Mary, Mary Francis, Huntsville discussed on Haunted Places
If you ask. Huntsville local where Maple Hill playground is, they'll look at you very strangely most know it as dead children's playground. Hopping the fence to spend the night on the swing set is a teenage rite of passage and rumors swirl about disembodied children's laughter and footsteps. Some say they see all apparitions of children who jumped from the swings and run off into nothingness. Though the playground itself was only built in nineteen eighty five local legend says that an unknown serial killer prowled Phil beginning the nineteen sixties. He is said to have dismembered his school age victims, bearing them pieces around the quarry that would later become the playground. It Maple Hill par. Up Next we return to the killer and his sack and the source of the ghostly cry that haunts him. Listeners I have a surprising new treat for you. 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It is said that Maple Hill cemetery has been accepting the dead since long before it was formally established in eighteen eighteen. In. Huntsville the land was simply known as the burying place until the town leadership gave it a name. Northern Alabama was still mostly frontier then and grounds keeping wasn't exactly a priority. The oldest legible grave in Maple Hill actually dates from September eighteen twenty. Game was Mary Francis. Atwood. She hadn't made it to her first birthday. Mary remembered very little about her short live. It was snatches of sense rather than meaning the warmth of her mother's skin the earthy smell of her father's hair and the faraway laughter of her siblings. She didn't remember her death either. Only. That she was there one moment and here the next. The absence of senses rather than the overwhelming wash them. Mary died before she could truly listen let alone speak. Birds, were just sounds a mystery of those far older and larger than her. She had no concept of mortality when she was ripped from the world. So her afterlife was very strange indeed. She felt her mother praying for her. It was push at her back urging a retold might boy, she couldn't understand. And because she did not understand how to go. Mary stayed in the burying place. After years and years she stopped feeling the poll of her mother's prayers. To pass the time Mary wandered she didn't have his hands to steady her but now she didn't need them. She carried herself on the breeze pushing her pudgy fingers. The great stone says she floated giggling all the while she was playing like this when he first appeared. A white haired man with strange square spectacles heavier than the ones who father at war. The men's hair was well kept his shirt starched white against the moon. He carried a bag on his back like her father's when he went hunting for game. But this man had a different prey. Mary built their sorrow I. There were children like her in that bag. Little ones lost in the darkness unable to get home. Mary wanted to tear the man's bag in too but she was too small and weak to free the children. So she did the only thing she knew how to do the only power. He ever had a chance to use her brief life. Her voice. Merry screen. She way old. She cried with the anguish of someone who had just discovered the quality of the world. And finally. He heard it. The men pumped his head confused he looked left and right then nearly fell over. He scrambled through the cemetery quickly scurrying between the craves Mary Fallen screaming talking demanding King let the children. Gone. The man broke into our run stumbling out of the cemetery. Mary. Reached for gas but she discovered she could go no further. She cried and stretched tiny arms out over the small cement divider. But it was no use a strange invisible wall stretched up before her she watched the man catches breath and head into the park with a sack tearing the children away from her. She. Cried for different reason now. She was alone again and the other children were too. She had lost. The man with the bag came back to the cemetery again and again a chorus of ghostly whimpers echoing from his bag as he passed. Each time he did very tried to get him to drop the bag and run. She refused to stop she reviews to tire. She had new France to save in his sack friends who might make her existence a little less lonely. Every time Mary smashed against the boundary. It hurt a little less. She grew a little stronger and her voice grew louder. The night was more and the moon was full when Mary.