Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: A Suspense Magazine Anthology

by Jeffery Deaver

  Larry said, “Son of a—”

  * * *

  MIDNIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF DEATH

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  “They say she came to life each night after midnight; she traveled like the wind, coming back into town, feeding upon a new person each night. Then, they would awaken in the morning, spitting blood, choking on that blood…dying, in a pool of their own blood!” Marcy announced.

  Hayley listened to her cousin, silently shaking her head as she and their friends stood in the old cemetery, staring at the vault that held the remains of the local “vampire,” Elizabeth Barclay.

  Those remains were, not surprisingly, in the Barclay Cemetery.

  Hayley knew the legend, too. She’d grown up here—or partially grown up here. Her parents had moved a bit east to New Orleans when she’d been twelve. But Marcy’s father, Hayley’s uncle, was the manager and groundskeeper of the small cemetery, and Marcy had spent all seventeen years of her life living in a home that bordered the cemetery.

  And she loved the legends—and doing her best to scare others, boys especially.

  The wind seemed to breathe out a rush of cold air as Marcy’s words settled on their small crowd. The trees in the center lane of the “city of the dead” where vault after vault arose in majestic lichen-covered splendor rustled, as if someone moved around them.

  Yes, Marcy was good.

  But her cousin smiled then, saying, “The townspeople found a way to end the horror! They marched to the cemetery with torches. They broke the gate to the vault and battered down the old wooden door. They broke open her tomb and wrenched the coffin from the vault, dragging it back outside. And there, while her poor mother watched and screamed and cried, they opened her coffin. Horrible scratch marks ripped through the lid of the coffin, revealing what was inside. There she lay! Elizabeth, fresh as the day they had buried her weeks before, her beautiful face a soft shade of alabaster, eyes sweetly closed—and blood, yes, blood, a trickle of it, running from her ruby red lips!”

  Marcy paused again for effect.

  Her little crowd was silent at first; Mary Boucher, pretty and petite, seemed to be shivering, though it was a warm Louisiana night. Tommy Hilliard, captain of the football team, had a crooked smile on his face, but Hayley wondered if even he might be a little bit unnerved. Next to him were Frank Legrand and Art Richard, also on the football team.

  Tonight, Marcy’s guests were the cream of the crop of the local high school. She had three of the best players on the football team, and the guest list rounded out with little Mary Boucher—captain of the cheerleaders—and, of course, Hayley.

  Marcy wasn’t always in the elite group, though she had managed to stay on the edge of it—and tonight, of course, she’d been able to come up with a great play to get such an illustrious group together—her father was out of town. She’d invited them all on a bit of a dare and an adventure that might not come their way again.

  She’d had a crush on Tommy Hilliard forever, and he’d recently broken up with his girlfriend, Tiffany Myers.

  Tiffany hadn’t been invited. But just as Marcy had pined for Tommy Hilliard forever, she had hated Tiffany. But then, to be fair, it had always seemed to Hayley that Tiffany had gone out of her way to be cruel to Marcy, mocking her as the “grave-digger’s dirty daughter” and other such names.

  Tiffany hadn’t been nice to anyone, really. She was rich and—in her mind, at least—entitled. It wasn’t being rich, Hayley had decided, since she knew other rich kids were darn decent and good to others. It was the way that Tiffany had of mocking anyone poor, anyone with a handicap—anyone she didn’t like or want in her circle.

  Hayley had heard Tommy talking earlier; he’d told Frank and Art that he’d probably wind up back with Tiffany. In truth, Tiffany was a stunning blue-eyed blonde with a perfect body that didn’t stop—Tiffany worked hard to keep it that way. Her legs were legendary.

  As Tommy told his friends, “She could wrap those legs around a man in a way that couldn’t even be imagined.”

  Hayley had tried very hard to explain this to Marcy, but Marcy was convinced that she had her chance. Tiffany was a silly, shrieking shrew—while she had at least some semblance of decency and intelligence. Tommy would see that.

  And he hadn’t even suggested Tiffany be invited that night. That was a sign, as far as Marcy was concerned.

