Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  The solid old brick walls of the building reduced the shrieks from next door to near whispers. Nobody seemed to take notice.

  William tried to conceal his frantic worry. He approached the employee wearing a facade of calm.

  “Can you hear that?”

  “What?” the young man asked, focused on counting the greenbacks.

  “The screams. You hear it?”

  The employee shrugged. “What can I tell you? The place is haunted.”

  “I know. I’ve heard. This is different, though. You can really hear it from outside.”

  “Probably Nina. Her ghost still frequents the area. Old news, really.”

  William tugged at his goatee and adjusted the John Lennon type spectacles on his nose. “Old news for you, maybe, but not to me. This is important. You can get to the tunnels from here, right?”

  The worker nodded.

  “Where? Can you show me?”

  Blond Braids shook his head. “There are tours you can take. The ones at night are the best. Real creepy. I can give you the number if you want.”

  “I need to get in now. A friend of mine might be in trouble.”

  “What friend? You got a pet rat living in the tunnels? Or maybe you’re hot for Nina’s ghost. Is that it?”

  William dismissed the blatant sarcasm. He pulled out a fifty dollar bill from his wallet and slapped in on the counter. “Take me to the tunnels.”

  The pizza boy’s eyes widened. He pocketed the fifty. “The boss won’t like it but hey, he’s not here. Let me see if I can find the key.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

  A few anxious minutes passed before he returned, holding up a key chain. “Had to rummage through the boss’s desk. I’m dead meat if he finds out. Follow me.”

  Blond Braids led him outside, all the while mumbling how his boss was going to strangle, castrate, pulverize, or decapitate him, depending on his mood.

  They ended up around the corner at a steel cover grate on the concrete sidewalk. Blond Braids unlocked and swung the grates upwards on both sides. A wooden stair case descended below, accompanied by what appeared to be a newly constructed railing.

  A fresh scream shredded the atmosphere, sounding much louder than from within the pizza parlor. Blond Braids flinched.

  “I’ll be back inside. Be quick. I need this job.” He retreated around the building, leaving William alone to face the dark hole in the ground. The afternoon daylight only illuminated the stairs about three or four feet down.

  “Hey,” William called after the pizza boy. “What about some light?” Too late. Blond Braids was either out of earshot or had simply decided to ignore his request.

  As he stared into the inky blackness another inhuman howl pierced his ears. Had he been a dog, his fur would have stood straight up. He gave his arm a hard pinch then stepped onto the stairs. Enough light remained at the bottom to reveal a bucket full of flashlights. He grabbed one and thumbed the switch.

  Armed with light, he felt more prepared to tackle the intimidating Shanghai tunnels. He inched forward, waving the beam back and forth. He entered a small door to the rear of the room and entered a long hallway, mounds of wet dirt or sewage piled up on each side.

  Dark tunnels branched off the main passage. Debris piled in front of the stone archway entrances made the smaller tunnels difficult to enter. However, you could force your way through if you put your mind to it.

  William paused. He waited for the next spine-tingling scream and decided to take a tunnel on the left. As he hurried towards the source of the shriek he spotted a ton of memorabilia that evoked images of a villainous past. He saw abandoned shoes, tiny barred holding cells, mattresses to pad the fall of victims hurled down trapdoors and empty bunk beds that used to provide opium customers a place to crash their stoned heads.

  More inhuman howls shattered the dark, providing William with an audio beacon in which to navigate the dark passageways. He squeezed through a crumbling arched entranceway, scraping his knees on the fractured cement blocks. He aimed the beam straight ahead and lurched into motion.

  Something in his peripheral vision drew his attention. He swung the flashlight to the left and recognized the makeshift barrier formed from fragments of plywood and planks. Crouching low, he gained a better view of the barricaded archway.

  Wet clumps clung to the wood. Closer examination revealed mud. He recalled the moist thuds he had heard on his previous visit to the herb shop and wondered why anyone would hurl handfuls of clumped soil at the barrier.

