Ann Has Died by William James Johnson

Death and taxes so they say, are inevitable. But you know as I do, some deaths are life changing events. Such was the sudden death of a sweet, sixteen year old in my teenage period. Ann Gallagher was everyone's friend. Beautiful, with long, straw coloured hair, often worn in a braided pony tail. Her melodic singing voice made our group annual shows in the Church hall a must-see performance.

Suddenly,one night, at our Sunday night record dance, Ann dropped her arms from my cousin Bernard's neck and slumped to the floor, unconscious. Father Laragh, who was overseeing our fun, rushed to the collapsed Ann, and began calling her name. He took her pulse, but there was nothing. Gesturing over the inert form, he made the Sign of the Cross, and uttered, "Ego te absolvo."

Looking up, shaking as he spoke to the group of young folks, he said, "Ann has died."

The sound of weeping and sighs of disbelief descended on the gathering. I was so sure the priest was wrong, I urged Bob Keane to help us get Ann up to carry her to his pickup which was the only transportation available. This was before there was a 911 service. Half a dozen kids climbed into the back of the truck, while Bernie and I held Ann across our laps, rushing to the emergency unit of Hotel Dieu hospital. It was a terrible night for driving. We had been hit with one of the worst winter storms ever seen.

We spent that night huddling together in the reception area, hoping and praying Ann would be brought back to us. The emergency doctor walked slowly towards us and said, "I'm sorry. But we did all we could. Your friend Ann has passed away."

"Why? What happened? There was no warning. Nothing."

"She died of a brain aneuryism. A blod clot. We could see it on our scan. I'm very sorry."

Sixteen years old, and that's it. That alone would have made this a special kind of event. But even more would happen to change my life. It occurred while we were on our way to the cemetery. I, and five other friends were asked to be pall bearers. Among us was the oldest fellow, Leroy McKenzie. He acted like our mentor in the group because he always had interesting topics to discuss.

"Do you realize that there was a time when the dead were not embalmed. Embalming began when it was realized there were so-called deceased in a catatonic state, who were buried alive."

"Come on Lee! This is no time to tell one of your weird stories."

"It's true. Did you ever hear about Thomas a'Kempis?"

"Who was he?"

"A very holy monk who wrote a very famous book of religious meditations called, "The Imitation of Christ. After he had been recommended for canonization, Church officials ordered his grave be opened. They believed God would give them a sign called "The Odour of Sanctity" which made the corpse smell like flowers instead of corruption. When they opened the coffin, they found Thomas lying on his stomach, with a fistfull of his hair."

"You're weird McKenzie."

"It's true. They decided he must have been buried alive, and in his struggle to get out, he may have cursed God. For that reason, he was never declared a saint."

You have no idea how much Leroy's story affected all of us. As we got out at the cemetery, the coffin was pulled out of the hearse and we all grabbed our handles and started our extremely slippery walk to the grave. That's when it happened. I was on the front right side, when I lost my footing and fell down on my right knee. Dropping the end of the coffin I could feel the body change position and knock against the side of the box. The banging sound was loud enough to hear, The story of Thomas was still uppermost in my mind, and all I could think of was, maybe Ann is still alive, and was trying to tell us. Ann's death has always been a special event in my life, and now you know why.

Christmas Snake by William James Johnson

Many years ago, when I was a teenager, and knew almost everything, I experienced a strange encounter. It happened a few weeks before Christmas Eve, on an unusually heavy snow stormy night. My three friends and I were trucking through the deep drifts, on our way home after a choir practise for midnight Mass, when we saw the dark outline of a small cottage, a couple hundred feet back from the road, almost lost behind the broken wire fence, packed with snow.

We stopped and studied closely the mysterious shape that appeared to be barely able to keep its roof line above the drift which was rising along the north wall. The porch railings disappeared into the blowing whiteness. A dim light through the torn green window blinds was a sign there was still life in the shell of a house.

"Who do you think lives there?" asked Carol, my at-that-time girlfriend.

"I've heard that there is a weird witch, who uses herbs for healing. I'm not sure, and I don't think anyone knows for sure."

"My dad told us once to keep away from there. He said that her son was the guy who did the slasher murders."

"I remember that. Isn't he the guy who was going to kill all the queers he could, because he had been attacked by one when he was a kid. Didn't they lock him up in the nut house," commented Terry.

"Maybe we should take off", said Marie. "There's no way we are going to find out anything ourselves."

"We could always knock on the door, and ask them."

"Are you out of your mind."

"So what can happen? There's four of us. You guys wait here and I'll go and see what I can find out."

They waited outside the fence as I trudged towards the front porch. I was thinking about how I could approach. I knocked and waited. As the door squeeked open, I saw my friends running away, leaving me alone.

"How do you do sir. Is Mr. Kelly home?"

"There ain't no Kelly. I'm Sullivan. Joe Sullivan, and we've lived here since there were no houses between here and Sacred Heart Church. But I'm sorry there ain't no Kelly."

Joe Sullivan was a short, wiry man in his early 80s, dressed in long johns, covered with paint spattered overalls. His reddish Irish face had deep laugh lines, framing his bluish blod shot eyes. I had no fear of him. In fact he made me feel welcome from the sound of his Irish accent.

"Come in young fellow. Kinda miserable night to be looking for your friend Kelly."

It was then I realized that all the walls of this small cabin had been covered with old newspapers pasted in layers to keep out the drafts. But even more than that, were numerous primitive paintings of bizarre scenes, displayed on all the walls.

"My gawd! Who did these wonderful paintings?"

"What is your name son?"

"My friends call me wild Bill, but just Bill is enough."

"I spent most of my life on ships in the Merchant Marine. That's why there is so many different pictures. Do you know, I make my own brushes out of my collie dog's tail. I love painting."

"I do too Joe. But I have never seen such a wide collection of subjects."

"Many of these I have done from memory."

"You are incredible. I'm so glad I knocked on your door Joe."

"You weren't really looking for a Kelly now were you?"

"Sorry about that. I was just being nosey."

"That's what I figured. Now take a closer look at me pictures and tell me which one you like the most."

"Thats it Joe. The one with the snake eating the black native."

"Good choice. I actually saw that happen in South Africa during the Boer war. You've got good taste wild Bill." With that, he took the painting down and gave it to me. "Here you are lad. This way I know you'll always remember me."

"Oh I couldn't take your favorite picture Joe."

"Please take it and show it to all your friends. It's a Christmas present. You can tell them it is your Christmas Snake."