Four towns cemetery is a small graveyard near my home in Michigan. You could find mentions of it if you looked hard enough online, but it’s mostly just a tiny little church graveyard. I used to pass it every day on my way to college, and I still go by about once a week. Now I’m a little older, a lot wiser, and never inclined to go in again.
About two years ago a group of my friends and I went ghost hunting. Bahamute wasn’t with us (he’d not interested in the outdoors or the supernatural), but I was in good spirits anyway. It was a warm night, clear skies, and I was raring to catch a ghost on my friend’s camera or tape-recorder. Even a cell-phone video would do.
The cemetery is less than an acre, so it wouldn’t take long to scope out. We broke into groups of two and three and traversed the grounds quickly. Somebody pointed out a few graves behind the fence, in a swamp. He said it was probably where the unwed mothers and babies had been buried. I shivered. This cemetery wasn’t all that old: things like that happened in colonial times, not recently.
Not in my mind anyway.
I wandered with a few people, changing from group to group. I felt restless. Usually when we were ghost hunting, we cracked wise, but nobody was saying much now.
A group near a tall monument, at least seven feet high and shrouded in vines, called us over. There seemed to be a cold-spot about the size and shape of a very tall man. I waved my hands through the air. It did feel a bit cooler, but that could have been my imagination. Everyone began taking pictures, claiming they could see a figure in the digital photos.
I hung near the back of the group, not seeing anything. I still felt disquieted. I didn’t want to be here.
That was when a cold shock squeezed my hand, right between the web of flesh between my right thumb and forefinger. I cried out, yanking my hand away. It hurt. The cold radiated slowly off my hand, and I retreated towards the gate. “I’m out. Something grabbed me. I’m out.”
I was quickly followed by the rest of the party: not so much because of my encounter, but NOBODY wanted to be in there anymore. A few pagan friends burned some sage. Being Baptist, I reasoned God wouldn’t mind me being near a burning plant. We were all uncharacteristically quiet as we left, seeking more hospitable climes in the local diner.
It wasn’t until the morning the bruise showed up.
Deep in the meat of my hand: not a bad bruise, not bad enough to turn black and blue, but definitely there. Yellow and painful, right in the spot where I’d been grabbed by that cold hand.
I know there are mundane explanations. Probably. But they don't hold a candle to cold reality.
Very cold.
About two years ago a group of my friends and I went ghost hunting. Bahamute wasn’t with us (he’d not interested in the outdoors or the supernatural), but I was in good spirits anyway. It was a warm night, clear skies, and I was raring to catch a ghost on my friend’s camera or tape-recorder. Even a cell-phone video would do.
The cemetery is less than an acre, so it wouldn’t take long to scope out. We broke into groups of two and three and traversed the grounds quickly. Somebody pointed out a few graves behind the fence, in a swamp. He said it was probably where the unwed mothers and babies had been buried. I shivered. This cemetery wasn’t all that old: things like that happened in colonial times, not recently.
Not in my mind anyway.
I wandered with a few people, changing from group to group. I felt restless. Usually when we were ghost hunting, we cracked wise, but nobody was saying much now.
A group near a tall monument, at least seven feet high and shrouded in vines, called us over. There seemed to be a cold-spot about the size and shape of a very tall man. I waved my hands through the air. It did feel a bit cooler, but that could have been my imagination. Everyone began taking pictures, claiming they could see a figure in the digital photos.
I hung near the back of the group, not seeing anything. I still felt disquieted. I didn’t want to be here.
That was when a cold shock squeezed my hand, right between the web of flesh between my right thumb and forefinger. I cried out, yanking my hand away. It hurt. The cold radiated slowly off my hand, and I retreated towards the gate. “I’m out. Something grabbed me. I’m out.”
I was quickly followed by the rest of the party: not so much because of my encounter, but NOBODY wanted to be in there anymore. A few pagan friends burned some sage. Being Baptist, I reasoned God wouldn’t mind me being near a burning plant. We were all uncharacteristically quiet as we left, seeking more hospitable climes in the local diner.
It wasn’t until the morning the bruise showed up.
Deep in the meat of my hand: not a bad bruise, not bad enough to turn black and blue, but definitely there. Yellow and painful, right in the spot where I’d been grabbed by that cold hand.
I know there are mundane explanations. Probably. But they don't hold a candle to cold reality.
Very cold.
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