One Halloween night in 2003, I became a ghost for about two minutes.
My friends, Zachary, Sarah, and I decided it would be fun to take our newest friend Luke along with us
to a new place we'd found that summer. We also brought Maggie and Candy, two foreign exchange
students we'd met in the spring. The six of us packed into Zachary's silver 2001 Honda Civic and set out
to find ghosts in the forests of Albany Georgia. Zachary drove out out of town heading towards the
Albany Airport. Sarah sitting passenger offered navigation even though, the three of us had been there
three times before. Luke and I sat in back with Maggie on our laps.
We reached the alley that led into the forest just as the sun was thinking about drooping its tired head
beneath the horizon.
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| Photo by Simon Berger from Pexel |
“It’s called Seven Churches Road,” I explained to Luke and the ladies from China. “But only four churches can be seen from the road. Two are in the trees. You have to look for them but they are there."
"That makes six”. Luke pointed out.
"The seventh is a ghost church." I said in a low voice. "It only appears when you get all the way down the alley, then turn around and come back up in total darkness." The girls oohed.
It was Halloween. To celebrate Luke had the idea to take our friends from the Far East ghost hunting. Zachary suggested our new favorite ghost hunting spot, despite Sarah's protests.
"I swear! People live back there." Sarah said staring out the window. "You're going to get us shot."
"One of us, anyway." I quipped. As the only black person on this trip, I felt was my duty to point out such things whenever it seemed appropriate.
"I've been back here a dozen times." Zachary said. "I've never seen anyone. Besides, a redneck is more likely to shoot our pale asses than you P." Looking at me through the rear view mirror with his cool blue eyes, he added "You've got natural camouflage." He smiled, well aware of how he sounded. The Chinese girls felt my skin, and tugged my hair, again.
"I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that way, Z." I said. "I think rednecks have blacks-ray-vision."
Luke's laugh was a sudden high pitched squeal that sounded like a scream. He touched my shoulder to steady himself.
"She's right you know." he said. "Bullets would just pass through our pale asses and find her."
"I'll protect you." Zachary said. He meant it, but doubted he'd have much luck.
Black pavement gave way to the red copper clay that cut a path into the centuries old Georgia thicket and swallowed us in. Our guests drew in a breath, perhaps realizing for the first time that they didn’t quite know us as well they would like for such a journey. But it was too late now.
“There goes the first church.” Zachary said, nodding his head in the left. His backwater accent was coming out already. We all looked. To the left of us was a clearing. An out of the way, violet lamp silhouetted a building in the distance just on the other side of some pines. A skirt of ground fog was already rising around its ankles.
“We should go to it,” Luke chimed, in his skittering girlish excitement. But Z drove on.
“It’s not the one we are here to find.” I explained, hearing the crude lingering of vowels in my own otherwise proper vernacular.
On our first journey out here the forest had been on fire. Quiet glowing embers carpeted the floor highlighting the barrel bodies of pines, ash, and sycamore far beyond were we could go. The air smelled of corn and coals then. Still we’d pressed on impressed by the happen stance of it all.
Now the leaf-litter covered the blackened coals. The air was still peppery with the scent of ash months later. A few sparse white trunks seemed to glow in the light of Zach’s chalky low beams. The forest formed a black wall on either side of the car. It was more unnerving than the fire. It felt like being pulled into a tunnel, with no room to turn around should something come from the darkness in front of us.
“There is the second one.” Sarah pointed across the passenger seat.
I watched our guest strain to see something in the distance. Zach knew too, because we’d all done the same the third time we’d come here and noticed it in the moonlight. So he slowed down and let the steeple of the building slowly come into existence for them as the clouds parted. Our guests gasped recognizing the mass before them, not as more tree, nor as night to be peered through. But as the second, most alluring of the churches, sitting directly in front of us.
“We must stop!” Luke insisted, grabbing hold of the passenger seat as though he could stop the car by willpower. Zach was already pulling off the road so that the car’s light illuminated the church.
This building had an energy about it. It was the reason I agreed with Sarah about not liking the place. It made me feel odd, especially at night. This feeling was also the reason Zach suggested bringing foreign girls with us on Halloween night. He was testing a theory.
The building was small in comparison with churches of this century. What made Sarah nervous was that it was well kept. Its white paint had not chipped, and its black doors had not rusted. But Zarachy pointed out it's lock of pews or lights, or reasonable accessibility. I however, pointed out that it's graveyard had been mowed.
