A Child's Memories

         I woke up crying, wanting out of my crib. Minnie, our live-in maid, came into my room and picked me up. I'm sure she cleaned me up and put those plastic pants over my cloth diaper. I remember even then, hating the feel of those. When she finally put me down, I started running through the long white hall, hollering, "Momma, Mommmmaaaa?" But Momma didn't answer. My brother and sister were in the big living room watching T.V. It must have been a Saturday morning as Mary Poppins was playing. Back in those days, most children's shows only played on Saturday mornings or Sunday evenings on the Disney Movie of the Week.

         Minnie came in, picked me up, and told me to quit screaming because I would wake Momma. I remember the smell of bacon and eggs cooking in the kitchen, along with my favorite smell of cinnamon rolls. When Minnie put me back down, my chubby thighs rubbed against each other, as I ran back through the house, again, looking for momma. She still would not answer my calls. Daddy owned a restaurant and did not keep regular hours. So, I imagine he was at work.

         I ran up to Mom's door, but the doorknob was too high. I remember jumping up, trying to grab it. Not being able to, I fell against the door, sending it slamming open. Lying on her back atop the violet sheets, her arms, and legs spread wide, was my mother. There was broken glass everywhere. I'm not sure where all of it came from, but it seemed there was not a space that wasn't glistening with broken shards. There was scintillating glass in the red liquid blood, flowing from many different cuts, on Mom's body. The broken lamp lay haphazardly next to her, half on the bed and half off. Mimicking the position of her arms and legs. Several empty pill bottles lay scattered amongst spilled pills, making a cruel outline of the pale body.

         I stood staring at her when a strange echo of screaming enveloped me. Minnie ran up behind me, followed by my brother and sister. She ran to Momma, checking the pulse in her neck and wrist while screaming at us to get out of the room. Minnie ran out, slamming the door behind her, and frantically dashing into the kitchen. Her hands fumbled to the receiver as she tried to lift it from the cradle. The clicking of the rotary dial took its' sweet time. Finally, help was on the way.

         I tried so hard to lurch myself from her arms as the pulsating, warped sound of the gurney rolled past. My loud shrills echoed off of the walls. I willed Momma to look at me. But she still refused to open her eyes. I may not have known what death was, but I knew what boo-boos were. My body heaved up and down in rhythm to the groaning sobs coming from my little body. In the background, the happy, awkward song, "Just a Spoon Full of Sugar, Helps the Medicine Go Down," played on the T.V. The room around me went foggy. I didn't know what was real and what wasn't.


         My mother had to be revived, and she made it through the horrid ordeal. Years later, I found out that she tried to kill herself, in which she almost succeeded. It would not be her last attempt in her life. Instead, it would be the first of many. Sadly not the last where I would also be involved.

         I believe if the experience is bad enough, it shocks the system. You then either remember it quite vividly. Or hide it subconsciously, not to remember it again, until your mind thinks you're capable of handling it.

         The memory of my mother sprawled out on the bed, bleeding with broken glass everywhere, the look and position of mom, the pills, her closed eyes, and her unresponsiveness, are images I'll never forget! They are still snapshots seared into my brain. No one can tell me babies do not remember. At the tender age of three, I remember it well.


         Months later after Mom came home from the hospital, nothing was ever the same.

         "Please pick me up Mom, please hold me." I said as I jumped up and down with my arms extended.

         I was wearing blue pull-on pants and a red tee shirt, screaming and crying for my mother to pick me up. I was scared and confused and didn't understand why she couldn't just pick me up and give me the reassuring kiss and hug I needed so badly.

         She ignored me and went on with the task at hand. She was in a hurry; God forbid if my Dad had caught her, it would have been a horrible scene.

         Mom had five children who were all at school, except me as I was the youngest. What I didn't know is that the two oldest ones were not actually my whole sisters but my half-sisters. I would find out when she took the eldest two with her and left the other three of us with Dad.

