Compared with the thin-veiled night of October 31, the more
flamboyant July 4th doesn’t seem much like a time to expect a
haunting. That may be true in normal circumstances, but when you live in Ellis
County where you’ve heard stories about the Blue Light Lady roaming rolling hills
southwest of Hays, one day is as good as another to encounter disembodied
spirits. Our grown daughters still recall the scare of their lives on rise
overlooking old Fort Hays.
The little girls’ holiday began with bags of poppers and sulfurous
snakes that stained our sidewalk black for months afterwards. After they shrieked
at those exploding, powder-filled tissues and lit licorice nib-size buttons
that wound into stinky coils, we cooled off at the swimming pool. Later, we cranked
ice cream, fried chicken, and baked chocolate cake while my husband patrolled
Cedar Bluff. He promised to get home in time to watch Hays’ firework show.
Early July means the sun doesn’t set until after nine, so
our sunburned blondes were tired by the time their father came home. Hearing
the door open, they wrapped themselves around his legs, hollering, “Fireworks!”
He stalled them long enough to grab cold chicken and cake before piling in the
car.
Instead of following the highway, my hubs told us he’d drive
the back way, south of Ellis. Eventually, he took a dusty country road that
eventually overlooked the festivities below our lonely hilltop. A game warden,
he’d driven these county roads and knew exactly where we’d have the best view. As
neared our destination, a niggling memory inched from the recesses of my mind.
I recollected students writing essays about spotting the legendary Blue Light
Lady near our targeted parking spot.
Those teenage stories often included realistic encounters
with a wandering spirit. Despite suspecting that many such sightings were
designed to trigger scared girls to leap into brave boys’ arms, I didn’t want
to meet this ghost.
My husband dismissed my concerns with a big grin, and big
ears in the back seat begged to watch the show from Blue Light Lady Hill. Apparently,
all my loved ones were game to meet a disembodied spirit. I, on the other hand,
had encountered a ghost or two and wasn’t eager to hang out with ectoplasm.
We put the car in park just after dusk and lowered windows to
catch evening breezes. Immediately, mosquitoes telegraphed every nearby bloodsucking
insect, alerting them that dinner had arrived. While smacking buzzing
torpedoes, we talked about the nurse who cared for cholera patients at the fort
and succumbed to the disease herself. According to the story, she convinced her
husband to bury her near the hill where she wandered the prairie every day. All
of us were sad to think about her short life, but the irritating drone of
invading bugs and the first flashes of early fireworks preoccupied us.
As darkness deepened and exploding diamonds punctuated black
skies, my daughters and I stared transfixed at the magic of gunpowder combined with
colorful chemicals. Perfectly timing his treachery, our driver cried, “What’s
that?”
Our eyes flashed to his corner. Horrified, we spied a monstrous
hand covering the windshield. We shrieked like actresses in monster movies. The
instigator laughed hysterically. He’d pulled a good one on his gullible girls.
He laid the groundwork by taking us to Blue Light Lady
Elizabeth Polly’s old haunt. Then he encouraged our ghost story recollections. In
the dark with showers of descending sparkles to distract us, the rascal slipped
his long arm out the open window, wrapped it over the glass before him, and
scared the peewadlins out of his daughters, wife, and a horde of mosquitoes.
I’m guessing Elizabeth Polly’s ghost laughed heartily at our
expense that night. If we’d have quit screaming, we’d have heard her chuckles
accompanying sounds of exploding fireworks and droning insects.
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