Ghost Stories

Ghost stories abound at this time of year. Fall is a time of death, really, as trees shed their leaves and frost kills what is left in the gardens. Night comes early and the chill, damp air lifts fog from the valleys to cover the land with an ethereal glow. It's a time for drawing in, hunkering down, shuttering the windows, stoking the fire and contemplating the end of life we all face at some time.

Why are there so many ghost stories? What gives this particular type of tale its longevity and popularity? The answers are as varied as the tales themselves. In West Virginia, we have many such tales, from vanishing hitchhikers to malevolent peddlers to crying ghost babies. The degree of "hauntedness" varies. Some are fragments, really, a mere whisper of a tale or piece of memory passed down as a "they say" story. Others are well-known, documented in books and occasionally on film or in photos.

My interest in ghost stories started as a child when my parents told us the story of the haunted house in Royston, England, where they had an apartment as newlyweds. Add to that the big old house in Manassas where we lived when I was a child, with its chipping plaster walls, spooky basement and Civil War relics in the yard, and my fertile imagination was well supplied. When I moved to West Virginia, however, I found that I had moved to the mother lode of ghost stories. It seemed like every place in the state had a story connected with it. In my own county, I heard almost a dozen stories of haunted places or events.

As I learned more about my new home, I found books by Ruth Ann Musick, collections of ghost stories from around the state. Many were vague, others were more developed with names and specific locations. The stories grabbed me because they were told by ordinary people living their ordinary lives--except there were these weird things that had happened that they knew about and were willing to share.

I wondered why we had so many ghosts in this state. Was it because of the valley fogs that can look pretty spooky in the evening light? Was it that people who live here just have more active imaginations than people in other places? Did it have to do with the ancestry and cultural background of West Virginians? Did religion play a role?

I've come to the conclusion that it is all of the above. We are a state of storytellers, as you would know if you stood in line at any grocery store. We talk to strangers and we talk in stories. West Virginians tend to be a religious people too, and ghost stories often carry lessons of forgiveness, retribution, unrest because of a grave sin, or warnings to listen to elders. We're imaginative--some of my posts recently demonstrate the imaginative and creative minds of our residents: the plane van and the big eye, for example!

Our heritage here is Scottish, English, Irish and German predominantly, but with a good helping of Italian and a seasoning of Polish, Russian, African-American, and many other nationalities. British folklore, particularly that of Ireland, includes revenants of all kinds, along with both little people and giants. Some of those tales were simply transplanted and adapted to a new environment. The German tales also moved to the mountains, with their often darker themes.

Then there is our environment: towering dark mountains, deep shadowy hollows, evening and early morning fogs, the intense quiet broken only the falling leaves, an owl's call, the cry of some unnamed night creature. All lend themselves to a sense of the supernatural, of someone or something watching, lurking, in the dark and hidden places along our roads.

On this Halloween, take some time to travel into the countryside. Find a quiet place, stop your car, get out and listen. You too may find, even if you are not in West Virginia, that there is something in the air that sends a shiver down your spine, and has you looking over your shoulder. You may go home with your own tale to tell.

I've posted many ghost stories here in the past 3 years. Here are a few you may want to go back and read:

My most recent ghost story was written from a prompt in a newspaper article.

The story my parents told about their haunted house in England.

A couple of ghostly poems; and here is another. And a classic from Thomas Hardy.

Ghost story and comedy, all in one! The Gatehouse Ghost story is a true story that happened to me.

Links to other ghostly information.

Strange photos we took at the old Moundsville State Penitentiary, which now does ghost tours.

Raw Head, Bloody Bones was a look into the background of this chilling tale used to scare little children.

A recipe for Bony Fingers? Why not?

Jump Tales for Halloween--just the bare bones, but easy to develop for telling.

West Virginia's most famous ghost story, The Greenbrier Ghost. This is on my new CD Beyond the Grave both as a ballad and a story. (Yes, I finally found a melody for it)

A ghostly tale from Rowlesburg, West Virginia.

The Wizard Clipp, another famous story in our state. Another one that's on my new CD.

How to keep the haints away from your house--timely tips!

Short tale, easy to tell.

I've written about the "why" of ghost stories before; this older post contains a good booklist.

A true story of something that happened to me. It still gives me shivers to remember it.

One of the stories from Jackson County, Sidna is a tale I often tell. It's on the CD!

A story told to me by a young girl, this story is on my new CD too.

