Tales From Valleyview Cemetery

by Brhel, John

  As Jonathan ascended the hill he saw a dark figure under the tent at the new burial site. He assumed it was a priest and hesitated, as most priests and theologians knew him well and hated him because he could provide services well beyond their abilities. It was better that Jonathan hadn’t continued up that path, as his day went from very bad to horrendous when the figure rose over the open coffin and separated the spirit from the corpse.

  Oh, boy. The medium spun on a dime and hoped he hadn’t been spotted. He fully intended to leave Valleyview and never return, but he was stopped by an older, familiar, and unusually corporeal apparition with surprising strength.

  “Give me a break. I can’t help you,” Jonathan said.

  The former caretaker, Charlie, held him tight. “You know what’s going on back there, Jon. How are you going to just walk out?” The medium shook his suit jacket off into the ghost’s hands and continued toward the exit.

  “Watch me.” Jonathan jogged out of the cemetery and went home.

  Two weeks passed and Jonathan needed to get back to business. He tried out some of the newer cemeteries, but they were proverbial ghost towns compared to Valleyview. He had debated going back for days, but ultimately that was where the money was. So he returned to try and conjure up some fresh spirits.

  A number of ghosts lined the fence, pleading their cases as he walked to the main entrance. “Sir, my daughter...You’ve got to tell my daughter not to turn on the range. I’m afraid there’s been a terrible gas leak.” The messages seemed to all run together, merging in a mishmash of tragedy.

  “My husband killed my father.”

  “Daddy, is that you?”

  “They drowned the lot of them in the river.”

  Jonathan had heard their stories countless times. He was on the lookout for someone new who was ready to communicate. He could always sense more spirits, but it took time for some to reveal themselves.

  As he walked the paths through the cemetery, he noticed that the other side had become eerily quiet—then he saw the shadow. Even the dead were hiding from it. The demon was perched on a mausoleum, waiting for something, possibly waiting for him—but he wasn’t going to hang around and find out.

  Jonathan made a beeline for the exit, sure whatever it was had seen him and was watching him. Charlie appeared and easily kept pace with the psychic.

  “There are plenty of innocent folks in here, Jon. You’re just going to up and walk out on them?”

  “You of all people...er, former people, should talk, Charlie.” The ghost was surprised he knew his name.

  “I’m making my amends, Jon.” Charlie had taken it upon himself to be a shepherd of sorts—Valleyview’s own concierge to the dead.

  “This has nothing to do with me, pal.”

  “He’s been here for months now, Jon. From what I hear, this is the only game in town. What are you gonna do when this demon’s collected every lost soul before you can wring your dollar out?” The apparition had a point.

  Jonathan stopped just outside the main gate to consult the old spirit through the cemetery fence. “I’m not a demonologist, or an exorcist for that matter. I channel the dead for a living. I make my money; everyone gets what they want.”

  Charlie shook his head at the narrow-minded psychic. “I’m afraid an exorcist wouldn’t help much in this case. This thing is of the elemental variety, and has been coming and going for a couple centuries now.” Charlie had been one of many complicit caretakers who looked the other way when the demon was fed by the cemetery owners.

  “This isn’t 1955. The Valleyview LLC isn’t owned by the Lesters anymore—and I really should be going. I don’t want to become acquainted with that creature.” Jonathan knew much of the local history, having lived his whole life in Lestershire.

  The ghost shook his head at the sometimes conman. “Give me another minute, son. There may be a board of directors now, but I assure you, the pact has passed on.”

  “What pact? ...Wait, I get what you’re saying. You’re going to tell me Lester made a deal with the devil and that’s how the family gained their fortune.” The ghost grabbed Jonathan by his tie through the iron fence and yanked him so they were face to face, the dead man revealing his true, tormented visage. Jon shuddered and tried to pull back.

  “You think this demon is messin’ around up there?”

