The Lost Graveyard

Zachery Snow had been hiking in the coal country of West Virginia for the past three days. The hilly region he had been exploring was wild and unkempt; the forest was thick and the hills were rough and jagged. Washed-out gullies and sheer cliffs abounded, ready to catch the unwary off-guard. Overhead the sky was dark and overcast, and a chill wind cut right through Zachery’s leather jacket. It had rained earlier that day and then stopped, but the sky was threatening to unleash a new downpour at any moment. Zachery could hear the thunder rolling in the distance; it didn’t appear to be heading his way but it was hard to tell. All of the trees were dripping with water and the leaves and ground was soaking wet. A light fog clung to the ground.

Few people ever ventured this far into the hills – especially these hills. Zachery knew that someone had to own this land but he had no idea who it might have been. People had abandoned this area years ago when the coal mines gave out, and there simply wasn’t a reason to live out here any longer. Animals abounded, but Zachery hadn’t seen a person for two days.

He wasn’t really looking for anything in particular. Zachery liked exploring desolate and abandoned areas, especially if they had some special meaning to him. His ancestors had lived in that area a generation ago and he liked to think of them as he climbed over the rocks. Here and there he would find some ruins, overgrown with weeds and creeping vines: a covered bridge foundation, a collapsed barn, and even the occasional rusted-out car. To him they were mementos of a simpler era – one that had passed long ago.

As he climbed up a hill his foot slipped on a wet rock. He reached out and grabbed a tree limb to steady himself, but the tree was dead and the limb snapped off in his hand. He tumbled down the side of the cliff and came to rest in a little clearing – one he hadn’t noticed before.

After standing up and making sure that he was unharmed he stepped forward into the hollow. The grass was tall, but through it he could still tell that the clearing held a graveyard – a very old one, by the look of it.

This must have been abandoned for at least a generation, he thought. He stepped forward into the graveyard and used his machete to cut a path through the tall weeds. It was difficult for him to make out the moss-covered stones through the tall grass, but he could see that they were definitely set out in orderly rows.

Zachery stepped up the nearest stone and pulled the weeds off of it. He then took a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to wipe the dirt and grime off the stone.

“Rachael Ford,” he read aloud. The inscription was almost worn off, but he could just barely make it out. “1817 – 1851. You would have been – hmmm – a little over 40 years old when you died. I’m older than that!”

He stood up and looked at the other stones. It looks like there are about 30 stones in this graveyard, he thought to himself. I wonder if there used to be a church nearby. Perhaps this was some church’s graveyard a century ago.

Seized by a sudden impulse that he could not explain, Zachery decided to bring some order to the long-forgotten graves. Working one at a time, he walked over to each headstone and cleaned it off. Some of them had crumbled from age and were impossible to read, but others were in fairly good shape. Look at all these names, he thought. Ryan Ford. Richard Simmons. Jim Simmons. Toby Greenwood. Hunter Atkins. Who were these people? He noticed that some appeared to be grouped in families, but others were by themselves. They all appeared to date from the early 19th century.

It took him about an hour to clean up the graveyard and make the stones visible. When it was over he was hot, tired, and dirty, but pleased with his efforts. He sat on a large rock on the edge of the graveyard and looked over his work.

I wonder how long it’s been since someone has been out here, he thought. There’s no sign that anyone has been out here for twenty years. I may be the first visitor this graveyard has had in my lifetime.

He thought about what he had seen carved into the stones. Five Fords that died in 1848; I wonder why. I wonder who these people were, and what they did, and what they were like. Most were farmers, I bet.

As he rested from his labors, a low fog rolled in over the mountain and settled over the graveyard. He watched as it partially obscured the crumbling stones, the wet grass, and the weeds that he had just cleared off the stones. Right there, he thought, are thirty people who have lived there lives and passed on. There is no one alive who remembers them, or even cares that they ever existed. All that is left of them are some forgotten graves on a forgotten hill – and soon even that will be gone, and it will be as if they had never existed at all.

He stood up, wiped his hands on his pants, and faced the graveyard. “And how long will it be before I join you?” he called out. “How long will it be until I, too, become nothing more than a forgotten skeleton in a lost grave, obscured by time until every trace of my life on Earth has been lost?”

“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that,” a voice said behind him. Startled, Zachery turned around and saw a middle-aged man approaching him. He was wearing a pair of overalls and a dirty white shirt; he had black hair, a black beard, and a kind, smiling face. “The name’s Powell – Mason Powell,” he said, extending a hand.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Zachery said, shaking his hand and introducing himself. “You surprised me! I didn’t know that people live around these parts.”

“Oh, they don’t anymore,” Mason replied. “They used to, though. This used to be the center of a thriving farming community – mostly livestock, you know, but some tobacco. Penn Station was just five miles up the river, north of here; it’s where they shipped out the coal. Aye, lad, those were the days.”

“Wow, Mr. Powell. That must have been a long time ago! I’ve seen the ruins of the old covered bridge, but it must have been abandoned at least a century ago. I had no idea that a rail line ever ran through here.”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t a rail line. This was in the days before railroad, remember. Back then we moved good around on ships; we’d load our crops onto a barge, and it would sail up river to town. The Atkins family handled the shipping trade; the rest were farmers – except for Greenwood, who was the pastor.”

