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    Tales From The Grave
    Tales From The Grave
    Tales From The Grave
    Ebook628 pages9 hours

    Tales From The Grave

    By Zimbell House Publishing

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    About this ebook

    Tales From The Grave is a ghostly collection of short stories brought to you by Zimbell House Publishing, showcasing thirty-six new voices to tempt you. Some of these stories are sure to have you looking over your shoulder... Others will have you hiding under the covers... Some will simply haunt you to your grave.
    Featured Contributors: Alexa Vogel, A.E. Santana, B.T. Joy, Bruce Markuson, Chad McClendon, C.E. Stokes, Couri Johnson, Curtis Wells Dewey & Janette Alexis Dewey, David J. Gibbs, David Groveman, DJ Tyrer, David W. Landrum, Dawn Sooy, E.W. Farnsworth, Jason McDonald, Jeremiah Murphy, John Robinson, Jon Shank, Karly Malone, Kathleen Murphey, Kip McKnight, Kristina R. Mosley, Lionel Ray Green, Lucky Breaks, Mac Jones, Matthew Wilson, Melissa Meyers, Michelle Biddex-Simmons, Myles Wren, Parineeta Singh, Patrick Alven, Peter Cooper, Ross Baxter, Sharon Frame Gay, S.L. Dixon, and Stephen McQuiggan.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZimbell House Publishing
    Release dateOct 24, 2015
    ISBN9781942818489
    Tales From The Grave
    Author

    Zimbell House Publishing

    Zimbell House Publishing is an independent publishing company that wishes to partner with new voices to help them become Quality Authors.Our goal is to partner with our authors to help publish & promote quality work that readers will want to read again and again, and refer to their friends.

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      Tales From The Grave - Zimbell House Publishing

      Caretaker’s Burden

      David J. Gibbs

      Trees quietly shifted amid the breeze which remained steady, and despite the predictions of rain made the previous evening, sunlight filtered across the hillside. Tiny bits of shadow were tossed from the randomly placed grave markers. It was a cool day despite the sun’s glaring light, the gentle wind taking whatever heat it might have provided. There were no visitors today, as it was nearly every day.

      Edwin had worked at the Montfort Cemetery for almost three decades, his rough hands a testament to that. Through his tenure, he had come across numerous personal items left at the headstones of lost loved ones. There were, of course, the obvious ones, flowers or wreaths, but there were others that weren’t quite so ordinary. He had found a rabbit’s foot once, an old typewriter, a gold pocket watch, several war medals, a weathered china doll, and a leather-bound book of poetry just to mention a few. Most touching though, were a pair of scuffed baby shoes.

      He merely collected the items and placed them in a large trunk at the back of the small shed placed at the eastern end of the cemetery. Edwin didn’t take the items for personal gain; he felt it his duty to protect them and was merely shielding them from the elements. If, by the off chance, the family members would want them back, he wanted to try at least to ensure their condition.

      It was within the old shack that Edwin now stood, his hands slowly moving over the ancient scythe he still used to trim the tall grass which continually intruded upon the hallowed ground. The ringing of the sharpening stone, as it slowly worked out the pitted surface of the scythe’s archaic, curved blade, filled the small room.

      He liked the solace he felt when working in the large cemetery. To him, it seemed as if he were making right for all the wrong he had done in his life. It was almost a penance, and one he was certainly willing to pay.

      Edwin had managed to chase his wife of fifteen years away. She was no longer able to watch him drink himself to death, which had almost become a reality. If it wasn’t for Father Henigan taking him under his wing and locking him in the Church’s root cellar for that long weekend in October, Edwin knew that he would still be under the bottle.

      Or under a marble marker.

      Finishing with the scythe, Edwin placed the sharpening stone in the drawer of the small table resting beside the door. Grabbing the machete hanging on the wall above the table, he fastened the belt around his waist and tethered the sheath to his thigh with the leather thong. Edwin grasped the smooth wooden handle of the scythe, its weight rather comforting, the tool an old friend.

      He crossed himself and muttered a prayer as he headed out into the cemetery. As always, he was taken by its solitude, by its complete isolation. The scarred headstones seemed to whisper to him, at times in understandable and clear phrases. At least that was what he imagined.

      The dead speak and we listen...

      The more ornate markers were at the front of the cemetery, wealthier families purchasing those plots supposedly to ensure higher visibility for their loved ones and their resting places. The detailed markers, their artistic beauty clear even to his untrained eye, remained his favorite. Their tall, majestic forms covered the front third of the grounds.

      He started at the south side of the cemetery where the forest began stretching nearly twenty-five miles before ending at the base of the Smokey Mountains. Slowly he began to move in a rhythmic side-to-side motion, his arms directing the now razor sharp blade through the tall sea of grass gently moved by the wind’s hand.

