The Graveyard

In late afternoon under a blustery November sky, Joseph arrived at the graveyard in his blue Chevy sedan. Partnered by a light wind, autumn leaves danced a ballet under billowing dark clouds, pregnant with rain. Joseph parked his car and opened his door, stepping out onto the pavement and around to the trunk.

The graveyard was draped in an eerie stillness like a thick carpet of sleep. Ripping through the silence screeched the ornery "Caw!" of a raven perched high atop a nearby tree. It's raw greeting startled Joseph who looked upward to locate its source. Detected, the crow flapped sluggishly, launching itself lazily from its current location, then floated across the yard to another perch.

Inserting his key into the trunk lock, Joseph sprung the latch and lifted the lid. Inside, his gear lay neatly packed. He carefully lifted the tripod, placed it on the pavement and rested it against the bumper. He lifted two cases containing cameras, one for still shots and the other for video, and draped their cords around his neck. He grabbed a leather gear bag, shifted it to his left hand and pushed the trunk lid down. As he turned around, he picked up the tripod, balanced it over his shoulder and headed out across the lawn. The grass crunched beneath his shoes as he surveyed the yard, looking for a place to set up.

The headstones gleamed chalk-like across the lawn like bony specters. He stopped occasionally to study the more intriguing ones before moving on. He located a bench under a thicket of trees, and after a few moments of contemplation, decided this was as good a place as any. Placing his bag on the bench, he set up his tripod and mounted his video camera. After a few adjustments he was ready to begin shooting.

Haunted CemeteryA damp wind stirred and Joseph turned up his collar to block it out. Then he strode to the bench. As he opened his digital camera case, he pondered his newfound passion for the supernatural.

It began only a year earlier when a towel-wrapped Joseph had come face-to-face with an apparition at his bathroom door. Joseph was exiting his shower, scrubbing his wet hair with a towel when he encountered a boy, drenched and trembling, standing there looking very traumatized and disoriented. Instinctively, Joseph had gone to the boy's aid by extending his hand in a gesture of help. The boy vanished instantly leaving behind a bewildered Joseph, empty-handed and completely creeped-out.

After that, Joseph became fascinated with ghosts and developed those fascinations into a hobby of searching for and gathering paranormal evidence. He didn't particularly believe that cemeteries were the best place to encounter spirits. He figured spirits had more interesting places to hang out than a gloomy, boring cemetery. But Joseph had come across a recent internet broadcast that this particular cemetery was the resting place of several prominent figures and had also been the site of recent vandalism by tourists. These insolent occurrences had reportedly agitated the inhabitants, causing an upsurge in anomalous activity. The broadcast whet his curiosity and the fact that it was only 40 minutes from home compelled Joseph's visit. He wanted to gather some video footage and photos, see what he came up with, and take it from there.

Starting in the east corner, he worked the video camera, scanning the graveyard slowly around to the west. He was mindful to pick up as much detail in different areas as possible and panned the camera back and forth several times in order to ensure that he picked up any structure of interest in the yard. Then, finding a position that displayed the most unobstructed view of the cemetery, he left the camera rolling on its own. Then he grabbed his digital camera and set out across the grass for stills of select headstones.

He strode to the oldest part of the cemetery. Bordered by ancient trees, it was situated along the east wall and underneath he found one of the cemetery's oldest graves. Its modest headstone was weathered and worn, and after 250 years, its inscription barely legible.

After several adjustments to his camera settings, he started clicking shots getting as many different angles as he could. From here, he moved down the row to get the other graves in a similar fashion.

Overhead, the blustery sky grew dark and Joseph figured he had only about twenty minutes before the clouds began to dump its contents. He moved quickly out towards the center and across to the other side, making any needed adjustments to the camera settings and snapping more photos. The ornery crow returned and cawed another announcement.

"I better get going," thought Joseph and he started back into the direction of the bench. Pushing his luck, Joseph turned and held his camera in front of him. He aimed it randomly across the lawn and snapped a shot with his index finger. The crow sounded once more, this time with grave urgency. Joseph turned to view it, still holding his camera in his outstretched hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something stir in the camera's LCD. He turned back to the screen to view the image head on, but all he saw was an eastern view of the cemetery.

