>* * *
Dylan was not having a good day. On the bright side, at least the folks were out of town and couldn't see what a mess he'd made of himself. On the darker side, Dylan had done things last night that filled him with self-disgust.
Jesus Christ on a fucking Pogo Stick. What the hell had inspired him to take the old bastard's ring? If anything existed that could be called hard evidence, it was the ring on his finger, the one he'd taken from the corpse he'd helped pull from the ground, the one he'd... no, best not to think about that, best to just forget it completely.
Dylan threw down the pliers and grabbed for the petroleum jelly again, futilely slathering up his finger in an attempt to get the ring to slide off. Nothing had worked so far, and he was starting to worry. His finger was blue, lack of blood, it had to be.
When the pliers failed to remove the offending ring again, Dylan quietly threw a fit in the basement, kicking at his father's tools and supplies until he damn near broke his toe. From that point on, he just cursed a great deal. Then Dylan spotted his salvation, a pair of bolt cutters.
It took almost twenty minutes to maneuver the cutters into position with just his left hand, but he managed. After all of his fighting and whining in the last hour, the ring fell away with little more than a snip from the cutters and a twist from the pliers. What was left of the ring was deposited in his jeans pocket.
Dylan only really started to worry about his health when his finger graduated from blue to a purplish black.
Later that night, after Mary had collapsed in bed and started her fitful tossing, Dylan slipped out of the house. It had been hard making certain that Mary didn't see his finger, he'd had to snag some of his mother's make up, and he hadn't quite managed the right color, he was certain that Mary would notice. But Mary had been distracted all night, had actually avoided making conversation, which was not at all the norm where Mary was concerned. He was grateful for the silence, but he promised himself he'd find out what was wrong as soon as he took care of his own problem. His finger didn't hurt, but it had become stiff and hard to move. Dylan was starting to get a little panicky.
Glenn's house was just down the block, and Glenn had a car. The whole damn thing was Glenn's fault, and Glenn would help him get his hand fixed, or Glenn would be going to jail, it was just that simple. Dylan had to toss stones at Glenn's window with his left hand, only about three of the first ten actually tapped the window. That was okay, after the third, the light came on in Glenn's window.
Glenn's mom was the one that opened the second story window. "Who's there?" Her voice was distraught, nervous. "Is that you, Dylan?"
Dylan looked at the woman's face, thought about running for it but then changed his mind. She'd already spotted him; he may as well carry out with his original plan. "Yes Ma'am. I was trying not to disturb you; I know it's awfully late. Is Glenn around Ma'am?"
Misses Cobb's round face scowled with consternation, her short curly hair wobbled along with her head. "It's awfully late, and Glenn's not feeling well. Maybe you should try again tomorrow."
Dylan felt butterflies starting in his stomach; panic reached his voice despite his efforts to stay calm. "But, I really have to see him, Mrs. Cobb."
The woman's face actually pulled into a even deeper scowl. "No, I'm sorry. You'll just have to try again tomorrow." The decision was obviously not going to change.
"But--"
"Tomorrow, Dylan. Now good night." The window was closed softly, completely.
"Bitch." A visit to Willis' place netted the same result, and no answer at all was forthcoming from Pete's house. Pete and his family had left at first light for St. Simon's island. Still worrying over his finger, Dylan allowed himself a rueful smile. At least he knew that Pete was suffering as well. Pete hated family trips.
* * *
When Dylan awoke the next morning, his body felt hideously cold, stiff. His joints protested his movements and his neck felt like he'd spent the night using a block of ice for a pillow.
But worse than the way he felt physically was the way he felt mentally. Nightmares, dreams about what he and the others had done at the cemetery. Old man Willingham had been bad enough, but poor Amy Thornton, not even a week dead...
He pushed the thought out of his mind. Some things were best not contemplated. Images from the dreams still echoed through him, visions of the dead rising from their broken graves and pointing accusing fingers. The cemetery's inhabitants seemed determined that he should get no true rest. Maybe that was fair, he had disturbed theirs without hesitation. This could be their way of getting payback.
