Respect For The Dead

by Lindsey Goddard

  They jailed him immediately, pending an interrogation. But that first night, Mr. Kaufman went missing. He disappeared from his cell, door left wide open. A massive manhunt was launched. Suspects were gathered. Yet still there was no word from the only man who could reveal the location of Jenny’s body.

  Meanwhile, Jenny’s mom opted to bury that finger. In an infant-sized casket, in the family plot, a little piece of her was laid to rest.

  I stood before the gate just imagining that finger. I saw it stuck in the floor, still twitching, a tendon draped like a wet noodle over the skin. I heard the splintering of bone when it tore… nine fingernails still sliding down the wood.

  The car was parked mere inches from the gate. I climbed onto the hood, using it for a boost. “C’mon, guys.” I dropped over the edge.

  I searched the tombstones with my flashlight, scanning the names and dates. I think David and Jason were watching the landscape, shedding light on dark patches, jumping at every sound. They stuck close to each other, combining their beams to make an even larger spread of light.

  I turned my head to give them hell, but they were too far behind. If I yelled, they might pee in their pants. I kept looking.

  Then something caught my eye in the distance. Beneath a giant oak tree, branches barren from the frigid weather, a silhouette appeared to be moving. Up and down the arm would go, a sort of rhythmic dance. Without conscious thought, my feet were going. I picked up pace, closing in on the figure.

  She was shorter than the shovel she wielded. Beside the towering oak, she was a tiny black splotch… an imp in the presence of Satan. Her clothes were caked with mud. Beside her was a pile of dirt. She stuck the shovel in the soil, tossed it into the hole. Back and forth, again and again. Her movements were mechanical, determined.

  And that’s when I heard the screaming. I hadn’t heard it before. The sounds were suddenly just there. Horrible wails from inside the hole, like a vice was closing on the man’s skull.

  “What are you doing?” I yelped, and she stiffened. Her shoulders went rigid with the knowledge of my arrival. She kept her back turned for a long moment. Clumps of dirt clung to the yellow hair that fell down her neck. She turned slowly, like someone drugged or drunk, and in the moonlight I saw the bruises on her face. There were shades of deep purple and light green, so many welts she looked deformed… inhuman.

  My frantic breathing made clouds in the air. Her mouth and nose produced no steam. There was no breath left in this girl.

  She opened her jaw, parting the cracked white lips. There was a sound somewhere between coughing and gagging. She stared blankly; then came the sound again. Brown dirt began to pour from the open mouth, like sand from a punctured sandbag. It spilled out so fast, and in such large amounts, that her jaw just unhinged like a snake. It covered her chin, the entire front of her body. Her feet were submerged in mere seconds.

  The shovel came out of nowhere, bashing hard into my skull. I never felt such a burst of pain, spreading down my neck and to the ends of my hands. My fingers went numb, but I knew they were still there. The hand that rolled me into the grave was not complete.

  I could hear the man screaming as my lights went out. Darkness swirled into my vision, bleeding outward… black ink on fabric. I felt the dirt hit my face.

  “Audrey. Audrey, can you hear me?” I could see the inside of my eyelids, soft crimson with veins like cracks. I was someplace bright. Not a grave. Thank god.

  “Audrey, wake up. It’s David.”

  My eyelashes were heavy. I rubbed them with my palm, spreading grit from the tiny hairs. I opened my eyes, but had to blink one shut. It was itchy with pieces of dirt.

  “Hello, dear. My name is Doctor Monroe.” I started to speak, and felt cracked mud on my lips… tasted the earth in my throat.

  “So glad to see you conscious and well. I’ve never seen asphyxiation like this.”

  “Asphyxi-what?” David asked. I needed to buy him a dictionary.

  “Asphyxiation,” I managed. “Like suffocation.”

  “You must have fainted near a small pile of loose dirt. I never saw such a thing in my life. You inhaled enough dirt to pot a plant.”

  It all came back in rush. Hit me like a shovel to the head. The hole… the fresh grave. “We’ve got to call the police! I know where Mr. Kaufman is buried!”

  The doctor glanced at his chart, marking something with his pen. “Yes, you were mumbling between coughing fits. Muttering nonsense through mouthfuls of dirt.”