  Were the responsible hands human or ghostly? He didn’t have much time to ponder the matter. Another shriek sent fresh waves of chills down his back.

  Without hesitation, he kicked at the barrier with his Doc Marten boots. The decaying wood planks buckled and splintered. After a few kicks, he peered through a hole the size of a softball.

  The room beyond could have been any typical storage room; shelves full of cardboard boxes, piles of books and shabby unused furniture. It was the Mason jars full of herbs that confirmed his hunch.

  He dialed up a new round of kicks and in minutes his boots created a hole large enough to worm through. He crawled into the shop on his belly.

  From any other viewpoint he would have missed the safe built into the wall, beneath a bench. Mister Chung must have been in a hurry, leaving his secret merchandise unlocked and open. William reached in the safe and came out with a couple vials. He put them in his pocket.

  As he gained his feet, a blur of motion drew his attention. He turned just in time to see an outstretched palm slam into his forehead. He lost his balance and fell back into the broken wood. Splinters tore through the fabric of his shirt as well as his flesh.

  He felt like a limp seesaw, the lower part of his body in the storage room, the upper half in the dark tunnel, the decaying remains of the barrier providing the fulcrum. He rolled onto his hip and slid back into the shop, raising his hands in anticipation of another attack.

  “Mister Hendricks?”

  William registered the sweaty bald head, the rheumy eyes and posh Mao tunic.

  “Chung, sorry to intrude like this. I thought you might be in danger.”

  “What danger?”

  The thrashing from beyond the purple velour curtains intensified and another unearthly scream pierced his skull like an invisible arrow. He raised an eyebrow at the herbalist.

  “Oh, you mean that? Don’t worry. I’m fine. Now get back into the tunnels and leave. You have no business here.”

  William folded his arms across his chest.

  “Mister Hendricks, please. This does not concern you.”

  William remained rooted to the spot.

  “Oh for Confucius sake,” Chung said, throwing up his hands. “First things first. Help me board up this passageway before the Shanghai ghosts get in. Might be too late already. Hurry.”

  Chung used his feet to break apart a ratty dining table chair. He took the broken pieces and began nailing them over the hole William had created.

  “I just walked the tunnels. There were no ghosts. I didn’t even see a rat or cockroach.” William handed Chung a piece of fragmented wood. “Anyway, can’t ghosts simply walk through walls?”

  Chung ignored William and concentrated on reconstructing the barricade.

  William tuned into the moans and thrashing from the other room. As the herbalist bent low to nail another piece of wood in place, he took the opportunity and slipped through the curtains. It took a few seconds for his pupils to adjust to the murky light created by lit candelabras. Burning incense stung his nostrils.

  Beyond the aquarium counter, in the middle of the room, a man sat on a wood back chair. Rope around his robed chest and exposed ankles kept him bound. A bunched cloth gag had been shoved into his mouth, held in place by duct tape. The figure tied to the chair squirmed and convulsed like live bait on a hook.

  William froze in shock. He studied the bald head, the bulging almond shaped eyes and flowing dark robe. The man looked as if he ha
d just stepped out of a rural Bangkok monastery.

  William took a step, but another inhuman howl froze him in his tracks. The howl came from the man’s mouth, the gag failing to deaden the decibels of that terror inspired scream. The cries, sharp and piercing, rebounded off the walls.

  The thrashing intensified. The veins on the man’s bald head bulged like arctic pipelines and the almond Asian eyes transformed into perfect ovals of fright.

  William wanted to help, but he couldn’t break the ice locking his feet in place. Something beyond comprehension was taking place. He couldn’t define what he witnessed so his mind failed to formulate a plan. He stood there like a simpleton.

  “I didn’t want you to see this,” Chung said, parting the velour curtains and stepping around the aquarium.

  “What are you doing to him?”

  The herbalist gave William a warning look. “Nothing he didn’t volunteer for.”

  “Volunteered for? He looks completely terrorized. He looks anything but cooperative. I’m letting him loose.”

  A hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Look again with a fresh set of eyes. You might see things differently.”