  Marcy’s father was out of town. She was about to graduate; she was an adult, eighteen in a month, and he could trust her, of course. And Marcy was responsible. Usually. She’d even told her dad about having a slumber party. She just hadn’t told him she was hosting a slumber party that wouldn’t be in the house—she’d have it in the cemetery.

  Marcy swung around to look at Hayley, grinning with triumph. “Hayley, finish the story.”

  Hayley smiled weakly. “They thought poor Elizabeth was a vampire. They dragged her from the coffin, cut out her heart, and burned it—before her poor mother’s eyes.” She hesitated. Mary Boucher looked really frightened. Hayley chanced her cousin’s wrath by continuing with, “Of course, the poor young woman had suffered from ‘consumption,’ or tuberculosis, a disease which couldn’t be cured at the time. The saddest part of the story is they weren’t always embalming people back then and it’s most likely that she was buried alive. The disease had spread, causing others to contract it and those people might well awake spitting blood. And the scratch marks on the coffin…I can only think how horrible that must have been, except, hopefully, she was barely conscious in there, or…died quickly without even being aware how desperately she’d scratched against the coffin to get out.”

  Marcy gave her a stern frown. She was supposed to be scaring people—not reassuring them.

  “Yes! Imagine! Being buried alive in Louisiana in such a vault where, they say, in just a year and a day the sun will burn down, scorch, and bring flesh and blood and bone truly back to basics, nothing but man—or woman—as dust and ash!”

  “Good story,” Tommy Hilliard said, pretending to suppress a yawn.

  “Shush,” Marcy said suddenly.

  “Why? What? A zombie is coming?” Tommy asked, laughing. He was almost eighteen—solid as a rock and inching over six-feet tall. He had already been recruited by a dozen colleges.

  “No,” Marcy said, grinning. “Officer Claymore—hurry, let’s get back into the house—he always comes by here right at midnight, making sure no vandals are running around.”

  They headed quickly through the small open gate which led to the rear of Marcy’s house. Her yard was enclosed as well with the same brickwork that surrounded the cemetery, except that, in most areas of the cemetery, the wall was only about two-and-a-half feet tall.

  The doorbell rang just as they came in. Marcy murmured something and hurried to it, smiling sweetly as she opened it.

  It was indeed Officer Claymore. “You all right, Marcy?” he asked, looking beyond her to the group inside.

  “Fine, Officer Claymore—and thank you.”

  “Yeah, I heard your dad is out of town,” Claymore said. He was a middle-aged man with something of a round look. He tended to smile—but Marcy had seen him in action when a couple of thugs had tried to rob a local bakery.

  He was pudgy maybe, but he could be damned fierce.

  “My friends are keeping me company tonight,” Marcy said.

  “Good.” He looked around at the group.

  “There’s a strange man hanging around town,” Claymore told them. “From what I hear, sounds like a harmless fellow, carries a sign that he’s a veteran and needs help. Scruffy-looking fellow, long, unkempt hair, big coat.”

  “We won’t bother him if we see him,” Marcy said.

  Claymore grinned and shrugged. “Either that—I mean he’s a harmless old guy—or he’s the ghost of Ethan Fray, fellow shot down and killed in the streets after he got back from active military duty. I’ve heard he runs around attacking people in the shadows.”

  “Funny, funny,” Marcy said softly, sm
iling. “You trying to scare us, Officer Claymore?”

  Claymore suddenly drew serious, frowning. “Kids, you have to be smart and careful. Keep doors locked. This is serious. They had a couple of murders in New Orleans in the last weeks. They think there may be a serial killer loose—he slices up his victims and leaves them displayed bizarrely. They’re calling him the City Slicer. So, yeah, I’m serious.”

  “New Orleans,” Art said. “All the crazies go to New Orleans. We’re, like, more real out here in the bayou country.”

  “Please, we’re good kids, honest,” Marcy said.

  “Okay, so we’re not New Orleans. That doesn’t make us safe. I’m hoping you’re all smart enough to be careful, not scared,” Claymore said. “You see a ghost—well, scream like hell. You see a poor fellow down and out who needs help—well, leave him be. I say, if you see him trying to sleep by one of the tombs, leave him alone—good idea if he’s a ghost or a real man, right? You should never be in that cemetery at night, anyway. If you see anything—”

  “Like the City Slicer?” Art asked.