“This is . . . ” Luke paused, examining the stone pit that had been built up near the front of the building. “, a baptismal reservoir!” Even through his pitchy tone, his Kentucky accent slipped out for the first time since we’d met. As the Asian girls examined the stone tub he and I looked up at the ancient oak tree that grew over the tub. “And this . . .” He started to say but paused. The tree had a long, low hanging branch; rope burns had rubbed the limb smooth in places. His eyes rolled down behind mirrored glasses towards my face. I looked away to avoid meeting eyes with him.
The energy of this place kept me from going far beyond that tree. I had no desire to get closer that little white house, nor to explore it’s bone yard. And there, that funny was Sarah looks at me when we’re here too. The first time she we came here she called me a coward and ordered me to try the door. Her tone, her demeanor - as though she had some authority to make me do anything, had been completely out of character for her. Yet, I hadn't fought her. Only stood still refusing to go towards that evil place. Now on Halloween night, Sarah glanced in my direction from time to time, clearly irritated with me, but not being able to say why. She stepped up to the the platform, her narrow Germanic nose high in the air, and wrapped hooked her arms into Luke's possessively. Luke laughs, and so does she.
Why can’t I see his eyes, now? Why does he keep smiling at me?
On that first trip, Zachary had charged forward and tried the door himself. He hadn’t budged. He peeked through the windows howled with excitement that there were no pews but there was still a podium with something on it. He wanted to get inside and see what it was.
Now, why Luke and Sarah are laughing at the darkness, Zachary calls to them
“There was writing on the walls! That wasn't there before!” His face is pressed against the church windows. I fear he’s breathing in the dust of a hundred years of evil. But he seems less than the others. “I swear when I came here by myself, there was no writing on the walls!”
"What does it say!?" Luke leapt from the stone pit, taking Lina with him up the stairs. They all three pressed their faces against the stained glass, but could not read it.
I looked around for Maggy and Candy. They'd found the graveyard behind the church. Maggie was
having a time trying to get into the gate. Zachary ran over to help her. But it was locked, with a new shinny padlock. Candy was snapping pictures of herself pretending to be
a zombie. "What's that?" She asked pointing across the ally. Behind the car, her camera's flash had
picked up stones.
Headstones puncture the grown ground. They rose from weeds and roots grown wild over the years. Their were no names on the smooth white stones, only the numbers etched into crude dates. Some were as early at 1650s, others as old as 1230s, and on and on. We come across some with stamps from 1099, and 1152. Impossible dates.
“How are these graves so old?” I ask the others. “America wasn’t even founded yet according to
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| Photo by Suzy Hazelwood |
some of these.
“Baby!” Maggie squealed. She’s pointing at the date of the stone nearest her. Luke and Sarah became caught up in doing the math of other markers. They puzzled over every one they could see, figuring the ages of the long dead.
I’ve always been taught that it’s bad luck, and disrespectful to step on graves. But it was impossible to tell were they all were. And the stones are so close together. My friends have no such fears and trounced through in stubborn exploration. Every step took us further and further into the past, away from the car.
When I look back, I gasp.
"Ok, where is the car?" My white friends ignore me. They each have flashlight, and no respect for the dead. I leave them, marching back over soft weeds and roots until I see the light of the car still illuminating the old white church. Maggie and Candy are quick to follow me. The white folks linger until Sarah steps on what she thinks is a snake. Then she and Luke pranced back to the car in a mockery of fear. Zach is the last to give up and return.
“Do you think they’re fake?” Luke asked him.
“Nah. Why would anyone go through the trouble?” It was an earnest question. He went on: “And the concrete is obviously old, and weathered. We’ll have to do some research on it.”
The third church isn’t far from the second. It’s on the right, and well lit. There is a paved road that connects it to another street on its other side. We’ve no idea how to reach it any other way but this. I’s far less interesting than the others because it's still in use.
We drive for a mile or more into the darkness before it dumps us out back on a paved highway.
“Only three churches.” Candy or Maggie point out.
“The fourth is way off before we get to the alley. “ I said. "And their are three way back in the trees but they have been destroyed.
“The legend says that you find the seventh church by turning around and going back." Zach is watching me. He and I both know that he hasn't been able to find all three of the missing churches. But I'm a storyteller. How and I to let that in the way of a good story.
