I woke up last night, in a dream, remembering I had this wonderful song, “Beautiful Ghost, Introduction To Songs Of Experience” from U2, and I rushed downstairs to put it on. And it enveloped me:

“Hear the voice of the bard

Who present past and future sees

Whose ears have heard the holy word

That walk among the ancient trees.

Calling the lapsed soul

And weeping in the evening dew

That might control

The starry pole

And fallen fallen light renew.”

I’ve always seen stories as living and organic things growing in their own time, this way and that, and my ghost story is like that, like an onion, revealing itself in layers, bit by bit over time. Today, we found the foundations of Alexander’s Barn, the wood, rocks and walls where he almost surely kept his animals, just a few yards from the foundations of the house. We had never looked there before, never seen the wall foundations, leading right up to the path, of course, where the doors would have been. It is all just below ground,  blocked  by trees and thick brush, and the dogs never went there, and neither did I. I can’t quite believe I missed it. The path, it seems, is not a path, but an old road. I found a stone marker that looks like a grave marker, lying on its side under a mound of dirt and debris. I will have it washed, cleaned, and if it seems to belong there, returned. Perhaps it is Alexander’s grave. Might be.

Gave me a wrench to find it, a pull in the heart. Not creepy, not at all. Very wonderful, touching. Thanks for the responses to the Ghost Story. Got me out there looking and I would never have looked for the barn or found the marker if not for that. I will photograph it when it is cleaned up.

Above is a photo of the inkwell, found in the foundations of the house where the farmer Alexander (that is the rumor around here about his name) lived with his wife and three children. They are believed to have taken ill while he was away and his wife is said to have written him a letter each day near the end, even though she was too ill to send them to him, and she and the children died soon after writing them. Alexander, if I may call him that,  was away with the militia, perhaps fighting in the Indian wars that raged in upstate New York for years. Alexander is believed to walk the path every night, looking for his family,  although I only saw him once, and briefly, while walking with Rose. He was coming towards me, tall and sorrowful, and then vanished.

We found the inkwell five or six years ago on a ledge between the rocks in the stone wall, not on the ground, not under debris. Some have suggested that this mother and wife, a writer, left them for me, a writer. I don’t know about that. I have always thought it strange to have found it. I never write without it. I feel a connection to it, thinking of this woman in her farmhouse, writing to her husband for the last time.  Standing in the house – the dogs were out in the woods, but not near – I did what archeologists and geologists do in a digging. I  looked around to see how things might have been and imagined the house. I found the stairs, and the frame for a door next to the path. There was a large stone that might have been a hearthstone. I closed my eyes and imagined this woman writing her last letters, using this beautiful old inkwell, for years the writer’s symbol, perhaps by firelight. I think I know where. It is different in those foundations, beautifully strange and distinct. How curious that these foundations were hidden when I walked right by them every day for years.

Is she speaking to me, this mother, this wife? Is she sending me a message through this inkwell? I will listen for it. Open myself to it. Beautiful Ghost.  Is she weeping in the evening dew, till the break of day?

How beautiful that this story, which I nearly forgot about, unfolds. How touching, how deeply I feel it. I am told, have read, that it is important to find a way to release ghosts, to set them free, to let them know that they can go in peace, and find comfort, and I think I will do that. I’m not sure whether ghosts are real or not, but just in case… I saw something on that path, and so did Rose. I will writer Alexander a letter and read it to him at dusk one day soon, in the foundations of his house, near a marker that surely was meant for him or a member of his family. When I was involved in Quaker Meetings some years ago, our Meeting helped some witches  who were being pursued by some physicians who didn’t want them doing any healing. I enjoyed them, and I hear from one or two every now and then. I will ask them about a ritual, or ceremony. I found one online that I liked, which said that all that was necessary to release a spirit was the blessing and prayer of a good heart. I’ll bring Maria for good measure. Tomorrow I put up some photos of the barn foundation. I might do a video of the sites as well.

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It is curious how the dogs will come into the woods near the foundation but will not come up to it. Lenore is always by my side, but not here.