Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  “My dad,” she said through sobs. “He’s the reason I’m wearing this. He’s fond of little Goth Lolita girls. I used to think it disgusted him. Then yesterday he came in and made me dress up in front of him. He watched the whole thing. It was so perverse.”

  “How bad did it get? Did he go all the way?”

  She looked at him with tear filled eyes that radiated a depth of despair uncommon for someone her age. “Not yet. It’s like he’s fighting it. I don’t think he can fight it much longer, though. I mean, making me dress in front of him? He’s never gone that far before. I don’t know what to do. It was a definite mind rape, which to me is just as bad as the real thing.”

  “Jesus, Kelly. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I didn’t have to. I don’t owe you my secrets.”

  He felt a tsunami of anger swelling up from his belly. He left the front of the shop and channeled his negative energy into cleaning his tools. He disposed of the needles, ink caps and unused ink from the latest job. He used a cleaning agent to disinfect the needle tube and tips, packed them in autoclave bags and placed them in the cleaning device.

  The distraction didn’t last long. He plopped down in the office chair and slammed his fist against the maple desk. Reaching the bottom of the puzzle box and revealing the final darkest secret seemed like a mistake.

  “I’ll kill him,” he stated, his voice eerily flat. “I swear I’ll kill him.”

  Kelly moved towards the illustrated desk. Her tears had ceased. The black mascara around her eyes left dark streaks down the ghostly white foundation on her face. “If I wanted him dead I would do it myself. I’m quite capable. Ask the two junkies down the street.”

  “Two junkies?”

  “Never mind. Took care of it already.” She reached the desk and threw the duffle bag on top. “It’s time.”

  “Time for what?” He gave the duffle bag a cursory glance. He found the Hello Kitty logo on the bag a little odd. It didn’t quite fit her sudden penchant for Gothic Lolita fashion.

  “I’m doing it and you’re going to help me. I’ve had enough crap in my lifetime to satisfy Beelzebub.”

  “Beelzebub?”

  “Yeah, you know, lord of the flies and all.”

  “Ah, crap and Beelzebub. What the hell are you talking about?”

  She leaned forward, palms face down on William’s illustrated desk. “I could spend days talking about how much I hate the ogre. This, I believe, will help you understand faster.”

  She lifted her blouse and displayed two baseball sized purple bruises near her left rib cage.

  William raised his left eyebrow. “Courtesy of Alma’s size 12 Doc Martens?”

  “Close. Steel toed Timberline logging boots. This morning, he tried to make me do it again; get all dressed up for him. I managed to resist but I paid for it as you can see.”

  “My advice? Stay away from men who make boots a fashion statement.”

  “Not easily done when you’re talking about my stepfather. Plus, you hardly have room to talk, silly Willy.”

  In reply, William propped his Doc Martens up on the desk, knocking aside the Hello Kitty duffle bag. “Yeah, I suppose not. However, I don’t go around kicking defenseless women with these beauties.”

  “Good thing.” She moved behind the desk and sat on the arm of his chair. “So, are you ready to join me on the dark side? I need a piercing in the worst way.”

  “You know my policy.” He pointed at the ‘NO PIERCING’ placard hanging above the front door. “Piercing and tattooing are two different dogmas.”

  “You think so? I know many who are into both.”

  “And I always argue that those types are not purists like you and me. The philosophies of both are vastly different.”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t come here to argue. I’m moving on. Open the bag.”

  He unzipped it and peered inside. He pulled out a gleaming scalpel and a brand new cordless Makita power drill complete with an assortment of drill bits.

  “So will you help me?” Kelly fiddled with the 20 gauge captive bead ring running through her septum.

  William squeezed the trigger on the drill, listening to it whine and frowned. “What on earth are you up to?”

  “I want something more than this life. I’ve figured out what my obsession with piercing was leading me to. The ultimate piercing. I’m going to pierce through.”