Dylan came downstairs to find Mary just closing the front door. Dylan saw a flash of light blue shirt and dark blue pants through the outside window. Taking a closer look, he could see the sheriff's cruiser sitting at the curb in front of the house. All the chills he felt physically doubled, multiplied again and again, as he thought about the graveyard. Mary was staring at him, face hard, stone-like. "You sick sonuvabitch."
"What're you talking about?" Even as he spoke he realized he was trying too hard to sound innocent. "Who are you to call me names?"
Mary looked at him for a second more, her face turned a little paler, almost a sure sign in the Ellison household that Mary was "at it again." Mary looked at the ground. "You know what I'm talking about. I know what you did, you and your good buddies."
Mary's eyes were brimming with unshed tears. "I had a dream last night. One of my..." Dylan watched her throat work, watched the tears start falling. Despite the desire to comfort his sister, Dylan couldn't make himself move. "One of my special dreams, the ones that come true."
Dylan's mind swam, maybe this little sickness in his body was worse than he thought, maybe he'd caught something when he... He shunted the thought away again. Maybe he'd caught something at the graveyard. "What did you see?"
Mary almost seemed to smile. She didn't answer him; she just shook her head, messy hair falling everywhere, followed seconds later by more tears. She wrapped her arms around herself to fight away the cold.
Panic clutched hard at Dylan's testicles. "What the fuck did you see, Mary?!?" Mary tossed her hair back, flipped the bangs out of her eyes in a gesture just like the one he had used two nights ago. Idly he wondered which of them had started that little flip of the bangs.
Mary's eyes were rimmed with red, the gray-blue of the iris more pronounced than usual. Her face was ugly with grief. "Momma and Daddy aren't coming back. Their plane's gonna crash."
Warring emotions fired through Dylan's brain: Grief for his parents, relief that it wasn't him. The battle was not yet finished when Mary continued her cold, angry statement.
"I'm gonna bury them at the Cemetery right over there, next to their folks. I'm gonna bury them and I'm gonna pray that they have peace." Dylan reached for his sister, reached out at last to comfort her. She slapped his hand away, furious. "Don't you touch me!" Her voice was shrill, panicky. "Don't you ever touch me again!"
Mary turned, still in her nightgown, and bolted out the front door. Dylan felt the need to cry himself, but no tears would come. The gravity of what Mary had said finally reached to the center of his being, Dylan fell to the ground and curled himself into a fetal position. For the first time, he noticed that the purple color in his finger had spread to the rest of his hand. He'd slept on his hand last night; that must have been what made it worse.
Dylan turned his hand over; the palm was still pale, almost bloodless. Didn't matter. Mom. Dad. He hadn't even spoken to them since they went on their second honeymoon. Too busy with his friends. They were due back today, in a few hours.
When the phone started ringing, Dylan pulled himself into an even tighter fetal position. That would be the call. "Hello, is this Mary or Dylan Ellison?" Yes, this is Dylan Ellison. "Mister Ellison... I'm afraid we have bad news... It's your parents, there was a plane crash. We're very sorry about this, it's so tragic. Of course, we can claim no responsibility until the F.A.A. has made their report, I hope you un
derstand. But then, at least we were there to talk with your parents. Hell, we would have been there in a heartbeat. Such nice folks, Mr. Ellison, hard to believe that they raised a little necrophiliac bastard like you."
But I never...
"Oh who the hell do you think you're fooling, you sick little bastard! Everyone knows what you and your friends did to poor Amy Thornton! Wouldn't put out in life so you took it in death. Well, you'll get yours you disgusting little fuck! You'll get yours in SPADES!!!"
Dylan awoke with a start, tried to open his eyes and found that he could not. His bowel felt bloated with gas, his body was sore, stiff, and felt damn near frozen. He knew by the texture of the shag carpet that he was still on the floor. Behind him, he heard Mary talking on the phone. She hung up, and then she started to cry again. Her voice sounded jagged, filled with broken glass.