         The phone rang. "NO, no Momma, don't answer the phone. Pick me up, please." Jumping up and down, I cried in desperation. It was no use.

         She glanced down at me and said, "Not now."

         She ignored my pleas and nervously plucked the receiver from its cradle. Somehow, even at the age of three, I knew who was on the other end of the phone. I don't understand how I knew, but I knew it was Johnny, the man Mom was leaving Dad for.

         My mom had her ear glued to the phone as she whispered, "I'm scared . . . okay, I'll meet you there in about an hour. Love you too, bye."

         As young as I was, I still knew something wasn't right. Mom was on a mission and a three-year-old would not interrupt it.

         I stood at the door and watched her quickly throw her clothes into a bag. The maid was talking in a loud whisper. She was arguing with Momma, but Momma was not listening to her.

         Momma walked out of the door slamming it behind her. I was crying and ran to the window to watch her.

         Momma quickly packed the car all the way to the roof, leaving the back window in total obscurity. She grabbed me and plucked me down into the front seat. There was hardly enough room for both of us.

         I cried out of fear and confusion. As she backed out of the driveway and passed house after house in a blur, still not a single word had she spoken. She drove to my grandparent’s house on my dad's side. With the car still running, she got out opened the passenger door, and picked me up. She didn't say a word while she put me at the end of the sidewalk, closed the passenger door, walked back around to the driver's side got in, and drove away.

         I jumped up and down, crying, "Momma. Momma!" I screamed as tears rapidly fell down my face. I watched her as she pulled away and drove down the road, not even looking back.

         "Momma, Momma come back, please come back!" I remember seeing the back of her head and not one time did she look back. She drove off down the road as quickly as she could drive. Not once glancing in the rearview mirror.

         I stood there watching for her for the longest time. My little heart was breaking. Somehow, I knew Momma had just left us. I was standing only a little way away from the road. How did she know I wouldn't get hit by a car?

         Sometime later, Granny walked out and saw me sitting on the steps. "Tracey, wh . . . what are you doing here? Where's your momma?"

         Barely able to talk, I mumbled, "Momma's gone."

         She picked me up and carried me inside. As she carried me into the house, my eyes followed the road in the direction Mom’s car had traveled until the front door closed; closing along with it, the world I once knew.

         Granny quieted me down and picked up the telephone. I remember heated conversations and then sometime later Daddy coming in the door and picking me up.

         "Where's Momma, Daddy? I want my momma."

         I stayed at my granny's while my father walked out of the door. In my later years, I imagine Daddy running inside the house, checking the closets and drawers, and seeing all of Momma's things gone. The realization that she left us all, slowly sank in. It broke his heart. He promised never to marry again. It was a promise he'd take to his grave.

         My two oldest sisters were gone. Momma took them with her. She must have gone to school and picked them up. But she left my other brother and sister in school. They came home to find Momma gone and me crying. They couldn't understand when hour after hour and then day after day, Momma and our two oldest sisters didn't come home.

         Why would Momma take them and leave us behind? We wouldn't understand the answer to that question until much later. The answer was that they weren't my father's. She didn't take us because she knew that Daddy wouldn't let her and it would be much easier on her to leave us behind.

         My brother, sister and I learned to lean on each other throughout the following years. My sister, only three-and-a-half years older than me, hugged and rocked me when I cried for my momma.

         There was no one to hug and rock her.

         That's the day of a three-year-old's hell. The day Momma left Daddy. I didn't know why what was happening was happening, but I sort of understood it. But what I couldn't understand was why she wouldn't pick me up just once, and why she didn't even glance back at me. Why couldn't you just look back once, Momma? Just once.


         Years passed by. I was sick child, with asthma so bad I had to have shots at home. I also think I had just about every illness that was catchy. I spent a lot of time in emergency rooms and hospitals.

         I had caught a serious illness that made me deathly sick. I was admitted to the hospital, while they treated me and tried to find out what was wrong.

