Ghosts of Graveyards Past (2 page)

The girl's brow furrowed. “I think it's more of a history thing, maybe something to do with a legend? Anyway, it's something that happened ages ago. A curse or hex on the town.”

“Curse?” Jenna echoed. “What—like a drought or a grasshopper infestation or something?” She couldn't help the laugh that escaped as she tried to imagine what kind of old superstition could possibly demand its own celebration, short of the usual one that had people carving pumpkins and donning costumes at this time of year.

“Not sure,” the girl answered with a shrug. “I've only lived here a couple years, but someone told me it goes back to stories in the 1800s.” She shrugged again as if to emphasize her lack of certainty, and then turned to the computer screen beside her.

This explanation was more bizarre then Jenna imagined, making her wonder how many other legends the town might have.

Shifting her knapsack, she reached for a brochure display on the desk—lots of pictures of quaint shops where workers demonstrated such techniques as candle making and basket weaving.

“Is there someplace I can learn more about the town's history?” she asked, thumbing through the glossy pamphlet. “A university or genealogy center, some place with old records and deeds.”

“There used to be a museum, but I heard all its stuff burned in an accident.” The girl paused mid-type, thinking. “I've seen a historical society over by the library. An old building with stained glass windows.”

“Perfect,” said Jenna, pocketing the brochure. She would need help from local researchers to identify the names on the headstones—if there
were
any to identify, that is.

“You're in the Dragonfly Room,” said the clerk, sliding a key across the desk. “We serve breakfast at eight, and you'll find the dining hall through that set of accordion doors by the stairs…” she broke off as the phone by the computer rang.

Jenna wanted to ask more, to find out if the festival could somehow tie in with her research for the book.

But the clerk was busy moving a reservation for someone, her fingers stroking over the computer keyboard as she talked.

For now, Jenna would have to be content with unpacking her bags, and the glimpse of the town below through her second story window.

 

 

 

 

2

 

The shops were still locked when Jenna made her way outside the next morning. She had skipped breakfast in her eagerness to explore the town, pulling her cellphone out to snap pictures of the old-fashioned buildings in the square. Architecture that was mostly 1920s, though some looked as if it might be Queen Anne period.

She found the historical society next to the library. Its windows were still dark, a sign advertising the hours as 10AM to 1PM, no weekends.

Maybe its volunteers would be eager for a credit in her upcoming manuscript. The other sites had required a genealogist to hasten the process of identifying the graves, some of whom were still at work on the slave cemeteries, the damaged stones threatening to never yield answers beyond what met the eye.

“Morning,” said a woman who passed her on the sidewalk, her arms cradling a tray of plant seedlings. She had a stocky build and pleasant face, her auburn hair pulled back in a handkerchief. She unlocked the door to a shop called
Old World Herbs.
Once inside, the woman left the closed sign facing out as she fussed with a window display.

Jenna continued down a series of streets, feet turning where a sign indicated the Sylvan Grove Cemetery would be. She hoped its older stones might give her some clue as to when the wooded cemetery fell out of use—and out of memory. Surprised to find the cemetery gates open when none of the shops were, she peered past the entrance. Rows of cold gray monuments glittered in the morning light. The air was crisp and her denim jacket seemed insufficient as she moved forward.

It was quiet here except for the occasional bird cry and the rustle of dry leaves beneath her boots. The older graves would be somewhere in the back. She glanced over more recent dates on nearby tombs. Her breath hitched as, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move.

A figure had appeared among the markers on the other side of the graveyard. A man, his hair dark and slightly rumpled. Not the caretaker, and certainly not a spirit, though her heart continued to beat as if he were an apparition.

Dressed in jeans and a green utility jacket, he crouched before a tomb that was sculpted in ivy. One hand rested against the chiseled pattern as the other clutched a bouquet of wild flowers.

They were too far apart to speak, to do anything more than exchange a look, except his face was turned away.

