.png)
.png)
My generation has forgotten paranormal experiences. Until recently, hunting ghosts or phantoms was deemed pretty cool. Plenty of people I know have had these experiences. They just don't share them because nobody talks about these poltergeists anymore.
I’ve had my fair share of hauntings, especially in the countryside. People are quick to be skeptical about my experiences because lately scientists have been “debunking” these experiences. Many studies have been made about people that report ghost sightings, and scientists have attempted to debunk their stories. They typically blame these sightings on head trauma or religious trauma.
I’ve had neither.
______________________
My aunt’s farm is a fun place, during the day at least. Birds sing, the bees buzz, the flowers dance, and the snowy mountains are beautiful. The fields stretch to the little hills near the mountains, only separated by a dirt road. Everything about the environment makes you think nothing sinister goes there. And that’s the truth: nothing sinister does goes on there. Unless you’re vegan, of course. It is a farm after all.
At night, though, it’s too dark. You can’t see the mountains. You can only go a certain distance until you reach the void of darkness. You can only hear your footsteps on the dirt. It’s eerie because you don’t know what’s in front of you. A mountain lion could be in front of you ready to pounce and you’d have no idea.
The house has been there for a while, definitely longer than I have been. It’s not my aunt’s farm, it belongs to a mysterious man, but she only resides there in exchange for work and some money too. I heard the house has been there since the mid-1800s and, in total honesty, I 100% believe those rumors.
I vividly remember sitting on my aunt’s rocking chair on the porch. Out of nowhere, a little girl approached me. She held out her hand and introduced herself as Rosie. I shook her hand and was surprised to find out it was cold, significantly colder than the temperature outside.
She wore some very vintage-looking clothes. Rosie looked like she escaped from a history book, only with color. She had brown curls bouncing around her head and a blue dress that lifted when she twirled around. Rosie looked like a little angel. And a bit like Shirley Temple, too.
Rosie and I played until she had to go. “Mama’s calling my name,” she said in a thick southern accent.
We said our goodbyes, I followed her to see where she went. Rosie walked through the shut door of the basement. After she’d gone to the basement, I heard echoing cries in my ears while a fog slowly filled up the air.
Then softly, like a whisper, I heard one single word.
“Mama.”
__________________________
Flyleaf has a song that resonates with my memory of Rosie. “I’m alive,” the lyrics go. “I can feel you all around me, thickening the air I’m breathing.”
I will never forget Rosie. She is still all around me.