      His motion became almost hypnotic, as it did most every time he used the tool. Sometimes he found himself chanting a long forgotten rhyme or song to help ease the tedious nature of his work. As Edwin neared the end of the property line, he stepped in a bit closer to take another bite out of the marching green army, he paused for a moment. Thinking he heard something, Edwin turned to his right, looking over the tall iron fence, which he realized needed mending, and noticed something moving between the crisscrossing tree branches.

      Wiping a hand over his face he looked again, and this time caught sight of the same motion. It was the movement of fabric caught in the wind, gently flapping as with a life of its own. It looked like a long gown or maybe a scarf of some kind though he couldn’t be sure. He caught sight of the beautiful woman around whom the scarf fluttered. Her golden hair sparkled in the filtered sunlight glaring through the tree branches, the pale skin almost luminescent in the daylight. Her pale skin seemed flawless, no blemishes or wrinkles evident. The blue and white scarf only accented the stark contrast between the bright almost painful gold within her tangled blonde hair and her pale skin.

      His hand gripped the cold iron fence, as his other one wiped across his face again as if he weren’t sure of what he was seeing. Never before had Edwin noticed anyone in the wooded area surrounding the grounds. To be honest, there were very few visitors to the cemetery itself. Most were merely curiosity seekers, wondering how old the markers were while others were family members searching for their roots; all of which made the woman’s appearance all the more startling.

      Edwin watched as the woman bent to the base of a small marker. One from the early eighteenth century he guessed by its shape, the small white marker apparently wiped clean by the harsh midwestern winters. She was pulling away some of the weeds that seemed to have grown up around the base of the marker, even as her other hand gently placed a small bouquet of wildflowers in the cleared grass at her feet.

      She gently brought her fingers up to her full, pursed lips and then softly caressed the small stone’s face. As Edwin moved a bit to his left to try and have a clearer line of sight, the scythe banged against the iron gate.

      For the briefest moment, the woman turned her head and faced him. At that moment, his breath was taken from him. Her beauty was so intoxicating that he literally felt as though he would pass out. The bluest eyes he had ever taken in stared back at him with surprise. There was also something else in their blue surfaces though he hadn’t the time to define it, as she turned and made her way through the trees to the west.

      Wait, he called, I didn’t mean to startle you. Please. I’m sorry.

      It was no use, he realized, her form quickly taken away by the forest. Leaning his scythe against the iron fence, he clamored up its height with less than graceful motions, very nearly sending one of the spikes through his thigh. Thankfully, he managed to get over the rust coated barrier without incident.

      He found his breath coming in rapid succession, something that he couldn’t quite explain. As he made his way to the spot where the woman had been, he was surprised to find nothing there. He looked back at the iron fence surrounding the cemetery and gauged the approximate distance to the position he had noticed the woman. Edwin thought he was close.

      Looking around him, he didn’t see a headstone or flowers near any of the trees. There was simply no trace of either. His stomach suddenly froze, the chill emanating from a tingling sensation that tickled the base of his spine. He almost felt like he had been drinking. At times during his binges, the visions he sometimes experienced seemed real enough to take a bite out of him. This was not a delusion; he was most certain though his mouth still had the familiar dryness to it.

      He wiped his face yet again, no longer very sure of anything, except for the fact that he didn’t like the gnawing sensation eating away at his insides. Something was not right here, and he quickly realized that. The woman had been incredibly beautiful, breathtaking enough to hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest, but he felt something else was at work here. Something he wasn’t convinced he had a right to delve into. He concluded that the best thing for him to do was to simply go back to work.

      Finishing the southern stretch of the cemetery, Edwin moved to the eastern section, though his eyes continued to scan the western edge of the fence line for the woman’s fluttering scarf or her pale face peering from between outstretched branches. Completing his work, Edwin investigated the scythe’s blade and convinced its surface still remained true, hung the tool up on its peg inside the small, cramped shed.

      His day half done, Edwin pulled his brown paper bag lunch from the small box nailed to the back wall. He had learned early on in his tenure at Montfort that the squirrels loved to make themselves at home in the small caretaker’s outbuilding. It took him three lunches before he finally figured out what was happening. He had fancied the little box at the back of a town antique shop and purchased it just to offset the squirrels’ offensive. They didn’t seem offended, many of them still lurking about the headstones and the numerous trees marring the otherwise-perfect grassy knolls making up the grounds.

