But when she comes near the stone she seeks, she can see it. For it is the finest stone in the graveyard, carved of moon-pale marble that seems to pull all light into its milky depths. His family had it made in New Orleans, spending what was probably their life’s savings. The chiseled letters are as concise as razor cuts. Rosalie cannot see them, but she knows their every crevice and shadow. Only his name, stark and cold; no dates, no inscriptions, as if the family’s grief was so great that they could not bear to say anything about him. Just inscribe it with his name and leave him there.
The plot of earth at the base of the stone is not visible, but she knows it all too well, a barren, muddy rectangle. There has been no time for grass or weeds to grow upon it; he has only been buried a fortnight, and the few sprouts that tried to come up have been beaten back down by the rain. But can he really be under there, shut up in a box, his lithe body bloating and bursting, his wonderful face and hands beginning to decay?
Rosalie steps forward, hand extended to touch the letters of his name: THEOPHILE THIBODEAUX. As she thinks – or dreams – the name, her fingers poised to trace its marble contours, an image fills her head, a jumble of sensations intense and erotic. A boy older than Rosalie, perhaps seventeen: a sharp pale face, too thin to be called handsome, but surely compelling; a curtain of long sleek black hair half-hiding eyes of fierce, burning azure. Theophile!
(All at once it is as if Rosalie’s consciousness has merged completely with mine. My heart twists with a young girl’s love and lust for this spitfire Cajun boy. I am dimly aware of Rosalie’s drunken twenty-year-old body asleep on her bed, her feminine viscera twitching at the memory of him. O, how he touched her – O, how he tasted her!
She had known it was wrong in the eyes of God. Her mama had raised her to be a good girl. But the evenings she had spent with Theophile after dances and church socials, sitting on an empty dock with his arm around her shoulders, leaning into the warm hollow of his chest – that could not be wrong. After a week of knowing her he had begun to show her the things he wrote on his ink-blackened relic of an Olympia typewriter, poems and stories, songs of the swamp. And that could not be wrong.
And the night they had sneaked out of their houses to meet, the night in the empty boathouse near Theophile’s home – that could not be wrong either. They had begun only kissing, but the kisses grew too hot, too wild – Rosalie felt her insides boiling. Theophile answered her heat with his own. She felt him lifting the hem of her skirt and – carefully, almost reverently – sliding off her cotton panties. Then he was stroking the dark down between her legs, teasing her with the very tips of his fingers, rubbing faster and deeper until she felt like a blossom about to burst with sweet nectar. Then he parted her legs wider and bent to kiss her there as tenderly as he had kissed her mouth. His tongue was soft yet rough, like a soapy washcloth, and Rosalie had thought her young body would die with the pleasure of it. Then, slowly, Theophile was easing himself into her, and yes, she wanted him there, and yes, she was clutching at his back, pulling him farther in, refusing to heed the sharp pain of first entry. He rested inside her, barely moving; he lowered his head to kiss her sore developing nipples, and Rosalie felt the power of all womanhood shudder through her. This could not be wrong.)
With the memories fixed firmly in her mind she takes another step toward his headstone. The ground crumbles away beneath her feet, and she falls headlong into her lover’s grave.
The shovel whacks her across the spine. The rotten smell billows around her, heavy and ripe: spoiling meat, rancid fat, a sweetish-sickly odor. The fall stuns her. She struggles in the gritty muck, spits it out of her mouth.
Then the first pale light of dawn breaks across the sky, and Rosalie stares into the ruined face of Theophile.
(Now her memories flooded over me like the tide. Some time after they had started meeting in the boathouse she began to feel sick all the time; the heat made her listless. Her monthly blood, which had been coming for only a year, stopped. Mama took her into the next town to see a doctor, and he confirmed what Rosalie had already dreaded: she was going to have Theophile’s baby.
Her papa was not a hard man, nor cruel. But he had been raised in the bosom of the Church, and he had learned to measure his own worth by the honor of his family. Theophile never knew his Rosalie was pregnant. Rosalie’s father waited for him in the boathouse one night. He stepped in holding a new sheaf of poems, and Papa’s deer shot caught him across the chest and belly, a hundred tiny black eyes weeping red tears.
