Did You Know There Are Travel Sites Dedicated to Visiting Cemeteries?

Well, did you? Why didn't I know this?

I've always been fascinated by cemeteries, the older the better. My Grandma's house was near the oldest cemetery in Quincy--Woodlawn Cemetery, and we used to go there and play hide and seek when I was young. Once, my uncle took my cousins and I to the cemetery at dusk, told us a vampire story, and then drove off and left us. (This explains quite a bit about me.) I have been known to stop the car and venture through a cemetery or two, taking photos and soaking up the atmosphere. My husband and I used to picnic in the cemetery. He's used to my brand of weird. But, apparently I'm not the only one with this fascination. Imagine how stoked I was to find out an author I know wrote a book, 199 Cemeteries to see before you die? Super stoked! And, she graciously wrote a blog post for us today! So without further ado, here's Loren's explanation for why she likes cemeteries and visits as many as she can~

I got started vacationing in graveyards by accident.  I mean, it wasn’t like I’d never been to a cemetery before.  I’d been to the graveyard where my grandfather was buried.  My family had visited John F. Kennedy’s grave in Arlington and the Soldiers’ National Cemetery at Gettysburg.  After the junior prom, my date organized a field trip to take prom pictures on the steps of a local mausoleum. I’d gone to sit in the graveyard down the road when I needed a quiet place away from my parents.

Still, it seemed breathtakingly weird when my husband decided he would rather see Highgate Cemetery than visit the Tower of London. I’d bought a book of luminous black-and-white photos of Highgate in the tourist bookstore in Victoria Station, but I’d never considered spending one of the limited days of our unexpected trip to London to poke around a graveyard.

To my delight, Highgate Cemetery was glorious.  The cemetery had been all but abandoned by the 1970s, when parts of Taste the Blood of Dracula were filmed inside it.  Real-life vampire hunters had broken open tombs and staked corpses before the Friends of Highgate Cemetery formed to rescue the place.  When my husband and I visited in 1991, parts of the cemetery were being maintained as managed woodland.  Ivy crawled over the marble angels.  Hedgehogs and foxes roamed between the headstones. A feral cat befriended us: my first cemetery cat, although certainly not the last. Overall, even on a blustery, gray day in January, Highgate Cemetery was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. That beauty inspired me to want to see more cemeteries.

Once you start to notice, people really are buried just about everywhere. Every tourist destination has a cemetery, from New York City to Paris to Honolulu. Some tourist destinations are tombs: the Great Pyramids of Egypt or the Taj Mahal, for instance. There are permanent residents in museums, houses of worship, ghost towns, battlegrounds…even in national parks. You may have already visited someone’s grave without giving it a second thought, if you’ve been to Pompeii or Westminster Abbey or the Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor.

But why would anyone go out of their way to visit a graveyard intentionally? In addition to the fascinating stories they contain, cemeteries can be open-air sculpture parks full of one-of-a-kind artwork. They provide habitats for birds and wildlife.  They can be gardens of surprising beauty. Cemeteries appeal to art lovers, amateur sociologists, birdwatchers, master gardeners, historians, hikers, genealogists, picnickers, and anyone who just wants to stop and smell the roses. Our relationships with the places we visit can be deepened and enriched by learning the stories of those who came—and stayed—before us.

Why visit cemeteries?  Because every day above ground is a blessing.  Because there is no better place to feel alive than a graveyard.  Because people visiting cemeteries tend to be on their best behavior.  Because there’s something really healing in breathing fresh air, looking at green grass, and listening to the birds sing.  Because life is short and that is the most beautiful thing of all. A little reminder never hurts.

Bio:

Loren Rhoads is the author of 199 Cemeteries to See Before You Die and Wish You Were Here: Adventures in Cemetery Travel. She writes about graveyards for the Horror Writers Association and blogs about cemeteries as vacation destinations at cemeterytravel.com.

