There was only one time that something happened that really scared me, and when I remember it now I still get chills, but then I laugh about it. I never saw the woman's ghost, nor do I think she ever visited me personally. I only heard and felt the man's presence, and I think the main reason I felt his presence so much was because I had connected with the woman through her letters, journals and clothes. And the jewelry, of course. I don't think he felt malice toward me because I wore the necklace; quite simply it was hers, and it should have been with her.
There was one incident that happened that I am absolutely certain that it was the woman who appeared, and it was not a good thing. Actually, truth be told, I think both of them were there that night, and I will always be thankful for it now that I'm older and over being scared out of my wits.
My step-father had an awful temper and liked to use my mother to vent his anger from time to time. Most of the time there was alcohol involved for both of them. I could always feel the storm brewing long before the first cap was ever popped from a bottle and I would take my sister by the hand and we would do our best to fade into the wallpaper and disappear, lest we find ourselves in the same boat as mother.
There was only one time during the year that we lived in this house that things got really bad. That particular night my sister and I sat huddled under blankets, curled up together in the swing on the back porch doing our best not to make any noise so he would just forget we existed. The noises coming from the house were awful. All I could do was keep praying over and over again that he would pass out soon and mother would be OK. We knew better than to try to intervene.
I heard the front door open and slam, then the next thing we heard was a yelp from my step-father, and my mother let out a blood curdling scream. This was not like their fighting voices, and on instinct I jumped up and ran in the house. I told my sister to stay put, but knew that wasn't going to happen. We went running through the house and came to a screeching halt in the doorway of my bedroom leading out in the hallway.
My stepfather was cowered in the corner of the hallway between their bedroom door and the front door. The poker from the fireplace was stuck in the wall about three feet above his head. My mother was huddled in the corner nearest us, her face white as a sheet, shaking all over, absolutely terrified. My sister went to my mother and curled up with her, scared to death, and I'm just standing there looking in shock at the horrified expression on step-dad's face. When I asked him what happened, he started shaking his head, crawled out the front door and left without a word.
He never again slept a night in that house.
Once mother calmed down she told us that in the middle of their argument, he decided she was going to take the beating she deserved and grabbed her by the arm, dragging her out of the living room and into the hallway toward the bedroom, telling her the entire time that she was not going to be able to sit down for the welts his belt was going to leave on her ass. As they reached the bedroom door, they were both shocked to see the woman standing next to the fireplace and the poker came hurling at them. Mother ran and he dove for cover just as the thing buried itself in the wall. Just after the thing hit the wall she said a man screamed one time "GET OUT" and that was it.
As I said, step-dad would stop by for clothes, and to give mother money and such, but he would not spend the night again. We lived there for about two more months before the decision was made to find some place else to live so they could sleep in the same house again. I was heartbroken. But there had been no more visits from either of them since that night. The house had been peacefully quiet, nothing was disturbed ever again.
Despite the fact that I wanted to pack up everything under the house and take it with me, I knew that none of it belonged to me. I kept only one item, for which I wrote and asked permission from the grand-daughter, and still have to this day. The only other item that the family will not ever find is the cross. I didn't keep it.
The day before we were leaving for good I found a small box and placed the cross in it, then managed to sneak away for a while by myself. I had months ago found where the man and woman were buried. It wasn't hard - small town and all that. I had taken to visiting their graves about once a week, leaving wildflowers, and sometimes holiday cookies or candy or something I thought they would enjoy. That particular day I took a small gardening spade with me and very carefully pulled up a plug of grass between their two graves, then dug down as far as I could and placed the little box with the cross inside the hole, filled it back in and placed the grass divot on top and patted it down so that no one would notice there had been any digging there.
Somehow, it just seemed the right thing to do.
Ten years passed before I got to see that house again, and when I did, I sat down on the porch and cried. Mrs. M had passed away the year after we moved. She had fallen one night, broken her hip and wound up in the hospital. She never came home again. Other families had lived in the house after us, but according to a neighbor the day I visited, no one had lived there for a couple years, and the family was discussing tearing down the old home. I'm not sure what happened but I do know that the house still stands today.
Hopefully, no one ever had another fight like that night in the house, and hopefully, no one ever disturbed the stuff beneath.
And hopefully, the two of them now rest peacefully.
~Queenie~
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