Ghosts of Graveyards Past
Page 27
Dated a week after Mariah Moore’s death, the story detailed how a bull’s carcass had been discovered in the community’s fresh water supply, upstream from the pump site. Already quite old for its breed, the animal was thought to have escaped from its field and passed away naturally while living among the stretch of woods along the spring, where its body inspired a group of older boys to roll it into the water near the boggy shores.
Its fur had still born traces of the dye the children had used to paint it as a mythical beast for scaring people, the symbol from the doors. Two broken, twisted tree limbs were tied to its head like vast antlers spiraling above the skull. It had been dragged from the water by local men and burned.
No mention was made of the doctor or her theory about contaminated water—only that the carcass was responsible for a terrible stench in the woods that some people had blamed for causing sickness. And that children had spotted the body sometimes in the twilight and believed it to be the plat-eye of old stories, a huge shape crouching in the water. No doubt, both the smell and the rumors were consequences intended by the pranksters, who had not known what kind of horrors existed in contaminated streams.
Jenna stared at this fragment of paper, amazed that in her hand, she held the long lost secret to Sylvan Spring’s curse. She could no longer recall what she expected to find, but certainly nothing as strange as a rotting carcass painted as a folklore monster.
But it was the loneliness of three graves in the wooded cemetery that haunted her most. Especially that of the doctor, who died saving the others. Beside it lay the soldier and his childhood friend, who came to mean even more to him when he rose from his grief.
Would the town’s modern-day residents feel the same? The festival crowd had kept alive the memory of those superstitions for years without even knowing why their ancestors believed them. Would they find the true story, one of faith and science, equally fascinating? Or disappointing?
There was one person she knew for certain would understand. To share this with him was her first impulse; her second would be to apologize for the way she fell apart the night before. She had pushed away the possibility of a relationship based on hesitation and caution for his feelings. It was a reaction she wished she could take back more than anything.
Outside, the rain still fell, spattering the banner from last night’s celebration. It flapped in the breeze as her car passed beneath, her hand flicking the turn signal for the direction that would take her to the outskirts of town.
Gradually, the buildings gave way to fields and trees. Jenna turned the car onto the narrow dirt road, fingers gripping the wheel with a mixture of nervous excitement. As she turned the corner, windshield wipers swept a path to show the farmhouse and workshop, the battered monuments leaning against the garden fence.
“Con?” She rapped against the workshop’s storm door, rain cascading off the awning behind her. “It’s Jenna,” she called, knocking again. “I found something−and I really need to talk with you.”
No answer. Turning around, she looked to the farmhouse to find its windows darkened. The truck was gone from the driveway, Con apparently choosing today for one of his rare trips away from the workshop.
Tears burned her eyes, telling her how badly she had wanted him to be there. For a while, she stayed huddled under the awning, listening for the sound of his truck’s engine above the downpour.
Maybe this was more than bad timing. If her heart was wrong…well, maybe it was God’s gentle way of telling her it wasn’t meant to be. She wished she could be sure what He planned by letting her meet Con Taggart. Their time together was so brief—yet the connection forged between them so deep. She could not escape the feeling that something must come of it for one or both of their lives.
Is this a missed opportunity—or did we already share whatever was meant between us? I can’t see how we’ll meet again, unless You intend it…so please, tell me what I should do.
She waited longer. The rain had become cold, soaking through her clothes. Puddles formed in the truck’s tire ruts in the driveway, turning into muddy rivers overflowing with water.
Joyce was counting on her to go to the next assignment. Her book had deadlines and responsibilities attached to it. And she had no idea when—or if—Con would come home before those obligations swept her away again.
With a sigh, she gathered her bag and ventured into the rain to leave.
29
Ten Months Later
The package came while Jenna was finishing up breakfast. Scraping bits of egg from a frying pan, she paused at the sound of the door buzzer for her Maryland apartment.
When she saw it, she knew what it had to be. Full of anticipation, she cleared a spot among the papers on her desk. Ripping tape from the box’s top, she pulled back cardboard flaps to reveal six glossy hardbacks among the packing materials.
Advance author copies for her latest book, still a month away from being released. Slowly, she pulled one from the depths, studying the title splayed across the cover. Stories Behind the Stones: A Tour of the Deep South’s Forgotten Cemeteries.
Flipping open the cover, she read the dedication printed inside.
To the real ‘ghosts’,
Who never fade as long as we remember them,
and
To those who dedicate their time and talent to keeping those memories alive.
She flipped the pages, watching sections go by for places in Georgia and Mississippi, Louisiana and Tennessee. Slave cemeteries left to sink in the swamps; private family graves forgotten behind a rotting plantation.
Reaching the section for Alabama, she paused where a set of images had been inserted. Pictures of graves that all bore the same carving of an inverted half-moon, its shape pierced through with a broken arrow. She touched the picture, her eyes closing in a memory.
The feel of her fingers tracing a beveled edge in a piece of rough-hewn stone. Bits of dust and sand clinging to it in the trailing touch. Strong hands closing around her own, guiding them to form a shallow curve in a piece of slate, hammer and chisel beating a steady rhythm.
“You should celebrate,” her agent said, calling to congratulate her for the critic’s favorable reviews. Quotes from some of these were displayed on the back of the book, dubbing it achingly romantic, and haunting, down to the last page. According to Joyce, such lofty praise called for a night on the town with friends, or someone even more special.
“Actually, I already have plans for how to celebrate,” Jenna said. Her gaze returned to the page where the Celtic V-rod peered back at her from beneath the layers of rust and grime.
