Ghost Stories and Tall Tales of the American South

Superstition Mountain: Southern Ghost Story

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Southern ghost story by Amy Mitchell, illustration by Geoff Mitchell.

She was born with hair the color of the morning sun. As she grew, it grew, down to her waist. To her it was only a nuisance, so she wore it tied back with a thick cord. Her brother would give it a yank every so often to annoy her, but she just laughed and gave him chase. When she was sixteen he left home and it broke her heart.

He wasn’t gone more than a few months when word came of his death. He had gotten mixed up with the wrong men and one of them shot him for drinking the last sip of whiskey. Her parents didn’t shed a tear for their son turned outlaw and refused to pay for his headstone. She knew he deserved better.

One night, she disappeared into the woods wearing his pants held up with a worn rope. She wore his favorite leather hat and an oversized shirt, carrying only a rucksack with a few provisions. When she found a quiet spot to camp, she built a fire ring just like her brother taught her.

Superstition Mountain Southern Ghost Story

Illustration by Geoff Mitchell

Being all alone in the black night with only a sliver of moon for light, frightened her more than she expected. In the dark, she felt around in her bag for the flint. She could feel her heart pounding so loud in her ears that it threatened to drown out the night crickets. Just as her fingers grazed the stone, the fire sparked up and soon the flames rose to meet the sky.

She gasped, looking around for the source of the fire. She felt a tug on her hair and then heard a familiar laugh. She called his name and suddenly he was there, looking exactly like he did the day he left home, but when she rushed to embrace him her arms passed right through.

The next morning, he watched as she took the hunting knife to her hair, cutting it just under her chin. When she threw it in the fire, the flames danced blue, then green, then purple. They drew the plan out together, her drawing with a stick in the soil, erasing when she heard him sigh.

By the time the train was there, she was ready, chasing it with a frenzy. A single rider couldn’t stop a train, but they hadn’t counted on her brother who changed the signal. When the train screeched to a halt, he boarded and took money right out of the passenger’s pockets, throwing it out the window to her.

They were back at the campsite, counting their profits, by the time the sheriff arrived to a frustrating railcar of confused passengers claiming to have seen nothing. Within a week she bought him an ornate headstone that he liked to sit on. For years nobody could explain the string of robberies by the invisible outlaws until one day they just stopped. Another headstone went up and side by side, beloved brother and beloved sister were finally at rest.

-THE END-

More about artist/storyteller Geoff Mitchell:


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