Grave Images

by Jenny Goebel

  Once we were back on the road, Mrs. Romano’s eyes flicked to mine in the rearview mirror. “Bernie, are you feeling okay?” No. I certainly wasn’t (and I must’ve looked as horrible as I felt for Mrs. Romano to ask), but it wasn’t the time to spill my guts with her driving sixty-five miles per hour down a winding road. I did want to make it back home alive.

  When I didn’t answer, Michael released an unnatural-sounding chuckle. “I think Giovanna overwhelmed her.”

  I forced the corners of my lips a tiny bit upward. That seemed to satisfy Mrs. Romano, and the car ride home passed in another silent blur. By the time we reached my house, it was evening and the sky was torn in two. It seemed to be deciding between daylight and darkness, and darkness was winning.

  Michael gave me a pained look as I slowly slipped out of the back of the SUV. I’m sure he felt awful about letting me go inside my house alone with Mr. Stein and the tools just a football’s throw from my window. And he had to be stumped as to why I’d avoided him from the day Mrs. Evans died until we were sitting on Giovanna’s couch in Silverton. Little did he know, I wasn’t done ignoring him yet.

  But I simply pushed up the corners of my lips again and waved good-bye. I still couldn’t bring myself to tell Michael about his portrait (especially with his mother around), and there wasn’t anything more he could do. I slammed the door shut, and Michael’s mom pulled the Jeep away. The taillights grew smaller and smaller in the distance and then finally disappeared around the corner. With me just standing there watching, the two red dots took my best ally with them.

  Home was supposed to feel safe, a sanctuary from the outside world. But Mr. Stein had turned my house into the furthest thing from it. Every square inch of my skin stood on alert as I walked in through the front door.

  It was Mimi’s bingo night, and she was over at the town hall. Dad appeared, grunted a hello, and then disappeared to some out-of-the-way corner of the house. Not exactly a warm welcome, but much better than being greeted with heartbroken tears and news of another victim.

  My steps felt only slightly lighter as I made my way into the kitchen. Dishes were piled in the sink and trays sat on the counter, signs that Mama and Mr. Stein had already eaten. Good. I really wasn’t up to trudging out to the carriage house just then.

  I wasn’t hungry, either. However, I went through the motions of toasting a bagel, anyway — trying to cling to something normal. I spread cream cheese on the bagel. Then I drizzled honey and sprinkled crunchy granola over the top. I set my food on the table and took a seat looking out the kitchen window.

  The carriage house was just out of sight from where I was sitting, but the headstones in the backyard, those I could see. As I stared out at the markers lit by moonlight, I didn’t know what I wanted to do most: scream, cry, or punch something really hard. Whatever I was expecting from our trip to Silverton, I hadn’t quite been prepared for what I’d found out.

  Yet, when I started to peel back the layers of scary, frightful things I’d learned, I found that at the bottom of it all, I had a budding idea of how to stop Mr. Stein. That idea warmed my heart and gave me hope — hope that I could keep Mr. Stein from chiseling anyone else out of existence, hope that I really could save Michael.

  Without the tools, I didn’t think Mr. Stein would be as big of a menace. If I were to take them from him, anything was possible … I pushed the thought away as quickly as it came. It’s difficult to keep a candle of hope lit inside when everything around you is so very grim.

  I was sitting there, sorting through thoughts too big for my brain, when a tall, thin shadow crossed one of the headstones outside. There was only one person I knew who would be slinking around our backyard at this time of night, casting such a bristly looking shadow.

  I’m not gonna lie and pretend I wasn’t afraid — that I leaped up from my chair, feeling brave and vengeful. The truth is, my fear darn near stopped me. It would have, if my want hadn’t been stronger. No matter how terrified I felt, I wanted more than anything to stop Mr. Stein before he took another life.

  I left my bagel untouched and stood slowly from the table. If I went out the back door, Mr. Stein would see me for sure, so instead, I slipped into a jacket hanging on a hook by the front door and headed out that way. Stupid, careless, and trembling with fear, I followed Mr. Stein and his cursed tools outside.

