Photo by me
Here is the story: On Halloween night of our first year in Texas, after trick or treating with my three young children, I was sent to the store because we had no milk for breakfast. On my way, I saw a young teenage girl hitchhiking right by the gate to a graveyard. It was a chilly night, and she had on flip-flops, shorts and a summer blouse. I stopped, told her I was a teacher and I would hate to have my daughter out this late, and offered to take her to her home. She was grateful. I learned her name was Mary Theresa Knox, and she was a freshman at the high school where I taught. As I drove, I noticed her shivering and told her to put on the jacket I had with me. Her directions home were labyrinthine, but we made it. She thanked me; I said maybe we would run into each other at school. I drove away, concentrating on finding my way back to familiar territory. Then I realized that she went inside still wearing my favorite jacket. I drove back and knocked on the door. Eventually, an old woman answered it. I explained the situation and told her Mary Theresa would confirm it. I just wanted my favorite jacket. The old woman looked shocked, then horrified, then angry. “Is this some kind of joke?” she demanded, almost wailing. I answered that it was all true. “Mary Theresa died two years ago,” she said, her voice cold. And she slammed the door. Stunned, I went back to my car and started to drive home. But I was angry—it made no sense. Did they want to steal my jacket? When I came to the graveyard, I impulsively pulled up to the gate, left my lights on and the motor running, and got out of my car. I hopped the small wall by the gate and moved into the graveyard. The combination of my headlights and a half moon created an eerie kind of illumination. Toward the rear of the graveyard, I noticed a tombstone with a dark shadow covering part of it. I discovered it was my favorite jacket. When I pulled it off the gravestone, I read: Here lies Mary Theresa Knox born September 4, 1970, died October 31, 1984.
Dang. I used to tell it better than that. Of course, the details you add are what make any story real. This is the abbreviated version. But the Saturday night facetime got me to think. Where did I come up with that? I’m not claiming extraordinary imaginative powers—I know I lifted it from somewhere. (A student once told me there was a very similar version on an episode of Growing Pains.) All you have to do is personalize it and sell it.
I told that story every Halloween in every class I taught, and I sold it. It took me a whole class period to tell. I used to bring my favorite jacket and hide it in the closet and pull it out when skeptics started to voice their doubts. One Halloween we got a call around midnight. It was two of my students—they had searched the whole graveyard and couldn’t find Mary Theresa’s grave. I told them to go home and hung up the phone. I had a small group in one class make a video of their version of Mary Theresa—it was wonderful. I’m pretty sure I even got called into the vice-principal’s office once because a parent complained.
What I liked best about the Saturday night facetime was that it renewed my faith in the power of storytelling. My granddaughter Harper had to re-tell the story to the whole family at our dinner table the next night. We all have stories—made-up and real. We create and tell our stories in everything we do. Our stories are supposed to be interesting. They draw us nearer to one another. That is why storytelling is an art.
Loved “hearing” it again!
You stole it from “In a Dark, Dark Room and Other Scary Stories” written by Alvin Schwart. Here is a link to the story: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGopj8gp2gE
I still tell it as Pop Pop’s story, though.
Just the fact that you tell it fills me with joy.
I heard a variation of this story. It was basically the same, but involved a car with teenagers and a girl in a prom dress.
The prom dress and car full of teenagers sounds even more interesting!