Ghosts of Graveyards Past Read Free Page A

address.”
    “I will,” she said, with a small wave of thanks as their paths parted near the cemetery’s entrance gate.
    There was no sign of the other man, the one she’d glimpsed when she first arrived that morning.
    A bouquet of wild flowers was draped across the stone with the ivy vine chiseled around its edges.
     
     
    
     
    The director at the funeral home knew of only one stone carver who worked in the town, a Mr. Sawyer. He worked in Sylvan Spring as a freelance craftsman for some fifty odd years, and he may have once restored some stones that were shattered in the old section of the town’s cemetery. But Mr. Sawyer died some ten years ago, a sudden stroke felling him as he carved in his workshop that was now a garage at the east end of town. “Hand-carved tombstones are an expensive venture,” explained Mr. Stroud, the funeral director. “It has been our practice here for many years to order stones from a company in Mobile.”
    Tall and thin with hair that swept his temples, he resembled the kind of mortician children sometimes made up stories about. His accent, soft and precise, might have charmed, if not for a slight hiss at the back of the throat. His smile was intended to soothe customers, she perceived, although it seemed out of place at this moment, as if he was practicing for future grieving visitors.
    “Sylvan Spring is already rich with history,” he informed her. “A lost cemetery—that would be a fine contribution to its legacy. If you can find it out in those overgrown woods.”
    “Are you certain there’s no other stone carver in the town?” Jenna asked, her fingers toying with the strap of her knapsack. “Or maybe Mr. Sawyer had a child or grandchild, someone who might remember his work.”
    “Mr. Sawyer was a widower, I believe. As for children, I’m not sure.” He offered a look of sympathy. “I’m truly sorry, Miss—”
    “Cade,” she supplied. “And I could really use any information you can give me on the stone carver. Anyone who knew him, worked with him…”
    “There may have been an assistant,” he said. “A young man who worked at the shop.” He looked uncertain now, as if trying to recall something beyond his reach. “I don’t know if he continued in the trade, but if we ever commissioned a piece from him, it would be in our records.” He moved towards a narrow hall, motioning for her to follow. “I may be of little help concerning the stones themselves, but ask me anything else regarding the dead in Sylvan Spring. I can tell you the traditions, from coffin bells to covering mirrors and wearing veils to ward off the spirits.”
    “They aren’t still practiced, I hope,” she said, her boots soundless against the carpet.
    The hall seemed oppressive with its odor of musty drapes.
    “No, indeed.” Mr. Stroud’s chuckle sounded more natural as he pushed open the door to a small office, the walls adorned with a series of framed photographs and newspaper clippings. “But you’ll find the old traditions are still very much alive in our stories and legends. The festivals bring many of the former practices to light, especially those of a spiritual nature.” Sitting at the desk, he opened a business ledger and began to scan the list of dates and names in search of a local mason.
    Jenna’s glance wandered to the wall where the framed images paid homage to the town’s celebrations. Christmas in the square with a lighted tree and patriotic floats for the Independence Day parade. There was also a Scottish-type fair with costumed men and women dancing to a bagpiper’s tune.
    “Can you tell me about the Hallowed Days Festival?” she asked, turning back to face him at the desk. “I heard something about a curse on the town. Is it a ghost story of some kind?”
    “Not a ghost story,” he said, glancing up from the ledger. “The trouble back then was real enough, though its cause may have been embellished a little from one generation to the next. After