  Jon shook his head. Charlie released him and returned to a more pleasant affect before continuing, “But in a matter of speaking, yes. The great Harry Lester parlayed a land deal that his great-grandfather made into a wealthy factory town.”

  Jon sighed. “I’m assuming it’s more complicated than that?”

  Charlie knew that this particular shyster medium was the only one who could help. He had never come across a living soul with quite the reach into the world of the dead as Jonathan.

  “When General Clinton cleared this land of natives and drove them from the banks of the Quee-Hanna River, Charles Lester made a deal with a local Indian tribe. They leased him their land in return for supplies and aid in escaping, with the understanding that someday they would return. Lester was a pioneer out here and had an established trading post for twenty years before the expansion west. This was great farming land. Generations of Lesters grew the family business leasing land to Dutch immigrants and amassing the wealth that Harry eventually used to build the first factory. However, the Indians left something behind as a guarantee that their contract with Lester was binding.”

  Jonathan interjected, “They left a demon behind...to do what exactly?”

  “Their shaman, the land and the demon are all one and the same. He’s bound to the land and he’s determined to fulfill the pact Lester made with his tribe. This thing’s been growing more powerful each generation, taking souls and lives as payment, even reaching beyond the cemetery.”

  “I’m not following. How have the Lesters been able to benefit from having a murderous elemental on their land?”

  “The demon only became a nuisance to Harry Lester when he filled this land with people, houses, and factories. When the creature appeared on the hillside one evening, he panicked and tried to pay the debt all at once. The factory fire in aught-five was one of his attempts to feed the beast. It didn’t quite work out as he had planned, and his son, Donald, was the one who built this cemetery and figured out how to undermine the reach of the demon.”

  Jonathan again interjected, “By feeding it the souls of the dead after burial?”

  “More or less. My father was the caretaker before me. He determined that it only needed a few souls each year to be satiated, and that it had no power in the new portion of the cemetery across the road. So we would bury the bodies outside the creature’s domain and it wouldn’t reappear for years, until there was some sort of accidental death within or very near the cemetery.

  “The beast was confined to cemetery grounds and enough folk were dying to feed him, but he’s since grown hungrier and powerful enough to draw people in. He’s taking the innocent, elderly, even children. So the ownership has from time to time buried new bodies in the old cemetery, and even resorted to select living sacrifices, I’m afraid. It won’t be long now until the demon can venture out into the valley and take lives and souls as he pleases.”

  Jonathan was horrified. Had he known any of this he would have left town years ago. Elementals, demons, and shadow forms hated the living, especially the few that could sense them.

  “I can’t deal with this. That thing will kill me if it knows I’m around. I’ve already stayed too long. Best of luck against that thing.”

  Jonathan walked the sidewalk, spirits trailing him on the other side of the fence, begging him not to leave just yet. He looked back one last time before he turned the corner. Charlie shook his head at him and vanished.

  * * *

  Jonathan was visited in a dream by a young boy who had recently passed. The boy was desperate to contact his parents and provide them comfort in their grieving. Since the boy had recently been buried
in Valleyview, Jonathan would have to risk being found out by the demon if he wanted the payday.

  He chose the easy money, and returned to the cemetery he vowed to never again step foot in (for as long as it had a soul-sucking, murderous inhabitant, anyway.) Charlie was nowhere to be found, for once, and Jonathan soon located the spirit of the boy.

  “Will your parents come? What will you tell them when they arrive?” Jon went through his usual series of questions when meeting a new candidate, as if he was interviewing them for a job.

  “My mom is on the edge and my Dad is distant and doesn’t know that she might hurt herself. You have to get them to come here together so nothing bad happens.”

  Jon attempted to comfort the spirit and assured him he would make the connection for him.

  The boy faded and Jon made his way back toward the exit. He wondered where Charlie was, and figured the former caretaker would have another earful for him. He stopped in front of a familiar grave and the crying woman appeared.

