by Stuart Jaffe
"What are you laughing at?" Sandra asked, smiling at his infectious sound.
Max tried to suppress the noise, clamping his mouth down, but it only served to strengthen the laughter until it burst from his nose. He shook his head as he laughed, wiped his tearing eyes, and said, "I'm just thinking about that guy. He's all acting tough and then Wham! You nailed him." The laughter erupted again.
Sandra joined in. "I wish it hadn't been so dark. Can you picture his face? Duh!" she said and crossed her eyes. Max laughed so hard he stopped making sound and clutched his side in pain yet unable to stop smiling. After a few more feet, they had to sit on the wooden steps of a house until all their tension had been released. With a cleansing breath, Max said, "Oh my. We shouldn't laugh. When we get back we should call the police or somebody. That guy might've gotten hurt."
"So what? You really care what happens to him? He tried to kill you."
"I don't know if he would've gone that far."
"They've already shot at you."
"I just don't want to become like them. We can be better people. You know?"
Sandra squeezed his arm. "Okay. We'll call. But right now, let's keep moving. Whoever they are, they probably don't care about being the better people."
"Good point," Max said. They got back to their feet and headed along the street, their steps not filled with as much dread as before. Up ahead, the road ended. The grass rose steeply for just a short step and off to the right they saw a giant, silver coffee pot, at least ten-feet high, probably more, surrounded by flowers. "What the heck?"
A small plaque explained that the large tin coffee pot had been created in 1858 by the Mickey brothers as an advertisement for their tinsmith business. Max shook his head. "This place is nuts," he said.
"I think it's neat," Sandra said. "It's like a touch of the modern day seeping back into history. Granted, advertising isn't the best aspect of us to have seep back but still it just makes me ..."
"Are you okay?" Max asked. Sandra turned around and stared. Max followed her gaze and saw nothing. "Another ghost?"
She nodded. Then she whispered, "It's coming straight at us. It's beckoning us."
"Tell it to go away. We're done for the night."
"I can barely hear him."
"There's nothing worth hearing."
"Shush already."
Sandra leaned forward and cupped one ear. She looked so ridiculous, appearing to listen to the giant coffee pot, that Max felt another wave of giggles rising. But before he could utter one chuckle, Sandra stepped back with her face drained of color. A few months ago, Max would have said, "What's the matter? See a ghost?" Of course, now, he knew she had and that something far worse bothered her.
She turned her gaze toward him and said, "He says he's been watching us tonight. He says he knows what book we want. We just have to follow him."
"So, what's the matter?"
"We have to go over there," she said pointing further along the way they had been traveling.
"Why's that scare you? I just see trees and the street. Is there something else?"
"One more street over — that's where we're going."
Without offering more, she walked away. Max hurried to her side and attempted to get her to talk, but she behaved in a weird, zombie-like manner. Shock, he thought. But from what?
They passed a white building with tall columns that once may have been a mansion or a public assembly but now served as apartments. Turning up Bank Street, they saw sleek black statuettes lining the outside of the apartment building — a lion, a retriever, and some other dog Max did not know. The statuettes held relaxed poses that filled Max with more dread than if they had been menacing in appearance — as if their calm lay in knowing they had to exert such little effort to capture their prey.
"Where's it taking us?" Max asked, not expecting an answer but needing to hear a voice even if it belonged to him. He tasted blood in his mouth and swallowed it down. Sandra moved on, one hand out as if feeling for the ghost more than seeing the thing.
Bank Street rose steeply, and when they finally reached the next street over, Max huffed as he stared at the gothic structure. A church, he thought. Then he understood Sandra's behavior. Before them, stretching off into the distance was a low, brick wall with white fencing completing it. An arched gate led into an enormous field. A sign read:
SALEM MORAVIAN GRAVEYARD
"GOD'S ACRE"
1771
PLEASE BE REVERENT AND
RESPECTFUL OF THIS SPECIAL PLACE.
