Dear God – Chapter Five

The picture had been drawn on a piece of cardboard and as I looked at it, I was simultaneously in awe of the details and also troubled by them.  The artistry was superb and the shading made the picture seem lifelike and appear almost ready to jump off the paper.

If she had drawn it, I wondered what she was thinking.  It was dark and even more haunting than the painting I found and named “The Mysterious Blue Forest.”

It was a picture of a strikingly beautiful man.  He was sitting on top of a rock, looking over what seemed to be a kingdom.  I thought for a moment that he must be an angel as he had wings attached to his back but they were not made of feathers.  They looked much like the wings of a bat and had a claw-like barb on the top.

His face was expressionless but somehow, whether imagined or not, I thought I detected an evil look in his eyes.  When I saw the horns on his head, I thought he must be the artists’ rendition of what the devil looked like.

Could it have been Lucifer?  In Sunday school, I learned that Lucifer’s beauty and intelligence was beyond compare but he became guilty of self-generated pride and was cast out of Heaven.  If this was a picture of him, then in my eyes she had without question, captured that beguiling beauty.

As disturbing as I found it, I must admit that I was absolutely captivated by the exquisiteness of this man.  I considered bringing it downstairs but decided to wait.  I just wasn’t sure yet, but I was sure of one thing.  I wouldn’t destroy it, so I returned it to the box.

I realized that I had been so enthralled, that I forgot to look for a date or a signature.  The bottom right corner was badly bent and part of it had been torn away but I could see what I thought looked like 1968.

A quick search of my memory did the calculation.  In 1964, she wrote God and told Him that she hated Him.  In 1968, if that is the real date, she is drawing a picture of the devil.  What happened during those four years?

Later that night, I began reading the notes.  The first one I read was so cute. It said “Dear God.  If you are real, please leave me a dollar so I can buy a hamster.”  Dated 1959.  Even though I knew that wasn’t how God worked, I was really hoping I would find a thank you note.

Putting the notes I had already read in chronological order, I wanted to see if I could figure out when her faith started to wane.  I wanted to play detective but I also wanted somewhat of a mystery to remain, if that makes any sense.  As much of a temptation as it was, I decided to only read one note a day and I wasn’t even sure that I had yet found them all.

I hadn’t met any of my neighbors.  I had been too busy restoring my house and of course, being a scavenger.  One day I was walking to the mailbox and met the girl who lived next door.  She was what my parents’ generation would have most likely called a hippie.  She had full sleeve tattoos and long, purplish-black hair.  She introduced herself as “Dawn Rising,” and I was trying not to laugh as I introduced myself.  She walked back to the house with me and invited herself in.

“Have you cleansed your house with sage?” she asked.  I told her that I didn’t know what she meant and she said “I’m a seer of sorts.  Would you like for me to read your house?”

What was I going to say?  “Um, no thanks.  I don’t believe in that sort of thing?”  I told her it would be fine.

She walked around, and looked as if she was in some kind of trance.  She even asked to go into the attic.  “What a strange person,” I thought.  For all I knew she could have been a serial killer but I allowed her to visit every room, even the attic.

She came downstairs and asked if she could have a glass of water.  “Of course,” I said, still a little perplexed by her boldness.

She took a sip and said “this house has seen much hatred and great sorrow.”

I was stupefied.  What did she mean?  She said “your house needs to be cleansed.  I can do that for you, if you want.”

I was thinking “okay, here we go.  The pitch for money.  She’s some scam artist who makes a living off of scaring people.”

When I politely declined, I wondered if she really was a “seer of sorts” when she said “my services are free so this is not about money.  It’s about getting rid of residual pain and agony.”

I asked her how long she had lived next door.  She said “only a few years.”  Then I asked if there were any original neighbors that I could talk to.  She smiled and said “yes, one.  Miss Mabel Cartwright.  She lives behind you and I’m told that she was actually born in that house.”

She smiled and said “thank you for the water and let me know when you would like the cleansing.”  I was more interested in talking to Miss Cartwright but I thanked her and told her that I would certainly think about it.

It was late in the day but I decided to go knock on Miss Cartwrights’ door.  From inside, I heard a voice say “I don’t open the door after 5 o’clock.  Come back tomorrow.”

I giggled.

To be continued_______________________

Dear God – Chapter Four

When I read the note, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, although I did feel a bit guilty.  It said “Dear God.  I drowned a worm.  I didn’t mean to.  Please don’t let me go to Hell.”  It was dated 1958.

