by Brhel, John
His parents had taken the news of her pregnancy in stride. Moira and Richie spent many anxiety-filled nights in Vermont at his parents’ house planning for the baby’s arrival, though both always seemed certain about their future together.
Richie said he was off to find his wife and shook Al’s hand.
He wandered the rows of stores, which were beginning to close. There was a women’s boutique that looked like it might have some things Moira might like, and he went in. The owner showed him some purses. She too knew Moira.
Richie returned to his car and drove to Edith’s house with the new purse he had purchased for Moira. His heart dropped when he discovered no one was home.
He drove around town; it was nearing sundown and he didn’t quite know what to do, but he recalled Moira’s cousin’s offer to make him a special floral arrangement.
When he got to the floral shop it was closed. He sat on the curb out front, thinking. He remembered Candy had said Moira liked to walk the park and the forest. Obviously, the park made more sense for a woman who was expecting to give birth within the month. So he drove down to the nearby park but only found a few kids playing basketball.
“Hey guys, have you seen a pregnant redhead around?” They shook their heads. “Is there a place up on the hill in the woods where people hang out?” Richie asked, pointing toward the forest northeast of the cemetery. The young teens looked at each other, then one of the older kids stepped forward.
“Yeah…” The kid hesitated before continuing, “Just go to the top of Richard Street and keep going.” Richie thanked the kid and hurried back to his car. He thought about a depressed, pregnant Moira wandering the forest at dark, and tore up the road from the park.
The street ended at an intersection with another road running east to west. He wasn’t quite sure what the kids had meant by ‘keep going,’ so he parked his car and entered the woods at the T.
It took him a few minutes to find the small trail in the underbrush at dusk, but there was certainly a well-used path to follow into the forest. He walked for ten minutes, passing various campsites, fire pits with broken beer bottles, and ramshackle forts made from plywood.
It was a waste of time. He emerged at the other side of the forest onto a street which led to an elite hilltop neighborhood. He walked down the street, which he assumed, correctly, would lead back to his car. The sun had dipped behind a far hillside, enveloping the river valley in twilight. By now he had far surpassed worry and had entered a full-on panic.
Richie was about to enter his car and head back to Edith’s house when he heard Moira scream. It wasn’t that he knew her scream—he had just reached the point of despair where the worst possible scenarios made the most sense.
He ran toward the sound, down Richard Street and through residential backyards. The screaming was fairly continuous, almost clockwork with its regularity. He dove into the underbrush and raced through the forest, on a path he assumed would lead to the cemetery.
He saw a faint, flickering light through the trees and ran toward it. The screaming grew louder as he emerged into a semi-clearing. A group of hooded figures in dark robes surrounded the source of light. They parted when they heard him emerge from the bush. That’s when he saw her, and he, himself, shrieked at the scene.
Moira was naked, glistening with sweat, splotched with blood, and held down by two hooded figures on a stone slab. Man and wife looked into each other’s eyes as they both unleashed terror-ridden howls. Three of the hooded figures held Richie back before he could enter their circle.
“What the hell is going on?! What are you doing to my wife?! Moira!” He was clubbed unconscious from behind.
When he came to, he was lying in an earthen ditch, the hooded figures standing over him. He was drugged and couldn’t find words to speak, as the images above flickered in the firelight.
“That’s the father?” A man spoke, leaning over the ditch. Richie could make out the man’s intense, seemingly demonic features and was instinctively frightened.
Moira appeared by his side, now shrouded in a black robe, beaming as she held their newborn son in her arms.
“Yes, that’s my Richie, Daddy.” She leaned down. Richie was shocked at the revelation of her father and even more fearful of the unrecognizable, wild look on her face. Other members of the group emerged and looked down into the hole.
“You did it, honey!” Edith was the first he recognized. She stood with her sister; he could see their hands and arms still covered in blood from the delivery.
The two men from the cemetery, one he recalled named Jerry, who had been arguing with Moira’s aunt, chuckled when they saw Richie unable to move or speak.