Chapter 22
When they passed through the archway, everything changed. Until that moment, even as they crossed the street and approached the cemetery, Max would have been glad to call it a night. His body ached, his nerves jangled, nothing felt right. But when they entered the stone fields, though his fear compounded, his mind swelled with awe — never had he seen a cemetery like this one.
The graves were all the same — flat, white tablets laid in orderly squares; men and women separated; a few American flags the only vertical aspect to the burials. Enormous, ancient trees protected much of the well-manicured area.
Max figured that in daylight this would be a charming, peaceful place. At night, however, the eerie uniformity and stark whiteness of the tombstones mixed with the thick silence surrounding the cemetery created a stomach-twisting sensation. He felt burdened by the graves as if a giant child had placed them so carefully and now hawked over to make sure he did not disturb a single thing.
"There's too many," Sandra said, squinting in the dark. "I can barely see."
Max saw nothing but imagined well that his wife suffered from the many ghosts of a graveyard. He wanted to push her to find the one they had followed but kept silent. She didn't need him to bug her about the obvious.
"This way, I think," Sandra said, picking up her pace while shielding her eyes with her hand.
As they walked, Max read the name, dates, and epitaphs off several graves. From his research he recognized many of them. Joseph Harris (1821-1883) The Lord is my Shepard. William Whitt (1900-1923) Innocence Taken Early Will Shine In Heaven. Rebecca Burman (1818-1890) A Light in Our Days. Eve Hull (1750-1837) Tucker Loved Her.
Max paused to read the marker again. So Eve had chosen Tucker after all. Only something must have happened to bring her home. No way would the Moravians bury her here if she was still married to a magic dabbling sinner.
"Honey? Can you see the ghosts?"
Max looked up at Sandra, surprised to see the concern on her face. "No. Only Drummond. Why? What are they doing?"
"The one we're following — it stopped here."
With a nod to the grave, Max said, "That's why." He let out a long breath. "I suppose I'll be digging quite a lot tonight."
"Max," she said, a sudden tremble in her voice that tightened around Max's neck and shoulders.
"What's wrong?"
Stepping back with her hand gesturing to the air in front of Max, she said, "The ghost. It's reaching toward you."
"Tell it to stop."
"Stop it! Please," she said, her eyes glistening. "It won't listen."
A scraping, shuffling sound rolled in. They both peered back toward the street. A dark figure approached, dragging one foot behind, clearly disoriented but determined.
"It's him," Max said.
"Run. Go. This ghost looks mean. I think it's going to do something bad. I think —"
But Max did not move. He watched the emptiness before him, wondering what it wanted with him. Why bring him all the way out here and show him the grave, if it only had wanted to harm him? Why approach slowly, cautiously, if it only had wanted to attack? "It's okay, honey," he said, knowing he sounded weak and unsure. "I think it wants to help us some more."
"You can't see this thing. Run!"
Max heard the shuffling from behind and felt the air in front of him grow cold. Don't be an idiot, he thought. He turned away, reached for Sandra's hand, and pushed off his feet but running away did n
ot occur. Instead, he felt ice break into the back of his skull.
"Max!"
He faced Sandra, and before he could wonder what had caused her ghastly countenance, he saw the ghost. It floated next to him, wore a suit, tie, and derby from the late-1800s. Its face had rotted away leaving behind a skull with bits of stringy skin hanging from its jaws like seaweed from an ancient wreck. And it had its hand thrust into Max's head. The cold spreading throughout Max's brain brought sharp flashes of pain.
"Stop it!" Sandra screamed at the ghost, but it did not budge. "Max! Max! What's it doing to you? Are you okay?"
Max looked back toward the man that had been pursuing them. As he turned his head, he saw the blinding light of thousands of ghosts. "I can see them," he said. "This hurts, but I can see them all."
As his ear began to freeze, Max tried to focus on the book. The ghost had helped them get this far, maybe this 'sight' it had given him was also meant to help. Hurry, his cold brain implored.
