We had exactly half an hour to get home before the monsters came out. During the hot, muggy summer, when days last longer, we gathered on the front porch to pass away the evening hours. Grandmama’s hands were always busy, but while shelling peas or picking greens, she told a spine-chilling ghost tale about Laughing Lizzy, a specter who’d gone mad after losing her entire family in a fire. Her hysterical laughter was said to drive listeners insane. Then on cold winter nights, when the dark-thirty came early, our family sat in the living room and talked. The talk generally led to one of Grandmama’s hair-raising tales. As the last glimmers of light faded from the window overlooking the woods, she told about Gray Jim, the runaway slave who’d been killed while trying to escape. Gray Jim’s ghost haunted the woods on moonless nights. “Sorry for those who hear Gray Jim’s dying screams,” she whispered, “’cause they’re not long for this world.” At this point my grandmother would pause and say, “Pat, go in the kitchen and get me a glass of water.”
