Cemetery Psalms (5 Ghost/Horror Short Stories) Page 4

  Ramona screamed and screamed, eyes wide with disbelief. It looked like some of the positions of the statues on the property. Her mind raced with conjecture, the horror of it impossible to believe.

  The door creaked when it opened behind her. She twisted, wrenching her head around to see Surlee pause in the frame. He closed it and shook his head. Clucking.

  “Now you weren't supposed to see that yet,” he said. There was no sympathy in his voice or his eyes.

  She looked back; the son packed more dirt around Tom, pressing it snug in all the crevices and crannies.

  Oh God.

  Surlee leaned against the door and explained, as if he could read her mind and all the questions flitting through there.

  “I guess it's no harm to tell you what's going on, huh? Nope, I don't think so. See, my great grand-dad found out by accident how special this land is. When he murdered my grandmother, cheating bitch that she was, he buried her behind the cabin.” Surlee jerked a thumb that direction.

  Ramona glanced between him and Tom, him and Tom, panicked beyond all comprehension. This wasn't real. Couldn't be real. She would wake up any second, locked in a bad dream, home in bed in Ventura. Siska, their Himalayan cat, would be sitting on her chest with her fat tail waving in her face.

  “But, about twelve weeks later, he was afraid someone might find the grave, so he dug her up to move her back there into the trees.” Surlee chin-kicked a gesture toward the general direction Tom was being buried alive.

  “Thing is, when he did? He saw that she was as petrified as they come, her expression in death still clear as when he'd buried her. Somethin' unique in the earth here, you know? The minerals process the organic matter much faster than usual. The rest, they say, is history.” Surlee smiled his thin smile.

  Ramona felt bile crawl up the back of her throat. She mumbled behind the duct tape, desperate to save her and Tom's life. Tom, who had been packed into the earth like a sardine in a can. When she looked, she could only see the lower half of his body. The top was already covered with dirt.

  “No, sorry lady. Can't let you go. Not now. But I will make it less painful.” He stepped over to a small cupboard built into the wall and opened the door. From inside, he took a few pads of gauze and drenched them with liquid from a clear bottle. Chloroform, she guessed.

  “Your features have a pretty, natural peace about them. It would be a shame to waste that when you're fighting in the ground,” he said.

  He meant to bury her like those other people, all of them victims of his heinous crime. Buried alive, or drugged and put in the ground to suffocate so her face didn't contort and stay that way. It made her dizzy to realize every statue out there hadn't been carved by hand, like she thought. Dizzier still to know she would end up for sale like the rest, forever decorating someone's back yard or exotic garden.

  Surlee crossed the room and she fought the binds on her wrists, trying to scream past the tape.

  He tisked. As he pressed the gauze against her nose, he said, “I'll make sure to put you in a real pretty pose.”

  Music Box

  My day starts when light slants in the tall windows of the ballroom, painting Isobel in autumn colors, bringing out slivers of red in her dark hair. It does interesting things to her equally dark eyes and the impressive, floor length gown that clings snug against her bosom but flares around her ankles. It's the palest blue you can imagine, with airy ruffles and a swaying hem.

  Her Ginger Rogers gown, I call it.

  She's a delicate woman, with fragile wrists and a beautiful, sloping throat that I like to drag my fingers down.

  I've been in love with her since I was sixteen.

  I'm always at my beloved piano when the dancing begins. In this room, with its rich red walls, gilt trim, and mirrors on the opposite wall from where I'm sitting, I am reminded of old romance, new love, and timeless elegance.

  The glossy black and white checkered floor reflects my Isobel as she stands poised, the same as every other afternoon, arms artfully positioned in the air. Graceful, as elegant as the ballroom I made just for her.

  She wears a smile that I created; loving, adoring, affectionate. Her eyes never leave me, not even when my hands fly over the keys and she dances around the whole piano, a wide circle of pirouettes and whimsical turns. I know this because the cleverly placed mirrors tell me so.

