Do you
ever have those days when you wake up in the morning and ask yourself, “What am
I doing with my life? Do I really like the direction my life is going in? Do I
see myself living in the same place, with the same job, five years from now?” I
had one of those moments this morning when I woke up, the 're-evaluating my
life moment'. On one hand, I’m 26 years old and have already earned the work
title, “Director”; on the other hand my entire family is on the East Coast,
which gets increasingly harder by the day. It doesn't help that I always saw
myself raising kids in a historic town in New England, close enough to take a
day trip to Fenway. I want my kids to see where Paul Revere took his famous
ride, to learn about Salt Box houses and the little mile markers on the side of
the Putnam Road, but most importantly; I want them to have a haunted experience
in one the many historic cemeteries scattered across New England.
My
historic cemetery experience still follows the “dating disaster” theme,
although it was more of a bazaar dating experience than a disaster. It also
helps segway into my favorite time of year, Halloween, which means (drum-roll
please) Haunted Stories!!
This is
the first of four haunted stories I plan to write this year, and yes this is
100% true, although the fear may be exaggerated a tiny bit for effect.
The
majority of my stories seem to start with, “I was dating this guy”, because
some of my best encounters thus far have involved "some guy" I was in
love with at the moment. When I was a senior in High School, Trey was that guy.
(Names changed, because I can.)
I met
Trey late one night at one of my favorite “drunchie” places, a 24 hour diner.
For those readers that are from the West Coast and/or have never experienced a real diner, you must pack your bags and
fly to the East Coast. This is one thing they do right in the Tri-State area
and NO the chains they call Diners in Cali DO NOT COUNT as real diners (I’m
talking about you, Ruby’s). I’m referring to the late night places that
allow you to order eggs, a side salad and half a lasagna for $5, 24/7; although my late
night snack was always fries with vinegar. My late night snack choice is
actually what led to the conversation that would begin my last summer in
Connecticut, three months I would never forget.
I
strolled into the diner around 1am, after doing something that was less than
memorable with my best friend *Astrid. As soon as we were seated I commented on
how hot the new waiter was and that I needed to know him.
Moments later he was strolling over to our table and taking our order, I was
instantly in love with his bright blue eyes, jet black hair, gorgeous smile and
most importantly, the glimmer of lust that appeared in his eyes when they met
mine. He laughed when I ordered fries with vinegar and told me I have
"quirky" taste, then went off to put our order in. To this day I
still tell strangers I have a quirky taste in food, not sure why it seems like
an important declaration but it does. The next few days consisted of me gushing
to Astrid about Trey, “the love of my life”; she was about to slap me.
The
following Friday Astrid slept over. We decided to have the ultimate chick
night, complete with Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion, magazines and
enough Smirnoff Apple and Apple Juice to get two recent high school graduates
wasted (so, probably a shot each). When 2am rolled around, we were bored with
our movie selection and blissfully drunk, so naturally we decided to go to the
diner to see if Trey was working. Astrid drove, she swore she was fine...this
was before we had learned that driving drunk was never acceptable, we were
incredibly lucky that night. When we got to the diner, Trey’s face lit up and
he made a bee-line for our table. I twirled my hair and giggled as we chatted
about our night and Astrid excused herself to use the rest room. Turns out she
was NOT in any shape to drive and I quickly realized I needed to get her home
and in bed before my parents work up and discovered that not only had we snuck
alcohol into the house, we’d driven drunk for the sake of a crush. Trey was
super understanding and cancelled our order; he even comped the toast that had
already been brought to the table, with the condition that I leave him my
number before heading out and text him when we make it home safely. I was
a giddy mess as I got behind the wheel of her massive car, completely
forgetting that I had never driven an SUV.
This
was the first time I realized that I turn into a mom when I drink. When we were
in the diner, I leapt into parent mode, asking some idiots knew from school to
watch my things while I got Astrid out to her car (the fuckers went through my
purse and dumped all the contents out-I still hold a grudge). Once in the car I
completely sobered up, my only thought was: Get Astrid to Safety. At one point
we were stopped at a light and a cop car pulled up next me; I had the balls to
smile and wave. I still can’t believe they didn’t pull me over, I'm
pretty sure my actions screamed: “Drunk Teen”.
When we
got home Astrid went to bed and I began texting Trey. He was working the
overnight shift and didn’t get off work until 6am. Around 3:30am I was still
wired from driving and he was bored to tears with zero customers, so he called
me. We ended up talking for the next hour and half, getting to know each other.
The more we talked, the more I found myself falling for him. He was visiting
for the summer from upstate New York, working at the diner because it was owned
by some family member who needed summer help. When the summer ended, he was
going home and I was moving to California.
