It was deathly quiet and still. The sun was slowly dying in the west as it slipped behind the flaming, red horizon, while resting on thin mysterious clouds of pink, blue and gold. Soon, it would be night and the mysterious hoot owl and lonely whippoorwill would call from deep in the darkening woods. Daddy’s soft, masculine voice rose from the front porch as he began telling ghost stories that were told to him when he was a boy. My baby sister sat in his lap, wide-eyed, while the rest of the family surrounded him in a semi-circle for protection against unseen evil spirits. Cold chills ran up and down my spine as he lowered his voice and told us about his encounter with the headless woman. It happened near an old graveyard one stormy night while walking home from seeing his girlfriend. Between thunder and lightning strikes, the apparition seemed to float in midair, slowly moving toward him and whispering words that were not of this world. Daddy said he felt his legs go limp and could no longer hold him up and he froze in his tracks, wanting to run but couldn’t find his get up and go. The family hung on to his dark, bewitching words and moved closer to his big rocking chair for protection from the forces of evil that dark night. Mama called to daddy from the front porch swing not to tell any more ghost stories because the children wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink that night. Over the years, the ghost stories continued and seemed to be filled with more and more fantasy than actual truth, but my sisters and I never got tired of hearing them again and again. So if I wanted to surprise them and scare their pants off, I would call out suddenly without warning, “See there! Over there! A woman with her head cut off!”
