Mary Ann Mitchell - Drawn to the Grave.html

by Drawn to the Grave (lit)

  Megan knew he had traveled and that he kept journals, yet when she mentioned that she had majored in anthropology, he didn't admit to that being his career, although she assumed so. He didn't admit to many things easily, Megan thought.

  She looked at the window and was tempted to open it, since the air in the room was oppressive. Barely a hint of hyacinths remained. He lived a simple life, she thought, looking at the one chair in the small room. There were only three pieces of furniture: the chair, the night table, on which sat an art nouveau Tiffany lamp, and the full-size bed on which she lay. No dresser. No armoire. Only a small closet in which she assumed he kept his clothing. The open door to the bathroom revealed a beveled mirror hanging over a very old round pedestal sink. Most things in the house seemed aged. She guessed that he didn't have much money, probably just enough to live out in the woods. Of course, the yellow house downstream was good for some income, but then, he had mentioned repair work that needed to be done on it before it could be rented.

  Megan's gaze returned to the closet. The door was painted a glossy off-white like the room's trim. It had a glass doorknob like the ones she remembered in her maternal grandparents' house. When she was five years old, they had died within six months of each other. She never knew the causes of their deaths. Her mother had told her that Grandpa had died from booze and Grandma of a broken heart. That had never satisfied Megan, who had heard the whispers about harlots and suicide. She sighed, thinking about how crazy her family was.

  After the reading of the will, her mother had taken her to her grandparents' house to clean out the closets and sell the furnishings. She remembered the thrill of turning doorknobs that looked just like the one in front of her. Behind the doors, there were always exciting, different things to be found, like a dusty stuffed owl, a picture album depicting her mother's childhood from infancy through high-school graduation, and a stitched-up teddy bear, which her mother had allowed her to keep.

  It was unlikely that such things would be behind Carl's closet door, but it was still intriguing to fantasize what might be there.

  Megan stuck the tip of her right index finger between her front teeth. Would it hurt anyone if she sneaked a peek? She bit down hard on her finger, punishing herself for the wretched thought. Still the closet, mainly its contents, was intriguing.

  She held her breath and sat absolutely still, straining to hear any sound coming from the hallway. There was only silence, except for a few night birds calling to each other outside the window.

  Megan threw back the beige sheet and slipped her legs over the side of the bed until her toes touched the faded Persian rug. She tiptoed naked across the room to the closet door.

  Maybe it would be locked, she thought, saving her from the despicable crime of being a snoop. She reached out her hand and took a firm hold on the knob, slowly twisted it, finally gave it a little yank, and the door opened.

  She glanced over at the door of the bedroom. Still, she heard no sounds within the house. As she pulled the closet door farther, the smell of cedar intensified. When the door was fully open, Megan looked into a cedar-lined closet containing several linen jackets with matching pants. The predominant colors were white and black. There were two dress shirts and a raincoat huddled together against the side of the closet. Beneath the hanging clothing, Megan spied two cardboard boxes. Both had their flaps firmly interfolded.

  Megan bent over and lightly touched the top of one box. Should she disturb the intricate folds of the cardboard? Would he notice if she did? she wondered while sweeping the palm of her right hand across the top of the boxes. Perhaps his journals were inside. He had offered to let her read them, hadn't he? Knowing that she should wait until Carl handed her the journals, Megan squatted down and started to pull the flaps open while telling herself that she wouldn't read them. She only wanted to be sure they were here. Within seconds the flaps were free and she could peer inside the box at sketch pads.

  Megan scratched her head; then she decided to investigate the other box. When the second box was open, she saw more sketch pads piled neatly inside. No journals in either box. Eager to investigate further, Megan looked down at the stained carpet and decided she didn't want to rest her bare bottom on it.

  She quietly tiptoed to the kitchen and retrieved the robe from the tile floor. She swung the garment around her shoulders, reaching her long arms into the sleeves. She tied the sash tightly and then silently moved back to the bedroom, pausing in the hallway to verify that the study door was closed. With the bedroom door shut behind her, she hurried to the closet, where she sat in front of the two boxes.

  She had planned on not reading the journals, but she did not know what to do with the pads.

  Feeling like a sneak, but unable to contain her curiosity, Megan reached into the first box and removed the top sketch pad. The cover had a few numerical calculations on it. He had obviously been figuring out months and days, but there was no hint as to why. Megan opened the pad and saw a rough draft of a woman's torso. No face, no limbs, just the voluptuous trunk of a woman. The hyacinth woman, Megan guessed. She pulled open the top of the robe to compare herself with the penciled sketch. After checking her own breasts, Megan looked back at the drawing with raised eyebrows. With some disgust, Megan flipped over the page. The next sketch was of limbs in various positions, some of which looked lewd. Eventually, after browsing through several more pages, Megan found the face.

  The woman was pretty, with small delicate features, and what looked like a discoloration was shaded in around the left jaw. A birthmark, Megan decided.

