Annie Mary Twente

The story of Annie Mary Twente was a staple ghost story at every sleep-over and camp out of my childhood. As far as I can tell, we added some Bloody Mary into the tale of poor little Annie Mary Twente, a young girl who was supposedly buried alive after a fall or a fever in 1886. Anna Twente has had three graves; the first in Oak Grove Cemetery in the village of Iberia, Minnesota. The second was on a lonely plot under a tree near the family farm. Her final resting place is in Kandiyohi County, Minnesota, where she was moved in the 1990s after her grave had been disturbed one too many times. May she finally rest in peace.

For more information on Annie and the Twente family, check out ahauntinglegacy.wordpress.com

Annie Mary’s daddy was always…a little off.

Children would stare whenever he went into town. Mr. Twente was a large man—some even called him a giant. Not only was he a large, odd man, he also had large, odd ideas. When other farmers built their barns, their barns looked like all the other farmer’s barns. But when Annie Mary’s daddy built his barn, he built it extra-long and extra tall. People came from all around to look at his barn. The barn went up, up, up—three stories up.

One day, when Annie Mary was just six years old, she looked up, up, up at that barn. To her it looked as big as a mountain. She’d heard older kids saying how fun it was to play in haymows—you could climb high into the rafters and jump down into the giant piles of hay without getting hurt at all. Annie’s mama usually kept Annie close by her side, but it was fall, and mama was busy trying to get ready for the long, cold winter ahead. It wasn’t hard for Annie to find her chance and sneak out of the house and into the barn.

Most barns in these parts had a ladder leading up from the first floor to the haymow, but not Annie’s daddy’s barn. His had stairs—just like a house—two flights, from the ground floor all the way up to the haymow above. 

Each step up, up, up sent a thrill through Annie’s heart. She’d always been a good girl, doing just what Mama and Daddy said. Sneaking out and disobeying orders felt as exciting to Annie as any adventure story she’d ever heard.  

When Annie finally got to the haymow, it felt like discovering treasure cave. Instead of piles of golden coins, it was filled with plies of golden hay. The only light came from the open haymow door. 

Annie looked around. How was she going to get herself up into the rafters? Next to the door there was a ladder nailed into the wall. It led to a thick beam, and in the middle of the beam was a long rope with a looped end. From the open door, Annie could see the house across the farmyard, where her mother was working busily, having no idea that Annie wasn’t there.

Trembling, Annie climbed up, up, up. As she stepped out onto the beam, she imagined she was a circus performer, amazing everyone with her bravery. One careful step, two careful steps, twenty steps out to the rope. Slowly, carefully, she pulled the rope up, and grabbed it by the loop. She crept further down the beam, until the rope was taught. 

There was nothing left to do but jump.

Jump! Annie told herself.

Jump! But she couldn’t do it. 

It was too far down, too scary, to throw herself down into the dark, trusting she would land safely in the golden hay. Annie knew she was brave; why should she let fear keep her from her greatest adventure? Annie steeled up all her courage, and, eyes wide open, jumped.

It was just like she’d imagined flying would feel—the wind sweeping over her face and through her hair. But then the rope started to slip. Not her grip, her grip was firm. The knot in the rope must be a slip knot! The loop closed, her courage failed, and Annie Mary let go.

It was a soft landing. Then she started to slide down the side of the pile, like down a hill on a sled. She grabbed frantically, taking up handfuls of golden hay, but it was no good. Annie kept slipping down, down, down—toward the open hayloft door.

Annie’s mama heard a blood curdling scream coming from the farmyard. She jumped up from her work and looked about the room. Where was Annie?

Annie!

She ran out of the house, fast as ever a woman has run, and found her daughter lying in front of the barn, her arms and legs splayed, dead. Mr. Twente heard Mama’s scream all the way out in his field. When he finally reached the farmyard out of breath, he found his wife weeping over the body of their precious child. 

“She’s dead!” Annie’s mama sobbed. 

Annie’s daddy looked up and saw the open haymow door. He bent down and put his hands, gently, over his daughter’s face.

“She’s not dead. She’s sleeping.”

Annie’s mother stared. She knew he was different in the head, but this was too much. “You’re probably right, dear. I’ll tuck her into bed; you fetch the doctor.”

Annie’s father saw no need to bother the doctor over something as small as a nap. He scooped up her limp body, brought her into the house, and tucked her into bed. 

Annie’s mama hardly knew what to do. She busied herself bathing and dressing her little girl in her best dress and washing and braiding her hay-colored hair. 

Days passed. Finally, Mr. Twente was persuaded to allow his daughter to be buried. 

But the nights after Annie’s internment, Mrs. Twente could not sleep wink. She was tormented night after night with visions of her daughter screaming for her mother from the depths of the grave. Mr. Twente could take it no longer. He grabbed a lantern and a shovel and went to the fresh grave where his little daughter had been laid to rest. Mr. Twente dug like a man possessed. The first glow of dawn blushed the eastern sky when Mr. Twente hit the wood of her coffin. A cold wind rushed over the cemetery, blowing off his hat and extinguishing the lantern. 

Farmer Haas was about to start his morning chores when he heard what he thought was a man being murdered in the graveyard. He and his hired man ran to help, but when they arrived, they found Mr. Twente standing in Annie Mary’s grave, unable to move or speak. What Farmer Haas saw next haunted him for the rest of his life: The tiny body of Annie Mary was on its side; her shroud was ripped and her eyes and mouth were frozen wide in terror. The top of the casket was covered in bloody scratch marks, and her tiny fists were clenched with clumps of bloody hay-colored hair. 

It took both men to get Mr. Twente out of the grave and back home. Mr. Twente begged them to bring little Annie up to the farm, where he could keep watch over her, forever.

Even now, a hundred years later, if you’re driving down a lonely road in Albin Township, Minnesota, you might see a lone tree at the top of a hill. If you get a little closer, you could see a little girl dressed in white, swinging on a rope swing hanging from that tree. If you drive closer, your headlights might fail and the engine might stop. If, after all of that, you brave enough and walk toward that tree, the girl might disappear. You will look for her everywhere, but all you will find is gravestone marked Anne Mary Twente.

At least that’s what happened to me.