Awestruck by the multitude of transparent figures floating throughout the graveyard, Max could not stop gawking — even as the cold and throbbing pain reached downward toward his chest, even as the man bent on killing them came closer. Like a grand masked ball, there were people of all ages dressed in all forms of clothing from the eighteenth century to present day. A young couple strolled hand in hand as if on a Sunday afternoon. A bent man hugged another man with a loud welcome. They all moved with grace like swans in morning fog.
"Max!" Sandra said, snapping him back.
The book. He scanned the nearest ghosts, hoping one of them carried it. The hand stuck in his head pushed him to the ground so that he looked upon Eve Hull's grave. He started digging around the edges, the stone cold to the touch — or perhaps his fingers had just gone numb, he couldn't tell.
"Hurry," Sandra said, knelling beside him to help dig.
The ghost that held him tugged and pushed. Max ignored these encouragements — he moved as fast as he could and no amount of pressure from a ghost would change that. He glanced up at the approaching man. "Damnit," Max said, turning toward the ghost, the pain in his head firing high at the movement. "Instead of hurting me, get your friends to stop that guy."
As he turned back, he saw at least ten, maybe twenty, ghosts soar toward the man — arms outstretched. As they prodded the man, slipping their hands into his head, arms, legs, stomach, and chest, the man convulsed with each attack. He fought against this invisible assault, forcing himself several steps forward. More ghosts flew in creating a blinding white light centered on the man. In the end, he turned away and scuttled from the cemetery.
As Max turned back to the grave, the cold spreading over his stomach, he saw a ghostly outline inside the grave next to Eve Hull's. It was a glowing rectangle — like a book. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. He pointed but Sandra did not see his shaking hand.
When he fell to his knees, she looked up. "Enough!" she said. "You're going to kill him. Let him go. We'll find the book. Just let him go."
The ghost turned its hand more and Max groaned. Sandra stood and with a sound colder than Max's body felt, she said, "Let go of my husband." When the ghost did not move, she pulled back a fist and smashed the ghost in the stomach. It fell back and disappeared but not before uttering a shocked cry.
With a gulp of air as if he had been drowning, Max doubled over. Warmth flushed his body and every nerve tingled as if it had fallen asleep. "How ... did you ... do that?" he said through gasps.
Sandra smiled with bewildered excitement. "I figured if they can touch us —"
Max looked around but now only saw darkness. "Is it still here?"
"Yes, but it doesn't seem to be doing much. They're all just standing around waiting. I think I've freaked them out a little."
"Come here. This grave. The book is here. That's what the ghost wanted to show us."
Exhausted, but excited as well, Max and Sandra dug around the edges of the stone. Their fingers dirtied with the muddy ground, but they did not stop. Sweat mingled with drizzle, but they did not stop. They had been through too much that night to stop over such minor matters as discomfort.
When they had dug beneath the stone, Max gripped it with the tips of his fingers and lifted. Straining, he pulled the stone from the sucking ground. Sandra grabbed on from the other side and pulled. The gravestone lifted a little bit, but its weight threatened to bring it right back down. With a low grunt, Max lifted harder, getting one foot underneath him and pushing upward. The ground emitted a loud slurp and the stone broke free, sending a wave of warm air upward. It smelled bad, but bad odors were among their least concerns.
Sitting in the middle of the mud square that marked where the stone had been was a wrapped package. Neither Max nor Sandra moved at first. Stunned by the simple object that had caused so much trouble, Max felt a wave of guilt rush over him like he had when he was a kid and broke the law by stealing a comic book. He looked around the empty cemetery, half-expecting to see the police come zooming in with flashing reds and blues.
"Take it," Sandra said. "Take it and let's get out of here."
Max snatched the package and tucked it under his coat to protect it from the drizzle. Like a child anxious to receive a reward, he hurried his steps, clutching the package close to his stomach, protecting it like a baby. It pressed against his skin with a warm touch and the smell of decay drifted toward his nose as they headed back.