The air grew heavy and Joseph knew rain was imminent. He returned to his video camera, its red indicator light signaling that it was still running. Joseph turned again, extended his right arm and attempted just a couple more shots before the clouds let loose. He aimed the camera randomly across the grass and snapped another shot.

Then he turned his head slightly to the left, but kept one eye on the screen. As he suspected, he saw a white figure crawling ominously across the lawn. But this time he noticed . . . it was headed in his direction!

Joseph dropped his arm and visually inspected the area he was shooting without looking through the LCD. There was no white figure visible, only the graveyard: very still and very, very quiet.

Lifting his arm and returning the camera to its previous position and using a sideways glance, he watched through the LCD as the white figure crept slowly and insidiously across the grass. It seemed that despite the labored crawl, it was much closer than before and Joseph calculated that every time he lowered the camera, the figure traveled 100 yards instantaneously!

The rain began as a light sprinkle, and Joseph raced to his video camera panning it over into position attempting to pick up the image of the white figure. When the figure didn't appear, Joseph's jaw dropped in amazement.

Lifting his digital camera and viewing once again out of the corner of his eye, he relocated the specter. It had moved much closer and this time Joseph was able to pick up details in its form.

It was creeping along on its belly, arms bent at elbows dragging itself forward, the lower half of its body limp and useless. In jerky, unnatural motions, its head lurched from side to side. Its ghastly face was a horror to behold. Two hollow sockets glared at Joseph across the distance while its tongue lolled in its mouth, slack jawed and hungry. As Joseph studied its face, the glaring countenance told him he was being apprehended with careful determination—and malice.

Terrified, Joseph dropped the camera and began tearing down his equipment. The air filled with the dank odor of mold and rot giving Joseph knowledge that the specter was upon him, probably no more than just a few feet away. He tried to dismount the video camera but was so frightened that his trembling hands betrayed him. Clumsily, he knocked his video gear over, its red indicator light fading to black as it hit the ground.

He grabbed the digital camera and held it up once more. He found the entity and discovered that it was nearly upon him, creeping relentlessly in pursuit. He had no choice but to leave his gear behind. He dropped his camera in the grass and fled, running mindlessly towards his car, a projectile of utter fear.

The sprinkle of rain intensified and the grass grew wet under Joseph's feet. The crow cawed laughingly in the trees, and the Laughing Crowsmell of mold became heavier and more intense.

He was only 50 feet from his car when he slipped on the slick grass, flying headlong into a monument, striking his head on the stone. The crow cawed one last time and the drizzle of rain became a torrent. Joseph lay on the grass, unconscious and bleeding. He wasn't found until the next day.


Three days later, Joseph sat upright in his hospital bed, head wrapped in a turban of bandages. His equipment had been retrieved, but the video camera was ruined.

By some miracle, his digital camera survived the torrential rains and he held it now in his hands, attempting to review the photos on its memory card. He searched for evidence of the malevolence that had pursued him. He scrolled through the images 100 times, scrutinizing the headstones, the trees and the random shots of the lawn. He found no evidence of the entity in any of the photos. Eventually he came to realize and accept that the ghost was only visible through his LCD.

Sadly, he had no evidence of his encounter, save a nasty concussion and ruined gear. The only witness an ornery old crow.

Video: Demon creature found in the woods?

A Diagnosis of Death - Ambrose Bierce

'I am not so superstitious as some of your physicians - men of science, as you are pleased to be called,' said Hawver, replying to an accusation that had not been made.

'Some of you - only a few, I confess - believe in the immortality of the soul, and in apparitions which you have not the honesty to call ghosts. I go no further than a conviction that the living are sometimes seen where they are not, but have been - where they have lived so long, perhaps so intensely, as to have left their impress on everything about them. I know, indeed, that one's environment may be so affected by one's personality as to yield, long afterward, an image of one's self to the eyes of another.

Doubtless the impressing personality has to be the right kind of personality as the perceiving eyes have to be the right kind of eyes - mine, for example.'
'Yes, the right kind of eyes, conveying sensations to the wrong kind of brains,' said Dr. Frayley, smiling.

'Thank you; one likes to have an expectation gratified; that is about the reply that I supposed you would have the civility to make.'

'Pardon me. But you say that you know. That is a good deal to say, don't you think? Perhaps you will not mind the trouble of saying how you learned.'

'You will call it an hallucination,' Hawver said, 'but that does not matter.' And he told the story.

