The Paupers' Crypt

by Ron Ripley

  John chuckled. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, just like it,” Brian said, sighing.

  “Understood,” John said. “Let me know if you need me to carry the flashlight. Thing looks like it weighs a ton.”

  “Thanks,” Brian said, “I’ll swing it for now.”

  “Fair enough,” John said.

  The passage curved gently to the left, and when it straightened out again, a round door which reminded Brian of Bilbo Baggins, stood before them.

  Pretty sure there’s no happy little hobbit in there, though, Brian thought.

  John hissed and stumbled.

  Brian reached out, caught the man by his arm and asked, “Are you okay?”

  For a moment, John didn’t answer, and when he finally did, his voice was filled with pain. “My leg. Where the ghost had grabbed me earlier. Felt like someone just drove a bunch of needles into it.”

  “Let me take a look,” Brian said, turning on the flashlight. He aimed the beam at John’s leg as the man pulled up the pants.

  “Damn,” Brian whispered.

  When he had seen the injury in the office, the frostbite had covered about a hand’s width of flesh. Now the skin had a blotchy black and gray appearance, and stretched from the brown sock John wore and up to the knee.

  John looked down, saw it, and whistled between his teeth. He dropped the pants leg, winced as the fabric brushed the skin, and gave Brian a grim smile.

  “Doesn’t look too good, now does it,” he said.

  Brian shook his head. “No, John, it looks pretty damned bad.”

  “Probably why it hurts so much,” John said.

  “Probably,” Brian replied. He turned off the light. There was nothing he could do about the leg. The best chance John had was to get out of the cemetery and get to a doctor. Brian didn’t even have a knife he could use to amputate the leg if it came to it, and no matter how tough John was, Brian doubted the man could handle a surgery without some sort of anesthetic.

  And why would he want to? Brian asked himself.

  “Ready for door number two?” John asked, interrupting Brian’s train of thoughts.

  “Of course not,” Brian said. “But we don’t have much of a choice.”

  “No,” John agreed, “we don’t. Want to do the honors?”

  “Sure,” Brian said. He stepped forward, took hold of a brass knob and revealed the next challenge.

  The room looked normal. Almost like someone’s living room or library. Four large bookcases occupied the left wall, each shelf filled with books of various sizes and colors. A long, dark wood desk stood in the center of the right wall. An easy chair with a floor lamp was at the far wall. Several jackets hung on pegs on the right of the door, and a porcelain and brass chandelier hung from the ceiling. Warm, pleasant light fell from the candle shaped bulbs, and the room smelled of fresh coffee.

  Brian didn’t trust any of it.

  When both he and John stepped into the room, the door closed and locked.

  Brian waited for the chandelier to go out, but it remained lit. He looked over at John, who shrugged.

  They had stood for nearly a minute before Brian took a cautious step forward.

  The ceiling stretched a little. The effect was instant, he felt queasy and disorientated.

  John moved to the left, and the air grew heavy, difficult to breathe.

  A man appeared in the chair. He wore a red sweater and a pair of jeans. The work boots on his feet were black, and he had silver framed, horn-rimmed glasses on his face. A silver ring on his index finger reflected the light of the chandelier. The man’s skin was the deathly pale white Brian had seen on a few other ghosts, and his eyes were the same black. His hair was dusty blonde, and it fell just past the shoulders. He flashed Brian and John a wicked grin.

  John took a half a step forward, and a bitter cold swept over them.

  Brian shivered so violently he dropped the notebook and the flashlight. He thrust his hands under his arms and winced as the cold acted like a vise and squeezed his temples.

  The dead man’s grin widened and Brian straightened up.

  “Mitchell?” Brian asked.

  The grin faltered.

  The cold vanished.

  “Mitchell Farmington,” Brian said.

  Suddenly the air was no longer heavy.

  “You’re the poet,” John said.

  The room snapped into normalcy.

  Mitchell looked at them, confused. Then, in a deep, strong voice he asked, “How do you know me?”

  Brian moved cautiously and slowly bent down. He picked up the dropped notebook and held it up for Mitchell to see.

