Little Girl Buried in a Rum Keg

By T.L. Coston

I was strolling down Ann Street in ole Beaufort town
When darkness rolled in, a seaside wind bellowed through vacant halls
Alone, I was caught in a maelstrom of dirt and leaves
Under protest was pushed and shoved with relative ease

This abuse did not abate until the gate of The Old Burying Ground
There in a window of a clapboard church
A singular light pulsated and lurched
I thought it odd how this rhythmic throb mimicked a beating heart

It was then, a giggle descended from the tombs of moldered lore
As I questioned what I heard, there echoed a third
This I could not ignore
There on the gate, a beaded necklace laid
“What an odd place for a trinket,” I thought

It was then the gate swung in. At this I cried aloud

I hesitated once, maybe twice, then looked to the rolling sky
Silhouetted in the fore, great oaks groaned
Bearded sentinels wary, embraced their charge

As I entered the grounds, the smell of rum assaulted my nose

As soon as I recovered, a flash darted from stone to stone
It was a girl, around ten, if I had to guess, dressed in her bedtime gown
I saw her look back as she darted down the path
What’s a child doing in a graveyard at this hour?

She wasn’t far away,
I could hear her play
Laughing - laughing all the while
As I came around the bend
I spied her bent over a toy-ridden tomb

She shot up with a smile
Then bade me goodbye
Then faded in the nighttime air
What just happened? Where did she go?

I looked around but no one was there
This couldn’t have happened! There is no way! 

Did I just see a ghost?
The smell of liquor dissipated as I stumbled about
Shocked, I bent to read 
A wooden marker with a simple epitaph:

Little Girl Buried in a Rum Keg

Enough said.