I will tell a little back story that I promise is relevant to this experience of mine.
As in my previous stories, I am Native American and live on an Indian Reservation. Long time ago, years and years ago, the original "Agency" or central hub for the reservation was about 25 miles south of the town where I currently live. It is now called "Old Agency". Anyway, the Soldier's that had pushed my people onto the reservation were passing out pork and blankets to the people. Little did the people know at the time but the pork was sour and the blankets were infested with the small-pox germ.
The soldier's would not let the people hunt or fish and the people were starving because of this and it was a cold and brutal Montana winter. So, the people took these items thinking that the soldier's were trying to help them but, instead they were trying to kill the people off. The people did not know that the pork was sour as this was not a meat that was ever eaten by the Native American's as they ate, deer, elk, buffalo, fish and various wild game.
Anyway, as the people died and it was winter the bodies were just thrown into a pile until they would be able to be buried. In the following months the ground was soft enough to dig, and dig they did. There is a mass grave that extends for over 20+ miles from "Old Agency", into the town where I live and further North past town.
When they built our group of houses, they placed them about a 1/2 mile from one of the mass burial graves. By this time, all of the bones and such had been removed (many years before our houses were built). But needless to say our house is still close to this mass grave.
One day my husband and I were getting ready for work. He was sitting at the foot of the bed bent over tying his work boots and I was in the master bathroom curling my hair and we were having our morning visit while getting ready. I glanced out of the bathroom and towards my husband and there was a small Native American boy with long hair and no shirt, shoes or pants on, he had a breech-cloth on. He was leaning onto the side of the bed by my husband just looking at my husband. I looked at him for about 10 seconds and looked away and looked back but he was gone. I told my husband what I saw and he just looked stumped, and didn't know what to say.
My husband has always believed me when things have happened to me. My husband or our children have never seen the little boy, and I have never seen him since that one time. But, I always have had the feeling that this little boy somehow perished all those years ago and may have been buried in the mass grave in the field behind our house.
This will remain a mystery! I have no intention to insult anyone by writing this story. I only included the back information as it pertains to why and how the mass grave came to be. If anyone was insulted please understand that I had no intention to do that, I was only telling a story / experience of mine. Thank you for reading my story and if you comment, I will respond.