The Lost

by A. Sparrow

  “Oh my,” said Marsha. “I’ll be right back.” She ran upstairs and into the kitchen.

  The man settled back down onto the concrete floor. He was thin, but cords of muscle bulged in his back and arms. His forearms alone were as thick as Joel’s thighs. His legs, however, seemed almost atrophied in comparison. A large chunk of flesh was missing from his left calf.

  “A curse, huh?” said Joel, making small talk.

  “Bad one, too. Can’t say I didn’t deserve it.”

  Joel found the whole situation preposterous, but he gave their guest the benefit of the doubt.

  “So ... you gotta stay underground?”

  The man nodded. “Some part of me must be six feet under for maximum comfort. I can tolerate five, but any shallower and my bones begin to ache. Not to mention, the hounds grow restless and track me down. With all the rains of late, I haven’t been able to stay as deep as I ought. The water table has risen.”

  Marsha came skipping down the stairs with a steaming bowl of corn chowder and some damp wash rags.

  “Oh, you are much too kind,” said the man. “I must say, this is a first for me. I usually enter basements uninvited.”

  He took the bowl and slurped, not bothering with the spoon.

  “My name is Lester Fallow,” he said between slurps. “You might have heard the name. I used to manage a funeral home in town. It has been in my family since pioneer days.”

  “We’re kind of new in town,” said Joel.

  He was licking the bowl now, just like a dog. Marsha ran back upstairs and brought down the whole pot. She didn’t bother ladling from it, she just handed it over.

  “Oh, thank you dear. You are most kind. Your chowder is heavenly. This really is my lucky day. I’m sorry to have to eat and run, but I really should keep moving. Those hounds will sniff me out if I don’t. And I must say, these are not the sort of creatures you would ever want visiting your property.”

  “But … how did this happen to you?” said Marsha.

  He sighed long and painfully and daubed his face with a wash rag.

  “She was a client of mine….”

  ***

  Miss Serendipia Oxley was a wealthy spinster. Old money from Chicago, they say. Went around town in a chauffeured Mercedes. Rumors said she dabbled in the occult, though nobody dared call her a witch in public. To me she had never been more than an eccentric old woman.

  She came into my office with four beastly dogs slavering and stinking of road kill. These were not the kind of dogs you would find at a pound. Their muzzles came over the top of my desk. Mangy coats hung like shredded sheepskins. They drooled their foulness all over my carpet.

  I held my tongue about her pets. Perhaps they were service dogs. What kind of service, I didn’t care to imagine.

  “How may I help you, ma’am?”

  “I’ve come to purchase a burial plot for myself.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. We’ve just opened a lovely new section in the flats.”

  “I have my eye on a specific location.”

  She slapped a map of our cemetery onto my desk and stabbed her fingernail into Brewster’s Hill.

  “This one right here. Numbers 142 A through D, on the eastern slope.”

  “I’m sorry ma’am, but those plots belong to the Websters. They’re not for sale.”

  Her expression did not falter. “I will compensate the current owners for their inconvenience and pay you twice the going rate.”

  I put on my best smile, the one I reserve for wealthy cretins. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. But I can’t sell you those plots for any price. They’re not mine to sell.”

  She cocked her head at me. “I don’t believe the Websters happen to be using them at the moment. Seems to me they are very much alive.”

  “Well yes, but….”

  “I only wish to borrow them. When I am done, they can have them back.”

  I chuckled. “Sorry, ma’am, but we don’t do rentals.”

  “Why not?”

  “It's simply not how we do business. Those plots belong to the Websters.”

  “If no one’s buried there yet, why should it matter to them?”

  “Perhaps, they wish to preserve their burial site’s pristine nature. As I suppose you know, they command the most excellent view of the valley.”

  “I couldn’t care less about any damned view. Tell the Websters I’ll reimburse double what they paid, same rate I’m offering you. This way, everybody wins.”