I wondered why she was diligent about putting the date on the notes but never signed them.  I know past generations often heard the phrase “a fools’ name, a fools’ face, always seen in a public place.”  Maybe that was why but her artwork should have been signed.  At least I thought it should.

I started looking through the attic, being careful where I stepped as only some of it had been floored.  Near the front of the house was a small round window.  Stuck around the window were more notes.  The walls surrounding it, hid several more.

I remember thinking, “this is almost like the Wailing Wall.”  I began taking them down and carefully put them into a wooden box that before I cleaned it, held the remnants of what appeared to have at one time been a rats’ nest.  As I wandered through the attic, I found small hair ribbons wrapped around protruding nails.  I unwrapped them and put them in with the notes.

While investigating the back wall, I found a doll hanging from a ribbon.  Her hair had been cut off to the roots and band-aids were wrapped around her arms and legs.  “Ah,” I thought.  “Maybe our little author was playing both hair stylist and doctor.”  She went into the box as well.

My curiosity got the best of me again, and I decided to open a few more notes.

The first one said “Dear God.  Would you give me wings so I can fly away?” Dated 1958.  First there was the wish to be a horse and now she wanted wings.  “Why did she want to fly away?” I wondered.

The second said “Dear God.  Are you there?  Granny said you are everywhere.  Please don’t let her die.”  It was dated 1959.  It was the second note, pleading for the life of her grandmother.  They must have been close and I wondered if her grandmother was sick.

The third one I opened made me laugh again.  It said “Dear God.  I climbed out on the roof today.  Please don’t tell daddy.  He’ll whip me.”  Dated 1958.  How that little girl managed to climb onto the roof, I have no idea.  Did she go out the window?  Is that why it was nailed shut?  Surely if there was a ladder somewhere, she would have been seen.  The attic was three stories up.

I began to think that the attic must have been her play room or hiding place or maybe even her refuge.  Maybe she played dress-up or maybe she pretended to slay dragons.  I hoped the other notes would reveal more about her.

The rest would be read later while I was relaxing and drinking a much deserved cup of coffee but I decided to open one more box before I went downstairs.

In the box, I found a picture.  It was a scene of trees painted entirely in blues and I couldn’t tell if it had been painted with oils or acrylics.  It was almost hauntingly beautiful and like the picture of the horse and the notes, it wasn’t signed.  I wondered if it had been painted by her or someone else.  I searched for a date but was disappointed when I didn’t find one.

I thought it would look lovely in a frame and it would find a home on a wall somewhere, even though for reasons I couldn’t explain, I always had an aversion to the color blue.  That color seemed to be so cold and lonesome, much like I viewed the ocean.

As I pulled out crumpled newspapers dated from the fifties and sixties, they were almost as intriguing and the treasures they covered.  Scanning the advertisements, I was mesmerized.  A 12 pack of Drewrys beer cost $1.79. French fries at McDonald’s were 12¢.  Red potatoes cost 3¢ a pound.  The cost of admission for an adult to Disneyland was $3.75.  A child under twelve was $2.75.

The best was an advertisement for “Cocaine Toothache Drops.”  Price, 15¢.  I imagine a little cocaine would fix you right up, toothache or not and wondered if it really did have cocaine in it, like the old Coca Colas.

This house was holding so many memories and bit and pieces of the past, which I appreciated.  So often, it’s out with the old and in with the new but I had a reverence for old things and yes, old people as well.

I took one more look into the box and found another picture.  This one gave me chills.

To be continued____________________________

Dear God – Chapter Three

I was truly enjoying the notes I was finding but I didn’t know if they had been written by a little girl or a little boy. The dates were on the notes but I had no idea how old the child was.

I was almost finished with the dining room.  The last task was cleaning the windows and as I worked, I noticed a small piece of paper behind the casing.  I gently pried it out, sat down and carefully opened it.  It said “Dear God.  I didn’t mean to be bad.  Could you please make me a better little girl?”  The note was dated 1957.

The mystery was solved.  The notes had been written by a little girl who had obviously done something wrong, at least in her eyes.  I couldn’t help but smile, wondering what she had done that she thought was bad.

The dining room was finished, so I decided to work on the upstairs bedroom that I had claimed for my own.  I had noticed a small room up there, in the very back of the house that appeared to be unfinished.  It also seemed to have been an afterthought of whoever had built the house.

