The Boy in the Cemetery

by Sebastian Gregory

  KNOCK

  Do you know what happened to you?

  There was something in the question that instantly sent him to more and more unease. It wasn’t the voice that bothered him, nor was it the darkness. He had been used to it ever since the war had begun. He had gone around the house one day with his mother, covering the windows. Mother had turned it into a game, who could paint the windows the blackest. There had to be no light his mother had explained, or the bombers would find them. Rather than fear darkness, hide in it. It was something else that pulled at the boy’s imagination. It was like a memory that didn’t want to be remembered but came crawling anyway.

  Do you know what happened to you?

  No the boy didn’t understand at. This game was not fun anymore.

  KNOCK, KNOCK no.

  Did you know how you died?

  The boy suddenly recoiled at the question while at the same time the sirens sounded. As he lept from the safety of his bed with his bear in hand, the boy ran through the dark to his mother’s room. But from behind him the siren wailed a constant deadly whistle mixed with the sounds of planes overhead. The house rocked and dust fell as the first bombs exploded in the not too distant. The cracks in the blacked out windows silhouetted fire orange as the first set of explosions arrived.

  He screamed or his mother as he choked on dust and smoke and he crawled as heat hissed at him. Somewhere amongst the noise and the voice was calling to him

  Stop, please stop it said Stop

  Then as the boy, crawling and tumbling, he managed to feel his way into his mother’s room. Pushing his way through the door, the moment he closed it behind him, the turmoil stopped. No sirens, no fire, no heat, only the darkness as cold as ice. Again the only sound was his heartbeat.

  “Mummy,” he whimpered with sadness too upset to express but felt the pain of wailing

  And there she was standing over him but at the same time next to him as he watched himself holding his mother’s hand. Her beautiful face was blackened and gone. Her clothes burnt and bloodied. Her skin cooked and smeared in grey ash. He looked back from himself and the boy turned to the darkness and suddenly saw himself staring back.. His eyes were a socket and his entire left hand side was missing replaced by char. His dead self-smiled but the smile was a twisted grin through missing and bruised lips. Although he stood upright, his left side was gone, replaced by blackened charcoal. And the boy in the bed staring remembered what he already knew…The first night the planes came was the last night for the boy and his mother.

  Chapter Twelve

  The story continued as Francesca insisted she had befriended the dead boy and their friendship continued all of the girl’s life until she died in nineteen seventy-two. Of course Francesca’s story had been dismissed as fantasy. Carrie Anne knew it to be fact.

  She had been at the library for most of the day and soon school would be ending. To carry on the illusion of being at school for the day, she would have to leave for home. She was beginning to feel hungry having had nothing to eat all day. She left the library and went into the darkening afternoon and began to head for home. Still unsure of her new surroundings, she traced her steps the best she could. She walked by a local news crew. A cameraman was filming a journalist in a grey suit and tie. Carrie Anne recognised him from the five o’clock news. He was asking people as they passed if they could give their opinion on the missing teenagers. She rushed past as fast as she could and nearly walked into the detective who had previously visited her house.

  “Hello Carrie Anne,” she said with a pleasant yet serious smile. “No school today?”

  Carrie Anne, withdrawn, shook her head and walked by. But the detective kept pace with her, hands in the pockets of her long overcoat.

  “You’re wearing a uniform, so I presume you’ve been to school?”

  “I’ve been to the library.”

  “The library, I used to love the library when I was your age. Reading anything good?”

  Carrie Anne stopped walking and turned to the detective.

  “Please, please leave me alone. I have to go home,” she pleaded.

  Detective Howe stared at Carrie Anne. There was no malice in her voice at what she said next, but it left Carrie Anne with no illusions of the detective’s intent.

  “I know life is hard for you; I can tell. But if there is anything you want to tell me, I promise you I will help you. You may feel alone but you are not. Wherever you are right now, I can bring you out of it but you need to be honest with me. I know you knew the Millers, I know they were bad to you and if they hurt you, if they put you in that hospital then it will be made public what they did. However, if you know what happened to them, if you know they have been hurt by someone close to you, your father maybe, you have to tell me.”

