Many years ago, as a young girl growing up on a farm, our neighbor, Mrs. Compton would stop and visit with my mother from time to time. She was an older woman, perhaps in her early sixties and would cut across the field that separated her land from ours.
One day, while I was playing up in the hayloft with my sister, we spied Mrs. Compton crossing the field. Our mother was in the yard below, hanging laundry on the clothesline. I called down to mother and said: "Mrs. Copton's coming to visit." My mother looked up at her and waved. From the loft, we could see Mrs. Compton waving back.
We were excited as Mrs. Compton often brought cookies or some other treat along with her and we could see a dish, covered with a cotton cloth, in her hands.
Just then, our excitement turned to our horror, Mrs. Compton began to vanish! My sister and I watched as she faded with each and every step. First her lower body and finally, all of her. Gone!
I looked down to mother, who stood speechless in the yard. Suddenly, mother raced to the house and called for our oldest brother, Peter, to come quick. She told him to go check on Mrs. Compton (she was a widow and lived alone). Mother told Peter to go inside, if no one came to the door (no one loeked their doors in those days). Peter, who was barely seventeen, ran across the field and we watched as he knocked on the door. Moments later, he went inside.
It was only a few minutes later that Peter shot out of the house and ran back across the field as fast as his legs could carry him. After talking to our mother, she ran inside and called the police.
Later, after the police and the coroners van had left Mrs. Compton's house, we found out that Peter had found her laying on the kitchen floor. Word had it, she'd been dead for hours.
To this day, my sister and I still get chills thinking of the day that Mrs. Compton stopped by for one last visit.
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