When they got to the rusty iron gate, Jeff pulled out a set of metal keys on a hoop. He went over each key, but Zach was only half listening. “This here’s the gate. This the church front door and the back door, here. Little key the hut.”
Zach took the keys. But he was looking across the graveyard, watching the stones for movement, seeing shadows against the church. An owl hooted and a bat flew overhead. The crow cried out again and there was the sound of beak on stone, chipping away. A wind whipped up around them, chilling Zach. “Won’t the wind make the bells ring?”
Jeff gave a short laugh, spat over his shoulder. “Only thing ringing those bells are the Dead Ringers. Remember, if you hear the bells, you better be ready. The dead come back feral things, wanting nothing more than to feast on the living. You gotta be quick and you gotta be a good shot. Aim for the head, right between the eyes if you can. One more thing, make sure you never walk around the church Widdershins. That’s anticlockwise. If it don’t summon the dead, you’ll call the devil for sure.” He sniffed the air. “Gonna be a cold night. Plays a good ‘un, the cold, with my arthritis.” He turned to go, paused, added, “There’s a hip flask of whiskey in the hut, keep you warm. Don’t go swigging too much and fall asleep. Don’t want the dead creeping up on you. Keep your eyes on the bells.” Nodding a farewell, old Jefferson left the dead to Zach, his final graveyard shift done. He walked with the stiff steps of age and finality.
Locking the gate, Zach made a first patrol around the graveyard, keeping to the crumbling stone wall, fearing he’d walk over a grave and wake the dead. On Jeff’s advice, he made sure he walked clockwise around the yard. His eyes scanned the still bells, the string pulled tight, ready for the slight movement to ring the bell as the dead woke. The strings hung like umbilical cords, linking the dead in their wooden wombs as they waited for birth. Whistling, he broke the silence tickling at his sanity.
There was no one around, the town two miles down the old country lane. The church sat on top of a hill, looking over the town as it slept through the night as it had done for decades, well before his granddad’s time. And in those distant days, it had been a last stand against the walking dead, the villagers barricading themselves inside as the dead tried to smash their way in. It had happened in his great-great-grandfather’s time, long enough ago to have faded into a passed-down tale through the generations. Kids would scare each other about it, how Hobb Village had been overrun by the undead. And people believed it enough to have a graveyard shift, a guardian to watch over the dead and make sure they remained that way.
Superstitions and old traditions—there was no truth in any of it. Just like Jeff’s story about the bells ringing, it was a lie designed to scare and entertain on dark winter nights when you huddled around the fire and the darkness pressed against your windows. You’d go to bed that night with a sense of unease, a fear of the night as you stared from your bedroom window and the wind howled. He wanted his bed right now, felt tired already before it was even full dark.
It took him ten minutes to walk the entire graveyard at a brisk pace, and he ended his patrol at Jeff’s hut. The hut had a rusted metal roof with a wonky chimney, a single window looking east where the rising sun would shine through and signal the end of the graveyard shift. Opening the door, he went inside, smelling old wood and a hint of tobacco from Jeff’s pipe. A single lantern hung from the roof and Zach hunted around on the table in the dark for some matches. He found them, struck one, and lit the lantern. It spluttered out a faint glow, sending shadows dancing around the hut. He sat down on a chair, swung his feet up on the desk, and watched the fog growing thicker, pressing up to the window. Only a thin pane of glass existed between him and the night. He didn’t like it, didn’t trust the night would be kept out there with the dead.
Every bell in the graveyard went and I ain’t ever been so scared as that night.
Searching through a cabinet, Zach found Jeff’s hip flask. He shook it and the contents sloshed around inside. Felt nearly full. Must’ve filled it as a welcome to the new job. He took a swig and the whiskey burned a path into his stomach, scattering the chills. Another few sips and he settled back in the chair.
