In 2013, I defended Halloween as a fun and harmless holiday. In 2014, I talked about some of my favorite scary movies and how they got surprisingly theological. But what will I do for 2015? All the arguments have been argued. All the movies have been movied. I’m certainly not going to do a Pinterest-y post about my favorite Halloween decorations just so y’all can post your “Nailed It” pictures on November 1st.
Instead of all that—would you settle for a ghost story?
Gather ‘round, children. Stir the fire please. Hand an old woman her shawl, that’s a good girl. Now listen close.
It was long, long ago. So long, in fact, that the events of that night have faded to mere legend. It was 2003—yes, such a far-gone time existed—and the ancient 32-year-old coot you see before you was barely 20. I was a beautiful brave maiden out late at night with a suitor. To protect the innocent, we’ll give him a pseudonym, something dashing and valiant and worthy of such a legendary tale…how about “George”?
It was Friday. Friday nights in our small college town were slow. You made your own fun. George and I decided that our version of fun meant star-gazing—in a cemetery.
George had a thing for cemeteries. Besides being the setting for most of his favorite nightmares, they also reminded him of mortality, of the brief candle of life and how quickly it snuffs out and how very much we need to carpe diem and all that. So we found ourselves in cemeteries often, perusing gravestones like creepers and making memories that we didn’t realize would sound so weird when retold on blogs 12 years later. Anyway, on this particular night, we got there late and picked through the gravestones at a snail’s pace. We’d brought a blanket for stargazing, and popcorn for snacking.
We found a somewhat clear spot where there weren’t quite so many deceased per capita and set up shop. It was a grassy spot between the stones with a narrow gravel drive just to our right, and beyond that, a couple of trees stood among the graves. We could see their black outlines against the blue-black velvet of the sky. Then we laid back, ate our popcorn, and saw nothing but stars for an hour. It was February; we huddled in our coats and exchanged shivery kisses and waited for a shooting star that never came.
At one point, we spilled popcorn on the blanket. I didn’t fancy popcorn with fleece fuzz in it, so we tossed it out into the grass. “Here, ghosties!” George laughed. “A snack for you.”
Not even two minutes later, he said in a voice that was halfway between joking and tense, “I, uh, was just kidding.”
“What?” I said.
“I made that joke about giving the ghosts popcorn, and right after that, I started seeing this weird light by the tree.”
He pointed toward the trees. They were close; the distance between us and them was about two house-lengths. In the relatively clear cemetery, they were easy to see.
“I don’t see lights,” I said.
“No, they’re not there all the time, they flash on and off.”
From our perspective, lying on the ground looking at the tree, we could see the backyards of a neighborhood beyond the cemetery. I assumed he was seeing a flashlight in someone’s back yard that, seen from our vantage point, looked like it was right next to the tree. I went back to stargazing.
“Seriously, Rachel,” he said after a minute.
I glanced at the tree, only half paying attention this time. Let it be known that I was extremely skeptical about ghosts, apparitions, poltergeists, Tommyknockers, haints, restless spirits, residual energy, aliens, Bigfoot, and spontaneous human combustion—heck, I wasn’t even sure I believed in WiFi half the time. Life had enough unsolved mysteries as it was; I could barely figure out what my hair would do from day to day, let alone worry about the scientific rationale behind unearthly visitations.
But George persisted, claiming to see the lights no less than three times before I finally, with an exasperated huff, turned my head and caught a glimpse.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is the only time I will ever put these words about a former suitor in print, so eat it up now: He was right.
There were lights under that tree.
The first thing I saw was a thin red light. It almost looked like a laser beam from some sci-fi movie. About the length of my arm, this red beam shot down from the tree like an arrow loosed from a bow. It hit the ground and flashed. Tombstones I hadn’t noticed beneath the tree jumped into view for a split-second, backlit against the red.
“What the…” I sat up. “That was weird.”
“I told you,” George said.
We both faced the tree now. The light appeared again. Zap, down from the tree in a thin red line, then a flash against tombstones.
My mind tried to make sense of it. Power lines bordered the graveyard and sometimes a red shine ran down them from the taillights of passing cars. But unless there was a power line from the tree branch down to the ground—and unless it was an invisible car that had parked and was flashing its taillights right next to the graves I could clearly see—that wasn’t the explanation.