         I was in Sacred Heart Hospital in the children's ward.

         "Dad, I feel so sick," I said as I lay in the barren hospital room.

         "Let me turn down the T.V.," My dad said in a slow, low, drawn-out voice. His furrowed brow had become a permanent expression upon his pallid face.

         "No Dad, leave the sound up. It's the only thing that helps me forget being stuck in this stiff hospital bed."

         My hospital door was a never-ending revolving activity of nurses in their white uniforms, doing their daily tasks. Some with their scowls of seriousness and hardly ever a word, but others who became my angels, my heroes. Their reassuring smiles, soft caresses of moving my hair out of my eyes, and compassionate light squeezes of my arms, brought me strength. All the while my fever still continued to climb. Tests after tests were ongoing. Time was our enemy. A diagnosis must be found and found quickly! When the doctor arrived, he asked to speak with my father in the hallway. They stepped right out through my doorway, and from there I overheard the conversation he had with my father.

         " Mr. Criswell, I'm afraid she's a very sick little girl. She could die."

         "What? No, no, no," I screamed. "I don't want to die, please no!" My head shook back and forth as if the very act of shaking my head no could make it so.

         Darting back into the room, their wide eyes and opened mouths showed their shocked surprise. It was a conversation they did not intend for me to hear. The room started spinning. The scent of pine and bleach filled my nostrils. As if in slow motion, I saw the figures running to my bedside.

         "No Honey, you're not going to die." The doctor said, "If you did have the disease they tested you for you could have died but you don't have it. You're going to be okay, Honey!"

         Tossing and turning with the illness that racked my body and the thoughts sabotaging my mind, the night was restless. Dad sat in the corner in the slate gray reclining chair, always keeping his attention turned toward me. My fever kept spiking at 104 or more. I couldn't trust my eyes, or sort my thoughts. My body was racked with pain. I wasn't aware of my surroundings as I slipped in and out of fitful sleep. I knew I was dying. I had to be -- regardless of what they told me. Sounds seemed to be amplified. Noises outside of my door in the hallway were alien and chaos-filled.

         From above, I could see my nine-year-old self, a small figure curled up kicking out her legs, first the right then the left, over and over again. The room was cold, sterile, and white. Poles and tubes were my companions. Only the TV on the wall broke up the lonely, foreign energy of the space. I insisted the TV stayed on. It felt as though it was my lifeline. At least for my sanity's sake. Finally, I was able to drift off to sleep.

         "Help! Help! Oh, Daddy, he's trying to kill me!"

         Dad jumped up and hurried to my bedside. "Who's trying to kill you? It's okay, Honey, you just had a nightmare."

         "No! Can't you see him? He's outside of the window. He has an ax! Oh, please no! Daddy, he's trying to get in the window. He's going to kill me!" Tears poured from my pried-opened eyes. My heart felt as though it would plunge through my chest. My body jerked so forcefully, it shook the mattress.

         Upon my fear-induced urging, Daddy headed outside to check for the mysterious man. Although he knew it was just a hallucination from my high fever, he needed to put my mind at ease.

         After a short time, he came back in and came beside my bed. Speaking in his strong, daddy voice, and gazing into my eyes, he made me feel safe once again. "Honey, there's no one out there. I promise he's gone, and I will make sure he doesn't come back."

         Finally, I drifted back off to sleep, and this time it was for the night.

         A week or so passed until the day arrived when I was finally well enough to go home. The illness to my knowledge was never identified.

         To this day, I vividly remember seeing the silhouette of a man outside of my hospital window, holding up an ax, desperately trying to get inside to kill me.


After my father and mother divorced. I remained with my father throughout my younger childhood years. Then the day arrived which would begin some of the most challenging trials of my young life. Throughout all of the years spent under my father's roof, Dad did not allow me to spend even one night with my mother. So the mother and daughter relationship could only be formed through sporadic, daytime outings.

