Cemetery Psalms (5 Ghost/Horror Short Stories) Read online

  He chewed over his thoughts until they were a pulpy, confusing mess. By the time he glanced up and paid attention to his surroundings, he realized dusk had settled over the city and that he'd gone at least eight blocks out of his way. The tenant buildings needed overhauls and the riff-raff that loitered in the shadows and street corners were of a more sinister kind than he was used to.

  Standing in front of the mouth of an alley, debating, he heard something that turned his attention down the nebulous corridor. The height of the buildings meant the shadows were thicker here than on the streets, and he had to squint to make out the shape of four men kicking and punching and beating someone on the ground.

  If it had been a one on one, old fashioned fist fight, Thaddeus would have gone on his not-so-merry way. But this was a different animal and he broke into a sprint, sinking into the gloom, heading straight for the conflict. Four to one wasn't a fair shake any way you looked at it and he wasn't the man to leave a helpless victim behind.

  “Hey! Get off!” he shouted, hoping to startle the attackers.

  The fierce, protective electricity pumping through him slammed into a wall of self righteous, vindictive fury ten feet from the altercation. Thaddeus didn't have time to be shocked; the urge to maim and kick and drive his fists into flesh overwhelmed him.

  Two of the gang members glanced up and two kept kicking.

  “Dude, this ain't your problem. Don't make it mine.” Steel flashed in someone's hand.

  Thaddeus arrived with his lip curled, teeth clenched, one foot cocked back to deliver a kick to the victim's middle. Disregarding the threat to himself, maybe not even recognizing it, he only wanted to inflict as much damage as he could. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a flicker of horror surfaced.

  Stunned at Thaddeus' action, the gang members renewed their attack, seeming to feed off the unusual situation like they were all locked into a state of hive mind.

  A burst of red flew over the toe of Thaddeus's shoe when he smashed the victim's nose like an overripe watermelon. Goosebumps raining down his skin under the running suit, he heard himself snarling while he delivered one rib-cracking blow after another. The more vicious the other men became, the more vicious he felt, riding high on shared savagery and blood lust.

  As powerful as the emotions were, a distant sense of disgust and distress lurked down where his humanity lived. It didn't stop him from balling up his blocky fists and battering them into the victim's back and shoulder. He heard one of the men cackle with frenzied glee and the same sensation rocked through him. The primal urge to triumph and defeat and take down his enemy meshed with a shiver of absolute madness.

  A nasty kick to the head sent the body on the ground into a boneless heap, and just that suddenly, the intense anger switched to fear. Fear that they'd killed him. Thaddeus lurched backward at the exact same time the other men did, and stumbled when one pushed him to get out of the way.

  They were running, the four gang members, away from the scene of the crime. Thaddeus, amidst the rampant desire to flee with them, glanced at the body and saw a vague rise and fall of its chest.

  Not dead, just unconscious.

  And then he was running, pounding over shattered bits of glass and debris, arms pumping at his sides. It was almost full dark when he caromed out of the alley in the wake of the other four, eyes wild, the urgent sense of fury leaving him so abruptly that he gushed out a breath.

  Oh Jesus.

  He stopped and braced his hands on his thighs, gulping huge draughts of air, stricken by what he'd just done.

  Thaddeus Grey had run into the alley a potential hero and ran back out a criminal.

  He was no better than the thugs doing the beating in the first place. The earlier distress and disgust roared to the fore, pitching his stomach into a nauseous fit. Staggering a few steps, he straightened and jammed his hands into his hair, darting quick looks over the street, beset by regret and fear.

  Acting impulsively, trying to outrun his demons, he darted across the road without looking. Horns blared and a taxi narrowly missed him. People stared after him when he broke into a sprint and barreled down the sidewalk.

  He didn't know where to go, what to do. The zig-zag pattern he took through the late evening crowds made him feel like a running back on the way to the end zone. Dodging left, dodging right.

  Images of the assault he'd taken part in flashed before his eyes, a constant barrage, keeping him moving. He wanted to be as far away from that alley as possible. In no shape to be running at full steam for miles, he developed a stitch in his side that hindered his pace. He had the oddest desire to stop, walk, blend in with the citizens of the city.

  But he couldn't. Even the thought that he might be swept away in another tide of someone else's emotion forced his frantic rush toward home.

  In lightning bursts of understanding, that's what he realized had happened. Somehow, he'd tapped in to these strangers emotions.

  Chameleon tea. No, it couldn't be.

  Impossible.

  That kind of thing didn't exist. And even if it did, even if he could make himself believe, the level of blending in seemed too sophisticated. Too deep. This was more than about changing the color of his skin.

  Again, he questioned whether he was losing his mind.