  William gave a grunt of disapproval, but did as the herbalist advised. He had assumed the man’s struggles were aimed at escaping, and he still believed that to be somewhat true. Given the chance, there was no question the robed man would bolt from this shop and catch the next flight back to the Orient. Any physical body put under the amount of strain the monk endured would, on its own accord, seek relief.

  However, the longer he studied the scene the more he noticed subtle nuances at work. The man fought just as hard at containment as he did escape. As much as his body lobbied for relief, it equally struggled not to flee.

  He noticed another detail. It looked like he was trying to hold something within from getting out. The best comparison he could make was of a man fighting an urge to vomit, doing his best not to let loose a stream of vile puke on unsuspecting bystanders.

  “What’s inside him?” William asked.

  “Wait just a second. He’s nearly there.” Chung moved to the chair, pulling a needle and syringe out of the pocket of his black tunic. He stroked the monk’s glistening bald head as the man began to calm down. Finally, his rigid form slumped, all previous signs of struggle forced away like the sun chasing away a rain storm.

  “Klahan,” Chung said, addressing the slouched figure. “Klahan, are you ready?”

  Klahan made a barely perceptible nod.

  “Perfect.” Chung pushed up the monk’s sleeve and tapped on the underside of his forearm.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Finding a good vein. I must complete the extraction before the Yaoguai wakes up.”

  “Yao what?”

  “Yaoguai. A Chinese demon. No time for explanations.” He found a vein he liked and plunged the needle into it. He pulled the plunger and filled the syringe full of the monk’s blood. It was over in seconds. He taped a cotton ball over the prick mark much like a medical lab technician attending to a patient giving a blood sample.

  Klahan’s eyes remained closed, his head lolling to the side.

  “Are you going to tell me what just happened?” William asked.

  Chung dug through the herbs in the aquarium counter and pulled out a box of empty vials. He transferred the freshly drawn blood into a vial and capped it. “What you just witnessed is a black magic extraction ritual. You already know that black magic tattoos are made with blood infused ink. The blood charges the ink with power, right?”

  “That’s how I understand it, yes.”

  “So how do you give black magic power to certain tattoos, let’s say a wraith or a ghost? You have such tats, right? Such creatures don’t have blood. What gives them their power?”

  William thought about the Grim Reaper inked above his navel and the Mara tattooed on his upper back. Both were wraithlike entities. Chung’s questions had him thinking.

  “So this extraction, this blood from the monk is somehow fused with power?”

  “Yes. A willing subject, such as Klahan over there in the chair, invites the spirit entity to enter his flesh. The spirit does so willingly, hoping for a weak physical vessel to control. However, people such as Klahan are not weak in the slightest bit. You see, he’s tricked the spirit, wraith, demon; whatever you want to call it.”

  “How so?”

  “He traps the spirit inside and holds it within. Eventually the spirit absorbs into the flesh. The Yaoguai and Klahan become one for as long as he can keep the demon subdued. That is when I withdraw a blood sample.”

  “Wow. I never would have known. It must take a toll.”

  Chung walked to the semi-conscious monk slumped in the chair, checking his status. “On Klahan? Yes, a very heavy toll indeed. He fought hard to bring the Yaoguai into submission. It won’t last long. Once the demon realizes his spirit essence has been assimilated into human flesh, it will renew its efforts to escape with a ferocity Klahan stands no chance of fighting. The Yaoguai will get its freedom, but we will already have what we desired; the blood.”

  A moist thud sounded from the rear of the shop. William cringed. More mud flinging.

  “I’m going to find out who’s doing that.” He moved towards the purple velour curtains.

  “Let it be. Don’t destroy my barricade again.”

  “Oh, I see. Wouldn’t want to let the Shanghai ghosts in would we? Well where were they when I kicked down your barrier? Strange they waited until now to show up. Can you explain that one?”

  “Nope.”

