The Mariannaville Horror: The first house we lived in once relocating to Marianna from West Helena was haunted---I swear it. Just outside of town on Highway 1, its two-story framed structure loomed ominously over the surrounding cotton fields; its architecture a mixture of Gothic, Provincial, and Victorian styles seen used throughout the South. It had a wide veranda porch across the front, complete with a porch swing that creaked eerily with the slightest breeze---naturally. Crossing the threshold into the unknown, one immediately got the feeling that bad things happened there. The living room was spacious with a tall, tin-plated ceiling that had been painted over no telling how many times. There was a fireplace I dont think we ever used, and on the hardwood floor near the entrance to the kitchen, a dark stain soaked into the oak planking. We noticed that right away as we entered on our first day. The kitchen was clad in clapboard wains-coating and its floor covered with a most unattractive and dingy linoleum, and looked very much like how I would suspect Bluebeards kitchen looked. The creepy old house only had one bathroom, and I was deathly frightened of it. In most ways it was like any other bathroom of an old house; a big, deep tub---the kind that rested on lions paws---a tiny sink, and a crapper with bad plumbing. What made this bathroom different, and scary, however, was the door. Not the door that led into the bathroom from the vestibule, but the other door; the skinny one that us kids were certain led to another dimension. I mentioned before that it was a two-story house, but actually, the upper floor was all attic, and it was through that narrow door, and up a very steep flight of stairs that led one up to it, and into a dark realm where only God knew what had taken place there. On our first exploration of this foreboding place, Paula and I noticed that in the huge emptiness of the dusty and web-covered attic, there was only one lone item left behind from some previous occupant. Upon close examination of this item---a brown paper bag---we were puzzled by its contents. It was switches, a freakin bag of switches, you know, like the kind old people used to joke about giving their kids for Xmas if theyve been bad. Someone actually kept a bag of switches on hand just in case---I guess. The attic wasnt all that scary in the daytime, nor was the skinny door leading to it from the bathroom. But at night? Between being convinced that I could hear footsteps on the narrow flight of stairs, and expecting to be swallowed up by the huge bathtub, I insisted on leaving the main door open when I was forced to take a bath, which is the only way I would take one in that house. Across the vestibule from the bathroom was a small closet that had a nail drove into the back of its door. Dad joked that, if I got out of line, he would hang me up on that nail. Well, my older brother, Mark, overheard that and guess what? Thats right. He hung me up on that nail and shut the door. Just one of the many things I swore revenge on him for, but never fulfilled. Things were fine in the beginning. Between chasing rabbits through the cotton rows, or spooking cows in the pasture across the highway, we spent most of our time outside for the remainder of our first and only summer there. I remember one day when Mark and a couple of his new-found friends got it in their heads to be cowboys, or buckaroos. They found themselves a rope somewhere, and proceeded to lasso one of the cows---the smallest one out there, mind you. Figuring to start with an easy one, they managed to rope a half-grown calf whose back was barely four foot high. Now, as we all know, professional rodeo riders hope to stay on for at least eight seconds, but the best Mark and friends could do that day was two, maybe three seconds---on the puniest little heifer in the bunch. Not even long enough to yell “Yippie Ki yay.” The would-be John Waynes limped away into the sunset, bruised in body and pride. Needless to say, I was rooting for the cow all along. All-too-soon however, the summer ended and it was then that the strange things began happening: Footsteps heard when all were in bed. Constant creaks and sounds that couldnt be explained or attributed to just the settling of an old house. And it was in that house, and that house only, where I developed the very scary habit of sleepwalking, and I seem to remember Mom experiencing the same thing. But only while we lived there. Once, when Mom was home alone during the day, she claimed that, while she lay taking a nap on her bead, she awoke to find a mattress spring had come through the fabric and curled itself around her ankle. Then there was the day when my Aunt Joyce was visiting, watching us kids while our parents were out. Upon their return, they found a near-hysterical Aunt Joyce, crying and upset. According to her frantic account, she had heard a baby crying when there were no babies there. Following the woeful cries, it led her to the back door of the house where she swears she saw a floating white light, hovering momentarily before jetting away. Even the merriment of Christmas couldnt chase away the spooks. While hosting an Xmas party for many of the Jackson Clan from West Helena, my cousin, Eddie, decided to don a Santa outfit and, even though he was smart enough to know that he couldnt come down the chimney, he still found himself on the roof for whatever reason, only to fall and break an arm, although this one can probably be attributed to spirits--- not evil ones, but the wet kind. Lastly, there was the night when Paula and I became absolutely convinced the place was haunted when, while sleeping out in the living room as we did many Friday nights, staying up late watching “The House on Haunted Hill” for the umpteenth time, we had no sooner turned off the TV and lying in the dark when we saw him, or at least the silhouette of him. A strange apparition of a spectral being hovering just outside the windows on the veranda porch. Silently gliding back and forth from window to window, he stopped at the front door and stood gazing in through the small diamond-shaped glass. And then the doorknob wiggled. Paula quickly jumped into my cot with me, or I in hers. Either way, we hid under the covers more scared than we had ever been in our lives. After what seemed an eternity, we slowly peeled back the blanket to see no one was there. Shortly thereafter, we moved from that creepy old house into another creepy old house in town on Mississippi Street. I suppose theres always the chance that it wasnt haunted and that everything described here could be attributed to natural things and proven scientifically. The mattress Mom slept on was old and worn. The floating light? Ball lightning. Babies crying? Some animal, possibly the calf across the road. The floating specter? Over-active imagination of kids who just watched a scary movie. Maybe, perhaps. Probably. On second thought, and upon further reflection, lets forget everything I just wrote, and pretend I didnt just waste a few minutes of your life. Theres no such thing as ghosts, or are there?
Posted on: Thu, 20 Mar 2014 21:25:17 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015