HEARTTHROB

by Unknown

  Oh, there was a bit of public clamor, to be sure. The people who formed the church congregation wrote angry letters of protest to the city officials and to the newspaper. They even picketed the city hall. But they were, after all, mostly old people, not very wealthy, and thus not very important to the city fathers. Not when contrasted with the likes of Thomas Tilden in any case. There was very little in the way of doubt how the matter was going to turn out. The congregation and their dead simply would have to be satisfied with the new site, which had been picked out for them. All costs of relocation, including construction of the new church and reburial of the deceased, were to be borne by the Tilden interests, naturally. Thus as usual the needs of progress would be served. Or so Thomas Tilden thought...

  It was quite late when the developer was sitting in his private office, going over the fine print of the papers which, when signed the next day, would cement the movement of the church and graves. A sound in the outer office made Thomas Tilden look up from his paper work. There were more sounds... shuffling sounds... sounds of feet moving across the floor out there. Cautiously, Thomas Tilden rose from his chair. "Who's there?" he asked.

  Slowly the door connecting the two rooms opened. The man who entered stood in the shadows, beyond the range of the goose-necked lamp on the desk. As Thomas Tilden's hand went toward the lamp, the visitor spoke. "I would not do that, Mr. Tilden," he said in a soft voice. "It would not be pleasant for you to look upon my face, and it is best that we try to avoid the unpleasant, is that not so?" When the question received no reply, the visitor went on: "Yes, it is best to avoid the unpleasantness. We — my friends and I — do not wish to move, Mr. Tilden. You have the power to move us, I know that, but having that power you also have the power not to move us. And such is our request."

  Thomas Tilden was tempted for a moment to reply that he already had heard all the arguments the church congregation had to offer, but something stopped him. The chilling idea came to him that it was not a member of the church who was standing in the shadows to the other side of the desk. But that was ridiculous, was it not? And so, Thomas Tilden jerked up the lamp and directed its beam toward the face of his visitor. The crash of the lamp was drowned out by Thomas Tilden's cry.

  In the renewed darkness, he could see the almost fleshless hand of the visitor pointing at him. "I come in peace, Thomas Tilden," the soft voice said. "But there are others who have come with me — they await in the outer room — who are of a more angry frame of mind. They, you see, have had a chance to grow more attached to their resting places... they've been there much longer than I. If, however, you require proof..."

  Thomas Tilden, his voice hardly able to speak, conveyed the thought that he required no further proof. Also he did not really require the plot of land under discussion. And, indeed, as the door closed behind his nocturnal visitor and the shuffling in the outer office once more resumed, Thomas Tilden ripped to shreds the papers he had been reading, his hands shaking violently as he did so. To this day, he cannot pass a graveyard without suffering from uncontrollable trembling, but he does not complain. He could have suffered far worse...

  Did you know that this place, the place in which, you now live, used to be a magnificent old cemetery? It's true, but the bodies weren't removed. Just the headstones were. The "developer" built right over the graves. True, that was some years ago and the dead in their coffins haven't been heard from as yet, but... do you feel the resentment in the air? It seems to permeate everything... Do you feel it?

  The End