South Mountain Ghost Story, Gerry Hubbard, The Pink Lady In White......
South Mountain loomed, its camel’s hump a background for our days,
Was always there, foul wind or fair, it seemed to draw our gaze.
Its deep, dense woods with square hay-lots embedded in its hide,
Hid narrow roads that tunneled through just barely one-car wide.
Before electric lights came in, in nineteen forty six,
That mountain brooded in the night as by the River Styx.
My Dad and Uncles talked of ghosts, strange beings wrapped in white
That roamed those steep and winding roads on windy, rainy nights.
They spoke of driving home one night late from a Windham dance.
The drinks, the rain, their lights through trees, all put them in a trance.
The whole car saw this white-robed girl who walked the road that night,
And they never wondered why she walked or if she was alright.
Till several miles down the road they turned and started back,
And all they saw in headlight-glare was empty, narrow track.
No sign of footsteps, gaps or trails, or paths that she could take,
Just glistening leaves and swirling trees and nothing in her wake.
They drove on home to Hubbard Hill and put up for the night.
Their sleep of dreams with spectral themes and vague and floating fright.
They told this story many times, with lots of sheepish grins,
And wondered why they drove on by and where their minds had been.
South Mountain still holds sway today, the hay lots all grown in,
The mountain face all forest now, its woods more dark and dim.
My Dad and Uncles all gone now, I miss their tales and talk,
And wonder if that lonesome wraith still walks her lonesome walk.
Could it that lonely girl's still out there on her walk...
Was always there, foul wind or fair, it seemed to draw our gaze.
Its deep, dense woods with square hay-lots embedded in its hide,
Hid narrow roads that tunneled through just barely one-car wide.
Before electric lights came in, in nineteen forty six,
That mountain brooded in the night as by the River Styx.
My Dad and Uncles talked of ghosts, strange beings wrapped in white
That roamed those steep and winding roads on windy, rainy nights.
They spoke of driving home one night late from a Windham dance.
The drinks, the rain, their lights through trees, all put them in a trance.
The whole car saw this white-robed girl who walked the road that night,
And they never wondered why she walked or if she was alright.
Till several miles down the road they turned and started back,
And all they saw in headlight-glare was empty, narrow track.
No sign of footsteps, gaps or trails, or paths that she could take,
Just glistening leaves and swirling trees and nothing in her wake.
They drove on home to Hubbard Hill and put up for the night.
Their sleep of dreams with spectral themes and vague and floating fright.
They told this story many times, with lots of sheepish grins,
And wondered why they drove on by and where their minds had been.
South Mountain still holds sway today, the hay lots all grown in,
The mountain face all forest now, its woods more dark and dim.
My Dad and Uncles all gone now, I miss their tales and talk,
And wonder if that lonesome wraith still walks her lonesome walk.
Could it that lonely girl's still out there on her walk...
Could it that lonely girl's still out there on her walk...
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