The group began chanting over him, the same ritualistic verse from earlier in the day. More hooded figures appeared, looking down on him. He recognized most of them. Al from the diner. Moira’s blind cousin from the floral shop. Nearly everyone he had spoken to that day was there chanting in the unknown native language.
Dirt began raining down on him as they saw to his internment. He screamed in his own head, as no sound could escape his lips. More dirt fell, piling up on his arms, legs, chest, and he felt the weight and the dread of his own horrible burial.
When he could no longer see, and the accumulating mass on his chest suppressed his breathing so much that he thought he was on the verge of passing out, he heard his wife speak her final farewell.
“I love you more than words, Richie. I can’t believe we did it! It had to be this way, Richie. Our boy has such an important role—such an important purpose. Someday he will lead my people. We’ve been waiting for so long to come back home, Richie. You are now a part of something much greater.”
ONE FOOT IN THE GRAVE
Willie Morris stared out the window of his third-floor room at Floral Nursing and Rehabilitation Center and let out a deep, defeated sigh. His good friend Leonard McDaniel, who lived down the hallway in room 304, had passed from a heart attack the week prior and was now “taking up space,” as they called it, across the street at Valleyview Cemetery.
Leonard was a fellow New York Yankees fan, and he and Willie had bonded over their lifelong love for the Bronx Bombers. In fact, upon his death, Leonard left Willie his favorite Yankees cap. Willie kept it in a box in his closet for safekeeping, choosing to continue to wear his own decades-worn ball cap.
Willie's nurse, a twentysomething named Nicole, came into his room with a cart of food and set his lunch down next to his bed. She was dressed in mint-green scrubs and had curly, blond hair that made Willie wish he had been born fifty years later.
“Good afternoon, Willie,” said Nicole, as she lifted off the plastic container covering his plate. It was Thursday, and that meant a piece of rubbery chicken, powdered mashed potatoes, a pear, and green Jell-O.
"Good afternoon," mumbled Willie as he maintained his gaze on the cemetery. He would normally greet Nicole with a smile and ask how her day was. Nicole sensed something was wrong. "I'm sorry about Leonard. I know you guys were close."
Willie replied without turning away from the window. "Yeah."
Nicole picked up his breakfast tray and placed it on the cart. "Well, I hope you enjoy your lunch." She was about to walk out of the room when Willie, under his breath, said, "It's almost like it's taunting us."
Nicole stopped and turned back to him. "What's that, Willie?"
Willie's eyes were transfixed on the swath of headstones and monuments poking out of the ground across the street. The area around Valleyview was relatively nice; there was a lush park on one side and a row of quaint, little shops on the other. But that square of granite and marble directly across the street was an ever-present reminder that his days were numbered.
He had lost seven friends to Valleyview in the past two years, and they seemed to be dying off more frequently as of late. These weren't sickly, on-their-deathbed types either; these were active seniors—bingo fanatics, swim class regulars, bridge pros. He hadn't seen so many bite the big one in suc
h a short span of time since his days in WWII. And he knew what killed them back then—artillery, explosions, Japs. What killed these folks was a mystery.
"That damn cemetery. It sits there across the street, just waiting for us to croak. It's like some morbid assembly line—from here to there, with a funeral home somewhere in the middle. I might as well just walk on over and pour some dirt over my head. Save someone the trouble.”
"Don't say that, Willie," said Nicole. She came over and rested her hand on his shoulder. "You've got a lot of life in you."
"That's what I thought about Leonard, but look what happened to him. He was taking us to the cleaners in backgammon one minute and then—bam! —dead as a duck."
"It just happens, Willie. There's no rhyme or reason to it. The best you can do is just keep on keepin’ on."
"Right, right," said Willie. "I'll try. But don't be surprised if you find me stiff as a board tomorrow morning."
Nicole gave Willie a sympathetic smile and left the room.