Though both wanted to get to the car and leave Old Salem, they took a long route around to continue avoiding Main Street. A car drove by — the lonely sound of its motor in the quiet night reached them long after it had passed. When they arrived at the small Salt Street lot and saw their car sitting under the large tree where they had left it, Max felt both relief and worry. Sandra gripped his hand.
They stood across the street, watching the car, wondering if the man who had assaulted them watched it, too. With water dribbling off of Max's head, his body cold except for the warmth of a package torn from the grave, his bones aching from the night's exertions, part of him just wanted to walk home. The hell with this moron. But the idea of walking for miles, of taking hours before he could safely open what rested against his stomach, was more than he could stand.
"Damn," he said, walking to the car with a firm step and a defiant scowl. Sandra came behind, de-activated the alarm, and unlocked the doors before they reached the car.
Once inside, Sandra drove off, not waiting for either of them to settle in, put on a seatbelt, or even open the package. She let out a long sigh dotted with chuckling. Then she reached above, flicked on the interior light, and said, "Well, go on. Let's see if this was worth it."
With careful motions, Max produced the package and unwrapped it. A journal — a leather-covered journal. The smell of old age and forgotten times wafted over him as he opened it to the first page.
"Oh," he said.
"What?"
"This isn't Hull's journal."
"What? No. That can't be," Sandra said, her eyes welling.
"It's okay. Really. Maybe even better. This journal belongs to Stan Bowman."
Chapter 23
Max settled into his desk chair like an injured dog — slow, cautious, and whimpering. Every bit of skin, muscle, and bone throbbed. Every motion, every glance, every sound pulsed pain through his head far exceeding the worst hangover of his college life. Wrapped in a blanket while his clothes dried over a chair, he sipped a little of the whiskey Drummond had provided, turning his whimpers into less embarrassing grumbles.
"Enough of your whining; what's in the journal?" Drummond asked as he paced the room.
Sandra eased in the other dry chair, also wrapped in a blanket, also sipping Drummond's whiskey. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and would have fallen asleep if not for her own intense curiosity over the journal.
Max yawned. It was close to four in the morning, and his body reminded him for the hundredth time that night, he was no longer a young man. All-nighters of
any variety were a thing of the past.
"Let's see," he said as he opened the journal. Its distinctive, earthy odor lifted into the air as he turned the pages. "You gotta be joking."
"What's wrong?" Drummond asked.
"No dates," Max said, skimming page after page. "Not a single date is recorded. What kind of nitwit writes a journal without dates?"
Sandra smiled. "The kind that only writes it for himself. I hate it when people date their entries as if expecting that someday when they die, the public will cry out to know about their lives and all that crap. Nobody cares about that stuff. He wrote this for himself. And that's good for us. It means we'll get the unvarnished truth as he saw it."
Drummond pointed to Sandra. "You are a bright, bright lady. I'm telling you, sweetheart, if you weren't married and I wasn't dead —"
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Here," Max said. "Yeah, listen to this one — 'It's been a long time since I've written in this thing. Part of me thought I was done with it. I thought I didn't need this old book anymore. Guess some things never finish. They just hang in the back of your head waiting for a chance to spring alive again. The war was like that. I'm done with it. Served my time, did a good job, and gave up good use of a leg in the process. Damn Krauts took my leg. And I'm thinking I'm finished, it's over for me, nothing more to do with it. But some things just never die. I don't think a single one of us will ever be done with this war. We'll be in our eighties, walking with canes, and we'll still be living the whole nightmare over and over. And to prove this, I merely have to think about today. Mr. William Hull dropped by with RJR himself. They walked in like two noblemen come to look at the serfs. For the first time in my life I thought I might know what a negro feels like. I think some others felt it too. Especially Artie Thompson. After the two kings left, one of the black boys who tries to pick up a few bit helping with trash and such came in. Artie hollered on and on, spit on the boy, and kicked him a few times until the tike ran off. But that's not the thing. The thing was Hull."