      Biting sharply into his jam sandwich, he wondered again about the woman in the woods. Finishing his sandwich, hardly tasting the last two bites, Edwin stuffed the empty bag back into the box, knowing that the squirrels would investigate even an empty bag. Stepping out into the sunlight, the clouds overhead casting moving shadows which danced over the landscape, he arched his back and stretched. Rubbing his chin, thinking about the other work to be done, he decided he would instead investigate the marker he had noticed the woman standing before. He simply had to.

      Climbing the fence, a little more gracefully this time, he made his way through the tangled trees. Paying more careful attention to how far into the tree line he moved, Edwin slowly made his way to the approximate location of where the woman stood. Looking back for only a moment, as if worried that someone was watching him, Edwin moved into the woods almost thirty yards before pausing.

      Pulling the machete from its sheath, Edwin began violently hewing down the rather thick collection of foliage surrounding the base of a particular tree. The blade bit deeply into the thick greenery over and over again. As the rich soil slowly became visible beneath his incessant chopping, Edwin slowed his progress and began tugging at the grass and weeds with his fingers. There was something rewarding about delving into the richness of the earth. Something he couldn’t quite explain nor hope to understand.

      It took him more than twenty minutes to clear away enough earth to know that he did indeed chose the right location. Edwin’s fingers scraped something unyielding in the earth causing his heart the lurch inside of his chest.

      Dear God, he whispered, somehow knowing before he cleared away enough earth to see it, that it would indeed be the very same grave marker the beautiful woman had been attending to.

      As more and more of the marker became visible; it nearly seemed to grow out of the earth of its own accord, his hands becoming increasingly unsteady. Edwin continued to work around the stone, brushing the earth from its pale gray face. The date 1811 appeared. Digging a little further, his fingers now caked with the moist earth, a name appeared as well. Julian Tatum 1811 - 1811.

      His shaking hands cleared away the last of the earth when he heard what sounded like a muffled lick of laughter. He glanced around quickly and caught sight of a fluttering bit of cloth, the blue and white scarf of the beautiful woman, he was certain.

      Hello, he tried, standing up suddenly, hoping to catch sight of her again.

      Not realizing how long he had been crouching by the ancient marker, his feet and legs had fallen asleep. The painful, itching sensations danced over his flesh, holding him fast to his position. When he looked up again, he couldn’t see the scarf any longer, nor any other sign of life. He winced slightly, as the agitated sensations continued to ramble over his feet and up his legs.

      Thankfully, the circulation returned, and he was able to move around with minimal discomfort. Edwin waited for a few minutes, naively thinking that perhaps the woman would return. By the time his sweat had cooled against his skin, a chill racing up his spine, he was certain that she wouldn’t come. Taking one last glance at the name, he began repeating it silently, to aid his memory.

      The remainder of the day was spent clearing away the dead or dying flowers before the large stones at the front of the cemetery. Intermingling scents of the numerous flowers followed him on his jaunt through the headstones. As the sun fell to the horizon, its light spilled long shadows from the grave markers, their long shadowy fingers crisscrossing his path.

      Emptying the sizeable wheelbarrow into a large compost heap at the rear of the cemetery, he trudged up the stone walkway leading to the rear of the aged church. A faint smile crossed his face as he looked at the bell tower he had replaced three years ago, remembering how proud he had been. The entire congregation had organized a barbecue to thank him. It was the first time in more than a decade that anyone had done anything of the sort for him.

      As he opened the back door, the church, and its heavy silence enveloped him, drawing him into its solace. Edwin paused for a moment, as his mother had taught him before entering the sanctuary. She had explained that sometimes angels were at work in the church and needed time to hide themselves away so that the congregation couldn’t see them.

      He had been fascinated by that story and on more than one occasion, while attending the church youth group alone, would burst into the sanctuary in hopes of catching sight of an angel at the altar or perhaps lighting a candle. Though he had grown out of such blind belief, somewhere in the back of his mind, Edwin still wondered about the truth of such a story.

      While thinking, he stepped into the sanctuary, the tall stained glass windows stretching toward the cathedral ceilings, the numerous ornate candle holders dutifully holding aloft the burning candles. As always, he practically had to force himself to breathe, always feeling that such a sanctuary warranted homage.

      His footfalls echoed lightly across the marble floor as he headed to the small office that was used by the visiting priest. He knew that what he sought would be in there. Opening the door, he was immediately taken by the stuffiness in the closed room. The single window wouldn’t open, though he struggled with it for some time. Conceding that he would simply have to bear the heat while looking through the cemetery records, he started to search.

      As his fingers danced along the numerous tabs of the stained and slightly dog-eared folders, he was hoping to find a map, an old map before his tenure. As he looked through the folders, he pulled the one labeled ‘plot arrangement.’

