by Barry Reese
BY BARRY REESE
A Reese Unlimited book
Copyright © 2013 Barry Reese
Published by Pro Se Press
The stories in this publication are fictional. All of the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.
Edited by David White
Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions - Tommy Hancock
Submissions Editor - Barry Reese
Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC Chief Executive Officer - Fuller Bumpers
Pro Se Productions, LLC
133 1/2 Broad Street
Batesville, AR, 72501
870-834-4022
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www.proseproductions.com
Front Cover Art and “Gravedigger” logo by George Sellas
Cover Format and Production Design by Sean E. Ali
E-book Formatting by Russ Anderson
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART ONE: THE RISING DARK
PART TWO: THE STRANGE HORROR OF HENDRY HALL
PART THREE: THE FERRYMAN OF DEATH
GRAVE MATTERS OR... HOW I CAME TO WRITE THIS BOOK
TIMELINE FOR THE WORKS OF BARRY REESE!
PROLOGUE
Sovereign City, October 28, 1776
The Hessian spat out the blood that filled his mouth, hefting his saber for another attack. He was standing in ankle-deep mud, his uniform stained with grime and gore, and the men he faced were poorly trained Revolutionaries. Their main advantage was the fact that they knew the territory well but the Hessian also knew that a man fighting for his home and family was given extra strength and ferocity.
The Hessian roared, stepping over the severed limb of one of his compatriots. He approached an opponent from behind, reaching around with his blade to slit the man’s throat so deeply that the head was only attached to the body by a thin strip of gristle.
The rain had begun again and the roar of thunder, coupled with the sounds of battle all around, made it hard for the Hessian to focus. He dodged the thrust of a young man’s bayonet before finishing the youth with the point of his sword.
It was moments like these that filled the Hessian with joy. Unlike many of his fellows, he had volunteered for service, rather than being conscripted by Landgrave Frederick II. He was a soldier in wartime and a killer in peacetime. The names mattered little to him. He had grown up the youngest of six bloodthirsty brothers, trained to be rabid murderers by their drunk of a father. The only thing that the Hessian enjoyed as much as battle was sex, and both were done with equal amounts of violence and glee.
He whirled about, eager to kill again. He was not a handsome man and he currently looked even more nightmarish than usual. His longish hair was caked with blood and his right eye, marred by a small scar that ran underneath the bottom lid, was bloodshot and slightly bulging. Earlier in the battle, he had come into close quarters with an enemy, biting off the man’s earlobe. Now blood stained his teeth and dripped from the corners of his mouth.
He saw the enemy on the hill, packing one of their cannons for another shot. They were a motley group and their weapons misfired as often as they worked. But the Hessian knew that his own regiment was not faring well. Of the 80 men they had begun this battle with, less than a fourth were still standing.
Charging towards the hill, the Hessian hacked his way through those in his path, friend and foe alike. A well placed shot from that cannon could end the battle and he could not allow that. He screamed a German battle cry and then stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. It was too late, the cannon’s fuse had run out.
An explosion of fire and smoke accompanied the launching of the cannonball. It soared straight towards the Hessian, who was suddenly frozen with the realization that his life of brutality was about to end. The cannon smashed right through his skull, leaving his body standing in place. It twitched and danced for a long moment, as if it hadn’t quite realized yet that its head was gone. The torso twisted and the hands reached out, as if in hopes that it could find its missing top.
The Hessian’s body spun about and crashed to the mud, coming to rest no more than four feet from the remains of his head, which smoldered in the rain.
PART ONE: THE RISING DARK
Chapter I: Little Dead Girl
October 31, 1936
This is not a decision entered into lightly. It is a tremendous gesture of faith that you are about to receive.
There was a pause before The Voice continued. Charity stirred within the casket, fear beginning to mount within her. How long had she been buried beneath the earth? How much air was left to her?
You will have three years in which to redeem your soul. Find those who are unfit for the world of mortals and destroy them: man or demon, the enemy of the innocent is now your enemy. You will put them into their graves and shovel upon them the dirt that symbolizes their eviction from this plane of existence.
On Halloween Night, 1939, you will be called back to this place and you will be judged for a final time. If your soul has been made pure, you will find your reward. If your soul is still tainted black… Your suffering will never know an end.
Do you accept these terms? Do you want to live?
Charity had forced the words out, ignoring the pain it caused her. Her throat was dry and raw. “Yes. Yes! I want to live.”
So be it.
***
January 1937
Hector Martinez was nervous. He was smoking his fifth cigarette in the last hour and his hands were shaking. He paced back and forth outside his ramshackle home, located deep in a crime-ridden area of Sovereign City.
The nighttime sky was cloudy and the smell of fresh rain lingered in his nostrils, mixing with other, more unpleasant odors. Locals joked that a day without rain in Sovereign was like a cat without a tail – you saw one on occasion but it was a rare thing, indeed.