'Last summer I went, as you know, to pass the hot weather term in the town of Meridian. The relative at whose house I had intended to stay was ill, so I sought other quarters. After some difficulty I succeeded in renting a vacant dwelling that had been occupied by an eccentric doctor of the name of Mannering, who had gone away years before, no one knew where, not even his agent.

He had built the house himself and had lived in it with an old servant for about ten years. His practice, never very extensive, had after a few years been given up entirely. Not only so, but he had withdrawn himself almost altogether from social life and become a recluse.

I was told by the village doctor, about the only person with whom he held any relations, that during his retirement he had devoted himself to a single line of study, the result of which he had expounded in a book that did not commend itself to the approval of his professional brethren, who, indeed, considered him not entirely sane.

I have not seen the book and cannot now recall the title of it, but I am told that it expounded a rather startling theory. He held that it was possible in the case of many a person in good health to forecast his death with precision, several months in advance of the event. The limit, I think, was eighteen months.

There were local tales of his having exerted his powers of prognosis, or perhaps you would say diagnosis; and it was said that in every instance the person whose friends he had warned had died suddenly at the appointed time, and from no assignable cause. All this, however, has nothing to do with what I have to tell; I thought it might amuse a physician.


'The house was furnished, just as he had lived in it. It was a rather gloomy dwelling for one who was neither a recluse nor a student, and I think it gave something of its character to me - perhaps some of its former occupant's character; for always I felt in it a certain melancholy that was not in my natural disposition, nor, I think, due to loneliness.

I had no servants that slept in the house, but I have always been, as you know, rather fond of my own society, being much addicted to reading, though little to study. Whatever was the cause, the effect was dejection and a sense of impending evil; this was especially so in Dr. Mannering's study, although that room was the lightest and most airy in the house. The doctor's life-size portrait in oil hung in that room, and seemed completely to dominate it.

There was nothing unusual in the picture; the man was evidently rather good looking, about fifty years old, with iron-grey hair, a smooth-shaven face and dark, serious eyes. Something in the picture always drew and held my attention. The man's appearance became familiar to me, and rather "haunted" me.

'One evening I was passing through this room to my bedroom, with a lamp - there is no gas in Meridian. I stopped as usual before the portrait, which seemed in the lamplight to have a new expression, not easily named, but distinctly uncanny. It interested but did not disturb me.

I moved the lamp from one side to the other and observed the effects of the altered light. While so engaged I felt an impulse to turn round. As I did so I saw a man moving across the room directly toward me! As soon as he came near enough for the lamplight to illuminate the face I saw that it was Dr. Mannering himself; it was as if the portrait were walking!

'"I beg your pardon," I said, somewhat coldly, "but if you knocked I did not hear."
'He passed me, within an arm's length, lifted his right forefinger, as in warning, and without a word went on out of the room, though I observed his exit no more than I had observed his entrance.

'Of course, I need not tell you that this was what you will call a hallucination and I call an apparition. That room had only two doors, of which one was locked; the other led into a bedroom, from which there was no exit. My feeling on realizing this is not an important part of the incident.



'Doubtless this seems to you a very commonplace "ghost story" - one constructed on the regular lines laid down by the old masters of the art. If that were so I should not have related it, even if it were true. The man was not dead; I met him to-day in Union Street. He passed me in a crowd.'

Hawver had finished his story and both men were silent. Dr. Frayley absently drummed on the table with his fingers.

'Did he say anything to-day?' he asked - 'anything from which you inferred that he was not dead?'
Hawver stared and did not reply.

'Perhaps,' continued Frayley,' he made a sign, a gesture - lifted a finger, as in warning. It's a trick he had - a habit when saying something serious - announcing the result of a diagnosis, for example.'

'Yes, he did - just as his apparition had done. But, good God! did you ever know him?'
Hawver was apparently growing nervous.

'I knew him. I have read his book, as will every physician some day. It is one of the most striking and important of the century's contributions to medical science. Yes, I knew him; I attended him in an illness three years ago. He died.'

Hawver sprang from his chair, manifestly disturbed. He strode forward and back across the room; then approached his friend, and in a voice not altogether steady, said: 'Doctor, have you anything to say to me - as a physician? '

'No, Hawver; you are the healthiest man I ever knew. As a friend I advise you to go to your room. You play the violin like an angel. Play it; play something light and lively. Get this cursed bad business off your mind.'