  “My notebook,” Mitchell said softly, his eyes locked on it. After a moment, he looked to Brian and said, “You found my notebook.”

  “Both of them,” Brian said. “But we only brought this one. We hoped to use your information to escape from here. Would you like it back?”

  Mitchell nodded.

  Brian took several slow steps forward and then he handed it to the ghost. An electric shock rippled through the cardboard and paper to race along Brian’s flesh. He let go and went back to stand with John.

  Mitchell looked at the notebook for a moment before he opened it. He adjusted his glasses, read a page, smiled, and read another. With a sigh, he closed the notebook and held onto it. He took his glasses off and let them hang from their chain against his chest.

  “I was promised,” he said, “the right to kill whomever stumbled into my room. I did not hope for it to happen, for who would have been able to pass by Malachi? Would I ever obtain some sort of revenge upon the world for my death?”

  Neither Brian nor John answered.

  “And when some semblance of joy has been delivered to me, they carry my own words with them.” Mitchell shook his head. He smiled sadly at them. “May I help you in some way, gentlemen?”

  “Is there a way out?” John asked.

  Mitchell hesitated, and then he nodded. “It is difficult. Leave by the door you came, and do your best. I can say no more about it.”

  “Did you ever find out who it was?” Brian asked.

  Mitchell frowned.

  “The man, the one who trapped you here,” Brian pressed.

  Mitchell’s eyes widened, and he whispered, “Yes.”

  “Who?” Brian asked. “Who is it?”

  “Names are power,” Mitchell hissed.

  “Please,” Brian implored.

  Mitchell hesitated for only a moment before he whispered, “Josephus Wahlen.”

  Chapter 17: Out through the In Door, 9:50 AM, May 2nd, 2016

  When Brian looked for the circular door they had entered, it was no longer there. Slightly to the left of, where it had been, was a short, rectangular door. With trepidation, Brian led the way out.

  They stepped into a room which spread out before them. It was a darkened ballroom, with half a dozen crystal chandeliers. Corinthian pillars stood at intervals along the walls, and between each pair was a tall window with floor-length draperies. The floor glowed with a high polish. The room was as cold as any of the others through which Brian and John had passed. At the corners the light of John’s hurricane lamp was absorbed, each a darkness too strong for any illumination to penetrate.

  At the far end of the ballroom, a trio of doors stood. They were tall, wide, and white paneled. The knobs looked to be cut crystal, and they matched the chandeliers. The room spoke of elegance and beauty, and stank of death and fear.

  Brian was not surprised when the circular door closed and locked behind them of its own accord.

  “I have to say,” John said, “I am not enjoying this little exploration of ours.”

  “Makes two of us, my friend,” Brian said. He shifted the flashlight from hand to the other. “I’ve dealt with some strange stuff before, but this beats all of them.”

  “Glad to know it’s not just me who thinks this whole situation is odd,” John said.

  “How’s your leg?” Brian asked.

>   “Bad,” John grunted. He looked at Brian. “I’ve got no illusions here, Brian. Whatever hurt me wasn’t natural, and the injury isn’t either. I suspect it’ll kill me before long. My only goal is to not die here. I’d like to make it out, have Emily exhumed and put in a plot where her spirit won’t be trapped.”

  “Understood,” Brian said.

  “If I do die here, though,” John said somberly, “will you try and have her moved? I doubt you’ll be able to bring me, too, but at least get her out?”

  Brian nodded. He had seen John’s leg and knew it was a death sentence in the crypt.

  “Thank you,” John said. He looked back to the doors at the end of the ballroom. “Looks like we have another choice in front of us.”

  “Reminds me of some books I used to read as a kid,” Brian said, chuckling. “Those 'Choose Your Own Adventure' ones.”

  John laughed. “Hey, I had a nephew who loved those books. He tried to explain them to me once, didn’t quite see the enjoyment in them.”

  “I think you had to be a kid,” Brian said, and then he sighed. “Ready?”

  “Not at all,” John replied. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “We don’t have a choice, though, other than the door we go through. Any particular choice?”

  Brian looked at the identical doors.

  His gut twisted into a tighter knot.

