The Graveyard
As I was driving home from work along the dark and nearly deserted Rambling Creek Road one chilly autumn evening in late November, a deer suddenly darted out of the woods and ran directly into the path of my vehicle. Unable to stop, I swerved to avoid hitting the animal and crashed my Subaru Forester into the thick trunk of a massive oak tree in the process. Luckily, I was not injured in the crash, but the force of the impact caused the automobile's engine to stall. A dozen or so attempts to get the car started again proved futile.
It looks like I'll have to have it towed, I realized, thankful that I had remembered to renew my AAA membership.
I got out of the car and quickly assessed the damage. Given the age of the Forester and the extent of the bodywork that would be needed to repair the front end, it was likely the insurance company would write the vehicle off as a total loss.
"Damn it all!" I cried aloud with frustration. "Why did this have to happen so close to Christmas? It's not as though I don't have enough bills to pay at this time of year. Now I'll have to go out and buy another car to boot."
To add to my problems, my cell phone was dead. I realized that if I wanted to make it home that night, I had no alternative but to walk. Rambling Creek Road—located in one of the least populated areas of East Cornwall, which in itself was one of the lesser populated towns in the state of Massachusetts—was one of Robert Frost's roads less traveled, except during the autumn weekend afternoons when tourists—humorously known to us Yankees as leaf peepers—drove up to New England to see the fall foliage. It was doubtful that in the middle of the week, with no leaves left on the trees, another motorist would pass by to offer me a ride.
Like many people of my Baby Boomer generation who preferred sitting on the couch watching television to working out in a gym, the idea of walking all the way home did not particularly appeal to me, even in the most pleasant weather. To make matters worse, it was a dismal, chilly, rainy day. It was already early evening, and it would take me more than an hour and a half to walk up the hill to my home, or—a scenario much more to my liking—half an hour to walk to a nearby house where, if Lady Luck would smile down on me, the owner would let me use the telephone to call for roadside assistance.
For the first time in my life, I envied those annoying people who walked around with cell phones seemingly glued to their ears. Why hadn't I had the foresight to buy one, even if I only kept it in my car for emergencies?
Resigned to my cruel plight, I buttoned up my London Fog raincoat, grabbed my Totes umbrella from the cargo area of my automobile and started walking toward town. I would take my chances with finding a house or business since I was not about to attempt the steep uphill climb, as out of shape as I had become.
It must have been later than I originally thought, for I could clearly see that the sun had already set on the horizon.
I had been walking for close to fifteen minutes when I remembered that the Maple Grove Memorial Park was not far up the road. Maple Grove was a large cemetery with entrances from both Rambling Creek Road to the north and Manchester Street to the east. If I were to take a shortcut through the cemetery and head toward Manchester Street, I would no doubt save a considerable amount of time. Also, there were shops on Manchester Street. Surely, some of them would be open, even though the tourist trade was over for the year.
It's late November, I reasoned. Local residents might want to do some Christmas shopping at the local businesses. After all, man does not live by amazon.com alone.
I wasn't a superstitious or cowardly person by nature, nor did I have an overactive imagination so often heightened by watching horror movies or reading scary novels. Consequently, the idea of walking through a graveyard in the darkness of night by myself didn't bother me in the least. I had learned long ago that it was the living, not the dead, that people should fear.
Having made my decision, I bravely headed for the wrought iron gates of the Maple Grove Memorial Park.
* * *
As I continued walking along Rambling Creek Road, shivering from the cold and wishing I were wearing my warm winter parka rather than a raincoat, I noticed that the rain had stopped, only to be replaced by a dense fog. The thick mist made it even more difficult for me to see in the darkness. Visibility was only about three feet, at best.
Suddenly, I heard a noise, as though someone was walking behind me. I turned to investigate, but there was no one there—at least no one I could see in the fog. To bolster my sagging spirits, I began to hum a cheerful tune.
I also began to walk a little faster.
The sound was repeated.
There it is again!
Now I was certain that I'd heard something. I turned around again, so fast that I almost twisted my ankle in my haste. But again I could see no one in the thick fog.
"Hello?" I shouted into the night. "Is anyone there?"
No one answered.
I walked even faster.
With each passing moment, the noise grew louder and clearer. I could distinctly hear the rhythmic cadence of footsteps. Someone was walking behind me. More than one person, it seemed, because I could hear those footsteps coming from slightly different directions.
I no longer bothered to turn around and look behind me, nor did I call out again to those who followed me. Was I afraid of whom or what I would see should I turn and look, or was I afraid that once again there would be no one there?
I walked faster still.
Then a new sound joined the echo of the mysterious footsteps. It was the unmistakable sound of someone weeping. Frightened, I dropped my Totes umbrella and began to run. In my mad dash across the grounds of the cemetery, I tripped over a low gravestone, fell forward on my face and rolled over onto my back.
Through the dense fog, I could vaguely see a group of ghostly figures moving toward me. In the darkness of night, I could not discern their faces. However, they could not be mortal beings, I reasoned. I had run from them while they continued to walk at a slow pace, yet I had not been able to outdistance them.
As those terrifying phantoms drew nearer, I scrambled to my feet and ran faster than I ever had before.
Dear God, if I could only make it to Manchester Street! I prayed, gasping for breath at my exertions and ignoring the burning sensation in my chest.
There were streetlights on Manchester Street, and there was a diner less than two blocks from the graveyard's east-facing gate.
Despite my age and less-than-excellent physical condition, I ran like the proverbial wind.
Thank God, I'm almost there!
Suddenly, to my horror, I felt the ground disappear from beneath my feet. For a moment, I felt as though I were floating on air. Then gravity pulled me back down to earth, and I hit the ground with a thump.
What seemed like dank, dark walls were all around me, and I realized I had fallen into a freshly dug grave.
Now I knew what true terror was! I was trapped in a deep hole with my pursuers getting ever closer. When I looked up, I could see the faceless apparitions near the edge of the grave.
"Help me!" I screamed in panic.
* * *
The fog gradually began to dissipate. It was also getting lighter out.
But that's impossible! Morning is still several hours away.
Wasn't it? Or had I hit my head in the fall and been knocked unconscious for several hours?
No, it was not my imagination; it was definitely getting lighter out.
In those first golden rays of early morning light, I could finally distinguish the faces hovering above me. I recognized them all. The woman standing closest to the foot of the open grave was my wife, Jeannelle. Our three children—two sons and a daughter—were huddled around her, offering her what moral support they could. To the right of the grave were my elderly parents and to the left, my wife's aged mother and father. Our respective sisters and brothers were there, too, and so were an assortment of aunts, uncles and cousins. I could see friends from our neighborhood as well as coworkers from my office. In fact, nearly everyone I knew was present.
As I stared up at my friends and loved ones in amazement, I could clearly see that they were all grieving and that some were even crying. Gradually, I came to the realization that they had all gathered there to say goodbye to me.
Crashing my Subaru into the trunk of the massive oak tree had done more than damage to my car. It had also claimed my life.
With this knowledge, a sense of peace and contentment descended upon me, a heavenly calmness I'd never known in life.
As I lay down in preparation for my eternal rest, I looked up at the headstone above the grave. I was not at all surprised to see my own name engraved upon its marble surface.
Salem, watch out you don't fall into an open grave. I'll never find you again (not that I'd spend much time looking).
