I started writing at a young age but was always told my writing was creepy. Writing nice things wasn't my style, though I tried.
Some people find happiness in socializing with groups of people. I find it writing from the shadows.
Hopefully, we can agree, there is a place for my creepiness in the world. Join me and let's see how much fun we can have on this journey.
I am Melanie Sue- creator of the curiously eerie. Keeper of dreams. I talk to critters, plants, and twinkling stars. Yep, I am that girl! Somehow, people think I am all love and light, but everything I write comes out dark and odd, twisted and creepy. I walk a fine line; I guess. But that's what makes me who I am. Welcome to my head.
Read more from Melanie right HERE.
From Th’ Shadows
by
Melanie Sue
“What are you doing?” the female voice behind me whispered. I didn’t turn to look.
“Cleaning,” I mumbled.
“Henry was mad as a March hare. Had a conniption fit when he passed,” she blurted.
Having no comprehension of what the lady meant, I turned to speak to her, but no one was there. I didn’t see a soul in the tiny graveyard. It was just me, the giant gnarly oak tree, and about 30 headstones.
“I know you’re here! You’re welcome to help me!” I yelled.
Nothing. Just a cool breeze rustling the leaves of the mighty oak. I kneeled back down to scrub Henry’s headstone some more.
Heer Lyes The Body of Henry Glasby
Aged 37 Years Dec’d
December 17, 1722
The winged skull was challenging to clean with all of its crevices. What strange things and wording they put on headstones in the 1700s! But now I am on to the easier part.
Every day I ride my bicycle by “Shadows Cemetery” and it beckons me. I dream of it at night. Then, first thing in the morning, it is my waking thought. It’s beautiful. Someone must pay to keep the grass well manicured, but they don’t maintain the headstones.
I tried to research the cemetery's history to find the landowner. I wanted permission to clean the headstones. I tried to ask the neighbors of the properties nearby, but they wouldn’t open the doors when I knocked. The county parcel search showed a blocked name with no mailing address of the owner. So, I took it upon myself to come here every evening and clean one headstone at a time. I have about half of them done. There is a streetlight near the road next to the cemetery, but the cemetery itself has no light. So, I leave soon after sundown.
“Well, Henry. Looks like I am done here for the night. I’d say I did a pretty good job! I’m sure you deserve it.”
I heard a deep belly laugh from behind me and whipped around, startled. Again, no one was there.
“Hello? Who’s there? You can help me carry this stuff, you know!” No one answered. With my heart beating twice as fast as it should, I loaded all my cleaning supplies onto my cart and pull it up the hill behind my bicycle to my little cabin.
The next few nights, it rained from dinnertime until after dark, so I put my cleaning on hold. The longer I stayed away, the more anxious I got. I was making myself sick thinking about Shadows Cemetery. I was also overthinking the voices I heard. Was it in my head? Was someone playing tricks on me? I was nauseous and feverish by the third day away.
Finally, I could return to Shadows Cemetery. I packed up my little cart, attached it to my bicycle, and rode down the hill. It was day one of a full moon cycle, so I knew I would have plenty of light and as much time as I wanted to clean headstones. When I rounded the corner, I felt like someone knocked the breath out of me. When I left after cleaning Henry’s headstone, I had nearly fifteen headstones left to clean. Now, it looked like someone else had been there and there were only five left.
I unhooked my cart and rolled up to my first project of the evening.
Heer Lyes The Body of Eleanor Spring
Widow to Jeremiah Spring
Departed This Life March 12, 1790
In The 37th Year of Age
A widow and a death at 37 years old! How tragic! I worked my magic, scrubbing and rinsing away the dirt and mold from each of the remaining headstones. I felt healthier the longer I stayed at the cemetery. Finally, I got to the last headstone. It was so caked with grime; I wasn’t sure I brought enough water to get it finished.
It took me nearly an hour to get the last headstone clean. I took a couple of breaks and just sat there, looking at the beautiful view of the moon over the tree, casting its glow over the headstones. I had the worst time chipping away the chunk of fungus that had grown over the name on this last headstone. When I finally got it to budge, I nearly fainted.
“It’s you,” I heard voices whisper, “It’s you!”
The name was exactly my name. But how could it be? Is there another me? Is this person related?
“It’s you,” I heard a female voice say again. When I turned around, I saw a gathering of people that were not really there. They were smoky, wispy, looking. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Were they ghosts? I reached out to see that my hand had a similar see through quality.
“I don’t understand,” I said. Just then, I saw visions of a life in times of old and I was the main character. I saw my childhood in a little cabin, leading up to my adulthood in the same cabin on this very land. It was my cabin on the other side of the hill.
“This is your land,” one man said. “This is your resting place.” I looked again at the headstone.
Heer Layeth Y Body of
Melanie Sue Aged 36 Years
Departed Life 31 October, 1749
She Writes From Th’ Shadows
This is my land! Suddenly, I understood why I felt sick when I was away, why I was drawn to this place, and why I couldn't remember anything from more than a week ago.. It had been this way for a long time. The Shadows Cemetery was mine, as was all the surrounding land.
When I looked up, everyone was smiling at me and welcoming me with open arms. One lady took my hand and said, “You always forget, then we bring you back.” With tears welling up in my eyes, all I could say was, “Thank you.”