Waverly Tombstone
Here's one from myMom, thought you guys might find it as creepy as I did... MyMother lives in an old farmhouse in Waverly NY (Between Elmiraand Binghampton, near the PA border) that is 100+ years old. Shegrew up there, and her siblings all tell relatively vague (thoughinteresting to those of us that lived there later on) tales ofghostly activity. Mom has always been a local history buff, andhas done quite a bit of research on the original occupants of thehouse and property. Most of the earlier families are buried inthe cemetary across the road, and some of my earliest memoriesare of imagining what sort of people the Saunders and Van Riperswere while strolling through said graveyard with my Mom.
I moved to the other side of the state some years ago, my brothergot married and moved into his own place, and about two weeksago, my sister finally found herself an apartment of her veryown, making this the first time my parents have been alone intheir own home. Basking happily in the silence and calm, mymother was washing the three measly dishes in the sink (and doinga little dance, I'm sure; we always dirtied an obscene amount ofdishes when the three of us lived at home:), she felt a coldchill. Unremarkable in an old home, especially in a kitchen witha somewhat imperfectly sealed picture window. However, when shefinished her task and turned around, there was a six-year-oldgirl standing about two feet away from her. At first, Mom was alittle confused, but then realized that the child could notpossibly be there. She looked solid enough, but several detailsin her appearance were...well, wierd. The girl had dark hairstyled in long ringlets, but slightly messy, not perfect likewith a curling iron or anything. She wore a longish off-whitedress with a matching pinafore that appeared to have been pressedwith a cold iron, so the wrinkles were pressed in, rather thanout of the fabric. The girl appeared to be slightly grimy, notperfectly clean, as though she were covered with a film of dust,from her head down to her scuffed leather button-up boots. Shestood still and solemn, with her hands at her sides, palmsforward, a pleading look in her blue eyes. And, of course, shejust appeared there silently. Mom hadn't heard the dor, orfootsteps on the steps, and she had never seen this child in herlife. She told me that her next thought was that she must behalucinating, and had finally snapped mentally.
Finally finding her voice, she asked the little girl, "Whatdo you want?" Then she felt what she described as a 'soapbubble in my head', like a capsule of foreign thoughts thatpushed into her mind, then popped, spilling the words 'My name'sMary, My name's Mary, My name's Mary' into her thoughts.
Then, the girl vanished, from the feet up, as though she wereerased from the air.
Now, my mother can certainly be peculiar, but she certainly isn'tinsane, nor has she ever had vivid hallucinations before. Shedidn't tell anyone about this event, for fear they might suggestshe check herself into the nearest psychiatric hospital. She wentabout her business the rest of the day, and tried to put it outof her mind.
That evening, her cousin dropped by. It seems a friend of his hadbought the house next door to my parent's property, and had founda headstone in the barn behind the house. He assumed that theprevious tenants, who were not happy that the house had been sold'out from under them', had left it there to freak out the friendwho had bought the place. The man had asked my mother's cousin toget rid of it, and he had apparently been driving around with thedamn thing in the trunk of his car all day. My mother asked himwhat name was on the headstone. He couldn't recall the name,maybe Jane something? It belonged to a six-year-old girl, and itwas really old, he said, and told my mother to come outside andlook at it herself. Mom told him she didn't need to. It belongedacross the road, at the end of the second row, where the threetrees are planted on the grave, she asserted, clueless as to whyshe 'knew' this, but certain that she was correct. She told himto put it back right now, or he would surely get into sometrouble. Spooked, her cousin ran out of the house like his tailwas on fire to do as my mother had asked.
The next morning she felt bad about scaring her cousin like that,and called him to apologize and claim temporary insanity. He toldher that he put the headstone where she said it should go, andthat there was indeed a grave where she had indicated that hadbeen missing a headstone. Shortly a friend of my mother's droppedby for coffee, and Mom told her about the bizarre series ofevents. They decided it might be a good idea to take a walk tothe cemetary.
The grave in question was indeed at the end of the second row, inthe Saunders' family plot. The headstone belonged to 'MarySaunders', who had died at the age of six some seventy or eightyyears ago. There was a little poem on it, something about a'daughter, fair and bright, may God help keep her through thenight'. When my mother touched the headstone, she had theoverwhelming sense that Mary was content and sleeping, happy thatshe had back her poem.
Now, I can't say for absolute certain that my Mom hasn't lost hermind, but this is the story she told me yesterday, more or less.She's never been one to tell wild stories, so either that was oneheck of a coincidental hallucination, or she really did have anencounter with a ghost. I do know that I have a sudden urge tohang out in her kitchen by myself sometime! Thank you forlistening, and take care,
Monelun