  Carrie Anne paused; maybe there was hope for her after all, maybe.

  “I don’t know who hurt me; I don’t remember.”

  There is no hope.

  The detective sighed as Carrie Anne’s trust slipped from her grasp.

  “OK. If that’s how it’s going to be. You know tomorrow we will be looking at the old cemetery. Seeing what we can find. That’s right next to your home, all the way to your back garden. I may see you and your family tomorrow. Can I give you a ride home?”

  Carrie Anne, under the detective’s gaze, reluctantly accepted the detective’s offer. She was scared that Detective Howe would have techniques akin to mindreading and dig out Carrie Anne’s secrets. For now though she had to think. The police searching the cemetery would certainly uncover Carrie Anne’s secret. She wasn’t sure if the Miller cousins were there or elsewhere; however, the dead boy was certainly there amongst the catacombs and decomposition. Her ribs ached and her stitches made her feel nauseous as she limped to the detective’s car. The afternoon darkened as another storm clouded the sky. She wanted to stop and lie on the pavement, curled into a ball, and never get back up again. She wanted to scream and pull out her hair and scratch her face until she bled. She wanted a release from fear and frustration. She owed it to the boy in the cemetery not to do these things. To somehow protect him as he had protected her. The drive lasted all of five minutes but it felt like hours. The detective was of course friendly enough, but that was her job. Why would she be anything else?

  “I have a son about your age,” Howe said, while concentrating on the road. The car had a new smell to it that gave Carrie Anne a stale headache. “He gets into all sorts of trouble, just normal trouble, nothing too unhealthy, forgets to do homework, that sort of thing. I firmly believe that teens your age should be allowed a certain amount of trouble. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied in discomfort that she made every effort to hide.

  “I don’t punish him too badly, just enough to keep him on the straight and narrow. I don’t believe people like my son, or like you, should have to live in fear of punishment.”

  Carrie Annie did not reply. She just concentrated as hard as she could not to react, not to give anything away.

  The detective pulled the car over a few doors down from Carrie Anne’s house. She looked at her with a serious stare. Not sinister or threatening, just serious.

  “ The marks on your arms Carrie Anne, how did you get them?”

  For a moment Carrie Anne could not reply, she just stared, mouth gaping unsure what to say and suddenly feeling flustered.

  “I, I, I,” she stuttered, “ I have to go.”

  Carrie Anne fumbled for the seat belt and the door handle, momentarily trapping herself before finally escaping to the waiting cold. The detective watched her leave until Carrie Anne was out of view.

  “I will save you,” she thought to herself, “ Even if you do not want to be saved.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  She arrived back at the house that was hidden by trees. She let herself in with her key and went straight upstairs to her room. She threw her coat on a new bed and paced up and down. From her window she looked into the cemetery and
she knew that the boy was looking back at her. Her thoughts were interrupted by her mother; who had wandered in behind her.

  “How was your day; did you learn things?” she asked with a slight awkwardness.

  “Yes it was fine; I read a lot. I’m just very tired.”

  “Well, wash your hands and come to dinner.”

  Carrie Anne did so. She sat at the table. The lights were dim and the window blinds drawn.

  Mother dished out plates of chicken and potatoes. Father sat at the end of the table. He was mouthing to himself and agitated. Carrie Anne and her mother had seen these moods before. They would usually follow regret and apologies, but they always began with annoyance at the world.

  “Are you OK, dear?” his wife asked.

  “Rats,” he replied. “There are fricking rats in the basement. I’ve put traps down but they keep coming; something is driving them here, I swear.”

  “Horrible things, horrible things,” Mother said.

  “You—” his attention turned to Carrie Anne “—what have you got to say?”

  “I’m not sure,” Carrie Anne replied, barely louder than a whisper.

  “I cannot say I’m surprised. Did you try at school? Did you try to be normal?”

  “Yes.”

  There was silence and her father continued to mutter to himself. After dinner they watched television in more silence and when the sun finally went down and offered darkness its place, Carrie Anne made her excuses and went to bed.

  “My head hurts. Can I go to bed, please?”

