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A Ghosts Saves Her Baby
I had just finished up lunch with a friend at around one o’clock in the afternoon. I was trekking back from the dining hall when I met the storyteller. She was a freshman who had just turned eighteen, and a moderately-devout Catholic. (“I’m into my religion but I don’t go to church as much as I’d like to.”) She was Filipino and born and raised Maryland. She was sitting on the lawn in front of the library, deeply immersed in a novel. When prompted by my question, “Would you mind helping me out with an assignment for class? I just need a ghost story or urban legend and interview you for a few minutes,” she cocked her head to one side and slowly shut her book. She said, “You know that one about a woman who dies in a car crash but her baby is still alive and she doesn’t want to leave it alone in the world?”
I had a tape recorder with me, but she seemed a little put-off by that, so I simply took elaborate notes on how she presented her story. The following is as close to verbatim as I could remember and drawn from my notes:
My cousin told me this. One evening, it was thunder-storming pretty badly outside. This lonely woman was sitting in her house watching television when someone knocked on her door. She got up to open it, and in front of her was this other woman who was just a wreck. She had blood and dirt all over her, not to mention all that rain drenching her. Pretty creepy sight. [She visibly flinched.] The woman outside goes, “Can you please help me? I just crashed my car and my baby is still in his car seat!” [The storyteller’s tone became empathetic here.] Of course, the lonely woman says, “Okay,” and the two go outside together. The rain picked up and things got really hard to see, but the lady led the lonely woman to her car, which had fallen into a ditch. Inside, there was the little baby sitting in his seat, still alive. The lonely woman reached in to get it, but then she gets all shocked, because you know who was in the driver’s seat? [I shook my head while she allowed her pause to linger.] It was the dead woman.
I was told a story about one of Cloudcroft's more famous ghosts when casually lounging in the undergraduate student physics lounge at the University of Maryland, College Park, with a group of students during a lunch break before class. This occurred during early April, 2005. I inquired whether anyone knew any ghost stories or folklore. A friend of mine volunteered that she knew several ghost stories from her travels. The storyteller was a 23-year-old Caucasian female from an upper-middle class family in Baltimore. She currently lives in Crofton, MD, and is a physics and astronomy major.
The book ghosts from the nursery: tracing the roots of violence which had been written by Robin Kar-Morse and Meredith S Wiley. Meredith S Wiley provides the person who reads an in detail look at child abuse and neglect. Morse and Wiley both discuss in detail the effects of neglect and abuse, looking at specifically at violence in children. The detail of the book is it follows a young male who is of the age of 19 years old named Jeffery, who is given the sentence of death row due to committing a murder when he was of the age of 16 years old. Jeffery’s case was a beautiful case study for the authors and audience to analyse and relate theories to. By looking at cases such as Jeffery and looking at other children who are in similar situation, both authors start to look at the honesty about the subtle and crucial years of infancy and early childhood.
[During the telling of the story there were no meaningful gestures, just pauses when the storyteller couldn't remember certain details, or when she wanted to take more sips of her macchiato. The storyteller did not relate the story with intonation or pitch changes, nor did her rate change. It was more like the stating of facts she knew.]
The storyteller was an eighteen-year old male attending the University. Currently a sophomore, he was raised as a Catholic in Maryland. Upon visiting me a couple of weeks ago on a Saturday night, we relaxed over some calzones in my dorm as we began to watch television and listen to music. Flipping through the channels, we came across the Sci-Fi network, sparking a sudden interest in both of us to talk about scary stories. We began to discuss the local urban legends, myths, and horror stories that we knew, and he began to tell a story that he heard from a friend down in South Carolina during his freshman year. It went like this.
