It was a dark and stormy night.

Yes, I know that line has been used a billion times since it was first penned by a Victorian novelist.

But the night in question truly was a dark and stormy Southern night.

Halloween fell on Saturday the year my friends and I were high school seniors. That night I was hanging around the Dairy Bar with R.J. and Mike. We had won our football game the night before and were celebrating with chili dogs and milk shakes. Wheatie drifted in later and we started talking about some of the scary legends that caused us to keep flashlights in our cars. Nobody would have admitted to being afraid of the dark but being armed with illumination was just common sense.

We'd all grown up hearing about Bloody Bones, a skeletal phantom who would sneak up on unsuspecting kids, coincidentally, usually when spooky stories were being told, and scare the bejeebers out of them. Old Bloody made most of his appearances around Halloween.

We had also seen the monster movies at the old Grand Theater. Dracula. Frankenstein. The Werewolf.

Locally, we had our own murderous fiends allegedly lurking the backroads of the county, waiting for the right moment to strike.

There was the Gill Man who could suddenly arise from pretty much any body of water.

Bear Gator, a mutant cross between a black bear and an alligator.

And in our neck of the woods we had Jacob, a man at least 150 years old who we sometimes caught glimpses of in the edge of the woods, still carrying the ax with which he murdered his family in the 1800s.

None of those ever scared me.

I didn't believe in such silliness.

At least not until that long ago Halloween night when my friends and I saw something that none of us will ever forget.

The Rock Creek Church Burning Woman Ghost.

We sat under the overhang at the Dairy Bar trying to stay dry and look cool at the same time. The conversation had turned to the legend of the flaming lady. About then some of the girls showed up so, naturally, we dared them to go with us to Rock Creek to confront the ghost.

The four of us, along with Martha Mary, Patty and Patsi crammed into my Rambler and headed out.

The rain stopped just as we parked in the graveyard but a thick fog had rolled in. The quarter moon was trying to peek through the clouds but wasn't making any progress. An owl hooted off in the distance as if to warn us to stay out of the trees.

We made our way down the bank to the edge of the creek.

Strangely, all three flashlights began to go dim as soon as we were under the canopy of the forest. We stumbled our way along the edge of the creek bumping into the cypress knees sticking out of the mud. We became entangled in hanging vines. We splashed in the dank water of the mudflats. We raised such a racket that I was sure no respectable ghost would waste time on us.

I was wrong.

I actually felt the arrival before I saw it.

Suddenly the fog was parted by a blast of heat coming from the top of the steep bank on the opposite side of the creek. We all looked up at the same time and there it was.

The Rock Creek Burning Woman Ghost, bursting aflame against the dark sky.

Somebody screamed, one of the girls I think.

Or maybe it was me.

Anyway, for several seconds I stared at the fiery figure, paralyzed by the sight yet fascinated that it made absolutely no sound.

No sound at all.

When I snapped to and looked around I realized that I'd been abandoned and decided on the spot that being alone with that thing was not a recommended course of action.

I lit out for the car. I think the ghost chased me for a ways but I outran her.

I also passed R.J., the fastest boy on our team, like he was crawling. I conferred with him as to what had become of the rest of our party and we made another spot decision that they were on their own.

Not to worry. All of them beat us back to the Hornet.

We piled in and freighted fannies back to town.

You can believe this tale if you want. That's up to you. But if you go looking for the Rock Creek Ghost, I recommend you take reliable flashlights.

You'll need them

Happy Halloween, yall.

Don Lively is a retired police officer and freelance writer. He lives in Shell Bluff. Email Don at Livelycolo@aol.com.