Whistling Past the Graveyard (Nicki Styx)

by Terri Garey

  I was scared and nervous, but nodded, ready to get the show on the road.

  “Wait.” Maureen stood up, unzipping the fanny pack she wore about her waist. To my surprise, she dug around and came out with a rosary and a tiny bottle. The rosary she wound through her fingers, the bottle she uncapped and held in the same hand. Dampening her forefinger, she very solemnly sketched a cross across the forehead of every member of our party.

  No one spoke until the holy water was recapped and returned to the fanny pack.

  “Stay back a bit,” she murmured to me, and walked past us into the living room. “Let’s see if I can get some impressions.”

  The house was dark and quiet. Dave’s camera whirred to life, moonlight from the front window giving vague shapes to the furniture, barely illuminating the gloom.

  I waited, watching Maureen move slowly across the living room. She paused in opening to the hallway, outlined by the inky darkness beyond. “Someone’s here,” she murmured. “A man.”

  Steve took a few steps closer to Maureen, holding out his black box. The digital display clearly showed a spike, a row of lights glowing bright green in a widening arc. He slipped past her, moving adroitly despite his size. He moved throughout the room taking air samples, checking temperature and barometric pressure in the dimness.

  “He used to live here.” Maureen voice conveyed certainty. “He was very proud of it.”

  I said nothing, thinking it a rather obvious statement. Anyone who owned a house like this would be proud of it, until they discovered its horrible history.

  “Only the finest,” Maureen whispered, “only the finest.”

  The hair rose on the back of my arms, for that was something my husband used to say, back when he was my husband. It was Chris who’d insisted we buy the place; I’d have been just as happy with something smaller, but appearances had been everything to my ex. Then he’d changed his mind, wanting to sell it and split the proceeds during our divorce, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of uprooting me again just because he’d wanted out of our marriage. The house was mine now, and I was staying.

  Maureen walked on, making her way down the hall. Dave and I trailed her, passing through the living room. To my right was the dining room, where strips of moonlight through the shutters cast angular shadows over the table and chairs. I strained to catch any movement there, any shadow that might betray another presence.

  “Guys, take a reading over here.”

  Maureen had reached the end of hallway. She waited until both Dave and Steve came forward and moved their various meters up and down the hall. Video hummed close to my shoulder as Dave got everything on tape.

  “Definite cold spot,” Steve murmured. “Getting colder as I move toward this end of the hall.”

  The lights on Dave’s EMF flashed bright green, then red. Dave stopped, fiddling with the dials.

  “Baseline reading was .4mG. I’m getting spikes up to .9, and down to .3.” He spoke for the video’s benefit as much as ours.

  “He was surprised.” Maureen’s soft statement had an otherworldly tone to it, bringing us back from the safe world of science. “He didn’t think she’d do it.”

  She stood still in the hallway, just outside my bedroom door. Dave and Steve kept their eyes on their instruments.

  “Spirit, tell me why you linger.” Maureen’s voice was like honey, soothing and full of ease. She lured an answer from the air as though inviting confidences from her best friend. Eyes closed, she swayed slightly, her rosary clutched in both hands. Even in the dimness I could see her fingers moving on the beads.

  Utter silence, save for whatever Maureen might hear. Steve moved closer to her with his EVP recorder, saying nothing.

  “Guilt, and remorse,” Maureen said. “A woman. He hurt her, broke her heart.”

  I frowned, thinking about the original owner. Maybe his murderous girlfriend had reason to be jealous. Maybe he’d found someone else, and had been planning to leave her when she killed him.

  With a fierceness that surprised me, I suddenly hoped very much that her spirit was at rest. Just imagine what it must be like if you were forced to live out eternity in the house of the lover you killed, doomed to feel all that turmoil and jealousy over and over and over again—driven insane by the knowledge that you’ve killed a person you once loved, and lost everything in the bargain. Crazy as a loon, and dead to boot.

  I felt a whispery touch, like ice on my cheek, and gasped. “Something touched me!”

