In Silent Graves

by Gary A Braunbeck

  The program began with a rather graphic depiction of a lizard’s tail being separated from its body, then—with the aid of time-lapse photography—showed how the lizard was able to grow it back. After that, it was on to a lab where Kirlian photography was used to illustrate something called “The Phantom Leaf Effect.” There was a shot of an ordinary maple leaf, then the same maple leaf was placed in darkness so its golden aura could be photographed. Robert found it kind of eerie, the way the black screen suddenly began to fill with a bright gold outline of the leaf, but then it got really weird because one of the scientists performing the experiment tore away one-third of the leaf and placed it back under the lens of the camera: once again the screen went black, but this time when the leaf’s aura was shown, it was missing one-third of its original form.

  “Now, watch closely,” intoned the narrator’s voice, “and you will witness one of the true great mysteries of modern science.”

  Robert, half fractured out of his skull, sat staring at the television screen for what seemed a month and was just starting to drift off when, very slowly, part of the aura began to move, bleeding outward like the thinnest trail of spilled gold ink, and within a few moments the shifting section of the aura perfectly formed the missing portion of the leaf. Then the screen split in two and the original photograph of the whole leaf’s aura appeared next to this one.

  They were identical.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered to himself, then wondered what would happen if they photographed the lizard’s tail; would its aura bleed outward to form the rest of the lizard?

  The scientists were getting ready to do just that when he passed out.

  Chapter 3

  In the dream their bathroom was lit by the glow of half a dozen candles as Denise reclined in the warm, soapy water and Robert bathed her—one of their favorite methods of foreplay...once upon a time.

  But tonight, in this dream, uniquely in this dream, he felt not only the sensations that rippled through his own dream-body but also those experienced by Denise’s.

