A Cursed All Hallows' Eve

I come to kneeling on the grass, the full moon glaring overhead. For a moment, all I can do is spit mud out of my mouth, trying not to gag.

  There’s still grit in my teeth, but after I’ve gotten most of it out, I sit back on my heels and look around.

  The last crisp leaves of autumn shiver and shake in the skeletal branches above me, as I stare at moon-lit headstones and mausoleums around me.

  I’m in a cemetery. Why? Where? What am I doing here? I have to get home. I have to get to Maisie.

  Slowly I stand. My head is spinning and I’m weak and shaky. I’m empty, wrung out, and everything hurts like I have a high fever, but my fingers to my forehead tell me I’m cool.

  Why am I here? I can’t remember. The last thing I remember is snow. Snow, and a bone-aching cold that seemed to last forever. I can’t remember how I got here, or where I’ve been, or what I was just doing. Did I hit my head?

  The thought makes me shiver, nauseous, but I don’t know why. What I do know, is I need to get home. To my wife. To Maisie.

  I pick the direction that feels right and stumble my way along, dry leaves scraping beside me in the breeze. Maybe I’ll see something I recognize, something I remember. But I walk in a daze, mind hazy. Only two thoughts are clear: Home. Maisie.

  After what seems like hours and yet no time at all, I’m standing in the street in front of our house, leaves tumbling by in the wind.White moonlight shines in my face. It’s too bright, and all the windows of the house are dark. What time is it?

  It has to be very late. I’d have to get in without frightening Maisie.

  I pat my chest to check my pockets for my keys, but there is only a folded handkerchief. My pants are empty. No keys, no cell phone, no wallet. And why am I wearing a suit? A dirty one at that. I hate suits.

  Ringing the doorbell would wake Maisie, maybe scare her, but I had to do it. Lord knows that I’m getting a little scared myself, that I can’t remember anything of the last few hours, can’t grasp my fly-away thoughts.

  I stand there, indecisive, our neighbor’s dog, Barkley, barking at me. It will wake Maisie up if it keeps going. He had certainly been named aptly. That yapping little bark that had disturbed more than one good night of sleep.

  Bark. Bark. Bark. Non-stop.

  I put my hands over my sensitive ears, but it’s all I can seem to hear, all I can focus on. That incessant, high-pitched bark ping-pongs around inside my head as I grind my teeth.

  It’s making me crazy. I drop my hands and stride to the fence, growling. The dog barks louder, more urgently, as it takes a few mincing steps back. But it’s still close...just close enough.

  Darkness closes in as I vault over the fence.

  ***

  Josephine

  I wait in a hard plastic chair in the lobby of the laboratory for my young friend, Farah Beauvais.

  Her and my youngest daughter used to play together when we first came to America. Her parents are from Haiti too, though I only met them once we were here.

  Though her parents are traditionalists, Farah doesn’t believe in or practice Vodou, but it is no matter. I need her now for what she does believe in and practice. Science, chemistry.

  In her own way, she works with the unseen too.

  She is the one I took a small sample of soil to, the dirt from where Mr. Grady was murdered. After several weeks, she had called me to tell me the results were ready.

  Her smile is bright as she comes into the lobby to welcome me, white coat over a maroon pantsuit.

  “Miss Josephine! Bon apremidi!”

  I stand and she gives me a quick cheek kiss.

  “Bon apremidi”, I reply, returning the kiss and the greeting.

  “Come on back,” she says, waving for me to follow her.

  We pass through a hallway of windows with tables and lab equipment on the other side. Though it is late in the day, other chemists sit or stand in white coats, blue gloves, and thick plastic safety glasses.

  But Farah leads me instead to a small dim office with an open door. She sits behind the desk.

  “Sit, please, Miss Josephine,” she says, gesturing to the chair.

  I do.

  “How is your mother doing?” I ask.

  “Well,” she shrugs, “she is doing okay. She still has her moments since dad died, but she is doing a lot better.”

