by Ron Ripley
Brian was about to tell himself to shut up when a horrified shriek interrupted his thoughts and the tranquility of his first day. His heart gave a mutinous beat, but quickly settled back into an appropriate rhythm. He stood up, made sure his cellphone was in his pocket and made his way out of the cemetery. Off to the far left, where the newer graves were, he saw a man stumble and fall.
Christ, Brian thought. He broke into a brisk walk since he couldn’t safely muster much more, and he kept his eye on the man who had fallen. He took his cellphone out, ready to call for an ambulance if it was a medical emergency.
Brian kept his thoughts focused on the man, though, who scrambled backward.
“Hey!” Brian called out as he got nearer. “Are you alright?”
The man didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Brian saw what was wrong.
The fingers were long and spread wide, the nails a dark, brutal red. The stone itself pushed out from its center, a woman’s pressed face there. The surface of the marker stretched out as if it was nothing more than cellophane.
Black eyes flickered over to Brian and sent a cold, hard shiver up his spine and down into his groin. She snarled at him, and the man on the ground managed to get to his feet.
Brian kept his eyes on the creature in the headstone, grabbed hold of the man’s arm, and pulled him away.
“Come on,” Brian said in a harsh whisper. “Let’s go!”
The man didn’t resist. Together, they backed away from the headstone.
The hands reached down to the earth, hooked into the sod and dug in. Horrified, Brian saw the muscles leap into definition on the thin arms.
Oh, Sweet Jesus, he thought. She’s trying to pull herself out.
The woman’s face continued to push through and for a heartbeat, it seemed as if she would succeed. Then, with a howl that echoed off of the trees and shook Brian to his bones, the woman snapped back into the stone, vanishing from sight.
Brian fought the urge to vomit, and instead, he reluctantly turned his back on the headstone and brought the man back to the office.
Chapter 4: In the Office, 7:45 AM, May 2nd, 2016
John let the man guide him into a chair, and he sat there as the man took a side chair from the far wall and sat down across from him.
“How are you feeling?” the man asked.
John looked at him for a moment, his thoughts still jumbled from what he had just seen.
The man before him was fortyish, bald, and lean. He looked like he was a hard one, and John could appreciate that. He had known more than a few tough men in his time and had even been counted among them when he was younger. Wilder.
Before Emily.
John shook his head. “Not feeling well at all.”
“Can’t imagine you would be. Name’s Brian. Brian Roy.”
John shook it. “John Lee.”
“Pleasure, although this is kind of a strange situation,” Brian said.
John chuckled in spite of the dread which lingered in him. “A powerful understatement.”
“So,” Brian said, “do you have any idea what that was?”
“No. I know it looked like Emily, my wife.” John looked at Brian and then he said, “But, you saw it, too?”
Brian nodded. “I did. I surely did.”
John relaxed slightly, but the fear he felt increased. He swallowed nervously and asked, “Why? Why was she coming out? I mean, she couldn’t have been buried alive, could she?”
“No,” Brian said. “I’ll find out, though. Today’s my first day on the job, and. it looks like figuring out what the hell is going on is the first task.”
“This is a hell of a way to start a new job,” John said sympathetically.
“Yeah,” Brian said. He stood up, looked out the window and frowned. “Tell me I’m not crazy, but there was no fog this morning, right?”
“You’re not crazy,” John said. “The air did get colder, and pretty quick, too. Still doesn’t explain why or how the fog could roll in that fast. Or be so thick.”
Brian nodded, played with an iron ring on his right hand and locked the door to the office. He looked out the window again, shook his head and then he returned to his chair. The old frame creaked under Brian’s weight, and he looked at John.
“Was this the first time you experienced something like this?” Brian asked.
“You mean my dead wife reaching out of her headstone to grab at me?” John asked.
Brian nodded.
“Yes,” John said. “I can’t remember even hearing of anything like this.”
“Well,” Brian said, sighing, “I’ve seen some strange things, but nothing, and I mean nothing, like that.”
“You’ve got me there, friend,” John said. “This is an all-around first for me in every sense of the word. I just stopped by to speak with her. Rather, speak to her.”
“Understood,” Brian said.
The phone on the desk rang.
A sharp, hard sound which filled the small office and stabbed at John’s ears. He blinked and turned his head away.
Brian stood up, crossed the small room and answered the phone.
“Woods Cemetery, Brian Roy speaking,” he said.
Someone responded, and Brian’s face went deathly pale.
Chapter 5: The Call, 7:50 AM, May 2nd, 2016
Brian stood still and hoped he wouldn’t faint. His blood pressure had dropped, and his lungs seemed empty of oxygen. And even as he was able to realize and comprehend all of it, the voice continued to speak. The terrible, hideous voice of nightmares.
“Hello, Mr. Roy,” the voice was cold and hard, it grated on the nerves and reminded Brian of every bad dream and horrific experience he had ever suffered. It was worse than nails on a chalkboard, worse than the screams of a dying man.
Brian’s hands shook.
“I can almost smell your fear through the phone lines,” the voice whispered. Brian couldn’t tell if the speaker was male or female. “You’re terrified. And you should be. You’re not supposed to be here.
