Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  “Why not? Once I'm done here, and I nearly am, I think I’ll put the cabin in the hands of a real estate agent and get the fuck out of Wallen's Gap and never look back. You could come with me.”

  A sharp rapping made them both jump. Cassie's dad leered in through the passenger window, Carl’s wiry frame silhouetted behind him.

  “Oh my God.” Cassie's voice was quieter than ever as she wound down the window.

  “Gonna sit out here in this piece of shit car all night?” her father asked.

  Grant knew his car was certainly not a piece of shit, but wasn't about to rise to that bait.

  “Grant, this is my father, Graham Brunswick. Daddy, this is Grant Shipman.”

  “I know who he is and I don't appreciate him gallivanting around with my daughter.”

  “Sorry, Mister Brunswick,” Grant said. “We were just talking.”

  The look Brunswick directed his way said mind your own business, but he spared a reply. “Talking is it? That all?”

  What did that even mean? “I had to go up to Kingsville today and Cassie needed a ride.”

  “So you thought you'd just give her a ride, didya?”

  “Yes, sir. Just trying to be neighborly.”

  “And just what the hell do you know about neighborly, city boy?”

  The tension in the air thickened and Brunswick's face hardened. Grant desperately wanted to leap from the car and whip both these idiots' asses, and felt pretty sure he could do it too, but that would only be more trouble for Cassie. “I don't mean to cause any trouble,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Well you done stirred up a whole mess of it. You drive off with my daughter without so much as a by your leave and you say you don't mean no trouble?”

  “I don't need your permission if I want to go out,” Cassie said.

  Her face whipped aside as her father smacked her cheek. He had moved quicker than a striking rattlesnake. “None of your lip, girl!”

  “Hey! Don't you dare hit her!” Grant shifted in his seat, opened his door.

  Carl, unnoticed, had circled around behind the car and kicked Grant's door closed, banging it hard into his shoulder. It was all Grant could do to resist rubbing his shoulder, but he wasn't about to give Carl the satisfaction.

  “You just get on out of here, now, and you don't so much as talk to my little girl again,” Brunswick said. “Or I'll do more than hit you, boy. I got a deer rifle with your name on it and a right friendly association with the law in this town. Now get your ass on.”

  Cassie looked at Grant with tears in her eyes. A bead of blood glistened on her lower lip. “You have to go,” she said. “It was stupid to let you drive me up here. Should have dropped me down the road or something.”

  “I can't leave you here.”

  Cassie eyes were pleading. “You have to go!” she said loudly.

  Her father pulled open her door even as Carl continued to lean heavily against Grant's, trapping him.

  As Cassie maneuvered herself to release the seatbelt she leaned close. “I'll sneak out and come tonight,” she whispered quickly and got out of the car without another word or even catching his eye.

  Grant was uncertain he had heard her correctly until she looked back as her father dragged her up towards the house and she mouthed Tonight! at him again. He felt a flush of relief, but it was overwhelmed by his concern, his terror, about what Brunswick and Carl might do to her in the meantime.

  Carl rapped on his window. With a grimace, he wound it down about two inches.

  “Don't even think about sniffing around Cassie no more,” Carl slurred through the gap, his breath pungent with beer and cigarette smoke. “You get your ass on like you're told, you hear?”

  Grant felt powerless. He hated the thought of leaving Cassie, but if he stayed he would only make it worse for both of them. Then again, one punch wouldn't make things that much worse, would it?

  “Problem here?” a rough voice called out.

  Grant looked out the back window and deflated at the sight of the Stallard boys standing on the running boards of their pickup right behind him. He hadn't even heard them pull up.

  “No problem,” Carl called out, with a leering grin. “Mister Shipman here was just about hightail it on out of here. Ain't that right, Shipman?”