Late one night as my father was in the midst of the long, deserted commute from work to home, chest pain that he had been periodically experiencing during the last few days, had returned. Only this time, it was much worse. The pain intensified as it traveled down his left arm, exploding within his chest. Not only was he alone, but there were also no other cars on the Scenic, Gulf Coast Highway, as well as no opened businesses for miles. This was in 1977. He was driving home around one to three a.m., making the trek from Destin, FL to Pensacola, FL. Back then, the two-hour drive mainly consisted of beach dunes. Every several miles you'd come across a lone business, but most were tourist-oriented. Plus back then, the majority of businesses were long closed when night fell.

With all of his strength, he fought to keep driving. Seeking for the slightest sign of civilization. At last, he came upon a lone doughnut shop. The shop was closed, but one person had recently arrived to start making the doughnuts for the early morning crowd. Dad, too weak to move, laid against his steering wheel sending the stark sound of the car horn blaring into the silence of the opaque darkness.

For over a year and a half, he stayed in and out of hospitals. Sadly he was admitted to a nursing home at only fifty-one years of age. One night there was a knock at our front door. A knock that would begin the free-falling, titanic changes of my life.

My father had died. I then went to live with my mother for the first time in my life. I was thirteen years old.

_____________________


The house I moved into with my mother, though still decent, was a far cry from the well-to-do house of my father's. Compared to my former life, living at my mom's was as different as night from day. Quite literally. I was raised on the east side of town and moved to the deep west when Dad died. I would also very soon discover just how thin the veil can be between the living and the dead.

I have had experiences throughout my life. But what awaited me would end up being just as traumatic as the chaos and upheaval that my life was about to become.

The former owner of Mom's house was a man who killed himself in the upstairs master bedroom. The upstairs consisted of a bedroom and bathroom, which was built in a portion of the attic. Only a small door separated the stark difference in the living space compared to the attic. It was rumored that the former owner studied and practiced black magic. Rumor easily turned into reality, as evidenced by an engraved pentagram, deeply carved into the last cement step leading from our back porch utility room into a beautiful, shaded pecan-tree backyard.


It's a few months later, and I am now fourteen years old. Mom and Tony had already gone to bed. There were a few siblings and their friends in the living room. Since I had to go to school in the morning, five minutes before midnight, I told everyone goodnight and went to bed.

The bedroom I was in was one that shared a bathroom with another bedroom on the other side. This was my first night in this bedroom because my original room was the one on the other side of the bathroom. For a week before moving into this bedroom, every night I would hear footsteps traveling back and forth. The old-fashioned ceiling was made of tile and with each step, the indent of a footprint would appear. Along with the footsteps, I would also hear my father's voice rising above other mumbled voices. Among the murmuring, the voices called out my name, telling me, Move into the other room, I can't get to you in this room. For some reason this didn't scare me, as much as startled me. I remember feeling like it was more like a dream. It was all so surreal.

         The next day without even thinking about why I was doing it, I moved into the bedroom on the other side of the bathroom. Right after going to bed on my very first night in this room, my brother came through my bedroom door and went into the bathroom, I should have felt a draft from him slamming the bathroom door, but instead, for a split-second I got extremely hot, followed immediately after by a sensation of cold -- again, only lasting a couple of seconds. I was lying on my side facing the bathroom door when I was smothered with an overwhelming feeling ... something was pulling me to look toward the radiator by my bedroom door. The same door my brother just came through that led out into the living room. Fear had enveloped me. It was a dark, oppressive feeling of pure evil. The last thing I wanted to do was turn my head. I tried with all my might not to, but it was as if my will wasn't my own. I slowly turned my head toward the bedroom door - my senses reeled as every single hair stood on end. A human-like figure started to form in front of my horror-filled eyes. The swirling green mass intensified with many different colors of sparkling dots, as it shape-shifted its way into an imitation of what was once my father's silhouette. My mouth stretched open wide, as I tried to scream, but no sound emerged. As each second went by, the ghost grew more solid, while continually moving closer to the bed. I was beyond scared. I was terrified! Once I was able to produce sound with my screams, I couldn't stop. The demon with a surrounding mass and blanket of evil, disappeared as soon as I was able to make a noise. My brother ran out of the bathroom and shook me - when the shaking would not silence my screams, he slapped me twice in the face. This made me quit screaming. I hollered, "JACKIE, JACKIE," (for my sister). I remember seeing her at the door as if I were in a fog. She came to an abrupt stop inside the doorway, as her eyes fell upon me. She later said the look of such horror that was upon my face stopped her dead in her tracks with fear.

