The Living Grave: A Compilation

By Timothy Graves

A collection of works that the author has bled and accumulated over the years. Short stories, poems, dialogues and perhaps more make up this concoction of a book. Timothy himself truly bids you, the reader, to enjoy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy Graves
• Release date: Jan 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311957986

Timothy Graves

Likes to practice 'kiss' (Keep It Simple Stupid), but somehow manages to do things 'the hard way' or go 'the scenic route'. In his spare time, he trains in Kung Fu, brews beer, aspires to be a tap dancer, an amateur botanist, a philosophy addict, a semi health-nut, and LOVES playing video games. Timothy has been known these days to be a recluse/loner. When he selectively becomes social, Timothy truly believes in doing right by people and says "The best way to deliver our message to others is to 'be' your message." In which he quotes Mahatma Gandhi: "My life is my message." Timothy Graves resides in Las Vegas, Nevada and is accompanied by two wonderful kids: A Shiba named Loki and an Akita mix going by the name of Odin.

Book preview

The Living Grave: A Compilation

By Timothy Graves

Copyright 2014 Timothy Graves

Smashwords Edition

ISBN# 9781311957986

Other Works by Timothy Graves:

The Many Adventures of Tare Krook

Ghost Stories:

My Continuation of Prince Mamillius’ Scary Story

There was a man dwelt by a churchyard. Like the church residing it, it was deserted. It had had no occupants for some hundred plus years in fact, that is, if you excluded the man. To his knowledge, no one knew of its existence; not since the times of the witch burning. Aside from the few head stones that decorated the churchyard, it was a thriving and beautiful place with trees, flowers, and grass retaining most of their natural color. There was, however, one bed of roses on the north eastern corner of the churchyard that was deprived of its green nature. Sure this may seem natural as dead things do wither and fade. What was unnatural though, the full in bloom roses had adopted the color of black. This bed of roses remained a mystery, even to the man.

Now, you may be wondering as to why does this man vacate in such an odd, reclusive place? Well, to know a man’s behavior, one must first learn about his history……

In the beginning, he too did not know the where-abouts of his beloved churchyard. He knew of a home, where his wife and three children dwelled. A home in which he and his family only lived in for a few years. But ever since the move, he had been sleepwalking; riding his horse at night to a place which he now sits in half-trance on the ground in front of the church. It is two weeks till his thirty-first birthday, almost three years ago was his first visit, and he still wonders why here of all places. And even more pertinent, why does he even sleep walk when he’s never done so in his life before? Well, how little prepared he was when those questions were finally answered.

'Twas the night of his thirty-fifth birthday, when he once again, crept out of his bed sheets and ventured towards the churchyard. And so our story begins, where a man dwelt by a churchyard. More was in store for him than any other night. As soon as the man sat down, he went unconscious and began to dream. Several witches awaited him, wrapped in simple cloaks. Seeing the question formulating in his eyes, they answered without him uttering a single word. They told him that it was they who were utilizing their magic to make him sleepwalk. It was in this delicate process in which, for every visit he made, his body was infused with more of their powers. His question that followed that answer was 'why they had chosen him for any of this?' Their initial answer was simple, ‘revenge’. The man did not understand and asked the question again.

The witches then answered, You are the only vessel who can carry out our revenge through murder.

I have never killed anyone in my life nor do I plan on starting any time soon, especially this night! After seeing the witches absorb the weight of his words, the man continued, Find someone else and let me go home. It was not a question.

Oh, we’ll send you home, home to carry out your purpose. And you’ll start with your wife.

No, I will never!!! the man yelled, and then followed, My wife has nothing to do with you and your revenge!

The witches decided then that the man had to be given what he was demanding, though he was not aware of exactly what that was. She has everything to do with it, for she is a direct descendent of those very people who crucified and burned us. As the witches finished their sentence, their cloaks burned away to reveal women with charred flesh and flailing pieces of cloth. The man took back a step at the ghastly sight of them. The witches continued, "You must and will kill your wife and children because you are our only surviving descendent."

The man’s eyes swelled with tears at this tragic news.

