Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  “Concentrate on what? What are we trying to do here?”

  “Don’t know. I’m winging it.”

  Kelly closed her eyes and felt the chains tighten as Trish leaned back. She felt a tug in her nose and belly button. The slight pain felt good, somewhat reminiscent of getting a fresh piercing. However, she needed to go deeper. She jerked back with some force. Hot agony shot up her nose into her skull. She ignored Trish’s distant cries, basking in the sunburst of pain ravished nerves.

  As the pain subsided, she opened her eyes. Trish stared back.

  “That hurt, Kelly.”

  “That’s the point. The pain clears your mind and helps you focus. I’m pretty sure you can’t go beyond if you don’t reach some kind of enhanced mental state. Let’s do it again.”

  “No. This is insane. I don’t think we should be messing with it.”

  Kelly should have seen it coming. Trish, as much as she expressed a desire to be a part of the subculture, was nothing more than a typical suburbanite teen who would be happier pursuing beauty queen dreams rather than alternative ways of living.

  Damn it. She should have sent her and her tramp stamp back on the first MAX train to Beaverville. Kelly, determined to see the experiment through, couldn’t chase her away just yet.

  “Okay, Trish. You don’t have to do it, but at least help me get to where I want to be.”

  “How?”

  Kelly grabbed the chains that bound the two of them together. “Just pull on these. Don’t be gentle either. I want to feel it. I’ll let you know when it gets too much.”

  Trish remained reluctant.

  “Jesus, Trish. Why do you even bother getting your token tattoos and weak-ass piercings if you can’t feel what this is all about? Following the latest fad doesn’t cut it. People like you are killing everything the subculture stands for.”

  “I’m trying. You know I am.”

  Recognizing the hurt in Trish’s eyes, Kelly softened her tone. “I know. I’m sorry. As my friend, just give me a little support. I’m not asking you to do it yourself.”

  Trish yanked hard on the chains. “Is that what you want?”

  Caught off guard, Kelly yelped and doubled over from the sudden onslaught of pain. She started chuckling as tears streamed down her pale cheeks. It felt as if her nose and belly button had been ripped from their roots. If only all her piercings were hooked to chains. The studs, barbells and rings placed in the more sensitive areas of her body, such as the tongue, lips and nipples would have delighted at the sensations coursing through her septum and belly button. “Yes. That’s exactly what I want. Do it again.”

  Kelly shut her eyes as Trish created a steady pull, increasing the tension in slow intervals.

  At first the pain took over, her nerves on fire, demanding her undivided attention. She focused and began sliding through the pain to a place of inner calm. She compared it to being in the eye of a hurricane. The storm of pain raged and spit its chaotic forces all around her, but being in the eye felt tranquil and full of serenity.

  From the center of the storm she noticed four illuminated spots, blemishes marring the calm of her mental refuge. Flickering tendrils unfurled from the glowing orbs, creeping towards her mind’s eye like static lightning bolts.

  The buzzing static lit up her head like a migraine. She willed herself to stay put. She felt trembles and heard rattling. More gusts of wind buffeting the small house? Or was it her mind splintering barriers, creating access to worlds beyond?

  This all had the ring of familiarity to it. At any moment she expected to hear the scratchy mechanical voices talking about being summoned and not going back empty handed. The voices never arrived, but the shimmering strands crept closer. The house continued to tremble and rattle. Without notice, the advancing tendrils reared upward like the vicious snakes on Medusa’s head, surging forward with the speed of gale force winds to enshroud Kelly’s mind. A burst of static zapped her inner vision. Blackness blanketed her mind.

  Her eyes opened and the same darkness covering her mental vision met her physical vision.

  “Trish?” Her voice quivered.

  “What?”

  Kelly latched onto Trish’s voice as if it provided an anchor in reality.

  “For a moment I thought I had done it. It felt like I had entered some other place.”

  “Sorry. The lights went out. That’s all. The storm’s really kicking up.”

  Kelly’s heart sank. Propelling out of that transcendental state left her with a powerful sense of emptiness.