  Brian shook his head. “They’re all bad.”

  “Agreed,” John said. “Might as well try this door.”

  “Lead on, my friend, lead on,” Brian said, gesturing towards the far end.

  John did so, and Brian followed.

  As they walked the floor stretched out, the room grew longer.

  It felt as though they were on an escalator and going nowhere.

  John glanced from right to left and shook his head. “I’m pretty sure rooms aren’t supposed to do this.”

  “Agreed,” Brian said, “but the dead aren’t supposed to pull themselves out of their headstones and attack us either.”

  John chuckled. “Very true.”

  When they stopped in front of the far wall, Brian looked back. The ballroom was now the length of a football field, the round entrance to Mitchell’s chamber now difficult to see.

  He fought back a shudder and returned his attention to the right door.

  John looked at him with fear and caution in his eyes.

  Brian swallowed nervously, cleared his throat and nodded.

  John took hold of the crystal knob, turned it and revealed the next horror.

  Chapter 18: Jenny Visits Woods Cemetery, 10:15 AM, May 2nd, 2016

  Jenny broke a considerable number of motor vehicle rules on her way back to Mont Vernon.

  Part of her was impressed with her luck. In spite of her excessive speed, or how she ignored traffic lights and road signs, no one had pulled her over.

  When she reached the cemetery, she slammed on the brakes. With her hands tight upon the steering wheel, she stared in shock at what was in front of her.

  A wall of fog.

  It was massive.

  The fog stretched up and into a low, dark cloud which seemed to threaten something far worse than a shower or burst of rain. The fence was hidden from her view, as was any part of the cemetery.

  Brian was in the cemetery, with someone named Joe. Joe, who seemed intent upon doing something sinister to Brian.

  Jenny took her foot off the brake, pulled over onto the side of the road and shut the engine down. She tucked the keys under the floor mat and got out of the car. She left the doors unlocked and walked up to the where the entrance of the cemetery should be.

  With a deep breath, Jenny forced herself to calm down, to remember what the entrance had looked like. The image came quickly. The granite pillars, the wrought iron fence. The office off to the right.

  She opened her eyes and walked forward.

  Her feet struck the pavement. Each step on the hard surface reassured her of the reality of it.

  And she walked into the fog.

  It wrapped around her, thick and cold. Bitterly cold. It set her teeth to rattling and her bones to aching. Jenny balled her hands into fists and continued on. The fog muffled the world, and her heartbeat became painfully loud in her ears.

  A soft voice came out of the fog. “Who are you?”

  The speaker was young, either a boy or a girl, Jenny couldn’t be sure which.

  “My name’s Jenny,” she replied. “What’s yours?”

  The speaker hesitated a moment. “My name is Ruth.”

  “Why aren’t you in school, Ruth?” Jenny asked. She looked around and tried to see the girl. “Are you home schooled?”

  “No,” Ruth said, the voice coming closer. “I’m dead.”

  Oh Jesus, really? Jenny thought.

  “Are you buried here?” Jenny asked.

  “In the fog?” Ruth said.

  Jenny made out a small form off to her left, and she kept her eyes upon it.

  “No,” Jenny said. “No, not the fog. Here, in the cemetery.”

  “No,” Ruth said after a moment. “I am not buried in the cemetery. And you’re not in the cemetery.”

  “What?” Jenny asked, looking down at her feet. Between her shoes, she could see asphalt. “Where am I then?”

  “You’re in the fog,” Ruth replied. “And the fog doesn’t let people into the cemetery.”

  “How do I get into the cemetery?” Jenny asked.

  “You have to wait until He lets you in,” Ruth said.

  “Who?”

  “Josephus,” Ruth whispered. “Only He can make the fog part. But He never does.”

  “Are you trapped in the fog, Ruth?” Jenny asked, wondering if perhaps the girl knew a way around Josephus.

  “No,” Ruth said. “I live here.”

  “Are there others?” Jenny said.

  “A few,” Ruth said. She stepped closer and Jenny saw her for the first time.