         Mom called an ambulance, but I refused to go. My memory of the hours after is almost nonexistent. My family told me all I did was sit on the couch all night just rocking back and forth, not saying a word, with tears streaming down my face. They said it looked like I had seen a ghost.

         There is one thing that I know for a fact, the ghost I saw that night, was not my father. It was an evil spirit. You can feel the difference in the air of the room between a good entity and an evil one. An evil entity has a very heavy, thick essence surrounding it, with intense negative feelings. I'm certain that was a demon trying to deceive me with the form of my father. My father would have never scared me so badly.

That was one night at midnight, I will always remember: The night I saw Daddy.


         School started and had been in session for a few months. It was a warm spring sunny day as I got off the school bus. I was an honor roll student throughout all of my years at school. I had to be, Dad demanded it. All of my years from kindergarten to almost the end of 8th grade, I went to school with the majority of the same kids. I wasn't ever crazy about school, but it was okay. I enjoyed the socializing. But ever since Dad died, I just couldn't get into it. I got in with the wrong crowd, and I had so many life problems on my mind, that homework was hardly an afterthought.

         I walked about seven blocks home when I got off the bus. The neighborhood wasn't the best. It had a lot of known drug dealers in the area, as well as violent incidents including shootings, that brought police around quite often. It usually didn't get too bad until late at night. Luckily, our end of the road was mainly old people and disabled people. But the first three blocks from where I got off the bus were not a place I cared to be. I kept my eyes and ears open at all times. I didn't play.

         As I passed a house full of people hanging out in the yard and the porch, one of them shouted out to me, "Hey come 'ere sugar, Daddy's got something for you," grabbing his crotch and rubbing it up and down.

         "Go to hell, motherfucker!" I yelled, with no concern for my safety. I had lost my mind, and the truth was I didn't care if I lived or died. Looking back now, I truly believe I was shell-shocked. I had turned bat-ass crazy. I know that's what helped me to survive many times. People liked me because I didn't take any shit. Truth be known? I truly have no idea how I survived my teen years. God is the only way that it even makes a morsel of sense.

         I was pretty stoned on my way home, messed up on valiums. It was the first time I had done them. Someone gave them to me at school. I took them without a thought because I wanted to dull the mental and emotional bullshit that my life had become. But all the way home, every single step of those seven long blocks, I knew though the house was supposed to be empty, that there was someone upstairs in the house. Only I didn't think this someone was alive. The house I lived in was very haunted. Some may not believe in that, but I'm not asking anyone to. I know what I had to live through. Not only me but my family. We saw ghosts, heard them, and had to live through things being moved, voices, apparitions, and things so crazy and bizarre, that I'll probably never make them public.

         I had this overwhelming sensation ever since I boarded the bus to head home. I knew, without a doubt, that an evil entity was upstairs waiting for me to get home so it could mess with me. It was going to wait until I walked into the kitchen to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The wall-mounted phone was going to ring, and when I answered, there would only be silence. The phone call would be just to make sure I was the one who answered. Then all hell would break loose.

         Oh shit, Tracey, you're just being paranoid. Nothing's going to happen. You need to calm down and not flip yourself out.