  “I’ll get some candles,” she said. Before she could stand, she heard the front door open and close.

  “What was that?”

  “Shut up. Somebody’s here.” Kelly feared looters. The east side of the city where she lived would be the first to descend into anarchy during a black out. She sat rigid, her senses on high alert.

  Footsteps sounded off the old wooden stairs. She thought she recognized the rhythm of the thuds, the way the right foot came down harder than the left. The intruder reached the landing. The floorboards creaked as their unwanted guest limped down the hall.

  Trish leaned towards her and she embraced her friend, wishing they had a flashlight.

  “Don’t worry. I think it’s just the ogre.”

  “Hardly reassuring. The last person we need right now is your dad.”

  “Keep quiet. Maybe he won’t think we’re home.”

  The footsteps paused just outside the bedroom door.

  Kelly pulled Trish tighter, feeling the girl’s heart thumping and smelling the sweat of her fear. The door knob turned and the door burst open.

  Illuminated in the doorway by the flickering candle in his hand, the ogre didn’t look much different than any other night with his stained shirt and jeans.

  “Well, well, what do we have here?” the ogre asked, his rain drenched face breaking into a lurid sneer when he saw the two girls engaged in a tight hug. “A slumber party?”

  Kelly refused to answer. She heard the drunken drawl in his speech and saw the alcohol induced slackness in his face. Anything could set him off in this state. She clenched her teeth and hoped he’d go away.

  “What’s the matter? Little pussycat got your tongues?” Candle flames jumped in the ogre’s eyes as his stare bounced between Trish and Kelly. “Well? Is anyone going to talk to me?”

  Kelly sensed the warning in his tone. She stood, observing the ogre as he swayed in the dim candle light. “Welcome home, Alma.”

  “That’s better,” he mumbled. “Now tell your friend to go back to Beaver Town. I didn’t authorize this little pussycat slumber party.”

  Alma started to leave, but turned around. His gaze bore into Kelly, his mouth curling in disgust. For a second, she thought she saw a twinge of guilt pass through his fiery eyes as he weighed his next words. “For god’s sake Kelly. Have you no shame dressing like that in front of our guest? You’re so disgusting. What would your mother think?”

  Alma slammed the door shut, leaving the two girls in darkness.

  Kelly felt a familiar numbness spread through her body. She envisioned herself unraveling like a ball of yarn until she was nothing but a smattering of tiny particles dissipating into the thin air.

  The overhead bulb hissed as it sparked back to life, the soft yellow light confining the dark to the shadowy corners of the room. The return of electricity did a lot to reestablish a sense of normalcy.

  “Kelly, are you going to be all right?”

  “Yes. He won’t do anything. I promise.”

  Trish fixed Kelly with an uncertain look.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve got Goth Lolita on my side, right?”

  Trish shook her head and gave a half-hearted smile. “You’re so weird.”

  “I know. Come on. I’ll walk you to the bus stop.”

  Thinking back to their little experiment, Kelly wished she could have taken refuge in the strange ink blot growing in her mind’s eye, wished she could have wrapped herself
in the dark veils and static of that strange otherness. Given more time, perhaps she could have escaped the ogre and his repulsive impulses for good.

  She often wondered why her stepfather didn’t push his filthy inclinations on Trish who epitomized the Latino look. Trish possessed a more exotic beauty; large brown eyes, smooth Honduran skin. If he didn’t like her Gothic Lolita getup, why didn’t he pursue the more classic prettiness of Trish like the rapacious predator he was?

  On the way out she wanted to check on Alma. She cracked open his door. The ogre’s den was less bestial than one would imagine. No animal scent clogged the air, only the more familiar scents of cheap whiskey and even cheaper cigars.

  The ogre sat in a white wicker chair beside the bed, stripped down to his boxer shorts. He hadn’t bothered turning on the lights. The candle flames coming from the nightstand produced eerie shadows that danced across his slack features. His guttural snores filled the room.

  Good. Kelly felt safer with the beast out for the night. She grabbed Trish by the hand and escorted her to the nearest TriMet bus stop a few blocks away.