You can find her books on Amazon, or by clicking these links. 199 Cemeteries To See Before You Die and Wish You Were Here: Adventures in Cemetery Travel. 

Thanks for joining us today. I'll try to get better at blogging so it's not a year between posts this time. 🙂

Happy Reading,

💜 Spot

#Friday Flash- The Ghost Hunters

Yes, I do know it's not Friday. It's Wednesday. But I didn't get to play last Friday because my grandbaby had his first Doctor's appointment. And I had an MRI on my bum shoulder. But I still wanted to play along. So here is my offering- even if it's on the wrong day. This week's theme was haunted places.

The Ghost Hunters

Brian and Amy traipsed down the tree lined street; heavily laden shoulder packs making their shadows appear hunch-backed. Amy shivered as she looked towards their destination- a deserted house at the end of the road. The moonlight glinting off the house’s windows made them look like eyes peering from the gloom. She shook off the thought. She was scaring herself before they even got to the house. Some ghost hunter she was going to be.

“Where did you get all this stuff?” she asked, indicating her pack.

“I bought it.”

“You did what?”

“I bought it,” he replied. “I had to. If we’re going to be serious about this we’re going to need the right equipment. You don’t think those two old plumber guys skimped on the equipment do you? And look: now they have their own ghost hunting show. If it’s going to be a business, you’ve got to treat it like a business.”

Amy sighed loudly, muttered under her breath, and hitched up her pack. She still wasn’t convinced she wanted to be in this business.

“So where’d you hear about this house?”

“I told you. I saw a card about it on the bulletin board at a store on Maine Street. You know, the one that sells the weird shit.”

“You mean Eccentricities? They don’t sell weird shit. They sell antiques.”

“Okay. Old shit? Better?”

Amy rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue at him, knowing he wouldn’t see the gesture in the dark.

“So what did it say? Ghost hunters wanted: haunted house?”

“No. It said ‘For rent: haunted house’.”

“Really? Who the hell would rent a haunted house?”

“People who shop at an old shit store.” He put a finger to his lips and and pointed to the house. They were almost there. “Get out the heat camera.”

“Like I know which one that is,” Amy muttered under her breath. She put her pack down in the yard and knelt down to dig through it. Finally she found the small hand held camera that picked up heat signatures. She scanned the yard, nothing. Brian urged her forward and they went up to the porch. A sound made Amy jump.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

“Shhh. Jesus, Amy, are you trying to wake the dead?” Brian stared at her.

“Oh that’s funny Brian, har dee har har. I’m not playing around. I heard something.”

They both got quiet for a minute and looked around them. The sound came again. It was a low moaning. They froze.

“What now, Mr. Ghost Hunter?” Amy asked. “What does your book say we do now?”

“We need to get out some more equipment, get some baseline readings…” he broke off as they heard thumping from inside and more moaning.

“Are you sure we want to be here?” she asked. “Because I’m beginning to think I want to be anywhere but here.”

“No. It’s fine. It’s just the wind or something. Old houses settle.” Brian glanced around nervously. Suddenly, the thumping increased in tempo and volume and seemed just on the other side of the door. Amy stared at Brian wide eyed as she fought her body’s fight or flight response to what was obviously imminent danger.

Brian appeared equally petrified. Slowly the door began to swing inward on creaky hinges. With one last look at each other, they turned and fled back down the street, leaving their packs discarded on the porch.

A new sound could be heard coming from the doorway; a soft chuckling followed by a wheezy cough. Karl Barnard stepped out onto the porch and shook his head. It never failed. Some sucker was always ready to play ghost hunter. And Karl was always ready to play ghost- especially when it meant they’d flee without their gear. That left him something to take to Old Louie at the pawn shop for enough money to keep him in whiskey and smokes for awhile longer. Yessiree, this was the best con he’d run in years. He sifted through the packs and whistled through what was left of his teeth. This was high end stuff these folks had left, top of the line and brand new. He’d have some extra dough for maybe a decent meal or two as well as his usual haul.

