What you have here is rare, very rare indeed. You have a history of a town as told through voices of those that lived it. Rare is a history told in this format, personal stories of love, stories of loss, and plenty of stories of death, a condition I know well.
Allow me to introduce myself; because of a strange twist of fate I am known as Obadiah Storm, a name conferred upon me during a ceremony that was once relatively common but is now rare, I am the Historian of the Dead and the Keeper of Secrets in my town.
Before you shake your head in disbelief please allow me to explain. I belong to a very old secret tradition of “listeners”, an order of highly intuitive and attentive individuals that have the ability and responsibility to tell the stories of the dead, something that must be done.
Under optimal conditions the stories of the dead would be revealed on a one to one basis, but conditions have certainly changed.
Years ago it was not uncommon for families visit cemeteries to walk amongst the stones, remembering and sharing stories of the deceased. Children were connected to long gone histories and tales of relatives and family friends, ancestory was important.
All too often today's cemeteries have become abandoned parcels of land devoid of contact with the living, a true death that even the dead don't deserve. A cemetery can only be kept alive with contact of the living.
Normally I would share my stories of the dead within the gates of the holy burial ground I'm assigned too as the Historian of the Dead and the Keeper of Secrets, but sadly I rarely encounter visitors, and when I do they usually run in fear, not because I'm scary looking, which some say I am, but because they aren't use to bumping the living amongst the dead, a truly sad state of affairs.
A listener is not necessarily a rare ability, its just one rarely discussed. My abilities should not necessarily be confused with the ordinary run of the mill psychics, of whom I do have respect, individuals that try to use an extraordinary sense as a way receiving images that may have meaning, or may not. My abilities, as you will see, is listening at a level that exceeds the vibrational auditory level experienced by most individuals. I have the ability to hear the dead at a range that involves listening with all five senses plus.
Because I am able to tap into this high level I also, for progression reasons, able to hold a conversation, not in images but an intuitive conversation with the deceased.
I do understand your skepticism, I've been there myself. In order to be a good listener it requires that you shut off the judge, that little voice in your head that plays “know it all” when the truth is it knows nothing.
It may seem strange to most but although I can actually hear the dead during the day the night offers much better conditions for one on one conversation. Just like the living the dead reside in what is known as a bardo, a very old word meaning an in-between state. We, the living, are in the bardo between birth and death, the deceased are in the bardo between death and rebirth. Accept what I share with you, or discount it, but at least consider it.
What you call soul, another may call spirit, which ever you choose we all have certain things we have to workout within the various bardos. In the world of the living your work may be spiritual, personal, or even collective in nature. In the realm of the deceased the soul or the spirit has its work to do also, but for some their work can not be done because of attachment for various reasons to the world of the living.
When this happens it may become necessary for me to intervene. Often just by allowing the dead to tell their story we are able to release the hold these departed ones have on this moment. Others I sense just stay around only because they just aren't ready to move on.
The truth is that the energy of spirits will slowly dissipate in due time, depending on how strong the spirits attachment is to the living world.
Those souls with unfinished business, or strong attachments to life or loved ones tend to linger in the “in between” until their family members pass or memories fade of why they wander in the first place.
Attachment is extremely dangerous during the death process, even worse is anger, dying in anger rarely allows the spirit to rest. This individual can walk amongst the in between for eons, unless this energy can be dissipated through some otherworldly intervention or banishing ritual, not something I recommend if your not sure what your doing.
For now, I think it would be wise to stick to stories I have received from some of the restless that want their story told, or need to have their stories told so they can enter the celestial realm.
Because of karma I have been assigned to a cemetery in southern New Hampshire, a burial ground named Forest Glade, nicknamed by the locals as the Black Cemetery, which has to do with the black iron fence that encircles the grounds.
Its not that I haven't heard the conversations in other locations it’s just that for some reason beyond my understanding I am much more in-tune with Forest Glade. I have no doubt this is where I will reside in the future.
Take my word for it that each and every story I present is real as intuitively related to me, doubt is understandable but with a small amount of research you will find the dates, times, and events I reveal to you are very accurate.
Between the stories related to me I will explain how I came by authority bestowed me; a tradition I fear may just disappear in the annals of history unless other listeners step forth. I promise that each and every spirit you are about to encounter is buried within the confines of Forest Glade, finding their grave will be easy, I will give you all the instructions you need. All I ask is that if you visit you provide the deceased the utmost respect as due, each and every individual spirit presented here is part of a history that has lead to this moment. The bigger picture is available to all those that refuse to be confined by limitations of belief.