  Steve moved toward me with his meter, as I shrank against the wall, covering my cheek with my hand.

  “Another big spike here,” he said, for benefit of the others. “.9 and fluctuating.”

  “I’m being drawn this way,” said Maureen, moving toward the master bedroom.

  Screwing up my courage, I followed her.

  “Anyone else smell that?” Dave moved closer to Steve, who nodded uneasily.

  “Yep,” he murmured. “Something reeks.”

  It was the same odor I’d smelled before when I’d been in the house alone, but much, much stronger this time.

  Maureen walked toward the head of my bed. As I watched, she staggered, catching herself with a hand against the wall.

  “Oh, there’s terrible grief in here.” She closed her eyes, trailing her fingers over the wall as she moved toward the closet. “Sadness,” she whispered.

  I could hear Jim’s camera equipment humming as he hoisted it higher, keeping it trained on Maureen.

  She stopped, and stood in the quiet darkness, listening. Crossing her arms, hugging herself as though cold.

  And then, though I willed it not to be so, I saw the first dark coils of shadow come out of the closet, oozing beneath the door, up the wall, spreading like a stain in the gloom.

  “Loss, anger, fury, betrayal.” Maureen opened her eyes and looked at me, face stricken. “Oh, no.”

  No sooner had the words left her mouth when the shadows moved, darting like a spear past Maureen and straight toward me.

  I gasped, clutching at my chest. Cold, I was so cold. Blackness where my heart should be. Blackness where my mind should be. Blackness, only blackness…

  And then, like a pinpoint of light at the end of a long tunnel, understanding grew, illuminating my very being, filling the void that the darkness created.

  “She wasn’t a bad person,” I rasped. “She made a mistake, a tragic mistake.” My throat was suddenly choked with tears. “He was going to leave her. He was going to leave her for someone else, destroy everything they’d worked for together.”

  A long, drawn out sigh came from Maureen. Dave and Steve said nothing, their instruments still running.

  “Oh, honey,” Maureen said sadly. “There’s nothing worse than being trapped in a hell of your own making.”

  And then she opened the closet door, covering her mouth and nose against the stench.

  Dave and Steve both gasped, but I just stared, motionless, at the remains of what had once been my husband.

  “Stephanie?” Maureen touched my shoulder, ever so gently.

  I turned my gaze to the window, where moonlight spilled into the room like an uninvited guest.

  “Stephanie’s not here,” I said, in a voice not my own. “She’s been in and out for weeks.”

  DEAD SEXY

  There she was.

  Miss Caramel Latte, looking hotter than any melt-in-your-mouth coffee ever would, the same girl he saw every Saturday morning at Starbucks.

  He’d had a stroke of luck, overhearing her end of a cellphone conversation when they were in line the other day. Wild Times Club wasn’t one of his normal hang-outs, but for this girl, Brad was willing to make an exception. The loud music, the strobe lights and the press of noisy humanity faded into the background as he wove his way easily through the crowd, his eyes on the evening’s conquest.

  “Excuse me, but don’t I know you?”

  Miss Caramel was laughing, one slender shoulder angled his way as she leaned
over the table toward her girlfriend. Wavy brown hair, rich with highlights. When she turned toward him, Brad could see her eyes were chestnut brown, alight with humor and intelligence.

  Oddly enough, the light faded as she registered his presence.

  “I don’t think so.”

  A definite coolness to her tone should have warned him, but undaunted, Brad nodded his head thoughtfully, a broad smile on his face.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know you. Saturday mornings, Starbucks in Soho, right?”

  Now she gave him her full attention, turning in her seat to face him, one elbow still on the table. It gave him a great view of her red vee-necked top, cut low in back and even lower in front.

  “I’m Brad.” He struggled to keep his eyes where they belonged. “I see you there all the time.”

  “Ah. Right.” A tight smile and a polite nod of recognition before she turned away, taking a sip of her drink.

