Coffin Cemetery Read online

“Help me!” Mike gasped, something hard digging into his shoulder.

  “I’ll call her!” Sharon yelled, and Mike heard her run out of the room.

  Mike almost told her not to. He almost told her it was no use.

  Then the thing under the bed slowly crawled up his arm, and his screams rang out through the house.

  Chapter 4: Moonlight

  Dan finished his coffee, put the mug down, and stood up. I’ll check again.

  He had gone through the entire cemetery several times, but he hadn’t seen the ghost of the boy again. Dan understood that ghosts existed. As far as he was concerned, they had to exist. The burden of evidence was with the naysayers.

  Jessica didn’t believe, he thought, then chided himself. Don’t bring her up.

  It was always a challenge to function normally after seeing his ex-wife. It drained him, emotionally, to speak with her. Every syllable uttered was a painful reminder of how he had never spoken enough during their marriage.

  Then, there was the issue with the children.

  Children, he thought. I need to look for that boy again. What help does he need from me?

  Dan shook the thoughts away. He knew he needed to find the boy and help him if he could. Some ghosts, he remembered from television and movies, needed help. Others did not.

  No, Dan thought. Others want the opposite. They want to destroy the world.

  Dan stretched a little to work out the kinks in his back. One more loop tonight. Then I’ll go to bed. I have twenty-five pages to read to keep on my goal.

  The idea that he would soon be reading served as a pleasant distraction while he prepared for his last walkthrough of the night. He picked his mug back up and carried it to the sink. After rinsing and drying it, he set it on the floor beside the coffeemaker. Dan left the small room, exiting the building by way of one of the front doors. The night was clear, the light of the moon and the stars stunning in their brilliance. Dan smiled at the old headstones, the way some of them leaned, and others sank a few inches.

  Mentally, he marked off the headstones which would require movement or repairs of some kind. He proceeded slowly along the perimeter of the fence, pausing to commit a section to memory. The old urge to write, to research, and to create sprang up within him, and Dan found himself staring at an ancient, slate headstone.

  The epitaph carved into it concerned returning to the dust from whence the reader came, and he smiled. Yes, Dan thought, chuckling. It would be good to research these people. Get some new information.

  Then, his thoughts collapsed upon themselves as the sound of gunfire and screams exploded in his memory. He shuddered, rooted to the ground as reality faded before the onslaught of the past.

  A terrible cold swept over him, and Dan closed his eyes, trying to shut down the memories before they became too much for him to bear.

  Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Each word was a command, not a suggestion. Hours of therapy had been reduced to a single word. He was unable to do anything other than focus on the most basic bodily function of all—respiration.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he shivered violently, trying to warm himself as he continued to squeeze his eyes shut. His hands balled into fists, and his breath rushed in and out through clenched teeth. Once again, he smelled the heavy, iron-rich stench of too much blood.

  “Are you unwell?” a soft voice asked.

  Dan gasped, turned around to respond, and saw nothing.

  His heart skipped a beat, his breath caught in his throat and, for a brief moment, he wondered if he had gone mad.

  I’ve been worrying about this, he thought, feeling detached. Is it possible I’ve driven myself into insanity? Yes, anything is a possibility. If I recognize it as a problem, doesn’t it mean that I’m not insane? Or are there moments of lucidity, like now? Here’s another question: do I care if I’m insane or not?

  Before he could answer himself, a dark shape dashed between a pair of granite obelisks, catching his attention.

  I think that was a person, Dan thought. He cleared his throat nervously and said, “Hello, if you’re there. You have to leave the cemetery. We’re closed from dusk to dawn.”

  From behind the obelisk on the left came a child’s mournful voice.

  “I can’t leave,” the child replied. “This is where I have to live now.”

  Fear and uncertainty were batted aside by concern for the unseen child.

  “What do you mean?” Dan asked. “Did your parents make you leave?”

  “No,” the child answered. “They’re dead.”

  “Who made you leave your house then?” Dan asked, feeling anger building up within him.

