Little Annie Alone

A shrill cry echoed in the mist. 

The cotton field, strewn with boulders that loomed over me maliciously, stretched forward into that dense haze. 

I strained my ears to hear the sound again. Had I imagined it? 

There it was- Louder and clearer this time. It did not sound urgent, as though someone were being chased or attacked. It was mournful. Piteous and resigned. It was the cry of one who had been crying for decades and would cry for centuries more. 

The sound brought tears to my own eyes and rose goosebumps on my skin. 

I struck out, into the shifting and swirling mist, feeling the damp cling to my skin.

At times the fog would lift and the moon would shine out from the clouds. I heard the cries again. Now wailing. I walked towards what I hoped was the direction of the sounds. 

I called out. I hoped to comfort, to attract this desperately lost person towards me so I could bring them back to safety. The cries continued and they did not answer me. 

The moon sent her light down once again and the mist wafted away enough for me to see the back of a figure ahead. 

She held her head in her hands and cried anew. Her skirts billowed around her as though in a strong wind, despite my own skirts feeling heavy and still against my legs. Her hair, too, dark and long, whipped around her grasping fingers in a ceaseless dance. My hair hung limply around my shoulders without a breeze to shift them.

When I called to the girl, she ran from me, back into the mist.

I followed, now running, carefully picking my way through the stones and rows of cotton plants.

Prickly seed pods and branches gripped and pulled at my skirts as I ran past them. I came upon the figure again, who stood atop a cluster of large boulders that formed a hill crest. Her cries were softer now; soft sobs rather than her mournful wails. As I approached behind her, she pointed down at the stones. I placed my hands on the boulder she stood upon and hauled myself up. I gathered my feet beneath me and rose to meet this strange girl in my father's fields. My eyes found nothing. The figure and her cries had vanished. The moon shone through again and illuminated the hilltop. I was utterly alone here. 

Confused and frightened, I sat on the rock to begin my descent when my eyes fell onto a crevice between the stones.

Two empty holes stared back at me over rows of grinning teeth.

A bleached and broken skeleton lay in the space between the stones. I screamed, as any young girl would, and ran for home on shaking legs.

My father dismissed my hysterics as childish games and my mother fussed over the state of my skirts and of my scraped and dirty feet.

After a sleepless night, I was tenacious to the point of harassment when we began our work with Pa. He ignored me and sent me to another row to work. I heard my brother calling out. 

"Pa! Look a' there!" I, too, looked to where his pointing finger indicated. The girl was standing there. Just standing and staring. Pa raised his hand in greeting and called to her but she simply turned and walked over the hill. 

The following day, she did the same and that night she began her wailing anew. This time, I was not the only one to hear her. We could make out one word amid the cries.

"Alone."

My mother read from her worn and weathered Bible and prayed as incessantly as the girl wailed. Pa put his heavy arm on my shoulder and bent down to look me in the eyes so I know he was serious. 

"I need you to show me where the rocks are?"

I nodded, shaking in my skin to get near the staring skull again. When the sun had not quite risen and the crying stopped, I took my father to the spot.

He climbed onto the same rock and looked into the crevice where I directed. 

I saw Pa's face grow white with shock and his mouth formed a thin line. He slid from the boulder and started for home. He did not speak to me, which of course meant I was right. He busied himself sending letters into town that my big brother delivered.

A sheriff and a couple of neighbors met my father before the evening fell. A small procession was held and the girl was given a proper burial in our family plot. 

We did everything right. We put her bones to rest. We had a preacher read over her and erected a small stone. We didn't know what to call her but Annie felt right. Her last name, we did not want to guess so the Mason filled it in. 

"Little Annie Alone"

We did everything right. So why then do I still hear her wails? 

God, save me. She comes for me. She calls me to the rocks. She does not want to be alone anymore. She comes.