by Brhel, John
“Let’s just get back to work, alright?” said Clyde.
They dug another half a foot down when they heard another sound. But it was no coyote. It was a subtle little Skreek-skreek-skreek-skreek, and it was coming from within the cemetery.
"Hey, did you hear that?" asked Darryl.
"Yeah. It's probably a mouse or something," said Clyde. He was dripping with sweat.
Screek-screek-skreeeeeeek.
"That doesn't sound like any mouse I've ever heard," said Seth. "Sounds more like a rat. You should see the ones they got in those New York subways. Some the size of a small dog."
"Shhhhh. Clyde leered at Darryl's numbskull cousin. "It's a damn mouse. Get back to work."
They dug for another half hour. The skreek returned every few minutes, but they ignored it and kept to their task.
The lantern went dark and Seth climbed out of the hole to get more oil. "Christ. I could be out right now with Rebecca Donaldson, making it in her daddy's T-bird. Instead I'm out digging a hole for some stiff old ladies."
Clyde looked at Darryl and shook his head. "That kid ever shut up?"
"No, not since we were kids," said Darryl.
Clyde and Darryl dug for a few more minutes, clearing away another quarter foot of dirt, when they realized Seth had been gone for twice as long as he should have been.
"Seth—what are you doing up there?" called out Darryl. There was no response.
"Hey, kid, quit screwing around!" He suddenly remembered the flask sitting in the glove compartment of his truck. "You better not be drinking any of my whiskey!"
But Seth didn't reply. Clyde and Darryl listened intently but could only hear the sound of crickets and the light summer breeze blowing over the cemetery grass.
"Goddammit," said Clyde. "We're not going to get shit done without that lantern. Seth, get the hell back here!"
An eruption of coyotes howled, seemingly in response to Clyde’s yelling. Clyde and Darryl paused, staring at each other.
"I'll go get him," said Darryl, a familiar annoyance to his tone. He stuck his head out of the hole to see if he could see Seth but immediately pulled it back down. "Holy shit!"
"What?!" said Clyde.
"Some crazy lookin’ critter was rushing toward me—straight at my head. I think it was a squirrel. It had red eyes."
Clyde laughed hysterically, even paused his work for half a minute. "Are you kidding me? A red-eyed squirrel? Are you on something? Smoking dope like one of those beatniks now?"
"I'm not kidding. Damn thing darted toward me. I'm not joking. Look up there and see for yourself if you don't believe me."
Clyde put down his shovel and mockingly tip-toed over to the side of the hole. He made a big scaredy-cat face to Darryl and slowly lifted his head out of the grave.
The cemetery had grown several shades darker since he last climbed out to relieve himself an hour prior. From his position, he could make out a few rows of graves and a big oak tree. No red-eyed squirrels, though.
He turned back to Darryl. "I don't see shit. Especially not your idiot cousin."
"I’m not lying, man. Craziest looking thing I've ever seen."
Skreek-skreek-skreeeeeeeek!
Clyde popped his head back up to investigate the sound, and a flash of brown and white leapt toward him. He screamed as the thing landed on his face and sunk its tiny, razor-sharp teeth into his cheek. He fell backward into the hole as the creature—a squirrel with horrible red eyes—gnawed on his flesh.
Darryl scrambled over to Clyde and yanked the squirrel off his head. A mouthful of skin came off with it, followed by spurts of blood that seemed to fall in rhythm with Clyde's screams.
Darryl held the squirrel by its tail, its body gyrating and whipping back and forth like a 10-pound bass caught on a fishing line.
Skreek-skreek-skee-skee-skreeeeeeeek!
"Jesus Christ!" As fast as he could, he flung the squirrel against the side of the dirt hole and brought his shovel down on its head. The squirrel flattened to the ground; blood and guts seeped out of its tiny orifices.
"Let's get out of here," said Darryl, looking with panic at his friend, who was clutching his injury. He grabbed the edge of the hole and hoisted himself up. Turning around, he gave Clyde a lift back up onto level ground.
"What the hell was that?!" asked Clyde as they made their way back to the truck. "Do you think it had rabies or something?"