      Taking the papers from within, he looked through them, already knowing that they wouldn’t show what he was looking for, he had looked at the very same pages countless times before. Putting the folder back, he noticed another one labeled zoning. Edwin looked at the large map, unsure of what some of the marks and lines meant. In the end it didn’t matter, he saw what he needed.

      Dated 1826, he noticed a line cutting along the eastern border of the cemetery. Scanning the names attached to the labeled burial plots, each one scribed in the same careful hand, he noticed the name, Julian Tatum. It was the one plot which stood outside the iron fence line.

      Why was it omitted from the grounds?

      He looked at the property line again just to solidify what he already knew to be true. For some reason, the body of Julian Tatum was not placed on the consecrated ground of the graveyard. Edwin rubbed his forehead with the sweat stained kerchief from his back pocket. An odd feeling washed over him as he remembered the woman’s face, placing the flowers carefully at the foot of the grave marker. He thought of the caring way her fingers had gently caressed the face of the stone.

      More determined than ever to find out the reason for the omission, he made his way to Father Henigan’s office, hoping to bend his ear a bit. The light was on in the office, and as he knocked on the door, he wasn’t surprised to hear the familiar, Come in, come in.

      Walking into the cool interior of the office, a small air-conditioning unit laboring in the window overlooking the cemetery, he smiled at the elderly man.

      Father? he asked.

      Edwin, how nice of you to stop in to see me, Father Henigan said, taking the reading glasses off, their small imprints left upon his rather large nose.

      Edwin only cleared his throat, unsure of how to proceed with such a matter. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure it was his place. During his momentary weakness, Edwin shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

      As he looked to Father Henigan, he asked, Father Henigan, how much do you know about the cemetery’s history? I mean about its beginnings and what not, he added hastily.

      Father Henigan, rubbed his hands together much the same way he did every Sunday prior to tearing through his sermon, before looking Edwin straight in the eye. He motioned to the large high-backed chair.

      "Well, this church has a great many secrets I’m sure. A structure this old can’t be without its voices. Without its whispers. I don’t pretend to know all of them; that’s simply an impossibility. I must say it was quite intimidating to come to the church haunted by the legendary crying baby Jesus. The soft cries which seemed to echo in all areas of the church. Of course even though my faith was strong, I still doubted the authenticity of the claims.

      All of us at the seminary talked about such phenomena; the crying Virgin Mary, the crying Jesus Christ portrait, the unsubstantiated claims of miracles the world over, with great fervor. Honestly, I think in a way each of us wanted to be part of such a place. When I arrived, it was immediately clear that the miracle was indeed real. Those cries in the night, very unsettling.

      Edwin sat down in the chair, the leather squeaking slightly beneath his weight.

      As far as the cemetery went, it was tended by William Bettis, an elderly man. It was his great-great-grandfather who founded our quaint little town and who also filed the required paperwork for the zoning of the cemetery. It was during his tenure as Governor, as they were called in those days, that a peculiar happening occurred.

      Father Henigan paused for a moment, clearing his throat and taking a long drink from the tall glass to his left. Edwin patiently waited for the rest of the tale.

      It seems that the Salem witch trials of the day spread this far east, as incredible as it may seem. A small group of people met with some regularity, at least this is the legend, in a small clearing north of the cemetery. Their utterances were not of the usual sort, their odd incantations unsettling to those curious folks who hid within the lush forests. Utilizing herbal medicines and potions, they were quickly seen as a potential threat to the good Christian standing of the town. When a well-respected member of the town and the usual leeching didn’t cure the ailment, the wife of the stricken man sought Lillian Tatum, a beautiful young woman of twenty. Reputedly she had long flowing blonde hair and fancied dual colored scarves and wore exotic looking beads in her hair.

      Edwin nodded, her name echoing within his head infinitely.

      "Using one of her concoctions, and uttering several of the unusual incantations, the ailment cleared up almost immediately. Of course, this merely led to even more talk that her unusual ways were that of a witch. Her solitary existence near the Washburn Pond was one of isolation. No visitors and no apparent family. That’s why it was so strange when a little one was seen on her hip as she did her weekly shopping in town. Immediately rumors of devilish rituals circled the small child and its appearance. Stories were told and retold of how the child’s eyes were a blood red color and that the red shock of hair seemed to be covering the beginnings of horns.

      "It was in the wake of such stories that the real tragedy occurred. A group of townsmen gathered near Lillian’s home, their minds infected with the twisted tales of the child and mother. Mustering up the courage, the men waited for Lillian to leave on her daily jaunt into the thick woods surrounding her home before breaking into the home and stealing the child. The original plan was to simply kill the child though none of the men could stomach such an act, so they simply left the baby atop a rocky expanse in the woods.