The door behind him opened and closed. Julio, three years Hector’s senior and the oldest of all the family’s sons, bore a large grin beneath his handlebar moustache. He laughed when he saw Hector’s anxiety, writ large on his little brother’s face. “It’s done little brother. No more worry, si?”
“We shouldn’t have done this,” Hector replied. He threw down his cigarette and ground it out beneath his shoe. “We get caught and we’re going to fry in the state pen.”
“Nobody saw us take her,” Julio said, taking on a more serious expression. He put his hands on his brother’s shoulders and pulled him close, staring into his eyes. “If you keep your mouth shut, we’ll never get caught.”
“Her body…?”
“Burned. Along with all her clothes. It’s like she was never here.”
Hector exhaled, breaking away from his brother’s gaze. “God will never forgive me for this.”
“You are a man, mi hermano. We see what we want and we take it.”
“But she was just a child,” Hector said, feeling ashamed as hot tears began to burn to his eyes. He could see Rosalita at play, skipping rope in her Sunday dress. She was only six years old but he’d coveted her smooth skin and dark eyes. He’d never acted on his desires for children before, but on this day, he’d succumbed to his dark lust. He’d grabbed her and dragged her away, tying her up in his home. The rape had gone quickly but in the aftermath he’d been so scared and ashamed that he hadn’t been sure what to do. He’d called his brother because Julio always took care o
f him.
To his surprise, Julio hadn’t been shocked in the least by what he found at his brother’s house. He’d told Hector go outside and leave him alone with the girl, who was still alive but very quiet.
Hector had ignored everything from that point forward: the sounds of struggle, the brief cry that was quickly snuffed out, even the horrible smells that drifted from the large oven in his home. Julio had handled it all, every disgusting detail, and Hector loved him for it.
Julio reached out and touched his brother’s chin, tilting his head back up. “No more talking about it, si? It’s over. If anyone comes by asking about anything, you tell them to talk to me.”
“You are too good to me,” Hector said.
“We are family.”
Something moved in the shadows and Hector jumped.
“What is it?” Julio asked, looking about.
“I thought I saw someone.”
Julio stared into the gloom but he could see nothing. There were few streetlamps in this area of the city and the darkness was almost like a living thing, growing in size as the midnight hour drew near. “It’s just your nerves.”
Hector started to reply but his words twisted into a squawk of terror as a figure leaped from the night, landing beside Julio. It was a woman, dressed in a form-fitting red and black bodysuit. Weapons of all type were fastened about her body and she held a curved Arabian-style sword in her right hand. Her face was hidden beneath a black facemask and hood, adding to her mystery.
Julio never knew what hit him. He had scarcely realized the reason for his brother’s terror when the woman had begun to swing her sword in a deadly arc. It cut through Julio’s neck, decapitating him in one fell swoop.
Hector emitted a high-pitched scream and took off running, the sight of his brother’s head flying through the air etched into his mind’s eye. He sprinted into the darkness, not knowing or caring where he was going. This was God’s Vengeance, manifested in human form. Or was it Rosalita’s spirit, come to claim her revenge?
The wraith-like woman was suddenly in front of him. Hector tried to stop but he lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, rolling until he was almost at her feet.
The woman knelt in a smooth motion, catching Hector’s throat between two blades – the curved sword with which she’d killed his brother and a smaller knife that gleamed in the moonlight.
“Please!” he begged, feeling the cold touch of the weapons. One of them pricked just deep enough to draw blood.
“Did you listen when Rosalita begged?” the woman said. Her voice was as cold as the steel she wielded.
Hector closed his eyes. “Madre de dios, please forgive me.”
“There is no forgiveness for you.”
Hector looked into the woman’s mask, as dark as the night that surrounded them both.
“You dug your own grave, Hector. All I’m doing is shoveling the dirt on top.”
Hector’s life ended quickly, as the twin blades snipped together, tearing through everything in between.
***
Gravedigger stood up, pulling a dark cloth from one of the pouches on her waist. She cleaned her weapons and sheathed them. There was no joy in her heart over this victory. She had arrived too late to save the girl, despite her best efforts to trace her kidnapper. But she’d heard enough of the brothers’ discussion to know what had to be done.
She left the corpses where they lay, entering the house and examining the oven’s contents. Julio hadn’t been quite as good as his word – there were plenty of bones that were identifiably human, as well as scraps of cloth that came from the girl’s dress and underwear.
Again her hands darted down into the pouches at her belt. She retrieved a miniaturized walkie-talkie and turned it on. Static filled the room but she depressed the talk button and said, “You can contact the police. Send them to 142 Bloch Avenue.”
“Any survivors?” a man asked in reply. His words were spoken with a clipped British accent, which always surprised people in Sovereign when they saw him. Mitchell was a massive black man with a shaved head and a menacing face. But he had been born in London and had a heart of gold.
“No.”
