The local cemetery was cold and empty, not a car or creature in sight as the afternoon drifted into the evening. All was silent, save for the occasional call of a Kookaburra somewhere in the distance. The quiet was broken, gently at first, by the rhythmic crunching of footsteps. The sound grew louder and louder as the running man drew closer. It was soon accompanied by breathing, heavy, harsh and ragged. A shrill wheeze accompanied each exhale into the frosty dusk air.
Derek stopped running, stumbling slightly as the dirt slid beneath him with inertia. He doubled over, bracing his hands against his knees as he panted. It's late. He thought to himself as he watched the sun sink below the tree line of the bush. I should get home before it gets dark. I'll just have a quick rest, then I'll head back. He slowly turned from side to side, looking from the bush on the left side of the path to the old warehouses across the road on the right side, searching for somewhere to sit. After a few fruitless moments, he spied the steel arch of the cemetery, the twin gates below it wide open. There's gotta be a bench in there. As he walked towards the entrance, he tried to think back to the last time he had visited. Huh, when was the last time I was here? Not since I was a kid. 10 years ago? 15?
As he crossed the threshold, Derek leaned against the gate, his hand shooting to his side as he felt the sharp beginning of an abdominal stitch. Through wincing eyes he scanned the graves, looking at the spaces between them for somewhere to sit. The cemetery was unkempt, partially buried in a sea of vegetation. Long wild grass and weeds had grown to cover many of the lower tombstones. Many of the headstones were broken, either cracked, fallen or outright smashed. As Derek started to walk through the neglected grounds, he vaguely recalled that an elderly man had taken care of it when he was a kid. A born-and-raised local-type, whose family had been in the town since it was founded in the gold rush. Half of the people buried here were probably relatives of his, so it was more a family commitment than community service. Derek supposed that by now the old timer was either too feeble to keep up with the maintenance or was lying in one of the very plots that he used to mow. Now nobody even cared enough to close the gates at night, the rusted chains that used to hold them shut now binding them perpetually open.
As he peered between the headstones, Derek spied the backrest of a single bench in the far corner of the ground, wooden and sitting atop a concrete slab. As he made his way towards it, he started to see it more clearly. The weathered forest green paint was much more chipped than it first looked. A mottled patchwork of moss and algae had grown in the damp wood, filling the gaps from afar. The seat was destroyed, either due to time, vandals or some combination of the two. The two planks that one would normally sit on had been split roughly down the middle, both sides now slanting down to form a wide 'V' shape.
Derek shook his head, the pain in his side and the dull ache in his legs trumping his patience as he swore. As he turned to leave, a nearby grave caught his eye. It was an above-ground tomb, a sturdy granite box with no fence, about two feet tall. It was wider than most of the other graves, taking up the space of at least three plots. Large, bold lettering on the attached headstone read 'Maxwell'. He swallowed as he looked around, stepping towards it. It may not be the best manners but it's not like anyone would care, right? Slowly, he turned around, leaning back as he lowered himself onto the top slab. He held his breath anxiously as he reclined onto his hands. He was half-expecting the barking voice of the old groundskeeper to scold him from the shadows. Silence. He shrugged, exhaling as he felt the pressure release from his aching legs. Just a few minutes, then I'll head home. He thought, his eyes slowly closing as he tilted his head back. The wind blew, and as the branches in the trees shook, a scratching sound was just barely audible.
"Nice night, isn't it?" As the hoarse voice rang through the air Derek's eyes flashed open and he sprang to his feet, looking for its source. It didn't take him long to locate the hunchbacked figure of a man standing with his back to him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to— I just needed a seat and the one here is broken and—" as Derek stammered, the figure waved his hand dismissively, leaning his crooked form on a long stick that was taller than him. "Don't worry about it. I promise that the occupants aren't in a position to care. By all means, sit.”