  Mr. Farah had passed in an auto accident about a year ago. I had helped her mother with a sleep remedy for a few weeks.

  “That is good to hear.”

  “And how is Marjorie?”

  “She is well.” I smile, trying not to let the sharp edge of pain of our strained relationship show. “She is in college in California.” My smile tightens. “She goes by Nadine now.”

  We make more small talk for a few minutes, before we get down to business.

  “About your sample.” Farah stares at a paper in her hand, brown wrinkled in a perplexed expression. “It contains everything you’d expect in a soil sample. Minerals, organic matter...” She goes on to list things I do not know what are. “It also contained a small amount of blood.” She looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Do you want to tell me about that?”

  “No,” I answered. It had been a crime scene, of that I had no doubt. But if I revealed more information, would she have to contact the police? Would I be incriminated?

  But she moves on.

  “It gets stranger. There’s Oxycyte, a Perfluorocarbon.” At my blank look, she explained. “It’s a blood substitute often used in research. There’s also apomorphine...”

  She lists several more chemicals that I have no idea what are. My confusion must have been plain to her.

  “Basically,” she says, laying the paper flat on her desk and clasping her hands, “there’s a lot of chemicals used in medical experiments. And,” she pauses, “a few used in some Vodou rights. Left hand rights,” she clarifies.

  Even though Farah didn’t practice, her parents did, and she grew up learning about such things.

  Substances used in dark Vodou rights... A suspicion is growing in my heart. A suspicion that the spirits wanted me to raise Grady, wanted me to bind his soul, because the foul chemicals and even fouler magic in the soil would have made him rise again anyway. But unbound, untethered... uncontrolled.

  “Do you want to tell me where you got the soil sample?”

  “A grave,” I say, grimly, because it is mostly the truth.

  For the first time, she looks concerned. “Do you know what this means?” Anyone who knew anything about Vodou had the sense to worry about these things, whether or not they ‘believed’.

  “I’m afraid I do,” I say. “But I have taken care of it,” I assure her.

  Her posture and expression relax, and it is then I know she believes more than she lets on.

  She knows I am a priestess, a good one, and trusts that what I say is true; I have it under control.

  And I hope that is the truth. I glance at my watch. “I must go.” I have a responsibility to the living and the dead, equally. It was a long way to Chicago to meet with her, and I will be getting back very late, leaving Grady’s grave unattended for several hours. But after all these weeks without him awakening, surely he would rest one more night? “Thank you so much for your time, and for doing this for me.”

  “Do you want the report?” She offers the sheet to me.

  “Yes, please,” I say, though I know I won’t understand it any more than I did her verbal explanation. Probably less. But no matter. Perhaps it would come in useful at a future date.

  I take it from her hand and fold it into neat squares and place it in my handbag.

  She stands and I follow suit. “Tell your mother hello for me,” I say as she comes around the desk to give me a shallow hug.

  “I will. And tell Marjorie the same from me.”

  “I will,” I promise. But I don’t know when. We go long periods without speaking.

  She walks me to the door, and I get in my car as the sun is setting. It is a long drive back
to Cold Springs, especially when one wouldn’t take the interstate. Which I wouldn’t, because I don’t want to test the protection of the spirits with [Detroit] drivers.

  Bleary eyed, tired, I park my car near the cemetery. I’m thankful the streets in this part of town are dead at this hour.

  A tired laugh escapes at my own joke.

  I’ve been sleeping during the day and watching Grady’s grave at night, but today I went to the city to talk to Farah instead, so my purse feels heavy and my steps are slow through the headstones.

  It’s dark in the shadows, but the full moon gives me enough gray-blue light to make my way to the newest part of the cemetery. The headstones here are large blocks of glossy granite with ornate roses and crosses. Except the newest ones, because it takes a while for the earth in anew grave to settle enough for one. The newest graves simply have a small metal sign printed with the name and important dates of the deceased.

  By now though, I don’t even have to look for Grady’s. My tired feet lead me there automatically.

  But then I stop, because something is off.