Willie spent the rest of the day staring out the window, watching people come in and out of the cemetery. A fat man carrying his lunch. A couple of joggers. A rich-looking couple walking their dog. The scene outside Willie’s window eventually transitioned from pleasantly sunny to stiflingly dark. He was about to lie down for the night when he saw a flash of green from across the street. He focused his eyes on it, unsure of what would be coming out of the cemetery at such an hour. His eyesight had diminished severely over the years, so making out whatever it was, especially at night, was a tall order.
It was a figure, that he knew for sure, and it was heading toward the nursing home. As it neared the door, he could finally make out what it was: a man in a mint-green outfit. Before he could get a good look at his face, however, the man walked in through the front door and out of sight.
Willie got out of bed as fast as his old bones would let him, grabbed his walker, and went out to the hallway and up to the nurses’ station.
"Nicole, Nicole, I need to talk to Nicole!" shouted Willie as he approached the tall, African-American nurse behind the counter. Her name tag read ‘Gladys’.
"Nicole's shift ended at 5, Mr. Morris," said Gladys. "How can I help you?"
"I saw someone...a strange-looking person, walk out of the cemetery and into this building. I couldn't get a good look at them—my eyes ain't like they used to be. Walked straight out of there like some damned ghoul, I tell ya. Who knows what they’re up to!"
"Were they doing anything suspicious?"
"Well, for starters, who walks through the cemetery at this time of night? I thought they closed at dusk. I'm just worried it might be some kind of thug or Satanist or something."
Gladys rolled her eyes. "Mr. Morris. We have extra-tight security here. If any strange person tried coming in, our guards would stop them. Listen, if I see anybody suspicious, I'll let you know. What did you say this person looked like?"
"Well, he was dressed completely in green and he—" Willie stopped when he saw a man walking down the hall. He was dressed in mint-green scrubs and he was heading right toward them.
"This is Heath, Willie,” said Gladys as the man neared the station. “He's worked at the Center for a couple years. They just moved him up from the first floor."
"Hi, Gladys," said Heath, smiling. He was a healthy looking, brown-haired guy with a chiseled face and a smile that could blind a man.
"Heath, this is Willie," said Gladys.
"Why, hello, Willie," said Heath. "Pleased to meet you." He stuck out his hand.
Willie reluctantly shook the man's hand. "Hmm mm. Well, I'll be going to bed now." He turned and walked away, a strange and unnerving feeling in his stomach.
On his way back to his room, Willie passed Jimmy Acel, who lived in room 344. Jimmy was sitting in his favorite vinyl chair, reading The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler.
“Hi, Willie,” said Jimmy.
“Hey, Jim.”
Jimmy put his book down. “Shame about Leonard, huh?”
“It’s a damn shame, but I can’t say I’m surprised. First Ed, then Larry, now Leonard. It’s like some phantom virus has hit this place. Maybe the Grim Reaper."
Jimmy puffed up his chest. “I want to see that reaper sonofabitch mess with ol’ Jimmy Acel!” Jimmy was a crack pilot in WWII. Said to have shot down four German bombers in less than ten minutes in the summer of '43.
Willie cracked a smile. “He better come packing, huh?”
“You betcha!”
Willie said goodnight to Jimmy and returned to his bedroom. He thought briefly about the person in the cemetery again before drifting off to sleep. Was it that Heath fella?
The Germans were no match for Jimmy Acel back in WWII, but Death finally caught up to the soldier. The following morning, Gladys found him lying in bed, cold and blue.
Willie watched from his window as paramedics wheeled Jimmy’s corpse into a Lestershire General ambulance and drove off. Another one.
He walked out of his room, down the hallway, and peeked into Jimmy’s room. The covers on Jimmy’s bed were disheveled and one of his mystery novels was still cracked open on his dresser. He looked back in the hall to see if anyone was watching, then entered the room.
He flipped through the book on the dresser and smirked at the title: Beyond a Reasonable Death. He had always laughed at Jimmy’s pulp novels; the writing was terrible and the plots were beyond hokey.
