The Paupers' Crypt

by Ron Ripley

  Images flashed through his mind. Owen and John. Malachi and Mitchell. The ghosts in the cemetery. Jenny smiling at him.

  The last image made him happy, and he tried to focus on her as he continued on.

  He tried to check his phone, to see what the time was, but when he took it out of his pocket and tried to see it, nothing happened. After several attempts, he realized the battery was dead, and he dropped it back into his pocket

  Brian decided he would count his footsteps, to keep himself occupied. He stopped at one thousand. The counting was helping.

  His stomach growled. An image of Owen flashed before him, and his desire to eat vanished.

  “Brian.”

  He stopped and looked around. Someone had called his name. A man.

  Brian opened his mouth to reply and then stopped.

  What if there wasn’t anyone? Brian wondered.

  What if someone is waiting for me to speak? Brian thought. What if someone is hunting me and merely wondering where I am in the room?

  Brian continued to move forward.

  “We know you’re in here, Brian,” a voice said.

  He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.

  Something cold brushed against his arm.

  “Are you close to us?” a second voice asked.

  “Closer than he wants to admit,” said the first.

  He heard someone chuckle and say, “We’ll find him, soon.”

  With the next words spoken, Brian could hear no difference. It was as if the two voices had become one.

  “True. We have enough time, and he’s lost.”

  “Alice down the rabbit hole.”

  “Eat me, drink me.”

  “Shh. You’ll remind him of Owen.”

  Horrible images flashed through Brian’s mind. He had a sudden, irrational fear that John was still alive, and that Owen had been only pretending. Brian vividly imagined how John would have been butchered efficiently. Owen would be sitting in his chair. Brian pictured blood spilling out of the corners of Owen’s mouth as the man took small, delicate pieces of John’s liver and chewed them methodically.

  Owen’s dead, Brian told himself sharply.

  “Is he, though? You’re stronger than we thought, Brian.”

  “Stronger than any of us thought. To be honest, we thought you wouldn’t have made it this far.”

  “Of course, Mitchell did help, which was rather unsporting of him.”

  “It does make the game rather more interesting, though, does it not, Brian?”

  Brian didn’t respond. He continued forward, each step cautious, his hand always on the wall.

  “Will you stay down here with us, Brian?”

  And Brian saw himself trapped, forever, never dying as he wandered in darkness. He could see himself, eyes blind, beard long, and clothes turned to rags. Two dark shapes near him, always questioning and wondering what to do with him.

  Brian felt panic well up within him and nest in his throat almost threatening to erupt in an uncontrollable scream. He fought it back viciously, forcing the unwanted and base desire to flee, back into the darker recesses of his heart.

  “Oh, he is strong. Far stronger than we knew. Do you think he’ll escape Josephus?”

  “No. Oh no. I think dear Brian is in for something far worse than he can imagine.”

  “Tell us, Brian, do you think you can defeat Josephus?”

  A dark form suddenly filled his mind. Beautiful blue eyes peered out from the shape’s depths and sought to punch through Brian’s thoughts. Hatred poured out of those eyes.

  “Yes, you see a glimpse of Josephus. You see your death.”

  “Come, Brian, come. You have days of walking left. Let us see what else we can pick from your mind.”

  A cold, needle of thought punched into his memories and spiders swarmed out.

  Brian nearly staggered under the weight of the recollection.

  His grandfather’s garage. On a spring day, looking for old comic books in the rafters. Seeking boxes of his father’s Batman and Superman stories.

  Then the spiders.

  Spiderlings. Recently hatched and ravenous.

  Brian had never seen the web, nor had he spotted the hundreds of small shapes clinging to the rafters. He had crawled shirtless through them towards an old Army footlocker stored in the back. Brian was brave, as much as a ten-year-old could be. He was fearless, focused on the comics. He wanted to read about Lex Luthor and the Joker, Robin and Jimmy Olsen.

  And he hadn’t noticed the spiders.