      Obviously, Lillian was in a panic when she returned and her dear Julian was missing. Searching everywhere and unable to find him, she went to the town and asked for help in finding her lost baby. Not one of them helped or even offered help. She had to have realized just how alone she was. Because of that realization the second tragedy occurred.

      It wasn’t until dusk that she stumbled across Julian’s tiny body sprawled upon that large rock. He was alive, though badly dehydrated. Apparently, he had contracted a virus of some kind, a high fever wracking his tiny body through the night. Desperately in need of medical attention, Lillian went to the doctor’s home near the edge of town. No one answered her pleas. Lillian knew that she would not get the help she needed in town. So she created several different potions from her herbal medicine books and monitored Julian through the night and the next day. It was in the afternoon of that day when Julian died. Apparently, he had an allergic reaction to one or more of the herbs Lillian had used in the concoctions.

      Father Henigan seemed to pause here for several moments, either gathering his thoughts together or perhaps moved by the telling of such an emotionally charged tale. In any event, after a few moments he continued, Due to the allergic reaction, the child’s body swelled with odd colored protrusions. That was all the evidence the town needed to conclude the child was indeed the spawn of occult rituals. The town refused to listen to her pleas with regards to Julian’s burial. They buried the small child in a coffin made by Lillian; it seemed that not even the caretaker would consider dirtying himself with the so-called devil child. She visited that grave every day for the duration of her life, always clearing away weeds and washing away any hateful signs or markings on the tiny headstone.

      Father Henigan rubbed his hands together again, which was usually the indication that his sermon was coming to a close, and so Edwin said, I see.

      Oh, there’s more.

      More?

      Certainly. The child had been buried outside the cemetery grounds with only Lillian to take care of it. When she died twenty years later, she was buried at another location outside of the cemetery bounds. They believed that if they were to bury them side by side that they would somehow be able to spread their evil even beyond the grave. It was shortly thereafter that the legendary baby Jesus began crying in the church.

      Crying? he asked to no one. He shook his head. Forgive me, Father, I consider myself a good Christian, but I don’t think that’s the baby Jesus. I think it was Julian crying for his mother, Edwin said in awe.

      Yes, I’ve speculated about that myself since my arrival here. Without Lillian to take care of the headstone, the marker was left at the mercy of nature. The forest overtook the marker within a few short years. Truthfully, I never knew where the stone was, though I had searched several times, nor do I know where Lillian is buried. It was supposedly near a rock which was said to hold the four points of the compass. I never was sure what that meant.

      So the crying Jesus is really the...spirit of Julian?

      That’s what I think though I certainly won’t do anything to dispel the notion that it is indeed the Christ child crying in the night. It has brought a great many wayward people into the fold. Ironically the supposed evil practices of Lillian have done more for this church than anyone in bringing the curious or the hopeful or the hopeless to God’s house. Strange indeed.

      Father Henigan?

      Edwin, he said, his eyes open and at ease.

      I’d like to try and find Lillian’s grave and if not place them on the hallowed ground at least place them side by side so they may find peace.

      Oh Edwin, I’m not sure that’s possible. There’s little to aid your search except for a reference to a strange compass stone.

      I still feel like I have to try.

      Leaving the cool interior of Father Henigan’s office, Edwin headed out into the sunlight, clouds casting moving shadows over the landscape. He thought about the reference to a compass stone and wondered what it might mean.

      Would there actually be a stone with a compass carved on it? He doubted it. Maybe it was a stone that resembled a compass in shape or perhaps it merely a square stone slab which pointed to the four corners. Intent upon searching the northern stretch of land, he climbed the fence and with machete in hand began his quest. For more than an hour, he simply wandered through the trees, eyes searching for any sign of the stone. When dusk finally began settling over the land, he gave up in disgust. Edwin began to head back toward the cemetery grounds, the woods around him coming to life with nature. The gentle chirp of the crickets and the soft croaking of bullfrogs from the nearby pond could all be heard.

      It wasn’t long before he heard something else as well. It was something light, something soft, but unmistakable all the same. It was the light, soft crying of a child. The sound chilled him to the core, his arms and chest breaking out with goose bumps, his eyes searching for the source. Nothing presented itself though the sound became more concrete, clearer as he continued to head for the iron fence.

      Light mist seeped upward from the ground, cloaking nearby trees behind its shroud-like vapor. As he ducked beneath a low-hanging branch, he stumbled and very nearly wet himself. Not more than twenty yards ahead of him, the visage of Lillian stood, her arms burdened with a collection of flowers. Clear blue eyes burned back at him with a cold fire, though the face remained open and welcoming. The same blue and white scarf danced in the wind around her though none disturbed the surrounding trees.