  Ah? That’s all he got? An ah? Women usually gave him more than a just a cold shoulder, but that was all right; this girl was gorgeous, and worth a little extra effort.

  “Can I buy you and your friend another round?”

  Brad offered the girlfriend—a chubby blonde in a too-tight sweater—a charming smile, including her in his efforts.

  “I don’t think so,” said the brunette, carelessly. “We’re fine.”

  A short giggle came from the blonde, annoying Brad to no end. Of all the fantasies he’d indulged in about this moment, being laughed at was not one of them.

  The blonde leaned in toward Miss Caramel and murmured something in her ear. Without waiting for a reply, she scooped up her purse and left the table, heading toward the ladies’ room.

  He should leave now--he really should. The brunette had made it clear he was beneath her notice, so why was he still standing here?

  Someone bumped into him from behind, forcing him closer to her table. He could smell her scent: warm and smoky, like spices and chocolate. From his vantage point, he could see the top of her head and the delicate curve of a breast, plainly visible in the flickering light from the dance floor.

  Swallowing hard, Brad decided to give it another try.

  “Is it my aftershave or something? I can go home, take a shower and be back in a half an hour.”

  Women liked men who could make a joke about themselves. That technique appeared to work like a charm, because this time when she looked at him, a genuine smile appeared.

  “No need. Why don’t you have a seat, now that my friend’s gone?”

  Her voice was seductive, sending a thrill to his groin, and he didn’t need to be asked twice. He took the seat that the blonde had vacated, and leaned in, over the table. “What are you drinking?” he asked.

  She was so damn beautiful, so damn sexy. She always looked fabulous in the athletic clothes she wore for coffee, but the red top she was wearing now should be illegal.

  “Absinthe.” Her eyes sparkled, gleaming in the strobe lights from the dance floor. “It’s an acquired taste. I’m afraid I don’t care for any watered down experiences.” Her glance moved over him like a caress. “In my drinks, or my men.”

  Brad swallowed, getting more turned on by the moment.

  “Here,” she offered, sliding her drink across the table. “Taste it.”

  He looked at it, noting the cloudy green color, and took a cautious sip, just to be polite. “Tastes like licorice,” he said, not caring for the strong flavor.

  “It’s the anise,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table. “Some people call it wormwood.”

  Her cleavage was on full display, hair falling loosely around her shoulders. “I’ll stick to beer,” he answered, grinning. “What’s your name?”

  She eased back, taking her drink with her. “Selene.” She took a sip, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. “But you can call me ‘Mistress’.”

  “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” His smile got wider, but she didn’t smile back. Instead, she put down her drink and rose from the table, trailing her fingertips along it as she moved slowly toward him.

  Mesmerized, he found that he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She came in close, her scent teasing his nose.

  “Would you like to make love to me, Brad-from-the-coffee-house?”

  He hardened instantly, and by the knowing look in her eye, he could tell that she was well aware of it.

  She had one hand on his shoulder now, her breath fanning his ear as she spoke. “If I told you to take me here—now—on this dance floor, would you do it?”

  Soft hair brushed his cheek, and he shuddered, striving to control his breathing. What was she doing to him?

  Amazed at himself, Brad nearly groaned his reply.

  “Yes.”

  “Good boy,” she murmured.

  Fingers lightly grazed his erection through his pants. At that moment, Brad would have given anything to have them touch his skin. The pounding of club music seemed to match the pounding in his blood.

  “Let’s go.”

  She had him by the hand now, pulling him toward the exit.

  Dazed, he let her lead him, unsure whether it was the force of her personality or the force of his own lust that drew him.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, just once, giving him an enigmatic smile. Was it just the flashing strobe lights that caused that red glint in her eyes? Had her teeth always been that white and sharply pointed?

  Brad didn’t know and didn’t care. He just followed her out into the night.

  In the alley, behind the club, her blonde girlfriend was waiting. “That was quick,” she said to Selene, giving Brad the once-over.

