I See Dead People

In our younger, carefree years, we never imagined we’d one day be planning vacations around graveyards. Yet here we are, dragging suitcases past mossy headstones like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Paris? Venice? Nah—we’re off to the scenic cemetery beside a clapboard church in rural Missouri. Dream big.

This genealogy rabbit hole started innocently enough. A few names, a birth date or two. But now? It’s a full-blown time-traveling detective saga. I spend my days chasing long-dead relatives through records, ruins, and remarkably confusing census handwriting. Sometimes it’s thrilling—like discovering several great-grandfathers who were knighted (fancy!) or that we technically still “own” a ruined family castle in Scotland. Castles are castles, even if an attack knocked a lot of it down over 300 years ago.

But oh, the dark detours. There are the great-great-great-great (I can’t remember how many greats) uncles that murdered who and why? How about a great-great-grandfather who lost his entire first family, remarried, and then—just to twist the dagger—lost the first child of the second marriage, too? Genealogy is not for the emotionally fragile.

And then there are the portraits. No photos this far back, of course, but our wealthier ancestors apparently had a paint-it-or-it-didn’t-happen philosophy. I study these stern oil faces daily, trying to keep track of which ancestors had mustaches and “Highland pride.” It’s especially eerie when I realize my husband’s very modern nose keeps popping up in paintings from the 16th century. It’s like his face has been haunting Scotland for centuries.

At night, my mind no longer replays my to-do list. Instead, I’m haunted by a slow-motion parade of Highlander cheekbones, drifting through my dreams like disapproving, two-dimensional clan spirits—each one silently judging my lack of tartan.

I really do see dead people. And I’ve never felt closer to them. Which is both comforting—and just a little creepy.