It only had baseboards along two walls and the one tiny window seemed somehow out of place.  The rest of the house had grand windows that were 7 feet tall.

The walls had been partially painted a dull blue color.  I didn’t think it could have been a bedroom because it didn’t have closet.  If it was, it could have only supported a twin bed and even that would have taken up most of the space.

I would take as much care with it as I would take with the other rooms.  I intended to turn it into a library of sorts, putting shelves along the walls and maybe an easy chair and lamp in the corner.  For some reason, I began pulling up the baseboards.  They were formidable foes but I finally succeeded in getting the first one off the wall.  When the piece finally lost its grip, a note fell to the floor.

I sat down and excitedly opened it.  It said “Dear God.  I hate you.”  It was dated 1964.

The notes had just spanned eight years and I wondered why she now hated God.  I felt a sadness for some reason but like running away from home, haven’t we all at some time been a little pissed at God?

The other baseboard hid nothing but nails and a bit of plaster.

As I worked in the bedroom, I was disappointed when I found no notes behind window casings or baseboards.  The closet hid a secret staircase that went to the attic.

I have always been an adventurer and this was going to be fun.  If there was an old abandoned building on the side of the road, I would stop and wander through, although with a little trepidation.  I remember finding an old yellow Tupperware bowl, complete with lid in one of those abandoned shacks.  I still have it.

I wondered what kind of secrets lay hidden in the attic.  Maybe another Tupperware bowl?  I was ready to play Sherlock Holmes.

As I walked up the narrow steps, I got a whiff of what smelled like burning wood.  I knew everybody smoked back in those days but this smell was not from cigarettes.

When I made it to the top of the stairs, I could see that I was right.  Burned rafters were visible but they were still sturdy enough to hold up the roof.  There must have been a fire at some point.

The attic was huge and I felt like I was on a treasure hunt.  I had given the okay for the previous owner to leave some of her possessions behind, like that wonderful dining room table, so I wasn’t surprised when I found things.  The first thing I noticed was a set of bed springs.  It wasn’t the kind of springs we have today.  It was the kind of springs that my grandma had in her house.

Jumping on the bed was strictly prohibited, but when her back was turned, I discovered that the springs almost sang as I jumped on different parts.  When the slats fell out, telling her that I just walked in and the bed fell down never worked.  Grandpa had to come put the slats back in the rails and he wasn’t happy about it.

There were old doors, which had to be original to the house and I wondered where they might have once been.  There were boxes everywhere.  I picked one of them and when I opened it and looked inside, I saw several old toys.  There was a top and the upper part, although cloudy with age, was clear.  A train went around a track when I pushed the handle down.  There was a little wooden radio with a pretend antenna made from a red ball on top of a spring.  When I turned the knob, it played a tune.  These toys had to be from the fifties and I wondered if they were hers.

These treasures would no longer be hidden away in the attic.  They would come downstairs and find a place in the front room, perhaps gently resting on my childhood rocking chair.

In another box, I found a plate.  It was thick and heavy and had little partitions in it.  A small coffee cup had been wrapped in tissue paper and the green stripe matched the one on the plate.  These were old and they didn’t look household dishes.  They looked like they had come from some little side-road cafe.  They too, would find a place downstairs.

As I stood up, I noticed a piece of paper stuck inside one of the burned rafters.  I took it down and carefully unfolded it.

To be continued_____________________

Dear God – Chapter Two

The “Dear God” note was dated 1958, two years after the picture of the horse had been drawn.

It took months to bring the living room back to life.  Although most likely not an original color from years ago, I painted the walls a subtle rose.  The baseboards and the bookcase got a fresh coat of white paint.  I splurged and put ornate crown molding along the ceiling.

I filled the bookcases, not only with books but with various collections such as tiny Limoges boxes and marble spheres, which were supposed to bring good luck.  My prized Betty Boop doll peeped timidly through one of the glass panes.

While admiring my work, I was suddenly taken back to the days of a simpler time.  A time before computers and cell phones and video games.  A time when families sat down together at dinnertime.

That thought prompted my next challenge…the dining room.  The owner had left a round oak table with lion paw feet.  That was a piece worth keeping and it didn’t need much more than a dusting and a good coat of polish.

A wood-burning stove was sitting in front of the fireplace on a bed of slate. I wondered how many times the family had dined while being warmed by a fire in that unique stove.  A flu cover was still hanging on the wall and I took it down to inspect it.  It was made of plaster and a paperclip had been embedded for hanging.  On the front, a set of smiling cherubs floated on billowy clouds.