      The eerie standoff lasted no more than fifteen seconds though it seemed to stretch infinitely in his mind. Her face held the kindness and unquestioning generosity he had noticed earlier. As their eyes met, she began to sink into the earth, the white dress slowly being swallowed by the surrounding green. Outstretching her arms, Edwin thought she was beckoning him. As she disappeared into the earth, the effervescence which surrounded Lillian, continued to burn brightly underground. Lingering for a few seconds, the glow finally dissipated leaving only the mist to scatter about his legs.

      Edwin closed in on the spot where the earth had seemed to swallow her whole and began to feel around in the mist, his fingers encountering an unyielding stone. Rather large and almost rectangular, he thought that the points seemed to be approximate to the four points of the compass. It didn’t seem to move beneath his exertions, however, and he knew that it would take some doing to unearth the grave.

      He removed the large sack from his shoulder and after a few moments of rummaging around, pulled a large pick ax from the collection of the tools. Soon the metallic ring of the pick ax’s blade striking the stone echoed for miles around. Taking no more than half an hour, Edwin removed the stone and had more than a foot of earth displaced from where he hoped the grave maker was. It was difficult to ascertain just how accurate Father Henigan’s tale was. Working for another fifteen minutes, his shovel blade struck something which resounded with a hollow thump. Using his fingers, he found the object’s outline and estimated it to be the very coffin he sought.

      Wafting up from the earth was the thick stench of decay and rot, and twice he wretched, his stomach revolting against the smells assaulting him. Struggling with the heft of the coffin, his muscles bulging beneath the weight, he finally managed to pull it free from the earth’s moist embrace. There was no way he would be able to carry the coffin, he realized this and so attached a thick rope to the handle at the head of the oblong box and began to pull it toward his destination.

      The sun had long since departed, only the semblance of dusk remaining and yet he knew in his heart of hearts that this task had to be completed tonight. He felt the nagging bite of his tired muscles in his legs but continued onward to Julian’s grave. Thankfully the northern border wasn’t quite as densely populated by the numerous trees which lined the western boundary. The coffin scraped across exposed tree roots with an odd hollow sound, the underbrush rustling against the sides.

      Finally, he closed in upon the marker at the head of Julian’s grave and removed the rope from his shoulders. Pausing only a moment, to allow his heart rate to slow to its normal rate, he began to clear away the trees and earth from directly beside the small marker. An hour later amid the pale glow of the full moon overhead, he patted the earth over the marker and crossed himself.

      May you finally be able to rest in peace. Both of you. Dear Julian and Lillian, may you both rest, he said, his fingers lingering in the freshly turned earth he had just poured over the rotten coffin.

      As he picked up his tools, Edwin moved toward the cemetery bounds. When he reached the fence line, a glow seemed to unfold from behind him. It was bright enough to see the fence’s shadow cast on the freshly cut grass. Turning to face it, his breath caught in his throat, seeing the beautiful sight before him. The bright radiance emanated from a large ball glowing above the two graves.

      Dropping his tools to the ground with a clatter, Edwin saw Lillian in the center of the glowing ball, in her arms a small child bundled in several blankets. He knew it was Julian. She looked at him, her eyes so clear, so beautiful, that he felt his heart flutter at the sight. Mouthing the words ‘thank you’ Lillian blew him a kiss and then turned away to walk into the woods.

      Epilogue

      Shortly after the grave was relocated, the supposed miracle of the crying baby Jesus ceased to exist. In its place, however, a more astounding one bloomed. The sound of a laughing child started to echo around the grounds of the old church though few talked about the strange phenomena. The church itself recanted its former support of the alleged miracle, apparently not able to believe that the fantastic occurrence could change from the sound of a crying child to a laughing one. Pranksters were blamed though no one was ever formally accused.

      However, the townsfolk were less impressed by the childish sounds than by a singular pale flower. It was a single, odd lily which stood tall year round near the two graves outside the cemetery grounds. The single flower remained in bloom despite the rather harsh climate changes. Even in the dead of winter, the flower bloomed, its colorful petals standing boldly against even the harshest winter storms.

      From time to time an old man is said to visit the grave, his voice often heard speaking in soft tones, though nothing, save the flower, is there.

      Charity Case

      David J. Gibbs

      We’re so full of choices, these poisonous decisions that we make, each one somehow influencing the next, until there’s nothing left but shredded ribbons to hold onto. Our arms are so full, trying to hold that weight, its heft too unwieldy for us, but still we try. As hard as it is to do, we still try.

