Curse of the Black-Eyed Kids (Mount Herod Legends Book 2)

by Corey J. Popp

  I take Grandma’s hand in mine. “I love you, Grandma,” I say, and they are not easy words for me, even when spoken to Grandma. The fear of almost having lost her drives the declaration—the fear of almost being abandoned again.

  “Well, I love you, too.” The words slip off Grandma’s tongue effortlessly. Love comes easy for this woman and admitting it brings her as much joy as feeling it. “You tell your brother the same. Oh, and please mind Mrs. McGovern. She’s an odd one, I’ll admit it, but her heart’s in the right place. She’ll take good care of you two until they let me out of here.”

  Gently releasing Grandma’s hand, I say, “When will that be?”

  “The doctor said probably tomorrow.”

  One more night at the McGoverns’. Jeremy and I can handle that.

  “Why do they want you here another night?” I ask, fearing there may be something more to the story, something she’s not telling me.

  “They seem to think I should be a bit steadier on my feet before they let me go. I told them to take me off the silly-pills and I’ll be fine.”

  I feel an immense sense of relief she’ll be returning home tomorrow, but it conflicts with the fact it also means we’ll be returning to our cursed house. Up to this moment, nothing has happened to change the likelihood the black-eyed kids will return to our house as soon as we do.

  I change the subject. “How’s Mr. Donaldson?”

  Grandma’s lips turn down in an expression of great concern. “Actually, you just missed Pastor Martin. He stopped in this morning to see me after I had the nurses get a hold of him. He told me Harold is still in intensive care, Abigail. I’m worried about him.”

  Grandma coos sadly then gently rocks her head back and forth on her puffy white pillow. “The doctors told me even the most harmless spiders have venom, and if enough venom gets in your system...all those spiders, Abigail. All those spiders. Where in the name of Sam Hill did they all come from?”

  Grandma stares off into space, seemingly seeking a plausible, natural explanation for her supernatural experience.

  “Makes one wonder,” she continues, “if those children somehow did it.”

  I nod, not knowing where Grandma is going with this, but also relieved to know I’m not experiencing a lapse in sanity by finally asking Jeremy to talk to Tommy Wexler. Grandma senses it, too. Whatever it is.

  “I don’t know how one does it. How one…trains…spiders, but it certainly is an odd coincidence. And your brother is so frightened by those children, Abigail. He’s so frightened, it frightens me.”

  “Me too,” I confess.

  Grandma’s eyelids blink lazily. “Where in the name of Sam Hill did all those spiders come from?”

  After her eyes flicker a few more times, she appears to fall into a light sleep.

  I sit in silence, dreaming once again of a stucco house in Southern California. I’ll run there if I have to. I’ll build it myself if I have to. A better place exists than Mount Herod. A better life than this one is waiting to be lived.

  Grandma awakens and dozes several more times. I stay at the hospital through lunch, eating cafeteria food at her bedside with her. I’ll return the snacks in my backpack to the cupboard when I get home. It turns out I didn’t need them after all.

  Maybe it’s the medication, or maybe—I flatter myself—it’s my company, but Grandma makes no further mention of my absence from school, and for a short time it seems even she surrenders to the fact that there are some things more important than a child’s education.

  At fifteen years old, I can only play the hand I’ve been dealt. While the stucco home must wait, my afternoon with Grandma emboldens me to set aside my shame and pursue any solution to end the curse of the black-eyed kids. And if it means I’m a social outcast at Mount Herod South High School come Monday morning, so be it, but the black-eyed kids will never hurt Grandma again.

  During one of her early afternoon naps, I noiselessly exit her room and leave the hospital with the comfort of knowing the next time I see her she’ll be at home.

  I reverse my trip to return home, and at twenty-five minutes after three at the Lexington intersection, Jeremy tells me he talked to Tommy Wexler today. Tommy not only delivered to Jeremy the cemetery boy’s real name, but also revealed where we can find him.

  “Chokecherry Bluff Cemetery,” Jeremy says.

  “He’s dead?” I say, stunned.