“Huh?” he muttered to himself as he noticed a glowing set of lights inside the pack. He pulled out the piece of equipment and stared at it. It was some kind of indicator; it had a set of five lights on the tip and they were all glowing a bright red. He looked at the writing.

“E. M. F.” he read aloud. “What the hell…” he broke off mid sentence as a flashlight that had rolled to the end of the porch clicked on by itself. Karl froze. It was then he noticed the temperature had dipped considerably in the last few minutes. The hair on the back of his neck rose and he shivered. Good thing I don’t believe in ghosts, he thought to himself, or I might start believing my own propaganda.

He tried to shake off the feeling of unease, but it refused to abate. In fact, it was getting worse and Karl was sure something stood behind him. There’s nothing there, he thought. Nothing. I’m just letting the dark and that story I cooked up and spread about this house get to me. Turn around, he told himself firmly. Turn around.

Fighting against his own body’s response, he managed to turn. He found himself staring into a face more evil than any he’d ever encountered in his fifty six years of squandered life. It would be the last thing he saw. After several frantic erratic beats his heart gave up and stopped beating. Karl grabbed his chest and fell backward onto the porch steps, still gazing into the hate filled countenance of the house’s very real resident ghost.

Please leave a comment if you like it, or if you don't. All comments are welcome. And if you do like it- send some more readers my way, will ya? Thanks!

♥Stacey

#FridayFlash- Moon Rocks

This week's #fridayflash theme was outer space. My story is called Moon Rocks.

Dudley was sitting in his bedroom, staring at his newly acquired treasure, when his step-brother Ryan walked in. He knew that it would be about 3.5 seconds before Ryan found some way to begin irritating him.

“What have you got there DUD?” Ryan asked.

“Nothing you’d be interested in Ryan.”

“That’s probably true but I want to see it anyway,” Ryan snatched it from Dudley’s fingers. Dudley sighed.

 “It’s just a flippin rock!” Ryan said. “You’re sitting there staring at a rock. Geez, you are dumber than you look.”

Dudley ignored the insult because it was so ridiculous. In fact, Dudley’s IQ was higher than Ryan’s and Ryan’s father Jeb’s IQs put together. “It’s not just a rock, Ryan. It’s a moon rock. You know, from the moon,” he added for good measure.

“Don’t be stupid. I mean stupider than usual.” Ryan said. “There’s no such thing as moon rocks. How many times does my Dad have to tell you that men did not really go to the moon?! It’s just a bunch of government hooey. Just like global warming. They make all these things up and stupid people like you believe them.” Ryan threw the rock at Dudley.

“Right, Ryan. I forgot I was living with someone who knows everything.”

“Don’t you go making fun of my Dad or I’ll tell him and you’ll be sorry.” Ryan said.

Jeb would make him sorry if he thought Dudley was making fun of him. He was a paranoid conspiracy theorist that Dudley still could not believe his mother had married. But then again, he’d seemed rather normal at first. Right about the time his mother had gotten ill, Jeb had gone off the deep end. Ryan had always been a shit.

That night Dudley woke up to whispers. He lay quietly, trying to figure out where they were coming from. They were close, very close. He turned his head and saw the moon rocks on his night table. They were sitting in a shaft of moonlight and he could have sworn that they were pulsating slightly. The whispers seemed to be coming from them. He reached out and touched one and a little tingle of electricity shot up his arm.

They couldn’t be real moon rocks. Real moon rocks were in museums or private collections not crazy little antiques stores like Eccentricities where he’d picked these ones up. He’d known at the time that they were fakes, but he liked them anyway. He’d always liked anything to do with outer space. It made people think he was weird and nerdy but he didn’t care. He was going to work for NASA someday. But looking at the rocks, glowing slightly and pulsating, he could almost believe they were real.
The next day Dudley encountered Jeb on the stairs. Jeb purposely blocked Dudley’s way.