  Chapter 5: Puzzle Box Of Secrets

  William Hendricks cleaned a tattoo gun with an autoclave, trying to predict what gems Kelly Sage would reveal today. She had called on her cell telling him she was boarding the TriMet at the bus stop just a few blocks from her house. She would be at Inkenstein in less than fifteen minutes, the ride to his ink parlor only a short hop across the Burnside Bridge.

  William enjoyed Kelly’s visits and the secrets she often revealed. He compared her layers of secrets to a Chinese puzzle box, uncovering one only to find another more intricate secret inside.

  The storm from last night had passed through, leaving a beautiful early autumn day in its wake. Business was slow, the residents of Portland catching the last few rays of sun before the wet season sopped everyone in. A perfect day to chat with Kelly.

  However, one other matter preoccupied his thoughts. Minutes earlier he had received a phone call from the Chinese herb shop on the other side of Burnside. The wizened shop keeper could not contain his enthusiasm as he told William he had stumbled across something truly special.

  “What is it?” William had asked, pulling on the pony tail that kept the red dyed hair out of his face.

  “Black magic,” the gravelly voice said. “You’ll have to come in to find out more. Bring your check book. This one will cost you plenty.”

  He weighed the possibility of running to Chinatown, checking out the Chinese man’s latest offer and making it back before Kelly arrived. No chance.

  Slumped at the illustrated maple desk on which he had drawn colorful examples of his art, he thumbed through the ancient book he had borrowed from the Chinese herb dealer. Black Magic Tattoos. He had read it word for word several times, searching for clues to unlock the potential of the rare and powerful ink staining the skin across his entire body. However, the book read less like a user’s manual and more like a history of tattoos in various cultures. Any references on how to use mystical tattoos were vague and obscure.

  He wondered why everything to do with Chinese enlightenment was always chock full of Zen. Meditation and self intuition can only take you so far. Sometimes all a guy needs are simple step by step instructions. He shook his head, slammed the text book shut and looked up just as Kelly entered, holding a small brown paper bag.

  “Welcome to Inkenstein, the monster of all tat shops,” he said, spreading his arms wide.

  “Nice jerk-off shirt,” Kelly said with her usual cockiness. His T-shirts were a source of constant riddling. Despite his liberal profession he had difficulty shedding his conservative views which he proudly displayed on his shirts. He thought the irony funny. His latest shirt sported the message I Survived Roe V. Wade ironed across the front and it elicited some feisty responses from female clientele.

  He checked out her T-shirt advertising the Waking The Cadaver logo. Not a band he cared for.

  “Where are all your customers, Willy?” she asked, tossing the paper bag onto his desk. “Losing your touch?”

  “Maybe inking is dead. Maybe they’re all getting pierced like you.” He took a peek in the bag. “The usual?”

  “Of course.”

  He shook his head. She liked to stop at Voodoo Doughnut and buy him the Cock and Balls, a chocolate frosted donut in the shape of its name. He preferred their signature creation; the one shaped like a voodoo doll with a pretzel stick jammed into a belly that bleeds red sugary filling. However, she insisted on the Cock and Balls. She enjoyed watching him eat it, knowing he still struggled with a trace of homophobia.

  Kelly flashed one of her periodic smiles, the ones usually interspersed with deep frowns. Her smile only seconds earlier was already transforming into a furrowing of the brow.

  “Hey, what’s eating you today?” William asked, getting out of his seat. He walked up to her and looped an arm over her shoulder. Despite being only five years older than her seventeen years, he sometimes wondered if he had become a father figure.

  “The ogre, again. He just isn’t the same since mother’s death. I don’t know why he does what he does.”

  “What happened this time?”

  “Oh, nothing really. He was a little pissed because I didn’t ask him if Trish could stay the night.”

  “Really? Only that?”

  She shrugged his arm off her shoulder. “Well what else do you want to hear? That he’s raping me?”

  William’s eyes narrowed. He felt on the verge of discovering another secret, another level to her mysterious puzzle box. This one could be a whopper. He realized proper etiquette required him to tread carefully. After some thought, however, he asked, “Is he?”