Dust rolled off the wheels of the rental car as Jenna steered it down the dirt lane. Her knapsack lay in the passenger seat, a bouquet of violets tucked carefully beside it. There had been two others of a different kind, which she left at the cemetery in town: roses for Josephine Maudell’s headstone and a mix of flowering herbs for Colleen Taggart’s marker with the ivy pattern carved around its edges.
She had stood in front of this one the longest. As her hand rested against the chiseled slab, her mind wandered back to conversations with the man who fashioned it.
The peace she felt was unexpected, no guilt or self-doubt rising to twist her heart. It was as if she was forging a connection with the woman whose body was sleeping here, although she knew no ghosts or souls lingered in this peaceful grave. When she left, it seemed a clearer purpose drove her towards the cluster of woods by the spring.
The sign was the first thing she noticed. It was metal, with an arrow pointing in the direction of the cemetery’s hiding place with the words Historic Crooked Wood Cemetery, 1.5 Miles painted in white lettering. She looked back at it in the rear view mirror, not at all sure she hadn’t imagined it.
Had the county put it up from mere formality? The possibility had to be considered, though part of her couldn’t help wishing another reason—another person—was behind the change of scenery. By the time she parked, her hands
shook so much they nearly dropped the violets as she climbed from the car.
Gravel crunched beneath her feet, the path altered since she last took it months ago. Her steps were quick until she came upon the actual destination. Pulling off her sunglasses, she stared in disbelief at the scene before her.
A wrought iron fence surrounded the graveyard’s perimeter. Inside, rows of headstones reflected the morning sun, free of the stains and cracks that marred them before. A few bore wreaths and flowers, decorative ribbons fluttering in the breeze.
Slowly, she pushed against the gate. It swung open without a sound, her steps muffled in the woodland ground cover. She passed through the yard, fingers trailing over the fully restored monuments with wonder. When she reached the three which sat beneath the sycamore, she crouched to study them with tears in her eyes.
They were just as she remembered, except the doctor’s had been cleaned of the rust that tried to engulf its lettering. She reached out, tracing the name and then the symbol, with its eerie connotation, smiling ever so slightly when she thought how death’s power was defied in the final brave gesture from the woman whose tomb it graced.
Beside it were the graves of the soldier and his wife, loyal to their friend even in death. Three hearts with the same faith to save them from a living nightmare, even as the shadow of those events had managed to survive over a hundred and fifty years of time.
She placed the bouquet of violets before the group of stones, still lost in the memory of their story when she heard a footfall in the grass behind her. Heart racing, she turned to face them and found Con standing there.
He stood on the path behind her, a look of shock in the blue gaze. It was as if he saw a ghost from one of the graves instead of the woman who found them by accident one rainy afternoon. “It’s you,” he said. “I thought I was seeing things. Wishful thinking.”
This was her exact sentiment. “You did this,” she said. “After what happened, the way we left it…in boxes, with labels...” She shook her head, struggling for a way to finish. “I thought you weren’t ready to move on.”
Con’s face had softened as she spoke. He stepped closer. “It wasn’t just me. The heritage society raised money for the fence, and sent volunteers out for the cleanup. So did one of the churches.” He cleared his throat. “I, uh, started going there again. The church. You were right—it was time. Past time, actually, for me to be part of something again.”
Jenna could feel herself trembling with the unexpected words. It was an outcome she had imagined countless times but never expected to find as reality when she finally summoned the courage to come back.
“I brought you something,” she said, digging through her knapsack. “It’s not the same as what you did here—” with another glance at the newly restored cemetery “—but I hope you’ll like it.”
Handing him one of the hardbacks, she watched him study its cover with a long look. When he read the dedication inside, a half-smile appeared on his quiet features. His gaze rose to meet hers, full of an emotion she recognized from her own barely contained feelings.
“I missed you,” he said. “It’s different from missing Colleen. Because you’re still here, there’s still a chance we could be together. Which makes it worse, somehow, when I think how it might not work out.”
“But it might.” Something inside her came undone with the words. Thoughts and emotions bottled up since they last spoke came tumbling out, with barely a breath in between. “That’s why I had to come back,” she said. “To see you again, to see if you still felt the same. I kept thinking of our time together, even though it was just a few days and that—” She stopped, drawing a breath. “That must mean something.”
Across from her, Con grew still. “Then you feel it, too,” he said. “I kept hoping you would. Praying I wasn’t the only one who thought we could have a future together.”
“We’ll see it through this time,” she promised. “We won’t let it go just because it seems impossible. This time, we’ll let faith guide us instead of doubts.”
Tentatively, he took her fingers, drawing her closer to him as he searched her face with a tender look. “I never thought this could happen again,” he murmured. “But it’s real. That much I’m sure of. “
Jenna reached for him, stroking his jaw before they shared a kiss more tender than their first. She had wanted this to happen again since that day in the spring, when she hoped it was more than just a rash moment between two uncertain hearts.
When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Thank you for looking after this place. Even though you weren’t sure I’d ever see it.”
“I’m glad you did,” he said.
A breeze ruffled her hair, goose bumps traveling over her skin. With his arm curved around her, they moved slowly towards the gate, Jenna glancing back for a last look at the three graves nestled beneath the sycamore’s tall shadow.
Thank you for purchasing this White Rose Publishing title. For other inspirational stories, please visit our on-line bookstore at www.pelicanbookgroup.com.
For questions or more information, contact us at customer@pelicanbookgroup.com.
White Rose Publishing
Where Faith is the Cornerstone of Love™
an imprint of Pelican Ventures Book Group
www.PelicanBookGroup.com
Connect with Us
www.facebook.com/Pelicanbookgroup
www.twitter.com/pelicanbookgrp
To receive news and specials, subscribe to our bulletin
http://pelink.us/bulletin_
May God’s glory shine through
this inspirational work of fiction.
AMDG