Want a copy of my new CD, Beyond the Grave; Ghost Stories and Ballads from the Mountains?

Email me at susannaholstein@yahoo.com and I can tell you purchase details.

Mill Creek Hunter

I posted this story last year but thought I'd share it again as the season is perfect for it:

The boys loved to coonhunt. They put on their camouflage jackets, grabbed flashlights, called to their dogs and were in the woods as the sun set.

Sunup struck scent immediately and tore off through the underbrush along Mill Creek.

“Where’s he goin’?” John Junior asked.

“Cain’t rightly see, but he’s on the creekbank.” Harl was stocky, broad and strong. His jacket bulged at the shoulders and his boots were at least size twelve. At thirteen, he promised to be a big man in time.

“Watch yore step through this piece. I tripped up in a hole along about here last time, ruined any chance at a coon for sure. All that noise, and Bub hollering because he thought something got me.” John Junior chuckled at the memory. “He’s okay, but he sure is a scaredy cat.”

The boys were quiet for a while, intent on making their way through the downed tree branches, briers and thistles that lined the creekbank. Far ahead they could hear Sunup singing treed.

“Cain’t see a thing in this blamed dark,” Harl complained. “Might as well have a mask over my eyes.” John Junior grunted in agreement as he lost his footing and fell hard on a poplar log that was invisible under twining grapevines. He got up, checked his light and stepped over the log, giving a kick for good measure.

Ahead, Sunup’s singing turned to excited yips and howls. The boys picked up their pace, driven by the dog’s apparent excitement.

“He ain’t singing treed,” Harl observed. “Wonder what he’s after? A mink, maybe?”

“Could be,” John Junior muttered. “Fool dog. I’ve trained him and trained him, but he forgets himself sometimes. Could be an old burger wrapper for all I know.” He was embarrassed by his dog’s lack of control. Even the best breeding could go wrong, it seemed. Sunup’s mother was a Grand Champion at the state meet, and his daddy was a Grand Champion too, over in Missouri. You’d think their son would know a coon from a burger wrapper, but Sunup could get off scent by the darnedest things.

The boys rounded a bend in the creek and shone their lights through the night mist that rose from the creek. Sunup’s eyes glared in the sudden light, and they could see his hackles raised and his white, shining teeth as he barked and barked at something just off to their right. What was it? The boys swung their lights in the direction of the dog’s bark and peered into the darkness beyond the lanterns’ beams.

“What is it, boy? You got a bear cornered over there?” There had been a bear sighted along the creek last week, Harl recalled. A big one, maybe 600 pounds. His neck hair prickled as he strained his eyes to see what the dog was seeing.

“John Junior? You see anything?” John Junior didn’t reply, and Harl glanced at his friend to see what he was doing.

John Junior was frozen in place. His face was stretched into a scream but no sound came from his mouth. His hand was raised and one finger pointed off into the blackness behind Harl.

“What the he…” Harl swung around quickly. Then he too froze in place.

Standing at the edge of the light circle was a black dog. A huge black dog with powerful chest and forelegs. The rest of the dog’s body was shrouded in darkness, but his strong neck was completely visible.

“Where…where…is his h-h-head?” John Junior whispered. “Do you see his head, Harl?”

Harl stared. “No. I don’t see it. There ain’t a head. That dog ain’t got a head!”

John Junior jerked as if waking from a bad dream. “Come on! Let’s get out of here!” He stumbled on a root but righted himself and streaked by Harl. Sunup was right behind John Junior, his tail tucked under his body and his ears flat to his head.

“Wait for me!” Harl yelled, as he streaked after his friend. Behind him he heard an unearthly sound, the sound of a hound howling as if he’d treed ten coons. The sound came closer and closer as the boys ran. The patter of following feet echoed in the midnight woods, louder than the pounding feet of the running boys.

John Junior stopped in his tracks, panting. “It’s coming! Quick! Up this tree!” He shinnied up the tree like a squirrel, and Harl, for all his bulk, was close behind. “Hurry! He might not see us!”

The boys climbed and clawed up the tree, then stopped when they were eight feet up to listen. Sunup was still baying and running, far ahead on the trail and heading for home. But the other dog, the one with no head. It stopped at the base of the tree.

Slowly, slowly the dog circled the tree. It stretched its body as far up the tree trunk as it could reach. A smell, the smell of long dead flesh, assailed the cowering boys’ nostrils. “I’m going to be sick,” Harl whispered.