  Dazed and horny, Brad was slow to catch on. “Selene, I thought we were—”

  She leaned against him, pressing her breasts to his chest, and a lacquered fingernail to his lips. “You’re supposed to call me ‘Mistress’, remember?”

  He looked deeply into her eyes, and stopped caring about the blonde.

  “Besides,” she purred, outlining the curve of his lips with her finger, “Wouldn’t you like to have two women at one time?”

  Behind Selene, the blonde woman laughed, and Brad dragged his eyes away from Selene’s face long enough to look at her. She was a little heavier than he usually liked, and her face was in shadow, but he wasn’t stupid enough to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  “Sure,” he rasped, willing to do whatever Selene wanted, any way she wanted, as long as he got to sleep with her. “Mistress.”

  The blonde stepped forward, into the light, and Selene stepped back, away from him. The two women turned to each other with a smile, and Brad thought for a moment that he’d died and gone to Heaven.

  Then they both directed those smiles at him, and he blinked, unable to believe what he was seeing.

  The blonde had fangs, long and sharp. Her eyes glowed red and bright, avid with what appeared to be an unholy joy.

  “Brad,” said Selene, “meet my mistress, Lilith. She’s a bit hungrier than usual tonight, and I thought I’d help her out.”

  He had no time to turn, to run, or even speak before they were upon him, snapping and snarling as they tore out his throat.

  The last thing he saw was the moon, high in the sky, looking down with cruel detachment.

  Worst first date, ever.

  LIE DOWN WITH DOGS

  Ah, family… can’t live with ‘em, can’t bury ‘em in the back yard, which is why I bury mine in the woods.

  It’s not as strange as it sounds, I promise. We’re woods-dwellers, we Lycans, even when the moon’s just a sliver in the night sky. We prefer it when it’s full, because that’s when we get to run naked and free, no company except the owls and other creatures of the night, but to be honest, I don’t really recommend running naked and free in the forest at all, otherwise.

  Anyway, most of the time we’re just considered “backwoods country folk”, and that’s the way we like it. Grandpa Frank used to pull out an old pair of fake Halloween teeth whenever anyone came snoopi
ng around, and pretend to be a half-wit on purpose. Not the fake fangs, mind, but the ones that look like most of ‘em are missing or rotted. He even had a banjo, though he couldn’t play a note. Granny Jean used to laugh so hard when he stepped out on the front porch with it that you could almost forget how mean she could be when you reached for the last slice of ham without asking. She’d snap and snarl, even in human form, so much so that you’d check your fingers to make sure they were still attached when you snatched your hand back.

  My Uncle Alfred was no better; you didn’t want to get between him and the roast beef during Sunday dinner.

  Me, I like to consider myself pretty mellow. Not the runt (that would be my brother Jacob), nor the pick of the litter (my sister Luna), but somewhere in-between, which is a good place to be. Nobody expects too much, but they don’t write you off as a lost cause, either.

  I’d say life was pretty good, until Luna came home with a dog in her purse. A yappy little thing, with big eyes and skinny tail. She made us all promise not to kill it when the change took us over, though if ever a dog deserved it, this one sure did. Brainless little yapper didn’t even know enough to do its business outside, which is how we all ended up with something called a parvovirus.

  Jacob was the first to get sick. Mom wanted to take him to a doctor, but Dad wouldn’t hear of it. He thought the vomiting and diarrhea would run its course, but by the fourth day Jacob was so sick that he couldn’t get out of bed, and on the fifth he died.

  Granny Jean and Grandpa Frank had it by then, and we’d barely buried Jacob before we had to bury them, too. Uncle Alfred and Luna herself were next, leaving just me, my parents and my four other brothers. One by one they took to their beds, and one by one they died. It was the change that saved me, I think, because when the moon was full that month, I was the only one out running, wild and free in the moonlight.

  Now it’s just me, a well-used shovel, and a forest full of graves.

  Gets a little lonely sometimes, and do you want to know what the weirdest part is?

  I’m thinking about getting a dog.