He stopped smiling, however, when he noticed a strange symbol, written in red ink, on the title page. It was triangular, with what looked like three eyes appearing at each corner. The thing was intensely weird and gave him the willies.
He walked out of the room and down the hall, stopping by the nurses’ station, where Nicole was working.
“Nicole, can you tell me who was taking care of Jimmy last night?”
Nicole looked at him with sympathy. “Willie, I’m so sorry about Jimm—”
“Thanks, but can you tell me who was assigned to him?”
Nicole gave him an odd look and flipped through the logbook. “It was the new guy, Heath. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious."
“He’s a strange guy,” said Nicole. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “He’s always smiling, but in a weird way, with this vacant look...”
Willie listened intently and nodded.
"Keep this between you and me, Willie, but he and Gladys seem a bit too close."
Willie perked up. "Is that right? What do you mean?"
"I've caught them talking in private. They always give me funny looks, too, like they have it out for me. Creeps me out."
Willie thought about Gladys. She had been working on the floor for only six months or so. She wasn’t the warmest of nurses. She mostly kept to herself.
"Don't tell anybody what I said, Willie? This is between you and me. Okay?"
Willie nodded and returned to his room, worried for Nicole and for the rest of the folks in the building.
Later that night, Willie sat in his chair and looked out his window. The cemetery was pitch black save for the glow of a street light shining down upon the front gate. As he watched, the same strange man from the previous night emerged from the dark interior.
He sprung out of bed and went to his door. Cracking it open, he peered out into the hallway. Heath was talking to Gladys at the nurses station in hushed tones. After a minute, he left and entered the room of Judy Kirkpatrick, the floor’s resident bingo all-star.
Five minutes later, Heath came out of Judy's room with a content look on his face, as if he had just finished a long and fulfilling supper.
Willie walked up to the front desk. Gladys rolled her eyes as he approached.
“Gladys, that Heath guy, where did you say he’s from?”
“Why do you ask, Mr. Morris?”
Willie glared at her. “As a paying member of this establishment, I think I deserve to know who’s taking care of us."
Gladys stood up and leaned toward him.
“Heath is a licensed practical nurse. That’s all you need to know. Now go back to your room and get some rest.”
As Willie had expected, Judy was found dead the next morning. They drove her across town to Rice Funeral Home, a brief layover before they would bring her back and stick her in the ground, across the road at Valleyview.
That afternoon Willie snuck into Judy’s room, looking for clues. Pictures of grandkids and relatives hung on the walls. The room smelled like mothballs and puréed meatloaf.
He picked up Judy’s bingo card and flipped it around. There it was—the same triangular shape with the wicked eyes that he'd found in Jimmy's book.
Willie went back to his room, his 78-year-old heart pounding in his chest.
Despite his weak knees and bad back, Willie walked out of the nursing home that night and paid a visit to the cemetery. The nurses checked in every hour, so would have to hurry back before anyone noticed.
The graveyard felt darker than it had appeared from across the street. Headstones were completely shrouded in shadow, the names impossible to decipher by the unaided eye, in the gloom of a light ground fog.
He clicked on his flashlight and shone it on individual headstones. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he knew some answer had to lie on this plot of land. So many of his friends were buried here, and he owed it to them to find out.
GRADY. WINTERMUTE. TOM AND MARY BRILL. Names appeared in the glow of the flashlight as Willie scanned the cemetery. Twenty minutes passed. His old bones quickly tired from the strain of the nighttime search.
He stopped and gasped.
There, in the befogged light, was the symbol, almost jutting out at him from the severely weathered rock. The same emblem from Jimmy’s book and Judy’s bingo card. He pointed the flashlight further up the headstone and read the inscription: HEATH FARRELL. 1804 - 1844.
Willie waited in his bedroom. And waited.
When the clock struck nine, he got out of his chair and peeked out into the hallway. He watched as Heath approached the nurses station and talked to Gladys, their voices barely above a whisper.