The next day Hawver was found dead in his room, the violin at his neck, the bow upon the string, his music open before him at Chopin's Funeral March.

Not Your Kind of Heathen

“If you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior, you’ll receive everlasting life.” A girl with a “Hello, my name is Sarah” nametag waved a tract in Rachel’s face. Sarah’s rosy-cheeked smile testified of apple pies, family dinners, and summer vacations at the beach. Rachel had never been to the beach.

“No thanks,” Rachel mumbled without stopping, hoping to lose the evangelist in the downtown foot traffic.

But the girl was fast, taking two steps for one of Rachel’s. “Faith in Jesus got me through a really dark time. The steps to Salvation are listed right here.”

Rachel took the tract, but Sarah’s expression crumpled as Rachel wadded it into an unrecognizable lump. “Go talk to drunks and fornicators. I’m not your kind of heathen.”

Sarah’s gaze landed on the cross around Rachel’s neck, and her blue eyes went from troubled to annoyed. “You know, crosses aren’t a fashion statement. You shouldn’t wear one if you don’t believe in what it stands for.” Her fingers touched her own cross necklace.

“I believe.” Venom soaked Rachel’s tone. “That’s what pisses me off.” Then she stalked off, leaving a speechless Sarah in the middle of the sidewalk.

In the past, maybe Rachel would have actually talked to Sarah, tried to explain how things really worked. There was big evil out there; evil way more tangible than the faceless sin brandished in pulpits every Sunday. But the people spouting religious ideals the most vehemently never believed the truth, and Rachel was tired of trying.

Two blocks down, One Eyed Pete’s sat between a European-style bistro and a trendy martini bar. With a flickering neon sign in the shape of a pirate and a cowbell over the door, Pete’s was the block’s eyesore. Rachel was the only woman in the joint, but none of the patrons seemed to care. The few that glanced up at her entrance went right back to staring into their drinks, as if alcohol gave meaning to their fucked-up lives. And maybe it did—who was Rachel to say?

She straddled a stool and caught the eye of the pot-bellied geezer behind the bar. “The usual, Frank.” He poured the whiskey and slid it down the bar into her waiting hand. Her first sip burned all the way down.

“Rough day?” Frank limped closer.

Rachel shrugged and pushed her windblown dark hair out of her face. “They all suck.”

“I read about that kid in the warehouse district. Your dad would be proud. Werewolves are tough bastards.” Frank had been her dad’s best friend, one of the few who knew the truth and didn’t run screaming.

“Dad would have called me sloppy for letting the kid go to the papers.”

“John would be proud.” Frank patted her shoulder, and Rachel stiffened. She didn’t like to be touched.

“It’s not like I have a choice. My family’s on the line.” Rachel downed the rest of the whiskey in one gulp, and Frank poured her another without waiting to be asked.

Behind them, the cowbell clanked. The newcomer strolled up to the bar and ordered a beer. He was gaunt with eyes so light gray they appeared colorless. Dark stubble stained his chin and filled the hollows of his cheeks. His shoulders hunched under the weight of a flannel shirt, and a backwards baseball cap held back the oil slick masquerading as his hair. Even sopping wet, he would weigh less than Rachel, but she knew he was more than he seemed. She always knew. It was the “gift” her father had passed down to her. Rachel sighed and glanced meaningfully at Frank who limped to the other end of the bar.

“I love girls in leather,” the newcomer said.

Rachel glanced down at what, to the casual observer, appeared to be a typical black leather jacket. She’d had it custom made with pockets for all her necessities and easily removable buckles made of solid silver. “Lucky me.”

“I’m Earl,” he announced, oblivious to her sarcasm. He gestured to her still-full glass. “The next one’s on me. Barkeep, another for the lady.”

“Hold that, Frank.” Rachel downed her drink and threw a crumpled bill on the bar. “I’m outta here.”

Earl scowled. “I was just tryin’ to show you some hospitality.”

“I’m not into scrawny weasels.” Rachel sneered. “Try the waterfront. With enough cash, even you can find a girl there.” She nodded to Frank and headed for the back door, located down a tiny hallway past the restrooms.

