‘That’s because everyone here is dead.’
She laughed loudly, too loudly for a cemetery.
‘Aren’t you just your father’s daughter?’ she chuckled before setting off down the path with a distinct skip in her step. ‘This way, little spitfire. I want to introduce you before the sun sets.’
My grandmother, Savannah’s leading cemetery enthusiast, took a leisurely approach to her tour, giving me a history lesson as we walked. Bonaventure sat at the edge of the Wilmington River and covered more than one hundred acres. Hundreds of residents rested here and Catherine lovingly pointed out her favourites as we strolled by. Every so often, a violent burst of colour would appear, blood red or hot pink flowers hiding around a muted grey corner, waiting to stun you when you least expected.
‘Even though they say Bonaventure is one of the most haunted spots in all the world, I’ve never encountered a ghost here,’ she said, pausing to admire a marble statue of a young girl. ‘You’d think the place would be crawling with spirits but not for me, not one single sighting in all these years.’
I pulled the sleeves of my sweatshirt down over my fingers, reluctantly glancing at the statue. She looked too real, in her pretty party dress and neat shoes.
‘You sound disappointed.’
‘Darn near devastated,’ Catherine replied and I couldn’t tell whether or not she was joking. ‘Maybe you’ll have more luck than me.’
It was enough to send an icy shiver down my spine.
We continued on, the pale outline of a rising full moon appearing above us in the dusky sky as we stopped at a huge slab of granite with the name Vogel inscribed in big blockletters. At the side of the monument was a small green dome, popping up out of the ground like a copper mushroom that had been left out in the rain.
‘See that little old thing?’ she asked, pointing to the Vogel grave. ‘It’s a bell. Do you know why it’s there?’
‘In case Mr Vogel gets hungry and wants to order a sandwich?’
‘Close. Sometimes, not often but sometimes, people were accidentally buried alive. That bell would have been attached to the resident’s foot inside his casket. Should he happen to wake from a particularly deep sleep all he had to do was wiggle his toes and help would come running.’
‘What if no one was around?’ I asked, horrified at the thought.
‘Oh, someone always was,’ Catherine replied as she moseyed along. ‘Where’d you think the phrase “graveyard shift” comes from?’
I stared at the bell until I was almost certain I saw it move. A whisper of wind blew through the branches of the nearest tree, a soft tinkling sound on the air as a strand of moss fell across my face.
‘Wait up!’ I yelled, swatting it from off my skin and running to catch up to my bemused grandmother.
‘Here we are. The Bell family monument.’
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting after our long stroll through the cemetery, but this fenced-in, sombre block of solid grey stone wasn’t it. There were so many more elaborate crypts, memorials and tombs, and I’d assumed the esteemed Bell family with their two-hundred-year-old home, entire floor of unused guest suites and on-staff driver would have chosen something a little fancier for their eternal resting place. The only interesting thing about the monument was a statue, a beautiful angel thatsat on top of the six-feet of stone, its face tilted down to watch over the Bells, living and dead.
‘Should I say hello?’ I asked as Catherine opened a low metal gate and stepped onto the plot. With great reluctance, I followed.
‘Be my guest,’ she replied. ‘Or rather, their guest. No need to be shy, you’re among family.’
When I said I’d always wanted a family, this wasn’t exactly what I was thinking. I scanned the plot, so bare compared to some of the others, no plants or trees or flowers, just the solid grey monument, the angel statue, and a slab of concrete on the floor. Engraved into the stone was one name. Emma Catherine Bell.
‘Not at all creepy seeing your own name on a grave,’ I said, a queasy feeling in my stomach. ‘Even if I did only just find out it is my name.’
‘Would it help to know it isn’t technically a grave?’
Catherine produced a shiny silver flask from the pocket of her neatly tailored pants and raised it first to the ancestors then to me and my look of confusion. ‘It’s a grotto chapel.’
‘Sorry, a what now?’
‘A grotto chapel,’ she repeated. ‘This concrete is only a few inches deep, underneath it are boards covering the entrance to the chapel below.’
Above, the moon grew brighter as I stared down, imagining exactly what was below.
‘There’s a whole chapel down there?’ I shuffled back until I felt the metal fence against the backs of my legs. ‘Like an entire little church?’
Catherine unscrewed the cap from the flask and took a sip.
