A haunting at the Old Chapel? Or just frisky raccoons?


It started with a creak and a soft slam as I nudged the iron gate closed - almost - closed. The girls and I pulled over to read a historical marker about the Old Chapel in Millwood, Virginia about twenty miles from our house on the way home from a playdate. And since I can't resist a lovely old cemetery, we quickly hopped out of the car and, finding the gates open, passed through them.


The Old Chapel itself dates to 1791, rebuilt in stone after a fire destroyed the former structure, its windows shuttered and painted a dull brown, its door closed to the public and iron doorknob hanging askew. It was unused and set off from the busy road, looked hidden if not forgotten. The cemetery behind it wasn't large but held in its bosom the remains of one of Virginia's early governors and other local dignitaries, it seemed more of an extended family plot, a testament to the close-knit community of rural Virginia. The congregation moved from the building to a larger stone church after they outgrew the Old Chapel in the 1840s so it stands empty except for twice-a-year sermons.

So - back to the story.

I half-pushed the iron gate back to its former position and turned to join Syenna when I heard the scrape of a shutter being closed. The shutters that were already closed on all sides of the building.

"Did you hear that? I thought I heard a shutter?" I said.

"Nah, it's just the gate."


We joined the other two girls in reading dates on tilted stones and enjoying the quiet sunny afternoon on a rare non-humid summer day. The cemetery is well taken care of without being fussy, the grass tickling our feet and a plant or two out of control left years ago by a well-meaning visitor taking over a few graves. A very large tree dominated the churchyard, on closer inspection we saw that it had grown around a stone tower, we still can't figure out what the heck the tower was for (water pump? Indian lookout?).

After about an hour, Wynter and I turned to join the others at the Chapel.





















"Mom, I heard music." Vyo, being five-years-old, was very confident. I told her she may have heard it from a passing car but she swore it came from inside the building.

"I told her to knock on the door and see if anyone was there," Syenna said. At fourteen, I knew she wasn't quite as quick to assign phantom music to an old building. "Then we heard a huge crash! I'm surprised you didn't hear it while in the cemetery!"

Well, that got my attention. Birds? Raccoons? The structure looked sound but critters can get in almost anywhere if they have a mind to.

One shutter was loose and we were able to open it to see a cracked window revealing a room devoid of anything but empty pews. So what was knocked over? Who moved the still shutters? And what the heck was making all that racket inside?

Stay tuned, I'm hoping to get a peek inside.

Stop looking at me like that.


I was a weird kid.

Not the kind that stared down adults until they cried, but if you’ve read my blog and essays at An Army of Ermas, it’s a little obvious that I was a few apples short of a fruit basket.Yesterday, my daughter and I
drove past one of those creepy concrete figurine outlets that dot the northern Virginia/West Virginia byways and while she commented on the majestic 15ft fake stone eagle about to soar over the heads of the various concrete woodland creatures that lined the highway, I spotted… Taffy.

I was about eight-years-old and apparently had little to no contact with the outside world, as my best friend became a slate-gray concrete raccoon that stood about two feet high. How my mother was talked into letting me take this thing home is a mystery though I suspect it was just to get me to shut up about how delightful life would be if only I could bring Taffy to school – to the library – to the pool – on road trips…

I had big plans to paint Taffy in bright sunny colors that reflected her inner awesomeness while still holding true to her raccoon heritage because I’m sensitive like that and it was the 70s- every friggin thing was in bright sunny colors and I nearly vibrated with sensitivity (aside from the whole serial killer thing). Taffy remained gray, however, the victim of my mother’s screaming fit as I tried to dump a gallon of leftover paint on top of the raccoon… in the living room, on the new orange shag carpeting. Mothers can be so fussy.

Taffy remained my constant companion for a year or so before she vanished. I don’t like to point fingers but I suspect my mother of misdeeds involving play dates with breathing children and midnight roadside drop-and-dashes at concrete outlets but today all is forgiven. Taffy’s coming home.

Summer reading programs and the book of pissed off bats

We're big on reading here in the Graham household. I have daughters tucked into corners reading Suzanne Collins' THE HUNGER GAMES series, another devouring Rick Riordan's work and still more writing love tweets to Scott Westerfeld because he's the "best writer in the world" (ahem). I leave them be. The more books they're reading, the fewer times I need to head to the store for snacks and nail polish.

The younger two are stepping up to the literary plate this summer with choices from our local library's summer reading program. Lil was a bit resistant but the librarian talked her into a book on fairy tales and princesses. I think she really wanted one on fashion design and was eyeing the Judy Moodys but she was game. Vyolette, however, stormed into the library on a mission. She's headed to Kindergarten this fall and she would NOT be ignored (cue creepy Glenn Close close up).


Librarian: Great! I see you signed up for our program! What would you like to start with? Princesses (spying Lily's book)? How about fairies?

Vyo: Zombies.

Librarian giving me the eye: Oh. I think you're a little young for zombies. They're icky.

Vyo giving her the eye: I think we're done here.

Vyolette took off, bypassing the racks of books on sweet baby-faced children playing in groups and books on anthropomorphic animals chatting about tea parties when she stopped and chose this >>

Filled with bat facts, bat stories, bat poop and cranky-looking bat photos, she was delighted and carries it around with her in a small bag in case anyone asks a random bat question.

My baby's a chip off the old block...

What's on your summer reading list?

Mine after The Girls' Ghost Hunting Guide and Zombie Tarot are wrapped up and sent to happy editors:

Persuasion by Jane Austen
Sizzling Sixteen by Janet Evanovich