by Brian Hodge
Thick fog seeped into their surroundings from the nearby lake, and Ian welcomed it, hoping it would hide them. They came to the stone wall that surrounded the front of the graveyard and followed it to the arched entranceway. Ian thought briefly about entering the boarded up church that resided just in front of the graveyard, but decided it would be much too easy to be trapped inside. With a quick glance at the twin angel statues that guarded the stone archway, Ian entered Dark Hollow Cemetery, letting the darkness engulf them.
Ian stopped about one hundred yards inside and placed Ophelia onto one of the larger tombstones. She was giggling, despite the fact that the barking, and shouts of the men were moving closer.
“I am happy that you can find humor in all of this, Ophelia,” Ian said. “It was a mistake to come in here. We will not be able to get out now. We are trapped inside.”
Off near the entrance to the graveyard, they could see the flickering of more than a dozen torches.
They stood in front of a mausoleum that had the name ‘Anna Wilde’ stenciled on the front. Underneath her name were letters that looked like they had recently been written—’Nathan Wilde’.
In the front of the crypt, a little off to the right, was a massive oak tree. The branches drew crooked black lines as they snaked over the chalky surface of the luminous moon above. The moonlight lit up the landscape around them much more brightly than Ian was comfortable with. The humans, even with their rather weak eyes, would be able to see them if they moved too much. Some of the gravestones were so bright that they glowed.
Ophelia sat back against a tombstone with a pained grimace and looked toward the entrance. “I do not think they will come in. I just heard one of them ranting about the devil. They think we are demons. They will most likely wait until the morning.”
Ian frowned. “And then what, Ophelia? They will kill us easily in large numbers. We need to get out of here now. And you do not know that they will wait until morning. They could come in here within minutes.”
“The gate is much too high for you to carry me out. It looks to me that you may have to leave me behind, Ian. I am not used to seeing your handsome face in this bright of a light. You look so much like your father it is chilling.”
Ian grabbed his stepmother by the wrist. “Do you ever stop? We are about to be killed. This is very serious.”
“I have been alive for a long time, Ian. It is difficult to be serious about life when you are as old as I am. It does not look good for me. Stay with me until they storm through the gate and then climb over the wall. The back entrance has a iron fence, but it is still much too high for me to cross.”
“I will not do that, Ophelia. I will stay with you even if it means my death. I killed by your side at the carnival. I killed that woman in the woods. I will face the repercussions with you.”
“Do not be a fool, Ian. You are still but a youth.” She looked around at the glowing tombstones and nodded. “It is as you said, I have quite literally dug my own grave.”
Ian shook his head. “We will find a way.”
Ophelia ran her hands over a tombstone, brushing away dead leaves. “I have always loved cemeteries. They have a serene elegance. There is a quiet beauty about the way the dead keep their secrets. Where do you think they go once they cross over to the other side?”
Ian did not take his eyes away from the torchlight. “I do not have a clue. There are spirits in this cemetery, so I know they go somewhere.”
“Spirits?” Ophelia asked, looking around the graveyard curiously. “I’ve never seen one. How do you know there are spirits?”
Ian looked away from the entrance and pointed to the starry sky, placing his index finger in the center of the skull-white moon. “One night while I was laying in the branches watching the stars, I saw two spirits.”
“You are jesting.”
“I really did, Ophelia. It was two of them. They looked human, but opaque. I could see the stars within their bodies. It looked as if they were made of glass. They danced by, twirling around above the trees. It was so exquisite. I heard the woman laugh. They flew toward the cemetery.”
“Why did you never tell me this before, Ian? That is beautiful.”
“I did not think you would believe me.”
“I am not sure I do believe you.”
“I would never lie to you.”
Ophelia’s ravishing smile grew mischievous. “Never?”
Ian shook his head and looked back toward the gate. “Never. What would be the point?”
“Do you lust after me?”
Ian chuckled. “You never stop do you? Ophelia, we are in real danger here. We could be killed.”
“Do not stray from the question, Ian. You said you would never lie to me. Do you lust for me?”
