Creative Corner is a space where you can share your creative writing at Roar! In this piece, Jackson Lanzer will take you through a philosophical and intimate journey for the afterlife.
Last October, while studying abroad in London, I ventured upon a solo trip to Edinburgh. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of Hogwarts in the city that inspired J.K. Rowling or to immerse myself in a Halloween atmosphere only an ancient city can offer. But instead, I found myself inside the underground vaults of Edinburgh at midnight standing in front of a circle of rocks that supposedly held a demonic spirit.
My weekend trip had morphed into a search for the afterlife, every night spent strolling through a cemetery or on a ghost tour.
Although I no longer consider myself a religious person, I wanted to encounter a spirit. I wanted to have proof that the afterlife exists.
My grandfather, who passed away five years ago, was the reason.
The Parable of the Dragonfly
My grandfather (who was technically my step-grandfather, but I never saw him as anything other than “Papa Steve”) was the most thoughtful man I knew. He had been a Methodist pastor for several decades before retiring when he met my grandmother when they were in their early sixties. Both were widowers, and they soon filled the void in their lives with a newfound romance.
Despite his departure from the church to start his life with my grandmother, my grandfather’s constant contemplation of life and meaning didn’t stop when he bid his congregation farewell. He was a man who was always thinking: he’d watch hours of documentaries on the History Channel; he’d always have the newspaper open when I walked downstairs in the morning; and his telescope always sat at the kitchen window, pointed at the stars.
Whenever I visited my grandparents, my grandfather and I would go on evening strolls around town, discussing philosophical topics from life and mortality to the existence of God and the afterlife. I was in middle school at the time – an age when my first deep thoughts about my spirituality and finding meaning arose – and I had no clue what I believed in. I wasn’t raised in a family that actively went to church (with the exception of one Christmas service every other year), so my grandfather essentially became my philosophical mentor.
On these walks, he would always explain religion using parables. The parable he used the most was the story of the dragonfly, which explained the afterlife.
“Heaven is a pond, and we are all dragonfly larvae who dream of wings,” he’d say. “In this life, we can crane our necks to look towards the heavens, but we’d never reach it. Yet, like larvae eventually sprouting wings, we’ll one day fly away and see the wonders of eternity. The only problem is dragonflies can’t fly back beneath the pond’s surface, and souls can’t return to the living.”
The Unspoken Eulogy
My grandfather died during the fall of my junior year of high school. He was diagnosed with kidney cancer, and his health rapidly deteriorated. After just months, treatment was futile, and we knew his time was fleeting.
Thankfully, I was able to visit him once before he passed (my grandparents had just moved from California to Chicago, so they were no longer just a stroll away). But by the time I visited, he was no longer the healthy, energetic man I had known. Rounds of chemotherapy had whittled away his strength, and his body was skinny and frail, ashen skin now hanging from his arms and face. He mustered a smile when I walked into the room, but I could tell he was in pain. Even his voice was weak. The man I had talked with passionately about philosophy and life all those years was now just one final faint whisper.
We left after a short visit because my sister and I had to return to school. During the flight home, we flew over a thunderstorm. As I watched jolts of electricity and light stretch across the grey skies, I couldn’t help but feel that the storm was fitting. The skies shared my sorrow.
During the flight home, I wrote my grandfather’s eulogy:
“I don’t know how I should feel. Should I feel sorrow, anger, or joy for the waning life of a tremendous man? I guess right now, I feel that joy is appropriate because Papa Steve brought joy into our lives. So it only feels fitting that we remember him with the same level of enthusiasm with which he incorporated into every day of his life…”
“…Just like the dragonfly, Papa Steve has now grown his wings. And also, just like the dragonfly, he is probably watching from the land above the surface and waiting for the day that we will all be reunited again. I hope that his memory will continue to illuminate this sometimes bleak world and that we will all continue to cherish the many points in our lives where good people, like Papa Steve, have made a positive impact on us and changed our lives for the better.”
I never had the chance to give his eulogy. Before we were able to hold a funeral to celebrate my grandfather’s life, the Covid pandemic struck. And by the time the Covid restrictions were lifted, my grandmother felt she had healed and didn’t want to reopen healed wounds. So, we never held a funeral for my grandfather, and I never delivered my eulogy.
Embarking Upon My Edinburgh Journey
After my grandfather died, any connection to religion that I had quickly vanished. I couldn’t comprehend how a supposed God could take away the nicest man I knew and condemn him to one of the most painful deaths imaginable: Cancer. What God could be so cruel, I thought.
But I always wished I did believe, at least for my grandfather’s sake. During my freshman and sophomore years at university, I’d take evening walks in Georgetown, a neighbourhood in Washington D.C. Whenever I’d walk by Oak Hill Cemetery, I’d pray to God to give me some sign that he existed and that there was an afterlife. But nothing ever happened. I’d continue my walks in silence, my doubt about religion increasing with each stroll.
