She added in a joking tone of voice. My sister has a country girl sense of humor.
“No..” I said shaking my head.

She shrugged her shoulders and then as an afterthought she added.

“Did you see the train that just passed by?” She asked. “It was one of those old steam locomotive's. What was odd about it, was the number, I think the number was '666' or something like that. You know I'm not superstitious or anything like that. But that train really bothered me.” My sister paused and then tilted her head to the side. “Hey, you feeling okay kiddo? You looking pale, paler than normal..”

“Lets..” I paused. “Let's go home..” I said.
She agreed. As we pulled away from that old railroad crossing, I swear I heard another whistle. A whistle that sounded almost like a laugh, a very demonic laugh.  

The origins of the phantom monster truck that is supposed to haunt the roads between Benton and Ebeneezer lays in the social upheaval the Civil Rights movement brought to this area of Mississippi. Radical elements of the population formed chapters of the then powerful White Citizens Council, the white people who had money, took their children out of public schools and placed them in private schools called segregation academies. Benton Academy and their rival Manchester Academy were two such schools.
And of course, the Klan still held massive parades and rallies all through the hill and delta counties to show their support and passion for the cause, they also threatened local leaders and moderates who were pushing for small scale racial integration. Shootings were fairly common too, as were cross burning and attending public lynchings of local civil rights leaders and their supporters even rivaled attending Friday night football down at the local High School.

It was a horrible time, and the scars are still visible. Now according to legend one night a group of four Klan's men were on patrol when their truck swerved and broke over the railing of a bridge that spans Teshava Creek, the trunk plunged into the depths and all four Klan's men were killed in a fiery wreck. I say all of this because I've encountered the phantom truck before. And it's the main reason I hate driving at night.

Now I only remember bits and pieces of that night. But I'll tell you what I remember. I was driving home one night from college. At that time I was attending a local community college, Holmes community college, a small community college located in the tiny town of Goodman, it's about an hour or so drive from Benton. Now to get from Benton to Goodman one must first pass through Ebeneezer. Now the road's between Ebeneezer and Benton are a joke, their narrow country lanes really with barely enough room for two cars to pass. They are dotted with potholes and are often crowded with deer, who love to jump out in front of oncoming traffic.. It's a test of skill for seasoned drivers and a crucible for newly licensed drivers.

And the weather, it was early January and a sudden winter snow storm was pushing in. Now, while snow is rare in Mississippi, it's not uncommon. We get snow about four or five times a year and normally it lasts for about a day or so sometimes even a week before melting into the ground. It was snowing that night and it was snowing hard. Now my car at the time, an older two thousand model had a busted heater, so I was bundled up to the nines. And the only thing on my mind was getting home safe and sound when I pulled out of the parking lot of the dorm room. My grandmother who had become more like a surrogate mother to me since my mom had disowned me five years ago was cooking her famous chicken fried venison's steaks with homemade white gravy and mashed potatoes a meal befitting a queen that night and I wanted me some.

Anyway the snow was really coming down and I was poking down the road, I had just passed the old Ebeneezer general store and a clutter of houses when I looked up into my rear-view mirror and spotted it, a big black monster truck was following close behind me and its headlamps were shining bright. Bright enough to blind me.

At first I thought it was just some hillbilly drunk on moonshine or something. So I speed up a little to give us some room, thinking he's going to zoom on by. But the thing kept riding my tail. The seconds slowly started to turn to minutes and the snow started to really come down, and the truck kept advancing itching himself closer and closer to me. I want to say, I kept my cool and kept on trucking, and the answer to that is yes and no, yes I kept my cool and kept on going, but as time passed, and the lights grew brighter and brighter and the truck got closer and closer I started to feel the first rising wave of panic set in.

I felt an overpowering sense of dread come washing over me. I felt like who ever was driving the truck behind me meant to do me harm. I could just feel it in my bones. And so now in a panic, I missed the turn that would take me home. Now, full darkness had fallen and the blacktop was giving way to gravel, only a quarter of the roads of the between Benton and Goodman are paved with blacktop the rest are nothing but narrow gravel roads that often wash out after a heavy rainfall and remain washed out till somebody raises enough hell down in Yazoo city to get the thing fixed.

And driving on gravel is hell on the nerves, and that winter had been a very wet winter, so like I said before I had to ride the center of the road to keep from dipping into the massive holes formed by the rains of late autumn and early winter. And all the while that truck was getting closer and closer to me, finally it was within feet of me, taking a chance, I looked up and in the rear view mirror of the car, that the driver of the truck seemed to be a ghost for he was dressed in all white, then my face drained of color, those were not ghost those were Klan's men.