“Yes. I always have. You know this—I know you do. It is why you never leave me alone. You are absolutely unremitting! Even when father was around you drove me mad—a glance here, a flash of your breast there, a touch of your hand! Absolutely mad! I find you exquisite. I hate my father for finding you first and I despise him for leaving you. I think about you all the time—especially when you disappear for months.” He stopped, his face registering that he felt he had said too much. “Why can you not just leave me in peace?”
Ophelia’s eyes twinkled. “It feels good to hear you speak of me in such a way.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you, Ian.”
Ian stared into her eyes for a few seconds before kissing her back on the lips. He smelled lilac on her breath and he exhaled as he brushed his tongue into hers, taking her air into his lungs.
“I love you, too,” Ian said, pulling away, saying each word with her own sweet breath.
Ophelia put her hand on his cheek. “You only did that because you do not think we are going to make it out of here alive.”
“Very, very true,” Ian said, letting his gaze turn back toward the growing number of torches.
“You are going to regret the kiss—and your words if we escape.”
“Yes I will both completely. It is doubtful we will get out.”
“I have a way to get us out,” Ophelia said, standing up and facing the mausoleum.
Ian turned to face her. “Don’t play games, Ophelia. If you have a way, tell me now.”
She pointed at the mausoleum and the wind fluttered at her blood splattered sleeve. “Anna and Nathan Wilde will help us.” She turned back at him and grinned. Ian had never seen her more beautiful. “It is a good thing you have been practicing your reanimation.”
Ian nodded. “This could work.”
“It will work,” Ophelia said, walking up the stone steps.
Ian watched her as she ascended toward the mausoleum door, marveling at the cat-like way she moved, then followed. She pushed on the door and it creaked reluctantly open, the moonlight sending a soft glow onto the stone floor within. The stench of decay immediately drifted out into the cool night.
Two coffins lay side by side in the center of the dimly lit stone room. A table rested against the far wall, a single unlit candle in the center. A wooden chair was to their right; the seat lit up in the pale light.
“The one on the right is very new,” Ian said, grimacing. “The smell is unbearable.”
“Good,” Ophelia said. “It will make it much more effective.”
Both coffins were sealed, but Ian had little trouble getting them opened. A youthful woman rested in the left coffin, or at least Ian thought she was young, her face was covered with a strange death mask. The lips, eyes, and brows were all painted in thin, sketch-like lines, giving the impression of a living doll. The smile on the mask was haunting and mysterious. In the second coffin was the body of an older man, his white bearded face appearing almost azure by the dim lighting.
Ophelia began to sing, her voice sounding otherworldly in the enclosed confines of the mausoleum. She gestured rapidly with her hands, flickering them around her face in a dizzying blur.
The melody echoed off the wal
ls, as if there were a chorus of angels singing within the crypt. Ian raised his head and listened, enchanted by her radiant voice.
Anna Wilde jerked straight up in her coffin, head cocking to the side as though she were an animal. She brought her hand up stiffly and removed her death mask, revealing a nearly skeletal face. Pieces of her jaw and cheekbones protruded from her leathery skin.
Ian joined Ophelia, their voices melding seamlessly together.
Nathan Wilde rose up from his casket, mouth hanging slack. His eyes were hard and sunk deep into the confines of his decaying face.
The two corpses climbed clumsily down from their coffins and lurched toward the door of the mausoleum. Ian and Ophelia chanted just behind them, their hands moving in perfect sync.
The corpses exited through the doors of the mausoleum and into the moonlight, Anna’s burial dress billowing softly behind as they descended the stone steps.
Ian and Ophelia guided the corpses through the cemetery, their faces wet with perspiration. Anna and Nathan wobbled toward the torchlight, moving through the radiant tombstones as though someone from above had connected their limbs to strings. As soon as they reached the arched entrance, the men began to scream and fire their guns. Dogs barked ferociously.