She continued to walk, her steps slow and noiseless, as she stared at the stranger.

As if sensing her gaze, he turned, revealing a profile with features young, but tired, in the morning light.

Another second and he was gone, her glimpse of him obscured by the spread of angelic wings from an elaborate monument. A faint flush covered her cheeks. Shame, perhaps, for disturbing a mourner come to pay their respects.

She didn't see him again, didn't look back to see if his gaze followed her through the paths. Quick steps carried her to a far corner of the yard where a pair of weeping willows stood guard over tombs as old as the 1880s. The slabs of limestone and slate were impressively preserved, sunlight reflecting off the gilded lettering.

The stones changed to the more durable marble and sandstone the further she moved into the 1900s, implying a shift in the town's fortunes. Instinctively, she raised her camera, focusing the lens on hand-carved designs that seemed far more varied than those of modern tombs made by machines.

Winged skulls with gap-toothed smiles. An angel with a scroll and another with a trumpet; a hand that reached to snuff a candle. Lambs, butterflies, and hands folded in prayer. Her finger traced the beveled edges, lips forming a sad smile. Angling the camera lens so that no sunlight obscured the carvings, she snapped a picture.

Footsteps crunched behind her, and she turned, half-expecting to see the stranger with the wildflowers.

Instead, an older gentleman strolled, a trash sack in one hand as he collected withered bouquets and pieces of ribbon shredded by the wind. “Good morning,” he said, one hand doffing his cap in a gentlemanly manner.

Jenna smiled, hoisting her camera as she said, “These headstone engravings are beautiful. I couldn't resist a few pictures.”

“Yes, they are impressive,” the man agreed, his voice pleasant as he studied the ones she had just photographed. “Taking care of them is an honor, though my knees are getting a bit weak for the job.” This was said with a chuckle as he patted the worn patch in his corduroy trousers.

“You work here, then?” Jenna asked. She wondered if he had an inkling of the wooded burial ground or if those rumors were mostly for the tourists.

“Robert Kendrick,” he said, extending a hand. “I look after the place during the week. My retirement job, I call it.”

Shaking his hand, she said, “Jenna Cade. I'm here researching a book—a history narrative about cemeteries in the Deep South.”

“A young lass interested in history.” Humor sparked in the gentle gaze that studied her beneath the cap. “That is a rare thing these days.” With some difficulty, he bent to yank the stray weeds from the base of the stone with the lamb engraving.

Stowing her camera back in the knapsack, Jenna crouched beside him. “Do you know how far back the stones date? I noticed some from the 1880s and wondered if there were any older than that.”

“The oldest I know of are about ten years before that,” he said. “Some of them my own family. My great-great-uncle, Lucas Kendrick, traveled here from Georgia to make a homestead in the 1850s.”

“Did he fight in the Civil War?” she asked, realizing she hadn't seen any military emblems among the rows, although some men from the town must have enlisted.

“Ah, not Lucas, A farming accident mangled one of his legs as a boy. Others served, though, and were killed in battle. Their resting place became a mass grave, with those who shared their fate that day.”

Her fingers stopped plucking the weeds with the somber thought. The image was not a new one; she had learned of the battle conditions from text books and the history documentaries she viewed obsessively as a college student. It never failed to impress her with its sense of loneliness, the wounded and dying, stranded so far from a home they would never return to, even in burial.

Her companion rose to his feet, extending a hand. “Don't trouble yourself on my account, dear. The youngsters from the high school volunteer on the weekends and catch the odd weeds these blurry old eyes miss.”

She dusted her hands, remembering the question she should have asked before. “I wonder if you could tell me…if you've ever heard stories of another cemetery in this place. An old one that hasn't been taken care of by anybody in the town. Somewhere in the woods, I think, near the spring. “

His look of confusion told her that he hadn't, even before he answered. Though he did have some advice to offer as they moved slowly back through the stones. “I do believe there's a local fellow around who does some gravestone carving by hand. If anyone could tell you about local gravesites, it might be him.”