  Grinding his teeth, refusing to answer with even a nod, he started the car and pulled away. He had a tiny moment of satisfaction when Carl had to leap back to avoid having his toes run over. Grant wasn't surprised when the Stallard boys tailed him all the way back home, though they kept their distance. The last thing he saw as he turned up the dirt drive towards his cabin was their headlights, stationary in the road behind. He wondered if they were going to take up residence in his driveway all night again and what that might mean for Cassie if she did try to come to him later. He yelled a curse at the heavens and drove up to the cabin, lost and directionless. What now?

  Chapter 10

  The first thing Grant did upon arriving back at the cabin was retrieve the old single-shot, bolt-action .22 he'd found in the bedroom closet. He wished for something with more stopping power, but this was the only gun in the house, save the Civil War rifle. Leave it to his dad to be the only man in the southeastern United States without his own personal armory. Not that Grant was dying to shoot someone, but if the Stallards had killed the professor, they could very well kill him too.

  He'd found half a box of shells in the kitchen. He slipped one into the chamber, and pocketed a handful before stepping outside. He'd been a decent shot with a rifle when he was a kid, but hadn't touched one in years. His dad had enjoyed small game hunting, mostly squirrels and rabbits, and took pride in his marksmanship with the old .22 that had belonged to Grant's grandfather. To the elder Shipman's disappointment, Grant's interest extended no farther than target shooting. It had been one of the many small differences that served to distance them from one another.

  He dismissed the memory with a shake of his head and looked around for a target. He needed to test both his skill and the rifle itself. He assumed his dad had kept it clean and in good order, but what did Grant really know about rifles? Suddenly paranoid that it might, he didn't know, blow up in his face or something, he held it out away from him and fired off a shot into the soft earth up near the smokehouse.

  The recoil was minimal, but he was so out of practice that he hadn't expected it, and almost allowed the weapon to slip from his hands. He grabbed hold of it and looked around, fully expecting Carl or the Stallards to be standing somewhere nearby, pointing and laughing. Finding himself alone, he managed a laugh, reloaded the rifle, and picked out a target-- a fat pine cone about fifty yards away, limned in moonlight on the end of a long branch.

  He lined up his sights, took a deep breath, relaxed, and searched for his center. Shooting was a bit like the martial arts he so enjoyed studying-- it required focus and control of your body and emotions to do it well. A familiar sense of calm confidence settled on him like a cloak and he squeezed off a measured shot.

  He missed.

  The bullet clipped the limb an inch to the left of his intended target. He reloaded, adjusted his aim, and grinned when the pine cone exploded in a shower of gray-brown bits. He wanted to keep shooting, but that would be a waste of time and bullets.

  Emboldened by his intact skill, he decided to take a walk down the road and see if one or all of the Stallards were camped out on his drive. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he did find them there, but he wanted to at least see if they were still standing guard over him.

  Using the moonlight to navigate, he kept to the forested hill above the dirt driveway. No need to provoke a confrontation unless absolutely necessary. He walked all the way to the main road and saw no one. Why had the Stallards suddenly left him alone after following him home? It didn't make sense. It ought to be good news, but it filled him with a sense of dread. Something about the situation had changed, but what?

  Movement in the trees to his left made him jump. He tur
ned, swinging the rifle up. A group of figures drifted through the trees, glowing with a soft, spectral light. Five or six of them moved like smoke, insubstantial as they slid over the rough ground. Grant’s hands shook as he gripped the weapon, his eyes wide, mouth open and dry. The group turned towards him, their hands rising, arms outstretched, reaching for him. Grant let out a strangled cry, backing up. The group moaned and wailed, speeding up as they closed the gap between themselves and Grant. He could see the trees behind them through their shimmering forms, their faces twisted in pain and longing as they shot forward, almost flying through the woods. Grant screamed and turned to run. He tripped over tangled roots and slammed into the ground, his breath escaping in a rush, the rifle tumbling from his grip.

  Gasping, desperately trying to suck new air into his lungs, he rolled over, hands raised against what ghostly assault might be coming, but nothing was there. The forest was still and dark.