  “Ma’am, have you seen that old caretaker, Charlie?”

  She nodded and spoke, “His grandson is supposed to be buried today. He is with family.”

  Jonathan felt an odd impulse to see Charlie and offer him his condolences. He walked the path up the old cemetery hill to what appeared to be a family plot. As he crested he saw Charlie being forcefully handled, his aura fading as the demon drew away his energy. This was all within view of what Jonathan assumed was Charlie’s grandson’s casket. He hid behind a stone and watched the beast dominate and control the old ghost.

  Jonathan felt panicked and disturbed, but couldn’t imagine how he could aid in any way. It was pretty clear that Charlie was trying to prevent the demon from stealing his grandson’s spirit, certainly a losing battle for any solitary ghost.

  That was when it hit him. There was a cemetery of a countless number around him. Surely, their combined force could overwhelm one solitary, elemental, he thought. He whispered, “I know you’re present. I can practically feel a dozen of you breathing down my neck back here... How many of you have I connected with your loved ones over the years?” No response from the gallery he was sure was witnessing the end of Charlie as an entity.

  “How many of you has Charlie helped during your stay here? I’ve seen for quite some time how he’s guided and cared for the newly disembodied. Think about how disoriented you were for those first few hours, days, and weeks. Who helped you accept your current situation?” No specter rose to the occasion.

  Jonathan swallowed his fear and made a rash decision. He ran toward the unfolding scene with the demon—and as he dashed wildly into the fray, his terror subdued by an unnamable fount of selfless inspiration.

  The charge itself was startling enough that the demon actually turned his attention from Charlie and released him. The creature postured and expanded into its full eight-foot frame, towering over Jonathan. Its emaciated, clawed hand emerged from under its heavy robe and found a home in Jonathan’s chest—stopping him mid-run and ending his life almost instantly.

  Blood poured from Jonathan’s mouth as the demon removed its hand and turned back to Charlie and the casket which held his grandson. Charlie maintained his flickering, partial form with the last of his energy. He did not have enough power to remain fully-bodied and could not manage to re-enter the second plane of existence without dissipating into the ether.

  Charlie was about to be finished off by the elemental, and to witness his grandson’s soul consumed, when a silent army formed around the demon. Many of the spirits, having taken Jonathan’s words to heart, and after seeing his lone charge against the demon, were emboldened to join the confrontation.

  They overwhelmed the heinous beast. Many were destroyed, vanished from any kind of earthly existence during the violent struggle. Those that remained forced the elemental back into the earth from where it came. A great deal of the creature’s power was lost when they destroyed its terrestrial form.

  Jonathan was not long dead before he was led back to the cemetery by the former caretaker. For some time, he and Charlie worked together to guide and acclimate new souls there at Valleyview. Eventually, due to his selfless sacrifice, Jonathan was allowed to pass into an existence and plane beyond the reach of elementals, demons, worldly worry, and strife.

  APPENDIX A: A SECRET HISTORY OF LESTER SHOE AND BOOT, 1905-1910

  by Anonymous

  Foreman Frick would pace the roof of the tannery building at Lester Boot Co., always with a thick cigar in hand. He did not particularly like cigars, but was fond of the authority a nice fat stogie seemed to impart. He had an endless supply since his boss, Harry Lester, had purchased the local cigar rolling factory the previous year. Frick would have preferred to be running the cigar rollers as opposed to the stinking vats and lime pits of the tannery, but he made do and, by all accounts, ran an efficient factory.

  The morning of August 16th was like most mornings. Frick walked his path, thinking of his future while his charges toiled away in the sweltering factory below. Lester had promised him a plot of land up near the hill on the north side of the village. Soon he would be able to build his own house for his wife and young boy within sight of Lester’s mansion. He was not quite Harry Lester’s right-hand man but knew it was only a matter of time.

