Ghosts of Graveyards Past (3 page)

“What sort of trouble?” She took the seat across from him, unable to help the journalist-like stance after weeks of interviewing historians on similar subjects. Though none of those stories had puzzled her as much as this one, with its allusions to past lore.

He laughed, another soft chuckle of amusement. “Depends on who you ask. There's some who believe it was a sickness that caused a series of deaths. Others say it was a possession of sorts or a haunting. There were legends that a Celtic curse had been levied on the town for the wrongdoings of its people—probably the old folks' idea of things back then.”

“No one knows for sure what it was?” She was surprised, given how proud the community seemed of its past. Surely, someone had researched the strange event, combing through whatever documents were preserved in the town's historical society.

The funeral director offered an apologetic smile. “I'm afraid the answer is pretty much a mystery, even to our ancestors. All we really know is that people were dying, terror had a grip on the community in general, and many feared a judgment was upon mankind for the bloodshed in the fighting.”

She nodded, feeling foolish as she posed yet another question. One that had stayed on her mind since she first arrived last night. “The banner for the festival has some interesting symbols,” she began, unsure how to describe the scrawls that seemed so primitive. “Someone told me they were —”

“Celtic,” he answered, finishing her sentence. “And Druid, I suppose. Symbols for harmony, energy, mortality…any number of things. Many of our native families trace their roots back to the Celtic culture with all its legend and lore, and to Scotland, in particular. You'll find that both have influenced our stories and arts. It's very much a part of us as a town, even with our Southern pride.”

Pulling a ring from his right hand, he held it up to reflect the light. “A Scottish thistle ring, passed down from my father's side of the family,” he said. “The local jeweler produces similar designs, as well as the knots of the Celtic region. Just one of the ways our town reflects the ancient customs.”

“And the old superstitions,” she wondered aloud, “did those carry over, too? I mean, nobody believes it was a Druid curse that struck the town, do they?”

He frowned. “These days, we see the festival as more of a celebration of history or as a cultural memorial. To those who suffered the trouble and those who survived. It was a dark time in so many ways, with the war going on, and the town was lucky to survive so much turmoil.”

Jenna stayed silent as the funeral director scanned the rest of the ledger. Her thoughts were focused on this strange piece of the past, and the way it seemed to be etched into the lives of the modern-day citizens.

A curse. Rumors of ghosts and malicious spirits wreaking havoc at home while a battle raged miles away. Nothing about the legend made sense to her, but every new facet flamed her curiosity as much as the possibility of a lost burial site from the same era.

Sylvan Spring seemed laden with secrets. Like a time capsule buried in the earth, the remnants of its previous civilization were lingering somewhere just beneath the surface.

“I'm sorry,” Mr. Stroud told her a moment later, flipping the folder's cover closed. “But we have no records of business with a local craftsman. It appears your friend was wrong.”

Disappointed, she shouldered her knapsack. The caretaker must have confused his memory of the stone carver as being more recent then was actually possible. Not a surprise, really, considering he seemed to know of the man mostly through word of mouth or old newspaper advertisements.

“Thanks so much for checking,” she said. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“It was no trouble.” He rose to see her to the door. “You know, if it's old gravesites you're looking for, you might try the Lesley homestead. It's a half mile south of the spring, a favorite spot for hikers to visit. A few have mentioned seeing some family headstones behind the house's burned remains.”

Family headstones—not a community burial ground. It would do for a start, though, and she scribbled the directions down for lack of a better clue.

 

 

 

 

3

 

The stretch of wilderness known as Crooked Wood must have become a popular hangout for the local youth. Jenna guessed this from the numerous cigarette stubs and rocks that were arranged in a campfire circle. Plastic bottles littered the ground, a pile of coals nearby from a recent campfire.

She had parked her car in a clearing off the main road, striking off down the footpath with only a vague sense of where she was going.

Thunder trilled overhead and Jenna hoisted her knapsack higher as she wished for a compass like the one her father used to carry on family camping trips. It would have to be guesswork and the satellite maps from her cellphone's on-again-off-again wireless coverage.

The path before her was defined by a mat of golden-brown needles from pines that towered overhead. She could still hear the sound of car motors passing over the main road. Emboldened with this sense of direction, she moved deeper into the woods, glancing back to see the path's opening gradually shrink and disappear in the changing foliage.

She walked in the same direction for as long as she dared, ignoring the trails that seemed to fork in a more promising route than the one advised by the funeral home director. The homestead might not be connected to the burial ground she sought, but it was her only current location for markers in the dense growth of the forest.

A half mile or so slipped past as she trudged on with nothing to break the landscape of hardwood, the trees growing thicker the further she went. The urge to turn back was increasing with the clouds in the sky, despite her need to confirm at least one lead before the day's end.

Climbing a small embankment where a stream snaked between stones, Jenna lifted her gaze to find something unexpected on the other side. Smoke billowed somewhere on the horizon, a thick gray cloud rolling across the tree tops.

A wildfire was the first possibility to enter her mind, remembering the burned remains of the church in Georgia, the tombstones nearby damaged in the flames.

Her steps quickened, a mixture of urgency and curiosity carrying her towards the scene ahead. Skirting thorn plants and sagging tree limbs, she made her way to a crest in the path where the ground below turned abruptly steep. At the end of this slope, a farmhouse, rustic and somewhat shabby in appearance but not abandoned by any stretch of the imagination, was visible. The smoke curled upwards from its red brick chimney. White paint was flecked in places, a tangle of ivy stretching from the roof to the picket fence below. Old garden tools leaned there as if forgotten mid-project, the weeds grown tall enough to twine around the wooden handles. It took her a moment to register what else leaned there.

