Graven Image

“Our clients all have a peculiar fear. They’re not convinced their loved ones will stay dead,” the director of Sanguine Mortuary said.

Hatch fought for control, he thought he might go from smirk, to grin, to all out laughter.

The Director, his face as dead as any of the clients entombed in Sanguine’s walls, stared at Hatch from behind an expensive looking oak desk. The dire need for the job forced Hatch’s expression to the same state as the director’s name.

“Mr. Stone, I...”

“Jonathan, I know what I’m telling you might be hard to accept but we provide a valuable service to our clientele.” Stone wrinkled his face into his best mortician’s smile.

“Mr. Stone,” Hatch said. “I really need this job. Whether I believe or not, I can watch your building and everything in it. ”

“You seem like a good fellow. Pity, companies will throw away employees after a decade of service.” Mr. Stone gently placed Hatch’s resume on the desk. “I’ll give you a chance, just keep your wanderlust to a minimum. The last guard couldn’t contain his curiosity. If he hadn’t up and disappeared, I would have had to fire him.”

Elation. At this point any job was a good job. He made a mental note to pick up a bottle of wine on the way home. He and his wife would at last have something to celebrate. But behind the euphoria and relief something nagged at him. Later, when he gave it some thought, after half a bottle of wine and with his wife in a satisfied sleep beside him, questions arose, questions he couldn’t answer and they chattered through his mind, lulling him into a troubled sleep.

#

“Uh--what’s on the monitors?” Hatch asked. The surreal images were better than caffeine, no way he would drift off with those things staring at him.

“Those? Oh go on, take a good look.” Michael Evans, the Second-Shift Sergeant, said. “What do they look like to you?”

“Looks like dead people.”

“Those are our charges, three-hundred and thirty-eight of ‘em.” Evans seemed proud with the knowledge. “Oh, don’t worry, they ain’t gonna bother you much or entertain you for that matter.”

“Then why are we monitoring them?”

“Just in case they wake up,” Evans said. Hatch felt a chill shoot into his groin. Soon he would be here alone, alone with them.

Then Evans broke into a fit of heaving laughter. “Naw, they ain’t gonna wake up. I’ve been working here for five years, since I retired from the military, and I ain’t never seen a one so much as wrinkle a nose.”

Hatch stared at the monitors again.

“See, we have some very superstitious rich people around the world and Sanguine helps alleviate their fear and a good amount of their cash.” Evans shook his head back and forth in mock disbelief. “Got to show the client something right? Show the client that us security types are watching their loved ones twenty-four-by-seven, kinda makes me chuckle. But it’s a good gig, especially on off shifts.

“We don’t get no visitors, grieving family members or anything like that. We let the dead lay, play a little poker--you’ll have to play solitaire--and walk around a couple times, make sure things are safe and secure--for the world outside I guess.”

He laughed again as if the whole thing were ludicrous.

Evans showed Hatch around for the rest of the hour. He saved one piece of trivia for last.

“This is what I call the Bat Phone,” Evans said and Hatch understood why. The phone looked like an old model from the 1960’s, rotary dial and all, and it was colored red like on the TV show. “In the unlikely chance that--something unusual happens--you pick up this phone and--well, after that I don’t know but I’m sure you won’t find out. Damn thing probably don’t even have service.”

Evans had a pitying look on his face, like he was about to leave his favorite cat at the vet to be euthanized. Hatch wondered if he could handle staying at Sanguine Mortuary alone for fifteen minutes, never mind eight hours.

“What happened to the last officer who worked the third shift?”

“Harold Drendle? Shoot—he’d worked here long as I did. We used to talk a little at shift change and he confessed to me he was having marital problems, problems caused by money, which by the way is how they always start, and then one day, I guess he was sick of it. He up and abandoned post sometime before shift change and he hasn’t been seen since.

“He told me in confidence he was planning to go to Hawaii, had been socking away a little here and there. So, don’t you be letting your mind wander and go thinking nonsense. You’ll get used to this place soon enough.”

#

Soon enough just wasn’t soon enough. Evans hadn’t been gone ten minutes and Hatch was ready to abandon post. The ghoulish images only provided unwelcome company.

He turned his attention to the phone. He reached over, touched the receiver’s smooth plastic. Who was on the other end? What was on the other end? The thought made him shudder. He withdrew his hand.