         Walking down the street, I brushed my thin, long brown hair out of my face and adjusted my heavy book bag. I always kept an eye on what was going on around me because you could never trust anyone. Besides, we just found out Ted Bundy was caught a block away from our house. He was on his way to Mobile and decided to come back to Pensacola for a kill. We had five girls coming in and out of our house. All of us had long, light brown hair parted in the middle. Except, for Ellen, she had beautiful, pure blonde hair.

         I knew I was going to have to face the house alone. I was beginning to shake. I could feel my eyes open wide, and my mouth was dry. I was sensing this entity with every ounce of my being! I've seen how crazy entities can cause you to act and feel. They'll try to make you think you're going crazy. My mother was going to a priest because she thought she was possessed. Hell, we did too!

         I had arrived at my destination. I have braved the fear trying to convince myself I was just paranoid, from being stoned. But I still couldn't help but feel I was in a bad horror movie, as I walked up the sidewalk and then slowly climbed the front steps. I decided I would raise my head slowly, so there would not be any shocking surprises, as I entered the living room. I did it! I exhaled a breath and dropped my book bag in my room. I so didn't want to walk into the kitchen. But I was starving, even though I was trying to buy into the paranoia excuse, I still felt the threat. But a woman must eat her PB&J! So, into the kitchen, I went. I was on a mission. Make my sandwich and glass of tea as quickly as possible, and get the heck out! The kitchen was where the steep, dark stairs going up to the bedroom and attic were. Ghosts or no ghosts, those stairs were creepy! While I was putting the peanut butter on the bread, I kept thinking, I know the phone is going to ring, and no one is going to be on it. They're going to call from upstairs to see who entered the house.

         I had half of my sandwich made. Just a couple of more minutes and I'd be out,
Then from behind me, the shrill ringing of the phone broke the silence. I turned looking at the menacing phone. Another ring filled the air. I walked cautiously up to the phone, which was in direct sight straight up the steps. Just answer the phone Tracey, you're being paranoid, answer the damn phone. I slowly walked over to the phone hanging on the wall, with a shaky hand I reached out and picked up the receiver. I answered on the fourth ring."Hello?" Silence. A bit louder, "HELLO?" SILENCE, "HELLO?"

SILENCE, SILENCE, SILENCE!

          I drop the phone, leaving it dangling, and run out on my half-made PB&J! I shot through the living room, out to the porch, and there I sat until Mom got home.

         I hated being there alone. Things happened when you were with people, but more so when you were alone. The house liked it when you were afraid. Like all evil, it feeds off fear.


         It seemed like things were always happening. It would have been nice to have a little break with some normal day-to-day living. But that wasn't meant to be.


         "I'll meet you at your house. No one is allowed at mine," I said with my eyes cast down to the ground.

         The truth was I could have all the company I wanted; but I didn't want to bring them home to a drunken mother, who would end up embarrassing not only me but my company as well.

         I entered the house quietly. I didn't want to disturb my mom.

         "Tracey, Tracey, is that you? Where have you been?" Mom slurred, screaming down from the second floor.

         "I've been at school, Mom."

         "Yeah, sure you have. To learn to do what? Dig for old stuff, isn't that what you said you wanted to do? HA What good will that do you? Why don't you go to school for something that you can actually get a job doing?"

         Mom didn't know it and could probably care less, but the words she had spoken hurt me for the rest of my life. It's sad how a few thoughtless words can negatively impact you for the rest of your life. Words are powerful and should be used with care.

         I had tears in my eyes and thought, Well why am I going to school if I can't become an archaeologist like I want? What's the use? I took those words to heart and now school didn't matter to me. At this period in my life, I thought what's the use?

         I went to school the next day but left before it started. A few of us got together and went to the beach. This was to become a new routine.

         When I came home I tried to be very quiet so I wouldn't wake my mother. Turning the doorknob to go into my bedroom, my stepfather stopped me as he came through the kitchen door. His face had a very tired and concerned look, "Have you seen your mom?"

         "No, I've been in school all day," I lied.