  “No, he’s not dead. According to Tommy, he hangs out there. That’s why they call him the cemetery boy. His uncle, the priest, sends him to Saint Thomas High School, and he does odd jobs at the cemetery after school. Creepy, huh?”

  It is not lost on me—therefore it is probably not lost on Jeremy either—that the cemetery where the cemetery boy hangs out is the same cemetery where Mount Herod’s Tyburn Tree used to stand. And it is the Tyburn Tree which gave birth to a poem which Jeremy whispers in his sleep just before the black-eyed kids show up.

  I look at the sun, trying to measure its distance to the horizon and determine just how much daylight Jeremy and I have left. Grandma told me to mind Mrs. McGovern, and not returning directly to the McGovern’s house after school certainly isn’t what Grandma would consider minding Mrs. McGovern. Still, our problem is urgent and if there’s daylight to burn, I’ll burn it smartly.

  I reach out and grab a fistful of Jeremy’s coat. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The cemetery, of course.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IT TAKES TWO bus transfers to reach the remote cemetery but only costs a dollar-fifty for the two of us. My pocket is getting lighter, but I still have enough change for the return trip.

  While we sit in the back of the bus and sneak snack packs of trail mix from my backpack, I tell Jeremy about my visit with Grandma. He is disappointed and pouty he will not see Grandma today, but he brightens when I tell him she’ll likely be discharged tomorrow.

  The bus trip takes much longer than I thought it would. In fact, including the waits at the two transfers, a full hour passes before the bus driver drops us at a bus shelter in front of the cemetery. The destination is not a popular stop this late in the afternoon. For that reason, we exit the bus alone.

  “Last pickup is five-fifteen,” the driver says. “If you miss it, it’s four blocks east to the closest route that’s still running.”

  I nod my acknowledgement just before the bus doors close and the massive vehicle grinds away from the curb and disappears into the distance. We are left standing on a lonely sidewalk alongside which runs a tall black wrought-iron fence.

  “I guess this is it,” I say, blinking at the fence.

  Tall shrubs sprinkled with doomed orange, red, and yellow leaves line the other side of the fence. Headstones perched on a fading, leaf-strewn lawn peek out at us from between the iron pickets and thorny shrubbery. Billowing indigo clouds rolling in from the west block the sun, prematurely darkening the landscape and erasing shadows.

  “This way to the main gate,” Jeremy says. We follow the sidewalk north, keeping the towering fence to our right.

  At the cemetery’s entrance, both sides of an enormous gate stand swung open allowing vehicle access to a wide, private blacktop boulevard. The public sidewalk changes over to a private red brick walkway which runs parallel to the cemetery’s driveway. We follow the walkway into the cemetery.

  We walk around a traffic circle hosting a large water fountain in its center. The fountain’s bubbling white plume shoots straight into the air before collapsing down upon itself with a roar. In the distance several buildings, castle-like in appearance, dot the cemetery landscape. Medieval, cross-tipped spires stab high over treetops while grand arches sit like eyebrows over doorways and windows. The buildings are constructed of brown, red, and pale white stone, and their roofs boast high-peaked gables. Tall, narrow, nearly opaque windows line the fronts of the buildings, and within the glass itself is set intricate, twisting lattices. The buildings appear to be monuments, churches, an
d mausoleums. We pass by one Jeremy says is an old carriage house. A plaque mounted to the outside wall near the door displays the year of construction: 1870.

  Spread across the heavily-wooded landscape are gravestones varying widely in size and shape. Set among boastful obelisks, narcissistic statues, and enormous headstones are small crosses and modest arched stones. The grave markers align themselves in perfect rows, like soldiers, and they trail along hills and slopes and across flat ground in all directions, stopping only for large ponds and creeks and gardens.

  If the sun had been shining and it had been June instead of October, the setting may have been beautiful. But neither is the case, and under the cloud-filled gray sky that lay hold on the afternoon, the landscape above appears as dead as the bodies below.

  “Chokecherry Bluff Cemetery is one of the largest cemeteries in the world at 836 acres,” Jeremy says as if he’s reciting his sixth grade history report for Mr. Brunswick. “It’s over a square mile in total area.”