  Their webs had wrapped around his flesh, fine strands of silk he had barely felt. He could feel them crawling on his back and shoulders. The faint caresses of hundreds of legs. He had thought it was the heat of the attic, the disagreeable act of sweating.

  Then the biting had begun, and he had stopped, surprised.

  The pain was nearly instantaneous.

  Dozens of bites, scores of them. Hundreds of them.

  He had yelled in both shock and horror. He had beaten his shoulders and back and then his neck until his hands ached. Finally, satisfied they had been killed, Brian had fled back the way he had come, only to move into another nest of recently hatched spiders.

  Fear had overtaken him, driven him to the edge of awareness and he had fallen out of the garage’s trap door. Four feet down and onto the roof of the 1967 Impala his father had been restoring.

  The spiderlings had continued to bite him.

  Brian shuddered, came to a brief stop until the memory and the phantom pain of the old bites passed. With a deep breath, he pushed on.

  “Let us see what else is there,” the first voice said.

  The cold pierced his mind again, and Brian forced himself to walk on.

  Chapter 26: Researching, 4:00 PM, May 2nd, 2016

  Jenny’s head hurt.

  She sat on the floor in Leo’s old building. Piles of books surrounded her. She had a notebook and a pen. There were only a few sentences jotted down on the open page. Barely a hundred words after hours of research.

  Jenny closed her eyes, leaned against the wall and took a long, deep breath.

  Shane had left an hour earlier. He had gone back to his house to see if Carl had come up with anything.

  With a sigh, Jenny opened her eyes and looked at the last book she had pulled from the shelves. It was short and thin, bound in a beautiful marbled cover. The title was written in gold letters down the spine: The World Behind Ours, by Anonymous.

  Leo’s information on the book had been scant. It had held only the title, the unknown author, the date of publication, which was listed as “1932 (?)”, and the single word ‘Behind.’ The word had been underlined several times.

  Jenny picked it up, opened the book and began to read,

  “It should come as no surprise to us, when we pause to actually consider the idea, that there is actually more to this world than we can see. The supernatural and the paranormal are often scoffed at by traditional scientists and to those who cling to the narrow boundaries of the scientific principle. There is a large part of the scientific and rational community who believe if it cannot be seen, it cannot exist.

  “This faulty logic is what kept the world in darkness and believing it was flat, as well.

  “We believe in a Heaven and a Hell, and the Catholics believe in a Purgatory. Could there not be another world, perhaps even multiple worlds, which exist in the shadows of ours?

  “We cannot deny the existence of ghosts, although the naysayers howl out their disagreement. They declare the idea of spirits is both primitive and barbaric. Yet the evidence, although it cannot be repeated upon demand, is there. Recordings of hauntings have been made for as long as there have been people to jot them down, and it continues.

  “This small book is not a defense of the supernatural. You, the reader, must accept the supernatural as an undeniable truth or else you shall gain no benefit from this work. My goal here is to examine the evidence of a world behind ours, one which is in its
shadow. This shadow world is ever-present, and sometimes we interact with it, although we are usually unaware.

  “Occasionally, however, stories arise of the shadow world breaking into ours. They are often fearful tales of being trapped, unable to return to our own place and our own time. There are many tales of such occurrences, perhaps the most famous one being that of Rip Van Winkle. We must ask ourselves was this really a story, or perhaps some bit of history Washington Irving was privy to.

  “A telltale sign of this hidden world slipping into ours is the unexplained arrival of large swaths of fog …”

  Jenny stopped, reread the line several times and felt her heartbeat quicken.

  Fog, she thought. The fog.

  With shaking hands, Jenny read on.

  Chapter 27: Shane Gets Information, 4:00 PM, May 2nd, 2016

  “It is not good news, I am afraid, my young friend,” Carl said.

  Shane poured himself a whiskey and looked at Carl. “Tell me.”

