Cemetery Psalms (5 Ghost/Horror Short Stories)

by Danielle Bourdon

  Donovan Schneider's dying breath mingled with the Mime's delighted laughter.

  Officer Hernandez rubbed a hand down his face. He stood under the sun, just past noon, on a vacant lot off Sixth Street. Behind him, lined up in rows, were desks, tables, collectibles. Books. Beds. Lamps. Even three racks of Pitchford's clothing. It had taken the auctioneers six hours to haul it all in and set it up.

  “Is that everything?” Officer Parker, his partner, asked.

  Hernandez glanced around, past Parker, to the lot. “Yeah, I think they got it all.”

  “Any of Pitchford's associates showing up?”

  “I don't think so. And who can blame them after what happened.” Hernandez didn't want to think about it. He and Parker had been first on the scene after the initial call.

  For seven days, he'd been haunted by nightmares over the massacre. The entire city was in shock. Thousands had attended the funerals, mourning kids they'd known all their lives.

  “I didn't think anyone would show up to buy anything, but since they're donating all the money to the kids' families, I bet we'll have a good turnout,” Parker said.

  “At least it'll help with funeral costs.” It wouldn't help with the pain of loss or lessen the violent way their children died. Hernandez grunted. He cast a glance over the figures from the carousel that had been removed and propped up throughout the other furnishings. Someone had wiped them down, brought them back to a gleaming shine. The carousel had been almost famous—or maybe notorious—and now here it was, broken down into for-sale parts, the odd pieces staring out toward the street like hopeful pets at the pound. Scheduled for tomorrow, the auction would begin at dawn and last until every last thing from the Pitchford estate was gone.

  No one else knew, but the police had instructions to donate what didn't sell to local charities.

  Overnight, through two shift changes, the lot sat filled with all the remnants of an old life. In the morning, buyers showed up early, ready to part with their hard earned money in the effort to bring grieving families some relief. Singles, couples, groups; they came en masse, purchasing bags full of auction items that sometimes didn't all fit in their car. Hernandez, back on duty for the day shift, offered to cart some of it home in his car.

  He was there when the Mime sold to Missus Frank and her three children. The Pirate went to the Halford family. One of the Gargoyles and the Jester were carted off by the Palmers who had two kids at Rainy Junior and one at Corona High. Several off duty firemen were there to help as well, and though the task was grim in nature, the citizens of Corona cleared out all but two small bags of Pitchford belongings.

  Hernandez put them into the trunk of his cruiser and while city officials took care of paying off the families, he delivered what remained to the Salvation Army. When he got home that evening, he hugged his own two kids until they complained and for the first time in a week, had no nightmares after falling asleep.

  Halloween

  October 31st, 1986

  Gretchen Palmer, Senior extraordinaire, put her hand on her hip and surveyed the three car garage with a critical eye. She and her two bothers, Seth and Solomon, had worked tirelessly to turn it into a proper spook house for their Halloween party. She really didn't want her brothers there, not with the rest of the seniors, but it was either that or forgo the party altogether.

  Her parents could be such sticklers sometimes.

  Cobwebs outlined every corner and black spiders hung from the rafters on long strings. The awesome Gargoyle sat on a small pedestal right in front of the 'bloody' punch and the Jester stood sentinel close to the rolled up garage door. A length of black cloth covered the opening except for a slit in the middle, drawn back and secured by pins, that allowed people to come in and out. A fog machine made it misty and more decorations were draped on the walls, over the tables of appropriately gruesome food, and between the hanging spiders. Everywhere she looked there was something Halloween-y.

  A fake coffin, a flashing blue strobe, tombstones with scary R.I.P sayings. It looked primed for the party of the century.

  Checking her watch, she saw she had a half an hour before the guests showed up. Perfect. Just enough time to put the finishing touches on her costume. Making her way to a mirror propped on the back wall, she gathered her wart making kit and began applying one to her green tinted face. On the nose, one on the chin.

  Movement in the mirror somewhere behind her made her glance at the reflection.