  “I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “Why doesn’t it matter?” Dan waited for the answer, wanting to ask more questions but remembering the difficulties that accompanied questioning a child.

  “Because I’m dead, too.” The child stepped out from behind the obelisk and into the moon and starlight. Dan could see the rest of the cemetery through the child’s form a second before his legs gave out beneath him and he fainted as he fell to the grass.

  ***

  “Did you kill him, Eli?”

  Dan groaned and opened his eyes. The boy he had seen was standing over him, looking down.

  “See, I told you I didn’t kill him,” the dead child crowed triumphantly.

  Several other voices murmured their surprise, and then an older woman stepped forward, leaning heavily on a cane made of gnarled, heavy wood.

  “Sir,” she politely began as Dan sat up, eyeing the dozen or so people around him. “I hope you will forgive young master Eli for giving you a fright. We felt it best for him to approach you. Children are, after all, easier upon the heart at times.”

  Dan, shocked at what he saw, found he didn’t have a voice with which to respond. He merely nodded and waited for the woman to continue, which she did.

  “I am Madame Haupt.” She offered a small curtsey. “These others are my compatriots and neighbors in this spiritual wasteland of an afterlife.”

  “Why are you here?” Dan finally managed to ask.

  All of the dead looked to Madame Haupt.

  “Simple enough,” she replied. “We stayed. We don’t know why. There was no unfinished business or any such thing. At least, not for me. And concerning the few children who remained, I can’t imagine what they might have left undone. But we seem to have an issue in our small enclave, and I, for one, am hoping you might be able to assist us.”

  “What’s your name?” Eli asked.

  “Child!” Madame Haupt’s voice was sharp.

  Eli didn’t cringe away from her. “I’m older than you.”

  She frowned but said nothing else to him.

  “My name’s Dan,” Dan answered, feeling confused.

  “Introductions can go round and round later,” Madame Haupt interrupted. “First, however, we must make certain Dan is willing to attempt to assist us.”

  “I guess,” Dan offered, nodding. Then a torrent of words rushed out of his mouth. “Yes, of course, I’m willing. I don’t know how, but I’d like to help if I can.”

  A pleased murmur went through the crowd of dead, and Dan smiled, feeling good and happy all at once.

  “What do you need me to do?” he asked, straightening with confidence.

  “Find out who has been expelling my kin from their homes,” Madame Haupt explained. “Find them, stop them, and help return those who have been forced out.”

  Dan’s newfound confidence vanished and left him sitting alone among the dead.

  Chapter 5: Peaceful

  Janet offered them some herbal tea, pouring it into their cups even as they politely demurred.

  “Nonsense,” she said softly, setting the teapot down and slipping the light blue cozy back over it. Sitting in her small chair, she adjusted her ankle-length skirt, pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose, and smiled gently at them.

  “I know you’ve been throu
gh a great deal since we spoke.” Janet’s voice was soothing as she addressed Sharon.

  “It attacked Mike,” Sharon replied, her voice hoarse and her eyes red. Janet suspected the woman’s appearance was from a combination of fear and crying. “I didn’t know what else to do other than call you.”

  “You did the right thing,” Janet confirmed. She looked to Mike and winced at the sight of his face. Both his eyes were black and blue, his nose in a splint. He appeared ragged and worn, as if he had spent an entire weekend at a martial arts competition rather than a single night in his own home.

  Not even the whole night, she thought. “I’m glad you left when you did. Have you been back since you called me?”

  “No,” Sharon declared hurriedly. “You told us not to.”

  Janet feigned a respectful and impressed tone as she reassured the woman. “You did exactly right. You would be surprised at the number of people I try to help who simply don’t listen. It takes them quite some time to learn. I’m glad you’re smarter than that.”

  Mike cleared his throat and winced as he did so. Janet waited for him to speak.

  “What do we do now, Ms. Ladd?” he asked her.

