Mereda

2011-10-20T00:45:00.000-07:00

Since the October Ghosts project was successfully completed, I have deleted all stories from this blog to begin the rewrite process. But I have left one for all to enjoy.

[This is a Heikes Family ghost story]

I come from a proud family of farmers. After the Civil War, my ancestors made their way from Pennsylvania, having served their country in the Union Army –without losing their minds, limbs or lives – they came to the great open plains of north-eastern Nebraska.

The countryside offered rich earth from the bounty of the endless Missouri River, a moist growing season, hot summers and harsh winters – but the crops would grow and they have ever since. The Homestead Act offered acreage at rock bottom prices and the Heikes brothers, descendent sons of Germany, many generations removed, struck the ground with their primitive tools and planted the first row of seeds.

From that point on, the crops and the family flourished – and to this very day, my cousin Sam continues the line. A young man of 32, he works with his father, my mom’s younger brother, Tim. They have continued in the tradition of the Heikes men.

When my mother passed away, I inherited the family photo album. The pictures are now well over a hundred years old – but the family resemblance remains. That German stock gone Yankee continues in their eyes, as it does in mine.

But as you can imagine, a family farm that has lived for close to 150 years is not without its share of ghosts – there is only one story that we know is true.

And that is the story of a young servant girl named Mereda.

My Grandfather, Dick Heikes, was a lovely man. He was well liked within the community of Dakota City, Nebraska – he was a Mason and a Shriner. He was a lover of Stallone movies, and making soft-serve ice cream.

He would give the shirt off his back if you asked for it – and to my Grandmother’s dismay, sometimes he did – even if the people he gave it to were not as honest as him.

Yet – he was honest and not known to neither fabricate nor exaggerate things.

If I was given the bullshit gene to help me as a writer, it certainly didn’t come from him.

I tell you this – because he didn’t like to talk about Mereda.

Even when we begged him to tell us as kids – it was an upsetting event for him and one that he never ever forgot. It scarred him, much like it scarred his mother – but I jumping ahead before I set the stage, for when he did relent and tell the family his tale – it turned me into a ghost-story junkie.

My family made it a point to drive out from Colorado to Nebraska a number of times a year. Although the summertime proved to my favorite – solely because I was able to spend many weeks on the farm, the Christmas time was a close second.

We would make the ten-hour drive from Greeley, all the way to Dakota City – which was only a hop skip and a jump from Sioux City, Iowa.

Often a blizzard would occur shortly after arriving, and there were a few times where we were lucky enough to be snowed in – thus extending our stay – and making me the happiest kid on earth.

I should explain that the house that stands to this day is the grand old dame of turn of the century homes. It wasn’t the original house that stood on that property – but it was the Great House of Jacob Heikes, who built it himself – as the blueprints are framed along the living room walls.

It is three stories, and at one time it had a wrap around porch.

This home proved that my ancestors were indeed successful in their farming, as they employed many a work hand, Native Americans – and according to family legend - Jesse James while he was on the run from the law.

If homes could speak, this one would sing. It has seen countless births and deaths, tragedies and triumphs. It has an aura about it – and when I visited it recently, the house has regained the magic energy that was present with my Grandparents. Now that Sam and his Wife raise two small children and a very smart tween within those hallowed walls.

Yet on one particular winter when we arrived, the expected blizzard hit with a frozen fist that enveloped all of Nebraska.

Being that the house resides in the country, surrounded by roads that to this very day, remain unpaved – snow drifts piled seven feet in every direction – visibility was low, and somewhere underneath the weight of snow and ice – a power line snapped, surrendering the house to the elements.

My Grandpa, wasn’t fazed by such a storm, and it wasn’t long before he had hooked up a generator to keep the water-heater and kitchen appliances in order. My Grandmother used this opportunity to cook up a storm for the upcoming Christmas celebration.

I remember that as kids, we spent hours at play in the snow outside. With the generator roaring nearby, it made our ears ring with its constant, steady growl.

The giant sliding doors were used to seal off the various rooms to keep in the heat and keep out the cold. A fire roared at all times, keeping us busy as we lugged armload after armload of wood into the house.

The winter tempest raged, and after dinner – Grandpa would switch off the generator, and the family would gather together in the living room.

We’d roll the doors closed, and let the fire warm us, as we filled the couches and chairs, and every bit of the floor. We were held as a captive audience – and this was when my Uncle Dale asked Grandpa to tell Mereda’s story.

Grandpa sat in his chair and stared at the fire.