  Her lips retracted to reveal rows of oddly-shaped teeth. I believe she had intended to smile not grimace.

  “But ma’am, we have plenty of other lovely sites to choose from.”

  “I need 142 A through D. No other locations will do.”

  She gave me an evil eye that would have wilted an oak. But I just couldn’t imagine breaking the news to Gerald Webster that I had sold his final resting place to a higher bidder. Though he was still quite vigorous for his age, the old patriarch came by every weekend to meditate on the hillside he intended his bones to rest.

  “Might I refer you to a colleague of mine who runs a top-notch cemetery in the Heights?”

  She glared at me. “I need these. 142 A through D. And I intend to possess them.”

  I stood my ground.

  “Perhaps … you need a little persuasion,” she said.

  Her gaze latched onto the cage of budgies in the waiting area.

  “You like little birds, do you?”

  I shrugged. “They bring some cheer to my clients.”

  “Cheer!” She snorted. “I will give you one day to reconsider. I’ll be back tomorrow to choose my casket. I will expect you to have the paperwork ready by then.”

  She yanked on the leashes and dragged her dogs out of my office.

  “I suggest you think about what else you’re fond of before I see you next. I’m being more than generous, Mr. Fallow.”

  Next morning on my drive in, birds rained down out of the trees, slapping onto my windshield stone dead. I was a rolling wave of avian death.

  I rushed to the office to find my budgies legs up and limp on the floor of their cage.

  Needless to say, I reassessed my position on this Webster issue. I realized I was dealing with more than just a crazy old lady.

  I struggled for a way to approach old Gerald on the matter. I had to give this woman the impression I was doing my due diligence.

  It was raining when she arrived later that morning in her gray Mercedes, this time without her hounds. Her chauffeur, a squat man named Martin, stayed close to her side. He had a squashed, chinless face that reminded me of a toad.

  She came into our showroom and selected our most expensive rosewood model with a silk lining and pewter fittings.

  “Now what about those plots, 142 A through D?”

  I had to lie. “It’s all been arranged. Those plots are now yours.”

  She smirked. “I knew you would come around to seeing things my way. Where do I sign?”

  I wrote up a false invoice. I just wanted her out of my parlor. Later, I could sort things out.

  When I handed her a pen, she ignored it. She signed with a pointed claw of a fingernail, which left a track the color of dried blood.

  “Martin, bring him the coins.”

  The chauffeur unloaded six canvas sacks of silver coins from his trunk.

  “This should be more than enough to cover the cost of the plots and casket. Keep the extra with my compliments.”

  “Um. Thank you … very much.”

  “Is someone on duty here at all times?”

  “We have someone on call twenty four, seven.”

  “Excellent! Now, when I pass, you will find a document on my corpse outlining my requirements. Simply put, there is to be no embalming. No wake. No funeral. No obituary, headstone or any other such nonsense. You will simply place me six feet under as soon as you find me dead, not a moment wasted. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but what about your
friends and relatives? Won’t they be expecting some kind of ceremony?”

  “I have no relations.” She bulged her eyes at me and let the point linger. “Alacrity is essential. You may wish to prepare a hole in advance. Furthermore, the lid of my casket is not to be fastened in any manner, do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Six feet under.”

  “Of course.”

  “Now, I expect you to follow my wishes to the last word. You are being very well compensated. If you intend to deviate in any way, I suggest you think about what else in this life you hold dear besides little birds.”

  After she left, I took the coins and stuck them in a closet. I wasn’t about to take them to the bank. They looked like artifacts from an archeological dig.

  I kept the whole transaction out of the books. I planned not to breathe a word of this to old Gerald. I didn’t know exactly what I would do yet when the time came, but if she had no friends or relatives, did the location of her final resting place really matter? For now, I could only wish both her and Gerald long and healthy lives.

  Scant days later I got a frantic call from my assistant Norv, who had the night duty.

  “Boss. I need you here, quick.”