  “I want to tell you something,” he whispered to her. The water seeping from the cloth in his hands massaged her with warmth, easing the strain. “I know, now, that I was meant to be here for you. Shhh—don’t say anything, just listen. It used to be, when I told someone the story of my life, it would stop there. But since I’ve met you....” She closed her eyes, and Robert kissed her wet hair and placed another warm, soaked cloth over her face. “Since I’ve known you, I have told you the story of my life, and you’ve asked to hear it again...and I find, now, that when I tell it, it’s no longer my story. It’s ours, and I will protect that with sword and shield.” The diamond droplets of water trickled down her cheek, glided over her chin, slipped down her neck, and slid a moist path between her breasts; then his hand was there, the soapy washcloth rubbing gentle circular patterns, moist and creamy, lilac-scented, and she stretched, arching her back, sighing as the washcloth dropped away and his lips began trailing down her neck, pausing at her shoulder, then to the slope of her breast, then he delicately cupped one breast in his hand, his thumb stroking her nipple until it became firm. His lips covered her nipple, drawing it into his mouth meekly yet hungrily, and she closed her eyes all the tighter, hearing a low growl rise from deep in her throat, emerging as a sigh, and the slowly drifting lights behind her closed lids separated, shimmering in rhythm with the spasms below her waist, becoming thousands of bright pinpoints that seemed to surge from somewhere in her center as she reached out and clutched the back of his head, guiding his wonderful lips to her other breast, feeling him take the nipple in his mouth as the fire and lights intensified within both of them, caressing her, moving her, rocking her, tickling, rolling, arching her toward him, and she felt the softness of the bed beneath, the satiny brush of the sheets against her back as he continued kissing her everywhere and endlessly, licking her, a bite here, a nibble there, probing her with his fingers, cupping her breasts in his hands and tonguing her nipples in slow, wet, maddening circular patterns. There was a thin beam of moonlight slipping in under the window blinds; each hair on his body was isolated by that light like bluish gossamer, a wrapping. He ran his fingers up her arms, and the little hairs there sprang to attention, then he touched her eyes with his fingertips; they were like pads, responsive to her every pore. Her eyelids fluttered beneath his touch, and she drew her own fingers down his cheeks to the bone of his jaw, then down his neck, leaning forward and kissing his lips. Her mouth felt larger than human to him. His tongue beat against her lips and opened them and soon their saliva was mixing, then his mouth was crawling down her body and she lay back, opening her vagina for him. Soon, her murmurs seemed to fill the room. She arched her back slightly as her knees bent around the small curve at the back of his head, pressing it slowly downward. They twined around each other as if their limbs had lost their natural form. A moment later he lifted his head from between her wet heat and moved up her belly to her breasts again, at first teasing her nipples, then sucking them deep into his hungry mouth, trailing his lips across her shoulders, his breath moist and warm against the side of her neck, his cock rigid and hot, his entry smooth and painless, the two of them rocking together, pumping slick and steady as he plunged into her over and over again, and it was good, it was great, it was heaven, and Denise grabbed hold of his shoulders and rolled him onto his back, straddling his hips, locking her ankles under the backs of his knees as her own pushed out and down, her ass rolling back and forth across his groin, pushing him deeper inside of her as his hand grabbed one of her breasts and his mouth encircled the areola, slurping and sucking and biting as he thrust himself upward with more force, ramming his erection deeper, deeper, and deeper still, and she threw back her head and arched her back, her nails digging into his chest, and then came the sounds, low, throaty growls, grunts and sighs and strangled screams as their rhythm grew faster, harder, frenzied, bedsprings squeaking as she groaned instead and drove herself down, pushing his cock in so much deeper it was starting to hurt but she didn't care, she wanted him to bury it in her up to her throat so she tangled her fingers in his sweat-matted hair, God he felt so good, so thick and solid, pulsing, throbbing, sliding wet and steamy into her slick sex as she reached over and pulled a silk scarf from the headboard and fashioned it into a blindfold that she tied around his head, something she’d never done before, burying his gaze in darkness as she doubled her efforts, grinding down with all her strength; he arched his back and groaned, she threw back her head once again and squealed, then moaned, then screamed, her juice-soaked thighs sliding against his own, then he was sitting up again, burying his blindfolded face between her breasts, his tongue searching for then lapping at her nipples, biting them, hard, harder, and she loved it, it was incredible, and now they were moving side to side as well as up and down, the chaotic motion setting fire to her body as she pulled up and slammed back down on him, tossing her head to the side and now he was shuddering beneath her because he wasn’t in control now and never had been, it was all her, and it was good, so good as she bucked and thrashed and wiggled, driving herself down hard, squealing and howling and screaming, "God, yes, do it...do it, Bobby...shoot it in me, in me, in me NOW! YES! GOD, YES!"

  —and Robert suddenly had the feeling they weren’t alone in the room—

  —Jesus, is Rael hiding in here somewhere, watching us?—

  —then realized it wasn’t the room...he felt as if they were no longer alone in the bed—

  —She doesn’t...she doesn’t feel right, something’s different, something’s wrong—

  —suddenly unable to open his eyes, he gripped her hips in the blackness and began to explore her body with his hands—

  —the hips weren’t as wide as he remembered and she didn’t smell the same way she used to after they’d been at it and were both sweating up a storm—he could detect his own smell in there, his sweat and semen, but his own smells weren’t mixing with hers like the should have—

  —this isn�
��t her—

  —craziness, it had to be her, so he kept exploring her form with his hands, and this time when he went to her breasts, breasts that had been just as he remembered them, they, too, had changed; they were smaller, more delicate, not the breasts of a woman but those of a girl maybe twelve or thirteen years old who’d only just really begun to come into her own physically—

  —wake up, pal, c’mon, just open your eyes and that’ll be it—

  —Christ, he hadn’t had a wet dream in over fifteen years, and now that he was finally having another one it had to be about a little girl...great, terrific, wonderful, just slap on the cuffs and call him ‘Short Eyes’ and let everybody on the whole cell block do the Jailhouse Rock on his ass—

  —open your eyes, c’mon—

  —he released his grip on her body and tried to force himself to roll over onto his side—that’s how he always woke himself up from a dream he wanted to get out of, just roll over and—bam!—wide awake and safe, thanks so much—

