You don’t have to look for spirits; they will always find you when you need them most. The order of things shifts, and the experience feels planned, somehow deliberate. That’s what makes life so magical.
Earlier this year, while seeking a guitar tech for my boyfriend, we came across a young man who worked out of an old church he had bought with his wife. The original owners had moved to another location taking the congregation with them but leaving behind the old burial ground that surrounded the structure. The young couple resided in the building, but the ownership of the graveyard remained with the original church. It had been woefully neglected for some time.
The stones were crooked and teetered like decaying teeth. They were striped with green and pale grey moss, ancient tear stains as the weight of being forgotten pushed them even further askew. It was a wintery afternoon with icy crystals of earlier snow barely melting in the path of a struggling sun, glistening like piles of diamonds around the headstones and the brush. While waiting for my boyfriend to finish with the tech, I wandered around the back of the church and veered from the pathway. Some of the stones spoke louder than others, but they all had something to say. The best way to describe it is like a collective whisper – the strange, hushed voices in a crowded room before being called to order. I kneeled in front of one stone, difficult to read, but carved with the name Agnes, saying simply beloved child above the particulars that were too worn to make out. That was the first distinct voice, above the whisper, but still indistinguishable.
I felt like an anticipated guest, one returning home after a long journey.
I sensed something behind me and turned to my right, they always come in from the right. For just a moment, a warm breeze passed through the chilled air as the presence of a hundred souls swept by me. I felt surrounded but not frightened. By sheer numbers my heart should’ve skipped a beat, but instead felt welcomed, even observed by the curious masses. Still kneeling, I realized the vastness of the area. Though no longer orderly, the graves continued down a hill to my left and for several hundred feet behind me. An iron gate surrounded a few select stones that made for an ideal photo opportunity with its curled finials and patches of frigid sage-green moss decorating it with ragged edges like tiny continents across the dark metal. It was flecked by the countless reds of rust, acquiescing to the brutal New England climate and the passage of time.
After a while, I got the distinct feeling they wanted me to stay. I felt like an anticipated guest, one returning home after a long journey. I took photos with my phone, stopping at the stones with the loudest voices. There was the profound rustling of dried grass and the crunch of half-melted snow. I touched the stones and spoke, saying simply, “I hear you.” There was comfort in these words, since we shared that disheartening feeling of lingering within a long silence.
As the sun fell behind statuesque pines across the road, the cold air finally got the best of me. I went into the church basement and asked the tech if he realized how exceedingly haunted the property was. He explained they didn’t own that land, but during the times he’s spent outside he has never felt alone. In fact, much like my experience, he felt as though a crowd was watching him. We chatted for a few minutes, and I went back outside to wait in the car while they wrapped up their business. I climbed in the passenger side and turned the key to fire up the heater. Nothing. The softly sad voice of a young man said, “Don’t leave.” I sat for a moment and tried the key again. Nothing but an impotent clicking sound left me cold. I exited the car and walked back to the burial ground and stood quietly for a bit. “I cannot stay,” I said with patience and respect. It was my intention to honor them and understand their loneliness. I returned to the basement and told my boyfriend “they” didn’t want me to leave. He laughed until he realized my sincerity. The tech was kind enough to give us a jump start, and our confused Honda merrily turned over. I whispered a heartfelt “Good-bye,” and we drove from this eerily welcoming place where more than 200 years hadn’t quelled the curiosity and kindness of its inhabitants.
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