  William tossed the drill on the maple desk and waved his hands. “No. I’m a tat artist for god’s sake. I don’t believe any of this nonsense about piercing through. I still don’t know what sold you on this coffee house urban myth. I hope it wasn’t what Cat Whiskers said the other night. The man’s a loon.”

  Her lips spread in a grin devoid of emotion. “Then you have nothing to fear. Come on, Willy. You’re the best friend I’ve got and all I’m asking is for a chance to transcend into something greater than this stinking hell hole called life. You know each piercing I’ve got symbolizes an act of pain and anguish. My life has been full of them.”

  “I know.”

  “Then help me for god’s sake.”

  “I don’t really know what you’re asking me to do.”

  Stretching out her hand she picked up the Makita. “Trepanning. Pierce on through to the other side. That’s the lyrics Jim Morrison should have written, don’t you think?”

  “How can you ask me to do this? It’s not fair. Get one of your piercing enthusiasts to do it. Not me. No way.”

  She sighed and sank into the leather chair with bamboo arms. “I’m not really friends with them. I tried to get Trish to help, but I couldn’t find her. I don’t think she’d do it anyway. Not enough grit in that girl.”

  “Tough titty said the kitty.” William folded his arms across his chest and leaned back to stare at the ceiling. “You really want me to drill holes in your skull?”

  “Damn Skippy I do. The ultimate piercing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I say you’re one crazy loco.”

  She smiled, this time with genuine emotion. “Let’s get to it.”

  He straightened and stood up. “No, I can’t. Really, I can’t.”

  “Jesus the H Christ.” Kelly shot forward, threw the drill and scalpel into the duffle bag and turned for the door. “Nice knowing you.”

  William moved to intercept her. “Wait. What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll do it myself. Don’t worry about it.”

  He grabbed her arm. “How?”

  She spun to face him. A fresh stream of tears streaked more black rivulets of eye liner down her face. “Remember at Sodom’s Sideshow. Cat Whiskers talked about that guy, Peter Halvorson. Anyway, I call him Apostle Peter. He attached a power drill to the ceiling and pushed up against it. Performed his own trepanation. I can do the same.”

  “Oh no you can’t.”

  “Sure I can.” She pushed his hand away and opened the glass door. Bone chilling Willamette river air blasted into the ink parlor, carrying with it drops of rain.

  “All right, all right. Come back inside. I’m not agreeing to anything just yet, but I know I can’t let you perform a self-trepanation. That’s insane.”

  Kelly kissed his stubbly cheek. “That’s the spirit. So we’ll talk about it. You’ll consider it?”

  He nodded. The burden of the last secret in the puzzle box, that whopper of a revelation, threatened to crush him. Kelly wasn’t thinking rationally and he feared to let her out of his sight. He also feared she would continue to pressure him about the trepanation. She could be tenacious when she set her mind to a plan.

  “Like I said, I’m not agreeing to this, but let’s pretend I am. How would I do it? What about your brain?”

  She laughed. “You’re not giving me a lobotomy, silly Willy. You just drill deep enough to penetrate the skull bone. Look, I know it sounds crazy but if Apostle Peter could do it solo how difficult can it be?”

  “Nothing but a walk in the park.” He rubbed his forehead and sighed. “W
hy are you putting me in this position? I don’t know what to do.”

  “You’ll do the right thing, Willy. You always do.”

  “The right thing would be to kill your jerk of a stepfather.”

  “Murder, huh. You could live with that? It seems to me the wiser course would be helping someone with a strong belief act out that belief. If this piercing through thing is real I could be tapping into a world unknown to most. I could be feasting on miracles fit for gods. Who really knows? Whatever the results, it will beat living everyday with the hideous guilt of killing my father. Right?”

  “Now you are sounding persuasive,” he said, giving her a grim smile. “You’re really not going to let me talk you out of it are you?”

  “I’ll do it on my own if I have to. So what’s it going to be?”

  “I’ve never even done a normal piercing. How do you expect me to do a trepanation?”

  Kelly unzipped the duffle bag and pulled out a sheaf of Internet printouts. She handed it to William. “I downloaded everything I could find on Peter’s self-trepanation. I also downloaded an e-book called Bore Hole which is about another guy who drilled holes in his head.”