  —but he couldn’t roll over because of the weight on top of him, and even though it wasn’t that much weight, it was still enough to hold him down, so his hands thrashed about frantically and he felt the blindfold enshrouding his head, worked his hands back to find the knot but he couldn’t untie it so instead gripped the damn thing and yanked it downward—

  —no dream, this was no dream, because he was seeing everything in color and he never dreamed in color and besides he could see the moonlight from the window glinting off his watch and he never slept with his watch on, and he could also feel that damn spring that made that lump in the middle of the mattress that always got him at some point during the night if he wasn’t careful and what the hell was he doing in the bed, anyway? he’d passed out in the chair in front of the television and ohgodohgodohgod he was going to come, he could feel the pressure building, could feel his wetness, her wetness, and he shouted something, gibberish, as his arm shot out and turned on the lamp on the bedside table—

  —the first thing he saw was her face, so young, so red with passion’s efforts, so covered in sweat as she grunted, thrusting herself down onto his cock that was ready to explode—

  —the next thing he saw was her tender, twelve-year-old body with its breasts that were only now starting to fully bud—

  —and the last thing he saw, just before he came inside of her, was the long, pinkish-white autopsy scar that ran directly down the center of her torso—

  —”OhGod! Emily!” he screamed, horrified, feeling himself shoot inside of her—

  —then she threw herself forward and—with a hand that was missing one of its fingers—grabbed the lamp from the table and smashed it against the side of his head.

  Chapter 4

  Like some cartoon cliché where a character gets bonked on the head by a falling anvil, the first thing Robert saw upon opening his eyes were stars; they surrounded him, some dim and distant, others so close he thought he could actually feel their light touching him. They flickered and snapped and filled his nostrils with the scent of burning wood and kerosene.

  He blinked—Christ, it did feel like an anvil had been dropped on his head—then opened his eyes a little wider.

  The stars flickered once again, throwing sparks as tongues of fire swirled around and around like small tornadoes, while others reached upward, forming inverse tears of flame.

  Torches.

  He was surrounded by burning torches.

  He attempted to lift his head but the pain was tremendous. Someone nearby whispered, in a child’s voice, “Shhh, c’mon, easy there—here, take this…,” and a small woman, a tiny woman, bone-thin, whose facial features resembled those of a bird, slipped a couple of tablets into his mouth and then held a canteen filled with grape juice to his lips. Robert swallowed the pills, laid his head back, and waited. When the pain began to recede, he reached up to touch the side of his skull and found that part of his head had been heavily bandaged.

  “Had us going there for a little while, Willy,” said Rael. “Personally I thought you were going to Big Sleep on us but Ian, he kept waking you up to make sure you didn’t slip away—though I’m guessing you don’t much remember that, do you?”

  “No....”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just be sure you thank him later. Ian was very worried.”

  Finally able to fully open his eyes, Robert sat up and discovered that he was in some kind of underground chamber—maybe an abandoned mine or (the thought caused him to shudder) underneath a cemetery.

  “Nice to have you with us, Willy.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Feel a little bit like you’re both here and not here, right?”

  “Yeah....”

  “That’s normal, under the circumstances. Anyway, welcome to Chiaroscuro—also known as Desolation Row, the Layaway Department, and the Ant Farm. I’m kind of wishy-washy on which name I like best.”

  The walls of the chamber soared upward on either hand like the sides of a ravine. Looking up, it seemed to Robert they would never meet in the darkness overhead.

  He was lying at the crossroad of several paths strewn with random stones and piles of scree. Illuminated by the light from the dozens, possibly hundreds, of torches, he saw that these paths became narrow and steep, the rocks growing fewer but larger, stacked one on top of the other. In the distance he could make out something that looked like a chaotic staircase of massive, wedge-shaped boulders. This was evidently the anteroom of some vast, silent, ancient chamber.