  The street looked empty. Most of the houses were lit from television sets and reading lamps, but the large lots with all those sheds and garages were dark, perfect places for Mr. Stein to cover himself with the cloak of night.

  I clutched my light jacket to my chest and looked for any signs of movement. There were none. I was about to head back inside to my bagel when I caught sight of a shadow shrinking in the streetlight on the far end of the block. Someone had just turned the corner. The same corner Michael had turned not long before in his mother’s SUV.

  As had happened so many times since Mr. Stein entered my life, I felt the cold, breath-stealing grasp of terror wash over me. Not now! I wasn’t ready for him to go after Michael. I would never be ready. I didn’t know whether to run back to the carriage house and search for a new portrait of my friend with his wide fingers and skinny wrists (no, I couldn’t face that) … or to chase Mr. Stein down.

  Making a split-second decision, I crept forward, moving low and as quickly as I could. I tried to stay out of the path of streetlights. Overgrown ivy on the sidewalk threatened to make me stumble and trip. I took my steps carefully, and all the while I hoped like mad Mr. Stein wouldn’t glance back and see me. It wasn’t long before there were but a few yards between me and Abbot Stein.

  I held back, just an instant, and my urge to trail him began to fade. What could I possibly do to stop this? I couldn’t bear to find Michael the way I’d found Mrs. Evans. I’d … I’d … I’d end up like Mama, cowering away, lost forever between the walls of my room.

  Just then a dog howled at me from behind a fence. I scrambled behind a thick and thorny bush, holding my breath as Mr. Stein turned an ear toward the sound. As on the day Michael and I spied on him in the carriage house, Mr. Stein’s eyes were completely sheeted in white.

  I shrank deeper into the bush. A thorn poked a hole in my shirt and tore into the skin on my lower back. I held my breath. It seemed like I had lived a lifetime before Mr. Stein swiveled his head back around and continued on his path. He didn’t appear to be having any trouble maneuvering through the dark with his milky-coated eyes. He must’ve been moving on something other than eyesight entirely.

  I wondered if I should try jumping him. As wiry as he was, I thought I might just stand a chance if I caught him unaware. But he might be stronger than he looked, especially if he really was some sort of gateway to evil, the way his eyes made him appear.

  As I was searching for the perfect angle from which to flail my assault, Mr. Stein took an unexpected turn and headed in the opposite direction of Michael’s home. The dread that had been churning violent circles in my stomach lessened, but did not disappear entirely. He was not trailing the green SUV after all. Or if he was, he was taking a detour, ’cause he was headed straight for the cemetery.

  The smartest thing to do would’ve been to let him go and just pray that he never stood outside my own door, bone-dusted iron tools in hand. At this late hour, it was unlikely that there would be any living person in the cemetery for Mr. Stein or his tools to harm. That was, except for me, of course, if I dared to follow.

  I watched Mr. Stein cross the street and enter through the stone pillars on the south end. There was no gate to open. No hinges to be sprung. It wasn’t at all like the cemetery fences you hear about in ghost stories with wrought-iron poles that shimmy and whine in the wind. I always thought those stories were silly, trying to make it seem like the purpose of a gate was to keep ghostly things in, or daring children out. Like a creaky, old gate would stop either one.

  But it was never truly the gates that were meant to hold people back — it was the fear, and again, I couldn
’t let that stop me. Knowing what I knew (about the tools) and what I didn’t know (how long before Mr. Stein would use them to take Michael’s, or someone else’s life), I couldn’t risk not following.

  I retreated slightly, but only so I could backtrack and cut up Thirty-Second Street and sneak around to the other entrance. I was pretty sure the northern entrance was the one Michael had used when he’d snuck up on me. I only hoped I would have as much luck slipping in undetected.

  As I ran, the portrait in my pack slammed over and over into my side. It wasn’t something I thought about anymore. I just always had it with me. By the time I reached the entrance on the opposite end, I was out of breath and my heart was putting forth its best effort to escape my rib cage. Using one of the stone pillars to lean against, I gulped in the crisp night air.

