Henry Geist was awakened by the sound of raindrops against the window
of his second-floor office. He lifted his head from the blotter on his oaken desk, then sat up suddenly when he realized where he was. He could barely make out the clock on the façade of the Bellinger Savings and Trust building across the street. 8:13.
Henry put on his coat hurriedly, and pulled his hat down. Locking his door, he looked across the hallway to see if Don was working late and wanted to grab a bite to eat. The absence of the telltale light under the door indicated that he wasn't.
Henry's boots thumped loudly as he trudged down the stairs to the back exit on the first floor. The main entrance was locked after 5:00 p.m. As he turned the knob and pushed, the door flew open in the driving wind and slammed against the brick wall. With considerable effort he closed it.
He jaywalked across deserted Lancaster Avenue, avoiding the streams along either curb. The diner was open all night, and since the next train didn’t arrive ‘til 9:00, he decided to have a late dinner. Pausing at the entrance, Henry spotted the phone booth next door, and thought he should probably call Carol and let her know where he was. This wouldn’t save him from a reprimand when he got home, but at least she wouldn’t worry. He should have called from his office, but he didn’t feel like walking back across the flooded street and back up the stairs.
Stepping into the phone booth, Henry tugged on the sliding glass door several times without result. He looked up and down, checking that the rollers were inside the track. Unwilling to abide the wind and rain, Henry seized the knob with both hands and grunting, yanked as hard as he could. The door slammed shut.
He watched mesmerized as the angry rain pelted the outside of the phone booth, forming inchoate sheets of liquid crystal as the drops splattered and slid to their demise.
He felt safe and at peace within the confines of this small, transparent room, although no more than a half inch of glass separated him from the deluge. He knew that at any moment a ferocious gust of wind might topple his tiny haven, a bolt of lightning might annihilate him, a car might swerve off the road . . .
Henry fumbled in his pocket for a nickel. He waited. Then came his wife’s voice, distant and choked with static.
“Carol?” he began. “Listen, I’m running a little late.”
“Henry?” she replied. “Is everything all right?’
A short flash of static.
"Yeah, honey, I'm just . . . just late."
"Where are you?" she asked.
"I'm in front of the diner across the street. I'll be home in an hour."
"Henry, I can barely hear you . . . " Her voice crackled into incoherence.
"Carol? Carol!"
The response was a dial tone. Cursing, Henry slammed the receiver down and pulled on the door. Stuck again.
He yanked the handle, muttering expletives. With a snap, the door came flying inwards, whacking the inside of the phone booth. A loud crash which Henry mistook for thunder followed as the lower panel shattered. Glittering shards stared up at him from the wet concrete.
Grumbling, he entered the dinner. He was standing next to the counter in front of a sign which read “Hostess will seat you” when he saw him sitting in a booth in the far corner. He was sipping a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper. A half-finished meatloaf, smothered in ketchup, sat in front of him. Henry strained to see. His coat was exactly the same, as was his hat, which he had removed and placed on the seat. And the face. At this distance, he could have been mistaken for Henry.
He looked up at Henry, and their eyes locked. Henry jumped. The stranger merely nodded, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, then calmly sipped his coffee and returned to his newspaper.
Not heeding the sign to wait for the hostess, Henry slid into a booth facing the cash register so he could get a clear look at the stranger when he paid his tab. But the man left two dollar bills -weighed down with a glass of ice water- on the table and donning his hat, shuffled out the door before Henry could study his face.
“Oh, cut it out,” Henry said aloud to himself. So he had the same type of hat and coat. So he looked a little like Henry. This was what came of being under a tremendous stress. You fell asleep at your desk. You became paranoid. You saw things.
With a soft “Excuse me,” he raised his hand as a middle-aged woman in a pink and white apron walked by him, but he failed to catch her attention. She strolled languidly past with the unmistakable apathy of a career waitress, plopped a check down on a young couple's table, and disappeared through the double doors behind the counter.
Henry checked his watch. 8:20. Walking to the train station from here was a matter of five minutes. He drummed his fingers on the table, then picked up the salt shaker and began turning it over idly, wondering if his 21-year legal career would come to an inglorious end. He had never admitted to anything. The $10,000 was for services rendered, he insisted. He could hear D.A. Mueller's smug, condescending voice.
I'll make a deal with you, Henry. You come clean, pay the ten grand, plus a fine for misconduct, and you don't serve a single day.
And I'm disbarred?
The agonizing hesitation. Yes.
No.
The salt shaker slipped out of his fingers, the perforated aluminum top popping off as the rectangular glass vial hit the table. A small white pile lay in front of him. Seizing a pinch with his thumb and index finger, Henry looked around furtively, then tossed the grains over his shoulder.
Henry wasn't hungry any more. He stood up, adjusted his hat, and walked back outside into the waiting rain. He sloshed through puddles and over drowned weeds sprouting from cracks in the concrete, oblivious to the pelting water which permeated his hat and coat. After two blocks he was at the train station. Seeking what shelter they could, a dozen other people were huddled under the glass and steel pavilion. And there he was.
He was sitting on one of the cold metal benches, squinting to read The Wall Street Journal from the light of a street lamp on the other side of the glass partition. MCCARTHY VOWS TO NAME RED SYMPATHIZERS, the headlines proclaimed.
Henry cautiously edged closer, not making a sound. The man didn’t move an inch, his face buried in the financial markets section. Henry wanted to shout, “Who are you?” He raised a trembling hand to lower the newspaper, when suddenly the front page was
jerked down and Henry stared into a skeletal face with two red pinpoints set in cavernous sockets.
Henry gave a short yelp. He was still standing where he had been when he first walked into the pavilion, and the stranger was still sitting about 12 feet away on his cold metal bench. The man casually turned the page. Henry looked around, mortified.
Then the man set the newspaper on his lap, and tilted his head back in a great, yawning stretch.
The face.
Henry started trembling- slightly at first- the kind of mild shaking that accompanies a severe hangover. The tremors increased in intensity until his whole body was a jackhammer. Henry clenched his fists. Using every last reserve of self-control, he stopped shaking. The man had his back to Henry now as he made a call from the telephone under the pavilion. Henry watched him. He was unable to make out the words, but the sound of his voice, his mannerisms, even the way he dialed . . .
He didn't have a twin brother. There was only Henry and a younger sister, who had died of pneumonia when she was six months old. Susan Geist was his mother, Harold Geist was his father.
Maybe there was a twin brother. Henry had been adopted when he was a few days old. His biological mother had left him on the doorstep of Susan and Harold Geist, on a cold December day forty-five years ago. Of course they had never told him. What should they have said? We never chose to have a son; you were dumped on our doorstep. Henry wondered where they had dumped his twin brother.
There was no twin brother. Henry's watch said 8:43. Walking briskly, he ventured out into the deluge, taking rapid strides as he hurried back the way he had come minutes before. He could still make it there and back.
He broke into a run along Lancaster Avenue, ignoring the dormant puddles awakened by his stomping boots. Stopping across from the staunch, white-brick office building, Henry looked to either side briefly.
As he stepped off the curb and into the road, he heard a sloshing as his foot was immersed in a frigid stream of rainwater flowing relentlessly towards the sewer grate thirty feet away. Then the black and white Packard swerved around the corner. Henry saw the grill, the hood, the headlights, the oblivious idiot behind the wheel. He froze- waiting to be obliterated.
A seven-foot wave leapt up from beneath the car and crashed on top of him mockingly. He was already so drenched this hardly mattered. His chest pounding, Henry watched the vehicle proceed calmly down the road.
"Idiot!" Henry shouted as the car disappeared into the night. Not waiting for another brush with death, he dashed across the road and stood exhausted in front of his building.
He peered into the lobby at the two leather chairs flanking the reception desk. An orange and turquoise Oriental rug covered most of the linoleum floor. Henry pulled on the door frantically, then started pounding. He jammed his keys into the lock. They didn't fit.