  “Now,” she stated firmly, “if I have your permission, I would like to go into your house and see why this spirit suddenly attacked you. You’ve had no trouble with it before last night?”

  “None,” Sharon whispered. She reached out and took her husband’s hand. “We’ve only ever felt cold spots before.”

  Janet steepled her fingers in front of her face, adopting an attitude of intense concentration. After a minute of silence, she looked at Sharon and asked, “Did you mention anything about seeing me and speaking with me?”

  “Yes, but why would that matter?”

  “Bear with me, please.” Janet smiled tightly. “Where did this conversation take place?”

  “The kitchen,” Sharon murmured. Then her eyes widened.

  Janet’s voice was soft as she asked, “Where in the kitchen?”

  “Right outside the butler’s pantry.” Sharon’s head sank.

  Mike’s voice heavy with realization as he put the pieces together. “The pantry where the ghost always is.”

  “Did you talk about what I do for people?” Janet asked, her voice firm.

  The husband and wife both nodded their heads.

  “I’m so sorry,” Janet apologized. “It must have heard and understood you. It’s rare, but it does occur.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Mike mumbled.

  “Well,” Janet smiled, straightening up in her chair. “With your permission, and when you’re ready, I’d like to go in and try to understand what’s going on.”

  Sharon’s face lit up with relief, and a glimmer of the same flitted across Mike’s, though his expression was primarily one of caution.

  “How much is this going to cost?” Mike questioned, and Janet saw Sharon look daggers at her husband.

  “No cost,” Janet stated, shaking her head. “It’s terrible that this has happened to you. No, I’ll take a look around and tell you what I find. If it’s easy enough, I may be able to rid the house of the ghost while I’m in there.”

  “What if it isn’t?” Mike asked.

  Janet gave him a hard smile. “Then, Mr. Boire, we hope whoever is in there doesn’t kill me.”

  The surprised expression on the man’s face was exactly the reaction she had been hoping for.

  Chapter 6: Pleasure

  Phil Rems enjoyed only a few hobbies. His favorite was to spy on his neighbors. He knew most people balked at calling it for what it was, but not Phil. When his wife Angie had still been alive, she had harped on him endlessly about the amount of time he spent sitting in the parlor, watching the world go past.

  Dead in the ground for eight years, he thought, settling down in his favorite chair. Can still smell her damned perfume in the bathroom.

  He opened his bottle of Moxie soda, took a sip, and picked up his birding binoculars. They were the first purchase he had made after Angie’s funeral. He had stopped, in fact, at the Wild Birds Unlimited store off of Main Street on his way home from the cemetery. Neither he nor Angie had been much for sentimentality.

  She wasn’t getting any deader, Phil thought, humming to himself. He brought his binoculars to his eyes, adjusted the lenses and peered across the street at the Whipple house. Occasionally, he caught sight of Mrs. Whipple walking au naturel from her bathroom to her bedroom, but after several minutes, he moved on to another home.

  Bryant Rice worked nights while his wife Kathy wrangled their three kids during the day. What Bryant didn’t know, and what Phil happily suspected, was that the UPS man was the father of two of the children, and the postman was the father of the third. The Amazon driver had been paying particular attention to Kathy of late, and Phil would be surprised if she wasn’t pregnant in the next month or so.

  Never a dull moment in a New England town, he thought. Not if you know how to look.

  As he watched, Phil saw the shades were drawn in the master bedroom of the Rice home, and the minivan wasn’t in the driveway. Bryant’s asleep, and the missus is out with the children. Wonder if she’s dropped them off at her mother’s again?

  Phil chuckled, opened a bag of candy corn on the table beside him, and picked out several. He popped them into his mouth and worked them slowly between his gums. At seventy-six years old, he had little occasion to put his dentures back in. Unlike other widowers he knew, Phil didn’t require a woman to take care of him. He could cook, clean, and tend to his own needs.

  Humming, Phil shifted in his chair and moved his attention to the Boire house. He enjoyed Mike and Sharon. They were good neighbors, if a bit boring. Rarely did they fight, and almost never did they engage in any amorous activity with the blinds up. Sharon wasn’t particularly attractive, but Phil did like to be entertained.

