Ghosts of Graveyards Past Read Online Free Page A

apprentice mentioned by the funeral director, or maybe a member of the Sawyer family in the same trade.
    Her instinct to move down the sloped path and find out was checked by the sound of a door slamming somewhere nearby. The figure which emerged from the back of the farmhouse was instantly familiar, with dark hair and a faded green jacket. Instead of flowers, though, he cradled a postage box, resting it against the hood of the truck as he unlocked its door.
    Jenna was close enough to call out this time, but stayed silent, speechless from surprise, or maybe excitement at the thought of someone who might hold the answers to the cemetery’s location. Although, neither reason could explain the intent way she studied his face.
    He was no more than thirty, but with a haggard expression that lined otherwise appealing features, a jaw shaded with stubble; a lean-muscled build evident beneath the work clothes. All this was registered as quickly as it took him to climb in the vehicle, sliding the box into its passenger seat as he started the engine.
    For the second time that day, Jenna was an intruder.
    He guided the truck down a narrow dirt lane that was flanked on its other side by a field.
    Thunder rumbled overhead, a drop of moisture landing on her face. She brushed it away as another fell, and then another, followed by a steady sprinkle of rain against her clothes and boots. She continued to stand there without reason, staring after the vehicle as it disappeared around the bend. Why hadn’t she called down to him? Now it seemed pointless to linger, with the storm gathering strength at a fast pace. She would come back in the morning, she decided, with one last glance at the display of crumbling monuments.
     
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    By the time Jenna realized she was lost, it was too late to turn back. How it happened she couldn’t say, except that somewhere in the growing downpour she lost track of the scenery. The path diverged in places that caused her to backtrack more than once, and even the stone carver’s house was lost to her, its chimney smoke dissipating in the rain.
    Pausing beneath a canopy of oaks, she pulled her cellphone from her pocket only to find a no signal bar. Her heart lurched at the sight, a sense of panic at the thought of being stranded here as twilight grew closer. There was a flashlight in her knapsack, but she wouldn’t need it for some time yet. Her fingers curled around it for comfort more than anything.
    Would there be bears in such a place? She had never lived in the country, or anywhere with forestry, her experience limited to picnics and camping trips. And those were so long ago that she could scarcely recall her father’s advice on avoiding dangerous wildlife.
    Help me, she prayed brokenly, her thoughts circling in a loop of worry. Tell me what to do, where to go…keep me safe.
    Broken branches and tree tops littered this part of the woods, where it seemed wind or ice had felled some of the timber at one time.
    She wondered if there were other residents within walking distance or if the masonry shop was the solitary inhabitant of this wild place. It seemed a strange location for a business, so isolated from the bustle of the town. His work must come from elsewhere, she supposed, remembering the lack of records at the funeral home.
    Something about the craftsman drew her thoughts, even in her current predicament. Crouched beneath the shelter of bowed branches, she pictured again his ramshackle farmhouse and workshop. He seemed young for such an old-fashioned occupation, a trade that men twice his age would have seen as archaic in their day.
    Did he possess a strong love for the past? She believed he must have a sense of protection for history to make his living in a lost art form. Like museum curators who dusted off relics and made them seem new and inspiring to the modern world. Or maybe she just imagined as much because of her need to preserve the things others had forgotten.
    By now, the downpour of