Junior English major
I live in an old farmhouse in the middle of the revered hillbilly Cecil County, also known by us residents as Ceciltucky. Growing up in that area in a 200-year-old farmhouse with an equally creepy barn in my backyard, I have been no stranger to spooky or unusual incidents. I definitely believe in the paranormal, but after something happened to me this week, I’ve come to believe those living among us are far more frightening than a shadow or a bump in the night.
On Wednesday, my mom called me for what I thought would be our typical weekly phone check-up in which I assured her that I was in fact eating my vegetables and would call my grandmother for her birthday. But our conversation went much differently. My mom asked me if I knew an old man named Buddy. I racked my brain to see if there was a customer named Buddy that I served at the neighborhood restaurant I work at in the summer. I do not know anyone named Buddy, much less a geriatric man named Buddy that my mom said was knocking on all of the doors at our home on a Wednesday afternoon.
During our phone conversation, my mom informed me that Buddy asked her if she had a young adult daughter with dark brown hair. Take a look at my above mugshot and tell me what you see. My mother, attempting to play along without putting herself in danger, said yes about having a daughter. Buddy went on to say he knew my name and that we were friends because I always went to the gas station at which he worked. He said I invited him to come up to our family farm to tour the barn and see the minimal amount of livestock we have. He conveniently chose to withhold the name of the gas station he worked at from my mother, but just to be clear: I don’t frequent gas stations as though they’re coffee bars, much less make friends with people who work at them.
My mom told Buddy that I wasn’t home but at college, and I would not be home for quite some time. With that, Buddy then said an old fashioned “good day” to my mom, got in his beat-up pickup truck and drove away. My mom told me she then locked every door and window that a person could reach.
You could chalk up Buddy’s presence to a forgetful mind or general rural friendliness, but I am more inclined to believe that I have my own Ceciltucky creeper waiting for me to return from college to show him around the farm. With that in mind, and even though I didn’t do this, try not to make friends with old guys at gas stations because they just might come and knock on your doors and windows.
Maggie Cassidy is a junior English major. She can be reached at mcassidydbk@gmail.com.