She paused, her hand on the door, to see if Earl would take the bait. He seemed like the kind with something to prove. If she was wrong, she’d have to go stalker girl on his ass. An instant later, she heard his footsteps pounding after her and slipped outside.

The alley behind Pete’s was narrow and stretched back a few yards from the street. Trashcans lined the buildings, spilling over with bottles and food waste. A chain-link fence cut off the alley on the far end. The moon bathed the alley an eerie silver glow.

When Earl burst through the door, a pair of elongated canines peeked from beneath his upper lip and his eyes glinted silver. “Think you’re too good for me, bitch?”

“I don’t think so,” Rachel shot back. “I know so.” Rachel pulled a stake from her pocket and slammed it toward him, her other hand going for the cross around her neck. This was the hard part. They were stronger—the vampires, werewolves, and other monsters. They were always stronger. Even the runts.

Earl snarled and dodged the stake easily, just as Rachel planned. While he focused on the stake, she pulled her necklace over her head and brandished it between them. A vampire couldn’t stand the power behind the cross. God existed, and in the fight against evil, that was her number one weapon.

Blue light formed around the silver charm, creating a wall between Rachel and Earl. He cowered back against the wall, his eyes rolling as he dodged flickers of the holy light. Then, before she could get close enough to use the stake, he scooped up a glass bottle and threw it with all his considerable strength. The bottle passed harmlessly through the wall of light; she ducked, and the bottle shattered against the wall behind her. Before she could correct her balance, Earl slammed into her. His fingers blistered wherever the light touched, but he managed to knock the cross out of her hand and kick it into the shadows. Without the cross to focus it, the light flickered and died, leaving Rachel unprotected.

Rachel smashed her fist into his jaw, the skill and strength of two decades of martial arts training behind her punch. One of his fangs ripped the skin of her knuckles. She hissed and danced backwards.

Earl savored the drop of blood on his tongue. “Sweet.”

Her kick struck his torso, knocking him back. Rachel thrust the stake toward his heart, but, with a burst of preternatural speed, the vampire lunged sideways and knocked her backwards. Her head hit the bricks with a crack, and the stake fell from nerveless fingers.

“Get away from her!”

Sarah stood in the mouth of the alley, her blonde hair glowing under the streetlight. Before Rachel could yell a warning, Earl punched her in the face and pain exploded behind her eye. He dropped her, and Rachel stumbled against the wall, trying to stop the alley from spinning by sheer force of will.

“I have pepper spray.”

Rachel opened her good eye to see Sarah take a few tentative steps into the alley, a finger on the trigger of a can of pepper spray so tiny it wouldn’t scare a jaywalker. Across the street, a live band began to play on an outdoor patio. Bass thumped in time with the throbbing of Rachel’s face.

Sarah’s glance flicked to Rachel, and her eyes widened slightly in recognition. “Leave now and I won’t call the cops,” she said.

“But then I’d miss dinner and dessert.” Earl advanced on Sarah, allowing her to see his face, fangs and all.

To her credit, the girl didn’t scream at her first sight of the undead. A minute stream of liquid arced from the can of pepper spray, missing Earl by a foot. He snickered, and Sarah shot Rachel a panicked glance. Rachel pointed at her throat, and hoped Sarah had watched enough horror movies to understand. Then Rachel pretended to lose her balance and fall into a trashcan, doing her best to look concussive and completely out of it.

The noise caught Earl’s attention and he smirked at Rachel before returning his attention to Sarah. “Good, I can take my time.”

Sarah shrieked as the vampire attacked, but managed to pull her necklace over her head. Light streamed from the cross clutched in her fingers, but Sarah, mesmerized by the vampire, didn’t look down. Rachel realized what Sarah was going to do a moment too late. Sarah flung the cross at Earl; the silver charm glanced off of his forehead and fell uselessly to the ground.

Earl grabbed Sarah around the waist and pressed her against his chest, pulling her deeper into the alley. The vampire sank his fangs into her slender throat. Sarah whimpered as the points pricked her skin. Blood speckled her white collar.

Before Earl got more than a taste, Rachel smashed a garbage can into the back of his head. He staggered, losing his grip on Sarah, who sprayed him with pepper spray at point-blank range. Temporarily blinded, Earl spewed forth obscenities and scrubbed at his eyes, which only made things worse. Rachel swore as Sarah followed her into alley instead of racing for the street.