As I was sweeping, I noticed something under the stove.  When I picked it up, I saw that it was a Bible.  My first thought was that I should return it to the previous owner but first, I wanted to take a look.  It was a Scofield Reference Bible.  I had never heard of that.  I always thought a Bible was just a Bible.

Inside the pages, I found numerous pieces of paper.  One was the church budget for the year 1994.  There was an article from “The Work Of The Holy Spirit” titled “Being Faithful.”  Somebody had written on the top of the page, Monday 12th, 1989.

An interesting one was a small piece of paper dated 9-9-84.  It was hand written and titled “What Do I Value?”  There was a list of six things.  #1. Appearance.  #2.  Home, School, Environment.  #3.  Aspirations.  #4. Stages of Life.  #5.  Sympathy.  #6.  Empathy.  An arrow had been drawn from the bottom of the page to the top and written inside the arrow, was “Funeral Home Is Expensive.”

There was a tattered bookmark that said “Capricorn.”  I knew that Jesus was a Capricorn but I was fairly certain that this was not His bible.

The owners’ name had been imprinted on the front in gold letters but was so badly worn, the only thing I could make out was that he was apparently a “Jr.”

I was completely enthralled.  There was mostly scripture references but one thing caught my eye.  Somebody (perhaps the owner of the Bible) had a sense of humor.

Obviously from an ancient typewriter, was what I grew up calling “a little ditty.”

“Remember old folks are worth a fortune, with silver in their hair and gold in their teeth.  Stones in their kidneys, lead in their feet and gas in their stomachs.
I have become a little older since I saw you last and a few changes have come into life my since then.  Frankly, I have become quiet a frivolous gal.  I am seeing 5 gentlemen every day!
As soon as I wake up, Will Power helps me get out of bed.  Then, I go to see John.  Then, Charlie Horse comes along and when he is here, he takes a lot of my time and attention.  When he leaves, Arthur Ritis shows up and stays the rest of the day.  He doesn’t like to stay in one place very long, so he takes me from joint to joint.  After such a busy day, I’m really tired and glad to go to bed with Gen Gay.
P. S.  The preacher came to call the other day.  He said at my age I should be thinking about the ‘hereafter’.  I told him ‘Oh, I do all the time.  No matter where I am…in the parlor, upstairs, in the kitchen or down in the basement, I ask myself…what am I here after’?”

I had spent what seemed like hours going through the Bible and decided that I could finish at the end of the day, while I was resting.  All together, there were 38 pieces of paper tucked inside the pages.  Before putting it down, for some reason I looked inside the cover and found a green post-it note.

It said:  “I bought this Bible for my daddy when I was 13 years old.  I saved my lunch money and took neighbors’ mail to the post office for 10¢.  It took a long time to save up the money and I don’t think it meant that much to him.”

I went from “aw, how sweet” to “oh, how sad.”  It wasn’t signed or dated and I have no idea who wrote it.

I busied myself cleaning, taking down ceiling panels and carrying loads of rubbish to the curb.  As I was inspecting the mantel, I found a folded piece of paper stuck behind it.  This was becoming almost like a scavenger hunt to me.  I was excited as I opened the note and started reading.

It said “Dear God.  Please don’t let Granny die.”  It was dated 1959.

“Somebody loved their grandmother,” I thought.  I knew the sensation.  I loved my grandmothers dearly.

To be continued_________________

Dear God – Chapter One

When I bought my first house, I was beyond thrilled.  It was an old two-story house with gingerbread trim on the outside.  I could hear the large yard, overgrown with weeds, silently begging for flowers.

There were fireplaces in every room and a spiral staircase beckoned ascension from the entrance.  To get it back to its original glory was going to be a labor of love, but it was one I was prepared to undertake.

“One room at a time,” I told myself.  The old plaster walls were cracked and some of them were crumbling but I could see beyond the gaping wounds.  I could see the beauty that was once there.

The previous owner was an older woman who was moving to an old folks home.  Her husband had died twenty years earlier and the big house was just getting too much for her to handle.

Her husbands’ touch was everywhere.  He had installed carpet but it wasn’t the normal plush carpet.  It was indoor-outdoor carpet and he had adhered it with tar.  The floors underneath were hardwood and restoring them was going to be a challenge to say the least, but removing the carpet was my first task.