"Must have been," said Darryl, looking at Clyde's raw, red cheek. "No healthy squirrel would charge at a man like that. You'll need to get a shot at the hospital, real quick. I hope that idiot kid didn't drive off with the truck."
They were about twenty yards from the vehicle when another set of red eyes appeared in front of them. Then another. Suddenly, twelve glowing eyes shone back at them like a string of Christmas lights.
Darryl took another step toward the vehicle and a set of glowing, red eyes ran along the ground and leapt at his legs. The squirrel's teeth dug into his shin, piercing through his jeans and skin like a steak knife through cheesecloth.
Clyde watched in horror as another squirrel charged at Darryl and attached itself to his other leg. The way it darted toward him it was as if the rodent were guided by some unseen force. He ran over to Darryl and kicked the squirrels away. But two more came charging not a second later. He could see the rest of them moving forward, poised to attack.
Darryl and Clyde ran away as fast as they could, a pack of red eyes trailing behind them by just a few yards. Their truck blocked, they made for Parker's office near the western gate of the cemetery.
More and more eyes lit up around them as they ran through the dark. And they weren't just squirrels either. There were deer, raccoons, rabbits. Darryl could have sworn he even saw some frogs with the evil eyes in the cemetery chapel’s reflecting pond.
They reached Parker's office and banged on the door, hooting and hollering for help. A water bowl with a sign labeled HOOCH was set on the stoop next to a chewed-up bone.
"Parker! Let us in!" screamed Clyde as he beat his fist on the hard, pine door.
"What the hell do you two want?" said Parker, muffled, from behind the door.
"The animals in the cemetery. They're possessed or something," said Darryl. "I know it sounds crazy, but they bit Clyde's face and attacked me, too. You gotta let us in."
Parker swung the door open. "Are you guys drunk? What the hell are you talking about?" He was about to give them a good talking to—but stopped when he saw what was behind them.
The creatures of the forest, the vermin, were moving toward them, squealing, their eyes ruby red, teeth and horns bared. It was like he had opened the door to a nightmare.
“What the fuck!” Parker quickly slammed the door shut, leaving Darryl and Clyde outside, the beasts just yards away.
"Parker! You bastard!" yelled Darryl, pulling on the doorknob, to no avail.
A few seconds later they heard Parker scream, but it wasn't in anger. Clyde and Darryl looked through his office window to see Hooch, red-eyed and possessed by an incomprehensible rage. The dog was on top of him, tearing his arm open.
The door swung open again a few seconds later and Parker came out screaming, Hooch chasing right behind him. Parker made it no more than ten yards when the dog knocked him down to the ground.
Parker screamed at Hooch— “Heel! Sit, boy!"—but it was no use. The dog came down on him and tore open his throat. Blood gushed out like water in a fire hydrant. A pack of squirrels jumped out of a nearby tree and rushed over to feed on the rest of him.
With the beasts distracted by their supper, Clyde and Darryl booked it toward the truck. On their way back, they saw more eyes come out from behind trees and graves and move in their direction. They arrived at the truck and Clyde practically dove through the window. Darryl paused in horror, recognizing the half-eaten corpse of his cousin Seth slouched against the passenger side door.
"You drive," said Darryl. "I'll deal with these critters." He hopped into the back
of the truck, grabbed a spare shovel, and took an attack position as he wrapped his arm around a loose leather strap.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Clyde exclaimed as he fired up the truck and hit the accelerator.
“These c’yotes killed my cousin!”
“Well, hold on then!” Clyde turned the truck back onto the gravel path as a pack of coyotes emerged from the tree line of Valleyview Forest.
One of them, a larger specimen, jumped toward Darryl. He swung and connected with the predator, sending it to the ground, where it was trampled by others in the pack. Three other coyotes followed and Darryl played home run derby with them, whacking them this way and that.
The truck was nearing the east gate of the cemetery when two more coyotes, bigger and meaner than the ones before, jumped up on the bed. One of them had a piece of a familiar redhead’s scalp dangling from its teeth. It made Darryl nearly puke in rage.