It was soon full dark outside and the fog hung thick against the window, desperate to come inside. The dead continued to sleep, and a bird landed on the metal roof, pecking at it. Zach welcomed the sound, hating the deathly silence of the graveyard. He had never been up here so late, was shocked by how dark it was.
The lantern flickered, threatening to go out, and the primal fear of dark took him. But the light was stubborn and kept alight. It shone on Jeff’s shotgun, a box of cartridges spilling across the table. Zach had fired a gun before, hunting rabbits with his dad, knew he could handle it if needed. But what if his mum rung her bell, came creeping through the fog to the spluttering light at the hut? Could he shoot her rotten corpse, send her back to the ground?
As the whiskey warmed him, he felt his eyes growing heavy, snapped them open and struggled against sleep. The bird on the roof had stopped pecking at the metal, now scratching around up there, tiny feet like raindrops on tin. He thought of tiny fingers tapping to be let in, imagined the dead up there on the roof and shivered. Another swig from the flask and it soothed him towards sleep, encouraged him into the land of dreams. He drifted into a light doze.
When he woke up, the lantern had gone out and complete darkness surrounded him. He searched blindly for the box of matches, desperate for the light to return. His hands shook, knocking over unseen objects in his haste. Outside, an owl hooted. Finally he found the box, struck a match, and held it to the lantern.
A face stared in at him through the window. The match burned his fingers and he dropped it. Hands shaking, he struck another and it lit up the window again. There was no one there, just his own pale reflection looking back at him. He lit the lantern, felt comforted by the weak light it cast. He was jumping at reflections, thinking they were something else.
The dead.
Zach loaded the gun, just in case. There was a lot of silver in the church and he had to remember the very real threat of thieves. Not that locals came to the church at night, fearing the sound of the Dead Ringers. And if he’d seen someone out there, he’d better go check. How would it look if the church got burgled on his first night? His dad would tell him he wasn’t cut out for the job. Jeff would agree with him, wonder what he was thinking letting a youngster take over such an important job. Unhooking the lantern, Zach pushed the door open and stepped out into the fog, feeling the air freeze his face. He could just make out the gravestones sticking up like rotten teeth in a mouth full of gaps.
He walked around the church, looking for the flicker of a lantern within, but saw nothing. He checked the door, walked around to the back, and checked that, too. It was secure. Pulling out his pocket watch, he checked the time in the weak light of the lantern. It was just coming to midnight and he felt a shuddering cold ripple through him. He jumped as another owl hooted. Something fluttered by in front of his face. Probably a bat. Walking from the church, he’d forgotten if he’d walked clockwise or anticlockwise.
Widdershins….If it don’t summon the dead, you’ll call the devil for sure.
It was too cold for this, too dark. He made his way back to the hut, careful where he stepped.
Then came the ringing of a bell, somewhere in the graveyard. It gave two big rings and fell silent. Had he imagined that? It rang again, sending his heart racing. Kids had to be playing in the graveyard. Or Jeff had snuck back to see if Zach was sleeping on the job.
He wandered in the direction he’d heard the bell, moving carefully between the stones with his lantern held high. The bell rang again, echoing through the cold night air. Had mum come ringing, calling to her son?
“Who’s there?” he called out, trying to sound as if he wasn’t scared. Truth was, he was terrified, ready to run screaming into the night and back to town. He realized he’d left the gun back in the hut. He considered going back for it w
hen the bell rang again, just a few feet away. It didn’t stop, one-second gaps between each peal. Zach remained still, trying to look through a mix of fog and night. Something moved in the corner of his eye. Spinning round, he dropped the lantern. It went out and plunged him into darkness with nothing but the ringing of the bell to keep him company. A whimper escaped his lips and he stumbled back. He tripped on a stone, fell on his back into the cold earth, and tensed. Something walked towards him, dragging feet across the ground. A groan drifted through the fog and he scrabbled away from it.
The bell continued to ring.