Now growing up in the hill country of Mississippi, I had heard plenty of stories about the Klan. My grandfather along with a dozen others had fought to keep the Klan out of Benton when it had threatened to march into town. All of these stories were whispered, and only told late at night when a few of the old timers would gather around and talk after dinner after cups of strong black coffee and homemade pecan pie.

Anyway it was then I knew, that those people had it out for me that if they caught me, I was good as dead. And then noticed that when my blood ran cold, that the needle above my gas gauge was hovering just above 'E' or empty. I felt like my time was running out, like sand shifting through an hourglass, the measure of my life was no longer in years but now in mere minutes. The trunk was now mere inches from my fender and all I could do was take a deep breath and pray, and pray I did, I prayed harder than I have ever prayed before in my life. Now, I'm a lapse Roman Catholic, and a bit of a lapse Episcopalian, but at that time I recalled something from my long ago Sunday School lessons, that was, if you ever find yourself in trouble, all you need to do is focus on Jesus and he'll help you. Or something to that effect.

Then out of the corner of my eye I saw an old sign that read “Teshava Creek Bridge” And I was reminded of an old supernatural saying that ghosts can not cross running water or something to that effect. A few seconds later I could see the bridge, and the trunk behind me seemed to sense my intentions for it was speeding up. I was blinded by the headlights, I took a deep breath and muttered a prayer as I gripped the wheel of my car. I felt the tires go onto the bridge and then for a split second I was blinded, I mean totally blinded. Though I was blinded I could see and I heard the sound of tires leaving the road and a horrible crashing sound below, I smelled burning metal, roasting flesh and heard horrible screams of pain. Inhuman screams of pain. Screams that sounded like the damned of hell yelling out their frustration as flames licked at their flesh and torched their exposed bones.

And then it was over. My car had stopped, I had enough fumes left to pull over to the side of the road. I was alone. And to be honest with you I was frightened out of my mind. Then from around the corner there came the headlights of another oncoming truck. Tired, I just sat there in my car, unsure what to do. Another truck pulled up beside me, a man stepped out. He stopped his truck a few feet from my car, got out and walked toward my window and gently knocked a motion for me to let it down.

I don't know why, but something told me I could trust this man. And so I rolled down my window and the fellow leaned in a little. He was quite handsome, he had blonde hair that was a bit long for a country boy, and the prettiest baby blue eyes I've ever seen on a fellow.

“Evening.” He said to me as he tipped his hat up. “I was driving back from deer camp and I saw you parked on the side of the road. Looked like you were having a fair bit of trouble. So I figured I might stop and see if I can't lend you a hand.” He said.

“Thanks.” I said giggling. “I think I ran out of gas.. and kind of stranded you could say.” I quickly added.

“I got a spare can of gas in the back of my truck. Not enough to really do much. Enough to get you to the nearest gas station in Yazoo City. I'll go fetch it for you.” He said as he leaned back up and walked back to his truck. True to his word he returned a few minutes later with a plastic jug of gas, and true to his word he filled it up. Once he placed the gas cap back on, I started my car, the needle had gone from 'E' to one fourth of a tank.

“Thank you.” I said, unsure what else to say.

“No problem. That should get you to the Yazoo City, I'll follow you.” He paused. “Just to make sure you make it, these roads can be bad at night. And this is a rough patch of road too.” He paused again. “My name is Michael.” He said offering his hand. “Its a pleasure to meet you.”

“Kayla,” I said reaching out and taking his offered hand it was warm to the touch and the minute I touched it I was filled with a sense of peace. He smiled another smiled and returned to his truck. And with that I started to drive toward Yazoo City. It took us around forty five minutes to reach Yazoo City, I kind of got lost again but Michael helped me find the highway and true to his word he followed me to the nearest gas station once we reached Yazoo.
I remember pulling into the station and getting out, Michael offered to pump by gas for me while I paid. I remember he reached into his pocket and pulled out three neat twenty dollars bills. More than enough to fill the tank. I was flattered to refuse. I went in, paid the clerk and when I returned.. Michael was gone. His truck was gone, everything was gone. It was like he had vanished without a trace.

Well I managed to get  home that night and since then I try to limit the time I have to drive at night. But from time to time I still feel like somebody's watching me, watching over me, and on those rare nights when I have to drive at night, I feel like somebody there with me, keeping me safe. I like to think it's Michael.