Anna and Nathan took each other hand in hand and began to dance around the men crudely, unaware of the bullets that pierced their dead flesh. One of the men lit Anna’s dress afire with his torch, but the corpses continued to spin around, the flames scorching their flesh black. The stench was immediate.
The men fled. Shouts of, “The undead are attacking the town!” could be heard.
Ian and Ophelia stopped singing at once, and Anna and Nathan Wilde promptly fell to the ground before the cemetery opening, their flesh still flickering with weak flames, smoke rising into the twin angels above.
Ophelia giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.
Ian took hold of her arm. “We need to leave now!”
“I will not forget what you said, Ian,” Ophelia said, giving her stepson a knowing nod.
He stared into her black eyes before picking her up and carrying her toward the still burning corpses. “I do not expect you to, Ophelia.”
They hastily exited the cemetery and vanished into the forest, their dark forms quickly fusing with the trees that had been the home of their kind for thousands of years.
Family Plotting
“Do you honestly believe that?” Fred asked, staring down at the bloodied corpse. A knife protruded from her open mouth. “Do you honestly believe I had something to do with this?”
Peter stared down at the corpse. The dead blonde couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. Her eyes were wide, as if she had been shrieking when the knife was thrust between her teeth. Her white neck was splattered with crimson drops.
The living room appeared as if it hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. Pizza boxes and dirty laundry littered the room. The room smelled of sweat and rotting food.
Fred ran his hands through his shoulder length brown hair. “I admit I’ve gone off the handle before, Peter, but I swear I didn’t kill this girl. I swear to fucking God, man.”
Peter sighed, wishing he had never come. He knew he should not have answered the phone. “Okay, Freddy, tell me everything again. You were fucking rambling before. I don’t think I understood a word.”
“You’re gonna get pissed at me.”
“I’m already pissed at you, Fred. I don’t hear from you for almost a year, my own brother. I finally hear something and you want me to help you with this?” Peter let his voice drop to a dangerous whisper. “Tell me what the hell happened. Stop playing fucking games.”
“She’s a prostitute. I picked her up down near Bennet Street.”
Peter closed his eyes as if it pained him to think. “Do you know how fucking bad this sounds, Freddy? Do you know how guilty you look? You have a goddamn dead whore on your living room carpet with a knife sticking out of her fucking mouth.”
“Are you going to let me tell my story?”
Peter growled.
Fred nodded, adjusting his red sweater around his pudgy belly. “Okay. We came back here and we drank a little. We agreed on a price and then she gave me a blowjob. I went to the bathroom for a quick shower, and when I got back out she was like this.”
“Did she swallow?”
“I can’t believe you want those kind of details. The poor girl is dead, man. Give her some dignity.”
Peter clenched his teeth over his bottom lip as if chasing back a scream. “Listen. I didn’t ask you if the whore swallowed so that I could get off on it. She’s dead on your carpet, Freddy! If she swallowed your load, what the hell you going to do? The police will be able to get anything they want about you if your semen is swimming around in her stomach.”
“Oh. No, she didn’t swallow. I used a condom. I flushed it down the toilet.”
“Well that’s a plus. Now tell me the rest.”
“There is no more. I told you everything. I called you as soon as I saw the body.”
Peter stared at Fred, looking as if he was fighting the urge to pound his face, nostrils flaring widely above his well-trimmed goatee. “Freddy, how the fuck do you expect the police to buy this story? This can’t be the real story.”
“Peter, it’s the truth, man. I swear to God it is. Do you know how much like Daddy you look right now?”
“Did you ever meet this girl before? Do you even know her name?”
“No, I never met her. I think she said her name was Angel.”
Peter kicked against the girl’s head and a thin stream of blood fell down the side of her face. Needle tracks dotted her arm and in between her fingers. “A whore named Angel. Heh. I doubt that’s her real name. Okay, so you picked up a girl you never met. You’re trying to tell me that you then went to take a shower while a fucking junkie whore was in your house?”
“It was only for like two minutes, Peter. That’s it.”
“I still don’t buy it. No one is stupid enough to let a stranger alone in their house—especially a prostitute. “
Fred sat down on the beer stained couch. “Somebody must have came into the apartment, stabbed her and then taken off.”