  The grass takes a long time to come back on a grave. Now that it’s fall, the grass grows even slower. So Grady’s grave has looked raw and barren since he was buried. It still does. But now, it also looks loosened and churned up.

  I toe a clump of dirt with the tip of my shoe. It crumbles, like fresh dirt. Though there is no obvious hole, it’s clear to me that the soil has been recently disturbed.

  With a gusty sigh, I search the darkness of the cemetery and the sparsely lit street beyond, but I see nothing.

  Which can only mean one thing.

  Mr. Grady has gone home. Not to his heavenly reward, but to his wife.

  “May your love be strong enough for this”, I murmur, my breath puffing into the cool air. Because not everyone’s was.

  Adding a quick prayer to Bondye’, I return to my car. It’s time for me to go home, to sleep in my own bed.

  ***

  Maisie

  I’m cooking at the stove when I feel the weight and warmth of his hands on my hips as he presses his lips against my hair. Smiling, I lean back into him, his strong arms and scent enveloping me.

  “I love you.” His words warm me.

  “I love you, too,” I say, and look up at him.“Please come back to me.”

  Please come back to me? Why did I say that? He’s right here. I laugh at my confusion, but his expression turns sad.

  “Maisie...”

  I wake from my dream, a foreign smile on my face that fades quickly.

  His scent still lingers around me. The same scent that had almost faded out of the shirt I wear as pajamas. It’s is more memory than smell now, after all these weeks.

  I lift the collar to my nose anyway, inhaling him, tears soaking the edge. I can smell him, feel his presence in the air.

  It is comforting. And painful.

  I can feel him nearby, like he’d just left the room and would be right back. Or like he is standing right outside the bedroom door.

  I roll on to my back, wide awake, and twist the thick silver band on my thumb while I stare at the ceiling. I wear his ring too, and turning it had become a mindless, comforting habit. Moonlight filters in through the curtains, making the room a little too bright for decent sleep. Or maybe it is the neighbor’s dog barking that woke me.

  Maybe it is because the bed was way too big, too empty, and I’d only just started sleeping in my own bedroom again.

  My bedroom. It is, but it isn’t. It’s still our bedroom, our bed, and he’s still in here with me. His memory is on every object and surface and square inch of the mattress.

  I roll over and face the vacant side of the bed. All I can do is stare at it, because there should be someone sleeping there. Grady should be there, one arm up over his head, snoring softly. He’s supposed to be right there.

  But he isn’t. Grady is gone.

  More tears leak out as I lay my palm against the sheet, his ring reflecting the moonlight. I’d cried so many that I should be empty of them, but there were more. Always more.

  Please come back to me, Grady.

  I want this reality I’m in to be the dream, to be a nightmare. I want to wake up and be back at the stove with my husband.

  But after six and a half weeks, I know this is not a bad dream. I am not going to wake up from this.

  Everyone experiences loss I know, but here in the middle of it, it feels like it hurts me worse than it has ever hurt anyone else in existence.

  I’m a part of a group no one wants to be part of. There are thousands, millions maybe, of women like me. And yet I still feel utterly alone. No one missed their loved one as bad as I miss Grady. No woman ever loved their husband as much as I loved mine.

  I’ve not only lost the person closest to me, my best friend, I’ve also lost the one person who helped me function in the world, who I depended on, especially to face life’s sorrows. How am I supposed to get through a loss this big without him?

  I’m a soul without a mate, the tether between us severed. I’ve lost my other half. It’s as if he was savagely torn from my body, and I’m bleeding out.

  Some days, I do okay. Some days I can’t get out of bed. Some days I don’t care one way or the other if I do. When I can’t eat, can’t sleep, and find no joy in living, why would I? There is nothing to look forward to except endless days and nights of misery so profound I can hardly breathe around the pain. A real, physical ache where my heart is that hurts even when I’m asleep. A pain so bad that I sometimes wish I was dead, too, just so I wouldn’t have to feel it.