He swung and connected with it, sending it off the side of the truck, but the other one bit his leg. He fell down on the bed as the leather strap broke from the bed. He screamed in agony. The creature released his leg and jump on top of him, its teeth inches away. He could feel its warm breath on his face as he pushed the shaft of the shovel against the coyote’s neck. Up close, its eyes looked aflame.
Clyde looked back and shouted, "Darryl, hold on tight!"
Darryl grabbed the side of the truck and Clyde pulled a sharp and sudden turn. The truck tilted on its side until it was practically on two wheels, sending the coyote off the bed. They heard a loud thunk as the truck ran over the creature’s body.
Clyde pushed the pedal to the floor and sped toward the gate. There was a loud smash as the front bumper drove the gate off its hinges and sent it crashing onto the sidewalk. The gravediggers (who would never dig another grave again) sped off into the night.
Dawn approached. Two by two, the red eyes of the cemetery faded into the early morning light.
DEAD CAN DANCE
"Riddle House" by post-punk band The Birthday Party blared in Eric Verlaine's headphones as he approached his maroon locker at Lestershire High. He kept his Walkman cranked to the max at all times; that way he didn't have to hear their taunts.
Eric was dressed head to toe in black—a Damned T-shirt, pegged pants, and a leather jacket with pins of all his favorite death-rock bands. He stood in sharp contrast to his pastel-garbed classmates. Even the New Wavers with their neons and checkerboard looked normal in comparison.
He opened his locker and stuffed some textbooks inside. He grabbed a book of Rimbaud poems from the top shelf and was about to shut the door when Blane Easton, Dave Standish, and Kevin Ryerson—three of 'Shire High's worst—walked up and pinned him against his locker.
"Hey, faggot," said Blane, the de facto leader of the squad. He wore a white cardigan and boat shoes, and all the frizzy-haired girls wanted a piece of him. "I didn't know it was Halloween already."
Kevin, who had the IQ of a rock, and a face to match, chimed in. "Yeah," he snorted. "What do you think you're doing, Verlaine, going trick-or-treating or something?"
Dave didn't say anything. He just stared at Eric and smirked; it was almost worse.
"What's your guys' problem?" asked Eric. "What the hell did I do to you?"
Blane smacked the book of poems out of Eric's hand. "Nothing. We just don't like spooky homos. It's as simple as that."
A small crowd had gathered around the locker, wondering what the popular kids were going to do to the weird goth. Kyle Lucas, a junior, whispered to some of his classmates that Eric liked to take cats to Valleyview Cemetery and skin them and squeeze their blood out into a jar that he kept in his bedroom. Kyle had never seen Eric outside of school, but the whole thing sure sounded believable to his classmates.
Eric leaned down to pick up his book, but Kevin put his big, grimy sneaker down on his knuckle. He cried out in pain as he felt the full weight of the star linebacker on his hand.
The three laughed as tears ran down Eric's cheeks. When they had gotten their fill, they walked down the hall—but not before Blane called out "We'll see you tomorrow, Dracula."
Eric picked up his book and brushed it off. He looked up to see a group of his classmates staring at him bug-eyed, like he was some sort of sideshow act. Step right up and feast your eyes on the terrible, horrible Teenage Goth!
The school bell rang at 3 p.m. and Eric escaped the confines of Lestershire High. He walked to the north side of town to hang out with his friends, who were waiting for him in the cemetery. They were always there for him.
Jonathan Trumbell. Mira Parker. Abraham Hill. Sabrina Snow. They had all died more than a century ago, but they intrigued Eric. They once had loves and hates and passions just like him, he thought. When he lay down in the cemetery grass among their graves, he felt at peace—as if he and the deceased were on the same plane.
"Hi, guys," he said as he approached the crop of graves tucked away in a far corner of the cemetery. He didn't know a thing about them. But he imagined them as former poets, artists, great thinkers of a bygone era. Before the likes of Duran Duran.
Before heading home, he pulled out a book of his poems and started to read aloud something he had recently wrote.
“Tell me of your totem stones,
of the spaces I can't know,
of the life of your body
before your bones
had turned from the gristle,
when I'd only been a blade of grass
'tween your thumbs while you whistled”
* * *
Mr. Sanzo, the gym teacher, blew his whistle and the kids in fourth-period gym class started their mandatory jumping-jack/push-up routine.