  Shaking, nauseated with shock, he got to his feet and retrieved the weapon. Just how many strange and frightening things could happen in this godforsaken shithole of a town? He wanted to get back into his car and keep driving until Wallen’s Gap was a distant memory, but all he could see in his mind’s eye was Cassie, looking back and mouthing Tonight! He couldn’t leave her now. What he really needed was answers. Understanding was the only defence against whatever was going on here.

  He headed back up towards the cabin and thoughts of the strange book in the smokehouse drifted through his mind. If he wanted to know more about what was going on, perhaps some answer could be found there. He needed something to go on. He grabbed a flashlight from the cabin and trudged up the hill.

  He found one answer when he reached the smokehouse, but it was to the question of why the Stallards had stopped camping in his driveway, not what he might do for Cassie. The door was kicked in and the compartment where the book had been now stood open. He could see scrapes and indentations where it had been pried open with a crowbar. The Stallards had taken it. It was too great a coincidence to have been anyone else. Their mother had tried to get it, they'd shown up poking around. It had to be them.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Knowing it was futile, he reached inside and felt around inside the hollowed-out space. No book.

  And then his fingers fell on something small and hard. It had a waxy feel to it, a short narrow thing, with lumps and a slightly sharp, flat end.

  He drew it out carefully and held it up in the beam of the flashlight. With a bark of surprise and disgust, he dropped it on the dirt floor. A finger. Stunned, thinking he must have got that wrong, he crouched for another look. Sure enough, it was a finger, but ancient and blackened, like something from The Mummy. The nail was long and ragged, that must have been the sharp end he felt. The skin was tight across the knuckle bones, and the end that should be attached to a hand was dry and hard, the skin edges flaky around the circle of bone sticking out. A smooth edge on the bone, like the finger had been cut off with a sharp knife. Before or after death? he wondered.

  It was small, no surprise the Stallards had missed it. And if his dad thought it important enough to hide along with the book, it must have some value. He picked it up again, held it up in the flashlight beam again for a closer look. A sensation drifted through him, like the feeling when a spider runs over your arm. A kind of repulsion that shivers deep in the core. But something else too. A sense almost of power, of direction. Like there was something about the dessicated old finger that reached beyond the obvious and into realms less traveled.

  “Where did my dad get you?” Grant said softly to himself. “And why did he keep you?”

  The finger flexed at the middle knuckle and twisted, pointed out the door of the smokehouse.

  Grant cried out in alarm and the finger hit the dirt again. Panting, heart jackhammering his ribs, he stared at the thing on the floor. A part of him was embarrassed that he had screamed like a little girl. Another part told him to run the hell away and keep going until Wallen's Gap was far in his rear view mirror.

  The finger was still and straight on the ground, inert. He crouched and prodded it. Nothing. Surely, he'd imagined it. But somehow, he knew that wasn't the case.

  With a trembling hand, he picked it up and held it by the stump of bone. It was hard, dry and immobile again. He felt an urge to ask another question, felt the insane certainty that, in some way, it would answer. The sensation of power swelled inside him. And with it, the revulsion, a blackness soaking into the edges of his soul. This thing was clearly potent, yet it was undoubtedly dangerous too.

  Grant tucked it into his shirt pocket, unsure quite why, but reluctant to leave it behind. He grabbed the rifle, and stalked out into the night.

  Right now, his most fervent wish was that the Stallards would return. In the mood he was in, he figured he could take all three of them at once.

  “Dammit to fucking hell.”

  Chapter 11

  Grant sat up late into the night, watched the hands of the clock creep past eleven, through midnight, towards one a.m. Cassie had said she would come later, and there were no Stallards camping in the driveway to stop her this time. Or were there?

  Exhausted, but too wired to even contemplate sleep, he took the .22 and headed out again. He left the flashlight behind and relied on moonlight to show the way. If anyone was waiting down the drive, no sense in alerting them to his presence. He crept through the trees, all the way to the road and sure enough, the Stallards were nowhere to be seen. So perhaps Cassie was not coming to him after all. He ground his teeth, wondering if she had changed her mind and decided not to come, or if, for some reason, she couldn't come. He remembered the slap through the car window, the anger and hatred plain on Brunswick's face. And Carl's. He imagined Cassie bruised and beaten, locked in her bedroom.