Papa was locked up in the county jail now and Mama said that soon he would go someplace even worse, someplace where they could never see him again. Mama said it wasn’t Rosalie’s fault, but Rosalie could see in her eyes that it was.)
It has been the wettest spring anyone can remember, a month of steady rains. The water table in Louisiana bayou country is already so high that a hole will begin to draw water at a depth of two feet or less. All this spring the table has risen steadily, soaking the ground, drowning grass and flowers, making a morass of the sweet swamp earth. Cattails have sprung up near at the edge of the graveyard. But the storm last night pushed the groundwater to saturation point and beyond. The wealthy folk of New Orleans bury their dead in vaults above ground to protect them from this very danger. But no one here can afford a marble vault, or even a brick one.
And the village graveyard has flooded at last.
Some of the things that have floated to the surface are little more than bone. Others are swollen to three or four times their size, gassy mounds of decomposed flesh rising like islands from the mud; some of these have silk flower petals stuck to them like obscene decorations. Flies rise lazily, then descend again in glittering, circling clouds. Here are mired the warped boards of coffins split open by the water’s relentless pull. There floats the plaster figurine of a saint, his face and the color of his robes washed away by rain. Yawning eyeless faces thrust out of stagnant pools, seeming to gasp for breath. Rotting hands unfold like blighted tiger lilies. Every drop of water, every inch of earth in the graveyard is foul with the effluvium of the dead.
But Rosalie can only see the face thrust into hers, the body crushed beneath her own. Theophile’s eyes have fallen back into their sockets and his mouth is open; his tongue is gone. She sees thin white worms teeming in the passage of his throat. His nostrils are widening black holes beginning to encroach upon the greenish flesh of his cheeks. His sleek hair is almost gone; the few strands left are thin and scummy, nibbled by waterbugs. (Sitting on the dock, Rosalie and Theophile used to spit into the water and watch the shiny black beetles swarm around the white gobs; Theophile had told her they would eat hair and toenails too.) In places she can see the glistening dome of his skull. The skull behind the dear face; the skull that cradled the thoughts and dreams . . .
She thinks of the shovel she brought and wonders what she meant to do with it. Did she want to see Theophile like this? Or had she really expected to find his grave empty, his fine young body gone fresh and whole to God?
No. She had only wanted to know where he was. Because she had nothing left of him – his family would give her no poems, no lock of hair. And now she had even lost his seed.
(The dogs ran Papa to earth in the swamp where he had hidden and the men dragged him off to jail. As they led him toward the police car, Theophile’s mother ran up to him and spat in his face. Papa was handcuffed and could not wipe himself; he only stood there with the sour spit of sorrow running down his cheeks, and his eyes looked confused, as if he was unsure just what he had done.
Mama made Rosalie sleep in bed with her that night. But when Rosalie woke up the next morning Mama was gone; there was only a note saying she would be back before sundown. Sure enough, she straggled in with the afternoon’s last light. She had spent the whole day in the swamp. Her face was scratched and sweaty, the cuffs of her jeans caked with mud.
Mama had brought back a basketful of herbs. She didn’t fix dinner, but instead spent the evening boiling t
he plants down to a thin syrup. They exuded a bitter, stinging scent as they cooked. The potion sat cooling until the next night. Then Mama made Rosalie drink it all down.
It was the worst pain she had ever felt. She thought her intestines and her womb and the bones of her pelvis were being wrung in a giant merciless fist. When the bleeding started she thought her very insides were dissolving. There were thick clots and ragged shreds of tissue in the blood.
“It won’t damage you,” Mama told her, and it will be over by morning.”
True to Mama’s word, just before dawn Rosalie felt something solid being squeezed out of her. She knew she was losing the last of Theophile. She tried to clamp the walls of her vagina around it, to keep him inside her as long as she could. But the thing was slick and formless, and it slid easily onto the towel Mama had spread between her legs. Mama gathered the towel up quickly and would not let Rosalie see what was inside.