He had dropped the ceilings, probably thinking it would make the rooms look more modern.  He had effected all these “updates” at the time when those older, glorious homes were being deserted for newfangled ranch styles out in the suburbs.

My furniture came in and some of their abandoned furniture went out but any piece that was salvageable was put aside for later restoration.  My plan was to work from sun-up to sun-down, repairing the walls with layers of plaster and then priming them for a fresh coat of paint.

I began with the living room.  It was the only room that still had the original ceiling, probably due to a large bookcase with floor to ceiling glass doors.  Standing opposite was an ornate mantelpiece, which had begun to escape the captivity of the wall.  I was able to get it loose and give it a brief taste of freedom before once again becoming a prisoner.  As I was cleaning the crumbling plaster bits that had fallen, I noticed a small folded piece of paper.

As I carefully opened it, I saw a picture of a horse.  It was obviously drawn by a small child, although a gifted child, I thought.  It resembled that dog named Spuds Mackenzie.  It was a side view but it had a black circle around its eye and the circle had been filled in with pencil.  There was no signature from the artist but there was a date. The year was 1956.

I put the note in a box for safe keeping and carefully began to pry open the doors of the bookcase.  They creaked and moaned much like an old person trying to get up from a chair.  The glass had to be original as it had all the hallmarks of having been hand-blown.  The shelves were dusty and didn’t appear to have held any books in recent years.  As I climbed the ladder to the top of the bookcase, I spotted another folded piece of paper, tucked away almost invisibly in the corner.

I took it down and carefully unfolded it.  Like the drawing, the note seemed to have been written by a small child.  It said “Dear God.  Please make me a horse so I can run away.”

I smiled as I read it.  It brought back memories of my own childhood.  Didn’t we all want to run away from home at least once when we were young?

To be continued_____________________

The Stalker – Part Three

My curiosity had gotten the better of me.  I decided to brave the “curse” and spend the night in Resurrection Cemetery.  I had my sleeping blanket, some munchies and a cooler filled with caffeine-loaded soft drinks.

I had spent the night in cemeteries before and the only thing I got from those stays were several bites from blood thirsty mosquitoes and a crick in my neck.  Tonight I was armed with insect repellent and a horseshoe pillow.

Sitting under a full moon, I was waiting for midnight…the witching hour…the time when restless souls were supposed to make their appearance.  I wondered, would it be like the old movies where people in zombie-like states wandered around looking for brains to eat?  Or would it be like the tales I’d heard of beautiful women gliding around in white dresses, softly calling somebody’s name?  I had never seen any of those things before and thought it would be highly unlikely that I would see them tonight.

Maybe I would see an apparition of Jimmy Hoffa’s head floating around, searching for the rest of his body.  No matter what I saw or didn’t see, I was prepared.

I chose my spot carefully, near but not too near the lone grave.  If anybody was going to rise from that grave, I was poised to watch them.  I chuckled to myself as I leaned against the same tree where Mr. Kennedy said the only surviving teenager had been found.  He had said nothing about going near or touching that tree and it gave me the perfect vantage point for viewing the walking…or rising dead.

At one point, I decided to tempt fate and walked over to the grave.  I didn’t stand on it nor did I walk over it.  That’s something I had never done.  I had seen it done and it always bothered me.  Walking over somebody’s grave or standing on it was to me, disrespectful and almost sacrilegious.

“There should be bones here,” I thought to myself.  The grave was absolutely covered with dead leaves, so using my foot, I swept some of the leaves off of the top.  I was wrong.  There were no bones.  There was nothing.  Nothing at all.

“That makes sense,” I told myself.  Animals had surely ravaged the bodies and carried away the parts to eat or feed to their offspring.  I think that was my way of self-comforting myself as I suddenly realized that I had done exactly what Mr. Kennedy had told me never to do.

I listened to the dead silence.  No crickets were chirping.  No frogs were croaking.  I didn’t hear that annoying whine of a mosquito is preparing for a quick snack.  I didn’t even see any ants or other critters crawling about.

After several hours, I was disappointed that nothing had happened.  I had seen nothing,  I had heard nothing.  No one had touched me or called my name.  Obviously the caffeinated drinks had not done their job and my eyelids were getting heavy.  I decided to close them for just a few minutes.