Derek awkwardly shuffled back onto the tomb, looking the figure — still not facing him— up and down. He was wearing a grubby green jacket, mud smears and caked on filth making it equally as brown. Covering his head was some kind of hood, the black tattered material poking out from above and under his jacket. Various trinkets were dangling from the figure's clothing, the largest of which was a beat-up wooden semicircle strapped to his back, the straight side of which was jagged and splintered, as if it were once half of something greater. I haven’t seen this guy around. Is he a drifter? I don't think there are even any homeless people in town. Derek frowned, digging his hands into his jacket pockets as he felt a chill in the air. As they dug deeper, the tips of his fingers met with the bent cardboard slips within, grasping them and turning them about.
"What brings you out here this late?" Came the raspy voice again, in a surprisingly friendly tone. "Oh, I, err..." Derek trailed off as he eyed the stranger, unsure of how much it would be safe to share. "I was just on my way home and needed a break. How about you?' "I suppose I'm somewhat of a history enthusiast. You can learn a lot about the past from small cemeteries.”. Derek nodded, eased somewhat by the answer. To his surprise, the man hobbled around to sit next to him, facing away the whole time. As Derek looked at the side-profile of the man's hood, he saw something protruding out from where his face would be, like a large black triangle coming to a point. Maybe he's disfigured? If he's self-conscious, that could explain why I haven't seen him around before.
"You said you were going back home. Did you have a night on the town?" The stranger asked. "Something like that." Derek replied, trying to be polite. "Have a few drinks at the pub?" "Nah, nothing like that. I don't really drink. Just a game of poker at a mate's." "Ah, I haven't played cards in a long time. Did you win big?" The man's voice had taken on a playful tone, like a grandfather asking a child about their day at school. "No, no..." Derek shook his head, absent mindedly drawing the three cards that he'd been fingering from his pocket. "I was winning, but I got unlucky." "Bad hand?" Derek fanned the three crumpled cards in his lap: The king of Clubs, the king of Hearts and the king of Diamonds. Three of a kind. "Good hand, someone just had a better one."
Derek flipped one of the cards between his fingers, frowning as he noticed something. It was the King of Hearts, but something was unusual about it. The dagger was still in its normal spot, seemingly piercing the King's head. However, the king wasn't holding the dagger. His hands were both tucked into his coat, but the dagger remained, seemingly plunged through his skull, and left there. A small trickle of red splashed the blade of the dagger. Derek shook his head, looking at the other two cards. The king of Clubs' sword was replaced by a spear, and in his other hand was a scale. The king of diamonds' normally empty hand was holding a dagger, aggressively pointed off to the side of the card, held in reverse as if he were just about to bring it down. No, wait. The blade is already bloody. He's waiting to bring it down again. Derek shivered slightly, tossing the cards next to him on the tomb. 'Where did Paul find these things?'.
His eyes drifted to the stranger, and he realised that he'd been quiet for a few minutes. "So…" He started, clearing his throat, "You said that you like history. Is there really anything interesting at a small-town cemetery like this?
"Of course," the reply came, bemused. "Each of these graves is a story of a life. Records may focus on those with the most power and those that survive the longest, but everyone that's ever lived is a part of history.” "How well do you know the stories of those buried here?" Derek raised an eyebrow. "As well as I can, I suppose." "What about the people here?" He asked, patting the granite slab he was sitting on. "Ah, the Maxwell family." The man shook his head with a small sigh. "Unfortunately, one of the grimmer stories here." "What happened?" Derek asked. The figure nodded his head backwards, indicating towards the headstone. "What does it say?" Derek slowly turned, squinting at the engraved lettering. It was getting dark, but he was barely able to make out what it said:
MAXWELL FAMILY
Beloved by their family
Beloved by the community
Gone too soon
John Maxwell... 1945-1975
Dana Maxwell... 1948-1975
Lisa Maxwell... 1964-1975
Tyler Maxwell... 1974-1975
Derek recoiled slightly, shocked. "Shit, they all died in the same year!"