Naturally they didn't fit. The front doors were locked after 5:00 p.m., and the tenants only had keys to the back. Henry raced to the rear of the building, unlocked the door, dashed up the stairs, and in fifteen seconds, was in his office.
His eyes scanned the bookshelf on the opposite wall. Second row, six books from the left, red cover. Henry snatched the dictionary from its tightly-wedged spot, nearly dropping it on his foot. Slamming the dictionary onto his desk, he turned the pages maddeningly. A . . . B . . . C . . . D . . . doll – domineer . . . dominion – donkey . . . doom – dormant . . .
doppelganger. dóppel-ganger. noun. From the German "double-goer."
The ghostly double of a living person. According to superstition, an
omen of impending death.
Henry snapped the book shut. "No!" He exited his office, locking the door after him. "No," he repeated, as he descended the stairs and stepped out into the rain, which had been reduced to a drizzle. He marched down Lancaster Avenue, striding calmly and confidently. He would confront that man, that thing, whatever it was. He would look him right in the face and demand to know who he was. He had sat with men accused of butchering their entire families. This would be no more frightening than looking into a mirror.
He arrived at the station just as the last passengers were boarding. The conductor stood by stoically. Henry climbed aboard, pulling himself up with the steel rail.
Henry walked the length of the first car, looking left and right. He did the same with the second, still not finding his quarry. He took a seat at the rear of the third,
exhausted and relieved. He had imagined the entire episode. He laughed in nervous relief. He'd call the doctor tomorrow morning, get something for his nerves.
Maybe the man was in the fourth car. Or the fifth one.
"Stop it!" Henry shouted, then shrank back into his seat, realizing that there were five other people in the same car. But they probably thought that he was just another nutcase.
"Merion Station next!" the conductor shouted.
Henry staggered to his feet. He walked down the aisle towards the front of the car, gripping the vinyl seats to offset the wobbling of the train. The train came to a stop with a soft hiss, and as the doors opened, Henry saw him again.
Henry rushed towards the exit, just as the man was descending the ramp.
"Wait!" Henry shouted. Henry was a few feet behind him as he stepped off the train and began walking towards the street. Quickening his pace, Henry called after him again.
"Hey, buddy! Hold on a second!"
The man began crossing the street hurriedly. He stepped onto the black asphalt, which shimmered from the streetlights reflecting on the thin sheen of rainwater.
Henry saw the car before he did, if he saw it at all. The Packard turned the corner sharply, making a large splash as the front wheel plowed through a stagnant puddle. Henry had seen the car only a short time earlier. The driver showed no sign of slowing down as the hideous steel grill closed the gap between metal and flesh.
"Look out!" Henry shouted, his voice making no sound.
In an instant, he turned and looked straight at Henry. This time with a wide-eyed, gaping-mouth stare.
There was a brief, horrible thud, followed by a deafening screech. Henry watched in horror as the body was tossed into the air, spun around in slow motion, and seemed to linger in suspense for a brief eternity. The Packard skidded on the wet road and smashed into a lamp post. Car doors opened and slammed, followed by the frantic patter of feet. A man and a woman were on the scene, standing over a prostrate figure in a trench coat. Their voices were high and animated.
"My God," Henry said. He felt a tingling sensation rise from his stomach and continue to the top of his head. A sickening feeling flooded him. "My God," he repeated, staring in disbelief. Sirens wailed in the background. His vision faded in and out, like a light bulb flickering in its final radiance.
Henry gazed down at his hands to see if they were shaking. But he couldn't see his hands. Nor his feet. In the few seconds before his mind plunged into oblivion, he knew that he had not been the one looking at a doppelganger.
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Beyond the Dipylon Gate
Christos was a deserter from the Athenian army. He had served under Thucydides himself during the great war with the Spartans, and had discovered that he had no lust for battle. Faint of heart he was not, he simply did not share the zeal of so many of his fellow soldiers, who fought for the glory of Athens or the vague promise of some eternal reward for the righteous. Too often had he seen men who prayed devoutly for the grace of the gods savagely slaughtered, and drowned in ignominious defeat. So after the disastrous loss at Amphipolis he had simply fled, assuming that his comrades would count him among the dead or captured. When Christos was young his father thrashed him soundly once after the boy declared that there was no such place as Olympus, and nothing but clouds and eagles held sway above the mountain tops. Far from altering his opinion, this only reinforced his assertion that what could not be seen or heard, tasted or smelled, did not exist. He scoffed at the custom of burying the dead with all their wealth; they had no further use for money. Better to stick a rock in a corpse’s mouth than an obol. This was why he saw nothing wrong with robbing graves.
Philimenes was a drunk, a liar, and a thief. An escaped slave, he had killed his master in a fit of rage after the latter struck him one too many times. Were he to return to Corinth, he would certainly face a death sentence. As a man with a past and no future, he had nothing to lose and everything to gain from his present vocation. Christos did not trust him, and Philimenes knew this, but finding Athenian citizens to assist in plundering their ancestors’ tombs was difficult at best, so Christos had to content himself with whomever he could enlist for such a task.
The pair had almost dug four feet into a grave marked with an elaborate marble stele bearing the family name SOULAKOS. This time Philimenes busily dug with the old iron shovel while Christos stood above him holding the lantern.
They were anxious to finish that night, not for fear or being caught, which was a constant worry to which they had learned to adjust, but the winter air hung thick with fog, and the gentle breeze seemed to become less so every few minutes. Christos swore he felt a few stray raindrops strike his face, which, if he believed in the gods, he would have interpreted as portentous.
Philimenes gave a short cry of triumph as the shovel blade struck wood. Squatting, he greedily brushed the remaining dirt from the lid of the coffin, and raised his left hand to Christos as a signal for the spade. Scraping the earth from around the edges of the wooden box, he staggered to his feet, and straddling the coffin, slowly lifted the lid. He gagged violently and nearly fell as the pungent odor of death struck him in the face. Christos winced from his post above. Grasping his nose and mouth with one hand, Philimenes steadied himself against the side of the pit with the other, and after regaining his composure, stooped and lifted up a black and red attic jar which lay neatly at the feet of the shrouded corpse. Holding his breath, he delicately handed his find up to Christos, who set it on the ground and proceeded to help his companion climb out of the hole.
They both scrutinized the jar, which was covered with bright splashes of paint depicting horses, lions and naked men with swords.
“What a lovely piece of pottery,” Philimenes remarked with feigned bemusement. “Reminiscent of the fine vases my erstwhile master decorated his Corinthian home with.”
Christos scoffed. “As lovely as the one you smashed over your late master’s head?” he said. “The only use you have for a vessel is how much wine it holds.”
Christos lifted the lid off the jar and spilled its contents out. A woman’s hair band and a pair of matching bracelets, both silver. A small bottle of perfume, and a gold ring. Christos held each article in his hand, examining it unemotionally before tossing it back into the jar. “Let us be done for tonight, Philimenes. The weather grows ominous. Give me the shovel,” he said. “I suppose that it is my turn.”
With a grin, Philimenes complied, and sitting down to watch his comrade work, he plucked a small flask of wine from his belt, and took a long swallow. In an exaggerated display of generosity, he handed the vial to Christos, who declined.
“That wine will be the death of you, Philimenes,” he warned. “One day you shall carelessly tumble from some precipice and break your neck.”
Philimenes merely laughed. “Then I shall be in Tartarus with all of my friends,” he replied, taking another swig.
“Nay, you shall wander in limbo for eternity,” Christos retorted jokingly. “Even a thousand drachma would not convince Charon to ferry a scoundrel such as you across the Styx.”
Philimenes smiled wanly in return. “I thought you didn’t believe in that,” he replied.
“I don’t,” Christos answered grimly. After his chore was about half finished, he paused, and leaning on the shovel, inquired, “How many was it tonight?”