  Mother looked at Father, who replied, “Why not, you may as well not be here.”

  She had no intention of sleeping, however. As soon as she was in her room she opened her window and called out into the night. Not loudly by any means, but the strange shout that was also a whisper when signalling and avoiding detection.

  “Boy,” she called. “Boy.”

  But only the wind rushing away from the oncoming storm called back. Her eyes tried to pierce the dark but only shadows of the stones and dark grass and weeds looked back.

  She called and called, in hopes of attracting her friend and saviour. But nothing but the lights surrounding the cemetery shone back. Carrie Anne felt her old friend panic returning to her once again. Soon the police would find the boy and everyone would know of his existence and she would be alone once more. She heard her parents climbing up the stairs. Carrie Anne, still in her school uniform, quickly dove into bed and pulled her quilt above her shoulders. She pretended to be asleep and closed her eyes tight. One of her parents opened her door; she heard it scrape against the wooden floor. After a moment it was closed again and she breathed easy. Another hour or so passed by. She lay frozen with fear that her parents would realise she was awake. She stayed perfectly still as she heard them banging their headboard and grunting. She felt queasy and wondered how her mother could let him touch her. She thought it was to protect Carrie Anne from her father’s unnatural desire. But Carrie Anne knew her mother did it to protect herself and her own sanity. It was a mercy when they eventually were silent. Carrie Anne waited in the dark; it would best to lock her father in the cellar with the rats, let them have their feast snarling and blooding his flesh,. The rats, the rats. The rats! Big fat juicy rats: that was the answer. Carrie Anne sat up and climbed from her bed. She crept down the stairs, again slowly, scared of discovery yet excited about the solution that presented itself to her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Through the shadow of the house, Carrie Anne crept and crept quietly. She opened the cellar door, which obliged with a creak. She clicked the pull-string switch and the cellar was filled with a dubious flickering light. One slow step after the other she descended before finally stepping onto the cold stone floor. It sent a shiver from her bare feet to her spine. The musty and wet smell from the damp walls were now tinged with the now familiar scent of death. There were ten or more snapping vermin traps on the floor. The kind of trap that was designed to break the necks of any creature that dared to come sniffing for the bait. There were six fat rats in the traps, with broken backs. Carrie Anne knelt by each one and pulled back the snapping device. A couple of times it slipped from her small hands and cracked the rats further. She cradled her collection of six rats in her arms, like horrific, dead children. They were cold and sticky and limp but she didn’t care. With her prizes she went into the night. The wet grass of the back garden soaked her toes. The trees danced at her arrival to rustling music and her skirt blew around her legs. She lobbed the first rat over fence.

  “Boy, are you there?” she whispered.

  She thought she heard rustling in the dark bushes. She placed another rat on her side of the fence and waited. The night was must have been magical for it had the power to turn moments into hours. Her heart pounded with anticipation and then relief as the boy’s rotten arm came through the fence, disappearing to the other side with the rat.

  “Come on, boy, come to me,” she said, dropping a rat by her feet. The boy clicked his jaws, click, click, click.

  “That’s it, boy; it’s safe here, it’s safe.”

  He sniffed the air and crawled under the gap in the fence. His arm was caught for a moment and flesh was peeled like a skinning a rabbit. The boy didn’t stop. Like a curious beast he came to the girl before snatching the rat and devouring it. Carrie Anne had backed further towards the house and she dropped another rat at the back-door entrance. Again the boy happily took it as Carrie Anne stepped into the kitchen. The boy paused at the door, looking at Carrie Anne questioningly.

  “It’s OK boy; it’s safe, I promise. No one will look for you here.”

  The boy waited. He held out his hand to the doorway as if feeling an invisible force. Carrie Anne held out another rat by its tail, tempting him. The boy slowly and with trepidation crawled into the kitchen, leaving mud prints on the tiles. She lead him to the cellar and down the creaking stars. She closed the door behind them as the boy crouched on the floor. Carrie Anne gave him the remaining rats, which one by one went messily down his gullet. Then she joined him on the floor and she cried because he was safe and she hugged his bones and dry skin.

