Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  She had witnessed this scene before. Most of the wraiths would converge on the tower of bodies, drilling their television static into the captives’ brains. The remaining few would take pursuit. They weren’t about to lose a prisoner without a fight.

  Sure enough, a cluster of pierced wraiths descended towards her and her robed accomplice. Her heart thumped. Her mind temporarily froze, immobilizing her the way a glitch freezes a computer program.

  The monk screamed something at her, but even at this short distance, the clogged air choked his words out of existence. She looked up at him, dumbfounded by fear. He grimaced and kicked her in the head with his sandaled foot. That cleared the glitch. She set off in motion again, quickening her pace.

  She reached the ground. Bits of broken shale shifted under her bare feet. The sharp fragments cut into her soles, but the analgesic continued to shelter her from any discomfort.

  “Keep moving,” the monk said as he landed a few feet in front of her. His sandals slid in the loose shale. “Follow me.”

  The monk’s words were as crisp and clear as if he had uttered them in an acoustic dome. The air on the ground seemed to have thinned, a sharp contrast to the clogged atmosphere on the tower. Uninhibited sound bounced all around, amplifying to near intolerable levels.

  She covered her ears as the screams and howls from the human chain tower, no longer muted, blasted her eardrums like a sonic bomb.

  He grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.” Again his words sounded like a shout even though he only spoke a whisper.

  What level of Dante’s Inferno is this? Again, her mind, while trained to be agnostic, borrowed from religious references.

  She managed to keep her footing as they skittered across the uneven surface. A putrid stench, like rotting compost, assailed her nostrils. She looked behind to see four pierced villains closing in, chunks of decomposing meat dangling from their hooks. She made a bizarre connection between others who had tried to escape and the bits of flesh hanging from the pierced bodies. The though made her squeamish.

  “Run!” she screamed, forgetting about the sound amplification.

  The monk flinched, grabbed his ears and dropped to his knees.

  Dear Mary mother of Christos, had she imploded the man’s brain with her carelessly uttered shout?

  She tapped his shoulder.

  He waved his hand and replied in a hushed tone, “I’m fine. Keep moving.”

  He jumped to his feet. She followed, noticing a slight trickle of blood seeping from his right ear canal.

  She kept running, fearing to glance behind her. She could still smell the rotting meat.

  Despite their frantic speed, they made it across the treacherous plain of loose shale without injury, arriving at a dark wall. The monk bent low to pick up a Coleman lantern. He lighted it and handed it over.

  “Take this.” He spoke in the softest undertone to protect their vulnerable ears. “You’ll see a tunnel a few feet down. Don’t worry. You’re going to make it.”

  She took the lantern. “Thanks. Who are you?”

  “My name is Klahan. Now, go. Please.”

  She peeked over her shoulder. The floating wraiths approached. She had scant seconds left. “One thing, please. I need to know what this place is.”

  The monk widened his eyes, irritated by her delay. “It has many names, many references. My people call it the Shadowed Forest.”

  “Am I dead?”

  “No, you’re not dead. However, you are now tied to this place. Your release may only be short lived. If there are things you need to set right, do so quickly.”

  She thanked Klahan one last time and followed the wall. In her haste she almost passed the tunnel, spotting its dark maw at the last second.

  She paused at the opening, looking back. The monk stood his ground as the four wraiths made a tactical approach.

  She said a silent prayer for him. She doubted her supplication would do the trick. It wasn’t as if she had been a devout religionist all her life and deserved to have her little plea answered.

  As the wraiths came within striking distance, they extended their studded and barbell pierced arms like demonic shepherds desiring to gather the fold into their bosoms.

  Kelly hoped Klahan had some way to fight. He did. A translucent bundle of energy propelled itself outward from the monk’s body towards the pierced specters. A trail of shimmering air connected the rudimentary form to the monk’s face like an ethereal umbilical cord.

  The rising form resembled something simian. Kelly made a mental connection between the ascending energy and the monkey symbol glowing on the monk’s cheek?

