The Ghosts of Mississippi

The Ghosts of Mississippi

Every man should encounter the reality of death while he is still young. A youth must also overcome fear of the unknown if he is to ever become a man. And with such thoughts in mind, the hero of our tale did set out nigh to midnight with four companions on a trip to the infamous ghost town of Rocky Springs, Mississippi.

Rocky Springs was a small agrarian community, once thriving but doomed to extinction by the bubonic plague, the Civil War, and poor soil conservation. Now all that remains are two bank safes, the church house and the old graveyard. It is rhumored to be among the most haunted places in Mississippi. A good place for five youths to go at midnight.

A mile's hike through the woods lay between our campsite and the town. I suppose we were all a little thankful for the nearly full moon which made midnight seem extraordinarily, and perhaps unnaturally, bright. I kept imagining myself as a renegade or a refugee, traveling by night with fear and adrenaline driving my escape from what lay behind and blinding me to what might lay ahead in the dark. Perhaps 200 years ago some runaway slave trod this same path, albeit in the other direction, with the slave catcher's hounds hard on his heals.

Before long we came to the church. The artificial light of the streetlights outside managed to dull the mood and took something away from the aura of a place that was supposed to be deserted (the church is still in regular use). We proceeded to enter the church, which oddly enough remains unlocked for adventurers such as us to come and go as they please. A rather humorous sign was placed by the piano, instructing anyone who wanted to play it to kindly replace the red velvet cloth over the keys before leaving.

The companion known as Nathan sat down to play. The one room church had a rich resonance, and the piano filled the air, thick and warm in contrast to the cold night outside. As we sung Amazing Grace I couldn't help but feel a little sacrilegious. It seemed like more of a charm to ward of the evil spirits than a hymn of praise to our Creator Redeemer. Imagine our surprise and amazement when Nathan then transitioned into the morose tones of Black Sabbath's Iron Man. In sudden fear of what such an arrangement might conjure, Nathan again transitioned into Blessed Assurance. Inspite of the original glances around the room and sudden turns to scan the dark behind us, we soon became relaxed in the spooky setting.

Our party proceeded to the graveyard, which was a much more somber location than the church. As we stopped to read the names and ages of the deceased, we naturally were reminded of the brevity of life. So many young among the dead, by our modern reckoning at least. We stayed for some minutes, weighing the reality of death and the uncertainty of whether or not those dead really did haunt this place. However, as we left I couldn't help but feel a mixture of relief that we didn't encounter any haunting spirits, and dissapointment that there really wasn't anything to be afraid of. The desire to experience first hand and with certainty what you only hear of in dubious accounts and urban legends would remain unfulfilled.

It is interesting how, as a child, I was deathly afraid of the dark, the supernatural, and the unknown. At some point in time, without realization or event, these things lost their mystery and awe and no longer hold sway over my emotions. I suppose it is a combination of age, sanctification, and a jaded scientific understanding of the world around me. I remember being young, and wondering how my parents could not be afraid. I suppose I've a little better understanding of that now, and a story to tell my children.


On certain nights when the angles are right
And the moon is a slender cressent
Its circle shows in a ghostly glow
Of earthly luminescence

Earthshine, a becon in the night
I can raise my eyes to earthshine
Earthsine, a jewel out of reach
For a dream to rise to earthsine

Reflected light to another's sight
And the moon tells a lover's story
My borrowed face and my third hand grace
Only reflect your glory...
- Neil Peart