Eric was at the far end of the gym, dressed in a black tank top, running shorts, and a pair of beat-up Chuck Taylors. He was going through the motions, wishing he were off in some quiet place, preferably the cemetery, free to focus on his art. Maybe write a few blank stanzas on the monotonous day to day of the American teenager. But no, he was stuck in some sweaty, smelly gym in the fucking 1980s.
Blane and Dave were there as well, and they were impossible to ignore. They stared at him and made gestures he wouldn't repeat to his stepfather on his worst day. When he looked back at them they laughed and high-fived each other. He wished he could curl up into a ball underneath the bleachers.
Mr. Sanzo broke everyone off into groups and had them do lay-up drills. As luck would have it, Eric was placed in the same group as Blane. He was standing at center court, waiting for the guy in front of him to pass him the basketball, when he felt a draft on his backside and saw his shorts (and tightie-whities) pulled down to his sneakers.
He turned around to see his classmates pointing and laughing at his pale, bare ass. Blane stood directly behind him, a devious smile on his face. Eric quickly pulled up his shorts and charged at him. He landed one weak punch to his shoulder and Blane retaliated with a swift jab to his gut. Before Eric could land another punch, Mr. Sanzo rushed over and got between the two.
"Verlaine, what the hell do you think you're doing?!" yelled Mr. Sanzo.
"But Mr. Sanzo, Blane pulled down my shorts and..."
"I don't want to hear who started what, alright? Come with me."
Blane leered at Eric and mouthed the word ‘faggot’ as Mr. Sanzo led them out of the gym and toward Principal Coscarelli's office.
"Were people so screwed up when you were alive?" asked Eric, as he looked down, red-faced and teary-eyed, at the grave of Jonathan Trumbell. "I think I live in the Age of Idiocy." Mr. Trumbell had died more than 100 years prior, but he was as real and alive to Eric as anybody in his daily life. Probably more so.
"Everybody thinks I'm some freak. It's like Oscar Wilde. The Victorians vilified him for not sticking to the status quo. I know I'm no Oscar Wilde, but it's the same shit, different century."
The wind blew through the nearby trees, and Eric could have sworn he heard a whisper.
Eric was drinking from the water founta
in outside of biology class the following day when Helen Tierney walked up to him and said hello. He turned around and wiped some excess water from his chin. He wasn't used to people greeting him in the hallway, not unless they were there to torment him.
Helen wasn't one of the popular girls, but she we no outcast either; she kind of skirted the line between punk and straight. She liked the Go-Go’s and went to punk shows, but she was friends with girls on the cheerleading squad and her dad owned a baseball card shop down on Memorial Drive. She was pretty in an old-fashioned kind of way and wore funky looking dresses.
"Hi, Helen," said Eric, nervously.
Helen smiled at him. "Nice shirt."
He looked down. Morrissey and the rest of The Smiths were printed on the front, standing on some bleak English street, looking cool as shit. "Thanks.”
"Hey, there's a party at Claire Ziering's house tonight. Should be a blast. You should come hang with me and my friends."
Eric hadn't been to a party since his friend's Empire Strikes Back-themed shindig in middle school. And there were no girls at that one.
"I'm not really sure if I can come," said Eric. "I kind of have to..."
"It will be fun," said Helen, sensing his unease. She sweetened the proposition. "Going to be plenty of good music: The Cult, Oingo Boingo, Boomtown Rats. What do you say?"
"Sure," he said, a tiny smile cracking through his morose exterior. "What time should I show up?"
Claire Ziering's luxurious house sat on a sharp hill overlooking the town of Lestershire. It was only a short drive from the cemetery and the town’s business district. The close proximity to Valleyview and his ancient friends made Eric feel a little less uneasy as he entered Claire's house.
Her parents were on vacation in Cabo, so the party was an all-out blitz. One hundred or so students from 'Shire High were crammed in the various rooms of the house. "Shout" by Tears for Fears was blasting through the Ziering's top-of-the-line Sony stereo. Empty Miller Lite cans littered the floor.