Same day. Well, three of them did" Derek winced, but his curiosity had been piqued. "So… What happened to them?" The figure shook his head, with a remorseful sigh "Burglary gone wrong, or so they say. Danny Wellman, a local kid around nineteen, had plans bigger than this town. Thought he'd move to the city and make it big with his music. Problem is, he needed money to skip town.” Derek nodded slowly as he listened. The figure continued “Now, the Maxwells weren't rich, but they did well enough, and they lived in a nice, secluded farmhouse with no neighbours nearby. Naturally, when he heard that they were going on vacation he thought he’d them a visit. He stole his dad's shotgun, just in case. He never meant to fire it.” Derek glanced back at the dates on the headstone, understanding quickly where the story was going. “Unfortunately, little Tyler was sick in the car, so the Maxwells had turned around before making it to the next town over. John comes in and Danny gets startled. Couldn't even drop his bags before the gunshot. Dana goes for the phone, and of course, Danny couldn't have that. Soon, he's left with a dilemma: here he is, with a teenager, a baby and two corpses. He knows that he can't tie Lisa up, because she needs to be able to care for the baby. He also knows that he needs time to get away. So, he pushes her down into the cellar and yells out not to come up until daybreak. Now, he didn't know that she'd fallen on her neck when he pushed her down the stairs and nobody in town knew that the Maxwells had come home early. Nobody checked on them. Nobody found the baby for three weeks."
Derek suddenly felt a wave of sickening guilt, knowing that he was sitting on the grave of the victims of such a tragedy. "Fuck, how could someone do that?" "Nasty, isn't it? He swore up and down that it wasn't his fault about the girl and the baby. All the way to the noose." "Of course it was his fault." Derek screwed his face up in disgust. "Even if he didn't mean to kill them, he still did!” "Of course. The spirits of the slain rarely care whether their killing blow was supposed to be so." The figure replied solemnly. Derek raised an eyebrow "I don’t know much about ghosts, but I wouldn't blame them for being pissed." There was a period of silence between them, with only the sound of the wind whipping through the tombstones before the man continued.
"Spirits of those killed by another person rarely rest easily, especially those cut down without the chance to fight back.” Derek felt uneasy. There wasn't a drop of uncertainty in the man's voice, as if these weren't merely his belief, but confirmed fact.
Derek shifted uncomfortably, deciding that it was time to go.
"Well, it was nice meeting you."
He tried to sound as genuine as he could, putting a hand on the granite lid to help push himself off. "Thanks for the lesson in local history, I'll be su—"
His sentence fell short as he felt something sharp scrape across the back of his hand. Looking down, he saw that it was something hanging from the stranger, glinting and metallic in the moonlight. A spot of blood beaded and trickled off his hand as he realised what he was looking at. 'Is that a sword!?'. It was, or at least part of one. The hilt was entirely intact, with an old piece of rope tying it to the stranger's belt. The blade, on the other hand, was barely present, with only a few inches of steel coming from the cross guard and ending in jagged splinters.
Derek's mouth went dry, as he suddenly realised that he let the stranger get far too close to him. He started to get to his feet but before he could, a gloved hand snatched his wrist. He tried to wrench it free, but the grip was surprisingly strong for the man's feeble frame.
As he continued to pull, the stranger turned his head to face him for the first time. Derek's blood ran cold as he saw the face under the hood, or rather, the lack thereof. All that he could see where the man's face should be was the giant skull of a crow, complete with shining black beak. Peering out from the skull were two deep blue eyes, disturbingly human and seemingly suspended in the blackness of the empty eye sockets that were far too big for them.