“Shhh!” John Junior hissed. “Be still. And be quiet, for God’s sake!”

The dog below heard them. They could tell by the way its headless neck swayed as if looking up. There were no eyes, and yet they could feel the dog looking right at them as they huddled in the tree.

“Go away! Git!” John Junior shouted suddenly. “Leave us alone! Git, you hound of Satan!”

A snarl rose from the dog’s throat, so loud it shook the tree. The dog clawed at the tree trunk and hollow, ghostly barking echoed from the hills above the creek.

“Geez! Look what you did! He’s going to climb up after us!” Harl’s voice shook and tears streaked down his cheeks. “Why’d you do that? Geez, you’ve made him really mad! Look! Look! He’s climbing the tree! Oh momma, save us!” Blubbering, Harl hid his face in his shirt and cried.

“Shut up, you big ninny! He can’t climb this tree! He’s a…a…ghost dog. Ghosts can’t climb, can they?”

“I don’t know. I ain’t never met one before,” Harl hissed, ashamed at his own tears. “What are we gonna do?”

“We’re going to stay right here. Got any better ideas? You could go down and scare him off, of course.”

‘Heck no!” Harl’s eyes were so wide-stretched John Junior could see them glistening in the dark. “You go down, John Junior. I’m a-staying right where I am.”

John Junior looked down at the headless dog. “Nope. I ain’t going. Sunup! Sunup! Git ‘im, Sunup!” Far off in the night, they could hear Sunup still baying, but the sound grew fainter and fainter. Below, the ghost dog continued to circle the tree, snuffling and growling. The tree swayed with the weight of the boys, and a dead branch cracked loose and crashed to the ground. The dog did not flinch even though the branch broke across its back.

All night the dog circled. All night the boys struggled to stay awake and hold on to the tree. A strong wind lifted the dead leaves in a whirlwind, and the tree swayed in the breeze. Slowly, slowly, Harl could feel the tree begin to list to the north, and he could hear the roots popping loose from the earth below. The dog snarled and grinned and kept its place beside the bending trunk.

“John Junior, this tree is gonna fall! Can’t you feel it?”

“I can feel it. Hold on, Harl. That’s all we can do.” John Junior’s voice sounded far away. Faint. The wind surged, the tree shivered and bent.

A glimmer of light struck Harl’s face, blinding him with its intensity. He squinted to see what it was. The sun! It was the sun! Morning was coming!

“John Junior! John Junior! Look! The sun is coming up!” Harl looked down and saw his friend’s body hanging limply against the tree’s trunk. “Wake up, man! It’s morning! Where is that dog now?”

Looking down, Harl saw the black dog far below. The dog knew he was looking; it whimpered, tucked its tail under its body and vanished like smoke in the sun’s streaming rays.

‘John Junior? You okay?” Harl clambered down the tree and shook his friend. John Junior’s head lolled back, his eyes rolled back into their sockets. Harl swung his hand hard and slapped his friend’s face with a smacking blow. “John! Man, what’s the matter with you?”

John Junior’s head quivered, then slowly raised and stared at Harl. “Hey man. What did you do that for?”

Harl stared at him. “Let’s get out of here, my friend. Let’s get out of here, and let’s never come back again. Agreed?”

“Whatever you say,” John Junior agreed. “I don’t see what the big deal is, though. Why are we up in this tree anyways? It’s not the best place I ever spent the night, you know. And where is Sunup? Sunup! Sunup! Here boy!”

As the sun stretched its arms across the sky, the boys slid down the tree and limped up the path. Sunup was sound asleep under the porch at home.

Back in the woods along the creek, a shadowy shape blended into the shadows under the brush and disappeared. Until the next time.

This story is based on a Jackson County (West Virginia) legend of a black, headless dog that has supposedly been seen over the years in the Tug Fork area of the county, along the banks of Mill Creek.

c Susanna Holstein 10.21.2008

Storytelling Road Trip: Alabama Here We Come

We'll be on the road for the next two days, telling ghost stories at the Athens, Alabama Storytelling Festival.

But not to worry! I have several posts lined up to publish while I'm away. I think you'll find the one for Halloween especially fun, as it includes links to ALL the ghost story posts I've written over the past several years that I have been keeping this blog.

You can bet we'll be back with lots of pictures and stories to share. it has been a long time since I've traveled south and I am looking forward to the adventure.

See you soon!

