Tales From Valleyview Cemetery

by Brhel, John

  He looked at his watch. It was 4:52. He knew the cemetery hours like the back of his hand; the caretaker closed the front gate at 5 p.m. sharp in winter.

  “Mom, I gotta go,” he said, the words slipping out through stuttered breaths. “I’ll see you next month, okay? Bye!”

  He ran, up and over a hill teeming with mausoleums. His mother’s grave was located ten or so yards from the back fence, and he had underestimated how hard it would be to navigate back to the front gate in the dark. His feet pounded on the gravel path, scattering little pebbles, sending a loud crunch-crunch-crunch through the cemetery. Sweat dripped down his face and stung as it hit the February freeze.

  He looked down at this watch. It was 4:55. He still had time.

  But when he turned the corner onto the main path out of the cemetery, his heart sank. The large, iron gate was closed, its eight-foot posts towering over him. A heavy-duty steel lock hung from the bars.

  No no no no. This can't be. It's not 5 yet.

  He looked at his watch again. It still said 4:55—but the second hand wasn't moving. He wasn't sure when the watch had frozen, but it was certainly well past 5 p.m.; the moon was high in the sky, casting a bright, white light on his worried face.

  He tugged at the lock, hoping it was old and worn and would break off, but it was solid. It would take a good set of wire cutters to break that sucker off. He thought about climbing up and over the fence, but the entire cemetery was surrounded by spear-like iron posts, the kind you would see around a castle in some schlocky horror flick.

  Terrible thoughts started to flood his brain, as if the levee holding back all of his worries had suddenly exploded. He was used to seeing the absolute worst in any situation, but this was a new dimension of terror.

  That’s when he saw it.

  At first, he thought it a shadow. Maybe a car passing by down the street, throwing the light off. But there were no cars around; not a single one had passed by in the last ten minutes. Besides, shadows don't move like that.

  Randall couldn't pinpoint what he was looking at. There was no analog, nothing that existed in nature to compare it to. It resembled a human being only superficially; it had two arms, two legs, and something akin to a head. It's "skin" was black and oily, and as the thing moved, its outer layer slid around like some kind of sludge, making a sickening squeezing noise with each "step" forward. And despite its loose, dripping appearance, it was moving fast—in Randall's direction.

  He juked between trees and mausoleums, running as fast as he could from the creature. Sitting in an office chair for eight hours a day had sapped most of his fitness over the years, but the sight of the creature's gelatinous, bog-like body added a much-needed spring to his step. He turned around and saw it slide over a tombstone. What looked like its torso plopped down on the frozen dirt and sprung back up, as if the laws of physics had ceased to exist.

  Randall knew he couldn't keep this game up all night. The gates were locked, and eventually this thing would gain on him. He thought of its slimy, tar-like flesh, enveloping his body, sucking up his bones and organs like a Hoover from hell.

  He was yards from his mother's grave when he got an idea. Her tombstone was several feet away from a mausoleum, which itself was just yards from the cemetery fence. If he could hop from her tombstone onto the mausoleum, he could leap over the fence and out of this nightmare.

  The creature was just yards behind, its incomprehensible form sloshing toward him. He readied himself for the leap, throwing his elbows out to his side and ducking, as the creature's extremities reached out toward him, its shapeless hands mere inches from his body.

  He leapt on top of his mother's tombstone as the creature's black fingers came down, barely missing him. The gap between the tombstone and mausoleum was longer than he estimated, but he used his momentum to fling himself onto the stone roof. He looked at the cemetery fence. It was a relatively long jump. He steadied himself to get a running start.

  Just then the creature's slimy hand grabbed his ankle and started to pull. He kicked at it and broke free, but the creature's rubbery appendage extended and reached toward him again. Randall looked back and saw its face, a horrific assemblage of teeth, bone, and boils. It leered at him with unfathomable glee, as if he had been waiting for him in the cemetery since the dawn of time.

