by Dan Dillard
*****
Morning came again as it always does. Levi rose early to get a jump on the fat whore truck. He kissed Aggie and then beat and banged on the old Chevy, finally getting it rumbling and left for work.
Rolling into the lot by his office, he was relieved to see no one waiting for him. He unlocked the door and flipped the usual switches, then proceeded to his desk to check for phone messages. When he turned to sit he was startled to see old Demonde standing in the room.
“How’d you get in here?” he shrieked.
Demonde turned and gestured at the door.
“It were open.”
“I guess. You a sneaky fella ain’t ya?” Levi said, shaking off the willies.
“I need ta take momma home. Shadowman comin’,” he said as if it wasn’t awkward or strange.
“The funeral director over to Hawkins says it’ll take time. There’s licenses and such. Also need a pastor or priest to grant permission for breaking holy ground.”
“Ground not holy ta me. Momma sufferin’. Bondye angry.”
“Not holy to you?” Levi asked.
“Bondye da only God,” Demonde said. “Dis ain’t a holy place in his eyes.”
“But it is a holy place to most of the families got loved ones out there,” Levi said.
“Dat’s what make dis important, Mr. Levi. Da Shadowman come ta curse all da bodies in dat boneyard if he don’ get what he want. He make ‘em all wander if he see fit. Wake ‘em each till he find my momma and take her home,” he said and let out a rasping, wheezy giggle.
It sent a chill down Levi’s spine.
“What you talkin’ bout? You sayin’…zombies?” asked Levi.
“Zombie. Dat right. A whole mess o’ dem.”
Levi turned red in the face and stood, shoving his chair back where it smashed into the wall behind.
“You nuts.”
“Bah,” Demonde said. “I ain’t be crazy. You listen to Demonde. I tell da truth.”
“You get on outta my office. Get on outta my grave yard. Don’t you ever come back! Crazy sumbitch.”
Demonde cackled, his old eyes watering. He wiped them dry with the back of his hand. Levi slapped his hand on the desktop.
“Out!” Levi shouted, pointing at the door.
Demonde stopped cackling and his gaze went cold. He showed no fear of Levi but calmly stood, and never lost eye contact.
“Ya choice. Don’t come cryin’ ta me once he here. And don’t go prayin’ for mercy either. Won’t do ya no good,” he said.
Levi couldn’t speak. He was too angry to have wasted his time with an old lunatic, half off his nut. He raised his hand and pointed to the door.
Demonde opened the door and turned. “Best o’ luck,” he said, and laughed a hearty laugh as he disappeared into the sunlight that streamed through the entry.
Levi exhaled loudly. He sat back at his desk and drummed his fingers for a moment before dialing home to talk to his wife.
“Zombies,” he said as she answered.
“What? Levi, that you?” she said.
“Crazy old goat was in here talkin’ about zombies! Said the Shadowman was gonna wake the dead in my cemetery, searching until they found his momma. Like she’s trapped in here or somethin’ and his God is all pissy about it.”
“That sounds very unpleasant,” she said.
“Unpleasant? All you got is ‘unpleasant’?” he asked, noticeably perturbed.
“What do you expect? You don’t believe him do you?”
“Shit no. Should I?”
“Levi.”
It was all he needed to ground himself. He told her goodbye and hung the phone up. Still, he felt uneasy.
Such a story. Stinks of bullshit stronger than anything I ever smelt or heard.
Levi left to go out to the west side plots. There were two graves to be dug over there—a pair of teenagers who died in a car accident. If old Demonde was correct, those two kids might only get a nap.
Levi strolled out to the shed to get the backhoe. He unlocked the padlock on the bay door to raise it and looked over his shoulder in each direction before going in. The diesel motor rumbled, and he drove it out toward the west.
A couple hours later and he was done. The machine sputtered as it idled, stopping just long enough for Levi to wipe his brow with his same old handkerchief and to take a sip of water from a jug he kept with him while he worked. Across the way, a woman stood over a grave. He assumed she was paying her respects.
“Lord bless you and yours,” he said quietly.
It was what he always said when someone came to visit their loved ones in his cemetery.
What he couldn’t see was her tattered, dry-rotted clothes or that her skull had poked through the skin it was wrapped in. Her eye sockets were empty of the worm food that once showed her the way. She shuffled out of his field of view. Shadowman had come.