  “Didn’t think so.” William clamped a hand on his forehead. He felt clammy. His obsession with black magic tattoos had led him down this unexpected path and now things seemed to be spiraling out of his control. Shanghai ghosts? Demon blood extraction? What other surprises could he count on?

  “You don’t look so good,” Chung said.

  “I don’t know how much of this I can stomach.”

  “I didn’t ask you to break into my shop. You shouldn’t have witnessed any of this.”

  “True. Tell me one thing, though. Why does your Tibetan friend volunteer for such a tortuous procedure? What’s in it for him?”

  “First, Klahan is from Thailand, not Tibet. Second, He has nothing personal to gain. He’s sworn into a secret society of monks selected to protect society. Sometimes personal comfort must be sacrificed to protect the world.”

  “Protect it from what? What do you know that I don’t?”

  “Nothing I can pinpoint at the moment. You might say it’s a precaution. How about you? You’re heavily inked with black magic. Are you willing to be a protector should the opportunity arise?”

  Another moist thud hit the boarded up tunnel entrance and Klahan twitched in his chair.

  More uneasiness dripped into William’s veins. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

  Chung also noticed Klahan twitching. “Looks as if our Yaoguai friend is waking up. This is a crucial moment. Will the spirit want revenge or will it decide to flee? That’s the million dollar question.”

  William felt his mind take another dive. “Revenge? Are you serious?”

  “Doesn’t happen often. In most cases the spirit just wants to get away. The time spent married to Klahan’s flesh is a direct assault to its spirit essence. The Yaoguai will probably make a beat straight for the woods.”

  “If it doesn’t?”

  “You’re armed with black magic tattoos. I wouldn’t worry.”

  William heard enough. He bolted for the door. As he reached for the handle he heard a gentle hiss like gas emissions leaking from a decomposing corpse. He felt a discharge of energy from the direction of the tied monk. An invisible force caused the tapestries hanging from the ceiling to flutter like kites in a breeze.

  He watched the air shimmer like heat rising from asphalt. The shimmering shot straight into his midriff. He felt his intestines flip. His gut ached as if it h
ad been punched. The Yaoguai didn’t linger in his system long. It passed through him and out through the closed door.

  Dropping to his knees, William held his stomach. His innards churned in the wake of the demon’s passage.

  With head hung low, he asked, “How do you activate the tats? You talk about me possibly being a protector, but how can I do so if the damn ink won’t activate?”

  Chung went to the back room and returned with a cold, wet rag. He applied it to Klahan’s face. The Thai monk moaned and straightened a little in the chair. Chung loosened the ropes binding him.

  “I need to know how these magical tats work. I’ve had absolutely no luck so far.”

  Chung massaged Klahan’s shoulders, the monk letting out a series of moans as he slowly recovered his senses.

  “The means of activation differs from one person to the next.”

  William managed to stand upright on his two feet. His head swirled. “A whole lot of good that will do me when I have one of those Yaoguai’s chasing me down the street. Can we cut through the Zen bull and get to the meat and potatoes. A friend of mine might be putting herself in danger. I need real answers, real advice.”

  “If it’s urgent then the magic will respond. Be patient and continue to look for signs.”

  “Christ almighty, is that the best you can give me? You’re as useless as the book.”

  “Nothing is useless. Everything has meaning when you stop and take the time to really look.”

  “Enough with the Zen-yoga crap. I’m out of here.” He opened the door and left.

  He thought about re-entering the Shanghai Tunnels to put an end to the speculation about the moist thuds. He vetoed the thought. He was finished with all of it, at least for now. He had come to the herb shop hoping to gain answers, but instead all he had gained was a new set of fears.

  He now understood why Chung had chosen the hidden location of his shop. The reputation of the neighborhood’s haunting supplied the perfect cover, allowing him to practice his outlandish extraction rituals with impunity.

  If a customer munching on a piece of greasy pepperoni pizza next door questioned the frightening howls and shrieks, the employees would repeat the tragic story of Nina’s ghost. The customer would do nothing, feeling somewhat privileged to be in the proximity of a supernatural phenomenon.