My grandmother was born in the early 1900s in rural Tennessee. She was a tough old bird that would tell you like it is in her own colorful language. We got to spend a few weeks with her every summer. I cherish the memories of sitting out on her front covered porch in the evenings. We would catch fireflies in mason jars. When our lanterns were ready, we perched on the porch swing and waited for Granny to tell us stories. My favorites were always her ghost stories.
She always swore this was a true story and that it happened to her when she was a girl. She told the story of a young girl that had long beautiful blond hair that her mother used to brush every night. The girl was being courted by a handsome young fellow from a neighboring town. One night while he was driving her back home they got into a horrible accident and the young girl was killed. The mother was distraught with grief. She would take her daughter’s hairbrush and sit at her grave every night talking to her daughter and going through the motions of brushing her hair. Of course, the story spread throughout town, and like most stories it got bigger. Soon the townsfolk were warning everyone not to go into the cemetery at night because the young girl would rise from her grave every night to await her mother. And so, Granny heard the story since she was a child. Fast forward to her teenage years and Granny was a rebel. She and three of her friends walked to town to see a picture show. On their way home they stopped by a farm that had peach trees to pick a few peaches. They dawdled too long trying not get caught and it started to get dark. They decided to cut through the cemetery to get home faster. Part of the way through one of her friends said she needed to relieve herself. They stopped by some bushes for her to use. They had their backs turned a were talking about the long-haired girl as it was quickly getting dark. They heard their friend screaming for help that something had her. They turned to see a white mass coming up from the ground grabbing her around the ankles. She was so terrified she fell to the ground in convulsions. When they got to her, they could see that her bloomers had gotten snagged on a branch. What she thought was a ghost was her own underclothes. It was too late. Granny’s friend was so frightened that she had a heart attack and died.
We never knew if that was a true story or if Granny was just a great storyteller. When we were kids, we absolutely believed every word. Funny thing is, you will never find me or my sister anywhere near a cemetery long before it gets dark.
