Recently, I went to the movie theatres with a friend to see The Others. Which introduced a tradition that most people don't know about but, being of Irish decent, I am more than familiar with. The tradition being, to draw or photograph the faces of the dead in order to ensure them peace. The point being to make them look at peace so later when they returned they would see the pictures or drawings, and realize that they were happier now than before, and would be better off in the next life.

I grew up in a very well educated Christian home, which all but extinguished the idea of "marking", as my extended family called it. My parents and brother were and are very faithful to believe in God as our protection, but we are not assured that things won't happen to us. This leads me into my experience. The year I graduated from High School I went to Tennessee to visit with family. Whenever I go there I go through my grandparents attic and look at the memories of their childhood and my fathers childhood. I was usually only up there for an hour at the most because in Tennessee it gets very hot, and their attic would be very uncomfortable to say the least. But this time I was determined to go to the very back and work my way forward because I had never made it to the far end of the cramped storage space. This time I was able to take some time and clear some more room because I started at about 7:00pm, when it had cooled down a little more.

A little after 7:30 I was able to crawl to the very far corner where I noticed a very promising object. It was an old chest complete with original metal hinges, and cracking wood. The chest had to have been made around the turn of the century because all my grandmother could tell me is that her grandmother had bought it at the new Sears and Roebuck in Nashville. The Chest was cracked and worn and the wood was beginning to weaken from its age. The lock on it was not that old but could have been for maybe ten to fifteen years. It was a master lock with rust stains and dirt crusted into the key hole. I tried to pull at the lock and perhaps undo the hinge but it wouldn't budge, and so for the next couple of minutes proceeded to pull the chest towards the ladder at the opening of the attic. I called down to my younger brother, Matt, to help me lower it down so I could try to find a matching key. My next step was to actually find a key, so I asked my grandmother where that key might be if she even had one for it. When I showed her the chest, a very concerned, and very worried look came over her face and she seemed almost scared. "Marty" she began, "this is the chest of Markings. It holds all the markings of our side of the family dating back to 1701. Tracing all of the fathers before you." She paused, almost as if she was debating whether or not to tell the rest of the story, and then she continued. "Honey, you know this house has been in our family for many years, and before this was built our family came from Ireland." I nodded suddenly becoming more and more intrigued as to what could shake her up this much. "Inside here is your families' fathers' markings. I have long since lost the key to it. the very sight of the key would frighten me, so I hid it." I was very disappointed at this thought and proceeded to say "How can I get it open?" She looked at me with watery eyes and said "Darling I wish you wouldn't." I can only assume that the look on my face convinced her otherwise, and, after a long silence, she said "Get the crowbar."

My heart raced at the thought of the markings of my family. I would get to see something people rarely get to see. What my forefathers looked like. I returned only moments later with the crowbar and after a pause I looked at my grandmother smiled a "thank you" smile and drove the crowbar into the lock. The force of my strike was not enough to even dent the master lock, but the old, softened wood crumbled. I pulled open the top and stared at a photo album that was older than the chest, but looked well taken care of aside from the dust. I reached in and heard my grandmother take a deep breath and hold it. I pulled out the first of five volumes in this chest, and opened the first page to the amazingly realistic black and white drawing of a man with eyes closed underneath reading "Corlis Partac Moseley", on the back it read, age forty-seven, no year. The next page was the same type drawing different person, again no year. Page after page the same thing. But as the pictures continued, the realization that these were all my forefathers all died, an air of urgency, and depression filled the room. I began wondering who they were and what there lives were like.

After finishing the first, second book and third book, we began to look through the fourth this is where the photos were. The first was named Andrew Brock Moseley Jr., on the back it read age twenty-eight, d. Feb. 1878. I opened the next page, and the picture inside froze my entire body, my blood stopped, and my breath left me. The photo I was looking at terrified me, it looked so familiar, and at that moment a cold chill entered the room like a gust of wind but nothing moved. Though moments before the temp was about 80 degrees. The room was now freezing. My grandmother and I sat staring at the picture in disbelief, neither one of us was breathing but we were both thinking the same thing, and looking in amazement at a hundred and fifty year old photograph of my brother Matthew at age Forty-four, d. Dec. 1880. exactly 100 years earlier to the month of my brothers birth.