  She turned on him, her jade eyes throwing daggers of ferocity. “Is he what? Raping me? Jesus, Willy. Do you think I’d actually stick around if that were the case?”

  “I don’t know. You brought it up.”

  “Well, he’s not. So forget it, okay?”

  “Fine.” William decided not to push the issue. He sensed she was not being forthright. Maybe it wasn’t rape or molestation, but there was a secret as yet unrevealed. That particular secret might be the last box of the Chinese puzzle, small in size but packing a brutal punch. There was no sense in trying to unlock the mysteries out of order. Chinese puzzle boxes weren’t designed to work that way.

  Kelly sat in a leather chair. He slid up behind her and massaged her tense shoulders. “Look, I’m sorry if I crossed the line. I just want to help. You know that.”

  She reached up and patted one of his hands. “You know, if you really want to help, you could pierce me.”

  Laughing, he grabbed the bamboo arms of the chair, spinning her around to face the front of the shop. He pointed to the custom built sign above the front entrance. Painted in bold red letters on a wooden placard the sign proclaimed ‘NO PIERCING’.

  “Oh come off it. Just this once.”

  “Sorry, against my religion. You know that.” He adjusted the tiny glasses on the bridge of his narrow and pointed nose. The small circular lenses and skinny frames looked more suited for the face of a French poet rather than a tattoo artist.

  “That’s why I like you silly Willy. I can’t find many like you and I left. Everyone thinks being involved in both piercing and tattooing is okay. Not us. Never. They need to be separate, right?”

  “You said it.” When she talked about keeping the art of tattooing and piercing pure it sent a thrill through his stomach and a small fire through his chest. There was so much more to this girl than her seventeen years. She was focused on piercing in a way unusual for somebody her age.

  He looked at her eyebrow studs and bars, the captive bead ring through her septum, the labret piercings in her upper lip and the hoop ring running through the lower lip. She sported a small hoop ring at the tip of her tongue as well as a stud a little ways towards the back. Her ears portrayed a spectacle complete with conch, rook, industrial and tragus piercings.

 
He examined her slender body on which the band T-shirt hung like an oversized blouse. She always tucked her sprayed on tight black jeans into the top of her five buckle Goth boots. He knew beneath her clothes a wonderland of piercing adornments begged for his visual perusal. She had volunteered several times to show him those secret places, but he always managed to avoid biting the bait, however difficult it proved to be.

  “All right then,” Kelly said, pushing herself off the chair. She planted a quick kiss on his cheek and stroked his reddish brown goatee. “If I can’t get my best friend to pierce me I’ll just take my business down the road.”

  “Not to Fashion Tats & Piercing I hope.”

  “What choice do I have? Unlike you, there aren’t many shops that do just one or the other.”

  “I know. But not Lorenzo. He’s the slimiest of them all. Talk about bastardizing the subculture.”

  “True that. This town needs a true grit piercing parlor and I mean one that specializes in piercing only. I’ll start one when I graduate. Just like you with your tattoos. You’re the last of the Mohicans, Willy. A true bona fide artist.”

  He smiled. Even though she always sought him out for comfort, she often managed to make him feel good as well.

  “You mind if I take your Cock and Balls?” Kelly asked.

  Flustered, William stumbled backwards. “What? Oh, that. No, I won’t eat it today. Have at it.”

  She picked up the doughnut and bit into a chocolate frosted testicle. A trickle of Bavarian cream oozed out the fried dough. “Don’t know what you’re missing. See you later, Willy.”

  Waving a hand over her shoulder, she passed through the exit and disappeared onto Second Avenue.

  For William, the familiar ache of emptiness that always accompanied her departure felt more intense. Today she had been evasive, overly protective.

  In past visits he had stripped away many outer layers of her puzzle box of secrets. He knew about her father’s emotional tyranny. He knew about the morphine pills she carried in her pocket, the one’s stolen from hospice after her mother succumbed to a long duel with cancer. He knew she regularly vented pent up rage in mosh pits at the Satyricon night club. Today, however, he had learned nothing new.