  “But it’s true. Jenny Kaufman. She freed her father from the cell. She buried him under the tree. She buried him alive, just like he did to her!”

  David set his hand on my shoulder. “We found you under a tree at the edge of the cemetery… but there wasn’t a hole, no fresh grave. The ground was hard as a rock.”

  I just looked at him. It couldn’t be true, yet part of me knew that it was. “Take me home…”

  That night, I threw out the old Ouija board. My candles and photos went, too. I knew that somewhere deep under the earth, a little girl and her killer lay rotting. That’s exactly where I wanted them to stay.

  David wanted to believe me, and so did my mom, but there’s one thing they couldn’t understand. If I really did see Jenny… why did she choose a stranger? Why did she appear only to me?

  I told them maybe no one else went looking.

  A Devil In Disguise

  Sarah is playing in the wooden sandbox. I watch her for the third time this week. Biting my lip, I’m waiting for a chance to swoop in and play the monster. Strands of soft, black hair fall from her ponytail, dancing in the gentle wind, teasing me. I’d love to feel that hair between my fingers, to run my cheek across the top of her head.

  Sarah purses her lips, smoothing the sides of a giant sand castle with her palms. She builds the most elaborate structures—far beyond what you’d expect of her age. She is a tiny sculptor, hands moving with the passionate precision of a seasoned artist, until every curve and dip of her sand-structure is just right. There’s something very different about Sarah.

  Her cheeks are flush with summer heat. She looks warm to the touch, a thin layer of sweat forming on her brow as she works. I think I can smell her sweat, a salty musk wafting in the breeze. I dig fingernails into my palms. The sudden pain dulls my urge to leap from the car and snatch her up. It’s not a good time. Not yet. Her mother is still watching from the porch.

  I saw Sarah for the first time three weeks ago, when I was heading home for lunch one afternoon. I was on my way back from the seasoning store, where I buy all my cooking spices. The stoplight flicked from yellow to red. I stopped the car…and there she was, playing in the little sandbox.

  Her beauty was striking, even from a distance. Eyes so blue, so full of youth, I could see their glow from my car. For a moment I was lost in those cerulean orbs, surrounded by slick, dark lashes. She watched a bird take flight from the fence. Her upturned face was a picture of beauty.

  She fell to all fours, wiggling her toes in the sand. She ran a fingertip across the gritty surface, parting the tiny grains to form a picture. I pulled into the alley of a vacant office building. The worn letters on the sign read “Chiropractor”. I didn’t know why, but I had to watch her play. I had to get my hands on that child.

  The sun was blazing hot, and I could smell her salty sweat, I could taste it in the back of my throat. Her flesh was rosy with heat, pieces of hair sticking to the moisture that formed on the sides of her face. Sweat covered her legs, little pieces of sand stuck to her calves and knees.

  Even dirty and perspiring, she was lovely. The face of a cherub angel, eyes big and innocent, coral lips whistling a tune too soft for me to hear. I cursed the chain link fence that surrounds the little yard, the vigil mother who stood watching from the porch.

  “Sarah!” called her mother. “Come get a Popsicle.”

  I watched with interest as Sarah sprang to her feet, dropping her shovel and pale. She ran swiftly to receive her icy treat
, beaming from cheek to cheek.

  They disappeared into the house, and when they returned, Sarah had a green Popsicle. Her mother had a phone. She lifted Sarah to the patio chair, saying something too soft for me to hear. Probably “Stay put” or “Don’t move” or “Be good”. Then, she began dialing the phone, walking into the house… closing the door.

  I wanted Sarah, right then and there, needed her like no words can describe. But it wasn’t safe, not just yet. So I would keep watching, biding my time, waiting for the perfect chance.

  I know what you’re thinking: I’m a pedophile, a freak. You’re right about one thing: I’m a freak, that’s for sure. But I would never use a child for sex.

  I crave Sarah’s flesh, the marrow in her bones, the juices that keep her organs soft. It sustains me—young meat—brings strength to my legs, keeps insanity from clouding my mind. It fills the husk of my body with life once again, if only for small fractions of time.