Philimenes took another swallow, as if it were a prerequisite for a response. Fastening the vial back in place on his belt, he glanced into a large cloth sack the two had brought. “Three or four,” he finally replied. “Though I think that after the first, we had enough to quit for at least- ’’
Philimenes froze, his eyes fixed almost in horror at someone or something several yards away.
“What is it?” Christos asked, alarmed. He glanced in the direction of Philimenes’ eyes, expecting to encounter a late night patrol of the Athenian police. A girl of about 10 stood twenty feet from them, dressed in a white gown and sandals. She had wide brown eyes, long hair and a peaceful, sad face.
“Who are you, child?” Christos demanded.
“Daphne,” she replied, as casually as if answering a question put to her by any adult.
“Go home, Daphne,” Christos ordered her. “ Go home and tell no one that you saw us here. Do you understand?”
The little girl nodded. Then Philimenes stood up and approached her. “Not yet, little Daphne,” he told her. “Don’t go just yet. I have a gift for you. Come here.”
Christos saw Philimenes draw the knife at his side. “Philimenes, no!” he shouted, and stepped in front of him, holding the shovel out like a barrier. Enraged that his attempt at murder had been interrupted, Philimenes suddenly turned on Christos, slashing at him savagely with the blade. Almost simultaneously, Christos swung the shovel across Philimene’s head, hearing the loud thump as it connected. Then Christos dropped the shovel and fell to his knees. He was fiercely aware of the sharp stinging that ran from his shoulder to just above his abdomen. He instinctively slid his fingers over his tunic and they came up wet. When he had mustered the strength to stand the child was gone and Philimenes lay supine at the bottom of the ditch, eyes gaping in shock. Blood trickled from his left temple.
Christos stood over the body a full five minutes, staggered by the force of what he had done. With professional detachment he had stoically observed flesh and bone hacked asunder during the wars, but the sight of Philimenes’ lifeless eyes resentfully glaring up at him filled him with revulsion. He could not bring himself to simply take the sack of loot and walk away, so with a great sigh and a groan of pain, he heaved a shovelful of earth onto the body. In another ten minutes he had completed his gloomy task, and placed the shovel beside an adjacent laurel tree. Without Philimenes he could not carry everything back. He slung the sack over his shoulder and with the lantern in the opposite hand, proceeded back towards the main road that ran through the Kerameikos cemetery and led eventually to the Acropolis.
He stopped to rest after a short while, increasingly aware of the pain and the growing fatigue that had latched onto him. He plopped down on a dry mound of earth, and leaned back against a grave stele carved with various bas-relief figures. Being the consummate atheist that he was, he saw nothing irreverent in his actions. A thick fog now accompanied the humid air, and he could not even make out the road that should have been about twenty feet away. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, seeking to gather his thoughts.
Just as he felt the first wave of slumber surge over him, Christos was jolted back to full consciousness by the sound of shouting. He sat upright and knew at once that this was not the preliminary hallucination with which a distressed and weary mind plagues the would-be sleeper. Christos could not deduce from where in the misty night the sound was coming, or whether it was from a man or woman.
He stood up and looked around him. He was not afraid, merely curious. The lantern had burned out and he could discern nothing but the vague shapes of trees. He stepped forward a few paces.
He was fully awake now, and found that the pain in his chest and stomach had subsided. He strode forward confidently, expecting to come to his destination in a few more steps, when something made him turn around, and through the veil of milky fog he saw a human figure in the distance. Could the child have become lost? he thought, and as he shook his head to clear his senses the shape was gone. Deciding that his mind was playing tricks on him, Christos turned and resumed his trek. He soon realized that he was lost, and after accepting the certainty of such a virtually impossible situation he sat down once more, deciding that waiting until daylight was the only sensible choice
The night around him was totally inscrutable, and totally silent. He felt completely at ease and relaxed, yet not sleepy. He took another deep breath, enjoying the solitude which had been bestowed on him for a few hours. But the respite was short-lived. Another distant figure wandered into his field of vision. Christos squinted hard but was careful not to move. The shape assumed that of a man carrying a staff of some sort, or a spear. Then there were two of them, and four, as if the abrupt entities were simply coalescing from out of the swirling darkness. An iridescent glow pervaded the group, and Christos guessed that one of them was holding a lantern. They were advancing in his direction, rapidly. In no mood for a late night interrogation, Christos stumbled awkwardly to his feet, nearly falling backwards over the headstone as he did so. He turned around and dashed headlong into the night, abandoning his own lantern and sack of plunder.
His flight was unimpeded for a full five minutes, and miraculously he still possessed unbounded energy, probably from the sheer rush of adrenaline. Ahead of him Christos heard the sound of flowing water, and surmised that he had come upon the Eridanos river. He was an excellent swimmer, and if necessary, he was prepared to take that course of action. He gradually slowed to a halt, and quickly looked behind him.
He spied a barren landscape where trees and stone monuments should have been, and only a light fog now barely obscured the encroaching forms. He seemed to have put no distance between them and himself, and he began to make out their tattered garments, their pale countenances and their wretched, vengeful stares.
“No,” he whispered.
As he turned forwards again he clearly saw that he was at the banks of a great river, and the sight of a lone figure with a paddle atop a raft confirmed his worst nightmare.
And Christos without a single coin.
Philimenes was a drunk, a liar, and a thief. An escaped slave, he had killed his master in a fit of rage after the latter struck him one too many times. Were he to return to Corinth, he would certainly face a death sentence. As a man with a past and no future, he had nothing to lose and everything to gain from his present vocation. Christos did not trust him, and Philimenes knew this, but finding Athenian citizens to assist in plundering their ancestors’ tombs was difficult at best, so Christos had to content himself with whomever he could enlist for such a task.
The pair had almost dug four feet into a grave marked with an elaborate marble stele bearing the family name SOULAKOS. This time Philimenes busily dug with the old iron shovel while Christos stood above him holding the lantern.
They were anxious to finish that night, not for fear or being caught, which was a constant worry to which they had learned to adjust, but the winter air hung thick with fog, and the gentle breeze seemed to become less so every few minutes. Christos swore he felt a few stray raindrops strike his face, which, if he believed in the gods, he would have interpreted as portentous.
Philimenes gave a short cry of triumph as the shovel blade struck wood. Squatting, he greedily brushed the remaining dirt from the lid of the coffin, and raised his left hand to Christos as a signal for the spade. Scraping the earth from around the edges of the wooden box, he staggered to his feet, and straddling the coffin, slowly lifted the lid. He gagged violently and nearly fell as the pungent odor of death struck him in the face. Christos winced from his post above. Grasping his nose and mouth with one hand, Philimenes steadied himself against the side of the pit with the other, and after regaining his composure, stooped and lifted up a black and red attic jar which lay neatly at the feet of the shrouded corpse. Holding his breath, he delicately handed his find up to Christos, who set it on the ground and proceeded to help his companion climb out of the hole.
They both scrutinized the jar, which was covered with bright splashes of paint depicting horses, lions and naked men with swords.
“What a lovely piece of pottery,” Philimenes remarked with feigned bemusement. “Reminiscent of the fine vases my erstwhile master decorated his Corinthian home with.”
Christos scoffed. “As lovely as the one you smashed over your late master’s head?” he said. “The only use you have for a vessel is how much wine it holds.”
Christos lifted the lid off the jar and spilled its contents out. A woman’s hair band and a pair of matching bracelets, both silver. A small bottle of perfume, and a gold ring. Christos held each article in his hand, examining it unemotionally before tossing it back into the jar. “Let us be done for tonight, Philimenes. The weather grows ominous. Give me the shovel,” he said. “I suppose that it is my turn.”
With a grin, Philimenes complied, and sitting down to watch his comrade work, he plucked a small flask of wine from his belt, and took a long swallow. In an exaggerated display of generosity, he handed the vial to Christos, who declined.