         "Well, your mom's been missing since this morning. I've called the motels and her friends and no one's seen her."

         "I guess we better call the hospitals and jails," I said, starting to worry a little.

         This is what we usually did when she went missing. Mom, most likely, had ended up in a motel room for a week, maybe two, to hide out during one of her drinking binges. When we'd locate her, a couple of us would get together to go and try and bring her home. Most of the time she wouldn't come with us. Instead. she'd chosen to stay there with a few bottles beside her for company. Vodka straight was her choice. It was many years before I could smell vodka without wanting to throw up.

         We would all keep an eye on her and bring her food. Sometimes it was better for her to stay at the motel because at home she would do things that would make a grown man blush. She would get pissed if we tried to take her bottle from her. She would grab another one, and run around and around the outside of the house naked as a jaybird. Sometimes even taking off down the street. At least when she was in the motel room, she would usually stay in the room, except to walk to the liquor store, (which was always very close by), for another bottle.

         But this time when she went missing, we couldn't find her anywhere. The cops wouldn't put in a missing person report for twenty-four hours. So we hunted and waited. Finally, enough time had passed, and we filled out the missing person's report. We were relieved we'd have them now helping us search.

         Two days went by, and we had exhausted every place we knew. We continued to hope she would walk through the front door at any minute. Ready to come home and sleep off another binge drinking. But staring at the door, and willing her to walk through, did not help. Over a week had gone by, and we were starting to panic.

         BAM BAM BAM Our hearts dropped when we opened the door to see two police officers. "We found Mrs. White. She's in Baptist Hospital."

         "How is she, is she alright?" We asked, holding our breath.

         "She's in bad shape, you'll have to talk to the doctor. We found her in the woods, nude. We can't tell if she's been assaulted or not. It looks like she's been there for a couple of days."

         The weather had been cold and rainy the last few days. To think of her lying nude in the cold and wet woods broke my heart. I was so scared. Was I going to lose my mother? I just lost my father a little over a year ago. Crying and scared, we rushed to the hospital.

         "We're here for Mrs. White."

         "Have a seat, the doctor will be with you soon."

         The doctor came out with a somber look on his face. "Hello, I'm Dr. Cladwell. Mrs. White is resting well now. She's in serious but stable condition. She's lucky they found her when they did. Her heartbeat was slow and weak. She also has a mild case of hypothermia. When we examined Mrs. White, we found she had an extremely high amount of alcohol in her system. Unfortunately, it also appears she may have been sexually assaulted and left for dead. She is covered with abrasions, but fortunately, she doesn't have any internal injuries."

         A couple of days passed before Mom was alert enough to talk. She couldn't remember anything that happened to her, or how she ended up in the woods. A little after a week she was able to come home.

         This incident really scared Mom. It was a long time before she went on another binge, and when she did, it wasn't as bad. There was also a longer period of time between her binge drinking.

         As she got older she finally conquered her drinking problem. It started getting to be longer and longer between binges. A few years before she died, she had finally gotten to where she didn't binge drink anymore at all.

         Many bad things happened to her during several of her binge drinkings. She always prayed that she wouldn't be drunk when she died. This was one time when her worst fear almost happened.


         Hauntings, and Mom's drinking weren't the only bad things happening. The worst was being beaten and kicked out late at night.

         "Please don't hit me again!" I cried, while my stepfather continued to hit me repeatedly.

         My stepfather beat me whenever the mood stirred within. Most of the time I had no idea the reason behind the violence.

         One night as I was dressing to go to the fair, my stepfather barged in. His face glowed as red as a boiled lobster.

         "Didn't I tell you not to flush tampons down the toilet? The toilet's stopped up again!" He yelled.

         With all my might, I tried to convince him that it wasn't me! "I didn't flush any tampons down the toilet. I promise I didn't! There's five other females living here, why don't you ask them?"