Gravestones. Old ones, judging from the condition, most broken or cracked. Others were simply tarnished beyond reading beneath the layers of grime and rust, the lichen and moss she had learned to dread when searching for an inscription.

Confused, her gaze moved beyond the house to a smaller structure that was even more battered in appearance. Cement blocks were stacked beside a storm door, a sign hung from the rafters above with the words ‘
Monumental Masonry'
stenciled in letters that peeled away. A name and phone number appeared below, too faded and far away for Jenna to make out from this distance.

So there
was
a stone carver still working in Sylvan Spring. One of her sources must have been mistaken then, leaving her to wonder if Mr. Sawyer still lived, or if this was someone else. The apprentice mentioned by the funeral director, or maybe a member of the Sawyer family in the same trade.

Her instinct to move down the sloped path and find out was checked by the sound of a door slamming somewhere nearby. The figure which emerged from the back of the farmhouse was instantly familiar, with dark hair and a faded green jacket. Instead of flowers, though, he cradled a postage box, resting it against the hood of the truck as he unlocked its door.

Jenna was close enough to call out this time, but stayed silent, speechless from surprise, or maybe excitement at the thought of someone who might hold the answers to the cemetery's location. Although, neither reason could explain the intent way she studied his face.

He was no more than thirty, but with a haggard expression that lined otherwise appealing features, a jaw shaded with stubble; a lean-muscled build evident beneath the work clothes. All this was registered as quickly as it took him to climb in the vehicle, sliding the box into its passenger seat as he started the engine.

For the second time that day, Jenna was an intruder.

He guided the truck down a narrow dirt lane that was flanked on its other side by a field.

Thunder rumbled overhead, a drop of moisture landing on her face. She brushed it away as another fell, and then another, followed by a steady sprinkle of rain against her clothes and boots. She continued to stand there without reason, staring after the vehicle as it disappeared around the bend. Why hadn't she called down to him? Now it seemed pointless to linger, with the storm gathering strength at a fast pace. She would come back in the morning, she decided, with one last glance at the display of crumbling monuments.

 



 

By the time Jenna realized she was lost, it was too late to turn back. How it happened she couldn't say, except that somewhere in the growing downpour she lost track of the scenery. The path diverged in places that caused her to backtrack more than once, and even the stone carver's house was lost to her, its chimney smoke dissipating in the rain.

Pausing beneath a canopy of oaks, she pulled her cellphone from her pocket only to find a no signal bar. Her heart lurched at the sight, a sense of panic at the thought of being stranded here as twilight grew closer. There was a flashlight in her knapsack, but she wouldn't need it for some time yet. Her fingers curled around it for comfort more than anything.

Would there be bears in such a place? She had never lived in the country, or anywhere with forestry, her experience limited to picnics and camping trips. And those were so long ago that she could scarcely recall her father's advice on avoiding dangerous wildlife.

Help me,
she prayed brokenly, her thoughts circling in a loop of worry.
Tell me what to do, where to go…keep me safe.

Broken branches and tree tops littered this part of the woods, where it seemed wind or ice had felled some of the timber at one time.

She wondered if there were other residents within walking distance or if the masonry shop was the solitary inhabitant of this wild place. It seemed a strange location for a business, so isolated from the bustle of the town. His work must come from elsewhere, she supposed, remembering the lack of records at the funeral home.

Something about the craftsman drew her thoughts, even in her current predicament. Crouched beneath the shelter of bowed branches, she pictured again his ramshackle farmhouse and workshop. He seemed young for such an old-fashioned occupation, a trade that men twice his age would have seen as archaic in their day.

Did he possess a strong love for the past? She believed he must have a sense of protection for history to make his living in a lost art form. Like museum curators who dusted off relics and made them seem new and inspiring to the modern world. Or maybe she just imagined as much because of her need to preserve the things others had forgotten.

By now, the downpour of rain had slackened to a drizzle pattering softly against the tree leaves. As it grew quiet, another sound became audible in the distance. The drone of a motor, followed by a car horn that blared long and loud in the afternoon air.
The main road
, she realized, with a surge of relief and elation. Now she had a way to pinpoint where she was in this tangled mess that seemed less friendly the darker the skies grew.

She stood hastily, forgetting the branches overhead until they showered her with droplets. This was a small annoyance compared with her excitement, and she brushed them aside without caring. Her knapsack flapped as she picked up the pace, moving in the direction of the motor sounds. Dodging another low hanging branch, she failed to see the shape that jutted up from the path, until her knees hit it, sending her forward with a gasp of surprise.

Pain shot through her as she landed, hands shielding her face from the impact. Damp earth clung to her skin, mud streaking the front of her jacket. She scrambled to a sitting position, her breath coming in short, hard gasps. “It's OK,” she told herself, eyes fluttering closed in an attempt to calm down. There was no damage done, no sprains or broken bones. Tentatively, she shifted position, testing weight against the injured leg. At the same moment, her hand brushed something buried in the leaves. Debris from the thing she had tripped over.

A wall of stone, packed together with sand. Parts of it had collapsed, fragments still visible running in an L-shape among the trees. The remains of a building's foundation? No, it was the wrong shape, more like a fence. Meaning there must have been a yard for it to protect at one time.

Her pain already forgotten, Jenna scrambled past the stone barrier. She searched the ground, hurriedly pushing aside leaves and soil with a sense of anticipation. Moving from one spot to another, her efforts were finally rewarded. Layers of dead foliage gave way to a piece of stone, flat with carvings that were more easily felt than seen.

Jenna stared, heart pounding with disbelief. There were more, a cursory check of the yard revealing graves that were leaning or broken off at the base. Limestone and slate were filled with cracks, the flat stones faring better than ones that stood upright beneath the piles of fallen tree limbs.

It seemed the phantom cemetery was real after all.