sailormanshymn submitted:
“George”
A while back, when I was a child, my grandmother lived in a sleepy little town in north Mississippi that’s near numerous Civil War sites (Bryce’s Crossroads, Shiloh). The house she lived in was a converted Confederate barracks; it was long and rectangular, simple, and when she and my grandfather had moved in it needed walls and pieces and parts added to make it a home. They built a porch onto the front end of the barracks that faced the road.
As they were digging the holes for the porch anchors, one of the workers found a large stone that simply had “George” written on it. Now, it wasn’t uncommon to find bits and pieces of Civil War tokens here and there, but they couldn’t fathom why a rock would have someone’s name carved into it in such an odd place.
They ignored it and continued renovating. Years and years later, I made my first visit to the town to see my grandmother and help them move out of the old barracks. It was falling down around them and there was no hope of saving the old building. My dad and his two siblings came to help too and we spent the day carrying boxes across the road to the new house on top of the hill, made of brick instead of rotten wood.
I came to a closet that was full of beads and yarn and thread. My grandmother was great at needlework and she had scads of this type of thing, so I set to work cleaning out the closet. I was immersed in my work, so when I saw someone walk down the hallway out of the corner of my eye, I assumed it was my uncle and said “Hi, Uncle M” to him politely. He didn’t answer.
I thought he didn’t hear me, so I peered around the corner of the hallway to say it again. The man standing at the end of the hallway resembled my uncle — he had dark, tan skin and black hair, but he had odd grey clothes on and he was carrying a cap in his hand. I called to him but he never looked up and simply walked into the den.
I was curious at this point so I followed him to find the den empty save my mother, who was sweeping and boxing up decorations. I asked her if she’d seen the man, and if my uncle was there, but she gave me a puzzled look and told me that my uncle was over in the other house.
He was also wearing a maroon shirt and blue jeans — not a greyish outfit and a cap.
From the kitchen, my grandmother overheard us. “Describe him to me again,” she called. So I did. Tall, thin, with dark skin and slick black hair, dressed in an odd grey suit. As I spoke, I realized that I was describing something incredible; a man dressed in a Confederate uniform.
She just chuckled, shaking her head at me. “That’s George. He must be sad that we’re leaving,” she said, as if she’d known him for years.
To prove her wrong, I went searching for my uncle in the house, wondering if he had some sort of construction outfit on like the drab grey Dickies work clothes, but I soon found him across the road in the other house, with his maroon shirt and blue jeans.
I never saw George again and I never, ever went back to those barracks.
Fuck Yeah Nightmares Answered: Thats a really cool story. 7/10 for scares and thank you for sharing.