Mitchell heard the sound of disappointment in Gravedigger’s voice. “You can’t blame yourself for this, luv. Nothing can undo that little girl’s death but at least you made her killers pay.”
“I’m sure that will help her parents sleep at night.”
“It just might.”
Gravedigger ceased communications and put the walkie-talkie away. She knew that Mitchell would be along soon, driving his plain, unmarked sedan. She didn’t feel like talking any more about this but she had a feeling he wasn’t going to let the matter drop.
A calendar on the wall caught her attention. Someone had drawn red x’s through all the days of the month, all the way to today. A chill ran down her spine before she whirled about and left the house. Time was like an unstoppable juggernaut. Every second grew into minutes, then hours, then days.
Three years was not so much.
Chapter II: Everyone Has Secrets
Josef Goldstein wore a dark suit and an open-necked white shirt. He was a thin old man with round glasses, thinning hair and a trim white beard that framed a wide mouth. He leaned heavily on a walking stick as he moved through his house, a large red ruby shining on his ring finger. “Charity?” he called. “Are you up?”
“I’m in here,” she answered.
Goldstein ambled into the room that had become Charity’s personal gymnasium. She was doing chin-ups with a bar attached to one of the walls, her athletic form glistening with sweat. She wore loose-fitting pants and an undershirt. Her shoulder-length brown hair was tied back into a ponytail and her eyes, chocolate brown, regarded Goldstein coolly.
“Mitchell says that you were upset about the mission last night.”
“Mitchell has a big mouth.”
Goldstein found a chair and sat down heavily. Charity continued her exercise routine. “You’re doing quite well, you know.”
“Why? Because I’ve killed ten people in the past three months?”
“Twelve, actually. You always forget Big Eddy and his friend.”
Charity dropped to the floor and put her hands on her hips. “What do you want?” she asked testily.
Goldstein smiled softly, revealing a set of teeth that were a little too perfect. They were fake and, to Charity’s eyes, were indicative of his entire persona. “If you ever want to talk about things, I’m here for you. Like I told you on the night we met, I was once a Gravedigger myself. I know the stresses that you’re under.”
Charity nodded, as if remembering something. “Oh, yes, the night we met. I think that was when you shot me and buried me alive, wasn’t it?”
Goldstein’s smile widened. “I killed you, Charity. You know that.”
“I don’t know what happened,” Charity responded, turning away from him. She picked up a couple of weights and began doing a set of repetitions with them.
“You accepted The Voice’s offer. Just like I did. Just like all the Gravediggers have done, one after another. But you’re the first woman to ever receive the honor.”
Charity paused in her actions. “The honor?” she repeated, quietly. “How many Gravediggers passed the test, Goldstein? How many were pure after three years of murder and mayhem?”
“I was judged worthy.”
“And how many others?”
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Charity sighed. “It doesn’t matter. It is what is.” Resuming her workout, she asked, “Are you just here to counsel me or do you have something else to talk about?”
“There’s someone else in Sovereign who needs your attention.”
Charity set the weights down on the ground and wandered over to where Goldstein was sitting. She preferred it when they talked business. It was the same with Mitchell, though she knew he was a nice guy. Goldstein, though, she wasn’t sure about.
She wa
s discovering that she had a tendency to hold grudges against men who tried to kill her.
Goldstein reached into his jacket and pulled out a newspaper clipping. He unfolded it and handed it to Charity. It was from the society section and showed a rather smug looking man shaking hands with the mayor. “That,” Goldstein said, “is Arthur Meeks.”
“I’ve heard of him,” she answered. “He runs a dairy plant, right?”
“That’s where his fortune comes from, yes. He’s the chief supplier of milk not just for Sovereign but also for most of the surrounding tri-state area. That’s not what concerns us, however. Our focus should be on his unusual interest in rare books. He has spent a considerable amount of money acquiring a series of grimoires that would be the envy of anyone outside of The Illuminati.”
Charity sat on the floor, looking up at Goldstein. “I’m still hearing the ‘evil’ part of things.”
“Are you familiar with The Necronomicon?”
Charity looked at him in annoyance. “I’m 23 years old. I was a bright but not particularly great student in school. Do you really think I’ve heard of something called The Necronomicon?”
“Fair enough,” he conceded. “According to the most trustworthy sources, it was originally called Al Azif, which translates as ‘the howling of demons.’ A mad Arab named Alhazred, who worshipped several dark gods, wrote the book after travelling far and wide to learn foul secrets. It was translated into Greek and then Latin, spreading like wildfire through the occult community. In the year 1050, an attempt was made by the Catholic Church to put the work to rest. Copies were rounded up and burned, however several slipped through and were placed into hiding and survived. For many years, it was believed that no copies of the original Arabic version remained… but now Meeks has come into possession of one. This book is indescribably dangerous! The mere study of it is bad enough but any attempt to master its secrets could prove catastrophic, not just for the student… but for the entire world.”