  Giving it all his sad and worn-out body could, Randall rushed from the mausoleum and leapt into the night sky.

  * * *

  Chief Burnett stepped out of his squad car with his morning coffee and walked over to the cemetery fence, where the coroner and several of his officers were already gathered. Forrester, the newest guy on the force, turned away and puked.

  "Christ, Forrester," said Burnett. "You nearly spewed on my new shoes."

  When Burnett saw the body impaled on the fence, he too nearly emptied his stomach.

  Randall Orr was hanging there like some half-assed scarecrow, slumped over, a sharp, blood-soaked spike sticking out from his chest. He had a deranged look on his face, which had grown white from the loss of blood and the February freeze.

  "Goddamn junkies," said Burnett to the coroner, who was getting ready for Forrester and the other unlucky rookies to lift Randall's body off the post and onto a stretcher. "This guy must have been on PCP. Who the fuck would try jumping that?"

  MOIRA’S HOMECOMING

  Richie and his new wife, Moira, were just married and expecting a baby. After a short honeymoon in the Finger Lakes, they were driving to Moira’s hometown of Lestershire. Her mother, Edith, was a midwife and they wanted her to deliver the child.

  “Richie, before we get to my mom’s, I want to introduce you to my daddy,” said Moira, who sat in the passenger seat, rubbing her belly.

  Richie and Moira had met the previous fall as students at the university, which sat just across the river from Lestershire. He was a grad student and she was a sophomore. Despite the proximity, Richie had never stepped foot in Lestershire.

  They crossed the river and drove into town. Little mom-and-pop shops dotted the thoroughfare, a sharp contrast to the abandoned storefronts Richie had grown accustomed to seeing upstate.

  “Turn left at this light and pull into the parking area before the chapel,” said Moira. “We’ll get out and walk up.”

  Richie parked and helped Moira out of her seat. She had a little trouble getting the seat belt off over her swollen belly. He held her by the arm and helped her traverse the gravel path that led to her father’s grave.

  “So we’re looking for a mausoleum, right?” said Richie.

  Moira hesitated before shaking her head. “No, we moved him from the mausoleum...and buried him.”

  The way she hesitated made Richie recall what happened at the county clerk’s office the week before, while applying for their marriage certificate. Moira wasn’t 22 as she said she was; she was 24 and actually a year older than him. They exchanged terse words; things got so heated that the clerk had to ask them to keep it down.

  They walked further into the cemetery and Moira paused. She wobbled and told Richie she felt lightheaded and wanted to go back to the car.

  Richie sighed. “Moira, why didn’t we just drive up here?

  Moira broke into tears and Richie walked her back to the car, chalking her behavior up to a late-pregnancy, hormone-induced mood swing. They drove out of the cemetery and made their way across town to Edith’s house.

  Moira hadn’t stretched the truth when she had told Richie that she hadn’t come from money. The house was dilapidated. It seemed to sink into the ground, as if something was pulling at it from below. Tall weeds sprouted from the earth and the side yard served as the final resting place for a number of rusted-out automobiles.

  When they walked up the front steps Richie half-expected some old crone with a pointy black hat to come out, cackling. Instead, out walked a woman with Moira’s hazel eyes and welcoming smile, albeit a decade older than he had expected. She went to Moira first and gave her a big hug, before rubbing her dau
ghter’s belly and whispering to her grandchild-to-be.

  “And you must be Richie,” said Edith. She gave him a fierce hug. “It’s so nice to meet you. We have big plans for you and our daughter.”

  Richie and Moira followed Edith inside and sat down for a lunch of roast beef and potatoes. Richie kept his eyes focused on the plate so as to avoid looking at the yellowed, peeling wallpaper and the mound of dead flies piled up in the overhead light.

  “I still can’t believe my daughter is going to be the first Clegg to graduate from college,” said Edith. “Just two more semesters, right dear?”

  Richie looked up from his plate and swallowed a mouthful of potato. “Two more semesters?” He looked at the women quizzically; he knew Moira was nowhere near completing her degree, but his query went unanswered.

