Ghost Stories On A Southern Summer Night

I love the South.

Here's one reason...

Sittin' outside shootin' the breeze on a warm summer night. Tiny lights twinkle in the trees and cold beer is on the picnic table.

A prim and proper lady is telling a story. She lives in a huge old house circa 1870 with columns and a rose garden.

She is wearing pearls and a tastefully preppy outfit. Her hair is frosted and styled in a perfect flip.

She is a banker.

"One night afta we moved in," she begins, "Joe was out doin' somethin' and I woke up and there was a ghost at the end of mah bed."

We lean in to hear the story. A cigarette is lit. This is tobacco country, we don't lynch smokers.

"What did he look like?" I breathe.

"Well," she continues, "he was dressed like a Confederate soldier."

"And then"....I urge her.

"Well," she says, "Ah always heard that you're s'posed to say 'In the Name of the Father and Son, leave this house!' So ah did. But he wouldn't leave!

So I said it again. He still wouldn't leave.

So....Ah said 'WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?' And he vanished."

She gets up to leave, dusts off her Lilly Pulitzer. "Night y'all.....Got early church tomorrow."