“That wine will be the death of you, Philimenes,” he warned. “One day you shall carelessly tumble from some precipice and break your neck.”
Philimenes merely laughed. “Then I shall be in Tartarus with all of my friends,” he replied, taking another swig.
“Nay, you shall wander in limbo for eternity,” Christos retorted jokingly. “Even a thousand drachma would not convince Charon to ferry a scoundrel such as you across the Styx.”
Philimenes smiled wanly in return. “I thought you didn’t believe in that,” he replied.
“I don’t,” Christos answered grimly. After his chore was about half finished, he paused, and leaning on the shovel, inquired, “How many was it tonight?”
Philimenes took another swallow, as if it were a prerequisite for a response. Fastening the vial back in place on his belt, he glanced into a large cloth sack the two had brought. “Three or four,” he finally replied. “Though I think that after the first, we had enough to quit for at least- ’’
Philimenes froze, his eyes fixed almost in horror at someone or something several yards away.
“What is it?” Christos asked, alarmed. He glanced in the direction of Philimenes’ eyes, expecting to encounter a late night patrol of the Athenian police. A girl of about 10 stood twenty feet from them, dressed in a white gown and sandals. She had wide brown eyes, long hair and a peaceful, sad face.
“Who are you, child?” Christos demanded.
“Daphne,” she replied, as casually as if answering a question put to her by any adult.
“Go home, Daphne,” Christos ordered her. “ Go home and tell no one that you saw us here. Do you understand?”
The little girl nodded. Then Philimenes stood up and approached her. “Not yet, little Daphne,” he told her. “Don’t go just yet. I have a gift for you. Come here.”
Christos saw Philimenes draw the knife at his side. “Philimenes, no!” he shouted, and stepped in front of him, holding the shovel out like a barrier. Enraged that his attempt at murder had been interrupted, Philimenes suddenly turned on Christos, slashing at him savagely with the blade. Almost simultaneously, Christos swung the shovel across Philimene’s head, hearing the loud thump as it connected. Then Christos dropped the shovel and fell to his knees. He was fiercely aware of the sharp stinging that ran from his shoulder to just above his abdomen. He instinctively slid his fingers over his tunic and they came up wet. When he had mustered the strength to stand the child was gone and Philimenes lay supine at the bottom of the ditch, eyes gaping in shock. Blood trickled from his left temple.
Christos stood over the body a full five minutes, staggered by the force of what he had done. With professional detachment he had stoically observed flesh and bone hacked asunder during the wars, but the sight of Philimenes’ lifeless eyes resentfully glaring up at him filled him with revulsion. He could not bring himself to simply take the sack of loot and walk away, so with a great sigh and a groan of pain, he heaved a shovelful of earth onto the body. In another ten minutes he had completed his gloomy task, and placed the shovel beside an adjacent laurel tree. Without Philimenes he could not carry everything back. He slung the sack over his shoulder and with the lantern in the opposite hand, proceeded back towards the main road that ran through the Kerameikos cemetery and led eventually to the Acropolis.
He stopped to rest after a short while, increasingly aware of the pain and the growing fatigue that had latched onto him. He plopped down on a dry mound of earth, and leaned back against a grave stele carved with various bas-relief figures. Being the consummate atheist that he was, he saw nothing irreverent in his actions. A thick fog now accompanied the humid air, and he could not even make out the road that should have been about twenty feet away. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, seeking to gather his thoughts.
Just as he felt the first wave of slumber surge over him, Christos was jolted back to full consciousness by the sound of shouting. He sat upright and knew at once that this was not the preliminary hallucination with which a distressed and weary mind plagues the would-be sleeper. Christos could not deduce from where in the misty night the sound was coming, or whether it was from a man or woman.
He stood up and looked around him. He was not afraid, merely curious. The lantern had burned out and he could discern nothing but the vague shapes of trees. He stepped forward a few paces.
He was fully awake now, and found that the pain in his chest and stomach had subsided. He strode forward confidently, expecting to come to his destination in a few more steps, when something made him turn around, and through the veil of milky fog he saw a human figure in the distance. Could the child have become lost? he thought, and as he shook his head to clear his senses the shape was gone. Deciding that his mind was playing tricks on him, Christos turned and resumed his trek. He soon realized that he was lost, and after accepting the certainty of such a virtually impossible situation he sat down once more, deciding that waiting until daylight was the only sensible choice
The night around him was totally inscrutable, and totally silent. He felt completely at ease and relaxed, yet not sleepy. He took another deep breath, enjoying the solitude which had been bestowed on him for a few hours. But the respite was short-lived. Another distant figure wandered into his field of vision. Christos squinted hard but was careful not to move. The shape assumed that of a man carrying a staff of some sort, or a spear. Then there were two of them, and four, as if the abrupt entities were simply coalescing from out of the swirling darkness. An iridescent glow pervaded the group, and Christos guessed that one of them was holding a lantern. They were advancing in his direction, rapidly. In no mood for a late night interrogation, Christos stumbled awkwardly to his feet, nearly falling backwards over the headstone as he did so. He turned around and dashed headlong into the night, abandoning his own lantern and sack of plunder.
His flight was unimpeded for a full five minutes, and miraculously he still possessed unbounded energy, probably from the sheer rush of adrenaline. Ahead of him Christos heard the sound of flowing water, and surmised that he had come upon the Eridanos river. He was an excellent swimmer, and if necessary, he was prepared to take that course of action. He gradually slowed to a halt, and quickly looked behind him.
He spied a barren landscape where trees and stone monuments should have been, and only a light fog now barely obscured the encroaching forms. He seemed to have put no distance between them and himself, and he began to make out their tattered garments, their pale countenances and their wretched, vengeful stares.
“No,” he whispered.
As he turned forwards again he clearly saw that he was at the banks of a great river, and the sight of a lone figure with a paddle atop a raft confirmed his worst nightmare.
And Christos without a single coin.
Monday, September 5, 2016
The Electric ChaIr
"No you don't!" Tallulah shouted, running after her older brother. But Tyler was one step ahead, and with a smug grin, plopped down in the old armchair.
"This is so comfortable," he taunted his sister. "Glad I thought to put that electric blanket on the seat."
"It was my idea!" Tallulah pouted.
The weather was colder than a witch's -well, the weather was awfully cold, and the heat in the trailer wasn't working too well. Aubrey, the repairman, was supposed to fix it three days ago, but nobody had heard from him. Mommy had gone out to buy a space heater, telling her five and her nine-year old "Now be good 'til I get back." That was 30 minutes ago.
"Come on, Tyler!" Tallulah whined. "I had to go potty. You already had your turn."
Tyler had no intention of relinquishing his spot. "Move your meat, lose your seat."
Tallulah seethed. Marching over to the outlet, she yanked out the plug. When Tyler jumped out of the chair to reinsert it, another scramble ensued, which resolved with Tyler back in the comfort zone, and Tallulah in tears.
Feeling slight remorse, he told his sister, "Just another five minutes, Tally. I promise. Don't cry."
Sniffling, the little girl wandered into the kitchen. Placing a two-step plastic stool in front of the cupboard, she mounted the platform, opened the cupboard, and carefully took out a tall drinking glass. But Tallulah wasn't thirsty.
"Whatcha doin'?" her brother called.
His sister ignored him. Climbing down slowly, she filled the glass with cold water from the spigot. Then she waited a minute. And a minute more. Returning to the den, she stood next to the coveted armchair and held the glass of water in her hand.
Tyler turned to look at his sister before the water hit him full in the face. He screamed twice, the second one louder than the first.
Tallulah was as shocked as Tyler (maybe not quite as shocked). When her brother woke up in the hospital he had no recollection of what happened. To avoid a spanking -and perhaps worse- she told Mommy that Tyler had been drinking the glass of water when he accidentally spilled it on himself. So Mommy threw out the old electric blanket, which she discovered had a small hole. And Tyler got a spanking for nearly giving Mommy a heart attack.
