Tomiko Powell, GPC Student

Aunt Helen Is Fine

It was 1986, in my hometown of Abbeville, LA with a population of 2,667, a Friday night high school football game was the only excitement we ever experienced. Murders were unheard of, unless it was a murder that was seen on the popular television show “Columbo.” I can clearly remember a gruesome discovery that has haunted me all of my life. That unforgettable painful day made me realize crimes can occur at anytime and place and that spirits of the dead are not a myth

It was a windy high school homecoming weekend. The entire city was shutting down early to attend the famous homecoming parade. I set anxiously in the classroom with my eyes glued on the clock, waiting for it to strike twelve. The big and the little hand were finally on the twelve and the loud dismissal bell rang. I quickly ran to the rusty yellow school bus that stunk of urine. I hopped on the bus and sat down in the first seat to the right. I prayed that the old gray headed bus driver would speed up so that I can breathe fresh air and go to my aunt Helen’s neighborhood grocery store to get my usual ice cold Shasta strawberry soda and a Holsom honey bun. At last, the old bus came to a screeching stop. I jumped off the bus and ran towards my Aunt Helen’s store while the strong crisp wind whistled and shook the dry brown leaves that slapped me in the face off the tall pecan trees.

When I stepped into the grocery store, I did not smell my aunt’s freshly baked shortbread cookies. I did not hear the pots and pans clinging together or the humming of her favorite spiritual hymn “Precious Lord.” I called out her name but the only sound I heard was the crackling and popping of the wood from the cast iron oven. I started getting butterflies in my stomach because I knew something was strange. I walked through the wooden swinging kitchen door. There was my Aunt Helen’s helpless body lying in a puddle of blood that was oozing out of a large hole in her head. The hole was so deep I saw the white fatty flesh that appeared to be pieces of her brain scattered onto the floor. I wondered what in the world could have happen to my aunt. Then I noticed a silver pipe stained with blood lying beside her. I realized this was not an accident. My aunt had been murdered. I dropped my book bag onto the bloody wooden floor and attempted to run. I slipped on the bloody floor and could not seem to get up fast enough.

I ran home as fast as my weak knees would allow me too. Even though the house was only two houses down, it seemed like two miles. I burst through the front door of the house screaming at the top of my lungs with blood all over my blue jeans and tears rolling down my face. My mother ran to me and asked me what was wrong. I tried to tell her what I had discovered, but she could not comprehend a word I was saying. My mother picked me up trying to calm me down so that she can clearly understand what I was saying. The only four words I could get out were “Aunt Helen Aunt Helen”. My mother practically threw me onto the floor and ran to the grocery store.

What I saw that afternoon drastically changed my normal daily routines. I was scared to walk down the long dark hallway in my house. I felt like the murderer was hiding underneath one of the beds waiting to beat me in the head with a pipe. My parents would have to leave the lights on in the house twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my Aunt Helen’s bloody body lying on the floor. At bedtime I would stay up until my eyelids was too heavy to hold them up anymore.

Three weeks later around 2:45 am, I was lying in my bed crying scared to death. I felt a cold breeze. Shortly after I felt the breeze, someone sat at the foot of my bed. Immediately I pulled the comforter over my head in fear. I did not move a muscle. I heard a familiar voice call out, “Mik.” I took the comforter off my head and there was my Aunt Helen. She spoke the words, “Baby you can rest now. Aunt Helen is fine.” She then got up, smiled and walked out of the room. Since that night Aunt Helen continues to visit me at least twice a year, and speaks the same words.

That awful murder occurred twenty-three years ago. I can still visualize the crime scene as if it was yesterday. Since that unforgettable day, I know now that a murder can happen to anyone at anytime and place. That experience has also taught me that spirits of the dead are real.