  Ruth was perhaps ten or eleven, and she wore a pair of denim overalls with white and black saddle shoes. She was a pretty little girl, her dark brown hair pulled up into pigtails. Her big eyes were a light blue, and her nose was small. She smiled at Jenny and Jenny saw the bottom teeth were crowded together as if she had too many of them.

  Jenny returned the smile. “Hello, Ruth.”

  “Hi,” Ruth said, putting her hands into her pockets.

  “Is there any way you can lead me into the cemetery?” Jenny asked.

  Ruth shook her head sadly. “Only Josephus can let people in. Or out. He never lets me out.”

  Jenny frowned. “What happened to you?”

  “To me?” Ruth asked with a smile. “No one ever asks. They’re usually too afraid. But do you really want to know?”

  “Yes, please,” Jenny said.

  “Well,” Ruth said, “I came with Mr. Butterman, from the music store. He said he wanted to show me something special, down in the back.”

  Jenny repressed a shudder and kept her smile on her face. She was sure Mr. Butterman hadn’t had anything nice to show the girl.

  “I didn’t get to see it, though,” Ruth said sadly. “We had just gotten to the back by the crypt, and Mr. Butterman had set up a picnic. He even had wine. He was going to let me drink some, like a grown up.”

  I bet, Jenny thought. Yet she kept smiling.

  “We had just started to eat, and then these ghosts came out of the headstones, and the only place to hide was the crypt. It was unlocked for some reason, and Mr. Butterman and I ran in there.

  “We got to another room and a bunch of doors, and we ran, and we ran. Ghosts were everywhere!” Ruth said excitedly. “Then, something bad happened.”

  “What?” Jenny asked.

  “We met a monster. A great, big monster and it killed Mr. Butterman,” Ruth said in a low voice. “It killed him dead.”

  “Did it kill you, too?” Jenny asked.

  Ruth shook her head. “It left me alone. And I died there, next to Mr. Butterman. He’s an ang
ry, angry ghost.”

  “He is?” Jenny said. “Why?”

  “He says he’s angry because he didn’t get to show me the special surprise,” Ruth said, smiling. “And he’s angry about what I did.”

  “What did you do?” Jenny asked.

  “I ate him,” Ruth said, reaching up and playing with a loose curl of her hair. “I was so hungry. There was nothing else to eat, so one of the ghosts who lives here told me to. She said it was okay.”

  “Oh,” Jenny said softly.

  Ruth nodded. “Right down to the bone. I think he’s pretty upset about it.”

  Jenny was about to commiserate with her when Ruth’s eyes went wide.

  “What’s wrong?” Jenny asked, looking around. “What is it?”

  Ruth looked around wildly and took a nervous step closer to Jenny. “Don’t you hear Him? Can’t you smell Him?”

  Jenny strained her ears, yet she heard nothing.

  But when she inhaled deeply through her nose she could smell something. A terrible, sickening scent. She gagged and looked around as she clutched her hands to her stomach. Her throat hurt and clenched spasmodically.

  Foul wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the smell, it was beyond foul or wretched. It was as though someone had bottled the essence of putrid flesh and malignancy, and then released it into the air.

  “You smell Him now, don’t you?” Ruth asked.

  Jenny nodded and whispered, “Who is it?”

  “Josephus,” Ruth whispered. “He’s coming.”

  The cold deepened and Jenny’s muscles tensed.

  “Follow me,” Ruth whispered and turned away.

  Jenny did.

  Ruth moved quickly, as though there was a path in the fog only she could see. The pavement beneath Jenny’s feet shifted to grass, and her low heels were tugged at by the grass. The cold continued to follow and settled into her back. Jenny tried to ignore it, yet the fear in her continued to grow.

  Ruth began to run, and so did Jenny.

  “Where are you going, Jennifer?” a voice asked from behind her, and Jenny recognized it from the phone.

  She knew it was Josephus, and he meant her harm.

  “Straight ahead!” Ruth hissed. “Run!”

  Jenny broke into a sprint, and a moment later, she broke free of the fog and stood in the morning’s sun. She came to a stop and saw she stood half a dozen feet from her car. Jenny dropped to her knees, vomited, and began to weep.