"Why so many churches on one street?” Maggie asked. The question generated a minute of laughter from the native born southerners.
“That’s an excellent question.” Sarah responded.
“There are many different types of Christians.” Luke said. “They all needed their own church.”
“And on top of that, whites refused to share churches with blacks.” I said. “So all the blacks needed their own houses of worship as well. ” As I spoke, my words were greeted by a metallic twang. It at once took my breath away so that I could not continue my explanation.
Once we were turned around Zachary snapped off the headlights. “When I came by myself, my headlights went out like this.” He explained. “That’s how I found it. The Fourth Church on this road. Luke and the girls pressed their faces out of the windows. Zach and Sarah stared forward into the darkness.
In the dark I couldn't make out individual trees as we crept past them. But I found a space beyond
the edge of the woods where the moonlight pooled in a clearing. It held my eye. It followed us. I saw my
face reflected in the glow of it. The metallic twang rose in the back of my throat. I felt like I was chocking. I reached for my neck, but the source was internal. I blinked hard and tried to clear my throat. I reached forward to grasp Sarah, to alert her that something was wrong. But nothing was there.
I reached into damp open air. I was standing in the forest. I felt the cold of my bare feet in the damp leaves. I could smell the musk of ragged clothes that hung heavy with moisture from my shoulders, they were ripped, and tattered, but they were clean.
I wiped a hand across my nose. My hands smelt like earth and lye soap. My cold nose welcomed the warmth from them. I looked around me. There was no sign of the road or the car, or any of my friends - only wall of tall black trees silhouetted by they bright light of the full moon. As my eyes adjusted I could see more and more just how lost and alone I was.
A distant voice sliced through the silence. One lone woman sang out. Her call could have been a coyote or a wolf's song but I knew her voice. I could hear the age in her throat that caused her howl to crackle but not break. She sang so long and so low that she could have been the wind whistling though a bottle. I couldn't recognize the words at first but I knew the gospel.
That feeling of iron rose in the back of my throat again. I wanted to sing with her. I knew the melody from a decade of Sunday morning worship. But I was afraid. Of what? I couldn't say, but the fear felt instinctive. I did not belong here. I was the danger.
The old woman called again. This time other voices answered her from surprisingly close by.
A beat passed then the caller called once more. This time I could hear the words as she sang low, soft:
“Jeeesus, carr’ me ‘ome!” Her voice rose and fell with the pitch and skill of the cicadas all around us.
“Carr’ me home!” the others answered from the darkness. They are closer now and coming from every direction. They were many voices singing like wind, low and deep.
She called again, “Jeeeeesus! Carr’me ‘ome!”
And chore responded. “Carr’me ‘ome!”
Dark bodies emerged from around, behind, and among the trees guided by the moonlight, and the soulful call. I saw her then, the caller. She'd been standing just ahead of me, still as a branch. One feather thin old woman bent with age, and as gnarled as the tree on who's roots she perched.
"Jeeeeeesus! Carr'me''ome!"
They don't speak as they greet one another in the darkness. They touched hands. They hugged. Two younger woman squealed as they embraced each other. Men grasp shoulders and tussled hats. Lovers kissed and held hands They were comforted by the presence of each other. But they don't linger long. They touched faces, and foreheads for only a minute. Then the caller stepped off her perch and they followed her song as they gathered into a still tighter circle around one another.
“Though I may be a slave . . .
When I’m buried in my grave . . .
I’ll go ‘ome to live with Jeeeesus!
Carr’me ‘ome!”
Their voices melted into harmonious hums of praise as an old man, no doubt the oldest among them, prayed over the entire group. With their deep voices the men carried the hum as women chattered like birds to affirm the prayer. There were calls of "Yes!" and "Hallelujah" as the minister prayed on. A woman burst into tears and was held up by the others. They held each other with arms, and hands, and whispered words. They sat close together to huddle for warmth. They built a lightless fire, of community and love.
I watched at a distance in the cold. Even though I could see them, I could trick myself into not seeing them. I could with little effort see only trees curled against the wind. I could be convinced that all I heard were animals barking, and calling under the moonlight. I was connected to them, but apart from them. I had to remain so, I knew, for their safty. I dared not move from where I stood.
A snap behind me chilled me to the bone with fear. I turned and was at once blinded.
Light flooded the road in front of us.