  “What, do they give specific instructions on how to do this?”

  “Not step by step. You need to read between the lines a little. I want you to read all that. Get familiar. Get comfortable. It will make your decision easier.”

  “It’ll take me a few hours to read all this.” He sat down behind the illustrated desk. He untied the string holding the sheaf together.

  Kelly looked around the shop. “I don’t exactly see people beating down your door to get inked. You’ve got the time.”

  “Okay. I’ll read every word. What are you going to do?”

  “I could use a few hours sleep. I’ll just crash out on the bench.” She walked to the waiting area and curled up on the vinyl padded seating.

  William read the first few pages of Bore Hole. He looked towards Kelly. He still believed anyone who could drill holes in their head to be certifiable. She looked peaceful, the deep breathing of her slumber pleasant to his ears. If only she could find such serenity in her waking life.

  A tear trickled out the corner of his eye. He brushed it away. Finding out her secrets had always been a game to him. Discovering the boxes within boxes left him intrigued and eager for more. He was regretting uncovering the final secret. It had come at a price he had not anticipated.

  Now he had nothing left but a broken dear friend. He needed to fix that.

  He turned back to her notes, a trickle of sweat replacing the tears; the sweat that results from fear and uncertainty.

  To trepan or not to trepan? That was the urgent question at hand.

  Chapter 13: Bore Holes

  “Kelly, I’m finished,” William said, tapping her on the shoulder.

  She stirred like a bear coming out of hibernation, yawning and stretching her arms overhead. She rubbed her puffy eyes. “Well. What did you think?”

  “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this nonsense but I’ll do it. You need somebody near if this goes wrong.” He adjusted his rounded spectacles with shaking hands.

  She pursed her lips and tugged at his goatee. “That’s the spirit. Don’t worry. People have been drilling holes in their heads since the cave man days.”

  “Hardly reassuring,” he said, taking the Hello Kitty duffle bag and motioning for her to take a seat in the reclining chair. “You’re going to owe me big time.”

  She seated herself and he tilted the chair back, standing behind her. He always kept a bottle of Woodford Reserve on hand to help whittle away the many sleepless nights he spent at Inkenstein. Today he needed it for courage. He pulled the flask from his hip pocket and took several swigs. He offered Kelly the bottle.

  “You’ll want it for the pain.”

  “No need. I popped a couple morphine pills while you weren’t looking.”

  Morphine? He remembered that had been one of the first secrets she had shared with him. She always carried around the container of pills stolen from hospice after her mother’s passing.

  He retrieved the equipment from the bag. “What’s the scalpel for?”

  “Don’t know really. I just want to do it the way Apostle Peter did. He cut a T shape on his scalp before drilling. Didn’t you read about that? It was in the info I gave you.”

  “Yeah, I remember. It just doesn’t seem relevant.”

  “Well, I’m hoping Apostle Peter knew something about piercing through, something we don’t.”

  He nodded, but didn’t agree. Nothing in his reading suggested Peter Halvorson performed the trepanation in an attempt to pierce through. He had performed the unorthodox procedure in hope of relieving an intense period of debilitating depression. The connection the piercing enthusiasts made between trepanning and piercing through remained a far stretch of the imagination from William’s point of view.

  He fetched a pair of scissors and a straight edge razor from the supply drawer. He always shaved the area designated for the tattoo. He wanted a smooth surface on which to work his magic.

  The scissors he used to snip big chunks out of her pageboy eggplant hair. He cut it as close to the scalp as possible, using the straight edge to remove the rest.

  “How do I look bald?”

  “Beautiful as always,” he said, rinsing her head free from stray hairs. He bit his lower lip and picked up the scalpel. Fear wrenched his gut and he hesitated.

  He wanted to refuse, but knew it would do no good. Kelly typified impetuous youth, and driven by such impetuousness, she would perform the trepanation herself if he chickened out.

