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sixteen, perhaps even younger. She was wearing a long white dress.
    When she turned toward me, her head moved in a jerking motion, and she kept her neck hidden from me by deliberately letting her hair cover the left side of her face. There was something she didn’t want me to see. When her eyes—deep set and lifeless—met mine, a chill went through me. The smell of death was all around her. I wanted to run, but couldn’t. Something I can’t explain kept me there. When she spoke, a deep, rasping whisper came out of her throat: “My name is Lucy Clark.”
    Lucy Clark! My blood ran cold! Lucy Clark has been dead for over a hundred years and the story of her appearances are still told in every household in the village, and for a hundred miles beyond.
    I will put down all the facts of this story as I have heard them, so in your own time and wisdom, you can decide for yourself whether the story of Lucy Clark came out of a too-fertile imagination or a bad case of indigestion. If, in the end, you’re still not convinced, then go down Londonderry way and ask the good folks there. See what they have to say.
    The first time Lucy Clark came back from the grave was on the old Cumberland road, the route the stagecoach travelled between Truro and Amherst, Nova Scotia. This incident occurred in the community of Lornevale, tucked in between the regions of Londonderry and Folly Mountain.
    This is the way the story unfolded:
    A handsome team of six horses were harnessed and ready when Ned Purdy, the stagecoach driver, came out of the depot and climbed aboard. He cracked the whip over the heads of the two lead horses and the coach moved out of the depot yard and onto the old Cumberland road. The horses kept up a steady gait and the passengers were reasonably comfortable. It was a warm summer evening with little or no wind to speak of. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that is, until the stagecoach rounded the first sharp curve on the road. The lead horses bolted almost pulling Ned off his seat. Standing in the middle of the road was a woman wearing an ankle-length white dress. “Who the Hell...” Ned blurted out. When he got the team under control and looked up the road again, she was gone. Was his imagination playing tricks on him? But what spooked the horses? Sometimes a bear or deer crossing the road can set the horses off. Perhaps that was it, thought Ned. He was about to sit down, when out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman standing just below his seat, blood oozing from a torn jugular in her neck. She was reaching up with outstretched arms. Fear took hold of him, but it was a fear that also made him whip the horses on. Ned Purdy didn’t know it at the time, but he was the first to encounter the ghost of young Lucy Clark.
    It was some years later before Lucy’s ghost appeared again. This time it was to Tom Adams of nearby Westchester. One day, Tom decided to exercise his dogs on the old Cumberland road. He had heard many times Ned Purdy’s story about his encounter on the same road with the ghost of Lucy Clark. It’s not that Tom didn’t believe the story, he just wasn’t thinking about it on that day.
    Tom and his dogs were no more than a quarter of a mile into their walk when it happened. Coming toward him in the middle of the road was a woman in a flowing white dress. Tom shook all over as a chill went through him. The whimpering dogs backed away. Tom Adams then remembered the story of Ned Purdy’s experience with the ghost of Lucy Clark. He knew that if it was Lucy Clark, it was too late to run. She was now upon him, walking quickly—or rather more like floating than walking. Her arms were outstretched, and when she spoke her voice was but a rasping whisper: “My name is Lucy Clark and I beg of you not to be afraid; not to run off like the others have. You must listen to me—hear why I cannot rest in my grave until the truth is known. It is