Rosalie heard the toilet flush once, then twice. Her womb and the muscles of her abdomen felt as if they had gone through Mama’s kitchen grater. But the pain was nothing compared to the emptiness she felt in her heart.)
The sky is growing lighter, showing her more of the graveyard around her: the corpses borne on the rising water, the maggot-ridden mud. Theophile’s face yawns into hers. Rosalie struggles against him and feels his sodden flesh give beneath her weight. She is beyond recognizing her love now. She is frantic; she fights him. Her hand strikes his belly and punches in up to the wrist.
Then suddenly Theophile’s body opens like a flower made of carrion, and she sinks into him. Her elbows are trapped in the brittle cage of his ribs. Her face is pressed into the bitter soup of his organs. Rosalie whips her head to one side. Her face is a mask of putrescence. It is in her hair, her nostrils; it films her eyes. She is drowning in the body that once gave her sustenance. She opens her mouth to scream and feels things squirming in between her teeth.
“My cherie Rosalie,” she hears the voice of her lover whispering.
And then the rain pours down again.
Unpleasant.
I tore myself screaming from Rosalie – screaming silently, unwilling to wake her. In that instant I was afraid of her for what she had gone through; I dreaded to see her eyes snap open like a doll’s, meeting me full in the face.
But Rosalie was only sleeping a troubled slumber. She muttered fitful disjointed words; there was a cold sheen of sweat on her brow; she exuded a flowery, powerful smell of sex. I hovered at the edge of the bed and studied her ringed hands clenched into small fists, her darting, jumping eyelids still stained with yesterday’s makeup. I could only imagine the ensuing years and torments that had brought that little girl to this night, to this room. That had made her want to wear the false trappings of death, after having wallowed in the truth of it.
But I knew how difficult it would be to talk these memories out of her. There could be no consolation and no compensation for a past so cruel. No treasure, no matter how valuable, could matter in the face of such lurid terror.
So I assure you that the thing I did next was done out of pure mercy – not a desire for personal gain, or control over Rosalie. I had never done such a thing to her before. She was my friend; I wished to deliver her from the poison of her memories. It was as simple as that.
I gathered up my courage and I went back into Rosalie’s head. Back in through her eyes and the whorled tunnels of her ears, back into the spongy electric forest of her brain.
I cannot be more scientific than this: I found the connections that made the memory. I searched out the nerves and subtle acids that composed the dream, the morsels of Rosalie’s brain that still held a residue of Theophile, the cells that were blighted by his death.
And I erased it all.
I pitied Theophile. Truly I did. There is no existence more lonely than death, especially a death where no one is left to mourn you.
But Rosalie belonged to me now.
I had her rent a boat.
It was easy for her to learn how to drive it: boating is in the Cajun blood. We made an exploratory jaunt or two down through Barataria – where two tiny hamlets, much like Rosalie’s home village, both bore my name – and I regaled a fascinated Rosalie with tales of burials at sea, of shallow bayou graves, of a rascal whose empty eye sockets dripped with Spanish moss.
When I judged her ready, I guided her to a spot I remembered well, a clearing where five enormous oaks grew from one immense, twisted trunk. The five sentinels, we called them in my day. The wind soughed in the upper branches. The swamp around us was hushed, expectant.
After an hour of digging, Rosalie’s shiny new shovel unearthed the lid and upper portion of a great iron chest. Her brittle hair was stringy with sweat. Her black lace dress was caked with mud and clay. Her face had gone paler than usual with exertion; in the half-light of the swamp it was almost luminescent. She had never looked so beautiful to me as she did at that moment.
She stared at me. Her tired eyes glittered as if with fever.
“Open it,” I urged.
Rosalie swung the shovel at the heart-shaped hasp of the chest and knocked it loose on the first try. Once more and it fell away in a shower of soggy rust. She glanced back at me once more – looking for what, I wonder; seeing what? – and then heaved open the heavy lid.
And the sixth sentinel sat up to greet her.
