After work today, I sped downtown to visit the oldest cemetery in the area for some fun camera action. High-rise buildings and apartment s run along its property line that has shrunk over the years. The local council figures that a few disturbed graves wasn’t that big of a deal. The plush green grass was littered with family plots and row upon row of unknown confederate soldiers. I felt as though I was journeying through time, as I passed plots and tombs. Peace overwhelmed my mind, whilst surveying the unique markings on each tombstone and cross.
While staring at the markings on a large marble stone, I overheard laughing and childish giggling. I whirled around to find absolutely nothing. It had been humid and tepid all afternoon, almost like swamp weather in the middle of June. But, for some reason, I was chilled to the bone and troubled by the sounds. After all, I was in the middle of a two-hundred year old graveyard at sunset.
Cemeteries are fascinating places to visit, but I leave when the sun sets. I’m not really scared of the dead, as much as I am the living. You know, those blood-sucking weirdoes that hang out in graveyards. I’m not implying that you Wiccans, Pagans, and Goths do such things, just those brainsick Satan worshipers. 
Anyhow, there I was, surveying the landscape for the living dead or worse. It happened again, but this time, I could make out that they were singing a rhyme, although I was not sure which. It was very faint, yet I could follow it, as Georgia hound dogs follow the scent of a Bear.
Cautiously, I followed the melody and giggling. I was led in one way or another to a plot all to its self. I was utterly shocked and bewildered at what I was shown. Lying by its lonesome, a stone read, “Two Little Children, Names Unknown, Found in Old Vault, 1912”.
In some sort of bewildered state, I sat down alongside the stone, stared at the inscription, and pondered why someone would bury their child without a marker. In depth, I pondered:
Who were these children? Who were their parents? Did they have parents given the chaos of the civil war? Did the parents have any other children that perhaps had children of their own that could claim the remains? Did they starve? What happened to them? Why didn’t someone in 1912 try to find the answers? Was their family poor? Did their father or fathers fight in the civil war? Do they belong to the same family?
These are the things I ponder, when I see an unmarked grave. It’s like going through life without a name. I mean, surely you wouldn’t want everyone calling you, “You”, would you? I have a feeling that they would have told me their story, if I had stayed longer. I got spooked when the wind picked up, and I discovered the screech of an owl. If I had to guess, I’d say they are a boy and girl, between the ages of six and nine. But, I didn’t ask! I may listen, but I’ll never ever talk to spectres! Some may go as far as to imply that the so-called ghost of children was really demons trying to lure me into their trap.
I reckon this qualifies for Phoctober, don’t you?
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I love the feelings, memories and whispers evoked by cemetries… Great shots, JD, you’ve captured so much in a single frame.
By the way, I finally put up my “column” pics.
PS did you let Moon Topples know that you’re phoctobering so he can link back to you?
It does indeed qualify. As does the nocturnal goodness of the previous post. Links are established within the latest Phoctober post over at mine. Some truly wonderful photographs here. I’m very grateful that you’ve decided to take part.
Great pics as usual JD. What’s with the internet at the moment . . .it’s gone all spooky and ethereal!
I felt really sad about that little tombstone with nobody to say who they were bless their souls. There’s a whole other story postulating who they might have been and why they ended up where they did.
Thanks for the kind words. I love the columns, Vanilla.
MT, thank you for linking to me. I love your photographs as well.
Baino, I agree!!!
There’s a book hidden not only in every cemetery but every plot as well! Heck even the finite cracks in the tombstones themselves have a story to tell. For that matter, even the grass has its own story to tell. So much to write about…so little time!!!
I’m really sorry everyone for not replying sooner. I’ve been swamped at work and at school! It’s been a hectic start to a long week.
Spooky!… Great piece, Jefferson. I very much enjoyed reading it and even felt a chill.
The pictures, too, are excellent. I wonder about that tomb – strange, sad, heartbreaking…
Psst, you’ve been awarded the “nice” award
Thank you a whole bunch, Vanilla.
Hi Jefferson,
It seems that the comment I had posted here a few days ago got lost. Well…
I was expressing my appreciation for your writing and your photographs. Both very good, indeed!
It saddens me to think of those two children. Who knows what the story behind that tombstone is…
All the best,
Vesper
Vesper, thank you very much. I’m sorry about the comments. The automatic comment moderator held your comments. I didn’t realise it until this evening. Thanks again, and I hope you’ll comment in the future.