It’s common knowledge that graveyards are haunted. Does this strike anybody else as kind of lazy?

I mean, the spirit finally shucks off the mortal prison binding them to this world – the cosmos are their’s to explore – and they stay within 15 feet of where they were dropped.

Don’t get me wrong, I champion the cause of the lazy. But, recently, I have found that even I have my limits when it comes to how much effort I am not willing to put forth, despite my wife Trixie’s repeated prediction that those were depths that would never be plumbed.

Take for example, Planet Fitness, my gym.  Ok, ok, technically I just use them to shower while on the road. Exercise is too much like hard work.

I welcomed the automatic sinks. I CHEERED the automatic flush toilets. I even liked the automatic hand dryers. Loud, but efficient.  Not so much the automatic paper towel things. They are too slow and don’t dispense enough at a time.  But now (and this is really too much) the automatic soap dispenser dispenses pre-lathered soap. Come on! I am going to the effort of washing my hands, I do not mind making my own foam. My motto has always been, “A man can’t just sit around.” We gotta have SOMETHING to do.

Anyhow, it is dusk. I am sitting in a playground that is on the grounds of a graveyard in Huntsville, AL  (pic related)

I shit you not.

Rumor has it that the playground is way haunted. It is creepy as can be. It sits in a small depression and is surrounded on three sides by granite walls and the fourth by the graveyard.

Local legend claims that a serial killer buried his victims here – children.

Strange noises are frequently reported by paranormal investigators. Also, the swings are said to sway as if propelled by an unseen force (“ghost of little kid” would be my guess). Floating orbs of light have also been reported by, what I am guessing are, those so petrified by fear at the other stuff that they couldn’t run for it thus were around to witness the orbs.

Officially the playground is called Drost Park, locals refer to it as, “Dead Children’s Playground”. Aww.

This is a big cemetery. Something like 80,000 buried here. That would make it the third largest city in Alabama if…you know…they LIVED here.

There are reports of a haunted horse-drawn coach driven by a former governor and sounds of an eerie squeaking noise coming from the grave of some young bride who accidentally poisoned herself on her wedding night. She was buried in her bridal gown and for some reason, sitting  upright in a rocking chair, which is said to acount for that squeaking sound coming from her grave.

Local troublemakers of Huntsville,  who, I am guessing, did not make the cut for Space Camp, sneak onto the grounds at night and press their ears to the bride’s stone slab to listen for the eerie sounds. I see no reason to question the veracity of their claims.

Finding the park was surprisingly difficult because, everybody who has investigated this place in the past who has posted on-line about their experience has remarked how easy it is to find. But none gave actual directions.

I circled the graveyard several times – leaving and re-entering the grounds on numerous occaisions.

Now, you know me – I love Halloween. And, I love people that love Halloween.

My current favorite is this person (pic related)

The view of their front yard includes a HUGE haunted cemetery, but they needed just liiiitle more dressing to give the house that spooky feeling. That’s my kind of people there.

Eventually I found the playground. Ok, now I need you to really get a picture of this – clear your minds and watch this unfold…

I park my VAN (the EM-50 Phantom Rambler). Matter-of-factly, my 50 year old pudgy self climbs out wearing cargo shorts, a short-sleeve button-up shirt, black socks with sandals, sunglasses and that big straw hat Trixie bought me. I grab my sling backpack and place it over my shoulder. I reach back into my van and grab my cameras (I want to capture any weirdness that occurs) one at a time I place the straps around my neck. I now turn and step toward the playground.

This is when I notice the little 5 year old blonde girl who is being rushed off of the swings by her justifiably concerned grandmother who is rightfully eyeing me suspiciously. I mean, the van with blacked out windows, the cameras, my attire – could I look anymore like a pedophile? I think not. (pic related)

why don’t you have a seat right over there Mr. Long.

In my defense, who the fuck takes their kid to play in a cemetery? I never dreamed anyone would be using this thing! Sonuvabitch! I stood there feeling like a creep while grandma shot twin rooster tails of gravel at me while she sped out of the lot.

Oh well. Back to work.

Sitting  here, I hear the buzz of insects, the chirping of birds, and the tongue-clucking of some wise ass beyond the woodline…I hope.

Two ladies show up. Ghost Chasers, of sorts. They’re  there to sense PKE valances. All is quiet and still. Until some 20 something douche nozzle roars into the lot and screeches to a halt. He is brash and irreverent, like all young men that don’t have crew cuts are. He has, in tow, two giggling females – one, whom he is trying  to impress by showing how brash and irreverent he can be. The other because it is obviously her BFF and she has been brought along so the other can demonstrate how she really never thought that this trip to Dead Children’s Playground on a Saturday night was in any way a ploy by the douche nozzle to capitalize on the rush of fear-induced adrenaline that can often be a precursor to recreational sex. No. She is that clueless and innocent. She goes to the graveyard at dusk to ride the swings. She is just that random! OMG! As if!

Otherwise it would mean she dragged her BFF along just to witness how much more attractive she is because the brash and irreverent douche, Butch, is so chasing after her while she is totally like…whatever.

Douche boy saunters with authority to the swings, not bothering to assist the girls as they exit the cramped vehicle. He’s a leader.

Soon they are swinging with abandon. Destroying any hopes of taking any readings.

Moments later they dismount and race back to the car. Ostensibly because youths today quickly become bored with all things, but in reality it is because night is falling and the brash young man felt the icy chill of doubt. “What if it really is haunted?”

It is the next morning now. Sleep came in fits. Mostly because I was laying on a rolled up pair of dirty socks that were pressing against the small of my back and I was too tired to reach in and dislodge them.

But, now it is another Sunday without the lovely Trixie. I must fashion a plan, a destination and a route to take me there.