We liv'd in Lincoln, Delaware. Our house was one of th' oldest in th' community, built in 1832, n' home t' a haint. A ball of light I witness'd one night movin' slowly through th' hallway 'bout head high outside my bedroom door.
'Bout 2:30 in the mornin' I woke up in bed for no reason at all. There wasn't rainin' or thunderin' goin' on. No barkin' or other loud noises might stir up a commotion. My younger brother, Charlie was asleepin' in th' bed 'cross th' room.
As if some'n lit a candle in th' next room, light started reflecting off th' walls in th' hallway comin' from the bathroom. Wasn't sudden or burstin', th' light jus' got brighter n' brighter.
"Mom? Dad? You in there?" I called out.
No answer.
I called out again this time loud enough t' wake every'n up in th' whole house.
Charlie didn't budge from his sleep. Not a peep.
Th' light started movin' into th' hallway from the bathroom gettin' all th' more brighter and brighter. From my bed I could see through th' doorway n' out t' th' hall. I could see th' pictures hanging on th' wall n' stuff on th' dress of drawers. Th' light continued to grow brighter 'til it passed my doorway movin' slowly down th' hall towards my parent's bedr'm.
When th' light was in full view it looked like som'n was jus' holdin' a really hot candle n' all's you could see was th' glow n' nuthin' else. But there was no'n there 'cept a ball of light th's size of a normal person's head jus' a floatin' 'bout head high.
'Stead of goin' t' my parents bedr'm th' light 'cided t' turn n' go downstairs. I could see th' reflection of th' light off th' walls descendin' downstairs. Th' light seem to go 'bout halfway down th'stairs n' jus' went out. Pitch black. Never felt it so dark b'fore.
It scared me so bad I jus' let out a hollerin'.
"MOM!..........DAD! WAKE UP! CHARLIE!.......... CHARLIE!.......... WAKE UP!!!"
Th' house was dark'r and quiet'r then I ever felt. Nuthin'. No'n woke up. No light. No sound.
I rolled over n' faced th' wall too scared t' move or look anymore. I tried not t' breathe or make th' slightest sound. I could feel somehting in th' room but didn't know what it was. Usually, I hear my brother breathin' n' snorin' but he wasn't makin' a peep. Th' haint was sittin' beside my bed watchin' me sweat.
I must've shook myself back to sleep.
Next thing I know th' sun come up. I got up n' went down for breakfast. Jus' Mom n' Charlie in th' kitchen. Dad already gone to work.
"Mom, did ya' hear me call out in the middle of th' night?" I asked.
"No. What time?"
"Real late. Clock said 2:30 in th' mornin'."
"Was something th' matter?"
"Nah, nothin'. Just seein' if you 'er wake."
I didn't want t' scare my family n' I felt 'shamed to bring up th' matter in fear of no one believin' me n' how frightnin' it was. I didn't even know what it was I saw 'til years later when visitin' th' Du Pont Powder Mills on a class field trip. During th' tour our guide mentioned th' grounds being full of haints. Irish immigrants who worked th' mill in th' 1800's were often killed when th' blasting powder housed in numerous small cobblestone storage buildings exploded. Th' buildin's were packed full waitin' to be used for maufacturin' dynamite for minin'. Th' problem with storin' explosives is th' stuff has t' be kept dry. Raw explosives will sweat after bein' stored for sometime due t' th' 'cumulation of moister. When it sweats it 'comes very unstable and will blast without any'n makin' it go off.
Th' explosions were lik'n t' thousand ton bombs goin' off. Buildin's jus' dissappear 'n nuthin' left but a huge hole in th' ground. Rocks from the buildin' be found hunnerds of yards away. Death abound n' frequent.
When th' tour guide was tellin' us th' story he said "At night you see balls of light floatin' 'round through trees 'n buildin's. Them balls of light are souls of th' workers who had been killed by n' explosion n' they're trying t' find th' body they belongin' to."
"How big be them balls of light you see floatin' 'round here?" I asked.
"'Bout yay big 'n they float 'round 'bout head high..." he said." The guide held his hands approximatin' the balls were kin to a basketball.
I froze jus' like in bed that night gettin' chills. Everytime th' subject of haints come up a cold feelin' run through me. I couldn't believe he was describin' th' same exact thing. There was no histr'y of Irish immigrants ever livin' in our home. Th' fact his description of these haints was th' same as what I's witnessin' unbeknownst made me believe evermore what I saw that night was real.
Years later after we moved upstate, I told my parents th' story still 'shamed they might think they got a crazy son on their hands.
They didn't know what t' think.
-10/24/03
This writing style is homage to the storytelling traditions and folkways of the Appalachian Mountain communities. A series of almanacs called the Foxfire Books were compiled and published by a Virginia high school teacher named Eliot Wigginton and his students thoughout the 1970's. They interviewed and collected information from mountain folk about rural living. The information in these books arre documented this way to preserve the colloquialisms of the Appalachian people. Their unique approach to everyday living survives despite 'th' hustle n' bustle of th' rest of th' world.'
Read 'em sometime. Th' stories of haints n' pixies will scare the daylight out of you as will tasty recipes n' insight intrigue.