  At the time, Frick was running the most profitable component of Lester’s boot business. He produced leather from local cattle at an astounding rate. His workers were paid by the piece of hide processed and not by the hour like the boot workers in the other factories, and he made sure his quota was met each and every day.

  Summer was the worst on the workers, the window slats opened a little more than twelve inches. Frick’s motivation for his workers was the sweltering heat, and in winter the unruly cold could still be counted on for an accelerated rate of production. He would often lock the doors to the shops and would not let them have their lunch until the morning’s quota was met.

  Lester let Frick sell surplus processed leather to the furniture makers and pocket a dollar per hide. On the morning of the 16th his calculation and tabulation of future profits was interrupted by the acrid smell of burning lye and smoking animal fat. Frick bounded down the stairs from the roof, his portly belly bouncing as he stumbled along each flight. While he slowly made his way from the rooftop, the tannery workers choked on smoke and scrambled for the windows and smashed against the three doors.

  The fire had grown monstrous, fed by all the chemical accelerants that the tannery used for hair and fat removal during the leather-making process. Some men were able to squeeze out of the thin slats of the windows, others futilely smashed with their wood and metal tools at the iron-enforced windowpanes.

  Not every man panicked on the factory floor that day. A Lithuanian-born immigrant, who had been a fire brigadier, quickly covered his face with a wet cloth and went down to the lower pits to lead men to the ladders so that they would have a fighting chance. Two Slovaks joined him and pulled countless gagging, choking men to the windows, which three Polish brothers had managed to pry open wide enough that even the burliest of men could squeeze through. How the trio managed to get those windows open remains a mystery.

  As the last of the men trickled out through the smoking windows, nearly a hundred of their compatriots puked and wheezed on the ground nearby. When Frick scurried to the front door and unlocked it, just inside lay six bodies crumpled on the floor—the smoke so thick and unbearable that the six had no hope of finding their way back to the exit they had made. A few of the men risked further injury by retrieving the dead.

  There was nearly a riot outside the factory when it was clear Frick had not called the fire brigade. He nervously stood behind a row of armed Pinkertons while he shouted orders to the medics and hospital staff that had arrived to treat the infirm.

  * * *

  “Frank, you did what you could.” Frick met with Harry Lester in his office; both had cigars in hand. Lester fully enjoyed everything about smoking and practically wallowed
from sun-up to sundown in smoke.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lester.” The pair shared a knowing smile.

  “I’d like to give you the cigar factory, but I need you to do me a favor,” said Lester. Frick was surprised and a little disappointed, as he had done everything Lester had ever asked of him.

  “Of course, Mr. Lester…” said Frick. Lester had promised him land two years previous on the condition that Frick produce better numbers than his predecessor. Frick momentarily wondered if he would ever see that land.

  “Frank, the six that died—they have no one to claim them. Will you make sure they’re buried and it’s kept quiet?” Frick momentarily wavered in his dedication.

  “Sir, where exactly should they be buried?” The immigrant and pauper cemetery had been past capacity since the cholera outbreak of 1903. Lester mulled it over.

  “That plot of land between the Valleyview Golf Course and the new company store.” Neither of which had been built but were plotted on the map on Lester’s wall, as it included both his current and future developments. It was one of the last few open spaces among Lester’s holdings and the location Frick had imagined for his future home.

  “Sir, we talked a few years back about land for a house…”

  Lester smirked at his employee. “Yes, yes—I haven’t forgotten. Bury the dead and build your family a nice home, Frick.”

  “On the burial?” Lester nodded and hunched over to light a new cigar. Frick turned to go perform his task when Lester stopped him.

  “And Francis, bring along men you trust. You know…” Frick agreed and left.

  The following evening an intoxicated Frick lead his little band to his future land holding with a large freight cart pulled by a team of horses. They removed the six shrouded corpses and began digging, by hand, six graves under lantern light. Soon his little group began complaining of the workload and the added difficulty of a particularly muggy August night.