  As he adjusted the focus on the binoculars again, Phil’s breath caught in his throat.

  Someone was in Mike and Sharon’s kitchen, and it wasn’t either of the Boires.

  I’ll have to call the police, Phil realized. His hand reached out for the phone next to him, then stopped as the person in the kitchen turned and looked out the window. The intruder was large and brutal in appearance, and Phil gasped as the man locked eyes on him.

  Then the man vanished.

  Phil lowered his binoculars, rubbed his eyes, and then looked again.

  Nothing, Phil thought with a shudder. Where did he go?

  He scanned the various windows but found no sign of the intruder. “Where are you?” Phil muttered.

  A voice whispered from behind him. “Here.”

  Phil let out a terrified shriek, his binoculars falling from his hand and slamming against the top of his knee. He tried to stand up, but a terribly cold force sent him spinning to the floor. Phil groaned as his head bounced off of the hardwood floor and stars exploded across his vision. He lay there for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts, and then the man was standing near him.

  What’s wrong with my eyes? Phil thought anxiously. It’s like I can see right through his feet!

  The sight of the floor through the man’s heavy work boots disturbed Phil more than he could understand. Then, a hand wrapped itself in the back of Phil’s shirt and pulled him up off of the floor.

  He realized he could see through the man’s entire body and whispered in a strangled voice, “What’s wrong with you?”

  The man chuckled. “I’m dead. You will be, too, in a minute. Maybe more. Dunno. I’m kind of bored.”

  The dead man threw Phil across the room, and Phil howled as he slammed into Angie’s glass-faced china cabinet. The glass shattered and fell around him as teacups and teapots fell from their shelves, striking the floor and breaking. Phil reached out to try and crawl away only to have shards of porcelain and glass pierce his skin. He felt the sharp pieces grind against his bones, and he screamed, jerking his hands back.

  “Hurts, huh? Good.” The dead man
snorted with disgust. “You shouldn’t spy on folks. What the hell is wrong with you? Good thing I was lookin’.”

  The ghost advanced upon Phil, who pressed back against the broken front of the cabinet, ignoring the biting pain of glass.

  Phil almost whimpered as he begged, “Please. I didn’t see anything. I won’t say anything.”

  “I know you won’t,” the dead man agreed. “‘Cause you’ll be dead. Ain’t no use whinin’ ‘bout it.”

  “Please!” Phil screamed.

  “Nope.” The dead man grinned and grabbed Phil by the face. The ghost’s hands were hideously cold, and the pain magnified as the dead man squeezed.

  For a split second, Phil could feel his bones start to break, and then darkness claimed him.

  Chapter 7: Acceptance

  “Dan!”

  Dan put his saw down and looked over his shoulder.

  Garrett Pence, the man in charge of the cemeteries and parks, strolled up the narrow road, his hands in his pockets. Dan picked up his water bottle, opened it, and took a long gulp as Garrett closed the distance between them. By the time Dan had finished his drink and set it back upon the ground, Garrett reached him, offering his hand.

  Dan shook it. “What brings you out today?”

  “Just work,” Garrett responded. “Want to sit down?”

  Dan nodded and sat, resting his back against one of the sawhorses. Garrett took out a pack of gum and offered a stick to Dan, who shook his head. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “How are you doing out here, away from everyone?” Garrett asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Do you see the kids at all?”

  Dan shook his head. “No. They don’t want me to.”

  Garrett frowned. “I thought the judge awarded you shared custody?”

  “He did,” Dan replied. “I won’t force them to see me, though.”

  “Dan,” Garrett murmured, sighing with exasperation. “How are you going to mend bridges if you won’t even talk to them?”

  Dan stiffened. “I won’t.” He looked down at the grass, picked a few stems and added, “They don’t like me, Garrett, and I don’t know how to talk to them. They’re too old now.”