In the Blue Ridge Mountains of Georgia is a small town called Little River. It hasn’t
changed much since it was first settled, except for a slowly dwindling population and a slowly
growing general dissatisfaction with the way things are going. But the roads, some paved and
some dirt, still wind around the steep mountain sides, connecting the various far flung houses,
and the high street still ends at the Calvary Baptist Church of Christ the King.
The church is painted white and is perpetually dusty on the inside, with a perpetually old
minister. But it is not the building, nor the clergy, that is interesting. It is the cemetery behind the
church, which is partly in an ancient stand of pine. The gravestones are not in any particular
order of age, some of the old crumbling ones near the church, others nestled in the shade under
the trees, the new shiny ones interspersed among them. There is a red oak hidden in the pines,
and in fall it looks as though it is burning and cinders seem to twirl down from its branches to
decorate the graves.
There is a gravekeeper at Christ the King, a woman named Martha Wright. She is the
oldest resident of Little River and is always wearing a grey dress and a white apron, with her
silvery hair pulled back in a neat bun. If you go to the cemetery early enough in the morning,
you may see her walking through the dewy grass, watering memorial flowers or brushing leaves
off the headstones. Sometimes, if the sun is still hidden by the mountains, she may sit and talk a
while. On rare occasions, she might even be found in the evening, preparing the cemetery for
the night.
Martha knows the names of every resident of the graveyard, how and when they died,
and where their graves lie. And she knows all the dirty secrets that a little mountain town can
hold. “The dead rarely hold their tongues,” she’ll say with a wink, if pressed on her sources.
If you go into the pine grove and search among the fallen leaves under the red oak, you
will find where Martha sleeps. There is a crumbling, moss-covered and water stained stone
tucked among the roots of the old tree. A name, a date, and an epitaph are carved into it in
nearly unreadable letters: Martha Wright. November 26 1850 Year of Our Lord. First
to be Laid to Rest in Little River. Martha herself is the first to tell you that her death
wasn’t interesting–not like some of the others. “It was only a touch of pneumonia,” she might
say. “Not like ol’ Ben Williamson. Fell out a hay loft tryin’ to catch a rooster that got stuck. And
only two days after marryin’ his third wife! Him and Lillian and Lizzie Mae and Rachel are all laid
over there, up near the church.”
Fall is Martha’s busiest season, and not just because of the leaves piling up and the
duties that come with getting ready for winter. The other residents of the cemetery grow restless
with the lengthening nights and cooling weather, and she has her hands full keeping them out of
mischief. She prides herself on the brightness of her cemetery–there are no dark, twisted roots,
no noxious mists winding through the headstones, and the residents are well-behaved. (Most of
the time. There are a few rare instances of malicious hauntings but these are few and far
between.)
There is another fall task of Martha’s and that is preparing the cemetery for the
Halloween Ball. She arranges the leaves of the red oak in patterns between the graves and she
drapes garlands made of corn shucks through the branches of the pines. A candle is placed at
every headstone and jack-o’-lanterns are scattered through the grounds. She usually has the
children string pinecones on lengths of twine to wrap around the cemetery fence and has the
adults carve the pumpkins. Sarah Miller, a seamstress back in her day, always takes out the
banner that reads CEMETERY AT LITTLE RIVER ANNUAL HALLOWEEN BALL on the 30th of
October and touches it up, adding a stitch here and a stitch there. Martha hangs it across the
back door of the church the next morning. Someone, normally Lizzie Mae Williamson, writes out
invitation cards a few days before and leaves them at each headstone.
The residents of the cemetery dislike the sun so the yard behind the church is empty
during the day of the 31st. But when the sun disappears behind the mountains and shadows
consume the graveyard, the guests of the Halloween Ball begin to arrive. Martha is there first, of
course, to collect the invitations and to keep out anyone who doesn’t belong, namely those of
Little River who live outside the cemetery. Children and the occasional adult still try to sneak
peaks of the ball through the fence or the church windows but Martha gently shoos them away.
Emma Lee and Mary Jo Taylor, the twins who died in a fire in 1900, are always right on
time, giggling with joy even though they’ve been doing this for a century at least. Sarah Miller
and her husband and their daughter and her family are next. Then comes Ben Williamson and
Lillian with their ten-year-old son, and the entire Green clan–all seven generations of them–
follows. Nearly all the residents of the cemetery attend, minus a few of the newer ones, who are
still quite ornery.
Abe Wheatley is always very nearly late, handing in his invitation just before the ball
starts with his battered fiddle case in tow. “You won’t mind if I play a bit of music, will you, Ms.
Martha?” he invariably asks.
“Of course not!” is Martha’s reply.
There are games and a table of refreshments and an open space for dancing. Everyone,
from the youngest to the oldest, enjoys the cemetery’s biggest event of the year. They only stop
when the morning sun begins to peak over the mountain tops. Then Abe puts away his fiddle
and the children are rounded up, and one by one they go to bed until Martha is the only one left.
She tidies up the grounds, taking down the banner and snuffing out the candles.
Sometimes, she’ll stop and talk to an early riser from the town. But by the time the first rays of
sun hit the church, the only things left in the cemetery are the corn shucks, the pine cones, and
one or two jack-o’-lanterns.
