A Grave Matter

by Craig A. McDonough

  A Grave Matter

  A Horror at Pine Ridge book 1

  Craig A. McDonough

  Copyright © 2017 Craig A. McDonough

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents are used

  fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or

  persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights

  reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  or transmitted in any form or by any means,

  electronic or otherwise, without written permission

  from the author.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Foreword

  Let me first say how pleased I am to bring you, “A Grave Matter: A Horror at Pine Ridge Book 1” —finally!

  I say finally because A Grave Matter is the first part (or book as I call it here) I wrote in the ebook. The first 2 parts were originally published in 2014 and the completed book in early 2015, under the title, “The Chronicles of Vladimir”. This title clashed with another book (mainly for teens) of a similar name and was eventually changed to “Horror at Pine Ridge” which better reflected the story line.

  After sometime I revisited my beloved “Vladimir” and felt there was a few things in the book which could have been better. And so I withdrew the book and went to work on repairing it.

  This then is the first part of the newly revised “Vladimir” - I hope you enjoy it!

  Oh! A word on where “Pine Ridge” originates. In the 1980s in my hometown of Melbourne, Australia, I worked at a cemetery which was originally called, “Pine Ridge Cemetery” because of the pine trees along the ridge.

  Amazing how people name things isn’t it?

  Craig McDonough.

  November 2017

  * * *

  A Grave Matter:

  A Horror at Pine Ridge One

  * * *

  Craig A. McDonough

  Chapter One

  Perfect Day for a Funeral

  * * *

  A fine drizzle trickled down from a soft gray sky. A cool mid-fall day where the wind hints of the approaching winter and shorter days. The pit-a-pat of raindrops on the leaves and the well-manicured lawn bestowed a peaceful serenity, a desirable attribute--especially at a cemetery.

  "Perfect day for a funeral, eh, Mr. Massey?" Jason Andrews remarked as he drove the hearse along the gravel road. He was attending his sixth funeral since he started work with Massey Brothers Funeral Services, but he was more nervous today than any of the previous five.

  "Any day is a perfect day for a funeral—the weather has nothing to do with it," Colin Massey snapped at him. He was the youngest of the three brothers and an equal partner, yet regardless of the circumstances, always looked down-cast. He made Lurch from the Addams Family appear cheery. The elder brothers weren't anywhere near as cold or distant, Jason couldn't imagine sitting back with Colin while watching a ballgame over a few beers.

  "It's how we make our money," continued Massey, "and when we make money, so do you. You have to learn to appreciate this aspect of the business if you want to get anywhere in the funerary industry."

  "Yes, sir, I sure will, sir."

  Callous bastard. Jason thought. He hoped this would be the last time he would have to drive this stingy shit again.

  "There," Massey motioned, "pull over just behind that man there."

  At the side of the gravel road stood the man, Jason and his boss, were to meet; Darren Johnson, the Burials Supervisor at Pine Ridge Cemetery. Jason could also make out the newly prepared grave some fifty yards behind, and next to it, the gravedigger. He leaned patiently on his shovel despite the precipitation from above. He didn’t appear troubled by the weather.

  The two men got out of the car, and while Massey went to speak with the cemetery supervisor, Jason went over to talk with the gravedigger. He had never seen a grave dug by hand, and he was curious. He thrust out his hand and introduced himself.

  “I’m Jason,” he said then looked over at the grave.

  “Roy,” The gravedigger said as they shook hands. “Roy Stevens.”

  "I thought all graves were dug with a tractor nowadays?"

  "Backhoe," Roy corrected then added. "Most are, but there are places the backhoe can't get in, because of headstones or trees. Then its pick and shovel time. It's a lost art form, but it keeps me in beer money. "

  Both men chuckled at the remark before Jason fished out a pack of cigarettes.

  "Smoke, Roy?"

  "Yeah, why not? We’ve got time, I think."