  The monk, his feet digging into the loose shale, spread his arms wide and thrust his face towards the black sky, allowing the wispy trail to unwind from his face like unraveling kite string. The translucent monkey form roared up in front of the four pierced pursuers. The wraiths retracted their extended arms and appeared to shrink back.

  Not wanting to jeopardize her opportunity to escape, Kelly wished the monk luck and darted into the tunnel.

  Any thoughts of making a quick escape from this dark dungeon were abolished soon after entering the passageway. The first hundred feet stopped at a wall made of the same shale that formed the ground. Kelly pointed the Coleman lantern in all directions. No visible exit; a definite dead end.

  Should the pierced wraiths battle their way through the monk she would be cornered. Desperate, she felt the wall with her free hand. Her fingers clawed and raked the shale. Nothing gave.

  Despairing, she propped her back up against the barrier and slid to a sitting position, wiping sweat from her eyes. She felt trickles of blood soaking the inside of her terry cloth robe. Dark splotches began to show through like bullet wounds.

  A flicker caught her eye like a few random frames from a celluloid film. The sensation came from her right. She looked and caught another flicker upon the empty shale wall. For a couple seconds she caught fragments of a scene beyond that quickly faded as if the reel in the projector had run its course.

  She tried to conceptualize what she had glimpsed. A profusion of extravagant colors set against light colored wood? Large planes of glass defaced by graffiti? A large hulking green beast whose skin had been branded with colorful symbols? She knew these images, but couldn’t quite wrap her mind around them.

  She waited for another revelatory flash from the invisible projector. When it came it offered her another quick explosion of images that again faded into the impenetrable black shale.

  Kelly moved to the wall. She pushed her hands on the rough surface. It was as solid as granite and didn’t give an inch.

  When the flickering returned, her hands fell forward as if the wall had disappeared. She saw a blurred reproduction of her wrists and hands emerge on the other side. Her appendages stretched the skin of reality, bending the scene beyond like funhouse mirrors at a carnival.

  Frightened, she attempted to pull her hands back but she acted too late. The visions slammed shut like a closing door. She couldn’t move her arms. She was embedded up to her elbows in the solid wall, caught like a bear in a trap.

  The clatter of loose shale drew her attention back towards the tunnel entrance. Wafts of putrescent meat assailed her nostrils. An eerie luminescence formed like radioactive fog. Static charge from black speckled eyes bore into her skin. A prickly sensation erupted across her entire body as if she was being poked by thousands of pins and needles.

  Her mind screamed in panic. She refused to be taken back to that demented tower of human flesh. She pulled, but her hands stayed put.

  Stuck, she watched the glowing wraiths float down the dark passage.

  Her entire body buzzed with the invasive static. It penetrated her flesh like invisible maggots burrowing into her skin.

  Approaching the verge of collapse, Kelly felt the solid wall start to give. The images of emblazoned wood and tagged planes of glass returned. She thought she saw a figure resting his head on the patterned wood.

&n
bsp; Choosing not to face the wrath of the wraiths, she made an instant decision to thrust her body forward. As if passing through molten glass, her body inched into the world waiting beyond. The dark tunnel sealed itself behind her.

  The flood of static energy instantly vanished from her body and mind. In its place a swirl of colors and patterns circled around her as if she viewed the world from a spinning merry-go-round.

  The vertigo sensation gradually slowed to a halt and she found herself standing in a familiar room. She recognized the graffiti scrawl painted on the shop windows as well as the tattooed Frankenstein mascot. She smiled at the familiar tattoo flash on the maple wood desk. She smiled even bigger at the sleeping figure, his head hanging back over the top of the chair, his arms dangling over the armrests.

  Silly Willy.

  She had never been so happy to see him. She burst into tears of relief, holding her hand to her mouth to stifle the sobs. He looked so peaceful. With his periods of sleep being so infrequent and troubled she decided not to wake him.

