The Graveyard Shift

by Brandon Meyers

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE GRAVEYARD SHIFT.

  Copyright © 2013 by Bryan Pedas and Brandon Meyers.

  The Graveyard Shift

  Stories of a Darker Nature

  By

  Bryan Pedas & Brandon Meyers

  Copyright © 2013 by Bryan Pedas and Brandon Meyers

  Table of Contents

  The Graveyard Shift (pt. I)

  -Bedridden Honeymoon-

  Interlude: Relativity

  -An Axe Through Bone-

  Interlude: Fare Thee Well

  -These Walls-

  Interlude: They Call Me Mr. Lucky

  -Life and Limb-

  Interlude: Into the Vortex

  -The Curious Debt of William T. Bellows-

  The Graveyard Shift (pt. II)

  The Graveyard Shift (pt. I)

  Leonard kicked the door shut behind him, grumbling curses unintelligibly. He threw his hat to the floor, where it landed with a wet plop on the bare concrete. The air was sickly stale, like that of a moldy cellar, and the light from the single overhead bulb was dismal. But at least the caretaker’s shed was dry, even if the caretaker himself was not.

  Outside, a thunderhead boomed, playing its erratic bass drum song in the evening sky. Nightfall was only a couple hours away and Leonard still had work to do—work that had to be completed before morning. It didn’t matter that the wrath of the gods was coming down outside in torrents. That pipsqueak office manager had made it perfectly clear that some muckity-muck had croaked and that his hole needed to be completely dug and ready for the site decorations by daybreak. And normally he’d have had the thing finished within an hour. But the rain had only gotten worse.

  It wasn’t just rain, Leonard thought bitterly as he tossed his spade shovel into the nearest corner; it was a goddamn gullywasher. Hence the need for the shovel. He couldn’t use the giant mechanical backhoe, because the heavy bitch tore up the grass when the ground was wet. If he dared use that to get the job done, he might as well not even show up for work tomorrow. Hell, in a storm like this it would probably get stuck before he even got it fully backed out of the garage.

  So, Leonard had no choice. He had to wait out the storm. And when the downpour stopped—God only knew when that would be—he’d have to break his back with the shovel by light of the lantern. A lantern he had so far been unable to locate.

  “Dammit,” Leonard spat, reaching for a rag to wipe his face and yellowed beard. He shucked off his navy blue jacket, hung it on the tiny room’s solitary coat hook. Water droplets began to puddle beneath it immediately.

  Leonard peeled off his boots and socks and set them next to the electric heater. He plugged the thing in, something which typically never happened in the month of August. But right now, icy bursts of rain fell in a steady torrent, hammering the one-room shack’s roof without mercy, accompanied by gusts of wind that made the shed’s deteriorating shingles flap and flop against the roof like door knockers.

  Leonard shook his head, grunting. He eyed the decades old office chair. Its mostly duct-taped cushion called to his weary buttocks, and he planned to succumb to its call, but first, he needed to find that lantern. So he crossed the nine foot span of the room and approached its only other occupant aside from the whirring micro-fridge: the tool closet.

  The tool closet was a gray steel cabinet that stood about eight foot tall, with double doors and a broken lock. Its name was very loosely applicable in that it, despite its size, only held a handful of tools. There were a couple of screwdrivers, a hammer, some ratchets, and a few different types of pliers. Most of these were for the day-to-day maintenance of the backhoe. And aside from the backhoe and a bit of shovel work, digging graves didn’t require much in the way of hardware. Leonard bypassed the middle two shelves full of his decrepit hand tools and squatted down to inspect the lower levels. There he found nothing but oily rags and dust bunnies.

  “Well, shit,” Leonard said, standing up again. He eyed the topmost shelf with a frown. He knew for a fact he had never used it since he couldn’t even see up that high. But he paused to consider how terrible his memory was these days, and then reached up anyway. His hand patted empty space, fingers traced through decades-old cobwebs. And then he felt something. It wasn’t a lantern, but it was decently sized. Right away Leonard could feel by the shape of it that it was a book, which was interesting since the closest thing this shack had probably ever seen to a real live book was the copy of Juggs magazine that Leonard had tucked away under the micro-fridge.

  Leonard dragged the book down from the shelf and blew off a thick layer of dust. It wasn’t just old; it was ancient. Leonard didn’t know much about books, but the faded, flaking leather of the spine, so brittle it felt like it might fall apart in his hands, looked like it was older than he was.

  “No shit,” Leonard said with a snort. “Kindling.”

  Leonard was many things, but an avid reader was not one of them. His joke, however, fell flat in the face of his curiosity. Because, aside from its obvious age and peculiar hiding place, the book was warm to the touch. Despite the chill, damp air in the shed, the decrepit book was literally radiating heat in his hands. It wasn’t enough to burn, but it was warm enough to command his attention.

  With thoughts of the lantern forgotten, Leonard flopped into the rolling chair and carefully examined the book. It had no title. Its leather was dark brown and water-stain spots dotted the whole front cover in a sloppy, splattered pattern. A closer look showed that the circular spots were too dark to be from water. Their dried color was nearly black. It almost looked like ink, or paint. Hell, Leonard mused, it could even be blood. The thought didn’t deter Leonard in the least. This was a cemetery, after all. It was hard to creep out a man who planted dead bodies for a living.