"This is so comfortable," he taunted his sister. "Glad I thought to put that electric blanket on the seat."
"It was my idea!" Tallulah pouted.
The weather was colder than a witch's -well, the weather was awfully cold, and the heat in the trailer wasn't working too well. Aubrey, the repairman, was supposed to fix it three days ago, but nobody had heard from him. Mommy had gone out to buy a space heater, telling her five and her nine-year old "Now be good 'til I get back." That was 30 minutes ago.
"Come on, Tyler!" Tallulah whined. "I had to go potty. You already had your turn."
Tyler had no intention of relinquishing his spot. "Move your meat, lose your seat."
Tallulah seethed. Marching over to the outlet, she yanked out the plug. When Tyler jumped out of the chair to reinsert it, another scramble ensued, which resolved with Tyler back in the comfort zone, and Tallulah in tears.
Feeling slight remorse, he told his sister, "Just another five minutes, Tally. I promise. Don't cry."
Sniffling, the little girl wandered into the kitchen. Placing a two-step plastic stool in front of the cupboard, she mounted the platform, opened the cupboard, and carefully took out a tall drinking glass. But Tallulah wasn't thirsty.
"Whatcha doin'?" her brother called.
His sister ignored him. Climbing down slowly, she filled the glass with cold water from the spigot. Then she waited a minute. And a minute more. Returning to the den, she stood next to the coveted armchair and held the glass of water in her hand.
Tyler turned to look at his sister before the water hit him full in the face. He screamed twice, the second one louder than the first.
Tallulah was as shocked as Tyler (maybe not quite as shocked). When her brother woke up in the hospital he had no recollection of what happened. To avoid a spanking -and perhaps worse- she told Mommy that Tyler had been drinking the glass of water when he accidentally spilled it on himself. So Mommy threw out the old electric blanket, which she discovered had a small hole. And Tyler got a spanking for nearly giving Mommy a heart attack.
The Murphy Bed
The folding army cot was mainly a diversion, and by itself wouldn’t have saved Jonas Detwiler from the men who had come looking for him that evening. Johnnie Marks and Oscar “Sludge” Redmond intended to break a few of their victim’s bones, maybe worse. This was what happened to gamblers who couldn’t pay Lucius “Legs” La Costa.
The door broke open with a loud thump, the thin wood yielding to Sludge’s mass times acceleration. The goons stepped across the threshold into the efficiency apartment, and cast a pair of stern glances from one side of the room to the other. A television perched on a wobbly stand, opposite an old rocker with a dirty green pillow on the seat. A frayed Oriental rug covered all but the farthest edges of the hardwood floor. Taped to one of the walls was a laminated poster of Cheryl Tiegs in her iconic pink bikini. Next to the entrance to the kitchen was a dresser and in a corner, a small metal folding table and accompanying chair.
With a grunt, Sludge flipped over the table and for good measure, kicked the chair. Johnnie in turn upended the cot. With a switchblade he shredded the pillow, spreading down feathers into the air and precipitating a sneezing fit in Sludge.
“Damn it, Johnnie!” his buddy snarled. “He ain’t hidin’ in the pillow!”
In three minutes, the pernicious pair had emptied both the closet and dresser, tossing Jonas’s clothing on the floor, smashed the dishes and drinking glasses in the kitchen cupboard, and broke the toilet seat. This yielded no clues as to the whereabouts of their quarry.
Fuming, Sludge faced the door, his fists clenched.
“S.O.B. made a fool of us,” he said. “But he can’t hide forever.”
Sweating and hardly able to breathe, Jonas listened for the departing footsteps. When he was sure that all was clear, he pushed hard on the mattress, causing the bed to open and descend from the wall. Jonas lay on his stomach, his head at the foot of the bed. Hauling himself up, he closed what was left of the apartment door, breathed deeply, and pushed the Murphy bed back to its closed position, where it blended seamlessly into the wall. Jonas exited the building and flagged down a taxicab. He verified that the ticket was in his pocket. After he landed in Seattle, he would telephone his brother.
The door broke open with a loud thump, the thin wood yielding to Sludge’s mass times acceleration. The goons stepped across the threshold into the efficiency apartment, and cast a pair of stern glances from one side of the room to the other. A television perched on a wobbly stand, opposite an old rocker with a dirty green pillow on the seat. A frayed Oriental rug covered all but the farthest edges of the hardwood floor. Taped to one of the walls was a laminated poster of Cheryl Tiegs in her iconic pink bikini. Next to the entrance to the kitchen was a dresser and in a corner, a small metal folding table and accompanying chair.
With a grunt, Sludge flipped over the table and for good measure, kicked the chair. Johnnie in turn upended the cot. With a switchblade he shredded the pillow, spreading down feathers into the air and precipitating a sneezing fit in Sludge.
“Damn it, Johnnie!” his buddy snarled. “He ain’t hidin’ in the pillow!”
In three minutes, the pernicious pair had emptied both the closet and dresser, tossing Jonas’s clothing on the floor, smashed the dishes and drinking glasses in the kitchen cupboard, and broke the toilet seat. This yielded no clues as to the whereabouts of their quarry.
Fuming, Sludge faced the door, his fists clenched.
“S.O.B. made a fool of us,” he said. “But he can’t hide forever.”
Sweating and hardly able to breathe, Jonas listened for the departing footsteps. When he was sure that all was clear, he pushed hard on the mattress, causing the bed to open and descend from the wall. Jonas lay on his stomach, his head at the foot of the bed. Hauling himself up, he closed what was left of the apartment door, breathed deeply, and pushed the Murphy bed back to its closed position, where it blended seamlessly into the wall. Jonas exited the building and flagged down a taxicab. He verified that the ticket was in his pocket. After he landed in Seattle, he would telephone his brother.
On the picnic table
My father had absolutely gone crazy. Of this I was certain. Without warning, he snatched my cup of lemonade and tossed the contents onto the thick summer grass. I did what any four year-old would do when faced with such a chaotic situation: I cried.
Ignoring my lamentations, Dad proceeded to my older brother Lionel, seizing his plastic drinking vessel and disposing of the seemingly innocuous liquid in the same fashion. Lionel was at first indignant, but then chose to express his emotions exactly as I had.
Moving like a desert whirlwind, he raced towards my mother, who, witnessing his sudden spurt of mania, froze with her libation halfway to her lips. The lemonade never stood a chance.
My sister Lauren, who was six months old and sucking on her bottle of baby formula, was alone spared this indignity.
Continuing his frenzy, Dad grabbed the edge of the picnic table, and without regard for the sumptuous smorgasbord that Mom had spent two hours that morning preparing, upended the entire thing, spilling deviled eggs, Waldorf salad, broccoli florets with blue cheese dressing, tiny squares of sharp cheddar, and tuna sandwiches skewered with fancy, green-laced toothpicks. And of course, the gallon jug full of the offending beverage. In the wake of Dad’s fury, a few stray napkins fluttered towards the ground.
Dad took a deep breath, then exhaled loudly, signaling relief. My brother and I stopped crying. Mom tried unsuccessfully to speak. We all waited for some kind of explanation. Except for my baby sister, who slurped contentedly.
Our peculiar patriarch looked at his bewildered family before supplying a brief answer.
“Ants,” he remarked calmly.
Ignoring my lamentations, Dad proceeded to my older brother Lionel, seizing his plastic drinking vessel and disposing of the seemingly innocuous liquid in the same fashion. Lionel was at first indignant, but then chose to express his emotions exactly as I had.
Moving like a desert whirlwind, he raced towards my mother, who, witnessing his sudden spurt of mania, froze with her libation halfway to her lips. The lemonade never stood a chance.
My sister Lauren, who was six months old and sucking on her bottle of baby formula, was alone spared this indignity.