  While Roy and Jason smoked, Massey got the final confirmation he needed.

  "Very good, then," Massey said as he turned and headed back toward the hearse, he gave Jason a wave.

  "Show-time," Jason said to Roy and went to join his boss.

  Roy tossed his cigarette to the ground, crushed it, and then moved off into the background. He knew what to do next and would remain out of the way during the ceremony. He’d dug hundreds of graves since he'd started at Pine Ridge. He'd been a good worker too, even if a little less than conscientious. Roy liked a drink on occasion and didn't always arrive on time the next day—if at all. He had come to accept the rest of his working days would be spent here at Pine Ridge and then, like many of the old timers, he’d die here. One of the fringe benefits of the job, he would tell himself sometimes—that—and the few trinkets he managed to pilfer from graves. He was in his late thirties and had come to understand, this was his lot.

  As he pondered this existence in a philosophical manner, a priest came up the stone path to perform the service. He looked as if he’d stepped from the middle-ages in a long dark robe which dragged along behind him, a blood red sash around his waist and a black hat with a flat, wide brim that hid his eyes. A jewel-encrusted cross hung from his neck on a thick gold chain.

  Roy faded into the background but kept his eyes on the priest. He hadn't seen anyone like this guy in all the years he'd worked in the cemetery, or anywhere else for that matter, except maybe in an old horror movie.

  The pallbearers made their way to the grave, guided by Colin Massey. They didn't have far to go—which was a bonus—it was clear they struggled with the weight of the deceased. Roy hoped this wouldn’t be one of those long, extended services. He hated how the priests would just go on and on. However, this one turned out to be the opposite. The priest said a few words, in a foreign language, waved his hands about dutifully, made the sign of the cross on his forehead while the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the cold, dark earth and that was it. The priest shook hands with family and friends when he had finished, offered his condolences, while Massey walked over to greet Roy.

  "Colin Massey, Massey Brothers Funeral Services," he said, shooting out his right hand just the way he had a thousand times before—all part of the show.

  "You've done a splendid job here, sir. It must be so difficult for you fellows to do them by hand."

  "Thank you," said Roy, as he accepted the offered hand. "It’s not so bad once you get into the rhythm of it."

  "Good, good," Massey said and passed the gratuity to Roy in the handshake, "I'll leave the rest in your capable hands."

  "Well, thank you very much, Mr. Massey." Roy forced a smile then looked down at the gray-green portrait of Abe Lincoln in his hand. "That’ll buy a beer or two when I'm finished."

  Massey went over and spoke briefly with the priest, then strutted back to the hearse where Jason waited to drive his boss back to the office. Roy watched them leave then returned his gaze to the $5 bill outstretched between his hands.
>
  "Cheapassy Massey," he muttered. "I spend the better part of four hours digging this fucking hole, and he gives me a lousy five bucks." Roy spat on the ground. "Typical."

  He started to gather his tools to fill in the grave when he noticed a small group of European looking men on the pathway beside the grave. Two of them carried a large Styrofoam ice chest between them and placed it on the path. Roy showed more than a little interest when he saw them each grab a can of beer from the container. They talked among themselves in their native language—which was, Roy realized, the same as that of the priest—shared cigarettes, and drank their beers.

  "I better wait just a bit longer," Roy muttered. "I'll let 'em say their last goodbyes before I fill it in."

  It wasn’t unusual to see relatives and friends of the deceased, particularly those of European backgrounds, gather at the graveside for a farewell drink. Before he could move out of view, however, one of them called out to him.

  "My friend. Come, join us!" He beckoned. "Share a drink with us and the dear departed, yes?"

  The man's accent was very thick, but he spoke slowly enough to be understood, and when Roy saw the can of beer on offer, well, they could have spoken Martian for all he cared. No one ever had to twist Roy's arm for a beer. He eagerly accepted the invitation.

  "Welcome, my friend, I am Besnick," the one who had called to him said.