  “This fog,” Carl said, “it is a gate, a door, if you will, from one part of the world into another. Much like the upper levels of your home, yes?”

  “Yes,” Shane said. He brought the tumbler and the whiskey to the table and sat down.

  “This house,” Carl said, drifting over to the table and standing across from Shane, “the barrier between the shadow world and this one is thin here. Partly, it is because of the number of deaths. And partly, because of the dark ones being imprisoned here. So many little factors which, when combined, create what we have here. The fog, though, it is disturbing.”

  “Why?” Shane asked.

  “Because if what your friend’s wife says is true, then it means you are dealing with a spirit who has the power to open a passage between the shadow world and yours, at will. This spirit has the strength to pull people into the shadow world, and to actually deny entrance back into the real, physical world.” Carl shook his head. “This is an incredible power. It is not to be approached lightly.”

  “Can we do something to help my friend?” Shane asked.

  “Yes, but you must approach it with care,” Carl said. “First, you must find a way into the shadow world. Here, you are well familiar with Berkley Street. You know what doors to open, what paths to take. In this cemetery, well, you will need to discover it. You must find the door, and you must go in armed.”

  “With what?” Shane said, taking a drink. “What can I fight the dead with, other than iron?”

  “I do not know,” Carl said, “but you must find out before you go. Your life, and your friend’s life, both will depend on it.”

  Chapter 28: Moving On

  It took Brian a moment to realize his hand had left the stone of the wall and felt wood.

  He stopped, his throat convulsing. He forced all other thoughts from his mind, including the voices. They had plumbed the depths of his memories, sought out horrors from his childhood. Base fears had been dragged up and presented with all of their original terror.

  Brian brought his left hand to join his right, and together they explored the wood. It was smooth and pleasant to the touch. He found cold, metal hinges. A knob which felt like porcelain. He licked his lips nervously, turned the doorknob and pulled.

  An involuntary cry was torn from his throat as light burst into the darkness.

  Yet he was too afraid to let go of the porcelain. He held onto it dearly, as though his life depended on it.

  Brian covered his eyes with his left hand and fought the urge to race into the brightness. Although darkness and terror lay behind him, he was unsure as to what waited for him beyond the doorway.

  His heart beat mutinously against his chest, and he waited, willed it to slow down, and forced his body to comply. Whether it was seconds, minutes, or hours until he had control over himself, Brian didn’t know. When he did, he opened his eyes.

  A small room stood before him. There was a door on the right wall. A door on the left. The walls were painted a bright white, and the floor was of wood. The ceiling looked to be made of stamped tin panels. The room was lit by a small metal lamp, cast to look like a pair of winged cherubs, standing on a short and narrow side table. Beside the table was a pile of neatly folded blankets. To the right of those was a large glass bottle of what looked like water and a stack of canned goods.

  Brian’s stomach immediately growled at the sight of the food and drink.

  He took a deep breath and looked around the room before he entered. He couldn’t see anyone else, but he could smell them. The distinct human scent of sweat and despair.

  Brian paused, closed the door behind him, and walked stiffly to the blankets and the food. He bent down, his hands shaking as he lifted the bottle up and uncorked it. For a moment, he thought about the possibility of the water being poisoned, and then he didn’t care.

  He was too thirsty. He took several long drinks, his body screaming for the water. But he didn’t allow himself to drink it all. Who knew why the water was there, or when Brian might be able to have more. Reluctantly, he corked the bottle and returned it to its place.

  Next, he looked at the canned food; green beans, corn, spam and baked beans. He lifted the last, saw an old fashioned can opener next to the blankets and nearly wept with joy. In moments, he had the baked beans open, and he ate them as slowly as he could. He was ravenous, as though he hadn’t eaten in days instead of mere hours.

  And what if it has been days? Brian wondered after he had finished. He put the can down and stared at it. He thought about the stories John had told him, the tales of people who claimed to have been trapped for days in the cemetery.

  He tried not to think about it and looked, instead, at the blankets.