Since
he worked the late shift he either got to work at 1am or left work at 1am,
depending on his schedule. This left very odd hours for socializing. I wasn’t
really a bad kid, and we really weren’t doing anything too scandalous, so my
parents were fine with him coming over before/after work. I guess they figured
that if I was going to get into trouble it might as well be in the safety of my
own home.
One
night, work was particularly slow and Trey was able to leave an hour early. We
were hanging out in my driveway trying to decide what to do when he asked me
about the house next door (remember the haunted house from last year? The glass
of Orange Juice house? See last years haunted stories.). I told him
a little bit about the house and explained that the town I grew up in, Old
Greenwich, had history oozing out the wazoo. The early settlers came over on
the Mayflower and a lot of them ended up in Old Greenwich. I told him that a
lot of the houses in my neighborhood had little plaques on them designating
them as historic landmarks and pointed behind my house proclaiming that one of
the oldest cemeteries in the country was only two blocks away. Whoops, wrong
thing to say at midnight on a Friday night; naturally he needed to see it.
 |
| Best picture I could find. |
Once we
got there, I refused to go into the cemetery. I sat on the stairs by the
entrance playing on my phone as Trey walked around with a flashlight, reading
aloud names and the dates etched into each tombstone. He found some dating back
to the late 1600’s and read off names that I recognized as ancestors of friends
I’d grown up with. He also teased me ruthlessly for being too scared to enter.
I got a weird feeling about that cemetery, like we weren’t welcome and were
disturbing those who were resting. The more I tried to explain this, the more
he made fun of me, so I shut my mouth, turned my back to him and pretended to
pout as he continued looking around. As he got further back, he found one
crumbling tombstone that was too faint to make out a date on. He told me he was
going to crouch down with the flashlight to get a better look.
A few
seconds later I hear, “What the -? Fuck, fuck, Oh shit, Fuck” then silence.
I
assumed he was once again teasing me and called out his name, telling him to
quit fucking around. No response. I had a flashlight on my keychain which I
pulled out and directed behind me, off in the direction I’d last heard his
voice. Nothing. There was no shadow, no movement, nothing. The tombs were all
short, he towered above them, even when we was crouching.
My
heart was beating a mile a minute, I was terrified and I felt an overwhelming
sense of darkness coming from deep within the cemetery. You know
that feeling you get when you walk into an empty home and the little hairs
stand up on the back of your neck? I felt that. The air around me seemed to get
thicker and I was suddenly very aware of my breath as it left my body. I felt
like I was being watched and whomever, or whatever, was watching me did not
want me there.
“Trey?”
I called out in a very shaky voice, desperately trying to hold it together. No
answer. In fact, it was unnaturally silent. A giant pit formed in my stomach as
I came to terms with what I had to do, enter the cemetery that I so desperately
did not want anything to do with. The first step through the entryway was the
hardest, it took all my courage to take that step and I almost turned back, but
I forced myself to continue. Again I called Trey’s name, again no answer. I
grasped my flashlight as I continued on the very worn path towards the spot I
last saw him, shaking slightly as I went. As I approached the row Trey had been
investigating tombstones in a dark hooded figure sprang out in front of me. I
screamed bloody murder. Trey laughed. He thought it was the funniest prank
anyone had ever pulled.
Trey
won, he got me to enter the cemetery. As far as the feeling I got when I was
faced with entering, it was still there; in fact, it was stronger. Now that I
had calmed down a bit and realized I was actually physically standing in the
middle of one of the oldest cemeteries in the country I also realized that the
hostile energy was back, stronger than ever. Something did not want us there.
Thankfully, Trey felt it this time. He shivered and muttered something about
feeling like someone was watching us and suggested we head home. As we walked towards
his car, I began to allow myself to relax. My heard stopped pounding and my
legs stopped shaking, but I kept my guard up in case he decided to jump at me
again.
As we reached the steps at the entrance of the cemetery something dark
flew through the air in front of us and landed hard on the hood of his car,
making a “thud” sound against the metal. We stopped in out tracks and shined
the flashlights at the car, but there was nothing there. We pointed the lights
all around the car, up in the trees, back in the cemetery; there was zero
movement. I examined the hood of the car and found nothing out of the ordinary
so we chalked it up as the car settling and our minds playing tricks on us; we were visiting
one of the oldest cemeteries in the US after all.
In the
morning I woke up to a frantic message from Trey. He had driven himself home
and parked his car in the garage, where he was able to see the hood of the car
clearly under bright lights. There was a dent in the middle of the hood, the
kind that appears when someone’s hand pushes down hard on cheap metal. He
claimed there were also tiny little cracks in the paint. Too bad the cracks
didn't spell out the words, "Get Out". That would have been the
ultimate scary story ending.