Artist Statement: Around Halloween, my dance teacher decided to make a Halloween-themed dance. We all sat around talking about things that scared us and other Halloweenish things, such as ghosts. I thought it would be fun to write a story about dancing ghosts because of that.
changed much since it was first settled, except for a slowly dwindling population and a slowly
growing general dissatisfaction with the way things are going. But the roads, some paved and
some dirt, still wind around the steep mountain sides, connecting the various far flung houses,
and the high street still ends at the Calvary Baptist Church of Christ the King.
The church is painted white and is perpetually dusty on the inside, with a perpetually old
minister. But it is not the building, nor the clergy, that is interesting. It is the cemetery behind the
church, which is partly in an ancient stand of pine. The gravestones are not in any particular
order of age, some of the old crumbling ones near the church, others nestled in the shade under
the trees, the new shiny ones interspersed among them. There is a red oak hidden in the pines,
and in fall it looks as though it is burning and cinders seem to twirl down from its branches to
decorate the graves.
There is a gravekeeper at Christ the King, a woman named Martha Wright. She is the
oldest resident of Little River and is always wearing a grey dress and a white apron, with her
silvery hair pulled back in a neat bun. If you go to the cemetery early enough in the morning,
you may see her walking through the dewy grass, watering memorial flowers or brushing leaves
off the headstones. Sometimes, if the sun is still hidden by the mountains, she may sit and talk a
while. On rare occasions, she might even be found in the evening, preparing the cemetery for
the night.
Martha knows the names of every resident of the graveyard, how and when they died,
and where their graves lie. And she knows all the dirty secrets that a little mountain town can
hold. “The dead rarely hold their tongues,” she’ll say with a wink, if pressed on her sources.
If you go into the pine grove and search among the fallen leaves under the red oak, you
will find where Martha sleeps. There is a crumbling, moss-covered and water stained stone
tucked among the roots of the old tree. A name, a date, and an epitaph are carved into it in
nearly unreadable letters: Martha Wright. November 26 1850 Year of Our Lord. First
to be Laid to Rest in Little River. Martha herself is the first to tell you that her death
wasn’t interesting–not like some of the others. “It was only a touch of pneumonia,” she might
say. “Not like ol’ Ben Williamson. Fell out a hay loft tryin’ to catch a rooster that got stuck. And
only two days after marryin’ his third wife! Him and Lillian and Lizzie Mae and Rachel are all laid
over there, up near the church.”
Fall is Martha’s busiest season, and not just because of the leaves piling up and the
duties that come with getting ready for winter. The other residents of the cemetery grow restless
with the lengthening nights and cooling weather, and she has her hands full keeping them out of
mischief. She prides herself on the brightness of her cemetery–there are no dark, twisted roots,
no noxious mists winding through the headstones, and the residents are well-behaved. (Most of
the time. There are a few rare instances of malicious hauntings but these are few and far
between.)
There is another fall task of Martha’s and that is preparing the cemetery for the
Halloween Ball. She arranges the leaves of the red oak in patterns between the graves and she
drapes garlands made of corn shucks through the branches of the pines. A candle is placed at
every headstone and jack-o’-lanterns are scattered through the grounds. She usually has the
children string pinecones on lengths of twine to wrap around the cemetery fence and has the
adults carve the pumpkins. Sarah Miller, a seamstress back in her day, always takes out the
banner that reads CEMETERY AT LITTLE RIVER ANNUAL HALLOWEEN BALL on the 30th of
October and touches it up, adding a stitch here and a stitch there. Martha hangs it across the
back door of the church the next morning. Someone, normally Lizzie Mae Williamson, writes out
invitation cards a few days before and leaves them at each headstone.
The residents of the cemetery dislike the sun so the yard behind the church is empty
during the day of the 31st. But when the sun disappears behind the mountains and shadows
consume the graveyard, the guests of the Halloween Ball begin to arrive. Martha is there first, of
course, to collect the invitations and to keep out anyone who doesn’t belong, namely those of
Little River who live outside the cemetery. Children and the occasional adult still try to sneak
peaks of the ball through the fence or the church windows but Martha gently shoos them away.
Emma Lee and Mary Jo Taylor, the twins who died in a fire in 1900, are always right on
time, giggling with joy even though they’ve been doing this for a century at least. Sarah Miller
and her husband and their daughter and her family are next. Then comes Ben Williamson and
Lillian with their ten-year-old son, and the entire Green clan–all seven generations of them–
follows. Nearly all the residents of the cemetery attend, minus a few of the newer ones, who are
still quite ornery.
Abe Wheatley is always very nearly late, handing in his invitation just before the ball
starts with his battered fiddle case in tow. “You won’t mind if I play a bit of music, will you, Ms.
Martha?” he invariably asks.
“Of course not!” is Martha’s reply.
There are games and a table of refreshments and an open space for dancing. Everyone,
from the youngest to the oldest, enjoys the cemetery’s biggest event of the year. They only stop
when the morning sun begins to peak over the mountain tops. Then Abe puts away his fiddle
and the children are rounded up, and one by one they go to bed until Martha is the only one left.
She tidies up the grounds, taking down the banner and snuffing out the candles.
Sometimes, she’ll stop and talk to an early riser from the town. But by the time the first rays of
sun hit the church, the only things left in the cemetery are the corn shucks, the pine cones, and
one or two jack-o’-lanterns.
Artist Statement: Around Halloween, my dance teacher decided to make a Halloween-themed dance. We all sat around talking about things that scared us and other Halloweenish things, such as ghosts. I thought it would be fun to write a story about dancing ghosts because of that.