“Could it be someone’s laser pointer in one of those back yards?” I said, knowing full well that a laser pointer could not make a red beam the thickness of a broomstick travel suspended through the air out of a tree and then explode in light against gravestones. The most unnerving detail about this light was its utter silence. I was used to zaps and flashes being accompanied by thunder (or, in the movies, the sound of a space gun). But we didn’t hear one sound.
George started to say something, but I hushed him, for a new light appeared. Yellowish-white, it glowed like Tinker Bell from the old Disney cartoon, but much larger, about the size of a football. It materialized out of nowhere in the tree branches, glided lazily to the side about a foot, then disappeared into thin air.
“I—” I could not finish my sentence. There was no sentence to finish. What sentence could possibly explain a giant Tinker Bell and a silent laser beam?
The red lights kept up. George was tense beside me. Dying of curiosity, I prepared to jump up. “Let’s go see!” I said.
“No way! We should get out of here!”
I stopped, dumbfounded, and we looked at each other. Fear hadn’t yet occurred to me. I was still certain of a rational explanation, sure that it would be obvious if we just walked up to the tree. Oh, of course! A laser pointer, a tiny midget hiding behind the graves with a strobe light, and a glowing crystal ball hanging in the tree! Duh! But George, with his stronger belief in supernatural apparitions, was tensed to spring away like a rabbit, ready to grab the popcorn, the blanket, and apparently me if necessary.
“I don’t know what it is, and that’s exactly why we shouldn’t go over there,” he said. “We need to get in the car and go, right now.”
Flustered, I let him pull me away, gazing back at the tree and its surely-scientific secrets. But the closer we got to the car, the more nervous I got. Whether George wore off on me or the rest of my brain kicked in I’m not sure, but I power-walked to the car, hurried up with the key, peeled out of that cemetery, did 57 down a 30 mph road, and jolted to a stop in my parents’ driveway.
Over the next few hours we talked about what happened, including the rush of terrified adrenaline we both felt as we drove from the cemetery. I was still confused on how much of that was really me and how much of it was George’s contagious nerves. One thing was certain: we still had no idea what we’d actually seen.
A return trip to the cemetery in the daylight gave no useful evidence regarding what might have caused the lights. I looked at the tree from every angle to see if anything in the background could have created a light that, at night, gave the optical illusion of being right among the graves. I returned to that cemetery at least once a year, often with friends for a fresh set of eyes. We came in daylight; we came at night. No one who visited could ever suggest a natural occurrence that matched my descriptions. We never saw the lights again.
Eventually, they cut the tree down.
For years I harbored a vague, nostalgic sort of anger at George about that night. The mystery was never solved. I was two house lengths from the lights, would have needed two minutes for a closer look, but will spend the rest of my life wondering. When I recount the tale (and trust me, I have, so frequently my friends wish I’d get new material), I always make sure to mention George’s role in thwarting my investigation.
Recently, though, I’ve realized how grateful I am that the questions remain unanswered, and here’s why:
How much fun would the story really be if we’d solved the mystery?
More than likely, any rational explanation would have been boring-with-a-capital-B. Would I be telling this story twelve years later if, say, it was a laser pointer in someone’s back yard? (Which I maintain it absolutely could not have been). If it had been a prank by bored teenagers, would I even remember the incident nowadays, or would I still be struggling for material on this year’s Halloween post?
The only alternative to a boring end would have been if we’d really found something supernatural, in which case I would not be here because I would have been eaten and digested long ago by whatever terrible forces haunted that poor tree. So I have George to thank for that too, hypothetically.
(One friend thinks I saw ball lightning, which would be a cool explanation but still carry a distinct danger factor, so I guess I’m indebted to George three times over, dagnabbit!)
So the mystery remains, to be told on other days to other friends who pretend not to have heard it twice already. Now, children, it’s getting toward this old woman’s bed time. Be careful on your walk home. Mind your footing.
And if you pass any cemeteries, whatever you do…don’t drop your popcorn.
**This account, while containing some dramatized dialogue, is a true telling of my experience in a graveyard in February of 2003 in southern Illinois. The mystery remains unsolved.**