  “Seth? That you?”

  No answer.

  “Solomon? C'mon. Not funny.” The fog rolled through the garage, thick and cloying. She could barely see the 'door' across the way.

  Forgetting it, deciding the mist was playing tricks with her eyes, she dabbed a little more green around the newly applied wart to make it match. Grinning at the effect, she leaned back and grabbed her pointy witch hat. It went over her naturally black hair at a slight angle. Little saucy, somewhat mischievous.

  From the pale veil just over her shoulder, the Jester's face loomed into view. Grinning, malevolent, alive.

  Gretchen didn't have time to scream before the claws raked her throat.

  Petrified

  Ramona looked up from her hand held GPS when she heard Tom mutter. He only did that when he was either impatient or annoyed. The road looked clear—no traffic jams—and she couldn't detect what else might have set off the spate of incoherent whisperings. The air conditioning was working, the music was low and set to a station he preferred, and his bottle of water was still cold enough to make condensation drip down the outside.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I think we passed it.”

  “We haven't passed it. According to what I read, there's no way you can be on this road and miss it.” She eyed the GPS one more time and turned it off.

  “Well, there was a sign back there that said Middle Road, two miles, and we know we've gone too far if we hit it. What's the GPS say?”

  “That we're coming up to it shortly.”

  “I hope so.” Tom reached over and grabbed the bottle of water. Using his teeth, he pulled the spout up and took a long drink.

  Ramona watched him for another minute and then looked back out the front window. She hoped he wasn't going to be cranky the whole time. Married six years, dating for eight, she was still getting used to his unpredictable moods.

  Sycamore Canyon Road wound through the wooded terrain of Big Sur, giving her plenty of distraction. Trees on either side of the street rose so high she couldn't see the tops from inside the Escalade. Even when she pressed her cheek against the cool glass of her passenger window. There was something majestic about the woodland here, how the mist clung to the landscape this early in the morning. She could almost imagine they were the first pioneers to travel through this particular stretch, though of course thousands had come before them.

  Still. She itched to get out and wander, put her hands on the Redwood bark. There was a sweet, green smell to the air that she found refreshing and calming. No great photographer or artist, she found the strange urge to draw, paint and photograph the wonders around her. Some of the trunks of the trees were as wide as their car. It was her first trip—their first trip—up from L.A.

  Ramona didn't miss the congestion and the smog at all.

  “Look at that,” Tom said with no little wonder in his voice.

  Ramona drug her attention back to the present and spotted the place that had drawn them up north to begin with: Surlee's.

  And as she'd read, it was impossible to miss. The shop itself, carved of wood with a tin roof, wasn't all that big. It was the items Surlee's had for sale that made her gasp. Pieces of petrified wood flanked the store, spreading out to both sides and for at least an acre behind. They weren't just random chunks—these were carvings done by the owner, brilliantly lifelike inasmuch as petrified would could be, most in the shape of humans. They reminded her of a sea of totem poles sticking up from the ground. Through the clinging mist, they looked eerie, surreal. />
  Tom pulled the Escalade into one of the parking spots in front of the store. Two other cars parked a few spots down were empty. He turned off the engine and slid the keys from the ignition.

  “If they're anything as good as they look from the road, we're getting two.” Pacified now that they were here, he slanted a smile across the vehicle at her and got out.

  Ramona, pleased to be here and to be able to stretch her legs from the long drive, climbed out after him.

  “Looks like they're already open,” she said, gesturing toward an orange neon sign in the window.

  “Yeah. Good. We won't have to come back.” Tom snagged her hand and veered off for the pieces scattered around.

  Ramona let him tow her, content to see whatever pieces struck him first. Brushing dark bangs off her forehead, she paused when she glimpsed another carving on her right. It was so compelling in periphery that she tugged on his hand to divert him that way.

