He had an interesting knack for feeling what the dying felt, of looking through their eyes. If anyone had cared to ask, he could tell them what the old man dying from a heart attack felt too. He could tell them there was a Heaven for some, a Hell for others. He could also tell them about Purgatory and the endless Void. But no one asked about that. No one truly wanted to believe there could possibly be nothing at all after death.
Lately, however, the funerals had disturbed Thrip. The murders had stopped but another mystery had risen in Olden.
His suspicions had culminated at the Thornburg funeral. Actually, the thought had popped into his head when he had crossed Alma Bentley’s grave. She had been buried yesterday afternoon but, now walking over the grave, Thrip had the distinct feeling it was empty. Under a cool gray sky, he stood in the back of the group gathered around the Thornburg grave but he couldn’t stop thinking of the emptiness just a few yards behind him. Before the service was over he had pointed at Mrs. Bentley’s grave and shouted, “That grave is empty! She isn’t there! There’s no one in that grave!”
The pastor looked up from his thick Bible and went back to reading from it, paying no attention to Thrip. Two large men in the Thornburg party advanced on Thrip, helping him out of the cemetery.
“Get the fuck away,” one of them said. “You’re ruining my dad’s funeral.”
“You don’t understand,” Thrip said, practically pleading with him. “Mrs. Bentley’s grave... it’s empty. You don’t want that to happen to your father, do you?”
The man drew back a meaty hand and rammed it into Thrip’s nose. “You’re sick,” he said. “You’re a very sick man.”
Thrip, on his knees, stayed there for a while, holding his bloodied nose and staring up at the incline of the cemetery, wondering what had just happened. Eventually, he rose, headed back to his small apartment in town.
That incident, that feeling, continued to plague him. He wondered why he went to funerals at all. They were all basically the same and he wondered why this was. Hadn’t all of these people led wildly different lives, wildly individual lives? Why were all of their services conducted in the same manner, as though it could be anyone going into the cold earth? Had he just shouted those things to try and breathe some life into the funeral, to give the funeralgoers something memorable?
He wanted to think that. He really did. Because the alternatives seemed to be so much worse.
That night he tried to sleep, waking up to a shattering pain. Somewhere, someone had just taken a nasty and fatal fall down a flight of stairs, pushed by the blind hand of fate. Thrip was up the rest of the night, shaking, knowing there would be another funeral in a couple of days. But he didn’t want to wait that long before going back to the cemetery.
Thrip slept fully clothed. He pulled himself up to the head of his small bed and waited, knees pulled into his chest, arms wrapped around knees, staring frightfully around the room until the cold gray dawn came up over the town. Still shaking, the meager light bleeding through the curtains, he left the bed and pulled on a couple more layers of shirts and a ratty black overcoat.
The morning traffic had not yet begun and he made his way to the cemetery, some unseen force hurrying his footsteps through the cool mist that monochromed everything.
Once in the cemetery, he approached Alma Bentley’s grave. There was still a bit of a swell, a bit of a mound, to the freshly turned earth and the sod had not yet taken. Thrip stared at the headstone, not yet made colorful with years of lichen and mildew. He did not really want to do what he was about to do. But he did it anyway.
Knowing the force of what he was about to feel would send him reeling, he dropped to all fours and sort of crawled onto the grave, staring down at the grass almost as though he was able to see through it. Of course, he couldn’t actually see through it. He knew that. He could only feel what was supposed to be below there. And he could only feel what was supposed to be below there if it was death. Death had a way of calling to him. Death, the cessation of all feeling, had a way of sparking his feelings until they came alive and sent a scary kind of electricity rushing through his veins.
Thrip felt nothing.
And that was how he knew the grave was empty.
Cautiously, unable to take his eyes from the grave, Thrip stood up, backing away from it.
Would anyone listen to him? he wondered. Would anyone pay the least bit of attention if he ran up to them and told them about how some of the graves in the cemetery were completely empty when there were supposed to be people in them?
No. He knew they wouldn’t listen. And maybe he didn’t want them to listen. Thrip felt something interesting pass through his brain. A flicker of a thought. A wash of excitement.
What if this was what he had been waiting for?
He had attended all of these funerals, drenching himself in death, wanting to gain some sense of finality to its mysteries, wanting to find some proof of something more than just these bland family reunions there to placate the attendees with foggy candy- coated memories.
Maybe this was that something else. Maybe there was something else after death. Some form of life after death. Maybe it wasn’t all so final and bleak. Maybe there were other options besides Heaven and Hell and Purgatory and the Void. He straightened his clothes, planning to go over to Travis Thornburg’s grave and see if he could still feel the death below or if it would just be more of the empty nothing that infested Alma Bentley’s.
Movement caught Thrip’s eye. He turned his head to see a small man standing at the crest of the hillside. Briefly, Thrip thought he was going to get kicked out of the cemetery again. He was well outside of visiting hours and although he wasn’t doing anybody any harm, he knew the caretaker to be a restless and trigger happy hillbilly who had never really liked him from the second he had seen him.