  He felt helpless and it only made him more furious. What could he do? He wanted to protect her, but she went willingly with her father. Of course, he couldn't blame her for that. He was her father and she had to make her own decisions. But Grant was falling for her, ached deep in his bones to protect her, and he knew the only way he could really protect her was to take her away from Wallen's Gap. He needed to convince her there really wasn't anything to hold her there. These were big decisions, but Cassie was abused and scared and the only way out was all the way out. That didn't even begin to take into account what else might be happening in her life. The stories about sleepwalking and finding blood on herself, her dreams that matched his vision in that hideous book. Not to mention all the other weird shit that he desperately tried to ignore.

  Standing in the deep shadow of a pine, Grant jumped as something squirmed against his chest. The finger was still in his shirt pocket, almost forgotten. Reluctant to reach in, he pulled his pocket forward and leaned out into the moonlight to see. The finger sat in the lint at the bottom of his pocket half curled like a comma. As he looked, it straightened and curled up, straightened and curled up, jabbing at his shirt.

  “Shit!” He sprang backward, the severed digit tumbling out onto the dirt. He'd almost managed to convince himself the scene in the smokehouse had been his imagination. Clearly not. As he watched, the digit once again flexed and extended, somehow conveying insistence in its motion.

  “Are you pointing me to something?”

  The finger fell still. As Grant drew a breath, it flexed again, more insistent than ever. With a small intake of breath, he picked it up and held it by the smooth stub of bone. The thing squirmed in his grip. He turned his body and the finger crooked forward, jabbing at the air. He turned further and the digit twisted and squirmed. When he turned back, it jabbed again, pointed up over the hill in the direction of higher ground, somewhere north of Wallen's Gap.

  “There's nothing up there but more freaking trees,” Grant said softly. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  The finger stiffened and all sensation of animation left it. Grant held a hard, dead bone wrapped in age-blackened skin once more.

  “Am I r
eally talking to a dead man's fucking finger?” he said, and dropped it back into his pocket. Once more the sensation of dread and power washed through him, enhanced him somehow. There was no doubt this ancient bodypart had been alive and moving moments ago, even if it was dead again now. He didn't like anything about it, considered throwing it away into the night-shrouded forest.

  Immediately despair swept over him. He could never throw this thing away, he needed it! He took a shuddering breath, the desperation of the feeling made his guts icy. “Dad kept it for a reason,” he said aloud to the night, rationalizing his reasons for holding onto it. At least for the time being. He stomped back up to the cabin, locked the doors and fell into a rough, restless sleep filled with monsters and threats he could not quite recall upon waking.

  The morning dawned clear and cool. Grant dragged himself from bed not long after sun up, still dog tired but beyond trying to sleep any more. He felt like he hadn't slept properly since he got to this shithole town. During his tossing and turning he’d come to one conclusion. First thing today he would go to Cassie's house and insist that he talk to her. If he had to beat his way to her through Brunswick and Carl, or any other fucker, so be it. He was at the end of his patience.

  Grant downed coffee and toast to quell the hollow rumble in his gut, and drove into town. As he cruised along the main street, it occurred to him that it was still only a little after seven and that was too early to go calling on anyone. He should at least try to start without pissing them all off. The diner was just opening, so Grant pulled up and went inside for more coffee.

  As he sat and sipped, he stared into a large mirror on the wall opposite the counter. A crack ran down the wall behind the man, the plaster separating as the line of darkness widened. Grant froze, eyes wide. The crack opened further and flames appeared to flicker inside. Dark fingers with black talons slipped through and gripped the ragged edge, taking hold of the other side, as though they could rip the wall apart so whatever it was could step through. The owner turned from his grill and made to walk right past the yawning fracture.