  “Wait, I have to—oh my God. Tom, look at that.” Ramona half bent over to get a better view of the statuette. On its knees, the woman crouched with her hands clutched against her chest, face tipped up toward the sky. What got Ramona was the expression on her face. How the carver captured such a look of utter agony and pain was beyond her. Streamers of hair flowed halfway down the woman's back, appearing a little wilder and unruly due to the petrification process.

  “I've never seen anything like it,” Tom admitted. He too got closer to get a better look.

  “How do you think he does it?”

  “Who? The guy who makes them? I have no idea. I guess like any other person carves marble or stone or wood.”

  And there were others. Some peaceful looking, faces slack and neutral, eyes closed. One woman held a bouquet of wilting flowers; another had her mouth open in a silent plea or cry. Men were represented, too, tall and powerful with their faces distorted in rage or that eerie calm like some of the women. The colors—reds, umbers, teal, oxide, green—only added to the strange allure.

  One of her friends had told Ramona about Surlee's and its unusual conversation pieces and she had to admit they didn't disappoint.

  “Can I help you?” said a voice from behind them.

  Whatever Ramona expected, it wasn't the rather thin, hollow looking man staring at them with a polite, paper thin smile. She was only five-foot-seven and he was shorter than her. Spectacles over his blue-green eyes, hair soft brown and cropped close in layers, he seemed incapable of carving, much less moving, the petrified statues around her.

  “Oh, hello. We were just looking at your amazing sculptures,” she said.

  “Excellent, excellent.” He had a voice to match his appearance; reedy, somewhat weak. “What do you think? Have you spotted a favorite piece?”

  “We haven't seen them all yet. Can we look around a little more?” Tom asked.

  “Of course. Take all the time you need.” He held out his long fingered hand. “I'm Surlee Bauer.”

  “Surlee?” Ramona asked, confused. “But I thought Surlee built this place in the nineteen-twenties. We're Tom and Ramona.”

  Tom shook the man's hand and Ramona followed suit. His grip wasn't strong, like she expected, but borderline frail.

  “It was. I'm Surlee the Third.” Surlee smile and retracted his hand. “My great-grandfather first purchased this land in the late eighteen hundreds and we've had it ever since. He named his son Surlee for Big Sur, and for his father, whose name was Lee.”

  Ah, thought Ramona. Now the name makes sense. She'd wondered if there was some story behind it or if it had just been a play on words.

  “They passed their talent for carving down, too?” Tom asked, pushing his hands into his jean pockets.

  Surlee nodded. “Yes. It seems to run in the family, lucky for us. I've taught my own son, too.”

  Tom whistled and nodded. “Impressive.”

  “Where do you get the inspiration for your designs?” Ramona asked.

  “Why...from my customers, Miss Ramona. I get so many interesting visitors.” That time, when he smiled, he showed a row of teeth. “Please. Explore at your leisure.”

  “Thanks,” Tom said, and parted off from Surlee with a glance at Ramona.

  She waved at the owner and fell in at Tom's side, making a quick gesture at the statues around them. “I don't know if we can fit two of them in our car.”

  “Sure we can. Look, I think there are some interspersed in the trees back there.” He ticked his chin toward the back of the lot where the redwoods grew dense again.

  “I don't think we're supposed to go back quite that far. We have too many to choose from up here,” she said.

  Tom gave her the Look. The one she'd come to know as I'm going to do it with or without you. There was no way she was going to let him go check them out alone. Grinning, she said. “Okay, okay.”

  He clicked his tongue against teeth in victory and swerved their path toward the back. They took their time looking at the statues along the way, pausing to marvel over several that were dramatic and unbelievable. Ramona tried to keep a mental list of the ones she really liked. Tom made it known which were his favorites.

  The fog hung heavier through the thicker stand of redwoods, reducing visibility by half. Neither of them were opposed to meandering through the forest and found several statues they fawned over roughly twenty feet or so past the edge of the tree line.

  A distant sound brought Ramona up short. “What was that?”

  “Probably a hawk,” Tom said, standing directly in front of a sculpture with a woman slouched forward, arms criss-crossed over her chest. Either in defeat or prayer. Her face was down, so he peered up under to see better. The statues were as tall as real people.