      He listened to her, even though he didn’t fully understand what she was talking about. It wasn’t anything new. For as long as Chris had known her, Charity Underhill was way smarter than he was. While he was floundering, he was after all, a sophomore struggling with a sixth-grade vocab book, she was a senior taking advanced placement chemistry and history. Chris knew that he was just along for the ride, but what a great ride it was so far.

      Charity was free with her body and very giving both in and out of the bedroom. She was flirtatious and playful, and still somehow managed to be slutty. He couldn’t figure her out at all, which is probably another reason why he was sticking around.

      Don’t you agree?

      The earnest look was there, the one that always seemed to tease something in his chest. It made him uneasy and horny all at the same time. Chris was shocked that those feelings hadn’t faded at all in the four months they had been going out. He usually lost interest much quicker than that.

      I’m not sure.

      "Well, which part aren’t you sure about?

      Pretty much everything you just said.

      Really?

      Well, yeah Charity. I mean, you talk an awful lot.

      Are you serious? she interrupted.

      -and it’s hard to catch up sometimes.

      Chris?

      Yeah? I mean what are poisonous decisions anyway? I pick the wrong pair of pants in the morning and boom; suddenly I’m poisoned and dying?

      She smiled at that and looked down, her straight red hair falling from behind her ear, sweeping slowly across her face. Her hair always looked so soft. Charity shifted her position on the bed, the tired springs of the old mattress creaking with her movement. He propped himself up with an extra pillow and looked at her, really looked at her.

      Chris, you are truly singular.

      Her eyes always let him swim in them. The deep blue, open and inviting, he always took a dip, always. He was helpless to do otherwise. She always smelled like she just stepped out of the shower.

      Will you do that thing again?

      What thing? Charity asked.

      Oh come on. You know what I’m talking about, that thing.

      Chris, come on. We don’t have time for games now, do we?

      The longer she looked at him, her eyes not leaving his, the surer he was that she was serious. It was weird. She would be so playful and carefree with him, that he sometimes forgot that she could be so darkly serious. It was almost scary to him sometimes how quickly she could turn on him. Of course, it didn’t change his mind about staying with her.

      Okay.

      Now, remember we’re still going to go to the Salem Cemetery tonight.

      Wait. We are? he asked.

      That brought the color back to her cheeks and the look in her eyes. He just smiled and held up his hands.

      I know, I know. I was just kidding.

      You’d better be mister.

      Mister? Wow, so formal all of a sudden.

      She slapped him playfully on his arm.

      So you know what we’re doing tonight, right? Charity asked.

      Of course I do. We’re going to the cemetery, he said, drumming out a pattern on his sheet covered stomach, as he rolled over to his back.

      Chris took in every detail of her face. She had a small pinprick of a scar near her left ear, and her left eyebrow was just a hint higher than her right. Her lips turned down at the ends, just barely, and every so often, it made her look mean. Even that didn’t matter to him because he was taken by her in a way no one else had taken him.

      She kissed him wetly on the mouth, her hair spilling across his face and then scooted off the side of the bed. She liked teasing him. Chris knew she did. He might not necessarily be book smart, he wasn’t foolish enough to think he was, but he was definitely street smart. And, he knew when a girl was teasing him.

      Get the car, she said quietly, as she walked out of the bedroom.

      Chris followed her progress, enjoying the way her ass did that little side to side thing when she walked. He stretched, relishing the loud pops skittering up along his spine, before getting out of bed to find his clothes.

      His pants were in a ball near the small chair; his underwear wedged inside one of the legs. He slipped them on and then grabbed his shirt at the foot of the bed. Scratching a hand across the top of his head, his short hair lost the bedhead look.

      ***

      Twenty minutes later, they pulled around to the back of the small church, a single light above the back door the only thing that pushed back the night. It was quiet, the moon playing hide and seek among the ribbons of clouds pushing across the early evening sky.

      He had grown up just down the street from the church, the sizeable graveyard butting up against the back of the old building and he used to sneak out as a kid to smoke cigarettes and drink beer, if he was lucky enough to steal one from the garage refrigerator. In all that time, though, he never really looked at the iron fencing and weathered gate that held the dead in their place. He had to admit it was impressive as he looked at it, shining secretively with the light from the back of the church.

      Charity climbed out of the car; a small flashlight wedged into the back pocket of her jeans. He frowned and walked around to her side of the car. Waving away a bug that seemed intent on flying up his nose, Chris smacked Charity’s tight butt. She jumped slightly and giggled. Turning around, she looked at him, her tight body silhouetted in the light. She raised a hand and extended her index finger motioning for him to follow her.

      What are we doing here? I mean really, why are we here?

      You know why we’re here, she said and giggled again.

      It made him think of bits of honey in sunlight for some reason, like that commercial on TV. He wished they were still back at Charity’s place watching a movie or something.

