The Cemetery Next Door

by Dale Chase

  Suddenly I felt terribly tired. Sitting on the closed toilet lid, I felt everything drain away. There should be a puddle on the floor, I thought. A puddle of me. Glancing at Justin, I asked, “This is so weak, locking a man in a bathroom.”

  I slumped over and finally heard voices, Ray talking to somebody, coming closer.

  “Help has arrived,” he announced.

  I got to my feet.

  “We’ll get you out of there,” said a deep voice. “Just be a minute.”

  Someone tried the doorknob, which turned, and the door swung open.

  Only then did I realize I’d forgotten the towel. As I grabbed one, I looked for Justin—gone. Then a toolbox-toting man in blue coveralls stood beside me, trying the knob from inside as I ran into the room.

  “So now it works?” Ray asked the guy.

  “Guess so.” He kept working the knob, which turned freely. “Looks fine.”

  “Okay, thanks,” said Ray. “We’re good.”

  The man was courteous enough not to roll his eyes, then left. Would Ray be so courteous?

  Alone again, he and I simply looked at each other from across the room. “Are you all right?” he finally asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine. A bit rattled.”

  He didn’t come to me. He stood somewhat awkwardly, which was a first, and I realized he was going to deal with the situation by not dealing with it. “So what now?”

  “I have no idea. I’m tired. More than you can imagine. A nap sounds good.”

  He nodded. “I’m not sleepy. Would you mind if I went down to Foxy’s?”

  “No, that’s fine. Wake me later.”

  When he’d gone, I stretched out on the bed, minus the towel. Closing my eyes, I welcomed sleep, but it didn’t come. Instead my mind sprang to life. I opened my eyes, fearing Justin was there, but I was alone. What would he do next? I wondered. I was being haunted, I decided, but I couldn’t say that to Ray. I couldn’t say anything to Ray because he’d start playing skeptic.

  Finally, I curled onto my side, which put me in view of the window that looked down on the cemetery. As I mentally toured the place, I fell asleep.

  * * * *

  When I woke, dusk appeared to be coming on. Had I slept away the afternoon? I thought of Ray. Had he drank it away?

  I dressed and hurried downstairs to Foxy’s, where I found him slumped at the bar. He was talking to an older woman, who sounded way too enthusiastic. I slid onto the stool on his other side and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hi, honey,” I said.

  He turned to me and lit up. “Marty! Where you been? This is Joy.”

  “Joyce,” the woman corrected. “Nice to meet you, but I have to be going.”

  As she slipped away, Ray said, “What’s her problem?”

  He reeked of liquor. I sniffed his near-empty glass. Bourbon, and he didn’t even like the stuff. It was his fuck-you drink.

  Foxy’s bar was L-shaped and we sat at the long part, the shorter section cutting over to a wall. I ordered a mineral water, took a few sips, and told Ray he should come upstairs. “You’ve had quite a bit to drink.”

  “Not enough.”

  “For what? Are you trying to drown something?”

  “Somebody,” he said, lifting his glass in salute, then draining it.

  “Me?”

  “No, never you. The ghost.” He said this loud enough for heads to turn.

  “Have you seen him?”

  “’Course not. He’s your ghost.”

  “Let’s go upstairs. If you keep on, you’ll pass out and you don’t want to do that here.”

  “Why not? I like it here.”

  I paid the tab and got him on his feet. He began to giggle, which worked in my favor as I knew this phase. Pliable. I put an arm around him and started out, only then catching sight of Justin Cade sitting at the end of the bar where it met the wall. He had no drink and I wondered if others could see him. Ray obviously hadn’t.

  In the lobby, I faced a new problem. No way Ray could take the stairs, and no way he could do the elevator alone. I’d have to man up and get into that hellish box. Thanks, Ray.

  An amorous couple got in the car with us, and when the man nuzzled the woman’s neck, Ray elbowed me and giggled again. As the elevator started up, I felt myself heading the other way, sinking into a solitary pit until the car mercifully stopped at the second floor. The amorous couple left us, which set Ray snickering.

