That time I got locked in a cemetery....

In the fall of 2017 two big things happened in my life. First, in September I got sober after years of drinking in ways that I'm still impressed my body sustained as long as it did. Second, in October I went on my first uncharted solo road trip. Taking a road trip with the game plan of “I’m gonna wing it, what’s the worst that could happen” in early sobriety isn’t something I’d recommend, but making questionable choices was pretty much my entire way of life at that point. So, off I drove in my rental car toward an entire region of the country I’d never before seen.

I chose New England for this first trip for a few reasons. The first was purely logistical: my bucket list includes visiting every single state alone, and this road trip seemed like a practical way to knock out an entire region in one fell swoop. The second was that I have always wanted to go whale watching. I set my sights on Maine as a destination where I might be able to hop on a boat and see some whales. (I did hop on a boat. I did not see any whales. I saw some cool porpoises and an upsettingly large tuna, though!)

Other than “head north,” I had no plan, no smartphone (I still miss that old flip phone), and no clue what to expect. What I had was a collection of paper road maps, a hand-me-down GPS system that rarely worked, and chutzpah.

The morning I was headed into Massachusetts I asked the waitress if she knew of any good campgrounds in the state. She mentioned one that was near Salem, and my heart fluttered as if she’d just told me I could camp in Dolly Parton’s back yard. I couldn’t believe I’d almost forgotten to stop at Salem! Thank God for waitresses who are willing to trade tips for tips.

I stopped a few more times throughout the day to poke around hiking trails and look at the ocean. I might have accidentally broken into a state park? It’s still unclear. By the time I decided I needed to head toward Salem and the campground, it was that stupid time of day where the sun's glare is in your eyes no matter how many ways you flip the visor to block it. (Otherwise known as sunset.) Clearly I wasn't the only driver struggling, because when I was thirty minutes away from Salem a car pulled out in front of me from a side road and we ended up in a fender bender.

Two hours later, after one sundown, half of a meltdown, and a police report, I got back on my way. When I finally got to Salem I pulled into an empty church parking lot and finished that meltdown. I called some friends and the rental agency to do a combination of crying, venting, and taking care of business. During one of those calls my friend Mary said, “Well, maybe now something good will happen to balance out the bad.”

By the time I finished rolling calls and generally freaking out, it was already past 9:00 p.m. Most things in the town were closed except for bars (not great for a brand-new recovering alcoholic), but I still needed to get out of the car for a while. I decided to just walk around the dark town like the creeper I am, looking at the buildings, the parks, the streets. It was one of those early fall nights where the air is crisp and the temperature is somewhere between warm and cool. The charm of the town, the star-filled sky, and the fresh air helped me calm my nerves and bring me back down to earth.

Then, I saw it: The Salem Witch Trials Memorial. And next to it, an old cemetery dating back to the early 1600s. I was giddy.

I half-walk-half-jogged over to the cemetery entrance, a narrow metal gate in the stone walls surrounding the grounds. I was astounded to see that the gate was still wide open that late at night. In Philly just about all the cemeteries and graveyards are locked up around sundown. (Don’t ask how I know this. I just do.) I strode through the gate and meandered up and down the rows of headstones, reading the ones that I could make out in the dim street light cutting through the rustling tree branches. I took in the names. I took in the short inscriptions that provided such little, but poignant, information about the people who once embodied the corpses now below my feet. I wondered about their lives and loves and losses, their hopes and dreams and triumphs. I lost myself in the moment.

When I finally came out of this macabre trance I checked my watch. It was nearly 10:30, so I figured I’d better get a move on. Now that the adrenaline was fading, the emotional exhaustion from the day was truly settling in. I just wanted to crawl into my sleeping bag and let the crickets sing me to sleep.

As I made my way through the headstones back toward the gate I thought to myself: Huh.... That gate looks different.

When I got closer I realized: Umm.... That gate looks closed.

And when I finally reached it, it was undeniable: Uh-oh.... This gate is padlocked!

Part of me was annoyed. Part of me was freaked out. But mostly, I was thrilled. Now this is what I call an adventure! But, great dinner party story aside, I still needed to get out of there and be on my way. My sleeping bag was calling and the temperature was dropping beyond what the flimsy flannel shirt I was wearing could handle. I figured that there wasn’t any way they would have completely locked a person inside the cemetery. (Well, you know, a living person.) Nonetheless, after making a full lap of the perimeter it became clear that I had, indeed, been locked in. I pulled out my phone and texted the friends I’d vented to just over an hour ago. “Guys. You’re never gonna believe this....”

After I gave the update about this hilarious and insane situation to my friends (clearly my priorities were right where they needed to be), I began sizing up the stone walls and spiked iron fences that surrounded me. The spikes on the fences looked lethal, so I figured the walls were my best bet. I could comfortably reach up and place my hands on top of the wall, so I was pretty confident I could scale it if I needed to. Which was good, because I was out of other options. I found a spot that looked like it had some nice places to gain footholds on the way up, placed my hands on top, and had just started hoisting myself up when I heard the voices.

They were coming from the opposite side of the wall, and there were quite a few of them. They were chattering amongst themselves until I heard one voice rise over the others as it became unmistakable that this group of people was getting closer. “You can probably figure out what our next stop is going to be. After all, it wouldn’t be a ghost tour without a stop at a graveyard.”

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding me?!

Now I was panicking. I was no stranger to being in places I shouldn’t be, doing things I shouldn’t do, but usually I at least had the home field advantage. So, I did the only thing I could think to do. I turned around and hightailed it across the grounds to hide behind a tree about 30 yards away.

(“But, Bee. Why didn’t you just crouch down behind the solid stone wall? You know.... The wall you were already mostly hidden behind?!” Listen, hindsight is 20/20. Besides, you weren’t there! And, anyway, didn’t your parents teach you that it’s rude to interrupt? Just shut up and listen to the story.)

I would like to think I made it behind that tree just in time. However, based on the smattering of nervous laughter I heard coming from the side of the wall that living, breathing humans were supposed to be on, I don’t think I managed to pulled it off. I really hope they went home and told their friends they saw a flannel clad ghost during their tour.

I waited until the murmuring of the story ended and gave it another five minutes just to be sure they were gone. I crept back over to the wall Scooby Doo style and listened intently for a few seconds before making a second attempt at scaling it. This time there were no voices. I managed to get myself up to the top of the wall without too much trouble, but looking down I remembered that in addition to a (now locked) gate the entrance also included a small set of stairs. The inside of the wall was about 5 feet high, but the outside was closer to 10. I turned and lowered myself down as far as I could and dropped the rest of the way.

I brushed my hands off and looked up just in time to see a bewildered man staring at me from behind a souvenir stand of ghost tour swag. There wasn’t much else I could do. I gave him a shrug that said “sometimes ya gotta do what ya gotta do” and walked away.

As I passed the padlocked gate, I became indignant. How dare they not warn people that they’re going to close and lock the gate? As I turned my most self-righteous glare toward the inanimate gate, I saw not one, but two signs that clearly stated the cemetery would be locked at 10:00 p.m. Oops. My bad.

I finally got back to the car and texted Mary, “So, do you think this is that ‘good thing’ you were talking about? Lol!” And with that, I double checked my road map and headed off to the campground, ready to see what other fun surprises this journey had in store for me.