Visiting Mama MacNeil

At the intersection, I could go right and head home – but turning left would take me to the old pioneer cemetery. She’d be waiting for me at home. Having not eaten since breakfast, my empty stomach was reminding me that she may have made dinner. Getting some food in me would be nice. But the thought of her being there, waiting for me was enough.

We’d started out fine. I guess relationships always do. And then things had gotten difficult. Maybe I’d gotten bored. Before I’d left for work we’d had it out, way worse than usual. I couldn’t stomach going back. At best, I’d apologize and prolong the slow demise of our time together. More likely, I’d flare up and throw her out tonight, after I’d convinced her to move in only four months ago.

I reached the intersection and turned left. At some point in the distant past, this cemetery was probably a good distance away from the town itself. In the century and a half since the first grave was dug, however, the town had grown and enveloped the cemetery. It was now an inconvenient oddity, protected by historic status, disrupting the otherwise neatly laid out city grid.

This was not a beautiful field of well-manicured grass, with the highly polished stone plaques. There was no grass. During spring, there would be an abundance of weeds growing. This late in the year, there was only dirt. The headstones that were still standing were barely legible.

I entered the gates and headed to the far corner. I tried reading as many names as I could on the way. I had plenty of time before the moon was at its peak in the sky. Still plenty of time to find the grave and set up for the ritual.

The dark grey tombstone looked like every other crumbling tombstone in the cemetery. The writing worn away. We had it memorized, everyone in the family with the gift. When any of us showed the first sign of sensitivity towards the “others” we were taken to the cemetery at the next full moon and walked, through the dark, to this grave. We were made to memorize what had once been written there.

Anna MacNeil, beloved wife, 1803 – 1846

Eugene, my uncle, had been the one who had taken me out the first time. I think I was ten. I asked who she was.

“A distant mother,” was his reply.

“She had kids?”

“No.”

It didn’t make sense to me. But then, I was standing in a decrepit graveyard in the middle of the night with my uncle memorizing a tombstone I couldn’t read. How a childless woman was considered a distant mother was on brand with the rest of that night.

The first time I came back to talk to Mama MacNeil, as I learned to call her, I was fifteen. Most people in the family made it to their first visit with her within three years. My stubborn insistence that this was all “just a bunch of ghost stories to try to spook kids” held me back.

“It’s okay, Mama MacNeil herself was a skeptic. Had it out with the preacher on several Sundays after church, if the stories are to be believed,” as my grandmother once said.

At fifteen all skepticism about Mama MacNeil was gone. We’d performed the ritual, she’d arrived, and introductions had been made. She welcomed me. I learned, the hard way, about how she probed minds after being summoned. I don’t remember how we said our goodbyes or when we left. After that night, I slept in bed for nearly a week. Now, at age twenty-nine, I was back in the cemetery. Stronger now, but still weary of her.

Under the cool light of the full moon, I had taken off the necklace and put the amulet atop her stone. From my backpack, I’d pulled out the red, black, and blue candles and arranged them to be above the spots where her head, heart, and left hand were six feet below the surface. Each time I had done this, I wondered how close we really were in our candle placements. Next, I took out the salt. Not like the Morton’s you buy at the store, or that fancy pink stuff from Trader Joe’s. This was salt that I’d harvested myself. And it was mixed with an assortment of dried leaves, river sand, and sheep’s blood. All collected and prepared by your humble narrator.

Taking out my notebook, I turned to the page about a third of they way through where I’d copied the ritual instructions down so many years ago. I double-checked the placement of the amulet, the candles, and then sprinkled the salt on the candles while reciting the words. My accent, I was told at a young age, was very good. It would help to ensure the spell would take stronger.

As I sprinkled the salt on the flame of each candle, the flame flickered, grew in size, and turned to become the color of the candle itself. First, the blue candle at her head to honor her wisdom. Then the red to ignite the passions in her heart. Finally, the black at her left hand because I needed to do something wretched. As the flame grew and turned black, I felt the tingling in the back of my neck that told me the ritual was successfully underway.

I started the chants. It was a name calling ritual that started with Anna and named her maternal lineage back 75 names. The names were written in my notebook with their phonetic pronunciation and a brief moniker. I recited each and gave a prayer of praise to their contributions.