The following ghost story involving a ghost named “Anna” was first told to me by a person who lives near the ghost site. A New Jersey native, this girl was an eighteen-year-old college student. She came from a middle-class, predominantly white, suburban neighborhood. This story about Anna’s ghost was told to a group of other college students and me while eating dinner at the campus diner. The storyteller, I, and our group of friends began to discuss the things we teenagers do to occupy ourselves on weekend nights when we’re bored. Another friend of ours mentioned that she and her friends would trespass into an old, abandoned house in her neighborhood just for thrills. The storyteller then announced that she knew of this road in her hometown of Totowa, New Jersey that is haunted by a teenage ghost named Anna who is dressed in a white gown and was killed by a car while on the road. The storyteller did not know the exact name of this road; she claims that it is now only referred to as Anna’s road. She also did not know when the accident occurred and had not been there herself, but she asserted that a friend of hers had seen the ghost and verified the story for her. She then proceeded to enlighten her audience:
The car would not go, and none of the electronics in the car would work either. We were just sitting there in silence. All I could think about was how we were going to get out of this terrible place. It was as if our life was flashing before our eyes. Suddenly the radio turns back on. Jingle bells is playing and the music was turned up as loud as it goes. Immediately we all scream. We were all speechless and didn’t know what to do. Jingle Bells only played for a short time and then the radio just went to static. It was as if we would never get out this
Given the title of this work, you may mistakenly believe (as did at least one prior owner of the book copy I had read from, if their annotations are any indication) that this is a literal investigation into all things paranormal and society’s investment of that which goes bump in the night. In “Ghostly Matters: Hauntings and the Sociological Imagination”, Avery F. Gordon offers academics and ethnographers – those whose profession it is to unearth the secreted relationships between the signifier and the signified, the subject and object, the real and unreal - a disturbing ghost story that should leave those of us in the field who came claim these titles with both the deepest of darkest chills and, through a new method of revealing and acknowledging the ghosts we feel, the hope for something akin to redemption. (In this way, perhaps, Gordon accomplishes many of the same feats as Stephen King and Edgar Allen Poe).
I searched until I heard a story that gave me the chills. It comes from right around the block from where I live on campus, at one of the sorority houses at the University of Maryland. I collected this story the weekend of April 2nd, at my fraternity house. I asked my friend, a junior from Pikesville, if she knows any ghost stories. Her face lit up as if she was dying to tell me this story since the first time we ever met. She asked “you never heard the story of the ghost in the sorority house?” I replied no. The normally quiet woman demanded my attention away from the TV and went into her story.
There is this small bridge in a small city nearby. There was a car accident and a small child or baby died. And, um, it was in the local papers. It is said that at night, when your drive over it, you can hear the sound of a baby crying. And you know how signs on the side of the road reflect light and stuff? Well, you can’t see it with normal lighting, but when a car’s lights hit the sign at the right angle, you can see a baby’s footprints.
This story was told to me by a close friend, in my dorm room on a cold rainy day in April. My friend is a female of Columbian descent, 20 years old, who lives off campus in Silver Spring, Maryland. She is a sophomore and is currently studying journalism at Maryland. She heard this story about a year ago while she was with her mom, and it was told to them by a co-worker of her mother’s at a national magazine. This story was collected by tape recorder, which was held by the teller.
Lisa as a young teen begins to manage her special gift to connect with spirits by progressing from the motivation her grandmother gave her to grasp a stronger understanding of what she spiritually obtains. Lisa’s grandmother encourages her to learn about the spirit world and the consequences that follow, to make sure her mistakes don’t mislead her, “Never trust the spirit world too much. They think much differently from the living.”(Robinson, 153). Ma ma oo (Lisa’s grandmother) ensures that Lisa is provided with the knowledge of the supernatural world at her current age so she will be prepared for the future and along with that she wants her to being to learn about herself through these teachings and develop from them. Considering that the bond between Lisamarie and her grandmother is already well established it makes the understanding and communication of the spirit world more interesting for her. Overtime Lisa becomes curious about her gift of connecting with spirits, “What do spirits look like?”...
Some people tell the truth and some people show the truth. Elizabeth Bowen shows the truth in her story, “The Demon Lover”. Her story is about a forty four year old woman who revisits her childhood home to collect some possessions for her family. However, the woman finds a letter from an unknown source that she believes is from her dead fiancé. Many readers believe this piece of fiction to be a ghost story, but it is one that is about a woman with acute psychological delusion portrayed through the use of characterization and occasion.
The storyteller told me the story of the Goatman in a mutual friend’s dorm room at night. I had come to the dorm room to ask my friend if he knew any urban legends of ghost stories from around campus or the state of Maryland. The storyteller, a 21-year-old biology major, shouted excitedly from the couch that she knew one. She is from Beltsville, Maryland. Her mother is a lawyer and her father is a math professor. My friend and I sat down on the couch and listened intently as she told the story: The Goatman from Beltsville.
The ride home had been the most excruciating car ride of my life. Grasping this all new information, coping with grief and guilt had been extremely grueling. As my stepfather brought my sister and I home, nothing was to be said, no words were leaving my mouth.Our different home, we all limped our ways to our beds, and cried ourselves to sleep with nothing but silence remaining. Death had surprised me once
One night, around 1:00 a.m., my roommates and I were sitting in the common room, and I asked the group if they knew of a compelling ghost story. My one roommate, a 20 year old from Pennsylvania, said she had heard a ghost story at the summer sleep-away camp she had attended when she was younger. She heard the story around a campfire in the woods of Camp Tonikanee, which is in Quakertown, Pennsylvania. She described her story as one that the counselors would tell the campers to convince them the camp was haunted.