  “Scream blue blazes and run like hell. Look, yes, any city seems to draw more crazies. That doesn’t mean that weird or bad things can’t happen here.”

  Tommy Hilliard barely suppressed a laugh. “Like a ghost—or a vampire rising?” he asked.

  Officer Claymore looked at him. “Who knows about Ethan Fray, hmm? But I guess it was before your day, Tommy Hilliard. While legends may be legends, what people do with them can be bad. Trust me—nothing good happens after midnight in that cemetery.”

  Art let out a soft laugh. “Ah, come on, Officer Claymore! No disrespect intended, sir—but it’s a cemetery.” Art was getting tall, too, but he had a lean build. He could run like a rabbit, and he had done the community proud with many an amazing touchdown.

  “Right,” Frank Legrand said. “The dead don’t really come back to life.”

  “No?” Claymore asked, smiling slightly. “There’s been a saying for years—don’t go into the old cemetery after midnight.”

  “Someone cursed it, right?” Mary asked nervously.

  “Of course!” Marcy said.

  “Ah, come on,” Art said. “Every good cemetery should have a curse. Even an ‘after midnight’ curse. I mean, we’re all creeped out by death.”

  “Mr. Richard—” Claymore began, using the customary pronunciation of the name.

  “Ree-chard,” Art corrected. “Old Cajun family,” he told Claymore, shaking his head and looking around. “Not Art Richard. Art Ree-chard.”

  Claymore nodded. “All right, Mr. Ree-chard. The curse supposedly came with our famous vampire, Elizabeth Barclay. She supposedly came back to life—even with her heart cut out and burned—and warned people to stay out of the cemetery after midnight. And in 1923, cops back then found a pair of lovers with their throats slit in front of the Barclay vault on a fine, sunny morning—they’d last told friends they were heading into the cemetery for real privacy.”

  “A century ago,” Frank murmured. He smiled. “But that’s cool, Officer. We’re here to just have a slumber party in the parlor—you know we all graduate and go off soon, and this is…well, you know, we’re going to just kind of have some quality time before going in different directions.”

  “1950,” Officer Claymore continued. “Someone strung up a man like a scarecrow—on the side of the Barclay vault. And in 1980—not long after the vampire craze hit New Orleans and surrounding areas—we found an unidentified woman drained of blood and left…left right by the gate to this house. Maybe she was trying to escape the cemetery and the curse and just didn’t make it. She wasn’t found in the yard—her body was in the cemetery. So, hey, I’m a logical man. But I still say, don’t go fooling around in the cemetery now. Is the cemetery cursed, or do crazy killers just like cemeteries? I don’t know. Just watch out now because it is after midnight.”

  “Thank you so much, Officer Claymore,” Marcy said. She smiled brightly. “We’re all in for the night.”

  He nodded to them briefly and turned to go.

  Marcy closed the door and leaned against it. “At last! Give him ten minutes and then we can go out and set up our little tents and tell more tall tales.”

  “Maybe he’s right,” Hayley said. “Marcy, maybe we should just stay in.”

  Frank made a squawking sound and acted like a chicken.

  “Hey!” Mary protested.

  “Ah, come on,” Art said. “Claymore was making fun of all of us—he’s probably laughing his ass off right now, thinking he’s scared the shit out of us and we’ll just stay here, quaking or running on home. Let’s do what we came to do—sleep in the cemetery!”

  “Let’s do it,” Frank said. He smiled and headed to the back of the house; the canvas sacks containing their sleeping bags and two pop-up tents they’d acquired from an on-line shopping source waited there, out of sight from the front of the house.

  “He’s right. Let’s do this,” Tommy said, striding after Frank.

  “I don’t…I don’t like it,” Mary said.

  “You can go home,” Art suggested. “I mean…we’re all here, but if you’re afraid in a group of six, well…”

  Mary shook her head. “No, I want to be with you all, but…okay, let’s go.” She looked at Hayley, maybe hoping that Hayley would protest.