  With masterful precision, I guide the melody through a dramatic crescendo and then wind it down to something high and sweet. A trickle of notes, too fine for anyone but her. Always pristine in her arches and perfect in her symmetry.

  I love to watch her.

  Debonaire in my black suit, dark hair combed away from my face, I play passionately while she spins, floating like her dress. The hands of a clock tick in the same direction as her rotations, but she's much less mechanical. This is our time together, stolen moments that last as long as the song does. I relish every single second.

  We never speak during our dance. We don't have to. Our expressions say everything. The intense way our eyes meet across the ballroom reminds me of two people desperate to be alone, full of need and repressed desire.

  I am her piano man, and she is my ballerina.

  We were destined to be together forever. I told her so the day that I met her. Intertwined, connected, tangled like the loose weave of her favorite crocheted blanket.

  Nothing could ever tear us apart.

  Not even death.

  I don't rise and go to her when the song ends. She does not come to me. We stare across the ballroom at each other, Isobel and Philippe, and though her expression never changes, I wonder what she's thinking.

  Every time the music fades to silence, before the curtains fall and obliterate the light in the ballroom, I wonder if she secretly hates me.

  No, not my Isobel. Surely she can see the literal magic I have created for us. She never knew I had that kind of talent, never understood the things I can do with my hands.

  I don't think that she really understood that when I said we'd be together forever, I meant it.

  She is as in love with me as I am with her, and I convince myself every time our song plays that she sees the utter beauty in what I've done.

  I gave us eternity.

  There can be no more perfect gift than that.

  Murder is not a word I associate with the sacrifice we had to make that enables us to be here still. I know she realizes that for us to go on, we first had to end.

  I made it as painless as possible.

  Isobel had no warning when I steered the Rolls Royce Phantom Eight off the edge of Mulholland Drive. We soared into the air and I recall her shock, the scream that rippled down my spine like ice.

  Even I don't remember the fiery impact. There might have been a flash of brilliant pain, but it was over almost before it began. Only she and I knew that I did it on purpose. To everyone else and our four surviving children, I made it look like an accident.

  That was all part of the plan. The precocious plan I set into place that would keep Isobel and I together forever.

  I constructed everything so carefully.

  Instead of coffins, I built us a box. Instead of mournful wailing, we have my song. Instead of rotting bodies, she is perfect there across the ballroom with her porcelain skin and shining eyes. The smile she wears, that I gave her, never fades.

  We will always have this dance in the ballroom, in the prime of our life.

  I have captured the essence of us in our happiest moments and preserved it for all time.

  Soon though, our dance will be over. I wait for it with my eyes across the room on hers, relishing the love fixed so perfectly on her expression. If there is anything turbulent going on inside her head, I will never know it.

  I designed it that way.

  With a click, it's lights out, plunging us into darkness until the song begins again.

  “It brings back such memories,” Margaret whispered. She sat near the double paned window over looking the garden in her fav
orite wing back chair, surrounded by several generations of offspring.

  In her lap sat the box that had brought them all together. Made of dark, rich wood, with carvings on every surface and a porcelain painted rose in the center on the top. Margaret touched it with the delicate tips of her fingers.

  Kaitlyn, her ten year old great granddaughter, leaned against the side of the chair and peered at it. “PaPa built it all by himself?” she asked.

  Margaret smiled.“Yes, dear. Isn't it amazing?”

  “I dunno why we have to listen to it every day,” Kaitlyn, her other granddaughter said with a frown.

  “Because the will tells us so or the money doesn't go into our bank account,” Alice said with a bitter edge.

  Margaret gave her youngest daughter a sharp look. “You're missing the point, Alice. He made this so we can remember them. Every piece, every carving. Even the music it plays.”

  Alice, the only one of her daughters rebellious about the box, seemed dubious. “I just think it's strange, that's all.”

