The Mausoleum

It was an eerie night; Friday the 13th, May 2005. It was the night of a full moon, a near cloudless sky held twinkling stars. I shivered as the leaves startled and jumped. The sudden rhythmic beat of Old McDonald Had a Farm shook me from my frightened state. I smiled and chuckled at myself. I turned to see my sister, Amy and my younger cousin, Rachel singing and dancing. Ahead of me, I saw the adults. Broken up into small groups, each of them carried their own little conversations. To the left of me were my two closest cousins; Nick and Jeremy. My oldest cousins, Michael, Sarah, along with my brother Ben, were a few yards ahead; plotting who knows what.
Slowly but surely the group made its way to the Mausoleum; an old, crumbling building atop a wicked hill. The treacherous climb was enough to warn people of the dangers, but my family paid no mind. Ever since I can remember my family has made the two-mile hike to the hill and up the fierce ascent to the monumental tomb.
A few decades ago, I’m sure the Mausoleum was a fairly majestic burial church. Built by James Von Kelps, a wealthy German man around 1941. Constructed for his to deceased parents, time and effort played a major part in the structure’s previous attraction. As a result of countless acts of ignorant vandalism, much of the building’s beauty has been snatched away. Still it is quite a sight to see.
As we near the hill, Jeremy, Nick and I rush up to climb the roots towards the Mausoleum. Because it is such a steep incline, it takes a while getting everybody up. A few minutes later, we all spot the low, slanted roof of the poor, beat-up dead house. Behind us stands the thin forest, to the left is the actual Mausoleum, and to the right lies the graveyard. Once a respected, calm graveyard, the resting-place of the dead is reduced to a shredded heap of dirt and shattered headstones.
Most of us head into the actual Mausoleum, where elegant glass doors surrounded by red brick once stood as an entrance. The stone walkway, now a mutilated pile of broken rocks. Upon entering the mangled structure, we see an imposing wooden cross, on the far wall, and resting below it is a large, stone casket. On both the right and the left are two identical stone caskets that once held the beloved bodies of James’ parents. Bottles of alcohol and trash litter the molding stone floor. I stare around and pity the poor, dying Mausoleum, which I have visited for so many nights.
Fear rising up from the pit of my stomach as I glance into the now empty caskets. Such a shame what has happened to these helpless bodies. After a seemingly short time staring at around the sad building, the parents leave to examine the graveyard. Nick, the youngest of our trio, hurries to catch up with them. Jeremy and I stick around to admire such a destroyed place that has outlasted such a terrible beating. Someone must really want this thing around. Suddenly, as Jeremy and I are turning to leave, we spot a shadowy, white figure standing in the corner. Was it Rachel? No, it couldn’t be. We froze, it fright and confusion. A ghost, of course; I couldn’t see much, but it appeared to be an older woman, crying. She held a dying daisy in her glossy white hands. I heard Jeremy back up towards the exit, but I didn’t move. Something held me there, she looked up and noticed me, frightened, she fled into her casket. I felt Jeremy tugging on my sweater. It was time to leave. We ran back to the group, and made the cautious descent back to the dirt road. Just before leaving, I turned back, and noticed a white daisy, swaying, just outside the graveyard. A smile broadened on my face.
As we headed back to the cabin, Jeremy and I stayed close to the group. We didn’t say anything about what we had seen in the Mausoleum, but we both knew it would be an experience we would never forget.