  Taking a deep breath, he gathered his wits and hoped he remembered enough from his reading not to make any crucial mistakes. He made the T incision she desired and gasped. He had forgotten how much surface blood the head contained. A profuse river of blood streamed down the back of her bare skull and down her neck

  “I can stop here,” he suggested, placing a towel at the base of her neck.

  “Hell no. I’m going to break through. I can feel it. Keep going.”

  He flinched and picked up the drill. Nausea twisted his guts into a pretzel. Squeezing the trigger, he bore down on her head.

  As a kid he hated the sound the dentist drill made on his teeth. This sounded ten times worse and the smell of the friction between bone and drill intensified his disgust. However, the blood was the clincher. The amount was staggering, like a slaughter house scene from a PETA video.

  “You still with me?”

  “Fine-dandy-a okay.” Either the pain or morphine induced euphoria hampered her lingual skills, her words hushed and slurred. “Keep-going.”

  William paused, wiping blood off his lenses. “You sound funny. Can you open your eyes for me?”

  She did, although it took her a few seconds to do so, her gaze unfocused. Her eyes rolled like marbles in their sockets.

  “Don’t. Stop. Now. Silly. Willy.” She attempted a smile that fell short of its intention to reassure.

  William sighed and kept drilling until the bit gave way, penetrating the cranium. There followed a foreboding slurp sound.

  Instead of the anticipated fountain of blood, he felt a quick flush as some sort of thermal energy escaped. The author of Bore Hole had described this phenomenon as the release of air bubbles trapped under the skull.

  The escaping power filled the parlor, casting an invisible blanket that darkened the room. Air bubbles? How could air bubbles possibly turn day to dusk? He felt a prickling of his neck hairs and a shiver ran down his spine.

  “That’s it,” he said. “You’re officially trepanned.”

  Kelly motioned her hand as if to summon William. He bent his knees and looked at her face. She cupped his jaw in her palm.

  “Not. There. Yet.” She struggled to get the words out. They sounded distant and frail. Her eyes focused on everything but his face. “One. More.”

  “Okay, but we got to hurry. Something’s not right.
” He noticed the room settling into deeper darkness as if someone slowly turned down a dimmer switch. Flashes of static caused the air to quiver like heat off of hot asphalt.

  William swallowed and returned to the task. Having drilled the first perforation, he felt a little more confident.

  Halfway through the second bore hole, he paused. The multiple tattoos inked on his arms, legs, back and torso itched. He gnashed his teeth and hefted the drill. He felt an intense desire to get the job done fast.

  Pushing down on the drill, he pierced through the cranium a second time and another rush of energy let loose. The light in the shop virtually vanished, causing twilight in the middle of the afternoon.

  Dear Jesus. What was happening?

  He felt the need to flee, to put this insane scene as far behind him as possible. Too late. Events had already been put into action. He needed to see this to its end. For Kelly’s sake.

  “We’re finished,” he said, dropping the drill. He dabbed at the wounds with a towel and wiped glistening blood off her bald cranium. “Kelly. How are you doing?”

  No answer. He feared he had punctured her brain.

  His heart beat triple tempo. He studied the tattoo parlor; the air tumultuous and undulating like waves on a stormy sea. Two black spots began to congeal a few feet in front of Kelly.

  Having already been exposed to black magic tattoos, extraction rituals and the Shanghai ghosts it became easy for William to speculate on the nature of the two black spots hovering in the air. What if the two materializing globs were dark angels of death come to whisk her away to the netherworld?

  He tapped her on the shoulder, again fearing he had killed her. Her head jerked and she moaned. Good. She was still alive.

  “We’ve got a problem. We’ve got to leave. Something is here. Are you with me?”

  She moaned again, but remained slumped in the chair. He moved to face her and gave her a vigorous shake.

  “Come on, kiddo. We really have to go.”

  Something brushed William’s arm from behind, a cold whisper of a touch that made his Ouroboros tattoo jump. He shared his tat’s dread, afraid to look. The wispy touch came again, insistent.