  When my breathing returned to normal, I walked into the cemetery only to find it not nearly as charming as it was in the sunlight. My friends, the trees, had turned on me. They reached their scraggly arms in all directions, pointing me down dark and shadowy paths. I didn’t trust them to keep me hidden. Seemed like any minute they would twist away their branches and betray my presence to Mr. Stein.

  As I stumbled through the darkness, I noticed a quiet, grating noise in the background. It had the tone of metal on stone, but in my mind, I saw fingernails scraping coffin lids. I scanned the shadows, trying to see where the noise was coming from and realized — I was lost.

  It was all I could do to swallow a scream. I knew my way perfectly well in the daytime, but at night everything looked different. And that scraping noise? It was getting louder and louder, and I had no idea where it was coming from.

  Then a mouse crossed my path, harmless, small, and gray, but it was enough to finally send my fear spiraling out of control. So I ran. Forgot about being brave. I just spun around and dug my toes into the grass, giving up all intention of locating Mr. Stein in the graveyard.

  On a day where I hadn’t just learned of the eerie powers of iron hardened by the dust of human bones, I’d like to think I would’ve been daring enough to stay. Who knows, I might have even gone back in, once I’d calmed myself, if I hadn’t tripped. The corner of my shoe caught on a patch of grass that wasn’t neatly manicured — not yet, anyway — just a piece of sod resting slightly higher than the rest. And, as I picked myself up, I saw the familiar portrait of Sam Fuller. He was smiling down on me from his newly placed headstone.

  Now maybe, just maybe, it was Sam or Isabella helping me along, causing me to trip like that. ’Cause, instead of letting out the scream that had been building inside me, a light flicked on in my head. Sam Fuller’s freshly dug grave took the idea that was budding earlier and gave it wings. A grave! That’s just what I needed to get rid of the tools. And I just so happened to know when one would be available. It certainly wasn’t the most saintly idea I’d ever had, but something told me it would take an action less than saintly to stop this business once and for all.

  This time, I couldn’t hold back my hope. It soared.

  THE HARDEST PART OF MY PLAN WAS WAITING UNTIL Thursday to carry it out. And Thursday was the wrong, wrong, wrongest day. The day that tethered my hopes and dragged them back down. Thursday was the day I didn’t want to think about, the day the Morrison family dreaded most, and the day I wanted to X off my calendar all together. But Thursday was the only day it could be.

  Michael showed up first thing Monday morning, probably thinking we’d brainstorm ideas together after what we’d learned in Silverton. However, the previous night had been too close of a call. Even if Mr. Stein hadn’t been following his mother’s Jeep down the street, he very well could’ve been. Until I carried my plan through on Thursday (assuming we were all still alive and breathing by then), Michael Romano was officially out of my life. And I wasn’t gonna risk backing down to his moping face, either. I sent Mimi to the door to turn him away.

  She was frowning when she came back, and while she unloaded a strawberry scone onto my plate. Then she sighed heavily and left the room. She wasn’t happy with my decision to keep turning Michael away, and even less pleased that I wouldn’t tell her why.

  I think Mimi wanted me to feel lonely and to dwell on how empty the kitchen felt as I ate my breakfast without him. If that was truly the case, she wouldn’t have been disappointed.

  I tried to switch my focus to my plan. I needed a box … and some soup … but other than that, I hadn’t a clue. Some plans are complicated. Some plans keep you busy right up until the big event so you won’t have time to think of all the things that can go wrong. Big events, like weddings and funerals. My idea wasn’t one of those. It required very little real planning — leaving all sorts of time wide open for worrying and second guessing … and missing my friend.

  There was also the matter of me wondering if I might scratch part of the plan and just keep the tools for myself. Sure, I knew it was wrong, but I thought maybe, just maybe, if Isabella had been able to, I could hold on to them, as well. I could get the tools away from Mr. Stein and still fix my family. Ms. Greene had said Isabella’s ancestor had been told to chisel “what could be,” right? Making portraits or something else entirely — could I carve out a happier life for us all?

