Ghosts on the Coast of Maine by Carol Schulte Page A

about that, but Tom, being a loving father, would not stand in the boy’s way. Besides, Tom was becoming good friends with a widow lady named Hattie, who had a strapping teenage boy and a good head for business. Soon after the second son left home, Tom married Hattie.
    Tom, his youngest son David, Hattie, and her son Jonas fostered a new family unit. By 1836 they were among the most financially stable of anyone in the community. That was the year Tom died, but before he died, he made Hattie promise to give the farm over to David. There was no legal record of this, because Tom distrusted lawyers, but he did trust Hattie to honor his wishes. She didn’t. She gave the place to Jonas, and David moved away.
    The farm went well for mother and son for about fourteen years. Then one day Hattie noticed a saucer-sized spot of white sand by the barn. She thought it odd at the time but not important enough to bother her son about. Two weeks later that little spot had turned into a small mound, noticed this time by Jonas. The prevailing winds from the east had swirled the sand to form a peak, but what in the Devil’s name had pushed it up and out of the brown soil?
    The Devil’s name entered Jonas’s mind more than once as he fought to ground the sand with cutup brush. In a few months, the mound had become a dune, and mother and son were filled with trepidation. Visitors remarked about the sand mass; they had never seen the like, amidst so many acres of fertile ground. Tongues wagged all over the place, some of them making mention of Tom’s dying wish to have David own the property. Maybe if David had been allowed to work the land, this would not have happened.
    The spirit of Thomas Grayson seemed to be more evident as time wore on. Jonas stayed awake nights listening to the wind, witnessing out his window the handiwork of an invisible force that kept pushing the sand out of the ground. Its sparkle glinted in the moonlight, as it spilled over the fruitful fields and vegetable gardens that had taken so much work to keep alive. Mornings found him too tired or too despairing to go and fight the sand. He had to spend more time building blockades than tending to the livestock.
    The sand did not relent. After killing the farm flora, it played a waiting game with the healthy timbers that bordered the fields. It crept over the tree roots and settled in layers until the trees bent over and died. The wind made an eerie sound, whistling through all the dead trees.
    By 1860 Jonas had sold almost all the land that remained normal, which was about half the property. No one wanted the desert land. His mother had died the previous year, and his enthusiasm for life was waning.
    One morning in 1875, the old man looked out his door to find his plow totally buried. He tried to move the wagon, but it wouldn’t budge. It too was a victim of the sand. Jonas went back to the house to pack his belongings, then turned his back forever on the land that had held such great potential.
    The “farm” lay dormant for about fifty years. The desert grew to include eight hundred acres of valleys and dunes. Tall trees were underground, as well as half the barn, and the springhouse that used to supply cool storage for food. One twilight evening a couple from Massachusetts, prospective buyers, were inspecting the grounds. They were wading through the sand around the springhouse when they noticed a stone structure nearby, half buried. They uncovered the whole piece, then recoiled in terror. The structure was a sculptured head with huge pointed ears and a wide mouth. The facial expression was sinister, as if to say, “Hah hah hah, the joke is on you.” As if that weren’t enough of a bad omen, as they were leaving they heard what sounded like male laughter echoing across the dunes. The couple did not return.
    When people visit the desert, they note the shortened trees, the old barn, and the picture of the diabolical head that is