  Leonard pried the cover open. Inside, he found a handwritten scrawl on the first page. Scribed in pale blue ink were the words: After we’ve sung of life and death, each of us shall be forgotten.

  Leonard could not help himself. After reading such a peculiarly scribbled and macabre dedication he turned to the next page. In the same, highly legible hand print was written a table of contents. Names like An Axe Through Bone and Life and Limb jumped out at him from the crisp yellow paper. This was a handwritten book of short stories, and dark ones, at that. If anything could persuade Leonard to crack open a book—and nothing had during the last fifty-seven years of his life—it was the promise of something grim.

  The storm continued to rage beyond the walls of the tiny shack, further incentive for Leonard’s need for confined entertainment. He rolled the chair forward, opened the micro-fridge, and dug behind the camouflage row of Pepsi to yank out a frosty can of Hamm’s beer. Leonard pulled the tab, propped his feet atop the fridge, and started to read…

  Bedridden Honeymoon

  I had no idea marriage could be so stressful.

  In the past three days we’ve gone through a funeral, a wedding, and a car accident. The wedding, of course, was our own. The funeral we went to merely out of obligation, but it was certainly the last thing my dear Joanna needed to attend, just 24 hours prior to our wedding. In fact, both were performed in the same church, within a day of one another, and it did absolutely nothing to ease her stress. I told her that perhaps it was a cosmic symbol, a sign that death always transgresses back into life, but it did little to ease her mind.

  And now my new wife is lying in bed, wearing an expression of discomfort as she wakes and t
ries to pull herself up. I place a hand on her leg and stop her.

  “No, dear, you shouldn’t get up. Your legs, remember?”

  She smirks. “I’m trying not to remember, love, but it’s hard.”

  As if things weren’t bad enough, Joanna was hit by a car—the result of a drunk driver on a rampage—and because of it we’re now spending our honeymoon trapped in our small house rather than tip toeing through the shallow waters of a beautiful beach or bobbing over grassy fields in a hot air balloon.

  My new bride is confined to our bed like a prisoner, and it’s made our first week as man and wife anything but blissful. We can’t take a quiet stroll through the garden. We can’t take romantic baths together. We can’t even make love, though she insists we try. It’s painful for her, and I’m not entirely sure she even enjoys it.

  “Ken,” she says, those sparkling green eyes absolutely shimmering up at me. “Will you bring me my fancy new perfume?”

  One of my wedding presents to her was an expensive bottle of French perfume, and it still delights me to see how much she enjoys it as I hand it to her and she grips the rubber pump of the antique-looking bottle with glee.

  “It feels like we’re in Paris,” she says, giving her neckline a delicate spritz, “even if we’re really not.”

  “Oui,” I tell her, with a bow, standing at the foot of the bed. “May I bring madam any breakfast?”

  “I’m not hungry yet,” she says, and pats the side of the bed. “Come. Sit. You know what I want to do today?”

  I sit down beside her, taking her hand. “Tell me, love. Whatever you ask.”

  “I want to spend our first real day as man and wife curled up in bed. In your arms. Just relaxing, in peace. The past few days have been so chaotic.” She winces. “Can we do that?”

  I assure her with a smile. “We can.”

  But no sooner do I begin to crawl into bed beside my beloved, than does the front door erupt in knocking.

  “Are we expecting anyone?” Joanna asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Then leave it.” She pulls in tightly against my arm. “They can come back later.”

  But the knocks continue, and this time they’re louder. More frantic. Urgent, even.

  “I’ll be quick,” I say, as I hop out of bed and march out of the bedroom. I’m still hurrying down the stairs when the knocks escalate into furious pounding. I spin the lock, open the door, and am surprised when the man’s fist doesn’t go straight through my face.

  “Can I help you?” I ask, nearly breathless.

  “I’m looking for Joanna,” the man grunts, also breathless. Rather than look at me, he’s looking around me, trying to peer inside our house. His hair, previously combed over the side, is disheveled, and his cheeks are still red from where tears have just fallen. I smell alcohol on his breath. “Do you have her here?”

  “She’s not here,” I lie. I ask him who he is, even though I know full well. Joanna has told me all about this man, this raging alcoholic on my doorstep.

  “I’m her husband.” His shoulders slump, and more of his hair falls into his beady, bloodshot eyes. “I… well, I was her husband.”

  “I see. Well, I’m sorry, but she’s not here.”

  My hands are fidgeting in front of my pajama pants, and as he glances down at them, I suddenly feel the way his eyes are hovering over me. It’s as if they’re scanning me. Learning me. Remembering me.

  I get the idea that this man means to kill me.

  “Well,” I say, as I start to close the door, “I’m very busy at the moment, and I need to get back to grading papers, so if you’ll excuse me…”

  The door catches on his sizeable dress shoe. “What’s your name?”

  “Ken.” No sense in lying.

  “Grading papers?” He’s quickly gone back to looking behind me, trying to search my house while my body still blocks the entryway. “You a teacher or something?”