Zach jumped to his feet, ran blind through the night. He came to the hut, pulled the door open, and slammed it shut behind him. He leaned against the flimsy door, tendrils of fog curling under and around it. Grabbing the gun, he gripped it close to his chest. More bells rang one after the other around the graveyard, sounding deep within his mind, challenging his sanity on the verge of snapping. There were three hundred and one bodies buried out there, every one of them a Dead Ringer. The ringing triggered a sudden manic hysteria within Zach and he laughed over the sound. The crow returned to the roof, pecking at the tin and adding to the orchestra of madness.
I guess it was the dead playing with me on my first night. They like to scare the living, play games with them.
The bells went suddenly silent and the only sound was the rattling of the window from a relentless wind. The crow gave a cry, as though calling the dead back to action. Peering out the window, all Zach saw were the crooked graves through the fog. The howl of the wind gave the graves the sound of sadness, entrancing Zach with what he thought of as the song of the dead. Not a soul moved out there and he relaxed, the tension passing from his body with a shuddering sigh.
Then he saw them, figures in the fog among the graves. They came towards the hut, silently stalking him. Their unnaturally twisted bodies moved with the slow stiffness of death. As they walked, he heard the bells, chiming towards his death.
The door swung open in the wind and Zach slammed it closed, fumbling with his keys to lock it. He dropped them in his panic, couldn't see where they went. Nails scratched at the wood and Zach pushed his body up against the door as the dead slammed into it. Gaunt, lifeless faces with sunken black eyes pressed up to the window and stared in at him. The walls splintered around him and arms burst through the frail wood, hands pawing at him. Strings were tied to their wrists and the bells rang at their feet as they fell onto Zach. His screams drowned out the ringing of the bells. Teeth sank into his flesh and he tensed as hot pain ripped into him.
A gunshot fired into the night and the dead looked up from their prey. Another shot went off, deafening Zach. The closest Dead Ringer fell back, head exploding in a spray of black gunk that splashed over Zach’s face. The dead rose, stumbled away into the fog, but the bullets hunted them, brought them down in piles. Zach sat up, hugging his knees to his chest, and watched as a figure strolled through the graveyard, rounding the Dead Ringers up with blasts from the gun. The figure knelt down beside Zach, studying him with a grizzled face.
“Did they bite you?” Jefferson asked, eyes narrowing. He looked up into the fog. “Walked the church widdershins, did you? Now, what are we going to do with you? Can’t have you walking about, can we? Got to bury you, for your family’s sake. I’d burn you if I had my way.”
Zach tried to speak but coughed up blood instead. His body felt like it was on fire, spreading from the bites of the Dead Ringers. His head spun, vision growing dark. Time seemed to make a few jumps and he found himself dragged by the feet through the dirt. Another jump in time and he felt cold gripping his body. When he tried to move, he found a paralysis had taken him. Jeff pulled Zach’s arm up, tied a string to his wrist. The sun was rising, chasing the night and the fog away. Jeff pulled the string tight and it dug into Zach’s skin.
“I hope you never have to ring that bell,” Jeff said, lowering the coffin lid onto him. He threaded the string through a hole and as Zach felt his life fade, he realized where the string would be tied. In the darkness of his new womb, he heard Jeff testing the bell. His bell.
It gave two rings and fell silent. Zach felt himself falling into the sleep of death, unable to find the strength to ring the bell himself. Not quite yet.
Kevin Grover - Kent, UK
Kevin is a horror writer who lives in Kent, England. Kevin's biggest influence is Stephen King. Kevin has been writing from a young age and describes himself as the ultimate geek. When not writing, you can often find him watching old episodes of Doctor Who. He has been previously published in ‘Writing Magazine’ in the UK, having come runner up in their 2012 ghost story competition with Pack Up Your Troubles, a story about a wartime ghost come back to visit his wife.
