I was something of a tomboy growing up. And I often spent my summers here in Benton, helping my grandfather the late Albert John Brewer around the family farm when I could escape the attention of my grandmother Sabbath Mari Brewer who was a Croft before she married my grandfather in a simple “Low Church” service down at St. Mary's Episcopal Church, the towns only Episcopal Church and the cradle of bourgeoisie of the Benton. My grandfather owned a two hundred acre parcel of land just north of town, a parcel of land that became a modest, successful farm that was started by his great-great-great grandfather Hershey Alex Brewer, who had passed it down the family line till finally it came to him and then was willed to me at his passing.
Anyway, I'm rambling a little. I'm not a writer, nor do I consider myself a skilled storyteller. I was never really one to tell stories. I'm just trying to help my sister with her book here. Anyway, back to the story. Now the town of Benton has a large Hispanic population. Most of them come and go, a few have settled down in our town and have added their own colorful flair to the otherwise dull fabric of southern small town living. The bulk of them though are migrant or seasonal farm workers. They come when the corn, wheat or cotton is ready to be planted, once the crop is in the ground they leave and return a few months later when the crop is ready to be harvested. This lucrative trade is the one reason why Benton despite its small size can boost a modern Holiday Inn and the only reason I feel while the historical Benton Hotel, located downtown has remained open and withered the many ups and downs of our small town.
And I ramble again. But I feel it's best if we understand that. Because I spent a lot of summer helping my grandfather around his farm and because he often employed these seasonal workers, I often spent a lot of time around them. I would bring them lunch in the field, peddle out coolers of cool drinking water and I often attended Mass with their families down at All Saints Catholic Church, the only Catholic Church in town. Grandmother was a Roman Catholic before she married grandfather who was an Episcopalian. As such I was raised in both churches. Attending both services on any given Sunday.
Again, I'm rambling on. Anyway, the point I'm trying to get across is this, I spent a lot of time around them. And from them I learned how to cook some amazing dishes, like I can fix fajitas, taco's, burritos, enchilada's and taquitos with the best of them. And I also learned about their folklore, I quickly became engrossed by stories of blood sucking chupacabra and the mournful soul of La Llorona. Whom I swear I had an encounter with one hot, summer afternoon. When I had just turned twelve.
Like I said before I was a tomboy growing up. And while grandfather and grandmother had a television, you could only pick up your basic channels. It was like thirteen or fourteen channels maybe. And I only ever really watched Nickelodeon for the occasional reruns of “Are You Afraid of the Dark?” and “My Brother Peter” and of course the cult classic “Double Dare” and sometimes I would catch a rerun of the red haired stepchild of Nickelodeon “What Would You Do?” Those shows along with the “Elizabeth's House Party” and the many Ken Burns documentary films formed pretty much the core reason why I would stay in and watch television when the weather outside was too cold or too hot for me to ramble the hills, hollows and hidden meadows of the countryside.
Anyway getting back on topic. One of my favorite pastimes during the warm summer months when I was not helping my grandfather around the farm, or attending socials with my grandmother around Benton was to stalk the creeks, brooks and streams that flowed from hidden sources from hidden pools deep in the half ring of circles of hills that surrounded our town. One such creek was Wilson creek that is born deep in the hills of Haunted Hollow.
From these hidden areas of the fable Haunted Hollow it trickled down gaining strength as it did. Starting off as nothing more than a small dribble it quickly became a brook as it left the hills and greeted the flatland. As it flowed from the hollow, it wound its way across our farmland before reaching Benton. Once it reached Benton it had become something that amounts to a small river as it flows through the neighborhood that borders it. Finally it empties itself at the bottom of the neighborhood when the blacktop gives way to reeds, cattails and ferns.
Anyway it was on that section of creek I spotted her, it was one of the hottest days of the year. The weather bulletin had accurately predicted it would be one of the hottest days of the year. With the high reaching into the temperature reaching into the triple digits. It was the kind of heat that could kill you. I remember the sun reflected off the bare sandy banks and how it hurt to walk across the stones, worn smooth over thousands of years of water running over them.
The water was freezing cold too despite the heat. I waded through the water barefooted as the day I was born, an old fishing net held high above my head. I was crayfish hunting. Why you may ask, for grandmother to make into a wonderful bisque. Crayfish Bisque for those poor souls that have not been enlightened to the taste of good southern cooking is a treat that is only served around Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. I had a good bucket full of them at this point, I had been searching the creek from one end to the other. Stalking the banks were the tiny little lobsters love to hide.
Then I spotted something, it looked like the outline of a woman, she wore a long, flowing white dress and her hair that reached down to her shoulders was dripping wet. I remember her hair most of all because it was the color of charcoal and hung down around her shoulders like thousands of tiny mop strings.
The woman had her back turned away from me and she was kneeling down. Then as if aware of my presents, she stood up and quickly turned to face me. Her face was pinched and gray, her lips were kind of blueish and her eyes, they were the purest color of red I've ever seen. Looking into them caused me to break into a cold sweat. Visions of hell filled my head as I looked deeper into them. She then started to move toward me. She seemed to float along the water. I tried to move, but I found myself rooted in place, like some supernatural force was holding me in place. I tried to pray, but the words got caught in my throat. A sense of dread started to come over me, and a feeling of doom.
Time seemed to come to a complete halt. The woman kept inching her way toward me, a wicked little smile crossed her face. I felt like I was living a rerun of 'Are You Afraid of the Dark'. I mean here I was, facing down a monster that had just appeared and was closing in on me. And what happened next still kind of puzzles me. I had just been baptized into the Catholic Church and later that month confirmed into the Episcopal Church, like I said, grandmother and grandfather could never make up their mind when it came to me. Anyway one of the gifts I've received from the Catholic Church following my baptism I had given been a three blessed saint medals. Those saint medals hung around my neck at this very moment and somehow they started to glow.
They glowed the prettiest blue light I've ever seen. And that glowing blue light seemed to surround me and form something like a force field around me. This force field kept whatever that woman was away from me and made her retreat down the creek, but she never broke eye contact with me, no she kept looking me dead in the eyes as she started to move down the creek. And much to my horror, she started to fade into the thin air.
We'll, that was enough for me, I started running away as fast as my two feet could carry me. Net in one hand, bucket in the other, heat be damned I scrambled that bank and as soon as my feet touched that gravel road that connected the various parts of our farm together I took off like a bat out of hell. I ran for a good twenty minutes before I was forced to slow down and even then I still formed myself to break out into sprints. I only allowed myself to really slow down and breath when I reached the safety of the farm house. I can remember setting my net down on the front porch of the house, and then dropping my bucket of crayfish and then breathing like a dragon I reached down took hold of the brass door handle, gave it a twist and pushed it in.
The door flung open and I quickly rushed inside. Once I was inside, I slammed the door shut, bolted the lock, fastened the chain and locked all the windows. I then fixed myself a snake, stuffed pizza pockets and then I tried to push that sighting out of my head.