Wordless Wednesday: Morning at Tygart

The Amazing Trestle and a Ghost Story

I have seen and photographed this trestle before. It is located between Grafton and Philippi, West Virginia, and is on a rail line that is still in use. It soars many feet above the marshy valley below, curving as it makes its way from one hill to the next. I do not know any history of this stretch of rail or why it was decided to build the long trestle instead of descending to the valley floor, unless the marsh just made that an impractical option.

The early morning fog provided ethereal light for photos of the marching, massive pylons on which the trestle depends.

Before we left, I stopped to listen and soak in the morning. Birdsong I did not recognize filled the air, perhaps from water birds hidden in the marsh. This area is the Pleasants Creek Wildlife Management Area and I wondered if birdwatchers often came here to listen and to spot the shy inhabitants.

This last photo is so ghostly that it calls out for a "haint" tale. A railroad story seems especially fitting, don't you think? This story is based on a small suggestion of a story in the Weirton, WV newspaper last week. Sometimes when the story is so sketchy, a storyteller has to imagine what might have happened, which is what I have done in the following tale.

In a small coal town in West Virginia, a young man walked along the tracks at night, on his way home from a late night of overtime at the mines. Jim could have walked by road, but the railroad tracks were a direct path to his house, which was located only a few hundred feet from the passing tracks. Often the rumble of the trains would rattle the windows of his home, and sometimes a dish would fall and shatter in the kitchen.

Jim didn't mind the noise and shaking too much, because the trains meant coal was being shipped out and that was a good thing. It meant job security and a secure home for his family. As long as he didn't get hurt, that is. He carried the danger of working in the mine in the back of his mind always and was diligent about following any safety procedures he could to help prevent any accident that might leave him injured or, worse, dead.

This night, he was bone tired. His shoulders slumped as if carrying the weight of tons of black coal on them. His clothes were black with coal dust, and so was his face and his hands. He trudged homeward, mulling over the shift he had just worked and wondering who had called off sick so he'd had to work over. Not that he minded. Overtime was good money, and Jim was always glad to get it.

He never heard the train approach. Perhaps his mind was so busy with its own thoughts, or maybe he was so tired he walked in his sleep. By the time the engineer saw the young man, it was too late. Pulling the brake with all his might, the engineer shouted, "Get off the tracks! get off the tracks!" as if the young man would hear him over the screaming of metal of metal.

There was no thud, no sound at all when the train struck Jim, flinging his body far out into the darkness beyond the tracks. The train's crew jumped off as soon as the train stopped, and soon found the young man's lifeless body. Two little children and a young mother were left alone that night.

Years later, another man walking home along the tracks saw someone moving ahead of him. The walker looked tired and his clothing was filthy with coal dust. The rumble of an approaching train warned Henry to get off the tracks, but the walker ahead of him continued to walk on, oblivious of the train. In horror, Henry saw the train strike the walker and saw the man's body fly off into the darkness. The train never slowed.

Henry ran into the station to report what he had seen, but the clerk saw his face and said, "Don't worry. he's not really there. That's just young Jim, walking home to his family again. He's been doing that every year on this day--same time when he was hit and killed by a train. You're not the first to see him and you won't be the last."

Henry thought about Jim every day after that night. He could not get the sight of the train hitting the young man out of his mind. The following year, he returned to the tracks on the anniversary of Jim's death. He waited by the tracks and watched the trains rush by. Around midnight he saw once again the tired, slumped shoulders of Jim in his coal-stained clothing walking ahead of him along the tracks.

This time Henry rushed ahead, screaming, "Get off the tracks! Get off the tracks! The train is coming!" The walker turned and the man saw a skeletal, haggard face. He fell back in fright, but continued to yell, "The train is coming! The train is coming!"

The walker seemed to shake himself, as if waking, and jumped from the tracks just as the train rushed past. As Henry watched, the walker faded from sight. Young Jim had been saved at last, and he was never seen again.

Want more?

The story of Screaming Jenny comes from the Harper's Ferry region of West Virginia, where many ghosts reportedly are still in residence.

From Marion County, WV comes the story of a young man traveled to Texas to discover a ghost train instead of the relative he expected to meet.

Probably the most widely known railroad ghost in West Virginia, The Silver Run Tunnel ghost is one that trainmen still talk about.