  “Nice jerk off shirt,” she said under her breath. His current T-shirt read Welcome To America. We Speak English Here. Although she didn’t agree with the sentiment, she was glad that in her absence his taste for conservative slogans hadn’t changed.

  She noticed drops of blood spilling from the bottom of her robe onto the floor. She needed medical attention even though the analgesic still numbed the pain. William’s cell phone rested on the desk next to his French styled glasses. She grabbed the Motorolla and opened the front door. The entrance bell jingled but didn’t disturb his sleep.

  Outside, predawn light competed with the orange fuzz of the streetlights. She dialed 911 and described to the operator the details of her emergency.

  After being assured that help was on the way, Kelly collapsed under the large Inkenstein logo.

  As her thoughts receded, she remembered a passage from Justin Vandermeer’s AA tract. Funny how she remembered so much from that quirky piece of literature. It quoted a scripture from Revelations, something about washing their robes and making them white in the blood of the lamb. She looked at her robe; definitely stained red, not white.

  Guess it’s not the blood of the lamb. With that humorous thought roaming her mind, the blood loss and exhaustion collected their toll and she passed out.

  Chapter 15: Inadequacies

  The sound of pounding fists forced William out of a peaceful sleep. In his dream the black magic tattoos had been gallivanting across the landscape of his skin, engaging in little soirees while he slept.

  Who the hell wanted to get inked at this god forsaken hour? He blinked his eyes and grabbed his glasses. Where was his phone? Even more strange; a Coleman lantern sat on the floor surrounded by dark splotches. He rubbed a finger through the dark stains and sniffed it; coppery, like blood. He self-examined his body but found no visible wounds.

  Missing cell phone, splashes of blood, a Coleman lantern; all clues to a mystery his sleep befuddled mind couldn’t solve. He didn’t recall having any visitors last night.

  William’s vision focused on the front of the shop. A police officer pounded his fists on the glass window.

  William opened the unlocked door. “Morning officer, how can I help you?”

  A small crowd had gathered in the early morning hours, drawn to the commotion like jackals to a hunt. William spotted Lorenzo Shaefer among them. The owner of Fashion Tattoos & Piercings wore a smug look on his face as if he had finally caught William holding a smoking gun. Two officers examined the concrete just below the Inkenstein logo.

  “You been here all night?” The officer’s baritone voice complimented his solid muscular body. Both lent him an air of strength and authority. “Notice anything strange this morning?”

  “No. What happened?”

  By way of reply, the officer tossed an object toward William. Reflexively, he caught it. “That your cell phone?”

  William caught it and flipped it open. He nodded, fidgeting with his glasses.

  “How come the girl we found outside your shop had it on her?”

  William shrugged. “Don’t know. Where’s the girl now?”

  “Ambulance took her away about a half-hour ago.”

  Ambulance? He hadn’t heard any sirens. His pulsing headache and the empty flask of Woodford Reserve on his desktop provided good clues as to why.

  “Is she bad off?”

  “She’ll live, if that’s what you’re asking.” The officer fixed William with an icy glare and turned to the spot where the other two cops worked. “I want to show you something.”

  William joined the officer and looked down at a large pool of drying blood.

  “Dear god, you sure she’s all right?”

  The officer tipped his hat. “Why don’t you start by telling me who she is.”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  The officer’s icy glare intensified, becoming glacial. “Don’t smart talk me. She had your phone. Was she a customer? Did you give her one of her hundreds of piercings?”

  “I don’t pierce.”

  “Whatever, man. Look. I don’t think you realize how serious this is. Who was in your shop last night, buddy?”

  William grasped for an answer, but failed. He stared at the cop. From down the sidewalk, he saw Lorenzo motion with his hands.

  “It was Kelly, wasn’t it?” Lorenzo shouted. “What were you and your little perv friend up to? Busted.”

  “Get lost, Lorenzo.”

  “Hey, hey,” the officer said, directing William’s attention back to himself. “Okay. Here’s what we know. Some girl used your cell to place a 911 call. They found her right here at this spot bleeding from hundreds of small wounds. Nearly every inch of her body bled, as if somebody had yanked out a bunch of her piercings.”

