Could it Be?

As morbid as it may sound to some folks, I have to admit I love visiting cemeteries, especially old ones. There’s just something about wandering through that silence, those ordered rows of etched concrete that fascinates me. To me, the epitaphs, dates, and the occasional picture on each headstone tell a story about the person buried beneath it. And I love listening to a good story.

The fun really begins, though, when night falls, and shadows take over the tombs.

Over the last few years, I’ve visited hundreds of cemeteries, specifically to track paranormal activity. My camera’s caught flying orbs near Poe’s grave in Baltimore, squiggly strings of white light that wove through tombs in old family plots in Nebraska, and child-size shadows perched atop two headstones in Atlanta, Georgia. Strangely enough, the cemetery purported to be the most haunted in America, Big Woods Cemetery near Lake Charles, La., offered nothing but hungry mosquitoes.

The most fascinating experience I’ve had in a cemetery came from one in Mire, La., where my maternal grandfather is buried. Late one evening, after bringing my youngest daughter (who was fourteen at the time) and two of her friends to the movies, we went out to get burgers. While we’re eating, my daughter decides to tell her friends about some of the weird things her mom does for fun…like ghost hunting. The friends get wide-eyed, of course, and have a million questions, their last one being, “Can you take us to a cemetery and show us how you hunt for ghosts…like now?”

Well, by this time, my daughter’s giving me this, “You’ve gotta, Mom!” (Interpret…Because they’ll think I’m so cool!), look. Geez…

Now I’ve got two fourteen-year-old girls, and one fourteen-year-old boy hounding me to go to a cemetery. I envisioned angry moms pounding on my front door later that night, insisting I be taken away to a mental ward.

Okay, what’ll it be, daughter—moms, daughter—moms—ah, hell, the daughter won.

To minimize the potential for any lasting psychological damage, I think of the most benign cemetery I know, St. Theresa’s in Mire, La. It’s a small cemetery that sits on a corner lot in the middle of town. Beside the cemetery is a Catholic church and across the street is a Chevron station and City Hall. Streetlights are everywhere. I mean really, the spookiest thing about the cemetery is the creak of the gate when you open it.

So, we go inside…

I always carry my digital camera and a flashlight in my car, which were the minimal tools we needed for this adventure. The kids stayed close to me, whispering to each other, looking over their shoulder every few minutes as we walked through the graves. Somewhere in the distance a car backfired, and my daughter’s female friend gasped so loud, I thought she’d swallowed her tongue. We had a good laugh over that, and before long the kids began to relax and wonder off on their own to different tombs. All the while I’m snapping pictures, hoping for an orb or two, but getting absolutely nothing. As you can see in the pic below….



Then we happened upon my grandfather’s grave, (Below) which I hadn’t visited in over ten years. I was three when he passed away, so my daughters never knew him.


Well, for some reason, I get this overwhelming urge to ‘introduce’ my grandfather to his youngest great-granddaughter. So I call my daughter over, show her the tomb, then say aloud, “Pop-pop (that’s what the grandkids called him), this is your great-granddaughter, Sarah.” The moment the words are out of my mouth, another urge hits me, and I start snapping pictures.

Below is one I took while standing at the head of his tomb…



This image, which essentially stood at the foot of my grandfather’s tomb, wasn’t seen by any of us. Had it not been for the camera, we would have never known it was there. Is this my grandfather stopping in to say hello? Your guess is as good as mine. But it sure is cool to think just maybe…