Potter's Puddle was on a farm owned by a middle-aged fellow named Jason Potter. Some years before I was even born, a younger Jason Potter, who grew up always loving the country, managed to get a loan from the bank and, literally bought the farm. Young Jason started small--a chicken coup, a tractor, a lawnmower, and a white country house. After some years of patience, good crops, and a few part-time jobs, he was able to build a nice red barn, and a couple long tin-roofed barns for his cows and pigs.

Jason also married and had children. After some thought, he decided a pond might be a good idea for his kids and for fish on the table. There was a brook not too far away that would keep the water table high enough, and it was simple enough to reroute the electric fence he had made to keep his cows in while they were grazing, so he convinced himself to do it.

Now making a man-made pond isn't something you can do with a couple shovels and a few friends. Planning, money, and heavy equipment are needed. Fortunately for Jason, he had a friend who worked for the county and put him in touch with the right people, and after the right paperwork and permits, the county lent him a big earth-mover to carve his pond out with. Jason built a dock, put some gravel and rocks in the pond, planted water plants, and more importantly, stocked it with fish. Bass, and blue-gill were the most plentiful, but a few cat-fish were added as well. Eventually, turtles, frogs and toads either found their way to the pond or were added by Jason's children over the years. And, one of the best things about that small pond was that since Jason had gained help from the county in building his pond, the pond, Potter's Puddle was considered public property, and anyone who knew could use it.

The years went on, and Jason's wife died fairly young. His children grew up and moved away, and times went harsher for Jason. So much so that he leased out half his land to another farmer, and Jason got a full-time job in the suburbs. He still ran the farm though. He still raised chickens and cows and pigs. He still grew corn and he still grew old. Eventually he met my grandmother and they dated for some time. My family and all my aunts, uncles, and cousins would gather at Potter's Puddle for Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and sometimes birthday parties. But relationships being how they are, my grandmother had a falling out with old Jason Potter, and the gatherings at Potter's Puddle stopped. I was still a child then. My mother held some animosity toward Jason for many years, even going so far as to barely say a word to him at my grandmother's funeral years later.

My father was of a different conscience. He had always gotten along with old Jason and saw no reason to dislike him or shun him. So every now and then, my father would wake me up early in the morning on weekends and he and I would spend the morning fishing and talking at Potter's Puddle. Eventually we stopped fishing together until years later when we moved into a house on the river.

So, when it came to Jason Potter I had no hatred for the man. I remember his big, white house and the poorly tuned player piano he kept in his living room. I remember the strong smell of coffee upon entering his kitchen. I remember the well, covered in concrete next to the porch. And, I remember the miniature Three Musketeers candy bars he used to give to me from the bottom drawer of his refrigerator, as well as I remember the ghost that lived on the second floor.

Jason used to let me play with the piano until I drove everyone crazy with the cacophony of my wandering fingers. Next to the piano were the stairs leading up to the second floor. Occasionally I would just sit at the piano marveling at the outlandishness of the player piano in silence. One time, sitting at the piano, I was pressing individual keys and letting the notes ring out--trying to decipher for myself the mysteries of sound. After about ten minutes or so, Jason and my father left the kitchen, and went outside to take a look at a huge alligator snapper Jason had in a basin out by the barn, destined for turtle soup. I remained at the piano and continued my slow discordant progression.

A short time after they both left, there came a noise from upstairs. My head jerked up and my pulse quickened. No one could have been in the house, and I could hear the dog barking out by the barn. I pressed another key on the piano. Another sound came from above. I stood up and slowly walked over to bottom of the stairs...nothing....I looked up to where the stairs turned halfway up...nothing...I focused on the glass of the window there, hoping to catch some reflection in the glass....nothing...I began to take a step up the stairs...the step below me creaked...two above did as well...I took another step....again the step below me creaked....three more creaked above....whoever...whatever was there...was around the bend in the stairs...I took no step...one creak came from the stairs ahead of me....I blinked into the light coming through the window....a coldness gripped hold of me...I turned and jumped to the bottom of the stairs and ran, looking back at the stairs and the invisible spectre that followed and I watched as the bench was slid under the piano and I saw and listened as a whole set of keys were violently played and then the keyboard covered slammed shut and I ran and ran as fast as my little legs would take me and I reached the kitchen and I looked back and I opened the door and there was my father and I screamed. He had come to get me so I could see the size of the mammoth alligator snapper in the basin by the barn, and there he found me white as a sheet.

He asked me what was wrong and I told him the bogey man was upstairs and he wanted to get me. My father looked around and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He wanted to take me upstairs to show me, but I refused to budge from my spot by the kitchen door. I told him I heard a noise but didn't explain anymore than that. He tried to tell me that I probably just heard mice scurrying about, but I told him I wanted to see the turtle and get out of the house. He agreed and we walked out of the house, and I got to see an alligator snapper about the size of a trash can lid.

After that, whenever I entered the house, it would be to use the bathroom next to the kitchen or get a Three Musketeers bar from the refrigerator. I neither touched nor saw that piano again until years later when I was in my teens and a natural gas pipe ruptured and ignited, virtually exploding the house off it's foundation and burning almost everything inside while Jason was at work. A week after the fire my father and I visited Jason with some donations from our family and I saw the burnt-out house and what little that remained of his possessions--all stuffed into his garage. There in front was the piano, burnt some but otherwise in good condition. I remembered the ghost and I was actually glad the house was gone, but the piano...the piano now had a burn on the side of it that was almost in the shape of a hand, and that is something I couldn't ever forget.