Greenwood

“Head on swivel” is what Momma says daily whenever I leave the house. Shortly after, she DMs me a news link she found on Facebook of yet another missing woman, and another link about a cold case finally being closed after a botched investigation. The victims are always women my age, height, weight and skin tone.

It used to scare and annoy me when she did that. Now, I use them as a reminder to turn the volume down on my headphones as I walk home from work. I check my surroundings as the limited light of day quickly disappears and the sun starts to set. The West End of Louisville, Kentucky, is quiet and cold in the fall. Kentuckians turn into hermits in our homes until Derby.

I try my best to bury my face into the neck of my coat. The crocheted scarf wrapped around my neck and head does nothing as the icy wind slips through its holes. I start speed walking past Greenwood Cemetery, a historic burial ground that’s been abandoned for three decades. It’s the final resting place of many Black Americans who were veterans of the Civil War and weren’t allowed to be buried alongside white soldiers. Grass as long as grain fields cover the sunken headstones, and the headstones themselves aren’t as orderly as a typical, less neglected cemetery. If you were to take a casual stroll through it, you might accidentally be standing on someone’s grave and not even know. West End residents have complained to Metro Council members about not being able to visit and show proper respect due to the city’s heedlessness, but volunteers and local nonprofits are the only ones doing what they can about it.

The tall, wired gate of the cemetery is just as raggedy as the rest of the place, and it’s always open. Bent to the side like a giant is leaning on it. I can see my house from where I’m at, but my feet aren’t moving fast enough. Even with the wind pushing behind me. My eyes are low and counting the lines on the concrete to keep the unforgiving air from making them water. The streetlights are starting to flicker on one at a time now.

“Miss?” I hear a hushed voice hiss at me.

I stop where I stand to look around. Nothing. I continue to walk.

“Miss, are you lost? I can help you if you’re lost. Come on inside.”

When I hear it this time I notice that the steps I had taken took me nowhere. I am still standing at the gate. A lone car driving towards I-264 makes a “shhh” sound as it goes by me. Its headlights capture a leg as skinny as the poles holding the gate. An exposed bone sticks out of it.

The word “Miss?” is whispered in the air from many voices, drowning out the sounds of the nearby highway. My eyes are stuck to my house just a couple blocks away, but my feet don’t belong to me anymore as they carry me further away from home and deeper inside Greenwood Cemetery. Two bodies run past me on each side of Cemetery Drive, ducking in and out of the tall grass. They move too fast at first for me to see their apparitional faces, but they stop running and stand still long enough for my eyes to take in their matching old-fashioned blouses and ankle-length skirts. Their heads slowly begin to spin a full 180 degrees while their lifeless eyes dart right and left like they are looking out for danger.

“Head on swivel,” they shout like an alarm.

Dated headstones start emerging on my pathway. A gasp chokes my throat when a headstone in the grass cracks right down the middle. 1830-1864 is all that was visible on its face before it crumbles to pieces. I step back from it when a fist punches through the dirt. Arms quickly scramble out of the Earth. With no eyes where his sockets were, a once alive man coolly walks toward me like he can see. Bits of rotten flesh stick to pants made from the same fabric as potato sacks. His shirtless chest puffs out for his first deep breath in 161 years. I slip on my own feet trying to take a big step away from him. I lose my balance and slip on yet another barely noticeable marker. The haint is standing in the same position, looking at me on the ground, but he now had what look like hundreds of people standing behind him and surrounding me. Faces that once were various shades of Black were now blood-drained gray. Their worn clothing is the only indicator of the periods they came from. His hands grab my ankles and begin dragging me into what used to be his grave. Kicking and screaming, I plead with the ghost around me to let me go. They sing instead. Clapping their hands and belting out the lyrics of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” The man with bone sticking out of his leg dances his way through the crowd and speaks to me.

“We’ll give you a proper homegoing, miss,” he says sincerely. “A proper burial so you don’t have to roam like we do.”

Those in military uniform line up until they reach the gate, all standing at attention. Making an arch with their rusted bayonets. I grab at the Earth like it is a ladder and wiggle my ankles out the grip of the giant haint. On my feet, I shove through the singing bodies and almost run into the middle of Hale Ave bolting out of Greenwood Cemetery. The muskets of the dead Civil War vets went off behind me in the distance. I run nonstop down the street, through the stoplight at the next, and into my home at the corner of South 42nd. My jittery hands can’t put my keys into the lock.

*

I was relieved when Momma opened the door for me. I stumbled into the house and immediately took off my coat, the hoodie underneath, and then my sweater. I wanted to snatch my hair out from its roots. Anything that still made me feel like the dead were near me needed to be off my skin. I didn’t realize I was crying. I was waiting for the scolding, hot reprimanding from Momma for running into her house with my shoes on. Instead she pulled me into her arms and hugged me so tight I felt my back pop.

“What happened?” she asked. She had the type of concern in her voice that made me want to soothe her, but I couldn’t.

“You’re dirty. Did you fall somewhere?” She pulled back to look me over.

I put my hands on my head and took a deep breath, trying to slow my panicked tears. I was trying to rid myself of the memories of unmarked, unkempt graves. Rid myself of the reality of how easy it is for someone who looks like me and my momma to become dead and forgotten.