This wasn’t the caretaker.
The man raised an arm over his head and beckoned Thrip to come over to him.
Thrip made his way over the soggy cemetery grass until he stood out of the man’s reach but close enough for conversation and observation. The man was considerably shorter than Thrip. He wore a conservative gray tweed suit with an out-of-place bright pink derby on his head. He looked vaguely familiar to Thrip but he couldn’t put a specific time or place to him. The man smiled jovially and raised the hat off his head.
“Ah, Mr. Thrip, just the man I wanted to see.”
“You... you wanted to see me?” Thrip asked, finding this encounter odd on a number of levels.
“Oh, I most certainly did.”
“Why?”
“Because, out of everyone in this town, I think you are the only one who would be interested in us.”
“And who are you?”
“Yes, yes, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m sorry.” The man’s small brown eyes blazed with a cross between good humor and craziness. “My name is Gregory Nascent.”
The man stuck out his hand. Thrip moved closer and took the man’s hand in his own. “It’s very nice to meet you,” Thrip said out of politeness more than any genuine affection.
“I would like to invite you to a funeral. You’re always up for a good funeral, aren’t you?”
“I go to every one I see listed in the paper.”
The man looked down at the ground, his smile fading for just a second, before looking back up at Thrip. “I’m sorry to say this funeral will not be in the paper.”
“No?”
“Most certainly not. Truthfully, I don’t really suspect many would attend.”
“Why not?”
“It’s kind of a unique funeral. Would you like to join us?”
“Who is ‘us’?”
“You’ll just have to come down and see. It begins at midnight. I trust you will be there.”
Nascent had turned and left before Thrip could give him an answer.
Something about the man left Thrip feeling slightly off, like the man had taken a piece of his soul. He couldn’t describe it any better tha
n that.
On the trip back home, he kept his head down, staring at the ground, having traveled this route so many times he didn’t really need to look up and see where he was going. Once inside his apartment, he lay down on his bed, staring up at the water stains on the ceiling and thinking about who that strange man could have been and how he had never seen him before and why the man would have approached him this morning of all mornings. Surprisingly, he fell asleep.
The night was cool, dark and gloomy. The fog milked the sky gray. Not a single star was visible. The moonlight was murky but ample enough for Thrip to make his way to the cemetery. After bypassing the gates, a shiver wiggled its way through his body. Excitement and fear mingled within him as he climbed the gentle slope to the dark figures gathered around Mr. Thornburg’s grave.
Upon spotting him, Mr. Nascent approached Thrip and held out his hand, “Ah, I’m so glad you could make it.”
Thrip did not know what to say. He shook the man’s cold hand. The others gathered around the grave seemed to be in high spirits as well. Looking at Thrip, they spoke excitedly, albeit in hushed whispers. There were maybe fifteen people in all. Something Nascent described to Thrip as a “pitiful showing.”
“So what happens here?” Thrip asked Nascent.
“Well, that is why I invited you. So you could see for yourself.”
“Very well.”
“I invite you to put your hand on the grave. Tell me what is beneath it.”
Thrip looked at Nascent, somewhat distrustfully, approaching the grave but not taking his eyes off the small man. He put his hand on the dew-slicked earth and said, “Death. Mr. Thornburg is in there. He’s dead.” Thrip took his hand away before the sensation of nausea could completely wrap him and rock him to the ground.
“So we are agreed upon that?”
“Yes. I guess.” Thrip found himself more and more confused.
“Now, what you are about to see is a funeral like you’ve never seen before, Mr. Thrip. It is sort of a... reverse funeral.”
“You’re going to raise him from the dead?”
“That is exactly what I am going to do.”
“But why?”
“Because sometimes the dead can’t forget. Sometimes the pull of life is too great and they are not ready to relinquish control of that.”
“But this is an abomination.”
“Be careful of what you say in mixed company, Mr. Thrip. You never know who you might be insulting.”
“You’re dead.”
“No. I once was dead. Now I am very much alive.” Nascent grabbed Thrip’s hand and placed it on his heart. Thrip felt the organ beating slowly but strongly against his palm.
“Let us begin the funeral,” Mr. Nascent said.
He pulled a heavy black book from his overcoat and stood at the foot of the grave. The others at the ceremony gathered around him as he read in a language Thrip did not recognize. Not only was the language unknown to him, the intonations were strange and garbled, like nothing he had ever heard before.
Thrip watched as the ground trembled slightly, the grass and dirt being pushed away before Mr. Thornburg pulled himself up, dragging himself from the earth. The process was slow, Nascent’s chanting oration hallucinatory. With Thornburg halfway out of the grave, a burly man in a tattered tuxedo who Thrip identified as Dr. Kittinger came to aid him in his further struggle. Now all the way out, Thornburg looked around at his surroundings, confusion naked in his eyes.
“It is not unlike birth,” Nascent said. “But imagine being born with all of the faculties you had at your death.”
Thrip turned his head away. He didn’t want to make eye contact with the risen man.
“Kittinger? Could you lead him away? Let him know what is happening to him.”