“I must have been seven or eight years old at the time. This would have been around 1930 or ‘31. I can’t say exactly what year, but I remember it well.

Mereda must have been fifteen years old, she had emigrated from France when she was small, and she spoke English like the rest of us – but still had a bit of an accent.

She lived upstairs in one of the bedrooms, and she helped my Mother with all sorts of chores. I guess you could say she was a servant girl, but we really saw her as a member of the family. She was a pretty gal, quiet, and had lost her brother to the flu some years before. Other than that, there isn’t much that I know or remember about Mereda.

It was during the summertime that this happened; I remember it because my parents took my brothers and I into Sioux City for a movie. It could have been for something else, but I seem to remember going to the pictures.

It was late when we returned, and as we drove up to the house, we saw Mereda sitting on the porch.

She was staring at the lights that hung from the porch ceiling. I know that you grandkids don’t remember that porch, but my kids do – you helped us tear it down.”

My mother, her brothers and sisters all nodded – I could see a flicker in their eyes, going back into their personal viewfinders and remembering the porch.

My Uncle Dale shook his head – and the look wasn’t remembering hard labor, the look was of dread.

“When we walked up to the porch, Mereda was just sitting there, frozen. She was gripping the arms of the chair she was sitting in and looked to be in some kind of trance.

My Mother said her name, but Mereda didn’t respond. She just continued to stare at that light above her. Her face was dreadful – her eyes were bugging out of her head, her face was tense…

My Mother called her name again, this time louder, ‘Mereda,’ she said, ‘Mereda!’ But Mereda continued to stare, and finally, my Mother shook her.

That’s when Mereda started screaming, ‘It told me I was going to die! It told me I was going to die!’

My Mother slapped Mereda across the face, and that shut her up pretty quick. But Mereda began to cry, and that’s when my Father sent us into the house.

He went back out there – and it wasn’t until years later that I finally learned her side of the story.”

Grandpa looked at all of us – he was dead serious about what he was going to tell us – and this wasn’t one of those times when he would tell a scary story and then yell Boo!

“After we had left for Sioux City, Mereda finished her chores and was enjoying a glass of iced tea on the porch. The summer day was cooling off as the sun had recently set. She wasn’t doing anything more than taking the rest of the night off.

But as she was sitting there, it started to get cold – really cold. We had been having a hot summer, so it was strange that the temperature would drop as it did.

Then she looked ahead, and our windmill started to spin, yet there wasn’t any wind.

Everything grew incredibly quiet – the crickets and critters seemed to have vanished.

Above her, one of those hanging lights began to swing. And not just a little wind swing, either. It started to rock back and forth, as if invisible hands were pushing it and then that light started to glow.

This is when she heard the voice.

It said, ‘Mereda! Mereda! You’re going to die!’

Mereda could barely tell the story to my parents; she thought the voice sounded like her long-dead brother who had come to warn her.

My Mother told her that she had a bad dream – that was all.

Mereda went up to bed that night, she was still crying – because we could hear her down the hall.

The following morning, Mereda was up doing her chores – and she seemed to be fine. She agreed that it was only a dream and couldn’t remember half of it anymore.

This put the issue to rest. She went about her business cleaning the house, while we went outside to play.

Later that day, Mereda was dusting one of the rooms. There were these old kerosene lamps that we had, since electricity wasn’t readily available. They sat on this big table of my Mother’s, and the lamps were lit.

In order to dust, she had to pick up the lamps and move them to another table. Problem was, she should have blown out the flame in the lamp. Because when she picked it up, the lamp broke, spilling kerosene all over her, and the flame touched her clothes.

Mereda turned into a ball of fire and instead of running out of the house, she ran up the stairway to find my Mother, who was in the bathroom.

Mereda ran up the stairs, screaming in this horrible way – she touches my Mother, burning her and then continued to run down the other stairway, where I remember seeing her run out of the house.

It was a terrible sight. The flame was covering her entire body, her hair was completely gone and she continued int his horrific way.

My Father grabbed a work blanket from the horse stable and was able to put out the flames, but by then, it was too late.

We ran up to her, as her body smoked, and she was covered with burns. She spoke to all of us, saying “It told me I was going to die! It told me! It told me!”

And sure enough – she died.”

Grandpa had finished his story.

All of us were silent, as the tempest howled outside, and the fire was getting low.

Then somebody, my Mother perhaps, let out the sound of someone enduring the case of the “willies.”

This broke the tension – everyone laughed, including my Grandpa – and then someone changed the subject.