  If it wasn’t for my sister-in-law Krissy, checking up on me, bringing me food, making me eat and shower, I wouldn’t have made it through the last few weeks. The poor woman was grieving the loss of her brother, but I just had nothing to give back to her in the way of support. Or anyone. I could barely keep myself alive. I’d almost died of a broken heart.

  Now I’m glad I hadn’t. Now, I make sure to eat regularly, even if it’s just a few bites. Make sure to drink lots of water and take my vitamins. And I try really, really hard not to wallow too long in misery in case it causes too much stress.

  For the baby.

  Grady would have made a great father. I am certain of it. That he will never have the chance to be one is as great a tragedy as his death.

  So much was taken from him. So much was taken from me. It is both a curse and a blessing that I have this little piece of him keeping me alive.

  He was about the size of a peanut right now. He could be a she, but my instincts said ‘boy’.

  I rest my hand on my still-flat stomach, the other hand palm-down on his side of the bed, trying to bridge the emotional gap and be ecstatic about the baby the way I should be.

  But all I can manage to feel is tired. I’m so tired.

  Maybe tired enough to go back to sleep without medication. I would try, but that stupid dog had to shut up first.

  Heaving myself up, I go to the window to see what is agitating it. Sometimes raccoons get in the trashcans— I pull the curtain back and then instantly shut it again, heart pounding. A person is standing in the street, in the shadows cast from a tree, staring at the house. Was someone casing it? Should I call the police? I’d only had a split-second glimpse of a dark, immobile form.

  Slowly, my breath unnaturally loud, I pull back the curtain a millimeter at a time until there is a tiny sliver I can see through.

  And the street is empty.

  Nothing moves, not even the dry leaves on the trees. Even the dog is silent now. I close the curtain and sit on the edge of the bed. His side. I pop right back up, feeling almost like I’d sat on him. Which is crazy.

  But grief makes you crazy.

  I’m was not the same woman anymore. The Maisie with Grady as her husband is not the same as the Maisie without a husband.

  Maisie-without-a-husband couldn’t make decisions, every thought shaky and uncertain. She had weird dreams and nightmares. She tho
ught she saw him briefly sometimes, or heard his voice. She didn’t want to eat, drink, or laugh, because he couldn’t do any of those things anymore. She couldn’t even sit on her husband’s side of the bed, in his chair at the table, or on his favorite spot on the couch without feeling like she was killing him all over again.

  And sometimes, she heard and saw things that weren’t really there.

  Making sure, I pull the curtain back one last time, but the street is just as empty as it was last time. Just as empty as it should be. With a deep breath, I go back to bed, determined to get some rest for the baby.

  Chapter Four

  Grady

  I find myself at my front door.

  No idea how, what happened, or how long I’ve been standing here. The last thing I remember is the dog barking...

  But the yard next door is empty, and the moon is higher. It’s much later at night. Or earlier in the morning. Maybe the sun is coming up soon. I can’t tell.

  I look back at the door. Should I knock?

  I glance at myself, then step down the porch steps in shock. There’s a lot of blood. Everywhere.

  My hands travel over my face, my arms, my stomach. But I don’t seem to be injured. In fact, I feel better than before. More awake, more coherent. Less achy. But there’s sticky blood soaking my shirt, it’s the middle of the night, and I have no memory of what I’ve done or where I’ve been before I woke up spitting out dirt. And no memory of what has happened in the time since then. Something weird is going on, but I don’t want to know what it is. I just want to get to Maisie.

  I can’t wake her up looking like this, it’ll scare the life out of her.

  But I have nowhere else to go, and if I didn’t come home from work last night, she has to be worried.

  Work. I put a hand to my head, a weird pressure underneath my skull. I remember being at work. I remember clocking in, and putting on my hardhat. I remember snow. And cold. But when was that? Yesterday? Two days ago? There was no snow left on the sidewalks or the grass, only leaves.

  I need to find out, and she needs to know I was safe, that I’m home.

  The key. We have a spare one in a fake rock in the flowerbed.