 “Where you going in such a rush DUD?” Jeb asked.

“I’m going to my room to put my bag down and then I’m going to see my mom.”

 "I heard you got some crazy idea about moon rocks.” Jeb said. “You best get rid of them ideas boy. Don’t want you helping to spread the government propaganda, do we? I’d hate to have to beat some sense into you.”

Dudley was pretty sure Jeb would enjoy any excuse to beat some sense into him.

“No.” Dudley answered.

“No what?”

“No sir.”

Jeb stepped to the side and continued on down the stairs. Dudley went up and as he passed the door to the bathroom, Ryan came out snickering.  Dudley glared at him.

He visited with his Mom for a quite awhile. He told her about his moon rocks and promised to put them away and not mention them to Jeb, ever. His mother cried and apologized again for bringing Jeb into their lives. But sick as she was, there was no getting away. Dudley did his best to reassure her.

That night, he woke to the whispers again. The moon shone into his room and onto the table where the moon rocks sat. He got out of bed and padded to the window. He stared up at the moon for a long time.

“I see the moon and the moon sees me,” he whispered. He woke up in the morning without remembering going back to bed. He had the vague sense that he’d figured out something vital, but couldn’t remember what it might have been. The day was much like the last except for Ryan tripping him in the cafeteria at school. His tray went flying and everyone laughed. And when he got home, his rocks were gone.

He confronted Jeb.

“Where are my moon rocks?”

“I told you they ain't from the moon.” Jeb said, glaring at him.

“They are from the moon.”

“No they ain’t boy.” Jeb punctuated his statement with a slap to Dudley’s face. Dudley continued to insist on the validity of the rocks and Jeb continued to hit. By the time Dudley went to bed that night, he was sporting a black eye, though not his first.

This time the moon shone in, but there were no rocks to gather its power. Dudley lay in bed and stared at it. Finally he got up; he walked to Ryan’s bed and shook him awake.

“Hey get off me!” Ryan hollered.

“Remember how you said men didn’t walk on the moon?” Dudley asked.

“Yeah. What of it?”

“Well if you don’t believe in the moon landing, then the moon doesn’t believe in you.”

“You’re off your rocker, dude.” Ryan rolled over on his side. Dudley remained there softly chanting.

“I see the moon and the moon sees me.” When Ryan disappeared, he went to his mother’s room and repeated the chant over Jeb. He woke the next morning feeling relaxed, better than he had in years. In fact, he whistled all the way to his mother’s room.

Sometimes a little belief is all you need,

♥Stacey

#FridayFlash- The Quilt

I'm playing along again with Friday Flash. After you read my tale, check out the other great Friday Flash fiction by other authors. You can find the links on Vamplit's Blog. They are the sponsors of this little shindig.This week's Friday Flash theme was cursed objects. Where else would you buy a cursed object but at a nifty little store called "Eccentricities"? If last week's moral was "be careful what you wish for", this week's moral is "be careful what you buy" because it might just come with an unpleasant history.

The Quilt

Emily cried the day he gave her the quilt.

“Oh Thomas! It’s so lovely! What a thoughtful wedding gift.”

“I knew you’d love it. It’s a wedding ring design, right?”

“Actually, it’s a double wedding ring design. This design was made popular during the depression in the 1930’s. They were made especially for the wedding couple.” She turned to him, her eyes shining.

 “I got it at that little store, Eccentricities.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like that store. There’s something off about it.”

“Do you want me to take it back?”

“Oh of course not! It’s beautiful and the stitching is fantastic! I love it. And I love you.”

When Thomas got home from work the next night he noticed that Emily had washed the quilt and put it on their bed.

“We’re going to use it?” he asked.

“Of course.” She answered. “It’s in great shape. And I’d hate to just display it. It was made to be used by a newly married couple. I want to honor its purpose.”

