The Legend of Amelia LeGrande

I hunch in my chair watching wisps of white vapor curl around the gravestones in my home video taken tonight. The room is darkened but for the images flickering on my computer screen. I hear my best friend Jerod whispering and muttering on the day bed. I don't dare rouse his troubled sleep or turn on the desk lamp. I know the name he is repeating like some freakish mantra: Amelia.

So I keep my eyes attentive to the screen and attempt to make myself as small as possible in my chair. My ears tune in to the smallest sound both outside and downstairs. A breeze stirs the yellowed autumn leaves of the ancient apple tree in my backyard. The skeletal shadows of its limbs would be crawling about the walls of my room if the moon had not ducked beneath cloud cover.

Sleep will escape me until dawn breaks. I am the watchman over Jerod's life and my own.

For the thousandth time this night, I curse myself for my foolish conversation with Jerod yesterday.

He whimpers like a month-old puppy in his sleep. His fearful murmurings make the hair stand up on my arms and neck. If only I hadn't taunted him . . .

Jerod and I were eating our lunch outside on the high school steps. I was sharing particularly interesting sections of the Lake Shettamo Daily Chronicle out loud.

"Listen to this." I rustled the paper and swallowed a bite of my sandwich. "A group of five Lake Shettamo High School students were detained for questioning Saturday morning after knocking on several doors after midnight in the 400 block of Willow Street. Preliminary reports indicate the teens were frightened after having paid a visit to Lake Shettamo Cemetery. The cemetery is rumored to be haunted with the spirit of Amelia LeGrande, a young woman who reportedly died in the early 1900's from surgical complications. It goes on to tell where in the cemetery past sightings have taken place."

"Trick or treat is early this year, I guess."

"No, Jerod. I've talked to a couple of the guys who were there. They definitely saw and felt something but they weren't eager to tell me what."

"Oh, please!" Jerod rolled his eyes and smirked.

"Well, if you're so sure this isn't for real, go and find out."

Jerod stretched and yawned. "Sure. It might be fun."

He fixed me with a serious look. "There are no such things as spirits. Most everything people think they hear and see can be explained by something. Orbs? Try dust on the camera lens. Weird sounds of dogs barking? What about the farmhouse across the nearby field?"

I shrugged and turned the newspaper page.

"Tonight. Eleven. At the cemetery gates. Bring your video cam." With that, he stood, tossed his lunch remains in the trash receptacle, and sauntered inside.

I sneaked out of the house exactly at eleven. My parents were sleeping soundly as they normally did after having a few too many glasses of wine at supper.

My Toyota Corolla started without a hitch. Music from WLSW blared for a moment before my fumbling fingers found the volume knob. I would be a liar if I said I wasn't shaking on my way out to the cemetery.

The glow from a flashlight bobbed up and down at the iron gates ahead of me. My headlights had just focused on the stone pillar at one side of the gate when they shut off. The engine died and the radio silenced itself. The Corolla stopped in its tracks. Unbelievable.

I grabbed my video cam and car keys and joined Jerod at the gate.

"Ready for some action?"

"Yeah, but my car died. I hope we can find a way back to town."

"Not to worry. You can sit on the handlebars of my bike while I pedal us home. Now, where's this spot the paper was talking about? Lead the way."

Our shoes crunched on gravel and fallen leaves as we walked along the cemetery road. The gibbous moon played hide-and-seek behind boiling clouds.

"The place of the most activity should be over here in the poor people's section. Shine your light on some of those crosses." I pointed to a straggly row of metal crosses and began filming.

"They're all numbers. Man, there's got to be hundreds of them!"

I nodded. "The poor people of this county who died in the hospital couldn't afford fancy markers. I don't know if records were even kept of who is buried where."

Jerod shook his head. "Well, my grandparents and their parents are buried over there." He trained his flashlight toward a massive obelisk in a corner. "Great-grandpa was the town doctor. They could afford a large family stone."

Murderer.

The whisper was so soft, it could have been the breeze. Both Jerod and I turned our heads toward the nearest of the metal crosses.

He let out a shaky laugh. "Yeah, good one, Wayne. It was either you or the wind playing tricks on us."

Murderer.

The voice was louder now, more accusing in tone.

"Hey, Wayne, point that camera at this cross. I think I see something."

He illuminated the cross with his flashlight. "What the . . .?"

In bold script letters were the words Amelia LeGrande and Baby.

Mist crept around the crosses, reaching with white fingers toward our feet. Jerod trained his light on the mist for a second and then back on the cross.

The words had been replaced with the number 80.

The air around us grew thick with whispering voices. Most of the words were muffled. One word was repeated over and over.

Murderer

I turned around, my camera ready to capture the images of these mysterious mutterers. From the corner of my eye, I detected movement. A shape was materializing by the obelisk tombstone.

"Jerod? Maybe we should go." I glanced toward my friend. He stared at his family's marker, his mouth agape.

I grabbed his arm and moved toward the gate, video camera still filming. As we retraced our steps, footsteps sounded behind us.

"Ow!" Jerod stopped and clutched his forearm. He sprinted toward my car.

We got in at the same time and slammed the doors. I prayed my engine would start and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life. Headlights flooded the gate area with light.

A female figure stood, no, floated inches off the ground. Hollowed eye sockets stared at us. A wide swatch of blood stained the front of her long white dress. In her hands she cradled a tiny baby, itself bloody.

I reversed the car and spun on gravel, barreling down the road toward Lake Shettamo.

Back at my house, I attempted to bandage the deep bleeding scratches on Jerod's forearm and back. He was badly shaken and kept muttering crazy words about sins of the fathers.

I uploaded the video. Even now, the images of those spirits, poor people, women with aborted babies, neglected typhoid victims, swirl in a macabre dance across the screen.

Jerod whimpers again in his sleep. Then I hear it: the cry of "Murderer" and a slamming door downstairs.