Zachary swore and hits the breaks. Even his small compact Honda Civic did not have enough space to try and go around. The truck ahead of us was a white Ford pick-up. For a moment I think I need to warn the prayer circle. But I realize I am blocking them with my body. I am their shield.
It takes a few moments more come back to the present reality. I am int he car. I am among friends, white friends, but friends who love me.
A white man - clean shaven, dressed in a white shirt and jeans - hung from the platform of the driver’s side by the door of his massive truck. His cowboy hat was all I saw before I ducked down and laid across the Luke’s lap.
Luke pushed Maggie and Candy to do the same, but one was sitting in his lap, and the other in mine. There was no room in my hiding spot and I wasn't sharing. Instead, taking my que, they laid on top of me and pretended to be asleep. I felt, rather than saw, Sarah turn around to check that I was out of sight. I felt Zach reach back and touch the top of my head. He breathed with relief. I felt their love. They knew, even though we pretended otherwise, that I was probably in more danger than any of them out here.
Only Zack, Luke, and Sarah remained facing forward as the cowboy strolled up the Zach’s window.
“You got a problem?” Zach asked the man, letting loose the full natural strength of his rural Georgia twang.
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“You supposed to be back here, son?” the man asked in a similar accent.
“Any reason I oaught not be?” Zach countered. “Looked like an open street to me.”
“Where you headed, son?” the man asked.
“You a cop or sumin'?” Zach asked back. The man laughed.
“Nah, I just live round the corner there. Neighbors said they saw some kids, thought they might be vandalizing the church up a wayz.”
“Ain’t see no church.” Zach lied. “Ain’t see no kids neither." I cringed. Why was he was playing poker with this man!
"We were just seeing if this road was a short cut between the airport and Slappy.” Zach went on.
“Yeah, you keep going down this way a peace. You’ll get to Slappy, eventually. But it ain’t shorter by any means. You probably added an hour to your trip.”
“I told you!” Sarah scoffed, crossing her arms in mock anger.
“Ain’t public access neither.” The man continued. “This here is actually private property.” Luke
did his best impression of a casual straight guy when the man's light flashed at him and the “snoozing” Asian girls behind Zach. I felt the warmth of the beam but my eyes were closed.
“You boys being gentlemen tonight, aren’t you?” the man asked.
“Yes, sir.” Zach said. "Just picked up classmates from the airport." Luke nodded not daring to open his mouth.
“You get these girls on home safe then. I don’t wanna hear about this later.”
“Yup.” Zach put the car in drive. The man took his time returning to his truck. He moved over just enough for us to drive past him. Then sat like a dragonfly watching us disappear down the old country road.
“Great, that guy thinks I got a car full of roofied chicks in here.” Zach signed.
“You boys bein’ gentlemen tonight!?” Luke mocked sounding like a Kentucky dandy.
I continued to lay across Luke’s legs in case the truck came up behind us again. Meanwhile, I meditated on this feeling of fear. It was ultimately what led me to find the connection. But it was gone. Spirited away by the white man’s light, back through whatever portal it had come.
“Didn’t see a fourth church.” Luke scoffed. The Asian girls were pretending to be dead now, moaning like zombies.
“I think that’s the last time we’ll be coming down here, though.” Sarah pressed looking at Zach. “That guy will probably be watching the road from now on.”
Zach cursed, acknowledging that she was right.
We emerged from the wooded realm back onto pitch and streetlights.
“You ok?” Sarah asked me as I rose up from my hiding place.
“I’m good.” I replied, though I admit I heard the dreaminess of my own thoughts in my voice.
“What did you see?” Zach asked me. His blue eyes watched me in the mirror. He said later that he'd watched me "go out". I had no words for it. I quietly slipped back into my own presence, here among my friends. The feeling faded the deeper we drove into the city.
END
The history of worship in the black community has always been a story of rebellion even in it’s earliest days. Decades after this experience while doing research into Southern Christianity I learned that many slaves were not allowed to worship separate from their master and his family. So many slaves would run away to the woods where they could be, worship, and pray amongst themselves secretly. The call and response many black churches practice today is homage to these times when songs helped guide the congregation together through dark woods, and back again before they were missed.
Where as the masters preached the importance of being obedient to God, and master – the slaves took comfort in the many stories of God’s mercy as well as the tale of Moses who freed slaves and marched them to a holy land filled with milk and honey. This took away the sting of their day to day horrors, as they waited for Jesus to send a messiah to save them.
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| Photo by Alexey Demidov from Pexels |