He couldn’t just sit there with the monitors tuned to Dead-TV. He grabbed the Mag light, the weight comforting in his hand, and headed out for the first round of the evening.

Hatch’s footfalls echoed through the empty mausoleum. Every fifteen feet the wall receded to reveal a cluster of grave nooks. Accent lights reflected dimly off metal plates revealing the names of the departed. They surrounded him. Outnumbered him.

He rounded a bend and found the first key-point next to the chapel door. How long had it been since he had last attended church? He couldn’t remember. He touched the tour recorder to the plastic key, listened for the chirp, and then looked at the LCD screen.

ChapHell, next key point inside.

Hatch shook his head, maybe when he got back to the command center he would fix the typo.

Hatch flicked on the lights. The antiseptic nondenominational room radiated comfort, as if something from beyond could reach out and protect all those who entered.

A feral cat’s mew, a crying child, a vocalized rush of wind raging through the hall toward him. Hatch crossed the threshold, pulled at the cherry wood door and held it shut. The chapel shook and the doors threatened to pull from his grasp. Then the pounding shrill scream stopped and Hatch stood in silence.

“Damn trains.” Hatch said, then remembered he was standing in a chapel. He looked up. “Sorry.”

Hatch continued with the tour. He came to a short stairwell that led down to the basement level. Cautiously, he descended.

Hatch switched on the flashlight and adjusted the beam to full width. The key point waited at the end of the hall surrounded by darkness. Hatch felt around for a light switch but found nothing. His pulse pounded in his temples.

He passed closed doors on either side of the hall, making quick time. He hit the key with the reader and waited impatiently for the chirp.

A red door to his right caught his attention. He tried the handle. Locked. He glanced back toward the stairs then back to the door.

A key fit the lock. He stepped inside a room filled with black metal file cabinets. The beam hit a unique cabinet, a red cabinet.

A jagged hole remained where the locking mechanism should have been. Hatch rifled through musty folders and yellowed papers. Records of every soul ever buried at Sanguine must have been stored in that room.

A letter, age stained and water marked, written on parchment with what appeared to be a quill pen, ignited Hatch’s curiosity. His eyes widened as he scanned strange sections:

. . .Thank you again for taking this burden from me. I am getting much too old to act as custodian any longer.

. . . The families absolutely insist on having guards. I know it sounds ridiculous, as if flesh and blood could really protect anyone from what is now in your possession.

. . .Feeding time is distasteful but it lasts a relatively short time. I was lucky to witness it for only one full cycle in the twenty years since I acquired the collection. The dead must feed before they sleep.



The dead must feed?



Hatch made for the hall.

The reflection of his flashlight beam caught movement through a window in one of the doors.

Anybody Home?

Hatch shone the light inside, recoiled.

A man stood, dressed in a moth eaten suit, eating from what looked like a metal cadaver table. The head and chest region were all that remained of the corpse on the table, everything else had been consumed.

Hatch hacked and heaved, nothing came up, as if his insides had turned dry. He looked back at the window. The man turned his head and looked at him, still stuffing flesh in-between the stitches which held his lips together. The man grinned at him. Then came the screams.

Hatch raced through the halls double-time, the shrieks of the dead nipping at his ears. Which way out? He couldn’t remember. He passed the chapel. Sanctuary wouldn’t do, he needed the command center. He needed the phone.

He slammed shut the Command Center door. No lock. The irony sent him into hysterics.

Hatch turned around. The monitors were still trained on the coffins--some were empty. The cadavers that remained opened their eyes.

Shit.

Hatch reached for the phone--hesitated--picked it up. The phone automatically dialed. The ring scratched in his left ear, the dead wailed in his right.

“Pick up damn it, pick up.”

The ringing stopped. A moment of hesitation.

“I told you to curb your curiosity Jonathan.”

The door buckled. Glass shattered. All went black.

* * *

Even with his eyes closed Hatch could sense that Sergeant Evans stared at him, stared at the monitors. Curiosity could be a terrible thing, recognition worse.

The high-pitched chatter from the others Hatch only heard as a sanguine whisper, but he could understand what they wanted, what he also wanted. One last time before the sleep.

The hunger rose in him--in them--and in unison--and to the terror of Michael Evans--they all opened their eyes.