Not sure I believe in ghosts exactly, but now and then, walking in a cemetery, reading the gravestones, something trips my imagination lever. The results are recorded now and then as Cemetery confessions.
The temperature was in the 90s. The humidity was uncomfortably high. Even though I was prepared with plenty of water, loose clothing, and a wide-brimmed hat, I was hot hot hot.
Row after long row of gravestones, but where was the marker for the ancestor I was 99% sure was buried here?
But the longer I searched, the less confident—and less enthusiastic—I became.
When I came upon a broken marker, its words washed away by time, I wondered whether it was his. I was looking for anything that might identify the marker when a devilish ghost whispered in my ear, “It’s hot. You’re tired. Go ahead: Adopt this gravestone as Uncle Charlie’s.”
No no no! I managed to shake off the tempting suggestion and, just a short while later, I found Uncle Charlie’s gravestone. The real one.
By the way, Uncle Charlie’s name has been changed to protect the not-so-innocent me. Who knows what might happen the next time I am feeling desperate in the cemetery?