“Is that your knife?”
Fred looked dazed for a moment as if he did not understand the question. He leaned over the end table and took a long look at the corpse. “Yeah. That knife is from my kitchen. It’s the only one I own.”
“Freddy, this is getting fucking ridiculous. Admit you killed this whore and I will help you. This is the kind of thing I do for a living. I can make it better for you. I’m not going to do shit for you if you keep lying. Too goddamn dangerous.”
“Peter, I told you I was telling the truth.”
“Freddy, goddammit! I will walk out this fucking door and leave you with her to rot!”
“Peter, I swear to God, man!”
“Freddy…listen to me. Why the fuck would someone sneak into your house, kill a junkie whore, then leave without taking anything? It doesn’t make any sense. Who would want to frame you? You have shit.”
“I’m sorry, Peter.”
Peter turned to his brother, studying him. Fred had gained about thirty pounds and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in at least a month. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked like a typical drugbag loser, a far cry from the same younger brother who left the family to get away from all the drugs and the violence.
“I don’t believe you, Freddy,” Peter finally said. “You gotta stop acting so fucking stupid. If you’re going to get a blowjob from a whore, just get one in your car—don’t be taking them home and letting them see where you live. That shit could be dangerous. You’re my kid brother. I want you to stay safe.”
“I know it was stupid. I’ve been so lonely, Peter. You have no idea how much. I just can’t seem to make nothing work anymore. My luck is shit. Tonight was only a prime example of that. The reason I took a shower while she was there was because we talked a little bi
t. I was kind of hoping she’d stick around and maybe talk.”
Peter grimaced. “I realize you’re lonely, Fred—I can see it on your face. But I gotta tell ya, man. Trying to strike up a loving friendship with junkie whores ain’t gonna get you nowhere. Besides, what the hell you going to talk about? Sucking dick? Or where to get the best heroin? Please. They don’t care about nothing except their next high. They’ll do anything to get it.”
Fred offered a painful smile. “Damn right. Like give oral sex to the likes of me. Do you know how pathetic I feel trying to romance a prostitute? I feel lower than low, man.”
“I didn’t say that, Freddy. It’s like you said. It’s just a run of bad luck. Things have a way of changing quick. I always thought that you would be the one to turn out good once you got away from the family.” He stared down at the corpse. “And I know you can do better than this. Hell, I could have set you up with a dozen whores better than this tired young thing.”
Fred pointed at his pockmarked face. “Not with this mug. I’ve only slept with two women who I didn’t have to pay to have sex with me.”
“Sometimes it’s not about how you look, but how you carry yourself. You need some confidence.”
“I wish I had it, Peter. Daddy fucked me up bad.”
Peter sighed at the mention of his father. “Daddy brought you up the other day when we were talking about old times. Said he wished you would have joined us. I’m kind of glad you didn’t. I always liked that you didn’t seem to have the killer instinct.”
“I hate him, Peter. Sometimes I have so much hate for him I don’t know what to do with it.”
Peter sat down on the couch, being careful not to step into any of the blood splatters. “Fred, I need you to talk to me for a minute, okay? We need to get things straight. Okay, now I’m sorry I lost my temper with you before. I know I’ve hit you in the past and you have every reason to be a little scared of me. Fred, I know you did this.”
“But—”
Peter managed to stay calm, though his eyes were dark. “I don’t want to hear it. Now look at me. Damn it, look at me, Fred. Listen. I think I can make this work out for the both of us. I have a plan that if it works we can not only get rid of this body but do something else we’ve both been itching to do. But you gotta be honest with me, my brother. Do you know how many low-life murderers I know? I deal with them every day. I mean think about it, Fred. I’m a hitman for fuck’s sake. I’m exactly what Daddy raised me to be. What that means is that I have good eyes for things. When someone kills someone they get a certain look in their eyes. In some people it’s something animal-like. Something feral. In others it’s a guilty look. I think you got a little of both.”