  So there was the hyacinth woman in bits and pieces. She flashed through more pages, hoping to find the woman sketched out in her entirety. No luck. All of a sudden, Megan realized that the arms and legs she was looking at were not the same ones that had appeared earlier in the pad. No, this person had to be much thinner. With another flip of the page, Megan found a new torso, slight, with small breasts and boyish hips. A few more pages also revealed a new face.

  Megan pressed on for another hour, moving through sketch pad after sketch pad. So many different women, and all unclothed. Every one of the figures had been drawn with a special attention to detail. Only an artist's hand could draw with such precision and realism. Perhaps she had been wrong to assume he was a scientist. No, he must be an artist, she thought. After all, what else could these women be but models?

  He was much older than she, Megan reminded herself, and he had never been married. The drawings could be of lovers. Her shoulders shook from an unexpected shiver. Would someone like her someday find Megan stretched out across one of these white sheets of paper?

  She pulled the collar of the robe high up around her throat and decided she should leave in the morning. There was nothing she could offer this mysterious man except what all the others had already given.

  Megan attempted to return all the pads to their proper order. She didn't know whether there was any specific reason for the way they had been placed in the box, but she wanted to make sure Carl wouldn't suspect her of the act she had committed. Unfortunately, Megan couldn't remember which flap covered which and hoped Carl wouldn't either as she fastened them closed.

  Megan rose to her feet, stopping halfway up to allow the knee wound to stretch gradually. When she could place her weight on the injured leg, she closed the closet door. It was stuffy in the room. She unfastened the sash and slipped the robe off, placing it on the chair. With arms outstretched, she went to the window and opened it. She took a deep breath, inhaling the sweetness of the hyacinths, then returned to bed, switching off the light as she climbed in.

  Without pulling up the top sheet, Megan plumped up the pillow beneath her head and luxuriated in the comfort and softness of the aroma surrounding her. It seemed to protect and cradle her through her senses. The scent was so loving that it was almost like being a child again and falling asleep in her father's arms.

  Suddenly she saw a flash of light at the window. She sat up in the darkened room and pee
red into the night. Megan recognized Carl's shape walking down the path, flashlight in hand. He seemed to be headed toward the river. Briefly Megan thought about rushing to the window and calling out to him, but then she remembered the sketches. Again she rested her head against the pillow while plumping the down with her hands. It was better to let him go to the river alone. She had already become too involved with this stranger. In the morning she would leave.

  Megan smiled as she inhaled the floral perfume of the hyacinths.

  13 - Hyacinths or Rotting Flesh?

  Carl had spent forty-five minutes trying to sketch out Megan's torso, but it wasn't working. He did much better on the right foot and ankle and had done an excellent job reproducing the small ladybug just above the anklebone. He didn't remember seeing any other scars or birthmarks, except for the mole under her breast. The wound on her knee appeared to be healing well and probably wouldn't leave any evidence of itself. By the time he needed the full drawing, the cut would have healed. However, for some reason, her torso was causing him some problems. Were the ribs visible? Barely, he thought, but he would have to have another look. Another night. He wasn't up to a second encore performance, he confessed to himself.

  After placing the sketch pad in the bottom drawer of his desk, he searched for the key to lock it. Beverly had been at his place only for the signing of the lease; after that, he had made it a point to visit her. That way, he didn't have to worry about her finding anything incriminating. It irked him that he couldn't put Megan in the yellow house until Beverly was gone. He would have to be careful of what he left around. Instinct told him that the young woman could be inquisitive.

  Carl pulled open the top drawer of the three-tiered file cabinet. Nothing but old newspaper clippings. He quickly riffled through the smudged newsprint. There wasn't anything that mentioned his name or location, just articles on various missing women he had known. He let the drawer roll back, then went on to the middle drawer. A jumble of keys lay before him. Carl took out the five keys that seemed to be the right size. After trying three of them, he heard the comforting click of the lock. That key was slipped into his pants pocket while the others were tossed back into the drawer. His elbow nudged the drawer and it slammed shut.

  Perhaps he should read or listen to music, he thought; however, he felt too edgy. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize Megan's body, the long legs. They were muscular, but not overly so. Her arms were pencil-thin; then again, there was a bit of meat on the upper part of the arm.

  Wait, no, that was Beverly, or maybe not.

  Carl opened his eyes and slammed his fist on the desk in frustration. ''Damn that witch!" he hissed in a hushed voice.

  He jumped up, shoved the chair back violently, then stomped out to the hallway, pausing for a few minutes to listen for any movement from where Megan slept. If it hadn't been for those damn hyacinths, he would have been in there memorizing each curve with his hands and eyes even while she slept.

  Abruptly he turned toward the front door and strode forward, stopping briefly at the hall closet for the flashlight. He yanked the front door open, but consciously controlled his force when he closed it. He didn't want Megan following him.

  Around the back of the house, Carl pulled a shovel out of a dilapidated shed. As he got farther away from the light of the house, he realized that he would be unable to see clearly and switched on the flashlight. His head swiveled around to see his bedroom window. Had he turned on the light too soon? The room was dark, and he saw no one near the window. She was probably exhausted and satisfied and deeply asleep, he thought with a smirk.