         With one fell swoop, off came his belt. With his arm swinging madly, the belt whipped through the air, until the strap found a place to land. The sickening sound of a whip finding its prey and snaking its way around the exposed body part echoed off the walls. The predator did not play favoritism. Any part of the body found, from neck to ankle, was angrily claimed. As his fury escalated, and the man behind the strap was no longer found within his eyes, something deep within me snapped. I was tired of being used as a whipping board ... his stress reliever. I simply had had enough! No longer was the belt the only thing flying blindly through the air. My fists swung with just as much determination. I would no longer be a victim. At least a victim who did not fight back! It was as if everything around me disappeared. I didn't feel anymore. The physical pain was replaced with seething anger, sadness, and confusion which clouded my mind.

         The bedroom door flew open. Mom walked into what must have been a horrific scene. Her voice seems to have snapped us both out of our fog. "Stop! Stop it right now! Both of you!"

         Slowly the hitting from both of us subsided.

         With a shaking and bruised hand, I wiped the tears from my face. Mom ordered Tony, my stepfather, out of my room. They walked away screaming at each other. I stood in the middle of my room wondering where the next day would lead me.

         The next day as I awoke from my bed, my body felt as though it had been dragged up and down asphalt, over every speed bump in town. I looked into the mirror, and my mouth fell open. Tears of anger and sadness fell as I went out of my bedroom door, in search of my mother.

         I found Mom in the back of the house in the laundry room.

         "Momma, I can't take this anymore. I'm tired of him hitting me. You need to come into the bedroom with me, I need to show you something."

         As we entered the bedroom, I stripped off my clothes. Bruises covered me in sickening blue, black, yellow, and purple shades. Some were fresh from the beating the night before, others already turning a grotesque shade of stomach bile.

         Mom's mouth mirrored my own gaze, as I stood staring into the mirror that morning. Mom knew what was happening in the home, but she tried to escape it. She knew, but she didn't know the extent. A tear fell from Mom's eye, she hugged me tenderly and promised me that this would not happen again.

         As the day started to turn into night, all was an awkward quietness. Nothing had been said since Tony returned home from work. I heard them going up the stairs to their bedroom for the night. While I was upset nothing had been said to Tony, it really didn't surprise me at all.

         About thirty minutes after they had gone upstairs, I could hear the voices grow louder and stronger. Mom was pissed, and she too, had had enough! I believe she laid down the law to my stepfather that night, and I was sure as long as Mom was around, and in her right frame of mind, Tony would follow the law. It was when Mom wasn't around or wasn't in her right frame of mind, which would be the opportunity I knew Tony would not let escape him.

         The next night I went out with a few friends. I came home and went straight to bed at about 2:00 in the morning. As soon as I was falling asleep, my bedroom door slammed open so hard, that it bounced off of the wall behind it. As I turned to find out what was going on, I was met with a slap upside my head.

         "Get up! ... Now! Get out of my house and don't you ever come back here! I'm tired of your crap, and you causing problems. Get out now!"

         Puzzled that this was happening the same night Mom laid down the rules, I got out of bed and grabbed my clothes. This wasn't the first time I was kicked out in the middle of the night, and I knew it wouldn't be the last. I ran to the nearest store and called my sister to come to get me. The store was closed, so I tried to stay in the dark shadows, so as to not be seen. The neighborhood I was in wasn't the safest, but I was pretty street-smart and knew how to keep myself as safe as possible.

         My sister, Jackie pulled up and I let out a sigh of relief. Tonight I had the realization that Mom was not going to be able to stop him. She couldn't control him. I was only fifteen years old, but it was time for me to move out.

         The very next day, I made arrangements to move. The place I moved into was close enough to the bus stops, so I had transportation back and forth to work. I was ending another painful chapter in my life, and beginning a new one. One which I hoped would be filled with happiness, determination, willpower, and a chance to truly find myself. No, it wasn't easy, but at least it was a beginning without abuse and violence. It turned out to be one of the best things I had ever done - and it felt wonderful! Freeing!



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