Father's Song is his first novel and takes the reader on a journey into the dark origins of nursery rhymes. It has recently been published and is now available through Amazon. You can connect with Kevin using the following links:
Website: www.kevingrover.co.uk
Facebook: www.facebook.com/Kevin.grover
Twitter: @groverkevin
The Man in the Black Hat
By Alex Benitez
All was well in the small town of Fernwood. It was only ten years after the long string of child abductions, but those incidents had almost been forgotten. A total of eleven small children had seemingly vanished from playgrounds, or on their way home from school, without a shred of evidence to assist authorities in finding them. The police had relied on the media for help to track down the perpetrators, but not a single soul could offer any clues. The cases had gone colder than a winter's night, but a fleet of people knew who was responsible. Eleven children had disappeared in only a few months’ time, but the new generation of children were wiser.
If you were to ask any child in Fernwood who did it, they'd say the man in the black hat without hesitation. They saw him on the edge of playgrounds, standing across the street from the elementary school, anywhere children gathered. No adult noticed the man in the black hat, and only laughed his name off as modern folklore. To them, the man in the black hat was a superstitious myth conjured up by the kids of Fernwood, but the children knew better. They knew the man's rules and they had no sympathy for those who didn't follow them. By word of mouth alone, the kids of Fernwood learned to coexist with the man in the black hat, but sadly, not every child knew.
Summer had nearly ended and Michael Drake's mother wished nothing more than for her son to make some friends before the school year started. She had just accepted a decent job near the quaint little town, so they’d moved, but uprooting their lives proved difficult for Michael. His mom hoped the transition would go smoother if he had a few friends before his first day in a strange new school, so she decided to take him to Fernwood Park for the day.
The park was a vast field housing three baseball diamonds, a soccer field, a basketball court, and various small playgrounds for the enjoyment of the neighborhood kids.
Michael's exhausted mother sat in the bleachers beside a baseball diamond and sighed. "Okay Michael, go play."
"I don't wanna!" Michael immaturely protested.
"Go!" she aggressively, and pulled out a folded Vanity Fair magazine from her purse. "It's not normal for little boys to be around their mothers all day."
"Fine," he moaned as he left to find his way through the large park.
He tried to play tetherball, swing on the swings, and use the seesaw, but the activities proved less than exciting all alone. The other kids were not willing to include a new, different face, so Michael ended up sitting by himself at the top of the big slide. He just sat there a while, leaning his chin on his hands, feeling sad and left out.
Suddenly, Michael heard a voice from the ground below him. "Hey, you!"
Michael looked down and saw another boy standing there with a big red ball. "Who, me?" he asked the boy.
"Yeah! I wanna start a dodgeball game. Wanna play?"
Michael's face brightened. "Sure." He then
slid down the slide to join his new companion.
"Okay, let's go," the other boy said, and they scouted the park for other players.
"I'm Michael."
"Greg," the boy said as he eyed down the other kids.
"Do people here usually play dodgeball?"
"No."
As they searched for additional players, Michael saw him. A scrawny, hunched-over old man in a black hat with a long face. It was a dark, dirty, pork-pie hat, worn above a disheveled suit like any common tramp, but the eerie thing about the man was his face. He only had black, gaping holes for eyes and a mouth, leading to a place where a spirit was supposed to be. He just stood there at the edge of the park by the woods, staring at the kids.
"Who’s that?" Michael asked.
Greg quickly dropped his ball and forcibly shifted Michael's body so that his back faced the man in the black hat. "Never look at him! Never ever!" he whispered.
"What? Why?"
"If you don't look at him, he can't get you," Greg explained.
"What do you mean?"
"It happened last year. Have you heard of Audrey Dalton?"
"No."
"I know because it was Mrs. Dalton's daughter,” Greg continued. “I had her in third grade. She said she was sick of him and was going to tell him to go away and leave us all alone. We told her not to, but she said she wasn't scared. When she went to talk to him, he took her. It was all over the TV and they put her picture up everywhere. Mrs. Dalton left school and I heard she's really, really sad. Just don't look at him. It's better that way."
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