  “I’m so happy to have my Moira back home. It’s been so long. I can’t wait for all three of you to live here with Sybil and me. Oh, it will be wonderful.”

  Richie stopped chewing and looked at his wife in a way that said he was more than irritated.

  “You two finish up and I’ll go wash the dishes,” said Edith. She went into the kitchen, leaving Richie and Moira alone.

  “What the hell is your mother talking about? Does she actually think we’re going to live here?” asked Richie, with a hint of disgust at the prospect. Moira looked like she was on the verge of tears and wouldn’t make eye contact with her husband.

  Richie, having had enough of her lies and half-truths for the day, got up and left.

  “Richie, wait!” But he was already out the door and backing out of the driveway.

  He gripped the steering wheel tightly and sped away from the house, not sure where he was headed. His parents lived four hours away in Vermont and the lease on his apartment had ended at the beginning of the summer. He and Moira talked about finding a place near the university, and he had applications out at a few of the local private schools in need of English tutors.

  Realizing he couldn’t just drive aimlessly for hours (and that he had been barely able to swallow food in that nasty excuse for a dining room), Richie stopped at the Broadview Diner, just past the cemetery.

  He found a seat at the counter and sat down, fuming.

  Move in? Move in?! What do I really know about this girl? And we’re having a kid... She told me she was on birth control—and I was protected. I’m 23 and haven’t finished my master’s—I make next to nothing as a TA...

  “Can I help you, sir?” said the cook behind the counter.

  “Not unless you’ve got scotch back there.” Richie gave a halfhearted grin.

  The cook laughed and handed him a menu. “I wish. What’s the matter, fella? Woman trouble?”

  “Yeah, my wife Moira is driving me—” He paused at the cook’s seeming recognition of the name. He figured in a small town he wouldn’t want to accidentally badmouth someone’s cousin or niece.

  “I know Moira. My name’s Al. So you’re Richie?”

  Richie was taken aback and wasn’t sure how to proceed. Al smiled at him and continued. “I’ve known her since she was a little kid. A real sweet girl, close to her family. Lucky guy.”

  Richie relaxed. “We probably should’ve gotten to know each other better before we rushed into this.”

  “No woman is going to tell you everything up front, buddy. That’s just the way they are.” Al smirked at Richie.

  “Outright lies, though?”

  “The point is, they don’t consider themselves liars and want to present to you the best version of themselves. And they usually have the best of intentions too, that’s the thing. So, you can either go out and try to find the ultimate, unabashed truth of things—or you can do what the rest of us do and let them live out their little fantasies.”

  Richie half-smiled, not exactly consoled about the matter or by the older man’s dated outlook on women. He finished his burger with his thoughts and decided it would be best to head back to his wife and unborn child.

  He returned to Edith’s place and immediately apologized to both his mother-in-law and Moira for leaving so suddenly. Moira didn’t push him, and they went to bed as a functioning married couple.

  The next morning, they attended a memorial for Moira’s father at the cemetery. When they arrived, Moira’s aunt Sybil was standing at her father’s grave with two unfamiliar men.

  As they approached, Richie could hear the group chanting, partaking in some sort of strange ritual. Moira pointed out Jerry and Carl to Richie, but the group made no notice of the coming couple. The whole thing made Richie feel uncomfortable and out of place.

  The grave itself was just a flat granite marker inscribed with the name ‘CLEGG.' He felt sorry that Moira thought she had to lie about her own father’s final resting place. When he turned to her, she was chanting along with them, almost in a trance. Her face seemed vacant of her normal, vibrant range of expression. The speech was unfamiliar to him.

  Richie was a Renaissance scholar with a specialty in Romantic literature. He was well-acquainted with most Latin-based languages, and quite a few of the Slavonic ones—so to hear something so foreign that he couldn’t make out any of the words was a curiosity.