  Ahead, he could see a bluish radiance, haloing some kind of rock formation. On a small plateau, under an overhang of white calcite that curved gracefully upward like a snowdrift hollowed by the wind, stood a cluster of meticulously-carved stones, each roughly the size and shape of a woman, arms outstretched, holding something whose shape he could not quite discern. Their bodies were complete, but all of them lacked faces.

  He turned slowly around, looking upward, and felt his breath catch in his throat.

  Crisscrossing above his head like strands of a web was an intricate network of handmade bridges, some constructed from disparate sections of metal, others made from rope and planks of wood. Below these bridges was a catwalk, made from wood, that seemed to encircle the entire chamber. Lighted torches and battery-operated lanterns hung from the surrounding walls, and every ten or fifteen feet there were rope ladders.

  And everywhere above there were hollowed spaces that looked like small tombs, each of them lit from within and tenanted by children. Robert could hear music coming from some of the chambers, laughter from others. Some of the chambers were cut off from the others by curtains somehow nailed into place. The more he stared, awestruck, the more apparent the ingenuity that had gone into constructing this place. The curtains were not nailed into position as he’d first thought; expandable shower-curtain rods had been used in each doorway, so that if the tenants desired privacy, they had only to slide their particular curtain closed. Some used quilts, others blankets.

  “How...how many of you are there?” he asked.

  “Enough to keep my hands full, Willy,” replied Rael. “These catacombs go on for miles, and where one series of chambers ends, there are passageways to others just like this. Thirteen other places like this, to be exact. Each one near—”

  “—where the mountain opens up?”

  “So you do pay attention. Cool beans. There’s an underground spring not too far from here—the cleanest water you’ve ever tasted. I could offer to give you a tour but you don’t look to me like you’re up for much sightseeing at the moment. In fact, you kind of look like a sick walrus trying to climb over a rock, so I’d lie still if I were you.”

  Robert coughed. “Can I ask you something?”

  “I’d be surprised if you weren’t full of questions, the way I’ve been fucking with you—sure, ask away.”

  He gestured to the living quarters surrounding them. “I know the music probably comes from battery-operated cassette and CD players, but I swear it look
s like a couple of the...children in the rooms are watching televisions. How is that possible?”

  “They’re watching videotapes on VCRs, actually—though we have managed to lay hands on a few DVD players. You see, we don’t get cable here, and a satellite dish might eventually draw someone’s attention. To answer your question, though—portable generators, most of which we’ve stolen, I’m ashamed to say, along with a lot of other things, but we’re not here to discuss the problems I might be having with my conscience. I might be able to do a little sleight-of-hand with time, kairos-wise, but I can’t summon electricity from thin air. Most of the ‘rooms’ as you call them, are also equipped with portable air filters. A lot of the kids have breathing problems—asthma, allergies, things like that—and the atmosphere in here lately has been making those conditions worse. But we do what we can to make life as good as it can be.”

  Robert stared at him. “Can I ask you another question?”

  “Ask me anything you want, Willy.”

  He looked at the flute dangling from Rael’s belt, remembered the story he’d read that night at Lynn’s house, and said: “Are you the Pied Piper of Hamelin?”

  Rael shrugged and smiled. “You know, I’ve come to rue the day I told old Bob Browning that story. I could have told it to Shakespeare, or Blake, Milton, Poe, even Dickens, for that matter...but, no, I have to go and shoot off my mouth in front of Mr. Romance...but, yes, I am. Of not only Hamelin, but Dresden, Auschwitz and all the Third Reich’s other vacation spots, Vietnam, the orphanages—‘orphanages,’ that’s a fuckin’ laugh—the dying rooms in Rumania and the mountains of China...let’s see, where else? Cambodia, Kosovo, El Salvador, Rwanda...you name a place where children were forced to take part in the fun and frolic of humanity’s compassion at its most benevolent, and odds are I’ve visited there. Like Jerry and the Dead say, I can’t tell you what a long, strange trip it’s been. And it still ain’t over. Sometimes I wonder if it ever will be. Now let me ask you a question, Willy. Pay attention, there may be a test on this material later.