by Brhel, John
When they finished talking, Heath went into the kitchen and came out pushing a large food cart. He went down the hallway and Willie followed, tip-toeing behind.
Heath pushed the cart into Agnes Hamilton's room and closed the door behind him.
Willie put his head against the door and listened. He heard Heath greeting Agnes and talking to her about the plants sitting on her windowsill.
The conversation ceased and Willie heard footsteps walking back toward the door. Quickly, he moved away from the door and pretended to walk down the hall. A second later, Heath came out pushing the cart. He looked at Willie, smiled, and turned the corner to the next corridor.
Willie rushed into Agnes' room, hoping there was still time to save her. But when he got inside, Agnes was wide awake watching Wheel of Fortune; not a scratch on her. She actually looked quite content.
“Willie Morris, what are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, Agnes. I thought I heard you call for help.” He backed away and walked out of the room, feeling like a foolish, senile old man.
He took a seat next to her door and waited. He didn’t know if Heath would return, and he wanted to make sure he was there if he did.
Willie woke up the next morning in the hallway, his neck aching from his awkward sleep position. He saw Agnes’ room was empty, so he walked to the nurses station and greeted Gladys. “Can you tell me how Agnes Hamilton is doing?”
“Agnes? Why do you ask? Agnes is totally fine. She's down in 112, playing pinochle."
Willie felt relieved, yet utterly confused.
"Unfortunately, Violet Bradford passed away last night," continued Gladys.
Willie looked at her, dumbstruck. “Violet Bradford, down on the first floor?”
Gladys nodded.
“Who was working down there last night?”
"Nicole and I. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” He walked back to his room, unsure of what to make of the night’s events. Maybe there was another Heath Farrell back in the 19th century. Maybe the name was just a coincidence and this nursing home wasn’t haunted by a soul-sucking vampire.
The day passed uneventfully. Willie didn’t know what to make of the death on the first floor. He went to bed early that night and was awakened by the sound of someone entering his room. He lay in bed, his eyes barely cracked open. As they slowly adjusted to the light, he could see it was Nicole. She didn’t have food or medication on her, and his room didn’t need to be cleaned, so he wondered what she was doing. He watched as she crept to his dresser and, strangely, picked up his Yankees cap.
An intense light suddenly formed around the cap. Willie watched in shock as Nicole slowly sucked some sort of ephemeral substance into her mouth. He shivered as her tongue lapped up the energy, a demented look in her eyes.
Willie suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest, as if someone had jabbed him with a kitchen knife and was turning it back and forth. He felt as if his lungs were being sucked out by an industrial strength vacuum.
The door swung open and in walked Gladys. Nicole quickly dropped the hat and all of Willie’s pain began to subside.
“We’ve got a code 5 on the first floor. Let’s go,” said Gladys.
Nicole and Gladys left the room and Willie got out of bed, still shaking. He walked over to the dresser and picked up the hat. Flipping it over, he saw the same strange triangular symbol burned into the brim. He didn’t sleep that night.
When Nicole walked into Willie’s room the next morning to drop off his breakfast, she seemed startled to see him awake.
“What’s wrong, Nicole? Didn’t expect to find me in such good health?” he said, smirking.
Nicole’s stupefied look transformed into one of intense annoyance. “What do you mean, Willie?”
“Nothing. Just an old man talking nonsense. Thanks for bringing me my breakfast. Oooh, bacon and eggs.”
Nicole left the room without saying another word.
Later that day, at Willie’s request, Nicole accompanied him to the cemetery to visit Jimmy Acel’s grave. As always, Willie wore his Yankees cap. It was evening and the sun was just beginning to approach the horizon.
“I know you weren’t asleep last night,” said Nicole, as they walked the gravel path.
"I’m an old man. I don’t sleep that well. I have crazy dreams with all this medication you guys make me take.”
“I want to show you something before we stop at Jimmy’s grave. Over this way.” They turned into an older, more secluded corner of the cemetery. The headstones in the section were crumbling; some of them were barely holding together.
