Chapter One

Every small town across America has its ghost stories, especially in the Deep South. Milledgeville, Georgia is no exception. People say many of the stories are made up to encourage children to walk the straight and narrow. I never really understood that logic. Seems to me, the lessons they learned were to fear what they don’t understand and tell lies. That doesn’t sound like the straight and narrow to me.

My daddy once told me, "Always search for the truth, no matter how ugly or beautiful it was. The truth will set you free. It may hurt sometimes, but in the end it’ll heal. Deception never heals."

He told me that little bit of wisdom right before he and mama died. I was only thirteen at the time. They say that you enter into adulthood at that age. I think I entered into Hell. Not physically, of course, but emotionally. A thunderstorm had been let loose in my life and I didn’t think I’d ever see the sun again.

But, I don’t want to get ahead of myself. For you to truly understand the amazing things I’m going to tell you, I have to start at the beginning. I have to go back to a time when the world was normal; back to a place where television, movies and books held all the adventure; back to a time when my eyes were closed and I didn’t know the truth. Just hearing the truth doesn’t reveal it to you. Sometimes you have to experience it. Remember, it’s the truth that sets you free, not just hearing about it. We can be deaf, yet hear. We can hear, yet be deaf. My daddy was right, only he didn’t know how right he was.

My story isn’t about ghosts, per say. It’s about family. Being the only child of Brendan and Leila Summerville, I grew up in the big city of Atlanta without brothers and sisters. I’ll admit I was a bit spoiled, but mostly I was just lonely. I’d get lost within the adventures of a good movie or the pages of a good book. I didn’t mind the peace and quiet, well… as much as one could get in a noisy city. Life was normal; it was good. I had no complaints.

However, while riding along I-20 one bright summer morning, that all changed for me. I can still remember looking out the window and peering up into the bright blue sky. I was looking for familiar patterns in the white cirrus clouds. I didn’t see all the commotion up ahead. I don’t even think I heard the squealing tires or the crushing metal.

That day my joy and peace became mangled within the steel frame of my parents wrecked car. My dreams shattered right along with the broken glass. The world as I had always known it, ended with their dead eyes.

Why did I survive? I’ve asked myself that at least a million times. I should have gone with them, but for some reason I was spared. I was left to face the truth on my own. They were the lucky ones and I hated them for it.

“Junebug”, as my parents had called me, had broken wings. I was trapped inside of a glass bottle and placed on display. A world of strangers came by and gawked at this captured beetle, yet never acknowledging my existence. I was shuffled around, until finally shipped to an obscure wilderness of flat swampland known as Milledgeville, Georgia.

For three months I screamed within silence. Though my head was full of words and I yelled them out, no one heard me. My body refused to cooperate. My mouth refused to open. I said nothing while my fate was determined. It was like an invisible hand wrapped itself around my mouth and refused to let go. I found it amazing what people would say in front of you, if they thought you couldn’t speak.

Eventually, it was decided by the court that I was to live with a distant aunt and uncle in a town known for its insane asylum. How poetic was that?

This is where my story really begins. It started out normal enough, but soon the word ‘normal’ would no longer apply.