As you hear the stories you will also be hearing the history of Somersworth itself, the smallest of cities, a city also stuck within a bardo.
The first story I would like to present to is that of Woodbury Lord a young man whom I met on one of my first evenings roaming the cemetery.
His story is one of sadness, but much less bitterness than I would of expected from a young man whose life was filled bad deals.
His grave is located directly behind the small chapel located behind the main-gate into the cemetery. On the stone you will find the familiar Civil War engraving bearing the 2nd N.H. Reg.
Before we begin with Woodbury's story it should be noted that Somersworth that Somersworth was a cotton town at the time the Civil War broke out. The large Mills located on the Salmon Falls River were by far the largest employer of Somersworth residents. Everything at this time seemed to revolve around cotton and when the threat of separation of States reared its ugly head townsfolk never thought twice about volunteering. Many of Somersworth's barely legal signed up in large numbers to prevent what would be a disaster to Somersworth's mill dependence on cotton, a pipeline that would surely be cut off if the South separated from the North, something that couldn't be allowed to happen.
Woodbury was one of those young men that felt the pull of the inner hero, the warrior each and every young man has an image off inside his mind. What Woodbury didn't realize, as you will surely see, by far the cost may surely outweigh the truth.
A gentle reminder, each and every person and place in Woodbury's story is factual, verifiable at any library.
The following are in Woodbury Lord's own words, as I have sensed them to be.
“Thank you for visiting my sad lonely stone resting in the shadow of this lovely chapel. Allow me to introduce myself.
My parents named me Woodbury Lord, but of course you may call me “Woody”, a nickname I received early in life, twice, first when I was a very young lad, and second when I returned from war with this wooden leg, the real leg taken by the hands of a Confederate surgeon, a butcher of sorts who plied his trade in a hellhole rebel prison located in Richmond Virginia.
Sadly I only roamed amongst you for a very short time before my life was taken from me by the hand of a friend.
If you must know, his name was Lorenzo, and where he rests, I know not.
How I came to rest so young among the souls of the departed can only be explained through a chain of events that were beyond my control, a chain of events that would end only for me when Lorenzo thrust that knife deep into my right side.
In the summer of 1861, I like many others from Somersworth, mustered into the 2nd New Hampshire Regiment to serve the North in what was called the “Great Rebellion”.
Seven short weeks later I would see the horrors no man should look upon in what was called the First Battle of Bull Run.
To describe the horrors of that day, or to describe the treachery that resides in the hearts of men at war would only cause undue fright to those that hear the tales. Suffice to say it was there I received the wound that would eventually cause me to loss my leg at the hands of that southern butcher of Richmond.
How I ended up in that Richmond prison, I remember little. Wounded and captured on the battlefield I was placed on a train. With little water and one cracker a day, in four days we prisoners arrived at Libby Prison, the name used in the annals of history.
Over fifty was our number, members of the 2nd New Hampshire, captive, starving, housed together in a building that once stored tobacco, now used to house America’s sons.
The stories I could tell of this hellhole I shall spare you, except for one, it was here, in this place no man should ever see, I meet two of the meanest the south ever breed.
The first was our guard, Wirtz, a man of ill manner and temperament, known as the “Dutch Sergeant”; he was the worst of the worst, only to be outdone by his superior, Lieutenant Todd.
For those of you that his name might not ring a bell, this despicable Lieutenant Todd was the brother of President Abraham Lincoln’s wife, a true hater of his sister’s husband and policies, a confederate to the bone.
Lieutenant Todd, when upon the street near our windows one day overheard some a conversation that did not suit him, drew his sword and rushed upstairs. Here he stabbed the first man he came across, wounding him so that he had to be removed to the dispensary.
Gloating over his victim he could be heard saying “Every dam Yankee ought to be served the same way.”
A favorite expression of his was, “I would like to cut Ole Abe’s heart out”.
Tall, fat, and surely cruel to the end, where he died I know not where.
Ten months I was imprisoned in Johnny’s hellhole, after which half starved, legless, and harmless I was paroled to make room for a new batch of sad unfortunates.
No use to the cause, I made my way home.
Planted deep within my mind was the demons of war, the atrocities man was capable of, and sight of brother killing brother, nightmares I could not shake.
For a year I tried, tried to forget the war, tried to sleep at night, and tried to find the good in man, yet all I found was war.
Within one year from my return home I would be dead.
I hold no ill will against Lorenzo, which would serve no good. In his own way, Lorenzo was also a causality of a war, a war that pitted brother against brother, and neighbor against neighbor.
This must never happen again.
