Ominous Energies Emanate at Ross Bay Cemetery

South Facing Biggerstaff Anglican Cross Grave Monument

 In the dusky twilight, silence settled onto the windswept Ross Bay cemetery. The sun had set before I was finished transcribing a new cross monument. I knelt, as if in prayer, at the base of a towering cross, teeth chattering, using the wavering light from my phone to double check the inscription at the base. 'Just two more to check, just two more.' I thought to myself, never mind that they were halfway across the cemetery.  A shiver worked its way through me, not merely because I was cold.

Our group had come to Ross Bay Cemetery a few days previously, in the afternoon, photographing, transcribing, and plotting cross monuments for our project. During this visit, the cemetery seemed a rather peaceful place, though one we should be respectful of. We had left just as the sun was setting, swapping creepy stories. Later in the week, I had volunteered to go back down to Ross Bay after realizing that a few of our transcriptions might be incomplete and to find one more ornamented and styled cross from the general section. A few hours later I was still at my computer, typing away on a different paper, finally looking away from the screen to realize how little daylight I had left. Scrambling for my camera, I rushed out of the house, calling my mum, to see if she wanted to come with me.

Once down at the cemetery, my search started off on a good note. I found a beautiful cross right away, in the general section, for the MacDonald family. It had been raining for the past three days and the ground was soggy, my shoes sinking into the ground with ever step, and there was a bitter smell upon the air. I walked past very recent burials and couldn't help but think of the bodies beneath the soil. My heartbeat quickened as the light dimmed and I rushed from one monument to the next, quickly, but thoroughly, checking the transcriptions, not giving the proper respect or heed to the graves. Oddly, as the shadows grew longer, the  lettering appeared larger and clearer. Inscriptions that I was unable to read on the previous visit stood out in bold lettering, " In loving memory of Arthur C Beeton....".

With the last rays of sun gone from the sky, I ran across the Anglican section to the Catholic for one final monument check. I bent down reading the last line, when suddenly I felt an overwhelming sleepiness descend upon me, felt that something was pulling me down, to keep me there. "I do not belong here. I need to get out. NOW!", I thought. It was as if I stayed one moment too long, that I was trespassing, but I couldn't move. My mum's voice called out to me, breaking my paralysis, "We need to leave!". One look told me she felt it too. We half ran all the way back to the car on the general side of the cemetery. Neither of us are particularly superstitious, but when we got home I spread salt across the threshold, burnt incense, and offered a wee dram of scotch to the spirits of the dead, to apologize for my offense.

Now Ross Bay Cemetery is well known for the paranormal experience, though I have never set much store in ghost hunter hokum. This experience, however, makes me rethink how I conducted myself that night. Perhaps I offended the dead, not being considerate of the graves and being there at an inappropriate time. After this project is complete, I intend to go back there with flower offerings to thank the spirits of the dead, whose monuments we analyzed for our project.

The reason for sharing this story is to remind us that the remains we study in archaeological work were at one time living breathing humans like ourselves and deserve proper respect by archaeologists.