"Don't leave yet Derek. I want to hear more about your poker game" The beak of the crow’s skull moved as a jaw, the gruff man’s voice emanating from within with a sharpened tone. How does this fucking THING know my name!? Derek's mind raced as he got to his feet, still trying to yank his hand from the seated figure's clutch. "Let me go!" "I will. After you tell me about your game" The figure’s hand tightened around Derek’s arm. "Fuck you" "You were winning, weren't you?" The voice of the thing was calm, but insistent. "Yes! Why do you care?" "You had a good hand. Then what?" "Then I went all in! I had three fucking kings. Let. Me. Go." Derek spat "Your friend Paul matched your bet, didn't he?" "The fucker had quads! You should have heard the smug bastard gloating as he took my rent money. I don't regret hitting him, he always does this shit." Unphased, the stranger prompted him again. "Then what?" "Then I started walking home, what else?" The reply came quickly, nearly cutting Derek off. "You ran. You threw a tantrum, struck your friend and fled before there could be any consequences. It wasn't the first time, either, was it?”
Derek opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the sound of sirens in the distance, quickly getting closer. His eyes widened. Did this thing report me to the police?
He clawed at the stranger's forearm, but his fingers simply sank into the sleeve, meeting nothing but hard bone. “Don't worry. They're not for you” The stranger said, as if reading his thoughts. “They're for Paul, but it's much too late” Derek stopped struggling as the meaning of the words struck him. Time passed, but Derek was too stunned to speak, frozen in the moment as he attempted to process it. He saw the flashing blue and red lights of the ambulance speed past the graveyard in the direction that he'd come from. In the direction of Paul's house. “How…?” Was all he could muster. “Is it my… is he…?” “He has passed. Moments after you stormed out, he fell out of the chair, seizing. Your friends called for help, but it's a long wait for an ambulance out here. They never even realised that he was choking on his own vomit.”
Derek opened his mouth, but no words would come out. The stranger released his wrist as he sank back down onto the tomb, burying his face in his hands as he stifled a sob.
“Who… what are you? How do you know this?” The stranger stood, bracing himself with his long stick, slowly shuffling around to face him. Slowly, he unzipped his jacket, revealing the skeletal ribcage beneath, tattered pieces of muscle and flesh still clinging to it. A purple mist emanated from it, billowing around the ribcage. The mist slowly poured out into the night air, forming a translucent sphere above them. As it did, the sound of countless screaming voices emanated from it, getting louder and louder as more mist escaped. The voices eventually formed dissonant choir that blotted out all other sound. The wind whipped around him, howling as the scratching noises from the branches grew louder, but the gas seemed unaffected, seemingly controlled by other forces. Gradually, the mist formed the face of Paul, mouth agape as if in an enraged bellow, growing bigger and bigger before him. Suddenly, the figure tapped his stick on the ground and the gaseous form was sucked back into his ribcage and covered with his jacket once again. The cacophony was immediately silenced, but the ringing remained in Dereks ears.
The figure leaned down, picking up one of the playing cards before turning around and starting to walk away. He raised a hand in valediction, not turning back as he spoke his last words. “Remember, the spirits of the unjustly slain are rarely peaceful, and they tend to be sympathetic with one another.” With this, the ringing in Derek’s ears began to gradually fade, his ears gradually turning to the sounds of the wind and the persistent scratching of distant branches.
Time passed and Derek simply sat on the tomb, unsure of what to do next. He was still stunned from the encounter. Should I go home? Was that thing real? Should I call Paul? Questions raced through his mind as the night grew darker and darker, the wind getting louder and more violent. It was early into the next morning when the wind abated, leaving him shivering in near silence. Although the wind died, the scratching sound continued more aggressively, like a dog pawing at a door. He absently looked around, looking for the source of the sound. He couldn't see any movement. As he tilted his head to the side, trying to hear it better, his eyes widened. The sound was coming from beneath him. He sprang to his feet but immediately felt resistance as he tried to start running. He felt a hand clench his ankle, causing him to fall on his face as he tried to escape. Kicking away at the hand, he turned around to look at his attacker. The side of the tomb had a large hole in it, and from the darkness came the skeletal hand that was digging into his skin. He tried to crawl away but was pulled back as the hand was joined by another, and another, and another, dragging him towards the hole as he flailed helplessly.
Story by DREMatt.
Edited by DREWill