Dylan tried to move, but nothing happened. He tried concentrating on just moving his finger and still nothing. In a near frenzy, he did his best to thrash around, push himself from the ground and get his hands under him. Still nothing.
Sometime later, he heard voices, but they made no sense. Talking about the remains, the body, the deceased. Then he felt himself rolled over, felt his joints forced into new positions. Despite his protests, his screams, he heard no sound from himself save for a few minor snapping noises accompanied by white-hot flashes of pain.
After that it only took a few seconds to realize just which body they were talking about.
* * *
Mary visited the First Baptist Cemetery regularly, always placing flowers at the headstones of both of her parents. She missed them terribly. Mary talked to them of many things: how her life was progressing, her engagement to Karl Golden, how she was doing in college.
She never talked to them of Dylan, or his friends, the others that had died the same way. Maybe because it was painful, maybe because she felt they already knew. The closest she ever came to discussing them was to let her parents know that she had donated a portion of her inheritance to the renovation of the cemetery, and to the stone fence that now surrounded the premises.
She never visited Dylan's gravesite or the graves of any of the other members of his group that had been involved in the desecration. There was no malice in this action, simply self-preservation.
Mary's special abilities had almost completely faded since the day after she dreamt of her parents' death. With the exception of a few minor bouts of Deja Vu she almost never had her flashes of insight, and really, who hasn't felt the strange feeling that they've made a certain step before, or said a particular sentence at least once previously? For the most part the dead left her alone; she was no longer haunted by voices in the dead of night.
Except for Dylan and his friends. Whenever she got too close to their burial sites, she could hear their shrieks of pain. She'd braved the sounds only once, only to let Dylan know that she understood what he was going through. That was enough for her; the madness in his silent screams was just too much to deal with.
In a way she was at last at peace, at last freed from the screams of so many souls. Save for the screams of a few. Her only regrets were that her brother suffered so much, and that she could not escape from his screams as well.
Mary had almost told him what he was going to suffer. But she had wanted to give him some sort of hope. She wondered more than once if he would have been better off with cremation. But Glenn Cobb had been cremated, and really, his screams were no less severe.
Mary was glad that her gifts were gone, she worried that perhaps her blessing was her brother's curse, but she was glad just the same. Glad also that she had buried her brother in the new cemetery, the one with the little plaques in the grass. She was certain her parents would understand.
About The Author
JAMES A. MOORE is the author of over twenty novels, including the critically acclaimed Fireworks, Under The Overtree, Blood Red, the Serenity Falls trilogy (featuring his recurring anti-hero, Jonathan Crowley) and his most recent novels, The Haunted Forest Tour (with Jeff Strand), and Deeper. He has twice been nominated for the Bram Stoker Award and spent three years as an officer in the Horror Writers Association, first as Secretary and later as Vice President.
The author cut his teeth in the industry writing for Marvel Comics and authoring over twenty role-playing supplements for White Wolf Games, including Berlin by Night, Land of 1,000,000 Dreams and The Get of Fenris tribe book for Vampire: The Masquerade and Werewolf: The Apocalypse, among others. He also penned the White Wolf novels Vampire: House of Secrets and Werewolf: Hellstorm.
Moore's first short story collection, Slices, sold out before ever seeing print. He recently finished his latest novel, Smile No More, a story of Rufo the Clown and is currently working on the forthcoming Boomtown. His latest Jonathan Crowley novel, Cherry Hill, is slated for release in 2009. He's lived all over the country and currently resides in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia, with his wife, Bonnie, and their menagerie, which includes one dog, four cats, eight ducks, many fish, and a parrot named Dos. Please drop by his website www.jimshorror.com or leave him a note at his bulletin board at www.horrorworld.org.
Table of Contents
Discards
Mary's Blessing
About The Author
Table of Contents
Discards
Mary's Blessing
About The Author
Discarded Blessings Page 3