  Brian was tired. Exhausted. He needed to sleep, and while no place would be safe, he could at least be warm. Silently, he took off the first blanket, an old comforter whose pattern had long faded away. While the fabric was threadbare and aged, it felt good and safe. Brian wrapped up in it and laid down, resting his head on the other blankets. He closed his eyes and opened them again immediately, afraid of the darkness.

  You have to rest, he told himself.

  Once more, he closed his eyes and fought to keep them shut. He brought up a memory of Jenny. She sat in her chair, crocheting a scarf. It was in the old house, the one in Manchester. The split-level on Hanover Street. Before they had moved out to Mont Vernon for his health.

  Brian smiled at the memory, and he let himself relax.

  “Who are you?” the voice was soft and caused Brian’s eyes to snap open.

  A man, older than Brian, stood near the door on the left. His clothes had seen better days and his hair was long and gray. The man’s beard was the same, his eyes were a deep hazel and his skin was exceptionally pale. In one hand, he held a plastic trash bag with something in it. His other hand held a wicked-looking knife. The man was thin, but not emaciated.

  “May I sit up?” Brian asked.

  The man nodded.

  Carefully and slowly, Brian slipped his hands-free of the blanket so the man could see them. Then Brian sat up.

  “You ate my beans,” the man said.

  “Yes,” Brian said. “I was hungry. I’m sorry.”

  The man shrugged and sat down across from Brian. “Saves me the trouble of eating them. I hate ‘em. Found three cases of them a while ago. You get tired of some things real quick. Even when you’re hungry.”

  He put the knife down beside him and looked at Brian. “When were you born?”

  “August first, 1973,” Brian answered.

  The man grunted, shook his head and said. “Hell. Been a lot longer than I thought.”

  “When were you born?” Brian asked.

  “April second, 1950,” the man answered. He extended his hand. “Jacob. Jacob Wurbach.”

  Brian shook it and introduced himself.

  “Pleasure, Brian,” Jacob said. He opened the plastic bag. He took out a battered plastic jug of water, a Matchbox car of a corvette, and a pair of old jeans. “M
y daily scavenging.”

  “How long have you been here?” Brian asked, unable to keep fear out of his voice.

  Jacob looked at him for a moment before he answered. “Well, let me ask you this. How old are you, Brian?”

  “Forty-two,” Brian said.

  “So, if I can still do math, it means the year is 2015 or there about?”

  “Off by just a year,” Brian said. “I’ll be forty-three soon.”

  “Looks like I’ve been here for almost forty-four years then, although I know I don’t look it,” Jacob said. He squinted and looked at Brian. “You alright? You just got real pale.”

  Brian nodded. “Trying to wrap my head around this.”

  Jacob looked at him confusedly for a moment, and then he nodded, as though he just pieced together what Brian meant. “Fair enough. Now, in case you haven’t figured it out, time is a little different here.”

  “Yeah,” Brian said softly. “I met someone named Owen earlier.”

  Jacob snorted. “Surprised he’s still alive. Miserable man.”

  “He’s dead now,” Brian said.

  Jacob raised an eyebrow, and then he nodded. “Serves him right. Tried to shoot me once when I passed through. Damned cannibal. He was Josephus’ pet.”

  “You know Josephus?” Brian asked.

  “Let’s say I know of him,” Jacob replied. “Been avoiding him since I’ve been here.”

  “How come you’re not starving?” Brian said. “How are you getting food?”

  Jacob grinned. “I found the marsh.”

  “What?” Brian asked, shaking his head, confused.

  “See,” Jacob said, pulling on his beard thoughtfully, “I guess you got trapped by the fog.”

  Brian nodded.

  “Well,” Jacob said, “Josephus, he’s rotten to the core and he pulls the fog out of the marsh. He does it to trap the living in the cemetery, and then he funnels them into this twisted world of his. So the fog is always there, some part of it anyway.”