Author Extravaganza and Grafton Night Life

The Author Extravaganza (don't you love that name?) at the Bridgeport Library was an interesting event. Each participating author had a table to display (and hopefully sell) their work. Each author also was given a 30-minute time slot to present, read, interpret, etc from their work. The library staff obviously gave much thought to the event, decorating tables, making food and beverages, planning the schedule, inviting media and promoting to library patrons. Turnout was good for a first-time event. I was so busy I took only one photo:

This is Debra Conner, portraying a History Alive personality. The audience was larger than the photo shows, and Ms. Conner's presentation was done very well.

Larry snapped this shot of Terry McNemar, president of West Virginia Writers, Inc. (of which I am a card-carrying member) and me as we were deep in discussion. There were children's activities and presenters all day too.

My presentation was at 3pm and I knew I needed to leave around 4 to get to Grafton and be prepared for the evening storytelling event. As we were preparing to pack up a few people asked me to wait--they wanted to buy something! I'd sold only one CD all day, not surprising given the economy; no one else was selling much either, it seemed, except for the two children's authors. So of course I waited and by the end of 30 minutes I'd sold quite a few items. Nice!

The storytelling at Tygart Lake was for a fundraiser for the Tygart Lake State Park Foundation. I was the first event, to be followed by a Haunted Hayride sponsored by the Grafton Fire Department and then refreshments. Since it threatened rain, I was inside the rec center. There was an overflow crowd when I arrived and people kept coming. It got so crowded that many stood outside and listened. I'd say the event was a huge success, and I hope they do it again next year (and invite me!). I have no photos because I had the camera up front and Larry was in the back and there was no way to get to him. One of my biggest pleasures of the day was meeting a man who reads this blog every day, and his friend. They were interesting people and I hope we cross paths again.

I sold a few CDs and gave away a few of he leftover advance copies I'd made for the Book Festival to a few of the children who were there. Some of them had heard me earlier in the week at the WV Storytelling Festival at Jackson's Mill. This time, they heard ghost stories! I was glad to have a chance to try out a new story and a new ballad, The Cruel Ship's Carpenter.

After storytelling we made our way to the Grafton 1-2-3 to meet son #4, Aaron, and his family for some live music and conversation. The food at the 1-2-3 is excellent--the bread is homemade and the coffee is the best I have had anywhere, including Seattle. It was good to see owner MK and her family again too.

Michaela had her 7th birthday party earlier in the day, a Princess Party; she and Jaime were both pretty tired but I am glad we were able to get together.

When we left the 1-2-3, I snapped a photo of the exterior and my, my do we have orbs! Grafton haunted, you think? Those who believe in orbs would certainly argue in favor of that.

As we left, I told Larry I wanted to take photos of the trainyard at night. Grafton was in its day a railroad hub and was significant in the Civil War. The trainyard is still in use, and at night it's a ghostly place. But as we pulled down the hill, a colorful local guy asked if we could aim our lights on the painted wall so he could make out who painted it. We talked with him and I took a few photos of the wall too--it's quite a sight. Apparently there had been a decrepit building on the site and it was torn down, exposing the old logos on the wall.

We went down an alley, turned this corner,

and there were the trains, steam rising from them into the darkness. (more orbs, you'll notice)

Tomorrow I'll post about our trip home, and we'll talk about ghosts. This train kinda looks like a ghost train actually....

Falling Homeward

A photo journey of the drive home:

Cornered

The (only) straight stretch

Over the hill...

and down the road

cat on a wet tin roof

Up the pole bar hill

the cut-off road (cuts around the side of the pole bar hill. The cut-off road was made in the horse and wagon days to avoid taking loads over the hill in winter, but it's very muddy because of a spring that runs into it.)

Bejeweled trees

one more hill

and down the other side to where our driveway will turn immediately to the right.

We're home!

Ghost Stories and Author Extravaganza

We're home again after a full day yesterday of ghost storytelling at Tygatrt Lake's Haunted Hayride, meeting other WV authors and selling books and tapes at the Bridgeport Library's Author Extravaganza, and spending the evening listening to live music at the Grafton 1-2-3. We stayed overnight at Tygart Lake's beautiful lodge. We're tired and need to unpack, but boy was that a great day!

Pics coming tomorrow. And Don, thanks for de-lurking and introducing yourself. We enjoyed talking with you.

Jackson's Mill Images

On our last day of the West Virginia Storytelling Festival, I was up early (for reasons I may write about later) and decided to take a morning walk. the sun was just coming up on the hills, but in the valley only peeps of the day to come were visible.