  When the chanting stopped, the men and women seemed to return to normal. They greeted Moira and Richie briefly before chatting with one another about various events, gossip, and family news. Richie pulled his wife aside and questioned her about what he had just witnessed.

  “What was that? I’ve never heard that language before. Was that a prayer?”

  Moira looked at her relatives, unsure how to respond. They seemed to be engaged with each other, so she felt at ease to talk quietly with her husband.

  “It’s an Indian language. Daddy was half-native, but I don’t remember which tribe he belonged to. I think we were just asking for the ancestors to return to the land and watch over everybody and keep my father company.” Richie nodded at her childish explanation of what was likely a much more complicated ritual.

  They were startled from their conversation when her aunt Sybil began arguing vehemently with one of the men that Richie had been briefly introduced to.

  “The time is nigh, Sybil!” said the man.

  “Certainly not. We will wait!” Sybil was in the man’s face, her index finger practically jabbing his flabby jowl.

  Sybil looked back at Richie and his skin crawled at her intensity. She backed off from the man but continued to berate him in their native language. Edith got involved and was trying to quell her sister’s lividity when the other old man stepped in and began arguing with her.

  Richie looked to Moira for direction, but she was clutching her belly, overwhelmed by the sudden infighting of her family. He was transfixed as he watched the scene unfold, the intensity and seeming vitriol the men and women spewed at each other over who knows what.

  When he turned to Moira again, she was gone. He figured it was too much for her, and he jogged back down to the car, expecting to find her crying in the front seat. But when he got to the car, she was nowhere to be seen.

  Richie walked the sidewalk in front of the cemetery, looking for his wife, searching the wide expanse of the graveyard to no avail. He could still see her family huddled together around the grave, likely arguing. He went across the street to the deli, hoping she had slipped in for something to drink.

  “Good morning, sir. Make sure you see the board for our daily specials," said the butcher as Richie walked in. It was an old Red & White, a small market with a big deli case in the back. He searched the three aisles, then asked the butcher if he had seen a petite redhead walk in.

  “Oh yeah, Moira. You must be Richie, then? I saw her walk by not ten minutes ago. Probably headed to her cousin’s flower shop just up the block.” Richie thanked the man and rushed out of the store. He saw the florist’s sign, Allen Flowers, and half-jogged to it.

  When he entered the flower shop he was again greeted pleasantly by another one of the town’s business folk.

  “
Hello? What can I do for you?” asked the woman behind the counter.

  Richie was now breaking a light sweat, breathing heavier than normal.

  “Are you related to Moira Clegg? Have you seen her?” The woman smiled at Richie and asked if she could get him a glass of water. He declined. She came to him from behind the table where she was working on an arrangement. He thought it odd how she felt her way around. When she entered the light from the window Richie could see her eyes were a milky-white, and it made sense. She was blind.

  “Hi, Richie. My name is Candy. Moira stopped in for a minute. She was upset about her family, as always.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  Candy shrugged. “Knowing her, she just needs a few hours to herself. She might have gone to the park for a walk or up into the forest where we used to play as kids.”

  Richie threw up his hands in frustration.

  “She’s crazy for you, Richie. She’ll find you when she’s ready. Go get lunch, visit some shops, and buy her something nice; then come back here and I’ll put together a bouquet for you to take to her.”

  He thanked the woman and walked back down Memorial Drive, noticing Moira’s family was gone from the cemetery. He then headed to the now-familiar Broadview Diner.

  Richie settled down as he ate another burger and chatted with Al at the lunch counter. Al was busy with the noontime crowd and didn’t have as much advice to offer as he had the night before.

  Richie hung around for a few hours, watching the people of Lestershire come and go. His eyes wandered every so often over the cemetery and out onto the street, hoping his wife would appear and they could go home.

  He did love Moira. In all honesty, he couldn’t deny that he was completely enamored of her when he first saw her wandering through the stacks of the university library. It felt natural to him how soon they became a couple, and how excited they both were when she moved into his apartment.