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AN ARKANSAS GHOST STORY

© Bertha Sutliff

THE BANJO

Uncle Frank never married. He lived at home with his aging mother, his sister Rosie and her husband John. His one true love was his homemade banjo. He made it himself during the depression years when entertainment was often found at home. Neighbors came on Saturday night to listen to the music that flowed from his banjo.

It was Friday night and Uncle Frank needed some tobacco. He changed into a fresh pair of overalls and after bidding his mother good-by, he left to walk the 12 miles to town. He never returned. By morning the rest of the family were getting worried. Frank had never stayed out all night before. Toward the middle of the morning, the local sheriff drove into the yard. With him came the news of Uncle Frank's untimely death.

He had been found on the side of the road. Apparently run over by a car. How and why was never determined. He had been on his way back home.

His body was brought home to be prepared by his family for burial. He was washed and groomed; dressed in the only suit he owned and laid to rest in a pine coffin. His place of honor was the parlor. Fresh flowers were set around the coffin to hide the smell of death. The next morning, they carried his body to the cemetery by the church where he had been baptized as a child. His mother rode in a car with her daughter behind the horse-drawn hearse.

The day had been gloomy, the burial was over, and the household had retired early to their beds. Weeks went by and Uncle Frank was greatly missed. His mother locked the door to his room upstairs. She wanted to leave it just as it had been when Frank had been alive. His clothes, stained with his blood, were hung inside his wardrobe. Next to them stood his banjo.

A year had past. The mourning was over and life went on. Uncle Frank's mother sat in her rocker by the fire, mending socks. Rosie and John sat at the opposite side of the room, talking.

She was the first to hear the music. Her face turned deathly white and her sewing basket dropped from her lap. Before she could rise from her rocker, John stepped to the staircase door. The music was coming from up there...just a few notes here and there, but music just the same, banjo music. Slowly he opened the door to the dark staircase. Rosie handed him an oil lamp and he began his ascent to the upper floor.