They approached the grave. It almost felt inevitable. There, inscribed in granite, was the name: NICOLE MEYER. A small daguerreotype appeared underneath, and it looked as if it Nicole had posed for it not a week prior. Willie looked at her, aghast, and she smiled back as if she were waiting for his reaction.
“Why, Nicole?” he said gently. “Why?”
“I can’t die, Willie.” She grabbed his arm and he winced at the inhuman strength of this petite woman.
“I had a feeling about you, Nicole,” said Gladys, who appeared from behind a mausoleum with Heath.
“We had to be sure,” said Heath. “It’s been so long since I’ve felt your presence, I’d almost forgotten your true form.”
Without hesitation, Heath and Gladys rushed toward Nicole and tried to tackle her. Nicole easily dispatched Gladys, throwing her to the ground and knocking her out cold.
Heath grabbed Nicole by the arms and the two tumbled on the grass. Heath managed to get on top of her, but Nicole pushed him up and tossed him aside with ease. She stood quickly and lunged toward Willie, tackling him to the sod, wrapping her hands around his feeble head.
“Don’t worry, Willie,” she said. “You’ll get to see Jimmy real soon.”
Her lips parted and she started her sucking routine, a fantastic glow appearing around his baseball cap. But something was wrong. She started choking. Then convulsing like a cat heaving up a massive hairball. She arched her back and howled, dropping the cap and Willie to the ground.
“What? What did you do?” she said, holding the cap in her trembling hand.
The glow around the cap receded and Nicole’s body began to disintegrate—her powers directed not toward Willie’s energy but toward the dead aura of Jimmy Acel. The skin on her face caved inward, revealing a rotting, black skull. The rest of her body followed, her bones cracking and a vile, oozing substance draining from her, until she was reduced to a pile of putrid ash on the ground.
The trio stood silently around the remnants of Nicole. A harsh wind blew, scattering whatever remained of her throughout the cemetery. Willie picked up the cap and looked at the brim. The name “JIMMY ACEL” was written in black marker on the inside; no symbol, no curse. It had worked.
“We didn’t know it was her,” said Gladys, walking up to Willie with a weary look on her face.
Heath appeared behind her, and it was clear under the moonlight that he was not comprised of the same flesh and blood as Willie. He could see right through him, and could make out Jimmy’s grave through his shade.
“I was her first victim.”
Heath explained some of it to Willie. Some people have unfinished business and are left in between worlds with the option of improving their lot in the unliving; he had chosen to work toward a higher plane of existence. Nicole had taken the easy route, intending to occupy this world for as long as she could by draining the living of their life force.
Heath thanked Willie and Gladys before fading away into an ethereal light.
On his way home, Willie stopped by Jimmy’s grave and dropped off his friend’s baseball cap. He smiled as he returned to his window seat at Floral Nursing. The place across the road didn’t seem quite so ominous anymore.
AFTER THE GAME
Stephen trudged past the opposing team’s bus in the parking lot at Greene Park. They were celebrating their late-inning win over Lestershire High w
hen they saw him and really rubbed it in. He had made the fatal error that cost his team their freshman baseball game. The guys on the other team laughed at him and mocked his misplay as he hung his head low, his bat and glove in hand for the long, lonely trek home.
He would be kicking himself over his decision for some time. He fielded the ball cleanly and threw it wide to the catcher guarding home plate instead of to first for the final out. The catcher couldn’t sweep the ball down in time to tag the sliding runner and it was over. Stephen didn’t bother calling his mom for a ride. It was already dusk after eleven innings of play, and he needed a long walk to cool down and sit with his disappointing performance.
Just across the street he slid into the cemetery for his usual shortcut home, leaving the busy park and taunting victors behind. It was a quiet walk, one he often took to and from the field for practice and games. He usually enjoyed the slow saunter up the long hill, through the forest and over the creek, past the high school, and finally to his house in one of the nicer neighborhoods.
