A Ghost Story?
We have all seen them, and once we know they are there, we mostly quit seeing them, though we pass them daily. To be conscious of them is to be aware of our shared destiny, the common bond of mortals.
Some are tree lined, well tended, and beautifully manicured, and were it not for the silent granite testaments in their neat rows, might otherwise invite picnics, dog-walkers, or Frisbee enthusiasts. Seamless asphalt ribbons separate large expanses of carpet-like grass, and allow easy access for the temporary visitors with their grave countenance. Flowers demarcate the recently remembered and the lately forgotten. Uniformed workers daily maintain the pristine facade for the late residents.
This was not one like that. Maybe there used to be a church or a settlement nearby. It lies along a winding narrow road that was the old road even before the new road was replaced by the interstate. On the left side, railroad tracks rise to meet a one-lane concrete overpass over the old road, and an impenetrable growth of snake-hiding thorny vines and briar bushes line the elevated rail bed. On the right side, a rarely traveled dirt road goes from the old road to somewhere, or maybe nowhere. Across the back, a barbed wire fence is strung to a series of gnarled shrub trees, separating the overgrown field of a past farm from the overgrown field of scattered stones. In front, only the old road’s wide sun-baked earthen shoulder allows access, and that seems to be plenty. The grass grows taller than most of the stones, but some do peek through. The tenders come, not daily, but perhaps semiannually, and their uniforms are those of the county jail. This was an easy one to ignore, especially at night, especially for a teen-ager.
It was about 25 years ago, and it was just outside of Meridian, Mississippi. The interstate was already done, and the old road was very much already the old road. It led only to other even less traveled roads; for me, it had led to a place to park that August night with my girlfriend. It was a celebratory night, because that afternoon I had bought a brand new car. No one knew I had this car but my parents and I, as I had gone from the dealership to her house and picked her up. We left her house and went riding randomly for an hour or so along the country roads in the area, mostly waiting for dark to fall, talking and enjoying the new car ride. We found a secluded parking spot and did parking things for a couple of hours until it was time to get her home. We traveled casually down the old road toward home in solitude, with the windows down enjoying the quiet coolness of the evening and the closeness of the other. Neither had spoke in some time as we approached the railroad overpass, perhaps each somewhat lost in the afterglow and our thoughts. Care had to be taken going under the overpass, as the road did narrow to one lane, so I had slowed somewhat. We came out from under the overpass, and traveled unaware beside the cemetery that I knew was there. Suddenly a voice broke the stillness, a deep male voice, calling out, "GARY! Gary Bernard!’ I instinctively looked toward the source of the voice, out my window, and became aware of the cemetery, but there was nothing else--no car, no person, no light, no nothing. I quickly looked at my girlfriend, and she was looking at me, and her eyes told me that her ears too had heard, and fear shone from her eyes as she too hadn’t seen what I hadn’t seen. I slowed even more, and she said the first words between us, "Don’t go back; Gary, PLEASE don’t go back." I asked her, "What did you hear?" She replied, "A voice called you." I asked her to tell me exactly what she heard, and she said, "I heard a voice call out, ‘Gary, Gary Bernard.’" Against her continued protestations, I turned back. I turned around on the dirt road, went to that wide shoulder, and slowly pointed and turned my car so my headlights swept every inch of that cemetery. There was no one there. There were no cars, no lights, nobodies. I got out for a minute, but could only hear the silence of the darkness.
No one could possibly have expected me to pass that place that night. No one but her and I even knew that I had that car. And no body called out my name that night. I still get the heeby-jeeby goose bumps when I drive by there, which I do, almost every time I go back to Meridian.