  “Guess what they’re gonna do.”

  At the third floor, Ray balked, so I shoved him out, got an arm around him, and walked him to our room, where I dropped him onto the bed.

  “Let’s fuck,” he said before passing out.

  I undressed him and got him under the covers, then wondered what I was to do. My stomach answered with a growl, so I went down to the restaurant and ate a far from enjoyable meal. The food was good, but I was too preoccupied to appreciate it. Maybe we should go home, I thought. The idyllic getaway had been trashed beyond repair by a ghost, of all things.

  By meal’s end, that was my decision—leave, never mind the cost. But when I went into Foxy’s for a Bloody Mary, my determination thinned as I recalled Justin sitting at the bar. I wished he’d show up now so I could talk to him, but no such luck. I had no power to summon him. The power was all his.

  After downing a second drink, I went upstairs and took a shower, hoping Justin would show. I dared him to paralyze the door again, but he was generous now. All I got was clean.

  Ray hadn’t moved, so I turned on the TV, not worried I’d disturb him. I watched movies on TCM, taking comfort in the perils Bette Davis endured. Finally I simply wore out the day and slept.

  * * * *

  Daylight greeted me with Ray puking in the bathroom. Much as he liked to drink, his stomach didn’t always agree. I left him alone, knowing from past experience that he didn’t want assistance. He was stubborn that way, comfort on his terms only, so I waited and soon he staggered back to bed, towel in hand.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Nine forty-five.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Thursday.”

  “How much did I drink?”

  “I have no idea. You were alone, remember?”

  He looked puzzled for a couple seconds, then said, “Oh, yeah,” and went to shower.

  I wanted so much to talk to Ray about Justin Cade, share a quiet and thoughtful discussion of the paranormal, but had no idea how to approach the subject. I didn’t want to be dismissed again, didn’t want to argue either. What then?

  When Ray came out of the bathroom, I asked if he was upset with me.

  “Why would I be?”

  “The ghost business.”

  He didn’t roll his eyes, but he might well have.

  “It’s not going to go away,” I said.

  “The ghost?”

  “And the fact of him, his relationship to us.”

  “We have a relationship with him?”

  “He’s not coming after us for amusement. He’s pissed and means to make trouble.”

  Ray drew me to my feet and put his hands on my shoulders. “Can’t you let it go?”

  I pulled away. “Do you think I have a choice in this?”

  “I think…”

  When he failed to continue, I demanded, “What?”

  “I don’t want to argue.”

  “We’re just talking. What do you think?”

  He sighed. “You make too much out of it. You’re always saying how you’re receptive to the supernatural, but I think it’s really all in your head. You convince yourself that regular things are ghostly doings.”

  I sank onto the bed, stunned that he could say this in light of everything. “So you think the elevator and fire alarm and stuck door just happened?”

  “Lousy hotel.”

  “But I’ve seen him, Ray. In the stairwell and outside the night of the fire alarm. You did, too, the leather jacket guy. And he appeared in the shower while I was trapped in
the bathroom, plus while you were getting drunk at Foxy’s yesterday, he was at the bar. I saw him when I came to get you.”

  “Well, I didn’t see him.”

  “You couldn’t see anything. You were too drunk.”

  “I mean before, when I started. I looked around. No ghosts.”

  I jumped up. “God, I wish I could summon him, have him swoop in here and bitch-slap you.”

  “Wouldn’t that be something?” His tone was patronizing as hell. “How about breakfast, then a walk?” he suggested as he dressed.

  I agreed because I was gaining nothing here.

  * * * *

  We decided on The Pantry, the diner we’d seen when walking side streets. It appeared stuck in the ’50s and it wasn’t some contemporary place going for a ’50s look. It had worn red vinyl booths, Formica tables that wobbled, and the kind of chairs I remembered from an aunt’s kitchen. As I devoured eggs, ham, potatoes, toast, and coffee,I found that the wonderful food improved my outlook enough to broach the sticky subject again.