  When I visited my mama later that day, I smiled for her and fluffed her pillow and pretended I didn’t see the black circles beneath her eyes or the sonogram photo that had reappeared on her nightstand. The one that read, “Baby Boy Morrison.” Mimi still hadn’t told her about Mrs. Evans. Her fragile state could only take so much.

  Like Mama, I holed up those next few days, worrying and fretting until Wednesday, when I finally left the house to go to the hardware store. I spent my entire summer allowance on one item, a small metal box with a flip-top lid and a combination lock. After I’d laid my money on the counter and walked out the door, I ran straight into Michael. The way he popped out as soon as I’d exited the building proved that us bumping into each other wasn’t a coincidence. He’d been watching me.

  “Now how are you going to afford that cheerleading uniform?” he joked.

  The first thing I did was scan the area for Mr. Stein, and then I looked directly at Michael and said, “What are you doing here?” It was hard to sound too angry, considering I’d woken up that very morning just praying he was still alive, praying that Mr. Stein wouldn’t etch Michael right out of existence before I had the chance to stop him.

  I dragged Michael around the corner. Now that we were alone and face-to-face, I thought about coming clean about his portrait. But I knew Michael well enough to know there wasn’t a snowball’s chance of him staying out of it if I did. He’d just wind up dead.

  So I reminded myself this was for his own good, and then I took in a deep breath and did my best to snarl. “You think Giovanna acts like a dog, do you? Well, it must run in the family. You’re a lost puppy chasing me everywhere, and I’m sick of it.” I pushed my finger into his chest. “I don’t need your help. So stop following me!”

  Michael seemed to be searching my face, looking for an answer. “Why are you doing this, Bernie? What are not telling me?”

  “I needed you to take me to Silverton, but I don’t need you anymore. You’re always pushing in where you don’t belong. And if you don’t leave me alone and someone else dies …” I paused as I felt a tremble running through my body at the thought that it could be him. “It’s going to be your fault.”

  My finger was still on his chest, and I felt his ribs heave with an intake of air. “Okay,” he said quietly, and exhaled. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  I dropped my hand, and then, not able to bear the look of hurt on his face, I walked away and didn’t look back.

  It didn’t take long to find the perfect bush just inside the southern entrance of the graveyard. It was thick with dark leaves. My hands were still shaking as I reached all the way through to the muddy soil below. I couldn’t stop thinking about Michael. If only I could make it this far the next night, we’d be home free (or so I thought
), and then I could apologize. I ditched the box, making sure it wasn’t visible from above.

  Once I was back at the house, I made a beeline for the den. I wasn’t stupid enough to try calling the funeral home from there, but I did need to grab the number from the Rolodex on Mimi’s desk.

  I flew into the room, still upset and raw from my confrontation with Michael. Dad lifted his head, and Mr. Stein took a step back, knocking Mimi’s silver-plated crucifix off the wall behind him. He bent down to pick it up, keeping his eyes, the same slick color as Mimi’s cross, locked on me.

  Dad cleared his throat, perhaps to hide a rare laugh that seemed to escape with Mr. Stein’s mishap. Then he said, “This is fine work, Abbot. Fine work.” He was appraising a portrait in his hands — it looked like a duplicate of the one Mr. Stein had etched for Mrs. Evans; it must’ve been made after I’d destroyed the first.

  Mr. Stein stood up and slipped a wire over a nail on the wall to rehang the cross. Then, with a face made of angles and dark shadows (Mimi’s cooking had somehow failed to fatten him up), he said, “You’re looking well, Bernie. You’re even feistier than I thought.”

  It was a strange thing for Mr. Stein to say, but, then again, everything about Mr. Stein was strange. Maybe he’d thought I wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye after what had happened to Mrs. Evans. If he thought I would quake and tremble in his presence this time, he was wrong.

  I ignored his comment and snatched the entire Rolodex off Mimi’s desktop. Perhaps I was too brazen, reaching right in front of him with a steady arm and a slight smirk on my face, or perhaps a little too sure of myself as I turned on my heels and walked out of the room. If I’d realized the tone of his words meant something, would things have gone differently the following evening? Maybe. But most likely not. I didn’t know it then, but my plan was doomed before it ever started.