  Carrie Anne took a screwdriver with a red handle from her father’s toolbox that he kept in the cellar. The boy watched her intently as she scraped symbols into the stone, blowing the dust away.

  A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 YES NO

  It was her own version of a Ouija board, except the dead she wanted to speak with was not floating in a sea of darkness and the unknown. The dead was sitting in front of her, in the form of a young boy.

  “This is so we can talk; do you understand?” she asked.

  The boy looked at the symbols, his eye and socket flicking over them. He raised his finger and pointed. As he did, dirt and lice fell on the stone. The lice scuttled off into the shadow the flickering light could not remove.

  YES.

  Carrie Anne gasped and held her hand over her mouth as if to stifle the noise. She freed her voice.

  “You understand. I have so many questions I don’t know where to begin. How old are you?”

  12

  “How long have you been twelve?”

  L O N G

  “Have you always been in the cemetery?

  L O N G L O N G

  “Do you have a name?”

  YES

  “What is it?”

  B O Y

  “Boy? That’s what I call you. Do you remember the name your parents gave you?”

  NO RMEMBR

  “That’s so sad; you must be very lonely.”

  NO ANYMRE

  The boy stroked Carrie Anne on her cheek. She began to cry more sweet tears; he ran a finger under her eye, catching a droplet and placed it on his own torn cheekbone. She smiled and again he reached out a grey hand and stroked her.

  “Why? Why did you help me?”

  The boy tried to return her smile in a twisted, broken way.

  YU NO B
E SAD, I SW YU SAD, YU NEEDS BE HPPY.

  The boy held a hand to his mouth and he chocked before regurgitating a crawling beetle. He gripped the thing as not to let it escape as it writhed in his fingers. He leant into Carrie Anne’s mouth; she didn’t resist as he opened her lips with his free hand and placed the beetle on her lips with the other. Instantly it crawled into her throat, she panicked for a moment before the insect went tickling into her gullet. Her eyes glazed over and turned an onyx black. As Carrie Anne fell backwards, the boy caught her and suddenly she saw the past as if it was her own…The dead man crumbled to dust, his hissing gas spent. The boy choked and gagged as if drinking sand. He stumbled with blurred vision and skin that burnt and itched. His bones ached and he felt as if the very blood in his veins congealed. He fell against gravestones and the dirt of the graves alike. He wandered blind, drunk without gin but something more potent and deadly. The town was alive at night and he fell over the cobbled streets. Too late to see the blackest horse pulling the blackest carriage it reared and crushed the boy under hoof. Split, he surely was dead, but death ignored his wounds as he lurched, jittering. People screamed and were reviled at what he had become. He stumbled away not feeling the breaks and the seeping. He stumbled over the dock and between boats was swallowed by the ever-hungry river. He lay at the bottom in the silt, wondering how he was not dead as his lungs that no longer required air instead filled with the black water. And like overfilled pigskin canteens, they split. With little choice he walked from the riverbed to the bank and pulled himself sloshing from the water. He felt no fear or panic as his nerves were now dead and useless. Knowing he was now dead he made his way back to the cemetery and sat in the cold unforgiving tomb where he met his fate. He didn’t move for a very long time, instead he watched with a newly developed morbid curiosity as maggots and all manner of crawling carrion burrowed into him and feasted. Curious still he now could hear their thoughts and with that he could control them. In return for doing his bidding he gave them the shelter of his flesh and belly. He used them to spy on the comings and goings of the cemetery. There were his eyes; they were his ears. They helped him burrow into the ground and dig out the graves and helped him build bone creations for his new home. He killed grave robbers and those intent on doing the dead wrong. He added their bones to his collection. He used the rags of the dead to make torches to light his way with fire from flint stone. In the evening he would praise the angel who looked like his mother and watched over the dead child. He would speak to her through guttural tones until his vocal chords rotted away. He tended her and kept the stone clean. Mostly, however, he hid from the living that had forsaken him. Until, over time, no one came to his cemetery at all. Until… He remembered her first day here when she looked out of her window and saw the cemetery for the first time.