We couldn't move. Suddenly the bedroom door swung open, the chill disappeared and in walked my brother. I guess we startled him because he yelled, and we did too. My grandmother closed the book, and slid it under my bed. We both got up and didn't say another word. After dinner, I asked to be excused early because I wanted to go have another look. Matthew went outside to play ball with my dad, my mom and grandmother were doing dishes and my grandfather went to bed. I walked into the bedroom and turned on the bedside lamp, pulled out the book, and opened it again. My brothers face. So familiar and then at the same time too foreign, the look of death changes the way everyone looks. Not to mention the slicked back, dark hair of the man who lay dead in the picture. I examined the eerie picture and pulled the blanket over me, not noticing the drop in temperature. He wore what looked like an old tuxedo, with a cane, and top hat on his lap. I turned the page to see what other, if any, information could be gathered. But there was nothing on the back side of the paper.

On the other sheet, opposite this page, was a letter. Addressed to Andrew Brock Moseley Jr., signed by Andrew Brock Moseley Sr. the man in the photo. The letter read like a letter from a father to a son. Stating how proud he was of his son, and how he missed their conversations by the fire, in the study. I gathered that they were the first to live in this old house. The father shared something in the letter that normally would not seem strange to me, but in this case did, Andrew Sr. shared a memory of Andrew Jr. as a child when he would come in at night and tuck him in and kiss him goodnight when Andrew Jr. would fall asleep. My father did that for me, when he thought I was asleep. That may not seem strange but I suddenly realized that this letter was written to Andrew Sr's son who was in the first picture of this album. It appears as though Andrew Jr. died two years prior to Sr. dying.

This letter was addressed one month before Andrew Jr.'s death. I noticed the chill, in the room and it seemed to move from one side of the room to the other, and then back. It reminded me of someone pacing. The light went out. At that point I reached for the light switch, and flicked it on. And as it frequently happens, in the heat of the south, the power went out. I heard the sound of sudden scuffling shoes and felt almost a panic and fear in the room. The drapes over the windows moved, then a picture fell off of the dresser. I could feel the cold on my cheeks and the tip of my nose, so I pulled the blankets closer. I cleared my throat and then the moving chill stopped. It was as if something had caught it's attention. I felt like it paused at the foot of my bed, and I could feel eyes on me. Nothing moved, I didn't breathe and an overwhelming sense of fear flooded over me. I saw lights underneath the door and my dad walked into the room with a flash light, and another feeling overwhelmed me. Relief. Matt's flashlight lit up the small room and the temp. returned. I felt nothing but comfort. I took the flashlight, and talked with him for a while. Around one in the morning, we decided to go to bed. I went to my bed and dad shut the door. I fell asleep but awoke what seemed to be hours later, to crying.

My grandfather has a history of being very emotional and on occasion will sit and cry in his study. I walked in to the study being the closest to him and asked if he was ok. No answer. I flicked on the light (by this time the power returned) and the room was empty except for a wine glass on the desk. Empty. My family doesn't drink wine. But I didn't think much of it, and went back to bed. The next few days went by without anymore problems, things seemed fine until my brother found the book. My Grandmother and I explained that it was a coincidence. nothing more. I showed him the photo, and the letter and nothing seemed to comfort him, he was very disturbed. So He and I sat talking till the very early hours. At one point he was sitting on the bed with the book next to his right arm, and he sat up to go to the bathroom but as he did his hand slipped on t! he book and ripped the letter in two. The room froze, and we knew that we weren't alone, the temperature dropped, and another presence entered the room but this presence was livid. We could feel the stuffy air stand still, as a feeling of violent quick jerking movements ensued. Until I somehow blurted out "Andrew?" and it stopped.

We thought it would be better if we went to sleep in the same room that night. So we left the light on, and tried to sleep. I was awakened later to footsteps and I was stiff as a board. I couldn't move, literally. I could sense and barely see a figure moving toward me, it got close enough to be face to face and all I could make out was a sad looking expression. It leaned over close enough to kiss me, then stood up again, and walked out.

The next morning, matt told me a story, but his was much different. His figure walked quickly over to him, and all he could see were his eyes which were human looking eyes they just burned with hatred. And when his figure backed away, it stood at the foot of my bed and watched my brother all night. The next morning we grabbed the album to look at the picture and both the father, the son and the letter were gone. To this day we have only mentioned it a couple of times to one another. But we agreed that it was okay to tell now.