  “English professor,” I say, quite sternly, “and I really must go.”

  His foot has retracted just enough, and I slam the door in his face. A glance through the peephole reveals that he’s still there. His face is a scrunched mess of wrinkles, reddened flesh, and rage, and my heart jumps in my throat as his eyes seemingly meet mine. For a brief moment I wonder if he can see me. But then he stomps his foot, turns on his heel, and leaves.

  I still feel as if this man wants to kill me.

  I march back to the bedroom wearing an expression of worry. God bless Joanna; without a word she spreads her arms and beckons me to her.

  “Who was that?” she asks, as I fold into her arms, nestling my head against her bosom. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  I grimace. “Worse. Your ex-husband.”

  “George?” Joanna expels a hefty sigh. “Why would George be here?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s drunk, he’s been crying, and he looks like a damn mess.”

  “I… I’m sorry,” she says, even though I get the idea she doesn’t know why she’s apologizing. “I don’t know why he’d be here, stirring up trouble like that.”

  I sink further into her bosom, and she begins running her hands through my hair. It brings me comfort, if only for a moment. At first I think to keep it to myself, and then I blurt out, “I think he means to kill me.”

  “Don’t be crazy, Ken. He’s a jerk, but he’s not a murderer.”

  “But…” Something dawns on me. “He… he was the one following us around at the funeral, wasn’t he? I kept seeing him watching us. Always watching us. It was… disturbing.”

  “George is a jealous asshole.”

  “I think that’s an understatement.”

  “Don’t worry yourself, honey,” Joanna says. “You know, I hate to see you looking so distressed when this is the time that we’re supposed to be spending together, reflecting on the future of our lives as man and wife.”

  I softly kiss the corner of her mouth. It reminds me that she’s not yet been out of bed to brush her teeth, but I don’t remark on it. Because the ripeness of her morning breath doesn’t really bother me. That’s what it means to be in love.

  “You’re absolutely right, dear. I won’t waste another minute thinking about that asshole. How could I, after all, when Aphrodite herself is resting in my bed?”

  “Wasn’t Aphrodite a redhead?”

  I rock my head back to bark a laugh. “Well, according to the paintings of Botticelli, I suppose the answer would be yes. But, for the record, I don’t know that any of the Greek writers ever settled on a unanimous hair tint.”

  I run my fingers through her long, thick swirl of chocolate hair, and hear her purr not unlike a cat in appreciation.

  “Aphrodite only wishes she’d have been blessed with your features,” I say, meaning it fully. Her lips are delicately thin, but red as ripened strawberries and along with her deep, viridian-colored eyes, glow brilliantly against lily white skin.

  She is the utter definition of classical beauty. It’s no small wonder that a man like her ex-husband has had such a hard time coming to terms with her remarriage. If he hadn’t come pounding on my door like a gorilla—sweating and angry and drunk—I might be sympathetic to his melancholy. I could never imagine losing this woman for even a minute of the remainder of my life.

  “You’re so sweet,” Joanna says, staring into my eyes without blinking. “But as long as I’m stuck in this bed, I know you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  I pretend to look offended. “I only speak the truth, my dear.”

  “Promise?”

  “I swear it.” I cross my heart with my index finger and give her a wink.

  “Oh, Ken. I love you.”

  “And I love you.”

  “Come back to bed.”

  “I’m already here,” I say, and playfully close her eyelids with my fingers.

  And with that, while the morning birds still sing outside our single bedroom window, I nuzzle against my new wife and drift hap
pily off to sleep.

  The next thing I know, I’m stirred from dreams by the sound of knocking. For a moment, I feel like Poe, being harassed incessantly by a rap, rap, rapping at my chamber door. However, a glance at the woman still fast asleep beside me is a reminder that I’m much luckier than the man poetically harangued by a pesky raven. Because unlike Poe, I’ve found my Lenore.

  Then, as the sound of knuckles rapping on wood continues to echo through the house, my heart finds a renewed pace. Is it George, back for more?

  I carefully extract myself from the bed without waking Joanna. She’s finally getting some much-needed sleep and I want her to remain that way, so I hurry to the door, still dressed in my pajamas and socks. It’s now mid-morning and the sunlight coming through the living room window is lemony and warm. Has George come to kill me in a fit of drunken rage? Is this the last stream of sunlight I’ll ever see?

  I pause, lips unraveling in a grimace, just before I look out the peephole, but what I see isn’t a surly drunk who’s come back to pester me. It’s Joey Engler, one of my most promising students, who I’ve recently taken on as a mentor. I spin the lock and swing the door wide.

  “Mr. Engler,” I say happily, “what a pleasant surprise! To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit?”

  Joey looks as surprised as I do. The curly-haired junior doesn’t respond immediately, but offers me a bewildered sort of look.

  “Dr. Parsons?”

  I chuckle. “You were expecting someone else to answer my door?”

  Joey shakes his head, and as he does the confusion fades slightly. “No, I mean, yes. Well, I honestly wasn’t expecting you to answer at all. I mean, I’ve stopped by every day for the last three days and it didn’t look like anyone was home. And your beard… excuse me, I just didn’t recognize you for a second.”