  “Mount Herod keeps feeding it dead bodies,” I say grimly, knowing college-aged and high school girls like myself have been disappearing from Mount Herod’s streets for years, feared victims of a serial killer. For a fleeting moment, I consider the black-eyed kids themselves as suspects.

  Or are they just another piece of the horrid puzzle that is Mount Herod?

  Regardless, it’s just another reason to find the cemetery boy and get back to Mrs. McGovern’s house before dark; precious time is slipping away.

  “How are we ever going to find him?” I ask.

  “We start there.” Jeremy points to a long two-story brick building to which the sidewalk leads. It is at least a century newer than any other structure I’ve seen so far.

  As we draw closer, I spot a white-lettered, rustic sign sitting in a garden of dying daylilies. The sidewalk splits to the left and right in front of the building, and the sign reads ARCHIBALD ROSWELL FUNERAL HOME with an arrow pointing left and CHOKECHERRY BLUFF MAUSOLEUM COMPLEX AND MAIN OFFICE with an arrow pointing right.

  “To the right,” I say. “Don’t you think?”

  “Well, we’re not here to attend a funeral.”

  “Yet...” I say bitterly. If things had gone differently with Mr. Donaldson and Grandma last night, that may not have been the case.

  We follow the sidewalk to the right, and after a slight jog in the path, it broadens into a small stone courtyard where we’re greeted by two large barren planters and a grand, two-story, windowed entrance which sort of reminds me of the MHMC atrium I visited earlier in the day.

  Just before we enter, a strong wind sends leaves scratching over the courtyard pavers. I look skyward, trying to gauge the weather. The clouds roll and tumble, evolving into ominous shapes, drawing an even thicker curtain over the sun.

  “Hurry,” I say, holding the door open for Jeremy. “I don’t want to be out past dark.”

  The sweet smell of lilies, orchids, and roses permeate a quiet and calming interior. My shoes press into soft earth-colored carpet. Maroon walls host rich paintings and flickering sconces and wooden plaques and glass curio cabinets full of trinkets and other odds and ends.

  I lose track of Jeremy and wander the receiving area, entranced by its serenity. Aimless, I round a corner and find myself at the interior transition to the mausoleum complex. Part of me seeks assistance, a worker or a sign, anything which may lead me to the cemetery boy. Another part of me simply wants to absorb the environment, bask in what has been designed as the resting place for earthly bodies awaiting the resurrection Reverend Martin speaks of so fondly every Sunday at Good Shepherd Lutheran Church.

  This is nothing like I imagined a mausoleum would be like. Where are the cobwebs, the torches, the weathered stones? Where are the stone gargoyles warding off evil spirits, the winding halls, the narrow staircases?

  These carpeted interior halls are wide and spacious, large enough for a car to drive through. Windows and skylights are everywhere, and if the sun were out, the entire complex would be flooded with brilliant, joyful sunbeams.

  The walls are home to large and lavish marble stones on to which are mounted copper plaques bearing names, birth dates, and death dates. I presume a body rests peacefully behind every marble stone. They are stacked six high. The stream of these elegant halls appears endless.

  I’ve been betrayed by the images of popular culture. A mausoleum is no horror show. This is tranquil and hopeful.

  “Abby!” Jeremy calls to me from behind, and the spell is broken.

  He holds up a sheet of paper. “A lady who works here told me to find the groundskeeper around Cattail Pond.”

  “The cemetery boy is the groundskeeper?”

  “No, but he works for him.” Jeremy hands the paper to me as his eyes explore the complex. “This place is huge.”

  On the page is a black-and-white map of the cemetery. The eastern edge illustrates a steep bluff running along Lake Michigan. The western edge shows Chokecherry Bluff Lane, the street on which we exited the bus. A jagged dashed line represents the iron fence surrounding the cemetery, which is pinched in a sort of rectangular shape between the lane and the great lake.

  The map delineates numerous roads, walking paths, ponds, groves, gardens, structures, and other landmarks located throughout the cemetery. Many sections are marked with finely-printed numbers, numbers I presume are cross-referenced with some type of registry to help visitors find grave sites. Without some type of system, locating a specific headstone in this enormous cemetery would be impossible.