And that was when things changed. Emily was waking every morning in a foul mood, complaining of bad dreams and becoming increasingly withdrawn. She had two moods; tearful and sullen.

Emily knew she was being unfair to Thomas. Thomas was a great guy and she had no reason to doubt him. But every night she dreamt of him betraying her. No, it wasn’t him really. And she wasn’t her. She was another woman in the dream and the man came to her and told her he was marrying someone else. And in the dream she was heartbroken. But she was also angry. So angry that she wanted to hurt the man and the other woman. Wanted to kill them. Or herself.

Not sleeping well was exhausting her and the dreams stayed with her. She vacillated between anguish and fury. She was either crying and begging Thomas not to leave her or she was furious with him.

Thomas confronted her the next day.

“What the hell is going on Emily?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She said.

 “Emily, we’ve been together for two years and you have never acted like this before. You’re always happy and outgoing. I don’t know who this woman is, but she’s not my Emily.”

Emily broke down in tears. She sobbed in Thomas’ arms. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me either. I just have these dreams and I’m so scared that you’ll leave me for someone else and I’m so mad at you. I don’t understand.”

“Emily” Thomas held her at arms length and looked into her eyes. “I will never leave you. Not ever. Not for anyone.” He wrapped his arms back around her and rubbed her back until her sobs quieted.

After that Emily tried hard to act more normal, even while the dreams and the feelings they brought persisted. But every day, while Thomas was gone, she wandered listlessly around their apartment. She didn’t answer the telephone and she never went anywhere. She just sat on the bed, thinking about the dreams.

A month later, Thomas came home from work early. He thought he’d surprise Emily with a trip to Chicago. She still wasn’t herself. It was more like she was trying to act like herself and not quite making it.

 When he opened the apartment door, he called out “I’m home and I have a surprise for you! Pack your bags…”

The words died on his lips as he passed the bathroom. He could see Emily on the floor, one hand outstretched, an empty pill bottle lying beside her. The next hours would remain a blur of frantic phone calls, the ambulance, the ER and the pain. Emily was gone. The pain was unbearable.

***

Six months later, Thomas walked through the door of Eccentricities. He held in his hands the quilt. He never wanted to look at it again, but he knew how much Emily had loved it. She’d want someone else to have it.

There was a little old colored lady at the counter.

“Whatcha got dere?” The woman asked.

  “It’s a quilt. I bought it here several months ago for my…bride.” He nearly choked on the word. Tears pricked behind his eyelids.

“Oh no.” The woman clucked her tongue as she eyed the quilt. “Dat one got bad juju.”

“What?” Thomas asked.

 “Dis quilt got da bad juju. You can’t give dis to her.”

Thomas shook his head. “My bride is dead. She committed suicide six months ago.”

“Den de curse got her.”

“You’re talking nonsense. I just want to return this quilt.”

“Dat quilt got da bad juju. It be cursed.” She pointed a finger at him. “Women be stitchin quilts. Sometimes dey stitchin happy. And de quilt be full of good juju. But sometimes de be stitchin cryin or cursin. And dose quilts got de bad juju. Somebody been stitchin dis one wit de bad juju.”

Thomas’ jaw dropped open. He broke down and told the little old woman what had happened with Emily. How she’d had bad dreams and become increasingly distant and different. He told her of the suicide.

“It’s as I say.” She replied. “Somebody stitchin with de bad juju. De quilt carries de feelings wit it. You’re wife be dreamin de life of de woman dat did the stitchin. Dat life take over her life. Sad way of tings.”

Thomas turned and ran blindly from the store, wanting only to get away from this woman and her talk of juju. If what she said was true (but how could it be?) then he was ultimately responsible for Emily’s death. She’d said she didn’t like the store. He should have returned the quilt. He should have pieced the incidents together and known it was the quilt but how could it…

Thomas never saw the car that hit him. Lost in confusion, he stumbled out into the street. The EMTs said he died on impact.

Hope you enjoyed the tale.
♥Stacey