Some places don’t announce themselves.
They don’t have visitor centers or iron gates or tidy rows of matching stones. They sit quietly behind trees, letting the world grow up around them, waiting to see who notices.
McGeachy Cemetery is one of those places.
Despite driving through this Hernando County neighborhood countless times, I had never seen it before. A barely worn dirt drive disappears into the trees, and unless you’re looking for it—or the place decides to let you find it—you’d never know one of the area’s oldest burial grounds was there at all.
My son and I stepped inside, and the world immediately changed.
A Cemetery Hiding in Plain Sight
The hum of traffic faded as soon as we left the car. What replaced it was wind, insects, and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot. This wasn’t a manicured memorial park. There were no uniform headstones or perfectly trimmed grass. McGeachy Cemetery felt raw and honest, shaped by time rather than maintained against it.
According to the sign at the entrance, the cemetery dates back to the mid-1800s—older than Brooksville itself, which was founded in 1845. The name McGeachy suggests Scottish roots, the kind common among early settlers in Florida.
At first glance, though, most of the visible graves don’t carry that name.
But off to one side, behind a fence and swallowed by vines and brush, is a section that feels different. Older. More intentional. Rising out of the overgrowth is a stone pillar, weathered and quiet.
Later, while reviewing the photos and checking records, I realized that pillar likely marks Edward McGeachy, born March 7, 1831, and buried here in 1910. There are other McGeachys here as well—likely family.
Which raises a quiet possibility:
McGeachy Cemetery may not have started as a community burial ground at all. It may have begun as a family cemetery, slowly expanding as the settlement around it grew.
The most overgrown part of the cemetery isn’t just forgotten.
It may be the beginning.
Stories Written in Stone
To understand a place like this, you have to slow down. Read the names. Let the stones speak.
One headstone immediately drew my attention:
Ann Elizabeth Duke
Born 1828. Died 1904.
She lived through nearly the entire 19th century—frontier Florida, the Civil War, Reconstruction, and the edge of a new century. One stone holding the weight of a lifetime spent watching the world change.
Nearby, the tone shifts.
The Shearer family stones tell a harsher story.
Young lives. Sparse details. No explanations.
Jim Shearer died at just twenty years old. Others in the family followed far too soon. This wasn’t just a cemetery—it was a ledger, recording grief alongside growth. These were the people who built the community just beyond the tree line, now remembered only by names carved into weathered stone.
The Cost of Survival
Deeper in the older section, one stone stops everything.
One marker.
Four names.
The Higginbottom family.
Elizabeth, the mother, died in 1889.
Her children lie with her:
- Bobby, age seven
- Offie, just one year old
- Charlie, age seven
Three children buried before their mother joined them.
Many of the family stories and hardships reflected here are echoed in nearby Spring Hill Cemetery, another Brooksville burial ground where generations of local history rest side by side.
This is the real story of pioneer life—not romance or adventure, but endurance. This single stone tells you more about survival on the Florida frontier than any textbook ever could. It’s a reminder that for many families, survival came at a devastating cost.
And it’s here, standing with that truth, that I realized something else was happening.
The One Who Guides
The cat didn’t jump out at us.
It didn’t hiss or dart or disappear.
It simply… appeared ahead of us.
As we walked, it moved from grave to grave, settling briefly before standing and padding forward again. When we caught up, it would glance back—as if checking whether we were still following.
It didn’t feel like being watched.
It felt like being led.
The cat paused at multiple stones, unbothered by our presence. And when it finally stopped, it chose a child’s grave.
It lay down at the foot of the marker and rested there quietly.
The stone read:
William Byrd
Born May 8, 1915
Died July 10, 1919
Beloved son of Rev. & Mrs. Ernest Simmons Sr.
No theatrics. No fear. Just presence.
If there is such a thing as a guardian, it doesn’t look like a monster.
It looks like something patient enough to stay.
Life Still Notices This Place
As if the cemetery itself wanted to remind us that life continues alongside death, two horses wandered over from the neighboring lot while we explored. They stood at the fence, watching us calmly, and allowed my son to gently boop their noses.
It was an ordinary, tender moment in an extraordinary place.
Life acknowledging death.
And continuing on anyway.
McGeachy Cemetery is one of many sacred burial grounds we’ve explored in the Forgotten Friday series. You may also want to read about Chapel of Ease Cemetery, another historic site where time, memory, and quiet presence intersect.
A Place That Isn’t Abandoned
McGeachy Cemetery isn’t just one story.
It’s a family burial ground that grew into a community resting place.
It’s a record of love, loss, and survival.
It’s a reminder that history doesn’t always disappear—it waits.
Some places aren’t abandoned.
They’re attended.
As we left, the woods grew quiet again. And just before the trees closed behind us, I caught one last glimpse of striped fur slipping back into the shade.
Still watching.
Still keeping company.
Visiting McGeachy Cemetery
📍 Location: Hernando County, Florida
🌿 Tip: This is a quiet, historic burial ground. Visit respectfully, tread lightly, and leave nothing behind but footprints.
Some cemeteries feel empty.
This one didn’t.
Tucked away in Hernando County, McGeachy Cemetery holds pioneer stories, family histories, and a presence that felt less haunting and more… watchful.
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