Tears slid down Sarah’s cheeks, but she stood under her own power and showed no signs of fainting. “Why did God abandon us?” Her eyes widened in horror. “Am I a vampire now?”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “It takes more than a nibble to change you. Tell me when he starts to come out of it.” She reached into an inside pocket for her backup cross and swore again when it came out as several useless hunks of wood, too small to even use as stakes. She knelt to paw through a pile of trash. “Where is that damn cross?”

“The cross didn’t work.”

Something moist and sticky touched Rachel’s hand, and she knew better than to look too closely. “A cross isn’t a bomb. Its power comes from your faith, so you have to hold it.”

“I think he’s coming out of it,” Sarah warmed.

Something silver gleamed, and Rachel snatched up her cross without pausing to wipe off the alley sludge. Across the street, the band finished their song and the crowd cheered as they started another. Earl advanced slowly, squinting at them through red-rimmed eyes.

“You should’ve run,” Rachel murmured to Sarah.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Rachel gripped her last stake. When the vampire attacked, Sarah squealed and jerked backwards into the fence, but Rachel held her ground, the cross hidden in her palm. She sidestepped his lunge and grabbed his arm, pressing the cross into his icy skin. Blue light exploded between her fingers and glowing tendrils wrapped around his arm. His skin blistered and oozed.

“Get it off,” Earl howled. At the club, electric guitar wailed. He spun and shook, but the more the vampire became spasmodic, the tighter she held on. Using him as an anchor, Rachel plunged the stake through his sternum and into his heart. Earl crumpled to the ground and the faith light died. Rachel kicked him once for good measure anyway.

“Is he dead?” Sarah crept up beside Rachel.

“Yeah.” The clasp on Rachel’s necklace hadn’t broken in the struggle, so she slipped it back on, sludge and all.

“I thought vampires turned to dust when you staked them.”

“You watch too much TV.” Rachel produced a silver flask and a match book. “There’s only one way to get rid of the body.” She unscrewed the cap on the flask and took a swig of the whiskey inside. She offered it to Sarah, who shook her head; then Rachel sprinkled it over the vampire’s corpse and struck a match.

Flames gorged on the vampire’s unnatural form, devouring it in seconds. Sarah choked on the acrid smoke. When the fire had nothing left to feed on, it died as quickly as it began.

Rachel brushed as much debris off her clothes as possible and wiped her face with a clean handkerchief. All she wanted to do now was go home, but Sarah’s shell-shocked expression made her pause. Rachel sighed and handed Sarah the handkerchief to wipe the blood off her neck. Without the crimson streaks, the puncture wounds were much less noticeable.

Suddenly, Rachel found herself wondering if Sarah would understand now. She’d seen the evil and, judging from the light when she’d held the cross, her faith was strong. Briefly, Rachel allowed herself the fantasy of not being alone.

Sarah took off her shirt and found the white T-shirt underneath mostly clean. While Sarah repaired her appearance, Rachel scanned the front of the alley for the tell-tale glint of silver. Sarah’s cross had landed amidst a pile of glass shards. The chain had broken, but the cross itself was intact.

When Rachel turned around, Sarah looked better. Not normal, but not like vampire fodder, either. Rachel handed Sarah the cross; Sarah took it with trembling fingers, staring at it as if she’d never seen it before.

“Keep that with you at all times,” Rachel advised gruffly. “And don’t go anywhere alone with someone you haven’t seen in full daylight. Shade doesn’t count. If you go inside, Frank will call you a cab. He knows the safe ones.”

Sarah glanced up at Rachel, tears in her eyes. Before Rachel could think better of it, she reached out to the other girl. Sarah flinched away with a horrified expression, and Rachel jerked her hand back, the door slamming on her hope. Who the hell had she been fooling? Besides, she had her family’s curse to deal with; she didn’t have time for strays. Rachel turned on her heel, but Sarah’s quavering voice stopped her.

“Thank you,” Sarah stammered. “For saving me.”

“I didn’t do it to save you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to.” Rachel hardened her heart. The girl thanked her just because it was the right thing to do. The cowbell clanked and Rachel glanced back. Sarah was gone; Rachel was alone—everything was back to normal. As Rachel started the long walk back to her motorcycle, she told herself that her dad would approve.

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.