It seemed like only an instant had passed when I awoke to the sun shining in my eyes.  I was surprised when I noticed that my sleeping bag was gone and so was my cooler.  “Dammit!” I said.  “The curse of this cemetery is that somebody will steal everything you have if you aren’t watching.  You’re lured here by the tales of ghosts and retribution and it’s only a ruse to steal what you have.”

I stumbled to my feet and headed out of the cemetery.  I was anxious to find a cup of coffee, talk to Mr. Kennedy and tell him that the long departed souls resting in and on top of the lone grave had remained in their peaceful place.  Not only had they remained, they had remained after I had swept the leaves away…and I was still here.  “So much for a curse,” I thought.

A week later, they found my body laying on the grave.  There were no marks.  There were no signs of a struggle.  I was just dead.


It Ein.

The Stalker – Part Two

I admit that Mr. Kennedy’s words grabbed my attention.  It wasn’t so much what he said but how he said it.  I had been told before to be careful of things…things unseen…things unknown…things that couldn’t be explained, but I was young and you know what they say about being young. You feel immortal.  Death or dismemberment or sickness is in old person’s future, not ours.

Did I believe what he said or did I think he was teasing me?  The way he said it was the most unsettling part.  There was no twinkle in his eye. There was no wink.  There was no subtle grin.  Nothing but serious dead-pan affirmation that I should go nowhere near that grave.  Did that fuel my curiosity?  Yes it did, but first I aimed to stalk the other graves.

Week after week I stalked Resurrection Cemetery, searching the names.  I found none that stood out as historically famous or even somewhat notable but one thing became crystal clear.  I was the only person stalking the dead. I had never seen another living soul walking the grounds, save Mr. Kennedy and I understood his feelings of being watched.  I have stalked many, many cemeteries and there’s always a hint of uneasiness.  After all, you’re walking amongst the dead but cemeteries like Resurrection, hidden away and neglected, even during the light of day seemed somehow, dark and twisty…and lonely.

There were no visitors, so there were no tears, no prayers, no sadness…nothing.  It was as if these poor souls had been planted and forgotten.  There was no life anywhere.  Even the flowers were plastic and had they been real, I couldn’t imagine that they would have lived beyond a day.  The grass covering the graves seemed to struggle for life and on one grave…the lone grave, it had given up and gone the way of the departed.

The following week, I wanted to talk to Mr. Kennedy about the cemetery and the lone grave.  Surprisingly, he was amenable to my request with the caveat that we talk quietly and away from the lone grave.  I asked him why I had not seen one person visit the cemetery.

He said “I don’t rightly know but I imagine it’s because of the lone grave, as you call it.  You know, you’re not the first person to have a fascination with cemeteries and you’re not the first person to have a fascination with that lone grave.”

He went on to say “I never go anywhere near that grave and I never will.  I don’t even know what’s written on the plaque and I don’t want to know.”

I told him that nothing was written on it and watched as the color drained from his face.  He said “you’ve looked at it?”  I told him that I had only glanced at it.  Then he asked me if I touched anything.  I told him that I hadn’t and he seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

I asked him if he could tell me what he knew about it.  He said “well, there have been a lot of people who have tried to beat the ‘curse’ and the last folks who decided to try was a bunch of teenagers.  There were four of them and they decided to come up here and dig up Jimmy Hoffa’s head.”

“What happened?” I asked.

He shook his head and said “they never got that far.  Nobody really knows what happened but three of them were found dead atop the grave a week later and they say they died from fright.  The other one was found sitting beside that tree over yonder.  Word has it that his hair had turned snow white and he never spoke another word.  He’s down at the nervous hospital where he’s been for more than ten years now.  I guess you could say that he beat the curse..if you call being an alive dead person beating the curse.”

“And there have been other deaths associated with the lone grave?” I asked.

“Yep.  There sure has,” Mr. Kennedy said.  “I remember a cocky young man who decided to spend the night up here and as he put it ‘dance with the devil’.  A week later, all they found of him was one arm and one leg laying on the grave.”

I smiled and said “like I told you, I don’t believe in things like this and I’m not interested in desecrating a grave but these kinds of stories are intriguing.”

Mr. Kennedy looked at me with the same stern look he had when he warned me before and said “those young fellers didn’t believe either.”

Again, I smiled.  As I was walking away, I suddenly remembered what Mr. Kennedy had told me about the legend of the grave.  “Wait a minute,” I said.  “If nobody can touch the grave, how did they move the bodies?”

Mr. Kennedy looked at me and said “they didn’t.  They left them there.”


To be continued__________________