“Toby Greenwood?” Zachery asked. “You mean the guy who is buried over there?”

“Oh yes,” Mason said. “That’s the one! He was a lively fellow – preached in a little country church just over there. There’s nothing left of it anymore – it was just a simple wooden building, after all – but man, it would sure be packed when he preached! He had such fire and energy. Always a helpful fellow, willing to lend a hand. I think it was tuberculosis that eventually did him in. Had a smile and a cheerful heart right up to his last breath.”

“I can’t believe that any record of these people has survived!” Zachery said. “When my parents were children they lived in this area but they never mentioned anything about a church or a graveyard.”

“Just because you haven’t heard of them, Zachery Snow, doesn’t mean that no one else has! All of these people have histories, you know. Take the Ford family, for instance. Most of them died in a terrible fire back in ‘48. There weren’t smoke detectors in those days. When tragedy hit, it hit hard – but the community was there to lend a hand. Elias could never have survived the loss of his wife and children if we hadn’t stepped in and helped him. The two of them were so close.”

“We?” Zachery asked.

“And then take the Simmons family,” Mason continued. “Richard and Jim were father and son. Richard was a good father – loving, kind, very dedicated to the Lord – but Jim, now, Jim was a wild one. Jim’s mother had died in childbirth and Richard could never control him. He never would listen to anybody, and just about drove his parents crazy. Always hanging out with the wrong crowd, causing a disturbance, and stealing anything he could get his hands on. We all knew it was just a matter of time.”

“Time?” Zachery replied.

“Aye,” Mason said. “Jim eventually picked a fight with the wrong person, and he never did recover from his injuries. He died at the tender age of twenty-four – a young man, cut down in what should have been his prime. Imagine! Never did learn what it meant to live life. It broke his father’s heart. Richard never was the same after that – I think he took it personally.”

Zachery shook his head. “It’s just not possible that anyone remembers these people. You’ve got to be making this up. Right? Tell me, how can you possibly know all of this?”

“Easy!” Mason said. “Come here.” He walked over to one corner of the graveyard and Zachery, out of curiosity, followed him.

“This one is mine,” Mason said proudly, kneeling down and reading the stone. “Mason Anthony Powell, 1798 – 1860. I died of heart failure.”

“Oh,” Zachery said. “I see. I’m sure it happens all the time.”

“It does indeed,” Mason said. “I know lots of people who have died of heart failure. Nice chaps, most of them.”

“Look, Mason. I’ve been to many graveyards in my lifetime, and they all have one thing in common: they’re full of dead people.”

“Yup,” Mason agreed.

“And the thing I’ve noticed about dead people,” Zachery continued, “is that they stay in their graves. They don’t come out of their graves and hold conversations. They don’t go into town and vote for candidates. They just rest quietly and bother nobody.”

“Eh, in a manner of speaking,” Mason said. “Their bodies lie quietly. Their souls go on to their reward – be it good or bad.”

“True,” Zachery said. “But the dead do not come out of their graves and hold extended conversations with the living.”

“Sometimes they do,” Mason said.

“Like when?” Zachery said.

“Oh, like when the Lord returns and raises them all from the dead at the end of time,” Mason said.

“You can’t tell me that the Lord has returned,” Zachery said. “I think I would have noticed.”

“Aye, that you would have,” Mason agreed. “I’m still looking forward to it, myself. I guess we both are, now!”

“What do you mean?” Zachery said.

“Well,” Mason said slowly, “do you remember a while ago when you slipped and fell down the slope?”

“I think so,” Zachery said.

“Did you notice that when you stood up afterward you didn’t feel sore, or bruised, or anything?”

“Come to think of it, I did. I was glad.”

“You were dead, you mean,” Mason said. “The fall killed you.”

“Oh,” Zachery said. “Are you sure?”

“Yup. Turn around and look over where you fell.”

Zachery turned around to see what Mason was pointing at, and saw his body lying at the foot of the mountain. He gasped. “I see what you mean,” he said. “That is, um, kind of unfortunate.”

“It’s not as bad as it seems,” Mason said. “All those people you were mourning over – why, every last one of them are still alive somewhere. The traces of a person’s life only last for a short while on Earth, and then they’re gone, until you can’t tell that they ever lived. The person, though – why, the person lives on, be it with the Lord or without Him. Where the person ends up living – that’s a choice that is made during life. But the person does go on living.”

“Come with me,” Mason told Zachery. “I’ve already told the Ford family about you; they’re looking forward to meeting you. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do – you’re a relation to me, you know! That’s why I wanted to be here when you died.”

“Now wait a minute,” Zachery said. “How could I have cleared away all those weeds if I was dead?”

“Someone had to do it,” Mason said. “You seemed willing, and I wasn’t going to stop you. It’s kind of nice to have one’s grave cleaned. Gives you a good feeling.”

“Dead people can’t clean graves!” Zachery said.

“What a pity,” Mason said. “If you had known that an hour ago you could have saved yourself all that trouble. Are you ready to go?”

And with that, the two of them vanished from sight.