Continuing his frenzy, Dad grabbed the edge of the picnic table, and without regard for the sumptuous smorgasbord that Mom had spent two hours that morning preparing, upended the entire thing, spilling deviled eggs, Waldorf salad, broccoli florets with blue cheese dressing, tiny squares of sharp cheddar, and tuna sandwiches skewered with fancy, green-laced toothpicks. And of course, the gallon jug full of the offending beverage. In the wake of Dad’s fury, a few stray napkins fluttered towards the ground.
Dad took a deep breath, then exhaled loudly, signaling relief. My brother and I stopped crying. Mom tried unsuccessfully to speak. We all waited for some kind of explanation. Except for my baby sister, who slurped contentedly.
Our peculiar patriarch looked at his bewildered family before supplying a brief answer.
“Ants,” he remarked calmly.
Nothin' Strange Goin' On
The trees shielding the pond that was located 10 yards behind the old graveyard swayed menacingly in the humid breeze that heralded a downpour. This motion caused Caleb Weaver's eyes to focus on a strange formation of the leaves and branches that resembled a cackling silhouette, like a sinister clown delighting in the knowledge of an imminent disaster. Walking into the kitchen, Weaver kept his gaze on the sylvan mirage, continuing to observe as he poured a mug of steaming coffee, which he seasoned with a generous dose of Irish whiskey. He looked away, unconvinced.
He plopped into a creaky rocking chair that faced an ancient hearth, and sipped his acrid libation while staring at the blackened bricks. A plaintive whine sounded to his right, accompanied by the protuberance of a pair of pointy ears and a glistening snout. Weaver put a restraining hand on the upraised head.
"Easy, Ruby. Good girl."
The German Shepherd scrambled to all fours and dashed into the bedroom, which looked out on the cemetery. In the distance stood the familiar wooden structure that was Southfork Baptist Church. The skies were slowly darkening, but there was no rain yet, and sufficient light to see for another half hour. Ruby gave a short bark. That was when Weaver saw the solitary figure with a hurricane lamp in one hand.
"Let's go," he told his canine companion, and grabbing the shotgun stashed under his bed, he barged out the front door, which he left open and swinging in the warm summer air. The dog trotted alongside him obediently, conditioned well enough to refrain from bolting full speed toward the intruder. Weaver marched briskly, keeping the firearm perpendicular to the ground.
Setting the dimly-glowing lamp on the grass, the figure pulled out a writing pad and a lead pencil, and began scribbling notes, periodically glancing up at a tombstone.
Man and hound stopped about 15 feet from the stranger, who paused and regarded the pair calmly. As the mysterious visitor slipped the pad and pencil into his pants pocket, Weaver leveled the shotgun at him. The stranger held up his empty palms.
"Don't shoot!"
Ruby growled.
He looked harmless enough, though freakishly tall, with thinning red hair, freckles and a sharp, jutting nose. Weaver lowered the barrel of his 12-gauge.
"What're you doin' here? Visiting hours are eight to six every day. The gates are locked."
"Yes, I know. Name's Whit Cedric. I'm with the Riverwell Review."
Weaver nodded. "Cal Weaver. You lookin' for someone in particular, Mr. Cedric?"
Cedric motioned toward the thin white stone that he had been studying. MARY A. MORRIS 1880-1913.
Weaver struggled to curb his rising anger.
"Look, mister. I don't know what you heard, but there's nothin' strange goin' on. Now get outta here, and don't come back no more."
Cedric wasn't so easily scared, either of shotguns or spirits. "You say that, but there've been enough tales to warrant further investigation. I won't disturb anything. I just wanna look around."
"You're disturbin' me! If you start spreadin' rumors, we'll have people overrunnin' this place. I've been caretaker for 22 years, and I never seen nothin' unusual." He recalled the face in the trees, but said nothing.
Cedric persisted. "Avery Morris hacked his wife to . . ."
"I know what he did."
"What about the little boy who drowned in the pond last year?"
"What about him?"
Ruby snarled in solidarity. Cedric picked up his hurricane lamp, backed away from the crusty caretaker, then turned and started walking. Weaver watched the lanky figure recede into the distance and step over the low stone wall to the other side. A crack of thunder marked his departure.
Three days later came the deluge.
The heat clung to Weaver like boiling pitch as he plodded across the flat, grassy field of green and granite that stretched before him. His overalls and thick leather boots intensified the discomfort, and the gaps in the brim of his worn straw hat admitted thin shafts of sunlight that stuck his eyes like needles. He gripped a swaying bucket of gardening implements as he made his way toward the iron gates. Halting at the entrance, he scanned the ground for the first trace of weeds.
Hearing faint laughter, Weaver turned and saw half a dozen kids, the oldest maybe 12, scampering around to the back of his modest caretaker's residence. Setting his load down by a stone cherub, he wiped his brow and proceeded in their direction. One of the gang, a stout, tomboyish type with short blonde hair, pointed at him as he approached.
"Maybe that old man knows," she announced.
Weaver was unfazed by the "old man" remark. At 61, he must have seemed ancient to this group.
"What're you kids doin'?"
His question elicited another one in response.
"Where's Mary Morris buried?"
"You leave Mary Morris alone," he told the lone female in the bunch.
Another child spoke up, an eight-year old with long, curly black locks.
"I saw Lloyd Butler walking by the pond at night. His eyes were red and his face was all bloated."
Weaver snapped. "You didn't see nobody walkin' by the pond at night!"
"Is there a devil dog that lives here?"
"I heard there's a woman with no head."
"How do you know it's a woman?"
"'Because she's got titties." A giggle.
The "old man" had reached his limit. "Where did you hear all this baloney?"
The tomboy handed Weaver a folded newspaper. The Riverwell Review. A headline screamed CARRANZA, U.S. TROOPS, HUNT FOR VILLA. Underneath, in smaller print, was GHOSTS IN THE GRAVEYARD? A HAUNTED HIKE THROUGH SOUTHFORK BAPTIST CEMETERY. The byline was Whit Cedric's. Seething, Weaver crumpled the paper and tossed it to the ground. The six youngsters absconded.
That day, Weaver threw out no fewer than four more groups of ghost hunters, as well as an amorous teenage couple making out by the pond. On Sunday he spoke to Reverend Patterson, who assured him that things would soon calm down.
"We've been through this before, Cal. It'll blow over. Don't worry."
But Wednesday night was too much for Weaver to bear. He'd spent most of the preceding afternoon digging a grave for George Walker, who was found at the foot of his basement stairs with a broken neck and enough liquor in him to kill an elephant. Weaver could only imagine what sort of tales this particular death would spawn.
After the funeral, he tossed a few shovelfuls of dirt onto the crude pine coffin, then deciding to finish tomorrow morning, returned home. But he couldn't sleep, which was rarely the case. He dressed, fetched his large gas lantern, and headed out toward the open grave. Accompanying Weaver were his faithful hound and trusty shotgun.
The shovel lay atop the mound of dirt next to the rectangular hole. Weaver began his task without delay, listening to the soft sound of freshly-dug earth raining down upon the wooden coffin lid. Ruby watched him intently, her angular face tucked between her front paws.
Ruby snarled, baring teeth, and sprang to attention. Her tail swished in a threatening cadence. Weaver spun around, slipped and nearly tumbled into the pit. He cursed, scrambled to his feet, and saw the source of Ruby's agitation.
Whit Cedric was calmly sitting about 50 feet away, his back to a massive gray marker, and his hurricane lamp, unlit, next to him. In between the reporter's feet was a large glass tube with steel caps on either end.
"God damn it!" Weaver spat.
Armed with lantern, shotgun and watchdog, Weaver stomped forward, closing the gap between him and his new nemesis. When he stopped, he realized that he was panting, soaked with perspiration and irritation.
"Cedric!"
The insufferable scribe nodded. "Hello, Mr. Weaver." Smug son of a bitch.
"How did you sneak in here past me and Ruby? How long you been here?"
Cedric's calm demeanor was patronizing, infuriating.