  “Well, you always have. I wish you could see the beauty in it,” Margaret insisted. “We open it every day because it's what Pa wanted.”

  Smoothing her ruffled feathers, Margaret glanced at Kaitlyn. “Do you want the honor today, dear?”

  The little girl reached over to gently lift the lid.

  Elaborate, the depiction of the ballroom took Margaret's breath away. Like it did every day. The red was still rich and vibrant, the glossy checkered floor polished to a shine. At the piano sat her father in a suit with real material, hair combed away from his face in the way she remembered.

  And her mother. Sweet Isobel. With her ethereal blue dress and lissome grace.

  The melody her father wrote spilled into the room where Philippe and Isobel's children and grandchildren sat, watching the spinning ballerina with her hands poised just so. Around and around she went, circling the gentleman at the piano.

  The expression on their faces always made Margaret's heart skip a beat. She remembered those looks, this dancing, from before the accident that took them both away.

  Such love.

  Such passion.

  Light spilled through the music box from windows her father carved into the sides, giving the miniature ballroom a realistic appearance.

  Her father had done a spectacular job recreating their favorite room in the house.

  He'd done an even better job recreating he and Isobel.

  When the poignant song ended, Margaret closed the lid. With reluctance, she handed the music box off to her oldest daughter Anna, passing down tradition from one generation to another so that Philippe's final wishes lived on.

  I Am Ellis Moore

  Gloom stretches both ways down the narrow, dusty corridor. It's windowless, lightless. The only slices of illumination come from between skinny crevices of hidden doorways. I stand in front of one, listening for movement on the other side. My naked toes dig into the cold concrete until pain shoots up the bones of my shins.

  It makes me nervous, this waiting. This listening.

  I never know if one of them will be on the other side.

  They have invaded my house, my sanctuary, and now I have to creep around, confined to the hidden passageway in the walls. The only good thing about them being here is the food in the kitchen.

  It’s real food. Sometimes I forget what it tastes like.

  That’s where I am right now, on the other side of the hidden door in the large pantry, listening for sounds of them in my kitchen.

  I hear nothing, not even the scurry of rats. They are what my main diet consists of when Moore Manor sits empty. It’s not bad, getting used to the taste of them. What I don’t like is how the tail lashes around my lips, quivering and panicked, when I take the first bite.

  I’ve noticed there’s been a decrease in the rat population. The new owners of my manor have worked hard to eradicate them.

  I cannot allow this.

  I cannot allow it because when I make the new owners leave, I will need the rats once more.

  I press my ear to the wall; silence.

  With practiced caution, I push against the secret door, moving it an inch so I can hear better. The pantry, I determine, is empty. It’s so dark that I know the other door, leading into the kitchen, is closed.

  Perfect.

  Creating enough space to emit me, I slip into the small room. Shelves filled with boxes and cans line the walls. I can make out the labels with ease. I wonder sometimes why I am able to see so well in the dark.

  Tonight, I don’t feel confident enough to steal into the kitchen itself to raid that thing called a 'fridge'. I choose a box of crackers instead and slide one of the sleeves out. I pinch and pull at the plastic until it tears. Between the pads of my long fingers, I crumble three crackers and let the remains spill onto the shelf and the floor.

  The owners will think the rats did it.

  I must feed my friends, so that later, my friends will feed me.

  As tempting as it is to take the whole sleeve, I only pry five crackers out for myself. Cuddling them against my skeletal chest, I snub my nose at the asparagus, spinach and pickled beets.

  I'm starving, but not starving enough to eat that.

  There is a small can of crunchy peanut butter behind the mayonnaise that makes sneaking into the pantry worth it. I can almost tolerate them in my house for this prize alone. It will last for at least two weeks.

  Giddy, I add the peanut butter to my collection of five crackers. A King's ransom, I have.

  I fumble all of it when the refrigerator door opens out in the kitchen. Bottles and other condiments rattle against each other while someone searches the shelves. It might be the potty-mouthed wife or the spoiled daughter with the whiny voice.