“Woods Cemetery doesn’t need a caretaker, or anyone else,” the voice continued.
“We’ll leave then,” Brian managed to whisper hoarsely.
“Oh no,” the voice said, chuckling. “It’s far too late for leaving. You should never have come. Be careful out there, Mr. Roy, the fog is getting thicker.” And the call ended.
Brian’s mouth was dry as he hung up the phone. He looked out the window and saw the speaker had told him the truth.
Anything beyond the iron fence was hidden by the fog. His world had been shrunk to the size of the cemetery. The fog formed a barrier which followed the lines and angles of the cemetery’s border with a sinister intelligence.
“John,” Brian said, and he looked over at the older man.
For the first time, Brian noticed the huge scar on the right side of John’s face. A mass of twisted and cratered flesh which consumed the entire cheek and part of the forehead. The man’s short silver hair was swept back, and the right eye was a dark, red globe.
John smiled sardonically and nodded his head. “Just saw it?”
“I did,” Brian confessed. “I’ve seen a hell of a lot worse, though. Did time as a forward observer. Saw a little combat.”
John nodded and stood up. “Bad call?” he asked.
Brian nodded. “Really bad. Let’s get out of here.”
“Lead the way,” John said, gesturing to the door. “Lead the way.”
With a sigh, Brian stepped over to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out into the cold air. His breath rushed out in a great white cloud.
“Damn, it got cold,” John muttered.
“It’ll get colder,” Brian said, shutting the door. He turned to walk to the gate and stopped.
In horror, he watched as the gates slammed closed.
“What the …” John asked, confused. “How in the hell did they close themselves?”
Before Brian could offer up any sort of an answer
, the rattle of the chain interrupted him. The heavy steel links which he had so carefully looped around the cross piece of the left gate, only an hour earlier, moved of its own accord.
He watched, stunned as it moved with all of the grace and ease of a serpent, slid around and through the bars before it finally found its own end. For a brief moment, the lock dangled, open and free, and then it snapped through the end link and closed upon itself. The ‘click’ of the tumblers was nearly smothered by the fog.
“Oh Christ, we’ll have to climb the fence,” John said.
Brian put his hand on the man’s arm, and when John looked at him, he shook his head.
“Why?” John asked.
“I don’t think it would be the best thing,” Brian answered, looking around. Shadows flickered in the headstones, shapes and figures. Darkness and flashes of white.
“Maybe not,” John said, “But I can’t stay here. Old as I am, I’ll try my luck,” John said, a note of stubbornness in his voice.
Brian dropped his hand and took a step back toward the safety of the office.
John looked around and then he walked forward. He passed close to an old and weathered headstone. The marker was slate, the inscription on it faded from centuries.
A hand, gray and foul to the eyes, shot out. The fingers were crooked, powerful and quick like a spider’s as they snatched at John’s leg.
Even as the dead thing latched onto the man, John let out a high pitched scream, one full of pain and terror.
Brian stepped forward, wary of his heart, and winced as John was pulled down. A second hand slipped out, met its mate and locked around the ankle. Again, John screamed, jerked his leg back and tried to free himself.
By the time Brian reached him, the hands had dragged John a few inches closer. Brian bent down, raised his right arm and smashed it into the dead thing’s twisted fingers.
The iron ring met the ghost, and a blast of cold, putrid air knocked Brian backward. He stumbled, caught himself and dropped to a knee as John scrambled away.
Brian’s head pounded with the ferocity of his heartbeat and John helped him to straighten up. Together, they made it back to the office, and slammed the door closed. Brian staggered to the side chair and plopped down on it, while John collapsed on the floor. While Brian fought to get his heart back under control, he watched as John pulled up his pant leg. A large swatch of flesh was bluish white, and John looked up in shock at Brian.
“What the hell is it?”
Brian leaned back while breathing slowly and answered, “It’s frostbite, John.”
Chapter 6: What to Do, 8:00 AM, May 2nd, 2016
Brian didn’t want any more coffee.
He wanted whiskey. A lot of it.
He also didn’t want to be at Woods Cemetery, but it seemed like he wasn’t allowed a say about it.
“Anything out there?” John asked.
Brian turned away from the window. “Just the fog. Can’t even see the sky. Just fence, trees, and headstones.”
“Anything else?” John said hopefully.
Brian looked back out there, saw the strange shapes and images in the headstones, and shook his head. “Not unless you count whatever’s in the markers.”
“I don’t,” John said.
“Well,” Brian said with a sigh. “We’ve got nothing then.”
He took his cellphone out, looked at it and saw he had no service. Angrily, he shoved it back into his pocket before he sat down again.
“How long have you lived in Mason, John?” he asked.
John dropped his pant leg and thought for a moment. “Thirty years, this coming August. My wife, Emily, she was from Mason. She had a secretary’s position at Nashua Plastic, and I was a tool and die maker for the factory. We bought a house next to her parents since both of her folks were sick at the time. What about you?”
“Just about a year,” Brian answered. “Manchester before Mason. I’m from New Hampshire, though. Anyway, it’s neither here nor there. What I’m wondering, John, is have you heard anything about Woods Cemetery?”
