As cities go, we in Peachtree

City lack our own Halloween story, an urban legend that we can pass from

generation to generation. I can fix that. Here are two short essays of

local lore (inspired by true events) to frighten your children, and maybe

even you.

THE CURSE OF FLAT CREEK HOLLOW

Amelia Crane twitched nervously.

All the events of the last week had left her mind a little more than muddled.

Women's tennis at Flat Creek Country Club was nothing to scoff at. Everyone

took it seriously. Reputations were built and destroyed with the toss

of a lime Penn #3. But even Amelia couldn't have foreseen the events of

Oct. 31.

It all started on a late, terror-filled

night at Saks. Amelia made the tragic mistake of pulling a $300 tennis

dress from the rack, just as Matilda "The Forehand," reached

for it. From that night on, the nightmares began. Matilda had followed

Amelia to the checkout counter and said, "I will get you for this."

Amelia's heart grew cold, just as her hands grew sweaty. Everyone knew

you did not want to cross Matilda "The Forehand." It's not that

she would crush you playing tennis at the club. It was your reputation

that she would decimate.

Once, just for sadistic fun,

Matilda told everyone that Tammy Grover bought her Nikes at Sears. An

unwitting Pam Greer woke up to discover the rumor floating around that

she had contemplated trading in her SUV for a minivan. She could hardly

show her face at the club any longer.

Amelia lived in horror. Would

Matilda lie and tell people she bought her tennis dress from the discount

table? Would people giggle as she passed, being told that she refilled

Dasani bottles with regular tap water? Amelia didn't sleep for days. She

had to face her demon.

The day came. Matilda strode

finally couldn't take it any more and decided to take matters into her

own hands. She yelled at Matilda in front of everyone. "I hear you

have last year's cell phone, Matilda. And I hear it's not dual band and

it doesn't have voice activation!"

Before Matilda could even respond,

she noticed all the other ladies giggling and staring. Soon laughter broke

out. They were pointing and whispering. Matilda had made a tragic error.

She had left her cell phone in her car and forget to put it in her tennis

bag which was an even worse offense than she had been accused of. It was

over.

Somewhere in the night, bats

flutter and owls hoot. Matilda has moved away. And Amelia, well, she strikes

fear in the hearts and souls of any woman that would cross her. Who would

cross Amelia "The Return" Crane?

DAWN OF THE LIVING OBSOLETE

Some say that "The Sickness"

started in the water. A virulent strain must've made its way from the

swamp we call "wetlands" into the population. Yet, was it environmental,

this thing that attached itself to the brain stems of so many parents

of Peachtree City soccer kids? Others would allege the disease was some

sort psychological form of mass hysteria gone terribly awry.

But, it was real, either way.

The disease would bloom on Saturday afternoons in the bright light of

day. Normal, mild-mannered moms and dads would turn into these grotesque

monsters.

As the little kids, kicked,

ran and mostly fumbled, their parents were on the sidelines breathing

venom and speaking curses that would make someone with Tourette's syndrome

blush. Whether it was some dad trying to live out his glory years (that

he never had) through his child or some mom putting on the pressure to

"excel," the result was the same: Loud drones repeating forever

the same utterances, "The ref is stupid!" "My child should

be playing more!" "Soylent Green is people!"

Doctors have found no cure

for the terror. It is still here today, among us. The afflicted drive

their cars on our highways and eat in our restaurants. The terror is Kroger-like

in its consumption and dominance.

My personal terror is that

I, too, will give way to this sickness, for my daughter Olivia, just the

other day, said... she wants to play soccer.

[Visit Billy Murphy on the

Internet at https://ebilly.net.]