  “You keep mentioning piercings.”

  “Yeah. All over her body. Hundreds of them. Young girl, too. I’d never let my daughter get away with that. Hey, what’s wrong? You don’t look well.”

  “Nothing. Just a little hung over. What did she look like?”

  “Frail. Barely over a hundred pounds. Short fuzzy hair, practically bald. Probably brown, but it was hard to tell with all that blood.”

  Weeks had passed since Kelly had vanished, but somebody had entered the tat shop last night. According to the cop the person had brown hair. Kelly’s hair had been dyed eggplant purple before he had shaved it. For all he knew her natural color could have been blonde, black, red or even brown.

  “What hospital did they take her to?”

  “Sorry. That’s privileged information at the moment. We’re still investigating.”

  “Can you take me there?”

  “Why? Now you think you know this girl?”

  William did want to see if the girl was Kelly. Not knowing how much suspicion he was under he decided not to give the policeman anything that could be misread as self-incriminating. “No. Definitely not. I don’t know her. So am I a suspect or what?”

  The stout officer handed William a business card with contact information. “Not at the moment. If you happen to recover from your alcohol amnesia and remember anything unusual about last night give me a ring. I’m sure we’ll be in touch. Later.”

  William flipped Lorenzo off as he went back inside Inkenstein, locking the door. He tried not to foster the glimmer of hope gathering momentum in his heart. He considered phoning every hospital in town. He didn't, though, figuring the time consuming process would turn into a dead end. Being the victim of a crime, they wouldn’t readily divulge information on their patient.

  In the past, before Kelly had pierced through, William had fooled himself into thinking of her as just a friend. In her absence, however, that fondness had evolved into more, much more. As the weeks passed, and her disappearance seemed increasingly likely to be permanent rather than temporary, a stone weight of guilt had dropped onto his shoulders.

  Therefore, any hint of hope, should it fail to materialize, would add
to the stone weight and crush him out of existence. No. The girl was not Kelly. He couldn’t afford to think otherwise.

  To distract his faltering mind, he became absorbed in straightening the shop. He locked the mysterious lantern in a supply closet, fetched a bucket and brush and began scrubbing away the blood stains on the floorboards. He worked at them until he broke out in a sweat. Satisfied with the results, he took his exhausted body up front and collapsed on the customer bench.

  He tried to force sleep, but his agitated mind did not allow it. He reached to the side and grabbed a magazine off the coffee table. Advertise The Paradise, published by Adonai’s Attestants; the funny little brochure Kelly had given him. What was it she had wanted him to notice? The artwork? He perused the contents finding nothing appealing about the religious clichés within. He let the spiritual propaganda fall to his chest, removed his glasses and rubbed fatigued eyes.

  This time sleep did rise up to claim him and he welcomed its fuzzy embrace.

  His rest proved short lived. He awoke to a sudden onslaught of fear. He tried opening eyes that refused to open. He tried lifting arms that felt like concrete blocks. He tried turning his head, but it refused, locked by an invisible vice. The suffocating weight on his chest imparted so much pressure he fully expected to asphyxiate.

  He knew this, had explained the phenomenon to Kelly. The Sleep Crusher. He had one of its many incarnations tattooed on his back. Had the Scandinavian Mara wraith come to life? If so, it was both good and bad. Good, because one of his magical tats had finally sparked to life. Bad, because the malignant creature would squeeze every pocket of air out of his body if he didn’t find a way to catapult her off his chest.

  No matter how much he willed his body into motion he remained in a state of paralysis. The pressure increased. Despair mounted. His ribs felt close to snapping, his lungs close to collapsing.

  Then it was over; up and gone like the last trace of smoke from a brush fire.

  He worked his legs to the side of the bench and sat up. He sucked in the stale air of the shop. As soon as he caught his breath he ran to the mirror in the bathroom and pulled off his T-shirt. He looked over his shoulder at the reflection.