“I thought carving stones by hand was a lost art,” Jenna said. She had developed a special fondness for the craft in her recent travels, learning to distinguish the skill of the expert from the amateur. The beauty of the former could still amaze even beneath the thickest layers of grime.

“It is a dying trade,” Robert agreed with a sad smile. “But I've seen this fellow's work advertised in the paper sometimes. What's his name again? I haven't spoken to him in some time, but then, I don't get around much.” He patted his stiff limb and gave a faint chuckle. “You might ask the funeral home—I'm sure they could give you his business address.”

“I will,” she said, with a small wave of thanks as their paths parted near the cemetery's entrance gate.

There was no sign of the other man, the one she'd glimpsed when she first arrived that morning.

A bouquet of wild flowers was draped across the stone with the ivy vine chiseled around its edges.

 

 



 

The director at the funeral home knew of only one stone carver who worked in the town, a Mr. Sawyer. He worked in Sylvan Spring as a freelance craftsman for some fifty odd years, and he may have once restored some stones that were shattered in the old section of the town's cemetery. But Mr. Sawyer died some ten years ago, a sudden stroke felling him as he carved in his workshop that was now a garage at the east end of town. “Hand-carved tombstones are an expensive venture,” explained Mr. Stroud, the funeral director. “It has been our practice here for many years to order stones from a company in Mobile.”

Tall and thin with hair that swept his temples, he resembled the kind of mortician children sometimes made up stories about. His accent, soft and precise, might have charmed, if not for a slight hiss at the back of the throat. His smile was intended to soothe customers, she perceived, although it seemed out of place at this moment, as if he was practicing for future grieving visitors.

“Sylvan Spring is already rich with history,” he informed her. “A lost cemetery—that would be a fine contribution to its legacy. If you can find it out in those overgrown woods.”

“Are you certain there's no other stone carver in the town?” Jenna asked, her fingers toying with the strap of her knapsack. “Or maybe Mr. Sawyer had a child or grandchild, someone who might remember his work.”

“Mr. Sawyer was a widower, I believe. As for children, I'm not sure.” He offered a look of sympathy. “I'm truly sorry, Miss—”

“Cade,” she supplied. “And I could really use any information you can give me on the stone carver. Anyone who knew him, worked with him…”

“There may have been an assistant,” he said. “A young man who worked at the shop.” He looked uncertain now, as if trying to recall something beyond his reach. “I don't know if he continued in the trade, but if we ever commissioned a piece from him, it would be in our records.” He moved towards a narrow hall, motioning for her to follow. “I may be of little help concerning the stones themselves, but ask me anything else regarding the dead in Sylvan Spring. I can tell you the traditions, from coffin bells to covering mirrors and wearing veils to ward off the spirits.”

“They aren't still practiced, I hope,” she said, her boots soundless against the carpet.

The hall seemed oppressive with its odor of musty drapes.

“No, indeed.” Mr. Stroud's chuckle sounded more natural as he pushed open the door to a small office, the walls adorned with a series of framed photographs and newspaper clippings. “But you'll find the old traditions are still very much alive in our stories and legends. The festivals bring many of the former practices to light, especially those of a spiritual nature.” Sitting at the desk, he opened a business ledger and began to scan the list of dates and names in search of a local mason.

Jenna's glance wandered to the wall where the framed images paid homage to the town's celebrations. Christmas in the square with a lighted tree and patriotic floats for the Independence Day parade. There was also a Scottish-type fair with costumed men and women dancing to a bagpiper's tune.

“Can you tell me about the Hallowed Days Festival?” she asked, turning back to face him at the desk. “I heard something about a curse on the town. Is it a ghost story of some kind?”

“Not a ghost story,” he said, glancing up from the ledger. “The trouble back then was real enough, though its cause may have been embellished a little from one generation to the next. After all, it was in the 1800s. Those kinds of stories get changed every few decades.”