  The static buzz of a neon sign ahead snagged his attention: Weatherly's. He remembered the cafe from before his time with Desiree, but more importantly, he remembered the easy access to the rooftop. Up there, he would have time to stop and think, stop and rest. Recoup his flagging energy. He couldn't run another five blocks home.

  Snatching at the door, he avoided contact with anyone going in or coming out, and threaded his way through the quaint cafe toward the wooden staircase at the back. Each successive level offered something different to the customers: a billiard room on floor two, a fifties theme on floor three, and a piano with a small dance floor on number four. Five served as a sports center, with leather booths and glowing televisions attached to the walls.

  Weatherly's had something for everyone.

  Bursting out onto the rooftop, he kicked the door closed behind him and gasped for air. The stitch in his side had turned into an all out ache. This far away from the sea of humanity, he felt the tingle leave his skin. Despite the horror his evening had turned into, his emotions were under control.

  If he could just make it home and sleep it off, Thaddeus was sure that tomorrow would be a better day.

  “It's colder than it usually is for this time of the year,” a man said.

  Thaddeus whipped a look sidelong. In his distraction, he hadn't noticed the silhouette of the man against the glittery backdrop of the city. Business casual, hands in the pockets of his slacks, the stranger stared out at the skyscrapers and the stars. Thaddeus thought he was about mid-thirties, moderately successful by the cut of his clothing, and probably born in the city with the nostalgic way he spoke about the weather.

  They locked eyes suddenly, and despair slammed into Thaddeus with such force that it made his knees weak. Even in his lowest moments about the loss of his marriage or the death of his father, Thaddeus had never felt such a black wave of sorrow. Despite the cool air, sweat broke out over his brow.

  He licked his lips. Fear niggled at the back of his mind. Warning him. Sending clanging bells of alarm that he couldn't combat.

  “Yeah, it is. I just came up for some air. I should get back.” Thaddeus willed his feet to turn him around and take him back inside.

  “You should,” the man said. He glanced out at the skyline again, rocking back and forth on his shoes.

  Something about the stranger's suggestion plucked every danger chord Thaddeus possessed. He knew he needed to get off this roof. Right now. The sensation was too distant, overridden by the even stronger urge to take a few steps closer to the browsing gentleman.

  He closed the distance by half, becoming breathlessly melancholy.

  The stranger took a step closer to the broad ledge looking down over the
front of the cafe. He peered at the dwindling pedestrian traffic, fingers jingling coins and keys in his pockets.

  Thaddeus slid his hands into his pockets, too, restlessly twitching random objects out of nervous fear. Another step. And another.

  “Not as busy as it was a half hour ago,” the gentleman noted.

  Thaddeus felt like someone had anchored an anvil to his shoulders, threatening to bring him to his knees. The melancholy swerved into despondency, so bleak that his chin sank against his chest. He couldn't seem to argue with the stranger, fight for his own life. Every time he opened his mouth to try and convince the man that there was another way out, overwhelming despair choked the words off.

  Both men took a step up onto the low ledge at the same time.

  Inside Thaddeus' head, a voice screamed and clamored. No, no, no.

  But he glanced down at the concrete below anyway, sweating profusely. He started shaking, desperate to flip his mood around.

  Things weren't that bad....

  Yes, they were.

  Battered with hopelessness, he took his hands out of his pockets at the same time the other man did. Like they were marionettes with someone else pulling their strings. Thaddeus put his arms out to his sides and in periphery, saw the stranger tip his head back.

  He did the same.

  If the agony could just be over. Such pain. There was no surcease, no way out. This would bring an end to all his suffering.

  Gritting his teeth, his blood spattered shoe scraped toward the edge. Thaddeus whined low in his throat, eyes widening at the sky.

  Pleading for help. Begging an unseen God for mercy.

  No. It couldn't end like this.

  Instinct waged a war with the compelling need to fall forward into dead space.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the stranger tilt over the edge with odd grace. No flailing, no screaming, no fighting.

  Giving in.

  Thaddeus growled and his weight went off balance, forward--

  No, no!

  --until he was in freefall, wind rushing at his face, spine icing over with dread.

  The new day, new ritual, new life ended with a bone crunching crack against the concrete below.

  * * *

  Born and raised in Corona California, Danielle Bourdon has been dreaming up stories since she was 11. Her first two novels, Dréoteth and Bound by Blood, were published in 2010. She has already written a third novel, Sin and Sacrifice, which is due for release sometime in the summer of 2011.

  Her Zombie Kids Short Story Collection was released on January 12th. Find #1 in the series free at Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36700

  Visit her website for updates and contests: www.daniellebourdon.com

  Contact her via email at: [email protected]

  Follow on Twitter @Wildbloom

  Danielle lives in Texas with her husband, two sons and black cat Sheba.