This photo of the McWhorter Cabin reflects in the duck pond, with the early sun just visible on the hills behind it. According to the Jackson's Mill website: "The hewn-log McWhorter Cabin measures 18 feet by 24 feet and is markedly different from modern-day log houses because its chimney is built inside the walls as protection from Indian attacks. An outside chimney could conceivably be knocked in, exposing a gaping hole and rendering the occupants defenseless. McWhorter and his family lived in this cabin for 37 years, during which time it served a variety of functions including post office, church, and meeting house." The cabin was not actually built on this property; it was moved here in 1927 as an example of early pioneer architecture.

The lovely West Fork River sends up a thin fog in the morning cold--it had dropped below freezing the night before, leaving a thin coat of ice on my car windshield.

Jackson's Mill sits at the confluence of Sycamore Lick and the West Fork River. Again, from the Jackson's Mill website: "The mill on the West Fork River was established by Colonel Edward Jackson, a Revolutionary War figure, in 1801. Three generations of Jacksons operated grist and saw mills at this site. "

I am grateful to the people who had the foresight to protect historic sites such as this. Often in my travels I see where an old mill once stood, but the only traces of its existence might be stone foundations or a dam in the creek. This mill still stands due to the efforts of a diligent few who understood its importance in history.

On the grounds of the historic area, a wagon stands as if ready to do a day's work. Next to it is a small corn crib.

Today the mill that is in operation regularly to grind corn and wheat is Blaker's Mill, originally built in Greenbrier County and moved many years later to Jackson's Mill. The mill was donated by a descendant of the Blaker family, and was put into service at Jackson's Mill in 1993. Another example of people with vision and a sense of history.

The two cabins, the McWhorter Cabin and the Mary Conrad Cabin sit silently side by side as the sun begins to melt the morning frost.

It was a perfect morning for a walk. The quiet around the old buildings seemed to be filled with the voices of the past, telling their stories to those who come to listen. Sometimes a tour guide is not necessary; our imaginations can tell us the tales of what we see.

Jackson's Mill Storytelling Photos

I only have a few from this week's festival, and none of me telling, but here's an idea of what it was like:

Pre-performance, all set up in the Assembly Hall and waiting on the buses to arrive.

Adam Booth telling to a packed house in the Assembly Hall. This is a beautiful building; the walls are entirely made of wormy chestnut wood. It was recently restored with state-of-the-art technology installed. The old and new work together quite well.

Dave Parker, the festival organizer, and me on Day 1. He's a fun guy, a musician who also has a good grasp of organizing events.

The end! The West Virginia Building is empty after the last session, only the echo of voices and stories left in the air (and a few orbs...).

Ahhh! My reward at the end of the day was this "medium" black cherry ice cream cone. Medium??? It was huge! And absolutely delicious. I found it at a neat little restaurant in Camden Station on the way home. A stop to remember. Would you believe $1,89 for this?

The Jackson's Mill Cemetery

Across the road from Jackson's Mill is a small cemetery. The stones told me this burial place had been here for some time. Although I've visited Jackson's Mill many times in the past 12 years, I had not taken the time to visit the small plot and pay respects to those sleeping there.


One of the first things I saw was this young sassafras growing on a woman's grave. It was obvious that the family who tended the grave had purposely left the seedling in place and let it grow. Perhaps their relative had like sassafras tea? I would like such a tree near my grave, I think, with its strong flavorful aroma and rich colored roots and autumn leaves. Yes, definitely a good plant to have nearby.


An older grave decorated a small flag in one corner of the graveyard attracted my attention.

This was an old grave indeed, for a soldier who fought in the Revolutionary War. He must have

been a very young man at the time--he would have been 17 in 1776. And passed away on Christmas Day. What must that have been like for his family? He did not live to see, however, the fame and tragedy of his young grandson--

Stonewall Jackson, the Confederate general renowned for his bravery, tactics and eccentric ways.

This pair of gravestones were beautiful. I did not note the names on the stones, but the verse on the smaller says "Asleep in Jesus, Blessed sleep, From which none, Ever wake to weep." Touching and pretty much to the point.

On another stone, I found the following verse:

I hope someone has strewn the lilies for this lady. How beautiful a sentiment.

As I left the cemetery, I noticed the stone steps still solid and strong after so many years in place, even if a bit worn. My shadow stretched long across them.

In this place of eternal sleepers, a tiny fern or two find a footing in the old stone. Life continues as nature goes its way of planting new growth in the most unlikely places.