Kittinger led the man into the fog on the far side of the cemetery.
“I’ve seen enough,” Thrip said. He didn’t think he could bear it anymore. If there was one thing he had gained through his funeral attendance, it was an immense respect for the dead. Since he was unable to rationalize death in any other way, he could only truly see it as a final, eternal rest.
He turned to leave but Nascent grabbed his arm.
“Now, Mr. Thrip, wouldn’t you like to know why we invited you here this evening? It seems we are not the only ones with abominable skills.”
“I would turn it off if I could,” Thrip said. “Please let go of my arm.”
Nascent gripped stronger. Others from the funeral gathered around him.
“One of the interesting things about death, Mr. Thrip, is that the deceased never really remember what death feels like. We don’t even remember exactly how it was that we died. Can you imagine having those gaps in your life... in your life after death?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“I think you do know what we’re getting at. I want you to come with us. I want you to tell us the stories of our deaths.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You don’t have a choice. And... Yes. There’s something else.”
“Just let me leave.”
“I can’t let you leave. If I let you leave, then I don’t get to hear the story of my death. Nor do I get to fulfill my life’s work.”
“What is your life’s work?”
Nascent gripped Thrip’s other arm, pulling him closer to his gaunt dead face.
“Look closely. Think back about six years.”
Thrip studied the man’s face, recognition flooding him. Thrip remembered being in the body of a twenty-year-old woman, staring at the face in front of him as the life left her. At the time, the face was a little thinner, a little hairier...
“Oh God,” Thrip said.
“That’s right. She was not the first. She was merely the apex. I had developed quite a taste for murder and you stopped that. Well, you stopped me... The taste is still very much there.”
More and more of the incident flooded back to Thrip. The girl’s murder had not been quick and painless. It was the most drawn out, excruciating death he had ever experienced, keeping him awake for two days while some hidden part of his psyche felt it all. The man had kept the woman blindfolded the entire time but, at the end, during the last few seconds of her life, he had removed the blindfold. Thrip felt stupid for not realizing who Mr. Nascent was from the beginning. But, aside from the surface physical differences, the context was completely different. Like seeing one of your grade school teachers in the grocery store. Besides, he had spent years trying to forget that face, trying to forget that entire episode, just like he did after every death. Most of the time, he could even manage to forget the name of the deceased. But not this time. Melinda Kendrick. The name stuck with him, always somewhere in the back of his mind.
“You’re a monster,” Thrip said.
“Oh, that was just the beginning.”
Thrip struggled to get away but Nascent’s grip proved to be almost supernaturally strong and Thrip was not exactly powerful to begin with. There were others surrounding him, grabbing him, others every bit as strong as Nascent. The more he struggled, the harder they gripped.
“The best part of this whole death business,” Nascent said. “Is that, the more people we kill, the stronger we grow, the greater our numbers.”
As a whole, the funeral party dragged Thrip into the woods behind the cemetery. And there, they made him repeat the stories of their deaths. Most nights, Thrip was only able to get through one story. The stories left him bereft of nearly everything except sorrow. He ritualistically collapsed onto the ground, weeping and shaking, wanting desperately to be away from these people, wanting to get beyond the cemetery gates so he could breathe a single breath of life. And each night, the strange tribe claimed another victim, bringing them from all over the country but always making sure they died within the borders of the town, within the perimeter of Thrip’s knowledge. The Olden Memorial Cemetery had long since been used up. Now there were only the new arrivals and the ones they murd
ered themselves. Their reach was staggering.
The dead had no concern for him, using him only for the individual stories of their deaths. And the stories were always told on an individual basis, the deceased and Thrip, away from the ear shot of all the others because, in the end, death was a very personal thing. The deceased were given a gun to shoot Thrip with if he tried to get away. They were instructed not to shoot with intentions of killing.
Afterwards, the gun passed like a morbid baton, they gathered around one another, some exchanging their new found information and wondering if death would find them a second time. They speculated on how they would take the next victim, inventing new ways so the story would always be entertaining. In a way, Thrip thought, they told the stories themselves.
Soon, Thrip begged them to kill him. He refused to eat so they beat him until he did so. Nascent told him they could not let him die. Once they killed him, Nascent said, all of the stories would go with him, along with the memories of his own death.
And, of course, Thrip thought of other ways to die besides starvation. Like escaping just long enough to take his own life. Or removing his tongue and then his hands so he couldn’t write the stories down. But they guarded against this. He was watched at all times. And there he stayed, in their keep, waiting for insanity or a natural death to claim him so that he could, for once, be done with death. Then he thought about what Nascent had said about all the dead retaining the faculties they had gained in life. And Thrip knew they would continue to keep him around. His “gift” would not leave him. He would have to escape.
Months later, a man named Alex Kendrick died from complications due to liver cancer. One night thereafter, the man came to Thrip to learn of his death. Thrip sat on an old tombstone by a small fire, still shivering. He was always cold these days.
Hi I'm a Social Disease: Horror Stories Page 8