"Which question do you want me to answer first?"
Weaver just glared. Damn beanpole.
"Okay. As for the first question, the answer is an equal combination of surreptitiousness and baking soda. I snuck in real quiet-like, and the baking soda masked my scent. How long have I been here? About an hour."
Weaver grimaced, then pointed the shotgun barrel at Cedric's weird glass and steel contraption.
"And what the hell is that?"
Cedric pushed the deadly barrel away from his gadget.
"That there is a spirit finder. In the presence of supernatural beings, the thin filament inside glows light blue."
Ruby barked. So did Weaver, albeit slightly more coherently.
"Spirit finder, my ass!"
"No!" Cedric shouted as Weaver lifted the barrel of his gun to one side, as if preparing a golf swing. Struggling to his feet, Cedric grabbed the barrel, while Weaver simultaneously pulled back.
What happened next was purely accidental, according to the inquest. No charges were filed, and Sheriff Nichols, who had known Weaver for years, believed that "Cal didn't mean no harm." Reverend Patterson asked Weaver why he needed a shotgun for patrolling the cemetery.
"I sure hope that some mischievous child isn't next," he told Weaver, who was truly ashamed.
As sorry as he was for the deadly mishap, Weaver was more concerned that another "scandalous" occurrence would bring the barbarian hordes once again. But all was calm and quiet in the small necropolis. Until one Fall evening about six weeks later.
The scrapple crackled and spat angrily as taunting blue flames from the gas burner licked the underside of the small iron pan. Weaver turned the gray blob over with a spatula, pressed down, then tossed back a splash of his familiar Irish coffee. Ruby sniffed the air eagerly, aroused by the smell, yet knowing that begging was to no avail. In another five minutes, the caretaker was seated with the steaming mass before him. With a shaky hand, he lifted a fork.
Ruby whimpered.
Weaver knew that he couldn't just sit there.
He was soon out the door, clad in trousers, flannel shirt and cap, still brandishing his 12-gauge, despite Reverend Patterson's admonition. He brought a flashlight instead of his gas lantern this time. Ruby followed.
The rustling of dead leaves alerted the pair to their quarry. But where Weaver expected to find a bunch of kids, he instead discovered a young man with wide eyes and cropped blond hair.
"I-I saw it. I never would've believed it, but there it was, just like they said. Then it vanished."
Weaver's skepticism was undiminished. "What did you see? A little drowned boy, walkin' around the old pond? A headless lady? The Angel of Death? What?"
The response hit Weaver like that fatal shotgun blast of weeks past, the echoes of which still resounded in his head every time he laid down to sleep.
The fellow shook his head. "No, nothing like that. A man. A really tall man. Carrying a hurricane lamp."
He plopped into a creaky rocking chair that faced an ancient hearth, and sipped his acrid libation while staring at the blackened bricks. A plaintive whine sounded to his right, accompanied by the protuberance of a pair of pointy ears and a glistening snout. Weaver put a restraining hand on the upraised head.
"Easy, Ruby. Good girl."
The German Shepherd scrambled to all fours and dashed into the bedroom, which looked out on the cemetery. In the distance stood the familiar wooden structure that was Southfork Baptist Church. The skies were slowly darkening, but there was no rain yet, and sufficient light to see for another half hour. Ruby gave a short bark. That was when Weaver saw the solitary figure with a hurricane lamp in one hand.
"Let's go," he told his canine companion, and grabbing the shotgun stashed under his bed, he barged out the front door, which he left open and swinging in the warm summer air. The dog trotted alongside him obediently, conditioned well enough to refrain from bolting full speed toward the intruder. Weaver marched briskly, keeping the firearm perpendicular to the ground.
Setting the dimly-glowing lamp on the grass, the figure pulled out a writing pad and a lead pencil, and began scribbling notes, periodically glancing up at a tombstone.
Man and hound stopped about 15 feet from the stranger, who paused and regarded the pair calmly. As the mysterious visitor slipped the pad and pencil into his pants pocket, Weaver leveled the shotgun at him. The stranger held up his empty palms.
"Don't shoot!"
Ruby growled.
He looked harmless enough, though freakishly tall, with thinning red hair, freckles and a sharp, jutting nose. Weaver lowered the barrel of his 12-gauge.
"What're you doin' here? Visiting hours are eight to six every day. The gates are locked."
"Yes, I know. Name's Whit Cedric. I'm with the Riverwell Review."
Weaver nodded. "Cal Weaver. You lookin' for someone in particular, Mr. Cedric?"
Cedric motioned toward the thin white stone that he had been studying. MARY A. MORRIS 1880-1913.
Weaver struggled to curb his rising anger.
"Look, mister. I don't know what you heard, but there's nothin' strange goin' on. Now get outta here, and don't come back no more."
Cedric wasn't so easily scared, either of shotguns or spirits. "You say that, but there've been enough tales to warrant further investigation. I won't disturb anything. I just wanna look around."
"You're disturbin' me! If you start spreadin' rumors, we'll have people overrunnin' this place. I've been caretaker for 22 years, and I never seen nothin' unusual." He recalled the face in the trees, but said nothing.
Cedric persisted. "Avery Morris hacked his wife to . . ."
"I know what he did."
"What about the little boy who drowned in the pond last year?"
"What about him?"
Ruby snarled in solidarity. Cedric picked up his hurricane lamp, backed away from the crusty caretaker, then turned and started walking. Weaver watched the lanky figure recede into the distance and step over the low stone wall to the other side. A crack of thunder marked his departure.
Three days later came the deluge.
The heat clung to Weaver like boiling pitch as he plodded across the flat, grassy field of green and granite that stretched before him. His overalls and thick leather boots intensified the discomfort, and the gaps in the brim of his worn straw hat admitted thin shafts of sunlight that stuck his eyes like needles. He gripped a swaying bucket of gardening implements as he made his way toward the iron gates. Halting at the entrance, he scanned the ground for the first trace of weeds.
Hearing faint laughter, Weaver turned and saw half a dozen kids, the oldest maybe 12, scampering around to the back of his modest caretaker's residence. Setting his load down by a stone cherub, he wiped his brow and proceeded in their direction. One of the gang, a stout, tomboyish type with short blonde hair, pointed at him as he approached.
"Maybe that old man knows," she announced.
Weaver was unfazed by the "old man" remark. At 61, he must have seemed ancient to this group.
"What're you kids doin'?"
His question elicited another one in response.
"Where's Mary Morris buried?"
"You leave Mary Morris alone," he told the lone female in the bunch.
Another child spoke up, an eight-year old with long, curly black locks.
"I saw Lloyd Butler walking by the pond at night. His eyes were red and his face was all bloated."
Weaver snapped. "You didn't see nobody walkin' by the pond at night!"
"Is there a devil dog that lives here?"
"I heard there's a woman with no head."
"How do you know it's a woman?"
"'Because she's got titties." A giggle.
The "old man" had reached his limit. "Where did you hear all this baloney?"
The tomboy handed Weaver a folded newspaper. The Riverwell Review. A headline screamed CARRANZA, U.S. TROOPS, HUNT FOR VILLA. Underneath, in smaller print, was GHOSTS IN THE GRAVEYARD? A HAUNTED HIKE THROUGH SOUTHFORK BAPTIST CEMETERY. The byline was Whit Cedric's. Seething, Weaver crumpled the paper and tossed it to the ground. The six youngsters absconded.
That day, Weaver threw out no fewer than four more groups of ghost hunters, as well as an amorous teenage couple making out by the pond. On Sunday he spoke to Reverend Patterson, who assured him that things would soon calm down.
"We've been through this before, Cal. It'll blow over. Don't worry."
But Wednesday night was too much for Weaver to bear. He'd spent most of the preceding afternoon digging a grave for George Walker, who was found at the foot of his basement stairs with a broken neck and enough liquor in him to kill an elephant. Weaver could only imagine what sort of tales this particular death would spawn.