  Sneering at the closed door separating us, I huddle my food items against me. My teeth feel long and thick in my mouth. Like my gums have receded too far. Like I have horse teeth.

  Disconcerted, I creep into the hidden passageway and close the door as quietly as I can. A screech of wood on concrete makes me wince. Pausing, I listen to determine if the sound carried through the pantry into the kitchen.

  I’m always listening.

  I don’t hear anyone come to investigate and I breathe a sigh of relief. That was close. They cannot know I live here.

  A moment later, annoyed, I sneer again. This is my house. I used to sleep upstairs in the room where the spoiled daughter stays. It’s a nice room, with a good view out the window. Now I have to stay in the cramped, hidden passageway.

  Scuttling away, I take my hoard through the twisting, winding passage to the dusty stairs leading down. Spiderwebs spread across my face and get stuck in my eyelashes.

  It tickles and makes me snicker.

  Coming to the arch leading into the basement, I pause. It's even darker down here. Cold. The stone walls are a gateway underground. To get to the small, square window I want, I have to pass the dark corner I hate. Zhena's corner.

  Clutching the food against my chest, I poise, crouched, waiting for the perfect moment. There is no clock to tell me when to go. I just go. As fast and as low to the ground as I can. A scuttling creature of bowed, bent legs, knots of bone for knuckles, and a shank of greasy hair that I chew the ends from so I can see.

  Even though I promise myself not to look, I can still see her eyes from the corners of my own. Evil eyes. Slanted, like a cat. Lined in black. Mean eyes.

  “Ellis,” Zhena whispers.

  The sound that comes out of my mouth is not a scream, but it's more than a whimper. With a clunk, the peanut butter hits the ground and rolls ahead, lost in the darkness. The crackers break apart between my thin fingers and fall like snowflakes over my equally thin toes.

  My food.

  Incensed by my loss, I glance over to the wall near her corner.

  I glare at her. She glares at me.

  Hateful gypsy witch. Giver of curses. I don't remember why I hate her so much, only that I do. The clown grease
I used to paint her portrait glistens even in the dark. On the wall, Zhena the witch has red lips, hollow cheeks and blue-black hair that reminds me of slithering snakes. It's wild all around her head.

  She's had the same stare, the same wicked crook at the edge of her mouth since I first painted her in 1887.

  I remember the year because I wrote it on the wall underneath her chin.

  “Ellis.”

  The hiss of my name startles me. I try to figure out how she speaks when her red lips don't move. Lifting my hand, I touch the backwards Z burned into my shoulder. An old scar.

  I hiss back.

  “Ellis Moore.”

  Determined to silence her forever, I race over the floor toward her portrait. Below, on the ground against the wall, is a bucket of paint I found when one of the old owners moved out.

  Ripping off the lid, I shove my hands in and cover them in blue paint. Her face disappears under the swipes I make across the wall. It disappears...and reappears again. Like the paint can't cover such evil. Now she is just blue-Zhena, scarier than she was before, and with a desperate cry I lift the whole bucket up. Paint splashes over the smears I made, oozing down, making it look like Zhena is melting.

  In the dark corner to my right, is the real Zhena. All bleached bones and decay.

  “Ellis, what are you doing?”

  I turn around in surprise. My father is standing in the archway. It isn't Zhena talking to me. Hissing at me. It is Benson Moore. Thin face, shoulders stooped, suspenders holding up his slacks.

  Suddenly, I realize what day it must be. I remember why I was on my way to the little window that over looks the back yard. Memories I've either forgotten or suppressed surface in fleeting glimpses: shouting, shoving, a scream.

  “I don't want to go,” I say.

  “You know you have to,” Benson replies. He holds out his hand for mine.

  I remember that I used to stand upright like he was. Now it is hard for me to get out of the hunchback crouch I've become accustomed to. It's easier to move through the hidden passageways this way.