Ghost Story: A Sudden Storm, Part One

If you drive just past the old barn standing by the road at the Miller’s old place just before a summer storm and pull over a little ways down you shouldn’t have a problem finding what you’re looking for…

When you make a left at the center of town you’ll drive past a quaint little B&B called Winnie’s House (remember that name, because everyone in town does). Keep driving until the tidy residences begin to spread further apart, until there are no more, until you reach the edge of the wood. During the day Miller’s Creek Road is gorgeous, by night a terrifying tunnel of darkness no matter what season, leading to the charming Miller farmstead. The small farm has stood far away from town for almost three hundred years and plays an integral role in a story that lives on by word of mouth in this rural community—one of those places where everything seems slower, and nothing changes much except for the rotation of the produce at the roadside stands and the seasons. Being a small property, the land is surrounded by woods and nestled in the hills; a small orchard produces fine fruits, chickens roam free, and an ancient solitary milk cow has been chewing her cud by the split rail fence for years. Casual passersby probably would never guess the horrors of the past that lie just yards beyond the bucolic property.

People around here usually recall the story at the height of Summer. On those oppressively hot days in August, when the dew never seems to evaporate and the early afternoon sun becomes obscured by black thunderheads threatening short and violent storms, she comes to mind. A woman might be rushing to pull down her laundry from the line or closing the windows, a man might feel the change in the weather as he peers from one of the storefronts or his barn. Children scramble to get home or at least to a friend’s house, leaving their bicycles scattered across front lawns. 

Only people of a certain age are actually frightened by one of Winnie’s sudden drop-ins. Not the old, not the babies, not the middle-aged, and not the strangers who come to buy the produce the area is known for. It’s the young couples; the engaged. Every bride-to-be, no matter where she might find herself during these summer storms, will nervously remove her ring and hide it away; the young men who made matrimonial promises feel the chill more intensely, as the temperature plummets followed by crashes of thunder. Everyone here knows about those summer storms, and everyone speaks in hushed tones of agreement, it’s Winnie making sure she is never forgotten.

Dark foreboding envelope’s the area as residents ponder if Winnie will exact her own curse…

What happened to Winnie, you ask?