Stephen dawdled in front of familiar graves. He read the names, some of whom shared his last name, some with small pictures, daguerreotypes from a different era—it distracted him for minutes at a time until his thoughts returned to baseball and his poor performance.
The sun was setting. He sat down in the grass among a less clustered patch of graves. He was a passable high school ballplayer but was getting to the age where it was clear he wasn’t going to be a pro- or even college-level athlete. It was easy to cry, so he did—rolling his bat in the grass, sitting next to a child’s final resting place. Someone had left a plastic car from the newest Pixar movie for the kid even though the boy had been dead ten years.
He was jostled out of his self-pity and wandering thoughts by an approaching form from a little way down the hill. The caretaker had seen Stephen wander through enough. Other people jogged and walked Valleyview—maybe it was late enough where he would get a warning. He noticed he had been tapping his bat against a small, flat grave marker, probably attracting someone’s attention.
Stephen didn’t want to deal with an adult hassling him and stood up ready to move on. He waved off the coming form and continued up the path so as to avoid confrontation. The man was gaining on him. Stephen thought it odd that he had not been warned or greeted. He turned and continued up the gentle incline, walking backwards a short way. He saw that it was an old man in a suit, only about thirty or so yards away. By now it had become so dusky he couldn’t make out much about him.
“Sorry, I’m leaving right now.” Stephen hoped that was enough to get the guy to leave him alone. He turned back and quickened his pace. Not ten seconds passed when he could hear the old man gaining on him, his labored shuffling. He was surprised the man could keep up.
“Sir, I had a late game. I’ll be out of here in a couple minutes.” He didn’t bother turning for a response and kept pumping his feet. He was getting worried that this old fellow might not be with the cemetery, but someone who had followed him in. Stephen considered the possibility that his trailer was some sort of molester or abductor—but the thought didn’t stick when he remembered he was a solid six feet and could really swing a bat.
The man in the suit was now on his heels. He was getting back some of that adrenaline that had seeped out of him after the final play of the ball game and was ready to run. The man groaned behind him and Stephen practically jumped out of his cleats. He spun to confront the man.
“Gimme a break, dude—what’s up?” The guy didn’t respond and had a wild look on his face which genuinely frightened the teen. He lunged at Stephen, grabbing his jersey. Stephen yelled and jumped back, releasing himself. He pushed the guy back with the edge of the bat then ran off the path and into a maze of large headstones and mausoleums.
Unfortunately, running through a cemetery near dark isn’t the safest of options, and he soon tripped over a small, flat grave marker and twisted his ankle enough to yelp in torment. He grabbed his glove and bat and jumped up to feel a sharp, shooting pain radiating from his ankle through his leg, and fell back down to the ground with a loud groan.
“Ah, shit…,” Stephen sighed in a near whisper, clutching his hurt leg. He could hear the old man in the suit groaning and shuffling in his direction, so he crawled between two nearby mausoleums and hoped the creepy guy had dementia and would forget he was chasing him.
He hid in his cubbyhole, collecting himself for a few minutes, before the man appeared and again lunged at him, grabbing at his jersey and knocking the cap off his head. He prodded and jabbed the man back, afraid to actually hurt the old guy, who was obviously not all there.
“C’mon man, leave me the hell alone! Don’t make me actually hit you with this bat!” Stephen thought of his own grandpa at Floral Nursing and Rehabilitation Center. He didn’t even remember his own wife due to his advanced Alzheimer’s. This senile guy pawing at him was probably somebody’s grandpa. The out-of-control man in the suit eventually backed off from some of the harder jabs to the chest.
Stephen was breathing heavy, waiting to hear the shuffling again. When five minutes passed, he got up on his now swollen ankle and used the bat as a crutch to begin limping out into the open.
“Goddammit!” The crazy old coot tackled him and tore at his jersey and pants, tossing the bat in his melee against the young man. Stephen screamed in abject fear of being a six-foot-something, fifteen-year-old cemetery rape victim, abused by a groaning, wheezing octogenarian.