  I walked over from home—I lived only a few blocks away—and found Norv waiting for me outside the parlor.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This old lady walks in, climbs into a casket and proceeds to die. There was a note pinned to her jacket with your name.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Don’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is a special case, Norv.”

  “Boss, we can’t just ….”

  “Norv. Let me handle this. Where’s the note?”

  “Here.”

  He handed me a piece of mottled parchment with a spare but elegant script written in burgundy ink. It was a list re-iterating her demands. No coroner. No embalming. Immediate interment. Six feet under. Loam, no gravel.”

  Norv read over my shoulder.

  “142 A through D? That’s the Webster plot.”

  “I’ll handle this, Norv.”

  “But we can’t put her there!

  “I said, let me handle this. And keep it all to yourself. There are threats involved here.”

  “Threats?”

  “The less you know about it the better, Norv.”

  “O … kay.”

  I went in to the showroom. The woman in the casket was most definitely Miss Oxley and she was most definitely dead, as waxy and blue as a week-old corpse.

  “Help me load her up.”

  “So where you gonna put her?”

  “Don’t exactly know. Anywhere but 142 A through D. Any ideas?”

  “Well, the Bickford tomb’s got slots open. That family died out years ago.”

  I knew this tomb well. It was a sodded over barrow in the part of the cemetery with the oldest and largest trees. I had played on and around it as a child.

  No Bickford had lived in this town for at least a generation. Any descendants lived a thousand miles away. There would be no one to notice an extra casket in a forgotten tomb.

  Norv helped me load up the van and I drove into the cemetery alone. It was a starry evening, unusually bright considering there was no moon.

  The nice thing about a mausoleum? No digging. It would simply be a matter of unlocking a vault, sliding the casket onto a plinth and locking up the tomb. Old Gerald need not be disturbed.

  I pulled up the van and opened the doors, rolling the casket out on its cart. For good measure, I grabbed a hammer from the tool box and a handful of ten penny nails. It was a shame to mar that beautiful rosewood, but it made me feel more secure. I hammered in about four, figuring that should suffice.

  I put her to bed, stepped out of the tomb and set the rusted, old padlock. The old trees seemed sleepy and peaceful. A wind kicked up and stirred the leaves into little whirlwinds. There was an odd glow in the east.

  On the way back to the parlor, I was startled to see the old hag’s Mercedes parked out front. The toad-like chauffeur waited on the sidewalk with those dogs.

  I should have known the old hag would have arranged for verification. I turned around and doubled back to plots 142 A through D.

  I got the shovel out of the van and commenced to pry up sod, stacking squares of turf, loosening up the soil underneath and replacing them. Now at least I had some evidence to show the chauffeur. I could always tell old Gerald that one of the gravediggers had made a mistake, but not to worry, there was no one buried in his plot and I could prove it.

  That done, I returned to the parlor. The Mercedes was still parked outside. The chauffeur and the dogs were waiting for me in the reception area. I found Norv cowering in my office.

  “Good evening,” I said, keeping my distance from the dogs. I still had dirt under my fingernails.

  “Ze list,” said the chauffeur. “You haff honored my lady’s wishes?”

  “Of course,” I said, wiping my hands on my trousers.

  “She ees facing zee East?”

  “As she wished.”

  “Very well.” The lightness in his eyes spoke of unspeakable burdens lifted.

  “Adieu,” he said as he left the parlor. He released the dogs and they went bounding into the graveyard. He dropped his cap and keys on the sidewalk and went strolling off into the darkness, abandoning the car.

  I had a bad feeling about those monster dogs roaming loose in my cemetery. I got back in the van and drove back to the tomb. The door was intact, as I would have expected. I could hear the dogs snarling and howling high on that hill.

  I drove back up there. My headlights swept across the dogs surrounding my pretend excavation. They had torn through the mound of loosened soil and scattered the squares of turf. They stalked my van, hackles raised and growling.