  “There are six of us,” Hayley said.

  She wasn’t sure why she had an uneasy feeling. But then, she’d thought it a strange thing to do from the get-go. Even after moving to New Orleans, she’d come back frequently to spend the weekend with her cousin.

  She’d grown up with the cemetery as part of her family life.

  Maybe she was just being like Mary—spooked by the legends, or by Officer Claymore. She knew, of course, that the things he had told them were true. Her uncle knew, too, but he didn’t believe in curses—he believed in bad people doing bad things.

  As she followed the others out, she looked up to the sky. There was no rain forecast; it was spring, and the night was just right, hovering around seventy degrees. Here, even the nights could sometimes be sticky hot once summer was in full bloom, but tonight…

  The temperature was beautiful; there was a light stir of breeze in the air. And overhead…

  It was a full moon. A shimmering, bright full moon. As beautiful as the weather, except…tonight, it made her shiver.

  “A full moon!” Mary breathed, walking beside her.

  Frank, just a bit ahead, heard her. “Hey, the place is cursed by a vampire, Mary, my love.”

  “Right,” Tommy called. “Sorry, the place is home to no werewolves.”

  Hayley gasped suddenly, looking through the tombs in their neat rows, noting that the moon had certainly made the night brighter—but it had also allowed for strange shadows to form. And…

  She thought she’d just seen a shadow move.

  “What, what, what?” Mary asked worriedly.

  Hayley laughed. “Sorry, I just…I think I dropped my ring. I’ll be right back.”

  She was an idiot. No, she knew this place, had grown up knowing this place…

  Still, dumb! It was after midnight!

  What the hell am I doing? She asked herself.

  Well, running through the vaults alone because you saw a shadow. Brilliant.

  She’d only gone two rows in and stood in front of the McCafferty vault when she saw her “shadow.”

  The vault was unusual in that it had an open alcove, an area before the giant gated door that was covered and offered two benches in front of a statue of St. Francis. Hayley’s history had taught her that Judith McCafferty had loved animals and brought about some of the first laws that punished human beings for cruelty to animals. She loved the vault; she sometimes brought flowers herself for the metal holders that held them while they were fresh and living and allowed them to be easily removed when they were not.

  Her shadow was there; she thought at first she had come upon an unknown form of monster because she
just saw a dark form seated on one of the tile benches. Then she realized it was just a man. A bearded and somewhat scraggly-looking man, slightly bowed as he sat, hands in prayer as she came upon him.

  He looked up fast, as startled as she was.

  “I—hi!” Hayley said.

  She saw him wince, saw the weariness in his sad eyes—powder blue, she thought—as he looked at her.

  “I’m sorry; I can get out. This alcove here…it shields you from the wind and rain. When there is rain. I know I can’t be here. You’re the caretaker’s daughter.”

  “I’m his niece, but…no. You’re fine there, sir. Please, feel free to rest.” She hesitated and indicated the family tomb. “One of the ladies interred here was super kind to people—and, of course, animals.” Hayley wasn’t sure why, but she felt a tremendous empathy for the man. He was so down and out. So down and out that he had to sleep in a cemetery. “Please, I’ll just slip away. And I’m sorry, my crazy cousin is having a slumber party, so there will be some noise.”

  She had an unopened water bottle stuffed in the pocket of her jacket. She pulled it out and set it at the end of the bench, smiling at him. “Have a nice night,” she said. “And try to ignore us.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Hayley hurried back out to the main lane in the cemetery, ready to catch up with her friends as they set up for the night in front of the Barclay family mausoleum. Tommy was busy using the little plastic hammer that had come with one of the tents to get the stake to stay in the ground just off the gravel path.

  Frank had come with a battery-operated “fire-log” and he was setting it up on the gravel. Marcy, giving instructions, was telling them tents would be on the grass next to the Barclay tomb, the fire “thingy” would be on the gravel, and whoever was telling the story would sit on a little mat by the light from the fire “thingy” and the others could lie on their sleeping bags in the tents.

  She was just finishing her instructions when Mary, who had wandered a bit farther along the dirt and gravel central path, started to scream. Scream and scream.