Bloody Mary

I must be honest with you, my reader. After experiencing the events that gave rise to the story at Barr Lassiter's home in Carthage, Tennessee and meeting my dear departed wife, I was tempted to call the book finished. I was tempted to flee for fear of other ghosts I may meet. But, as many a great actor has said before, the show must go on. I knew this collection of stories wouldn’t be complete without at least one more story from America. This final story comes from Pennsylvania and is the end of my journey out of skepticism and my conversion into a believer.

The story of Bloody Mary has many origins, but the one I relate here comes from my hometown of Amity Gardens, Pennsylvania. It was also the story I grew up with as a child in my grandfather's lap.

As it goes in our ancient legends, Bloody Mary, as she was called by the local villagers, was a witch some two hundred years ago. She lived deep in the forest near the nameless town that became Amity Gardens and worked as an herbalist to make a living. She was feared by the local populace of the small village for they believed her to be a witch. No one would dare cross her for fear of losing their cows or food stores before winter, or falling beneath any number of other curses a witch might cast.

One winter the young girls of the town began to disappear. Grief ran thick through the village as girl after girl vanished without a trace. Even a few brave souls ventured to the cabin of Bloody Mary to inquire if she had seen the missing girls. The witch, of course, denied it, though her visage had changed. She no longer looked quite as haggard as she had before, and even seemed a little more youthful. But the villagers had no evidence of any wrongdoing by the witch and left her cabin empty-handed.

Then it happened during the deep darkness of one night that the young daughter of the baker rose from her bed as though enchanted and started to walk out of her home. She passed right by her mother who was up with a headache. The baker’s wife sprang from her seat and did her best to stop her daughter from leaving. The struggle and shouts brought the baker from his bed and their combined efforts created such a ruckus that it drew the attention of their neighbors. The young girl eventually got free and walked out of the house and the crowd followed her.

Then one sharp-eyed farmer pointed to the edge of the forest. There stood, in a ghostly, pale, magical glow, the witch Bloody Mary with a wand pointed at the girl. The farmer knew exactly what was going on: Bloody Mary had bewitched the little girl. He rallied the others. They all gathered up their pitchforks, guns, and torches and stormed off toward the witch.

Hearing the commotion, Bloody Mary released the spell upon the baker’s young daughter and turned to flee into the safety of the forest, which she knew better than anyone else. But one of the farmers who had come running in response to the baker’s shouts and cries had expected this and loaded his gun with silver bullets. He shot Bloody Mary in the leg and the crowd caught up to her rather easily.

They captured and bound her with rope and took her out to a field where they started a bonfire that very night and burned her alive. In the throes of death, Bloody Mary cursed the townsfolk and their descendants. “Any who face a mirror and call my name thrice shall be visited by my vengeful spirit and dragged away!”

Since then there have been whispered accounts of those foolish enough to stand before a mirror and chant the name Bloody Mary. These quiet tales say that the vengeful spirit wells up in the mirror, driving the summoner insane and then lashing out and rending flesh from bone. In the end Bloody Mary drags the soul of the foolish mortal away from the desecrated corpse.

I grew up hearing this story and even used it to frighten children around Halloween. Never before did I think there might be any truth to it, but my recent experience with ghost stories had shaken my skepticism. I cannot tell you now why I would dare try to summon the ancient vengeful spirit of a witch whom my ancestors put to death, especially with my previous experiences with ghosts.

But soon after recording this story for the book, as it was told to me by my grandfather, I found myself before a bathroom mirror. The lights were out all through the house and the night was stormy. I had visited my wife’s grave earlier that day and felt at peace with the world.

As I recall, I was terrified that the vengeful witch might come forth, but I pushed the fear down into my stomach. I was still a skeptic deep at heart, so I knew nothing would happen.

“It’s just a ghost story to scare children,” I told myself. I took a deep breath and said, louder than I had intended, “Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary.”

As soon as the last syllable left my lips, I knew I had made a mistake. The mirror before me fogged up and I jerked back away from it, for fear that some gnarled hand might jump out at me. After a few moments, the mirror cleared and instead of seeing my reflection I looked upon the visage of my deceased wife.

“Good evening, Nathan,” she said. Her voice was as melodious as I remembered when she was alive. “You’re brave for following your heart this far and trailing a ghost story that will become your own to tell.”

I felt tears well up in my eyes and all words died in my throat. I couldn’t find the will to say anything. Mary did all the talking necessary.

“Shh, dear husband. You needn’t speed toward your own demise. You lost a good deal when I perished, but the accident wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you, and even now I wish you no harm. Know that I want you to be happy, and until you pass on naturally, I shall be waiting for you here.” At that she leaned forward, passing through the mirror, and placed a warm kiss on my lips. After that she faded and was gone and I had the final ghost story to wrap this book of tales together.

I can only hope you have enjoyed following me along this trail of stories and are willing to question the world around you. Until we meet around the campfire again, take care.

Back to the Cover Page

Author's Note: I chose to wrap up Nathan Proctor’s story here. It completes his conversion from skeptic to believer by meeting his deceased wife. The original story is roughly the first half of my story, with the origin of Bloody Mary the witch in Pennsylvania. The remainder of the story is of my own imagination. Nathan gets a ghostly visit from his wife and it cements his belief in ghosts and the supernatural. I felt that the original didn’t quite have enough of a ‘ghost story’ feel to it and used my frametale to give it that little bit of extra umph. I hope I’ve managed to touch you in some way through the telling of this story.

I liked telling this story. It wasn't one the version of Bloody Mary I had grown up with, but it felt right to tell and to bring Nathan along for the ride. I hope that the buildup to this point was well worth the wait to see how I finished it off. The best part about telling stories is the joy it can bring from others who read them. I can only hope that you’ve enjoyed this trip with Nathan. Maybe I’ll don his mask again for future storytelling.

Until we meet again around the campfire, take care my reader, and my friend.