  “I’m not making things up,” I said, letting the statement stand on its own.

  “I know that. You really believe it all. I get that, but the thing is, I don’t, maybe because I’m not receptive like you. I lack intuition, as you’ve said before. Therefore, it’s not my fault that I don’t see the ghost or buy that he’s doing things.”

  “Buy? You think I’m trying to sell you on this?

  “Feels that way.”

  A cry escaped me because I felt wounded.

  Seeing this, he took my hand. “I love you, Marty, and do my best to understand and go along with things, but there are limits.”

  “And you’ve reached one?”

  “You could say, but it doesn’t mean I care any less. It’s just a difference between us.”

  “Fair enough,” I snapped. “I give up or give in or whatever.” I finished my coffee and looked around.

  “So now you’re going to pout?”

  “I’m not pouting! Please allow me my emotions if you can manage an ounce of compassion.”

  He blew out a sigh, and when he went to pay the bill, I studied this man who didn’t—or wouldn’t—believe me. He was the love of my life, a wonderful and good man, the perfect fit in all ways but one. It was like the ultimate test, the great compromise. Was I, after all that had happened, to tuck away my penchant for the supernatural and act like everyone else? Like him?

  We walked around town for a bit, the ghostly issue stuck between us. Finally, I suggested we go home.

  “Do you want to?” He seemed genuinely surprised at the suggestion.

  “Well, our peaceful and relaxing getaway has deteriorated a bit.”

  “You think so?” He stopped walking as he said this.

  “Ray, we’re arguing, getting drunk, and have this impasse going. How much more do you want?”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  “What if something else happens?”

  “By something, you mean…”

  “Yes, another ghostly occurrence.”

  “Sounds like wishful thinking. Aren’t I enough?”

  “Of course you are,” I said, giving way.

  We hurried to the hotel and to our room, where we forgot about differences in the best way.

  Knowing each other so well, we savored a sort of reconnection, everything loosened now, warmed. We spent the afternoon in a loving wallow, finding ourselves sticky and satiated when night came on.

  After cleaning up, we had dinner at La Cantina, again limiting ourselves to one pitcher of margaritas. Once plates were cleared, we lingered with our drinks and when Ray asked what I wanted to do next, I went for broke.

  “Visit the cemetery.”

  He snorted his dismissal.

  I pressed on. “One last time. For me. Please. I want to talk to Justin, find out why he’s doing what he’s doing. It won’t hurt you to come along, but if you won’t, I’m going anyway.”

  He drained his glass, issued a great sigh, then raised his hands in concession.

  * * * *

  It was near ten when we entered the Arroyo Cemetery. The moon seemed brighter and I looked up to see the half now toward three-quarters. “More light,” I said.

  “Good.”

  He took my hand as we moved up the road, glancing around like Justin might spring upon us. When we reached his grave, we stopped.

  “So this is him,” Ray said, laying his hand on the tombstone.

  “It’s Justin Cade. I wonder how he died. He was just thirty-two.”

  We stood in quiet reverence until Ray attempted to remove his hand from the stone. I saw him pull, then pull harder. “Hey!” he cried. “Hey!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m stuck. It’s like I’m welded to the stone, like I’m part of it.”

  I took his arm and pulled, but his hand seemed imbedded. “Justin,” I said. “Believe me now?”

  “Yeah, okay, I believe. Just get me loose.”

  “I’m not sure how.” I looked around, but saw no-one. “Justin Cade, show yourself, please. Tell us what you want.”

  Still nothing.

  I reached for the stone, but Ray knocked me away. “Don’t touch it! We don’t need you stuck, too.”

  “Right. I think we have to wait for him to do something else, something more.”

  “Something more?” I’d never heard fear in Ray’s voice, but it was there now.

  “He’s toying with us or punishing us. He has a purpose. He’ll show us, I know he will. We just have to wait.” I pressed the light on my watch. “Ten eighteen.” I took Ray’s other hand and we remained sitting on the grave for the next hour.

  “We could call for help,” Ray said.