Thwack! The elderly man’s head cleaved a foot above Stephen. Some blood spurted onto his cheek and neck as the man in the suit shuddered then crumpled on top of the teen. Stephen recognized the axeman instantly.
“Jesus! What the hell is going on?!” He practically screamed at the caretaker, shocked that he had just axed an old man in the head. The middle-aged, grizzled cemetery employee wiped his axe and reached down to help Stephen to his feet.
“Get up, kid. Let’s go call your parents.” Stephen stood with some effort and was supported by the caretaker as he hobbled back down the hill toward the service shack.
Stephen called his mom to come get him. He said he had fallen in the cemetery and sprained his ankle.
“I can’t believe you axed that old man in the head!” The older man just looked at him funny and smirked.
“Sorry, kid, I lost track of the guy. I usually get them in the ground before they start walking. There were a bunch of kids here earlier trying to desecrate Schwartz’s Tomb. Had a hell of a time rounding ’em up and kicking ’em out.” Stephen just looked at him dumbfounded. “Four feet of dirt and sod is usually enough to keep them down. I got distracted after his funeral and left him hanging, and... you know.”
“You’re telling me that guy was dead?!” The caretaker nodded. Stephen was in a state of disbelief. Everything after he left the ball field now seemed to take on an otherworldly quality.
“Looks like your mom’s here.” A car pulled up in front of the small shack. Stephen stood with his bat and glove to leave, but paused in the doorway to thank the man.
“Well, I’m glad you helped me out back there, whether that guy was living or dead...so, thanks.”
“No problem. I should’ve gotten to him sooner and none of this would’ve happened. For whatever reason, it seems to be more of a common occurrence these days.” The caretaker smiled and waved Stephen off, then stopped him as if he forgot to add something. “And kid, let’s keep this between you and me.” The caretaker winked at him and he nodded an affirmative before slipping out the door and into his mom’s car.
PACT AND PRINCIPLE
Jonathan nervously waited at the child’s grave for the parents to arrive. He was never sure how it would go, but it was an easy buck, and in some twisted way he thought maybe he was helping people find closure.
The couple soon arrived, recognizing Jonathan from his website. “You must be the medium?” asked the man. Jonathan shook his hand; the wife was still distraught and distant, due to her re
cent loss.
“Yes, sir. Mr. and Mrs. King?” They nodded. He continued, “I’ve been honing in on your son for most of the afternoon. I think I have a clear channel to receive any message he may have.” He lied.
“Can he talk?” The woman spoke, her lip quivering. The psychic felt a momentary pang of guilt but continued the reading.
“Yes, I think so. Gary’s worried about his pet...dog, er, cat.” He searched the parents’ faces; he was going to have to do this cold. He kicked himself for not at least looking up their Facebook profiles.
“What about him?” The father’s pleasant affect diminished into a slight scowl. Jonathan was starting to sweat.
“He says he’s worried the cat will miss him.”
The woman shook her head and walked off.
“Gary hated that cat. You should be ashamed of yourself.” The father shook off Jonathan’s further attempts at salvaging the session and the medium watched his two hundred dollars walk off.
Jonathan paced the cemetery, irritated that he had wasted his time and jeopardized his relatively good brand due to a no-show. Various spirits tried to gain his attention, but he ignored them.
“The boy should be here; it’s seven days since. Why isn’t he here?” He stormed through a number of apparitions, clear as day to him but no one else living. Many begged him to assist them in some way, some with a specific purpose, others merely caught up in the trappings of the living.
“What? You want me to help you?” He admonished a particularly persistent and ghastly woman, “You died in 1920. Anyone who cared about you is long dead.” She vanished and he could still hear her ethereal sobbing as he made his way toward a newer section of the cemetery.
“Is there anyone present who has left the world of the living this century?” It’s getting harder to make a living out here. “No one? That’s what I thought.” He started up the hill toward that day’s burial. He knew it would be a long shot trying to contact one of the freshly departed. It took a few days for spirits to find their land legs—but he was getting desperate for business.