Elizabeth Alder, the governess

Mary Lloyd, the lazy

Elenor Crawly, the funny one

And so on, back into the dark recesses of time. Periodically, at one of these sessions, Mama MacNeil would reveal the name of another in her lineage. When she did, whoever had summoned her would write the name and moniker, and pass it along to the rest of the indoctrinated members of the family. When I was initiated into this ritual, there was stern warnings about calling upon her sparingly. Each time she gave us the name of a new ancestor, it made the ritual a little longer. At some point, it would become impossible to complete the ritual in time before the moon sets.

This time, though, it worked. After the seventy-fifth name, I started the summoning chant. The candles flickered. I felt the dizziness and dropped to my knees, remembering to hold the notebook close to my chest.

Mama MacNeil walked forward. Her spectral image was like looking at a reflection on glass at first. Slowly, as she walked forward, it solidified. Each step she took forward brought her into better focus and clarity. As she stood right above me looking down, I could no longer see through her.

The fear grew. This was part of the process. Mortals, I was told, aren’t meant to interact with the others. When we do, the fear is unnatural. It’s overwhelming and not something that anyone ever gets used to. I tried to calm myself. Then she spoke.

“My child, so good to see you.” The way she talked wasn’t quite an accent, but there definitely was something different about it. “What is it that brings you to visit this time?”

Now came the delicate part. Despite her genial greeting, she could be an absolute monster. Her words were utter sweetness. Her vile, ever-present, ever-hidden anger was poison. Even as she stood there smiling warmly, I could feel her ethereal tendrils reaching into my mind looking for the weakness. I thought back to how little I’d slept the night before. I tried pushing the thought aside, but she’d already sensed it.

“Child, how many times have I told you the importance of getting enough sleep? Particularly at such a young age. I do so worry about you.” None. Not once. That’s how many times she’d told me about sleep. Of course, that didn’t stop her from saying it.

“Why don’t you go on home and sleep now?” She tilted her head slightly to the side and had a worried look on her face.

I focused on the ground beneath my feet. I concentrated on how real the dirt of this graveyard was. Looking straight at her without shifting, I inhaled the scent of the bay tree I knew was just off to the right of where we stood. Centering my thoughts on the tangible reality around me, I tried to ignore the tendrils seeking my insecurity. Probing my thoughts to find something to latch onto.

Again, I thought of the dirt, of the shovels used to move it aside to make room for bodies, and then again to cover them. How many times had such hard work been done in this cemetery? Were the gravediggers themselves buried here too? Who buried them?

“Why such morbid concerns, dear one? You should be spending time in fields of grass and clover, twirling among flowers, and yet you stand here counting the dead. Go, child. Go home and sleep.” Was that a tinge of urgency in her voice?

I turned my thoughts now to the farm I’d visited in third grade. I thought of the machinery in the barn, old and worn, but lovingly cared for. I thought of the farmer himself proudly telling us of the work he did. How he harvested his crops and the meals his wife made for supper, as he called it.

“You really should go on home now!” This time there was no doubt. I was getting to her. She was anxious and wanted me gone. Concentration was almost impossible. It felt like she was in my mind with me, frantically thrashing around looking for something with urgency. If I did this right, I could have her.

I imagined a small church, built among tall pine trees. I imagined walking through the doors and seeing the parishioners all standing and singing hymns together. I imagined walking down the center aisle towards the altar. In my vision, I passed a woman holding her small baby. They smiled at each other and as the mother looked up and smiled at me, the vision broke and Mama MacNeil had fallen to her knees. I felt her tendrils snap back out. I took a deep breath and listed to her crying.

“Why do you all do this? Why don’t you let the dead rest?”

“Because we’re monsters too. And I need you to take care of my problem at home. I want her gone.”

Between sobs she managed to say, “She loved you at one time. Go back to her. Open yourself. Let her into your life. Find your peace, find your happiness.”

“Do it.”

She stood back up and wiped her eyes. “You’re condemning her to anguish for the rest of her days. Her life will be a living nightmare for as long as she lives. Go throw her out yourself!”

“Do it now.”

She dropped her eyes, turned around, and made her way back towards the trees she’d walked from. As she closed in on the trees, she faded and couldn’t be seen. It was done. Mama worked fast. She’d probably be packing her things and wondering how she could have fallen in love with someone like me. Over the next few days, she’d descend into a deep despair. Eventually, she would succumb. By then, I will have moved on to someone new.