I always took an extra man along when I went into the swamp to bury treasure. One I didn’t trust, or didn’t need. He and my reliable henchmen would dig the hole and drag the chest to the edge of it, ready to heave in. Then I would gaze deep into the eyes of each man and ask, in a voice both quiet and compelling, “Who wishes to guard my treasure?” My men knew the routine, and were silent. The extra man – currying favor as the useless and unreliable will do – always volunteered.
Then my top lieutenant would take three steps forward and put a ball in the lowly one’s brain. His corpse was laid tenderly in the chest, his blood seeping into the mounds of gold or silver or glittering jewels, and I would tuck in one of my mojo bags, the ones I had specially made in New Orleans. Then the chest was sunk in the mire of the swamp, and my man, now rendered trustworthy, was left to guard my treasure until I should need it.
I was the only one who could open those chests. The combined magic of the mojo bag and the anger of the betrayed man’s spirit saw to that.
My sixth sentinel wrapped skeletal arms around Rosalie’s neck and drew her down. His jaws yawned wide and I saw teeth, still hungry after two hundred years, clamp down on her throat. A mist of blood hung in the air; from the chest there was a ripping sound, then a noise of quick, choking agony. I hoped he would not make it too painful for her. After all, she was the woman I had chosen to spend eternity with.
I had told Rosalie that she would never again have to wriggle out of flimsy costumes under the eyes of slobbering men, and I had not lied. I had told her that she would never have to worry about money any more, and I had not lied. What I had neglected to tell her was that I did not wish to share my treasures – I only wanted her dead, my Hard Luck Rosalie, free from this world that pained her so, free to wander with me through the unspoiled swamps and bayous, through the ancient buildings of a city mired in time.
Soon Rosalie’s spirit left her body and flew to me. It had nowhere else to go. I felt her struggling furiously against my love, but she would give in soon. I had no shortage of time to convince her.
I slipped my arm around Rosalie’s neck and planted a kiss on her ectoplasmic lips. Then I clasped her wisp of a hand in mine, and we disappeared together.
RICK CADGER
The Brothers
RICK CADGER is married with three children. He has a full time job in a GM motor car factory, and in his spare time is the editor and publisher of the small press publication Strange Attractor Magazine, a guitarist, a juggler, and a magazine and book reviewer. To fill his remaining spare time, he is learning to speak, read and write Hindi and Punjabi!
He admits
to no rigid genre tendencies, although the greater part of his published output to date has been horror and dark fantasy in such publications as Fear, Frighteners, BBR, The Dark Side, Chills, Dark Horizons, Exuberance, Works, Orion, Heliocentric Net, Grotesque and the Barrington Books anthologies Sugar Sleep and The Science of Sadness. He has also won a number of awards, including the last Fear Fiction Award.
It is our pleasure to welcome him to The Best New Horror with the nightmarish tale which follows . . .
AS YOU DRIVE over the brow of the hill on the road into Galham, you see the village spread out before you like a patterned rug. Its residential roads and cul-de-sacs, with their two hundred or so houses, stipple a paisley mosaic across the countryside. Neville Maddox has never been here before, and he grunts his approval of your picturesque home. Of course he doesn’t see the twin pedestals, one at each end of the village, upon which sit Bokovan and Yusenoi – but then, outsiders never do.
You put the Saab into low gear in readiness for the steep, winding descent; and as the engine begins to protest with the effort of braking the car, Bokovan’s head turns toward the source of the sound and he grins at you. Both rostra are squat, cylindrical columns of grey rock some fifty feet tall. Bokovan and Yusenoi seem almost to be extensions of the stone. They are of the same grey hue from the tops of their massive heads to the tips of their pointed serpentine tails. Even sitting, each of them is above fifty feet tall – if they should ever stand erect upon their platforms, their heads would reach nearly a hundred and fifty feet into the air.
Each lays claim to one half of the village population, and of the two, you belong to Bokovan. Despite the distance, his smile warms and caresses you like the summer sunshine.
The Best New Horror 5 Page 14