  A blotch of light, like a comet without a tail, hung low in the eastern sky. Its sickly yellow rays washed over the cemetery. One of the dogs attacked the van, scraping its claws down the side panel.

  As I backed away and turned around, an explosion detonated down in the flats, sending a cloud of debris and dust spewing up among the ancient oaks down the hill.

  I careened back down the hill, high beams on all the way. The walls of the Bickford tomb had burst open, peeling apart from the center, scattering bones and chunks of antique casket. But the old hag’s rosewood coffin lay perfectly intact atop the rubble. As I puzzled over how this could possibly be, a car came screaming up the one lane access road. Norv burst out of his car.

  “What the hell, boss? Was that lady packing a bomb?”

  “Not exactly.”

  We got out of our vehicles and stood there, dumbfounded. The coffin lid commenced to bulge and creak between the points at which I had nailed it down. From within, the sound of an elderly woman grunting and straining alternated with something more monstrous.

  “Norv, grab yourself a hammer and some nails.”

  “But … boss.”

  Before we could move, the wood splintered at the hinges and the lid came flying off. The hag reared up, tilted back her head and screamed to the heavens, broadcasting her pain and anger to the universe.

  She was weak and wobbly but her eyes found me and transfixed me to the spot like a hand traps a frog. I couldn’t move an inch.

  Her speech was all slurred. “I had a feeling something would go wrong. Where is that worthless chauffeur of mine? He was supposed to ensure that things like this didn’t happen.”

  “He … uh … left. You car’s still here, though. Would you like the keys?”

  “You! Stupid! Foolish … man. How could you do this? Do you not know who you’re dealing with?”

  She tore open her blouse and camisole, revealing her withered tits. She spread her arms and soaked in the rays what rays she could of the now fading glow in the eastern sky. She staggered out of the coffin towards me. I could
n’t even back away. Norv fled into his car and slammed the door.

  She had trouble supporting her weight. Her life force flickered in and out like a guttering candle. Her eyes drifted.

  As the glow in the sky gradually vanished, the grip on my legs eased and I was able to move closer to the van. I was reaching for the door when her eyes regained their focus and the leaden feeling returned.

  “You failed me, Mr. Fallow. Now what shall we do to set things right?”

  My well-honed customer service skills sprang into action.

  “I’m so very sorry ma’am, but we just couldn’t put you in that plot. As I tried to explain, it belongs to Gerald Webster. But we do have a wide selection of lovely mausoleums on our grounds. Mr. Brooks and I would be more than glad to put you into something extra nice at no extra charge. Carrera marble. Sienna if you prefer.”

  “Fool! I needed that specific plot. Our kind has been using it for centuries before this was ever a public graveyard. You grew up on these grounds. You should have known.”

  “I … I knew that hill was special. But I never knew why.”

  “Well, now you know. Too late for you, I’m afraid. For his sake, I hope your assistant is a quicker learner. I’ll be back next equinox for the light of the Wight. I expect whoever is running this place by then will do things correctly. As for you Mr. Fallow, I give you one hour to get yourself six feet under before I set the hounds after you.”

  She ripped open the door of my van with one yank of her scrawny arm, pulled a shovel off a rack and tossed it to me. “Start digging.”

  The dogs came bounding and baying down a footpath. The hag croaked a command in some arcane tongue and they arrayed themselves around me at the four compass points.

  I felt a heaviness tugging me down. I didn’t think much of it at first. I just started digging, figuring if I dug a deep enough hole she would take her dogs and leave me be.

  My feet sank into the loam almost faster than I could dig. It was as if the Earth’s gravity had been cranked up to eleven on the dial for me alone.

  Norv looked pale and lost. “Boss, what do I do?” he whispered.

  “You shall do nothing, say nothing,” said the hag. “You will attend to your duties and feign ignorance with the authorities. They will find no natural cause for this damage and blame it on pranksters or swamp gas. They always do. It never fails.”