Wednesday, May 2, 2012
When I was in my twenties some friends and I decided to check out an old cemetery in upstate New York. If you didn't know it was there, you would never find it. There are no signs or gates marking the location, it's just a field of old headstones on an overgrown dirt path. We did our usual gravestone rubbings with charcoal pens and then sat to chat for a while. As the sun began to fade, we all seemed to be overcome by a strange, uncomfortable feeling. For me, it was the feeling that we were being watched. I found myself looking over my shoulder to see if anyone was there. A little creeped out, we decided to leave.
It was a long walk back down the dirt road to my friends’ house and we were chatting away as we walked. At one point, I swore I heard footsteps coming from behind me. My friend Rusty heard them too and turned to see who had fallen behind. As he turned, I felt what I could only describe as icy fingers touch the center of my back and then felt Rusty push me forward. He began running and we all followed having no idea what we were running from. When we finally reached the end of the road, we all turned around to see an empty path behind us.
Rusty swore that when he looked back he saw a hand reaching out of a white mist and touching me on the back. We stood there for a long time in silence and finally decided to yell out an apology to the spirits of the cemetery for having disturbed and disrespected their resting place. We never went back.