  “No phones, remember? Besides, the same thing would probably happen that did with the bathroom door. Somebody shows up and your hand is suddenly free. Police would love that.”

  “So we wait.”

  “Yes, we wait.”

  In time, a small part of me felt the urge to proclaim victory in changing Ray’s belief. I thought how the words would sound and how he’d receive them, but I never said them because the point had been made. It didn’t need rubbing in.

  Next time I checked my watch, it was after midnight. We sat huddled together because the night’s chill had come on, damp settling like it could get inside us.

  Then suddenly, Justin was there. I saw feet and looked up. It was him. Not ten feet away, it was him. His face was blank like before. Maybe ghosts didn’t have expressions. Maybe that went with death.

  “We’re not going to have sex,” I told him. “We just came to visit.”

  I got to my feet and Ray did, too, hand still on the stone.

  “Can you let him go now?” I asked.

  Justin moved closer to Ray, who looked at me. “What do I do, Marty? What do I do?”

  “Stay calm. Stay still.”

  “Still I can do, calm no way.”

  Justin reached for Ray, sliding a hand around the back of his neck. Then Justin put his lips to Ray’s. All remained still until Ray unleashed an unholy scream, at which Justin disappeared.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “He’s gone.”

  Ray’s hand became free of the stone, but he didn’t move. He seemed caught in something else, shuddering almost violently. I pulled him to me, but he fought me off.

  “It’s me, Ray. It’s okay. It’s Marty.”

  He gaped, as if screaming, but minus any sound.

  “It’s over,” I said.

  I tried to take his hand, but he pulled back and I saw terror in his eyes.

  “We can go now,” I told him.

  But he wouldn’t be led. He just stood in his silent scream, still shuddering.

  I had no idea what to do and wondered if Ray had been damaged in some way. His fear seemed almost too much to bear, but I knew all I could do was wait. Let him ride it out. Then suddenly, he collapsed into a heap. Eyes closed, mouth open, he appeared lifeless.
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  I started shaking him. “Ray! Ray!”

  I didn’t care about anything supernatural now. I cared only about Ray. I began to pummel him, and after a minute or two, he groaned.

  “Ray!” I cried as I pulled him into my arms. “Ray. It’s all right now.”

  He panted like he’d run a mile. “My heart…pounding.”

  “Just rest. It’s over. It’s over.”

  He lay in my arms for so long that I checked my watch. One thirty-three. But time didn’t matter. He was safe. And soon we’d be back in our room.

  Finally, he began to wriggle in my grasp, so I let go. He rolled away and tried to stand, then fell to his knees. “No energy…”

  “Then we’ll rest a bit more.”

  Half an hour later, Ray said, “He took something from me.”

  “Took?”

  “That wasn’t a kiss he gave me. I couldn’t feel his lips. It was icy cold, just this sensation, a kind of pulling, like he was sucking my insides out.”

  “That’s why you screamed.”

  “Did I scream?”

  “Blood-curdling, yes.”

  “I don’t remember that. I just remember that pull and now I’m so tired that…oh, Christ, Marty. What if he really took something from me, some inside part, some bit of life? Wouldn’t a ghost want that?”

  “I think he was trying to scare you. More of his punishment.”

  He shook his head. “Help me up. I think I can stand now.”

  He was right. Though wobbly, he could walk, and with my support, we made it back to the hotel.

  “No more cemetery,” he said.

  “Agreed.”

  In the lobby, he said he wanted a drink, so I let go of him.

  “We can’t go into the bar leaning on each other. We’d never get served.”

  He stood on his own, swaying a bit, then gained his balance. “Good to go,” he said, and we went into Foxy’s.

  A few serious drinkers sat at the bar while we took a small table in the back. “Brandy,” I told the waiter. When it came, we downed it way too fast.

  “I’m sorry,” Ray said when the brandy had taken hold. “I’m sorry I doubted you about any of the ghosts—this one, your grandfather, the laundry room one. It’s real. It’s fucking real.”

  “I’m sorry you had to suffer such an awful awakening.”