Though she was small in stature, she commanded attention when she entered a room. She was usually dressed in a simple shift; sleeveless and solid; falling in a straight line just above the knee. Her medium brown hair was swept up in the back and held in place with a single tortoise shell comb, all beneath a clear hair net. She spoke rapidly, her words simple, curt, and often indiscernible. We always referred to her as Aunt Elizabeth, as she was married to my Great Uncle Graydon. When we knew she was due for a visit, my cousins and I would squeal with anticipation; not from delight, but actually from fear. You see, my friends, Aunt Elizabeth was scary; very, very scary.
This unique little lady was a true believer in the macabre. Vampires, ghosts, witches, werewolves and demons were part of her everyday vocabulary. She would tell us tales of the paranormal and her own experiences with the supernatural.
She and Uncle Graydon had a German shephard named Bucky, and when he died at the age of 13, Aunt Elizabeth declared to all of us at a Sunday picnic that Bucky still roamed the earth and she could prove it! She invited us to spend the night with her and Uncle Graydon in their home in Bridgewater. Her plan was to string thin brown thread between two legs of her dining room table. “The thread will be broken by morning,” she said. “Bucky’s spirit will walk under the table, much like he did in life. The breaking of the string will prove it.” Though we were intrigued, none of us were brave enough to agree to spend the night in her incredibly spooky, crazy-creepy old mansion.
Aunt Elizabeth was a hoarder long before hoarding became the subject of reality television. The second floor of her home was overflowing with boxes stuffed with old hats, books, newspapers, tattered clothing, costume jewelry, blankets and trinkets. My cousin Peggy and I would sneak upstairs and parade around in Aunt Elizabeth’s old clothes, admiring ourselves in a cracked and streaky old floor mirror. Our faces appeared disfigured and sallow against the gray, ominous shadows that clung in desperation to the dingy corners of the room.
Our parents gave no credibility to Aunt Elizabeth’s stories, but my cousins and I were fascinated with her beliefs and the experiences she shared with us. She would stand before us, her body swaying and her hands outstretched as she vividly described her most recent adventure. Vampires could be found in Bridgewater. Spirits roamed the dense Aroostook County woods. The cemeteries were alive with unsettled souls. With wide, shining brown eyes, she would hold us captive with her frightening tales.
As we grew into adulthood, we eventually lost our infatuation with Aunt Elizabeth. She became just another of our great aunts and uncles, lost in the sea of aging relatives. She would sit quietly beside Uncle Graydon, her hands busy with her knitting or crocheting. She would raise her head from time to time, a smile lingering in her eyes, and I yearned to hear all of her untold stories.
These days, we are entertained by Freddy Krueger, special effect alien invasions, modern day vampires, and the zombie apocalypse. I believe we have lost the ability to be genuinely and harmlessly frightened, my friends. We need some healthy, old fashioned dark tales, delivered just before dusk with gusto, imagination, and eyes jumping with mischief. Ah! Great Aunt Elizabeth! May you rest in eternal peace.
Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
