“Well, judgin' from his tracks, he's about six and a half feet tall. He eats raw squirrels and all the cats he can catch. There's a long, jagged scar that runs all the way across his face. His teeth are yellow and rotten. His eyes are popped. And he drools most of the time.”
Dill is so enraptured by the story that he is startled when his aunt comes up behind them.
“My Lord, Aunt Stephanie, you almost gave me a heart attack!” he says, rattled.
If you were lucky when you were growing up, you may have had a similar neighborhood mystery to ponder—a neighbor with a secret or a peculiar house that was rumored to be haunted. Such stories likely drew you and your friends together, and added a sense of danger and excitement to long summer days.
Growing up in Houston, I remember a Spanish-style house in our neighborhood with a walled courtyard in front. If you peeked through the gate, you could see that the house had a very large picture window. The window revealed a staircase with a second-floor balcony. Sometimes you could see a ghost there, according to neighborhood lore. The ghost was rumored to be a beautiful woman dressed in a nightgown.
My friends and I would walk by the house at night and peek in. We were in junior high, so even if there wasn't a ghost per se, there would always be some sort of drama--a shadow or a movement of some kind to give us a rewarding scare.
*****
My cousin, Darla, was a master weaver of tales. I’d see her in the summertime, and we would have slumber parties at my great-grandmother’s house in Nova Scotia. After a full day of Barbies and adventures with our other cousins, we’d settle in for the night. We would be tucked under home-made quilts, the moon outside our window. She would begin her tales in a quiet, gather-round-the-fire voice. “A friend of mine told me this story. It happened to someone she knew…”
Darla likely told me about “Bloody Mary,” who would appear in mirrors when you repeated her name three times. She might also have told me the story about the woman in Toronto who was killed by her husband and plastered right into the wall. Today, some of her stories would no doubt be investigated and found wanting by Snopes. But they were riveting…the very stuff of childhood.
*****
One of the mysteries of our current neighborhood is right outside our front door. In our flower bed, we have a small grave. “Andy We Love You,” it reads.My husband and I have made some dark, Lemony Snickettish suggestions to our children (“Andy was your older brother, who didn’t look both ways before crossing the street…”). But, we’ve all pretty much settled on the idea that the grave belongs to the beloved pet of a prior owner.
My 10-year-old, in fact, is certain about the identity of Andy, whose grave is right outside her window.
“One night I woke up, and there was a black lab at the foot of my bed,” she told me. I asked her about the dog, and learned that he was friendly and had blue eyes. But before she could approach him, she said, he wagged his tail three times and then jumped through the window.
“Do you think it was…” I started.
She nodded her head solemnly.
*****
I have seen my littlest one pointing out Andy’s grave to her friends. Although I am older now, and no longer privy to secret childhood conversations, I hope that she is carrying on the tradition set by my cousin Darla and the other storytellers in our family. I hope she is scaring the heck out of them.
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