  “I don't think so, Tom. Listen.” Ramona cocked her head. The sound came again. Faint. A cry for help. “Maybe one of the other customers came this way and twisted their ankle or something.”

  “I'm telling you, I don't think that's human,” Tom said, still peering at the woman's petrified face.

  “I'll just go check a few yards over that way. It won't hurt to be sure someone doesn't need help.” Ramona left Tom there to examine two more statues. With care, she picked her way around the trees, listening. A desperate wail pierced the air. This time she knew it was human.

  “Tom! I heard it again. I'm telling you, someone's in trouble.” Ramona kept her voice to an urgent whisper. Even so, it seemed like it bounced off the redwoods and the mist, traveling much further than she intended.

  “I'm coming, I'm coming.” He sounded mildly irritated.

  Ramona went ahead, following the direction she thought she heard the distress call. A few high bushes and exposed roots made the terrain treacherous, along with pieces of rock jutting out of the ground. She got her first glimpse of a cabin thirty yards past the point she'd whispered at Tom. It was a hazy outline at best.

  Using a trunk for cover, she crept to the edge of the trees and eyed the little house. Two story, it was a simple affair with a covered porch and two chimneys, both spilling wisps of smoke into the air. Ramona guessed this was where the carver lived. So far, she couldn't see any movement past the dark windows or detect anything unusual around the property.

  “Think that's where he lives?” Tom asked over her shoulder.

  Startled, she twitched. “Probably. It almost matches the shop.”

  “Maybe he circled around while we were looking elsewhere and is giving his wife a little--”

  “I don't think it sounded anything like that,” she said, refusing to roll her eyes. Men.

  “Well, we can't just go inside his house, 'Mona, and I don't see anyone in trouble.”

  “I'm telling you, I heard--”

  A muffled sob came from somewhere around the back of the cabin. She glanced aside at the now frowning Tom just in time to see the backside of a shovel strike his head. Tom pitched forward, dead weight, and landed hard on the ground. It sounded like someone dropped a heavy bag of potatoes.

  The yelp that starte
d out of her mouth got cut off by a brutal hand. Turned around, she came face to face with a man. Not Surlee. His son, though, because they had the same hollow look, the same blue-green eyes.

  “Little far back, aren'tcha?” he said.

  Ramona flew into a fit, swinging and kicking and biting at the hand over her mouth. He didn't look strong enough to pick her up but he did, tucking her like a football with her legs dragging the ground and his hand still cutting off her screams. Through the fog, around the back of the cabin, to a smaller, less cozy shack with only one room and a dusty, hardwood floor.

  He threw her down, pulling a roll of duct tape from his grimy overalls. Ramona screamed and fought like a wildcat when he pinned her to cover her mouth. Wrists wrapped, ankles taped, he finally stood up and looked down at her. His hair, paler than his father's, hung loose across his temple.

  “Be back for you in a minute.” He pointed at her, dirt thick and dark under his nails, before exiting the shack.

  Ramona rolled over and got to her knees. She couldn't move easily, or quickly, but she managed to wobble back and forth—like a duck for god's sake—and inch across the floor to the window. Pressing her cheek against the dirty pane, she looked out for any sign of help. Maybe Tom had regained consciousness before the bastard got back.

  What she saw made her mouth go dry and her stomach lurch. The man had Tom slung over his shoulder, fireman style, and carried him out of sight behind the shack. Another window on the adjacent wall would give her a view of what he was doing. Wobbling on her bruised knees, she made her way across the floor until she could peer over the sill. A scream tangled in her throat behind the duct tape.

  The man tossed Tom down on his back into what looked like a shallow grave. The hole, set under the shade of the trees, stood out because it was blacker than the rest of the terrain. This close, the fog couldn't disguise the way the son straddled the hole and began arranging Tom's limbs. He positioned Tom's hands up over his face and packed dirt around his elbows to hold the slack arms in place.