“Before this morning,” John said, “I would have asked what was there to hear. But I know what you mean, and no, there was never anything like this. I mean sure, all cemeteries and boneyards have their ghost stories; it’s New England. But, nothing like this.”
Brian nodded his agreement.
“There were stories about the cemetery, nothing I gave any credence to,” John continued. “Stories about the random person who was last seen taking a stroll through the place and never came out. People who came out and said they’d been trapped there for a year. But you never met the person, you understand?”
“Always the friend of a friend?” Brian asked.
John nodded. “Or it was someone’s cousin or neighbor. Never an eye-witness.”
“How many of these stories did you hear?” Brian said.
“About three,” John said, thinking for a moment. “Maybe four. But we’re talking over thirty years.”
“I understand,” Brian said.
John looked at him for a moment, and then he asked, “Did you know that thing, whatever it was, would let go when you punched it?”
“I did,” Brian said.
“How?”
Brian held up his right hand and wiggled the finger with the iron ring.
John frowned.
“This is iron,” Brian said. “Stops the dead. Well, ghosts at least. I hope like hell it works on whatever these creatures are, too.”
“What’s special about iron?” John said.
“Good question,” Brian responded. “There’s a theory, and from what I’ve seen, it makes sense. See, ghosts use electromagnetic energy in order to manifest. Iron, since it’s so pure and raw, is an excellent conductor. Basically, if a ghost comes into contact with iron, the energy is syphoned right out of them. Sort of like a lightning rod.
“Some other people in the field,” Brian continued, “they figure it’s why so many old cemeteries are fenced in with wrought iron.”
“Have you used it, before?” John asked. “To stop ghosts?”
“Yes,” Brian said after a moment. “More than once.”
“What is it exactly you do for work?” John said.
“Did is a better question,” Brian said. “I used to help people with ghost problems. But only for a little while. My heart literally cannot take the stress.”
“Bum ticker?” John asked.
“Yup,” Brian answered. He paused and scratched his head, “I just thought of something.”
“What’s that?”
“The iron fence around the cemetery,” Brian said. “I wonder if it was done on purpose, to keep the dead in.”
“If your theory is correct,” John said, “then it would make sense.”
“Our forefathers were a hell of a lot more practical when it came to this stuff than we were,” Brian said.
Silence fell over them, and Brian wondered how they could get out of the cemetery. The question was, would any of the dead be able to leave their graves? They had already seen two ghosts or spirits or whatever they were. The damned things even reached out of their headstones.
If people have gotten out before, Brian wondered, how did they do it?
“John,” Brian said.
John looked at him.
“Feel like keeping busy?” Brian asked.
“How so?” John asked.
“Well,” Brian said, “I’m thinking if maybe people disappearing in the cemetery isn’t a new thing, maybe there’s a record of some kind.”
John stood up. “It’s not a big place.”
“So there shouldn’t be too many spots to hide it,” Brian said.
“I like the sound of that,” John said. “Where do you want to start?”
“I’ll take the files on the left if you want the ones on the right,” Brian replied.
“Fair enough,” John agreed.
The two men went to their respective walls, and they started to look.
Brian focused on the top drawer of the far left cabinet, which was labeled “Section 1 – A thru D.” Within the metal, he found row upon row of dark green hanging folders, each one with the legend “S.1” and then the person’s name. Thus, the first file read, “S.1 Aaronson, Aaron A.” In the file, was a small note card which listed the row number, along with the plot number, and who was buried on either side of Mr. Aaronson. It also included who had purchased the plot and the headstone.
Yet there was nothing else other than that. No information on what to do if the cemetery decided it was time to lock the new caretaker in.
Brian sighed, shook his head, and moved on to the next file.
And the next, and the next.
“Hey,” John said, breaking the silence after nearly forty-five minutes.
“What’s up?” Brian asked, turning around.
John held up a thin sheaf of papers kept together with a large paperclip. With a grin, he read, “What to do when trapped in Woods Cemetery.”
“Where did you find that?” Brian asked, closing the drawer he had been looking in.
“Section seven. Defoe, Daniel,” John said.
“Someone sure had a sense of humor,” Brian said.
“Yup,” John agreed. He held the papers out to Brian. “You seem to know a lot more than I do about this stuff.”
Brian took them with a nod. He went and sat down in the side chair while John limped back to the desk. Quietly, he flipped back the title page and read the first page aloud,
“If the fog has risen from the marshes, and the gates have closed and locked themselves, you must beware of the stones. The dead buried here are less than peaceful. They do not slumber in the embrace of our Heavenly Father. They remain bound to their flesh and are maddened by it.
“Do not think of the office as a sanctuary. It will not keep out the dead for long. While the sill and threshold have been salted, and the nails which bind the building together are of iron, the dead always find their way in.
“It is best for you to make your way to the Paupers’ Crypt. This, however, is risky, for within the Crypt, the dead are awake. There are several places to hide amongst the Paupers, yet they will ferret you out should you remain there long. Find a place of safety in the Crypt. You may have to move from one place to another, try not to lose hope.