After the funeral, he tossed a few shovelfuls of dirt onto the crude pine coffin, then deciding to finish tomorrow morning, returned home. But he couldn't sleep, which was rarely the case. He dressed, fetched his large gas lantern, and headed out toward the open grave. Accompanying Weaver were his faithful hound and trusty shotgun.
The shovel lay atop the mound of dirt next to the rectangular hole. Weaver began his task without delay, listening to the soft sound of freshly-dug earth raining down upon the wooden coffin lid. Ruby watched him intently, her angular face tucked between her front paws.
Ruby snarled, baring teeth, and sprang to attention. Her tail swished in a threatening cadence. Weaver spun around, slipped and nearly tumbled into the pit. He cursed, scrambled to his feet, and saw the source of Ruby's agitation.
Whit Cedric was calmly sitting about 50 feet away, his back to a massive gray marker, and his hurricane lamp, unlit, next to him. In between the reporter's feet was a large glass tube with steel caps on either end.
"God damn it!" Weaver spat.
Armed with lantern, shotgun and watchdog, Weaver stomped forward, closing the gap between him and his new nemesis. When he stopped, he realized that he was panting, soaked with perspiration and irritation.
"Cedric!"
The insufferable scribe nodded. "Hello, Mr. Weaver." Smug son of a bitch.
"How did you sneak in here past me and Ruby? How long you been here?"
Cedric's calm demeanor was patronizing, infuriating.
"Which question do you want me to answer first?"
Weaver just glared. Damn beanpole.
"Okay. As for the first question, the answer is an equal combination of surreptitiousness and baking soda. I snuck in real quiet-like, and the baking soda masked my scent. How long have I been here? About an hour."
Weaver grimaced, then pointed the shotgun barrel at Cedric's weird glass and steel contraption.
"And what the hell is that?"
Cedric pushed the deadly barrel away from his gadget.
"That there is a spirit finder. In the presence of supernatural beings, the thin filament inside glows light blue."
Ruby barked. So did Weaver, albeit slightly more coherently.
"Spirit finder, my ass!"
"No!" Cedric shouted as Weaver lifted the barrel of his gun to one side, as if preparing a golf swing. Struggling to his feet, Cedric grabbed the barrel, while Weaver simultaneously pulled back.
What happened next was purely accidental, according to the inquest. No charges were filed, and Sheriff Nichols, who had known Weaver for years, believed that "Cal didn't mean no harm." Reverend Patterson asked Weaver why he needed a shotgun for patrolling the cemetery.
"I sure hope that some mischievous child isn't next," he told Weaver, who was truly ashamed.
As sorry as he was for the deadly mishap, Weaver was more concerned that another "scandalous" occurrence would bring the barbarian hordes once again. But all was calm and quiet in the small necropolis. Until one Fall evening about six weeks later.
The scrapple crackled and spat angrily as taunting blue flames from the gas burner licked the underside of the small iron pan. Weaver turned the gray blob over with a spatula, pressed down, then tossed back a splash of his familiar Irish coffee. Ruby sniffed the air eagerly, aroused by the smell, yet knowing that begging was to no avail. In another five minutes, the caretaker was seated with the steaming mass before him. With a shaky hand, he lifted a fork.
Ruby whimpered.
Weaver knew that he couldn't just sit there.
He was soon out the door, clad in trousers, flannel shirt and cap, still brandishing his 12-gauge, despite Reverend Patterson's admonition. He brought a flashlight instead of his gas lantern this time. Ruby followed.
The rustling of dead leaves alerted the pair to their quarry. But where Weaver expected to find a bunch of kids, he instead discovered a young man with wide eyes and cropped blond hair.
"I-I saw it. I never would've believed it, but there it was, just like they said. Then it vanished."
Weaver's skepticism was undiminished. "What did you see? A little drowned boy, walkin' around the old pond? A headless lady? The Angel of Death? What?"
The response hit Weaver like that fatal shotgun blast of weeks past, the echoes of which still resounded in his head every time he laid down to sleep.
The fellow shook his head. "No, nothing like that. A man. A really tall man. Carrying a hurricane lamp."
Ad Infinitum
A bizarre world flashes into existence around me. I am a man, but I sense that I have been here before in various other incarnations. A powerful presence watches me, its motives self-serving, seeking vicarious gratification.
A sword appears in my hand. Then, from head to toe, I am instantly accoutered in helmet, armor, gauntlet and boots. Something is missing. A shield. Both sword and shield vanish, replaced by an enormous battleaxe requiring two hands to wield.
With a vague sense of purpose, I descend stone stairs leading to a dark cavern. Torches flicker in sconces, beckoning me to explore.
Spotting an oaken chest in a corner, I smash the lock with a hefty blow from my battleaxe. Eagerly I flip open the hinged lid and am greeted by a pile of gold coins. But before I can fill my. . .pack? . . .I am swarmed by angry trolls, who emerge from the surrounding shadows. I dispatch them with bloody efficiency. When cloven with my vorpal blade, my attackers simply vanish, their agonized wails lingering in my ears. Then silence.
I have neither pack nor sack to carry the 500 gold coins; somehow I just absorb them. Suddenly impatience, along with greed, is projected upon me.
I make my precarious way from chamber to chamber, without rest or pause. I find fortune, slay adversaries, gain power, and nearly perish several times. A million gold coins have I now collected, absorbed, rather, yet they don’t encumber me. My chain mail has morphed into plate mail, my battleaxe into a huge sword. Sighting yet another set of stone stairs, I descend.
Then it happens. They hit me from all sides, every sort of monster imaginable. Zombies, goblins, werewolves, demons, ogres, ghouls and a few I don’t even recognize. They increase exponentially. I slice and dice. Lop and chop. Smash and bash. But it’s no use. There is a long red line somewhere, quickly getting shorter. And shorter. And shorter. I should have taken that elixir. Summoned my guardian spirit. Increased my defense abilities.
With a loud pop, the red line disappears. I scream. I am facedown and faceless.
A bizarre world flashes into existence around me. I am an elf, but I sense that I have been here before in various other incarnations. . .
A sword appears in my hand. Then, from head to toe, I am instantly accoutered in helmet, armor, gauntlet and boots. Something is missing. A shield. Both sword and shield vanish, replaced by an enormous battleaxe requiring two hands to wield.
With a vague sense of purpose, I descend stone stairs leading to a dark cavern. Torches flicker in sconces, beckoning me to explore.
Spotting an oaken chest in a corner, I smash the lock with a hefty blow from my battleaxe. Eagerly I flip open the hinged lid and am greeted by a pile of gold coins. But before I can fill my. . .pack? . . .I am swarmed by angry trolls, who emerge from the surrounding shadows. I dispatch them with bloody efficiency. When cloven with my vorpal blade, my attackers simply vanish, their agonized wails lingering in my ears. Then silence.
I have neither pack nor sack to carry the 500 gold coins; somehow I just absorb them. Suddenly impatience, along with greed, is projected upon me.
I make my precarious way from chamber to chamber, without rest or pause. I find fortune, slay adversaries, gain power, and nearly perish several times. A million gold coins have I now collected, absorbed, rather, yet they don’t encumber me. My chain mail has morphed into plate mail, my battleaxe into a huge sword. Sighting yet another set of stone stairs, I descend.
Then it happens. They hit me from all sides, every sort of monster imaginable. Zombies, goblins, werewolves, demons, ogres, ghouls and a few I don’t even recognize. They increase exponentially. I slice and dice. Lop and chop. Smash and bash. But it’s no use. There is a long red line somewhere, quickly getting shorter. And shorter. And shorter. I should have taken that elixir. Summoned my guardian spirit. Increased my defense abilities.
With a loud pop, the red line disappears. I scream. I am facedown and faceless.
A bizarre world flashes into existence around me. I am an elf, but I sense that I have been here before in various other incarnations. . .
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