  I don’t take it for granted… the magic of the flesh. I am grateful for every last morsel.

  Ancient Cherokee tribes worshiped the Corn Woman. She was the bringer of crops and nourishment. The Roman goddess Pomona filled orchards and gardens, watching over the fruits that would sustain a great many. Perhaps even you, as you sit down to the table, clasp your hands in thanks to your god.

  I assure you… not a piece of young Sarah will be wasted. She is a god, a giver of life.

  Her upper skull will be fashioned into an extraordinary bowl, sanded and smoothed to perfection. On its surface, I will chisel an elaborate castle, an offering to the beautiful girl. Her leg bones will decorate my secret lounge, perhaps framing a painting of Sarah. The smaller bones can be used for whistles and jewelry, a hobby I’ve been honing for years. I prefer not to waste my children.

  Sarah’s flesh will sustain me for weeks. The younger the meat, the more powerful the effect. My withered skin will be softer to touch. My trembling hands will regain a forgotten dexterity, if only for a few short days. Perhaps some of the wrinkles that surround my ageless eyes will disappear, and I might feel young again.

  As you’ve probably guessed, I’m not a mortal man. Ancient cultures of people, the ones you call “history”… those were my family and friends. I can build a fire without matches or lighter. I can find my way home by using the stars. I cannot die of disease, broken bones, or blood loss. Many have tried to end my life. As have I.

  I’ve been burnt to a crisp by angry Puritans, who kicked and spat on my corpse as they extinguished the fire. I’ve plunged a knife into my heart, again and again… even begged a lover to unleash the guillotine. I still remember fer face, mouth agape, sheer horror taking over her eyes. The guillotine blade had sliced quickly and smoothly, separating my head from my shoulders, and yet I was still alive. My body and mind went on living, even after my spinal cord severed. I was dazed, unable to control my muscles with the ease of an intact man. I touched the bloody stumps of my neck and head together, and I was mended within a few minutes.

  As time passed, I discovered something quite useful. I didn’t need to keep my severed parts. I lost a leg, with no hope of recovering the vital limb. Within hours, another one sprouted like a weed from the painful, bloody stump that was left.

  Once upon a time, I was even shipwrecked, my vessel tossed by the waves of a stormy sea. I hit the rocky terrain of an island, dense with fog. I was knocked unconscious and drowned. My body drifted deep into the ocean, sucked this way and that by the crashing waves. When I finally came to I was in a dead man’s float. That was the longest, and worst, swim of my life. I don’t travel near the ocean anymore. The water is too vast, and filled with predators.

  My skull has been beaten to a pulp, my brain riddled with splintered bones. My head has been sliced in two, separated right down the nose. Then there was the time I thought I’d die of starvation, refusing to partake of human flesh. I wanted nothing more than to defeat my timeless curse, which has made me a cannibal, a monster. Years passed… and yet I could not die. Starved and weak, my mind was fading in and out. Until I summoned the strength to go hunting once more… and do what I am destined to do.

  Sometimes I wonder if it’s impossible to die, though I can see the strain of centuries on my body. My hair is thinning and gray, riddled with bald spots. The pearly teeth of my youth are a distant memory. They went rotten such a long time ago, leaving my gums slick and empty. My joints creak when I move, and sometimes I can feel the first signs of senility sneaking in… my mind too full of memories to be sane.

  In many ways, I am a devil in disguise. My smile shows the dentures of an elderly mortal. I wear a wig that is purposely cheesy. My nails have grown thick and yellow with time. Dark circles encompass my eyes. I look like an average old man, struggling to deny nature’s cruelty.

  But will I ever meet the fate of a human? Will my body ever finally give out? Or will I become so useless and weak, I am nothing but a wandering mind?

  My hands grip the steering wheel. I watch her digging in the sand. The cravings, the hunger, overwhelm me. That blue-eyed cherub playing across the street is simply too beautiful for words. So young, so full of creativity and life. Her hair glistens in the sun like black chrome. Her skin is baking, ever-so-slightly, the beginnings of a sunburn. I can smell it! It’s too tempting for words!

  Her mother calls to her. “Sarah! It’s time for a Popsicle.” My heart races. The time has finally come!