  "Please join us. Are you permitted?" Besnick referred to the beer he held out.

  "Thank you. I'm Roy," he said and shook hands. “And yes, of course, I can share a drink with the family at the burial. We're encouraged to pay our respects with family members in the way they prefer." That was a lie. Consumption of alcohol on the job was forbidden, but Roy wasn't about to turn down free beer. Hell, no!

  He rarely socialized with family members at the graveside and was far from fashion conscious by any means, but he did feel out of place in his dirty uniform among the better-dressed mourners. Also, he didn't feel quite at ease with strangers, never had, and this group was strange-but he couldn’t say why. He felt these people were different somehow; that was all he knew. But what the heck? Free beer was free beer, wasn’t it? He asked himself, despite his unease.

  "You honor us by sharing a drink," Besnick said heartily, then paused and waved a hand over the edge of the grave, "and of course, our dear brother, Vladimir."

  As Besnick said this, he and the others raised their beers in a salute. Roy followed suit and nodded toward the grave.

  "Thank you, my friend," Besnick said to Roy for his gesture. "I thank you on behalf of the entire family and Vladimir himself."

  They all drained their beers at the same time and Roy was no exception.

  "What shall we do with these, Roy?" Besnick held up the empty can.

  "Just put them over here." Roy pointed to a spot behind Vladimir's grave, next to an azalea shrub. "I will clean up the gravesite later."

  "Thank you, Roy. You are truly a man of honor."

  Okay, these people are a little on the “whacky” side, but for free beer I could be very "honorable.

  An unlabeled bottle of clear beverage and some shot glasses were brought out from the ice chest and placed on the marble slab of a grave next to where Besnick stood. Roy noted with some interest that six glasses were produced— but it was only after he joined them did they number six. Did they know I would join them? He shrugged the thought aside. They more than likely brought a bunch of glasses and just took out the required amount. Still the strange aura surrounding these people persisted, though the beer eased Roy’s concerns.

  "Share a toast with us, Roy?" Besnick asked. "To the memory of our dear brother?”

  Roy was taken aback at first. “Err, yeah, I'd be happy to."

  "For the toast, Roy," Besnick instructed, "just say, 'To Vladimir, may your rest be peaceful,' after which drink half of your glass, then throw the rest into the grave. Yes?"

  "Sure, not a problem," Roy said. "I can do that."

  Besnick then turned back to the group and counted aloud; on three, each raised their glasses, made the toast, took a mouthful, and then threw the remainder into the grave, shot glass included.

  Roy followed suit, but when he took his drink, it felt like liquid fire. He gagged, coughed several times before he managed a weak throw into the grave.

  "Roy, how do you like it?" Besnick laughed. "Strong, is it not?"

  "Yeah," Roy croaked. "What is that? Never had anything like that before."

  "It’s a traditional drink that my countrymen make. We call it grappa. It is homemade."

  He handed Roy the bottle. “Here, my friend, you take it for later. You deserve it.

  "Thank you, Besnick," Roy’s said in a raspy voice. "I appreciate it."

  Roy was handed another beer, which he readily accepted. He popped it open and started pouring the cold fluid down his burning throat before the rim of the can touched his lips. The cold liquid hit the spot fast! Roy looked up to see if any steam rose from his mouth. He finished the beer in a flash-he couldn't get it down fast enough. One of the other men grabbed another from the ice chest and handed it to Roy.

  "Would you like another, Roy?" It was Besnick who asked, not the one who held the beer. Roy figured Besnick was the only one who spoke English in the little group.

  "I s-shouldn't," Roy said. "I need to get to work, thanks, all the s-same." Roy’s words attested to his alcohol intake.

  "I understand my friend, we must be on our way too," Besnick told Roy. "Can I ask you before we leave, if you would do a small favor for the family?"

  Roy held his answer back—he wasn’t the type to agree at the drop of a hat, drunk or not. The tense atmosphere he felt earlier, returned. If he believed in ghosts he’d say that was the impression they gave.