      The gate wasn’t locked. There hadn’t been a burial ceremony in almost two decades, the grounds long ago filled to capacity. The stones, once ornate and beautiful were now weathered, round edged bits of stone. Most were blank faces, white or gray, no longer carrying the names of the dead they marked, but instead merely stood watch, staring upward.

      I really don’t, Chris said, stumbling on something sticking out of the grass.

      We should go over this way. I think it’s over here.

      Okay, he said.

      She finally took the flashlight out of her back pocket and directed the beam over to a long row of rather plain looking gravestones. Shaking his head, Chris couldn’t see how they were any different than the other markers.

      What are you looking for? he said.

      She waved her hand at him to be quiet. It made him look around to see if she saw someone coming. Not seeing anyone, he looked back in Charity’s direction. She was crouching, her flashlight on the ground when he came up beside her.

      What are you doing?

      I was right. This is one of the ones I was hoping would be here.

      Chris looked down at the slab of marble, an unremarkable rectangular shape cracked and aged like most of the stones in the cemetery. The only difference was this one sealed off a grave beneath it and was missing one corner. It was at that corner Charity was looking.

      So, we’re not making out? he asked.

      Chris. Really? Come on, Charity said and pulled a couple sections of the broken stone out of the corner. I think this will work. It’s hard to see, but I think it will be perfect. Come over here and use your muscles, big boy.

      She stood up so he could crouch down closer to the slab. His knees were on either side of the broken section. Knees against the ground, he pushed against the slab, and it grated against the edges, moving slowly but steadily. He flexed his taught frame a little more and eased the thick covering open enough so that Charity finally said, That’s good enough.

      Brushing off his hands against his shirt he looked at her and asked, Are we really going in there?

      Not we Stud. Just me. There’s no way you’re going to fit your Gigantor frame in here.

      After shining the flashlight down into the open grave, she muttered something he couldn’t hear and then dangled her legs over the edge. Their eyes met for a moment, but before he could ask the question that was on his lips, she lifted herself up and then vanished through the opening.

      A moment later, he heard her hit the bottom and after a few scuffling sounds, the flashlight turned on. He could see the light panning side to side as she looked around.

      Chris this is so much better than I thought it would be.

      What do you mean?

      Aren’t you turned on by this at all?

      He wasn’t, but knew better than to disagree with her saying, Sure.

      Oh, come on, Chris. I’m down here with a dead body. This is so hot. Way hotter than when we did it in the locker room after the football game. Remember that? This is so much better than that. I can do anything I want to him, and he won’t be able to resist at all.

      Uh, okay, he said quietly, not entirely sure he wanted to see what she was doing in the open grave.

      With her light moving around in the grave, he could see the pant legs and shoes of the dead man, but nothing more. A chill worked its way along his arms and made him shiver. He didn’t like this and wanted to finish up and get back to Charity’s place as soon as possible.

      What are you doing?

      I’m building a sand castle. What do you think I’m doing down here? I’m getting off and letting this dead guy watch. Oh, that’s it. That did it again.

      He recognized her lust filled voice and knew she wasn’t faking any of it. It made him a little sick to his stomach, but he stayed by the marker, walking back and forth. He didn’t know what else to do.

      Chris didn’t honestly know how much later it was, but eventually heard Charity ask, Chris can you give me a hand?

      He walked over to the opening and saw her face in the opening. Her head barely came up to the level of the ground. He reached down and grabbed her by the forearm and lifted her out easily. That’s when he noticed that she had a bag in her hand.

      What’s in the bag? he asked.

      She smiled at him in that seductive way that always turned his insides to jelly. He felt himself getting aroused as her hand lightly brushing across the front of his jeans.

      What’s in the jeans? she asked, that sexy edge to her voice cutting through his resolve.

      It was rough, and it was gritty, but it was so good. She leaned back against a headstone of an angel looking to the heavens and spread her legs wider. He had never felt her more aroused, and he had never felt so alive while inside her. They moved together in an impassioned frenzy, the stones watching, the dead listening, and the night carefully taking notes. The grass felt cool and wet beneath them while the night was quietly surveying them.

      As they trembled and lurched with motion and desire, her bare skin exciting him like it always did, they could hear the traffic passing nearby. Her curves drew him in and urged him to thrust harder, his hand at her throat caressing and squeezing, as she excitedly bucked beneath him. Their motion grew more frantic, their hands clutching at clothing, grabbing hair until finally everything swayed with one last wet rush.

      They lay together in the grass, the stone angel still staring at the darkened sky overhead, their breath still coming fast as they let the moment pass between them. The passion slowly dissipated into the night around them.

      What was that? he asked,

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