  Twice this week, Sarah was given a Popsicle, while her mother placed phone calls from the house. It’s the only time she leaves her child unattended. It’s my only chance to lure her away. I slide out of the driver’s seat, quietly shutting the metal door. I make my way through the empty lot. A plastic bottle crunches under the heel of my boot. The sound makes me jump. I’m too nervous! Am I getting too old for the hunt?

  What if her mother sees me, or a man of the law? My knees will give out if I try to run! My ancient lungs will collapse, short of breath in ten steps! A sudden fall might badly injure my age-old bones. Sure, I mend quickly, but it takes a few minutes. I’d be in hand cuffs before the wounds healed. And what about prison? I’d be denied human meat! Forced into starvation, a skeletal monster, an empty husk with an undying brain.

  Why is Sarah worth all of this trouble? Why not hunt an easier prey? I’ll tell you why. The reason is simple:

  I’ve watched a millennium pass. For years I’ve been swimming in a sea of faces—some of them friends, some lovers, some foes—but not a single face as lovely as the child before me. Not a single memory compares to the beauty I see now. It calls to me, that splendid little face.

  I don’t wait for the stoplight to flash a “Walk” signal. I scan for cars, and swiftly cross the street.

  I am standing in a restaurant alley, close enough to a rusty dumpster to smell the wasted food. Such a pity. I never waste my food. I look around. There’s not much traffic on the road. Two cars pass under the light, traveling in different directions. Most importantly… I see no police.

  I’m partially hidden from the main road by an overgrown shrub. Unruly branches twist around the street sign, its leaves growing over the words. I hear Sarah softly humming a tune. I start to close my eyes and get lost in her sweet voice, but I’m quickly distracted by the urgency of my task. I’ve got to get up there and lure her away. Whisper sweet nothings into her mind. Tell her to follow me. I’ve got to hold that child in my arms… and take her home.

  The veins in my neck are threatening to burst, unable to contain the wild beating of my heart. I don’t suppose it would matter if they did burst… Well, it wouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

  There is a gentle slope of hill between the alley and the fence. I swallow hard and take a breath; it comes out shaky. Cautiously, I begin to climb the hill.

  I’m hoping that her mother is still inside. If she is not, I will have to walk away. Controlling the human mind is my specialty, my gift, but it only works on one human at a time.

  I reach the top
of the hill, and there she is… beautiful Sarah. She’s sucking softly on a melting chunk of ice. The sun edges her profile in orange, as she watches a squirrel hurriedly climb the fence. The outline of her face is dramatic against the brightness of the afternoon sky.

  I concentrate on the back of her head, pushing psychic energy in her direction, filling her mind up with thoughts. Come to me. Walk to me, Sarah. Come this way.

  She turns her head, and I am taken aback. I’m so close to her beauty that I can barely think. Her good looks are more intense from up close. She is breathtaking—an angel right here on earth! She looks into my eyes, waiting for me to speak.

  Come to me, Sarah. Come this way.

  She doesn’t move. I try harder, feeling weak in the knees. Telepathic energy flows between us.

  No, she says, without speaking out loud. You are bad. You are a bad, bad man.

  I am shocked. This has never happened before! My mind control powers never fail!

  I concentrate on her eyes, pushing outward with my thoughts, invading the soft tissue of her brain. Sarah, please come. I want to show you something. I want to draw you a sand castle, a picture.

  She is resistant, and I am vibrating with so much energy that my knees begin to buckle and bend. I fall to the ground, never breaking our gaze. I will have her. She will listen, she will.

  I am sweating. There is the strangest pain in my chest. Sarah’s eyes look darker than before, like a midnight sky with no stars or moon to make light. There is a wind howling through my skull, an uninvited force, a tornado of psychic power in my brain. I hear a little girl’s voice whisper ‘No. I won’t come. You are a bad, bad man.’

  Sarah is invading my mind. Her energy is like tiny, prying fingers, opening the top of my skull. She funnels information through the invisible opening, reading my life’s story like a child’s picture book. There is power in her eyes, sheer psychic strength. Like nothing I’ve seen in all my years.