  Thank goodness, I don’t believe in such bullshit.

  "Roy, in the old days, in my country," Besnick began, "it would always be a family member who prepared the grave, and he would also fill it in. These days, as you know, this cannot be done. I need then, to ask of you this one small favor, my friend." Besnick placed a warm hand on the inebriated gravedigger’s shoulder.

  "Well, if I can." Roy answered nervously. His head had started to spin, and he couldn't understand why, he hadn't had that much to drink. Must have been the homemade grappa. Strong stuff, he thought.

  "In our old traditions, Roy," Besnick said, "a gift is placed with the departed, to prepare his soul for the long journey to the afterlife. We wish to ensure he arrives at his destination safely, and unharmed. Do you understand, Roy? We pay the ferryman if you will."

  Roy nodded slowly. He didn't understand at all, but he didn't want to show his ignorance.

  "It always fell on the last one to see the departed, to place the gift," Besnick explained, "and of course, he who filled in the grave would be the last." Besnick paused, for a reaction from Roy, when there wasn’t any he continued. "Today that person is you, Roy."

  The penny finally dropped. "Oh, oh, I s-see," Roy stuttered. "What is this gift and what do you want me to do with it?"

  The others stood silently but watched and listened intently as Besnick explained. Roy was convinced none of them understood English, when Besnick spoke with them; he did so in his native tongue. One of the others then brought forward a small sports bag and produced a cardboard shoe-box, held together with a length of old twine, and handed it to Besnick.

  "I want you to take this, Roy.” Besnick said. “Place it on top the coffin—at the head—then have one last drink of the grappa in Vladimir's honor before you fill it in. Can you do that for me, Roy?"

  Roy stared at Besnick, dumbfounded. "You mean that's all?"

  "Yes, that is all. But," Besnick warned, "make sure you firmly secure it. You must make sure the parcel is with him on this, his last journey! If it is not, he will not rest well, and his journey to the afterlife will not be a smooth one. Got it?"

  "Yeah, sure, I understand," Roy affirmed. He didn't have a clue and didn't care.

&nb
sp; "You can count on me."

  Roy took the shoe box, the weight of which surprised him, and was asked to wait until Besnick and the others had left the cemetery before placing the gift inside. They shook hands, smiled, and Besnick started to move away. Then stopped and reached into an inner pocket of his suit coat. "And Roy, this is for you my friend. A token of our appreciation."

  Roy took the unsealed envelope Besnick held out. Inside were ten $10 bills, along with a glossy, cream-colored business card with Besnick's name and a phone number embossed on it.

  "Jeez, thank you," a genuinely grateful Roy said. "Thank you very much!" He stuffed the envelope in his shirt pocket and buttoned it up tight. He wasn’t to take risks with a hundred bucks.

  "It is the least I can do for such an honorable man as yourself." Besnick said again. This time, however, Roy did not mind the mention of the word honorable again. He was honorable, all right. To Roy H. Stevens.

  While Besnick headed toward their cars, one of the others in the group looked at Roy then gestured to the ice chest full of beer. "Roy, these are also for you," his said in perfect English, "enjoy them, with our gratitude."

  Roy nodded then waited until the man was out of earshot before he said.

  "Well, I'll be fucked. The little bastard could speak English all along!"

  Roy sat on the curb of a nearby grave and watched Besnick and company leave.

  He drank another cold beer and had a smoke while he waited. He was in no hurry. He looked over at the shoe box as he finished off another beer and tossed the can without a second thought into Vladimir’s open grave.

  "Well, before I put you in, I better clean up that mess."

  Heh, now I'm talking to a shoe box ... just what the hell was in that homemade shit? He picked up the empty beer cans and cigarette butts, walked over to the open grave and threw them without any concern. He next took one last drag on his cigarette before he flicked it into the grave.