Then, during the first semester of my junior year, while studying abroad in London, I decided to take a trip to Edinburgh. It was October, so Halloween was on my mind, and I figured there was no better place than the centuries-old cobblestone streets of Scotland to get into the Halloween spirit.
I travelled solo and stayed at a hostel across the street from Edinburgh Castle. Just a couple blocks away was a cemetery known as Greyfriars Kirkyard. As I strolled amongst the headstones, the gravel paths illuminated by moonlight, I overheard a tour guide recounting tales from the cemetery’s past.
The Mackenzie Poltergeist
The guide said one tomb in Greyfriars Kirkyard is notorious. Inside the cemetery gates lies a mausoleum housing the body of Sir George Mackenzie who ordered the deaths of thousands of protestant Scots simply for refusing to accept the Anglican church. He chose to be buried at Greyfriars Kirkyard upon the same land he used for executing the innocent Scots.
The guide said Mackenzie chose his place of burial so that he could torture their souls in death as he had in life. Ever since, ghost sightings have been reported at his tomb, and he is known as “the Mackenzie Poltergeist.” Many visitors have reported being scratched and hit while visiting his tomb.
Hearing this, I decided to return to the cemetery. I thought that if there was any place to see a ghost and finally have proof of an afterlife, it would be here. So, I returned later that night, and I searched for his grave.
At around 11 PM, alone in the quiet cemetery, I stood in front of Mackenzie’s mausoleum. I waited and nothing happened. I waited a couple more minutes, and again, only silence and a gentle wind greeted me.
It sounds odd, but I wanted to be attacked. I wanted there to be a poltergeist because it would mean that spirits of all kinds exist. But after twenty minutes of silence, I finally gave up for the night.
Mackenzie made no appearance.
The next night, I decided to enlist more professional assistance in my search. I signed up for a ghost tour.
The guide took us back to the cemetery, but after an hour, the poltergeist was still nowhere to be found.
The Vaults of Old Town Edinburgh
We then continued to the vaults of Old Town Edinburgh, which are beneath the city and are now only accessible by a tour guide. Walking into the dimly lit room, damp air filling my lungs, I began to think that maybe I’d have more luck finding spirits in the vaults than I had in the graveyard.
My guide said that the vaults were sealed off in the 19th century. But over the years, Edinburgh’s poorest residents began to seek refuge within the darkness beneath the city. However, cloaked by darkness, crime blossomed inside the vaults. It is likely many people died in the darkness of the vaults, the guide added.
The guide then took us to a vault that was supposedly haunted by an evil spirit. A group of Wicca practitioners – a modern Pagan religion – worshipped in the vault. However, they left after encountering what they claimed was a particularly violent spirit. They attempted to trap the spirit within the vault, but the spirit was so evil that the Wicca practitioners insisted on finding a new prayer location.
We stood in the dark around the circle of rocks that supposedly held the demon. Illuminated by only candlelight, the guide asked for volunteers to enter the circle. No one volunteered.
I waited until the group began leaving the vault to step inside the circle. Still hoping to encounter a spirit, even if it was evil. I stood in the circle for several seconds before hopping out. I scurried back to the group, but I hadn’t felt anything or seen anything. It had just been a circle of rocks.
The only thing I found terrifying in that vault was the idea of stepping inside the circle in front of thirty strangers. Social anxiety was the only demon I encountered that day.
Thus, my journey to Scotland failed. Even in Edinburgh’s most haunted locations, I encountered no ghosts. The proof of the afterlife I was hoping for was left nonexistent.
The Afterlife is a Voicemail
After searching for the afterlife in Edinburgh, a town where ghosts (if they existed) would roam, it seemed the paranormal was mere fantasy. I was desperate to encounter a ghost and confirm that there is indeed some form of afterlife. However the realisation that ghosts don’t exist was what I had expected. I hadn’t believed in ghosts for years. I just wanted to believe, wanting to think my grandfather was still out there. Perhaps he was wandering his old neighbourhood waiting for me to share another theological talk.
Perhaps as a coping mechanism, I began compiling all the texts he sent me and the voicemails he left. Even if I would never get to go on another stroll with my grandfather. Even if his dragonfly could never dive back beneath the surface of the pond. I would still be able to hear his voice and see the love he had for me through his texts.
I still listen to those voicemails and read those texts whenever I’m missing philosophical strolls with my grandfather.
Jackson Lanzer is a college student from Los Angeles studying international affairs and journalism. He is a staff writer for his school’s newspaper and a writer for a sketch comedy group. Several of his short stories have appeared in 365tomorrows.