  At the bottom of the map, a line branches off from the lane and twists down around the southern edge of the cemetery where it proceeds up along the eastern bluff for a short distance until it dead ends at the cemetery’s fence. The line is marked NEW TYBURN ROAD, and the spot where it intersects the fence is noted as TYBURN GATE (CLOSED).

  I recognize the road from the nearly identical digital image on Jeremy’s computer from a couple nights ago. “New Tyburn Road. It’s on the map,” I say to Jeremy. “So’s the old gate.”

  “I saw that.”

  Just the sight of that horrible word, Tyburn, causes me to shudder. I recall Jeremy’s blind recitation of the Tyburn poem in his sleep and the image of the pencil drawing on his computer showing the bodies hanging from the Tyburn Tree.

  The idea we could be walking into something awful occurs to me. “The fact the cemetery boy is here is no coincidence,” I say.

  “I thought of that, too.”

  I think about the horrible events over the past week. The visits from the black-eyed kids followed by visits from the police. Jeremy barricading himself in his room. The spiders. And Grandma caught up in the middle of all of it.

  I cement the fact in my mind there’s no other way to solve this problem. We need as much information on the black-eyed kids as we can get, and the cemetery boy is the only person who may be able to help.

  I scan the map for Cattail Pond. “Here. It’s just east of us. Not far at all.”

  “There’s a door out the back over here,” Jeremy says.

  After folding the map and stuffing it into my coat pocket, I follow Jeremy to an exit where we step back outside into the late afternoon October chill.

  We follow a pebbled walking path past scores of headstones to the general vicinity of the pond, where we tramp up a gradual incline. At the top of the incline, the surface of Cattail Pond stretches out to our left like a sheet of blue-green glass.

  Even without a map we’d know this was Cattail Pond. Extending into the water from its shore is a thick bank of invasive yellow cattails. What used to be firm brown tails have now turned gray and cottony. Many of the plants’ stems are already bare, the wind having stolen and redistributed the seeds for miles.

  Somewhere in the distance a lawn mower buzzes, but there’s no one here. It seems to be a dead end.

  “Now where?” I ask.

  “Let’s circle around the pond,” Jeremy says, and we begin to walk the shoreline, the sound of the
mower getting louder as we do.

  As we trek down a gentle slope, the lawnmower comes into view on the other side of a grove of trees beyond a field of headstones, but it’s still dozens of yards away. It’s actually a lawn tractor, not a push mower, and it drags behind it an enormous green leaf bag, twice the length of an adult man and four times the girth. Ahead of it lies an endless sheet of leaves; behind it, unspoiled green grass lies as neat and tidy as if it had been straightened with a fine-tooth comb.

  “Is that him?” I say, trying to catch a glimpse of the driver.

  “No. He’s too old. It looks like it might be the groundskeeper,” Jeremy says. “Should I go talk to him?”

  I shrug. “Sure.”

  But it’s the cemetery boy I want, and I can’t hide the disappointment in my voice. I have no interest in speaking to the groundskeeper. I’m tired of following bread crumbs.

  On a side note, I’m impressed by Jeremy’s boldness. A week ago, I don’t know if he’d so willfully approach a stranger, but as I watch his back recede from me toward the tractor, I am proud of him, and I decide it’s good for him to do this. I just wonder if the change is due to him turning thirteen or if it’s due to his desperate desire to rid us of the black-eyed kids.

  As I wait, I step forward a few paces and turn back toward the pond at the friendly sound of ducks. Through the bank of tall cattails, around a bend in the shoreline, perched on a sort of peninsula, sits a wooden bench. On the bench sits a person wearing a light fall jacket and a gray stocking cap. Their back is to me. I’m fairly certain it’s a man...or a boy. His hands rise and fall from his face. He’s eating a sandwich. A drake and hen waddle in and out of the cattails rising up in front of him, eating scraps of crust he tosses on the ground.

  The lawn tractor rumbles down to a low hum behind me. Jeremy and the driver talk loudly over the idling engine, but they’re too far away for me to hear exactly what they’re saying. I’m not sure it matters. I think I already found who I am looking for.