  Carl found the path and started down toward the river, veering off midway toward Beverly's grave. He could feel the bile rolling around in his stomach as the hideous floral odor intensified when he got closer to her grave.

  "We'll see what you're up to, bitch," he muttered as he threw the shovel down on the ground. He placed the flashlight on a large rock behind him, undid the buttons on the cuffs of his sleeves, and started to roll the soft cotton material up his arms, first one, then the other.

  When he was finished, Carl picked up the shovel and started to dig into the mound that covered Beverly's coffin. There was a breeze, but it couldn't dry up all the perspiration flowing down Carl's face as he dug with tremendous energy, trying to unearth Beverly's secret hold over him. Several times Carl swallowed down the contents of his stomach as the smell of the hyacinths intensified the deeper he dug. His arms vibrated when the shovel hit the hard surface of the coffin. This encouraged him to work faster as he cleared all the dirt from the wooden surface.

  Once he could completely see the top of the coffin, Carl stood straight and looked up to see the treetops and the stars pressed against the night sky. Compacted earth surrounded him and that horrendous flower seemed to steal what air there was from him.

  With difficulty Carl climbed out of the grave. Taking four paces to the rock, he retrieved his flashlight, then turned back to the grave and retraced his steps.

  "So what am I going to find, Beverly? A hothouse full of fresh hyacinths or rotting flesh?" He knew what he wanted to find, but feared that was not to be. "How did you defeat me?"

  Carl shook his head. No, she couldn't have defeated him, not yet. The shiver of death did not chill him. His body was still strong. He didn't feel the chewing maggots inside his gut.

  "No, Beverly, you haven't defeated me at all, have you?"

  He rested the flashlight on the edge of the hole he had dug and jumped back into the grave. He pushed his back against one earthen wall and swung the lid of the coffin open.

  The putrid, stale smell of decaying flesh brought a smile to his wet face. Even in his joy Carl couldn't prevent himself from gagging. His throat burned; he had swallowed his gastric juices so many times that he thought he would never be able to eat again.

  Once he had his body's response under control, he looked in at the drawing. In the half-light from the flashlight he saw the paper frayed at the edges. The pulp was turning a beige-brown, as if it had been carelessly left near a flame. The lines that made up the drawing seemed to be coming apart. Disintegration was almost imperceptible, but Carl could see the subtle breaks.

  "So where are your pretty hyacinths, Beverly?" Carl reached up to the edge of the grave and grasped the flashlight. He drew the bright light across the decaying rose petals on which the drawing rested. "No garden here for you to fuss over." Carl laughed loudly, his shoulders shook, and the light bounced off the dirt walls.

  Abruptly he stopped. Something cool and wet slithered across the back of his neck. Quickly Carl raised his free hand to the collar of his shirt and traced the creased edge to the back. When he reached approximately midway, he shifted his hand to his neck. Slowly he drew his hand upward until he held a squiggling chunk, then pulled it off, bringing it forth into the illumination of the flashlight.

  The worm wiggled and squirmed on his palm under the intensity of the bulb. Carl turned his palm downward and shook his hand until the worm fell onto the drawing.

  He closed the lid of the coffin, placed the flashlight aboveground, then climbed out. He rubbed the palm on which the worm had been against his denim jeans. His blisters had reopened, leaving a trail of blood across the material.

  The stench of Beverly's flesh was gone, replaced by the hyacinths' perfume. Carl's nostrils flared as he picked up the shovel and started tossing the dirt back into the grave. He firmly packed the dirt into the hole. He'd allow no escape for Beverly, no reprieve from death.

  When he was finished, Carl pulled down his right shirtsleeve, then drew the arm across his face, sopping up the salty sweat. A harder and more important job lay ahead of him, but first he would return to the house for some sleep. In the morning he would increase his efforts to duplicate Megan. He had the feeling that he would need her services soon.

  14 - Prayer

  Beverly felt a terrible tingling sensation traveling up and across her body. The nerves embedded in her decaying skin were mor
e alive than she had realized, and they were now dancing wildly. She flattened herself against the solid wood floor and began to writhe to the soundless music.

  "Oh God, stop this. Please. Please," she begged.

  It felt as if something heavy and wet were crawling across her body, weighing it down. She began to scrape at her chest, stomach, abdomen, and finally her thighs, picking off the invisible intruder.

  Eventually her body went limp and a numbness settled upon her. A few minutes passed before she brought her hands up to her face, resting her prayerful fingers against her lips. Never had she been religious, but as a young child her parents had sent her to Sunday school, more out of duty than from any real belief. She tried to recall a prayer.

  "Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name," she began, and she found as she progressed that the words came more easily to her.

  As she whispered the word "Amen," Beverly looked down at what was left of her long fingernails and saw bits of flesh embedded inside them. She turned the palms of her hands toward her face. One nail was missing; another hung by a thread; the others were thick with the stench of her demise.