Photobombed by a ghost?

CW: Discussions about experiences in the army.

A startling chill gripped my spine, defying the warmth of the Virginia sun as we meandered through the cemetery. Regret gnawed at me for forgetting breakfast, but the graceful figure striding ahead was a fitting reminder of my eagerness to set up for the photo-shoot early. The elegant muse had promised a morning of artistic fulfilment which overshadowed my empty stomach with the thrill of a creative - and possibly romantic - endeavour. The lavish greenery beneath our feet and the ancient trees that stood sentinel encircling us juxtaposed sharply with the grey gravestones and sombre monuments. Ancient, weathered and cracked tombstones, as well as taller, more statuesque obelisks witnessed us passing as they witnessed countless before us.

Earlier that morning, I had captured pictures of Lisa against this striking backdrop. The melancholy of the scenery only accentuated her allure, lending a haunting beauty to the photos. She posed without restraint, radiant in the sun’s golden light, her glistening hair catching each ray. The photo-shoot itself had proceeded smoothly, but an eerie feeling lingered in the air, one that only I seemed to discern. I wondered whether there was merit to my unease or if it was merely the echo of Granny's warnings in childhood reverberating in my mind.

Growing up in rural Jamaica, I was often warned about the dangers of taking pictures near 'duppy' graves or generally provoking their ire. My grandmother claimed to be able to sense their presence and was revered as the medicine woman of our community. Granny was deeply rooted in these beliefs and often recounted stories of her own mother, who apparently had the gift of seeing and conversing with the dead at will. In spite of my deep love for photography, these beliefs had always unconsciously guided my creative choices, steering me away from places like these. However, I decided to set aside what I considered childish superstition after being approached by my second and certainly more mesmerising client. Still, as another shiver ran down my spine, I half-jokingly wished I had lathered in one of Granny’s protection oils before setting foot in the graveyard.

Lisa had mentioned that, like me, she had lived in Jamaica, albeit for a much shorter period. She explained that her birth mother was from the island and had died early in her life. Lisa’s own mother had migrated to the US and joined the army for support to further her tertiary education. Lisa was unclear about the circumstances of her birth, but she knew that when confronted with the challenges of single parenthood in a foreign land, her mother had made the difficult decision to entrust Lisa to her sister's care in Jamaica. After returning to the USA, she never made contact again before passing away. Thus, Lisa was raised by her maternal aunt, who herself migrated to the US to join family when Lisa was about to start school. Now a university graduate herself, Lisa saw a photoshoot at her mother’s grave as a poignant way to honour her memory.

From my older cousin’s experience, I knew joining the military was a lifeline for families despite the characteristically long separations and constant dangers. As Lisa recounted her mother's story, I pondered whether her mother would have chosen this path had it not been financially incentivised. After all, this sacrifice came with an immeasurable cost. The weight of these questions had cast a reflective shadow over an otherwise uneventful day. Nonetheless, the atmosphere felt thick with an inexplicable presence until the moment we left.

In a hurry to see my handiwork, I decided to review the photos as soon as I arrived home. After transferring my camera’s memory card to my laptop, I noticed something peculiar. Most images were beautiful and serene, capturing Lisa’s joy and grace amidst the cold grey concrete. One picture, however, had grossly unsettling qualities.

In this particular photo, Lisa flashed a charming smile as she pointed directly at her mother’s grave—unintentionally breaching yet another critical rule. Beside her loomed a faint, spectral figure, barely discernible but unmistakably there. The apparition's eyes pierced through the image into my own eyes. These eyes were filled with an agonising sadness that seemed to whisper secrets from the past. The eerie feeling that had plagued me during the shoot now shrouded me.

My hands trembled as I slammed my laptop shut - a wasted effort since the disturbing image had imprinted in my mind. I knew that I had captured much more than a simple moment in time. The threats from my childhood echoed in my thoughts: if you take a picture of a grave, be prepared for what you might see. As a photographer, how might I have prepared for this? Utterly confused, I sought solace in some steeped marijuana tea with oat milk and drifted to a welcomed sleep.

I was roused from sleep by the familiar chill that had now settled into my bones. In the dim light of my living room, the spectral figure from that petrifying photograph had now materialised before me. She, I presumed, appeared more vibrant and corporeal than in the image—a stunning woman with a thick, lustrous afro, high cheekbones, and rich, dark skin, bearing the most striking resemblance to Lisa. She delicately caressed my forehead, producing an electrifying sensation and in that instant, her story began to unfurl before my eyes.

She was a soldier who, during her assignment in a foreign land, began to question the true motives behind her team's presence in the region. One fateful evening, amidst a chaotic raid, she was separated from her unit and left injured and disoriented. By a stroke of luck, she was found by people deemed enemies of her state. Despite what she viewed as hostility between them, they chose to rescue and care for her with a fervor that transcended their own peril. Among them, one man stood out, his eyes deep with unspoken grief. I could feel a profound bond between them that defied their cultural and even language barriers.

For seven months, she had remained elusive as she recovered. But when her team finally tracked her down and overpowered her rescuers, their cruelty knew no bounds. They unleashed their wrath upon everyone present, assuming she was being held hostage. The irony of their brutality was not lost on her; nor was the fact that the very people who had once shown her compassion now faced the same relentless violence she was there to perpetuate. Moved by the horror she had endured, her superiors allowed her temporary leave, granting her release out of a semblance of compassion for all she had endured.

Heartbroken and newly pregnant, she knew she couldn’t raise the baby herself, but the idea of abortion was equally unbearable. This child would be the last surviving link to the family she had come to love, and a testament to the war that had claimed all their lives. With a heavy heart, she returned to her homeland, Jamaica to give birth in secret. Her child, a precious symbol of that forbidden love, was entrusted to the care of her dear older sister. She returned to the US even more grief-stricken than she had left, only to die shortly after. She would never know her baby's laughter.

I arose the next morning overwhelmed by a deep and resonant sadness marked by unfulfilled dreams. The weight of the woman's story lingered on my mind, and her sacrifices and untold grief haunted me like a shadow. My newfound connection with her mother's tragic past compelled me to contact Lisa earlier than she would have anticipated but I was driven by a sense of urgency. The idea of conveying the gravity of what I had experienced was daunting and exhilarating but I aimed to offer Lisa not just a fragment of her mother's legacy, but a piece of the haunting truth that had profoundly altered my perception of the world I lived in.