"I love my family. You cannot make me, and I will not do what you ask of me! I refuse with all my heart!" How unfortunate, that the man’s last words were in a form of a plea. The man’s mind was fully taken over and one by one, each of his family members fell to his knife inside the church, symbolically desecrating the religion that once roamed those walls. The man, standing over the graves of his fallen loved ones, burdened with guilt and hate, broke free of the witches’ spells from such emotion. His killings did not stop mind you. Already lost to madness from the plaguing pain from his crimes against his loved ones, the man set out on his horse, finding more victims for his knife to feast on.

Every night, families would disappear and a foul stench enfolded the town. It didn’t take long for the complaints to reach and force the authorities into action. The whole town was put on alert, and so each family looked out for the other. When came nightfall, the mysterious dark rider once again rode in and stole a child. That family’s sacrifice more than paid off, for the rest of the town, including said family, followed the dark rider to a secluded church.

What the townspeople saw in the churchyard appalled even their most hardened soldiers. Mounds upon mounds blanketed the majority of the churchyard, with limbs of different make, protruding here and there. The foul smell of blood with a hint of earth, bombarded the townspeople’ senses. Angered even more, they stormed the church, saved the child from another cruel fate, tied down the dark rider to a crucifix and barred up the church’s doors. With torches in hand, the townspeople set ablaze both the church and churchyard. The next day, the place displayed the aftermath of fire's talent, but the body of the rider was not to be found. The rider was believed to be dead and gone forever.

All was quiet and back to normal, but every few years, someone would end up missing. The children of the original townspeople, now with families of their own, went back to that old church to investigate what was still nothing but rubble. None could explain the disappearances. Some believe that the dark rider is still out there, stalking and killing. Others believe it to be his ghost haunting the town and anyone who comes near it. There is one fact that cannot be denied though. The black roses are still in bloom in the churchyard……

We don’t go up there at night.

I don’t believe in ghost stories; I’ve grown old enough to not believe in those kiddy superstitions. I have a childhood friend that moved to the east coast who told me a story in which I was intrigued, though. Coming from someone who studies at a university and, well, was as level headed as I, told me of his suspicions of a ghost at work. Jordan has told me that his cats have begun to disappear ever since moving into his new house.

Year after year, another cat is no where to be seen and his family had checked the local pound if they’ve turned up there. He doesn’t know where they went but his family suggested that they’ve been eaten by a ghost. Of course, he did have his doubts about such a farfetched explanation; especially coming from a religious wife and impressionable kids.

One night though, his family had sworn that they’ve heard someone or something walking up there on the third floor at night with either a scratch at the door or a low whining. He checked that room upstairs, during the day of course, and had found nothing. He’s used it more for storage than an actual bedroom. Jordan did have family visit him once for Christmas, and that one night was all they would dare to stay. They told him that they could smell something, foul, like a wet dog but, also the faint smell of blood. There would be small footsteps heard walking around the bed, but when they woke and looked around, nothing was to be seen….. oh, except for one thing.

He said they swore they saw something watching them from the closet. They shut it of course but when they awoke from another noise, they saw the closet door cracked open and what looked like two blue eyes staring at them from inside the darkness. Jordan’s family has always known that his aunt and uncle were a little looney, so they just listened to them and sent them home right after Christmas dinner. All had been quiet but ever since that night, they too have been hearing things upstairs.

So, after hearing this intriguing story, I took it upon myself to come and make a visit. I wanted to be there when he braves the night and finds nothing but the sounds of walls creaking in that old house. And so nightfall came, and we made our ascension. We’ve heard nothing thus far, but still continued on with our plans. We got up to the only room on the third floor and cracked it open. Of course as expected, nothing was there. Armed with a video camera, Jordan made his way into the room only lit from the moonlight reaching though the window. Then all of a sudden the door slammed closed, locking him in. The closet door then began to bang. Thump. Thump. Thump. Suddenly the door cracked open and slowly made an entrance big enough for a child to squeeze through. Jordan sat there in frightened silence looking only towards the direction of the closet due it being too dark to really distinguish the details of the room. Then he saw it; two glowing blue eyes stared at him through the door. He held his mouth to cover the noise of his panting as his heart raced with all the terror his brain allotted him. Soon, those eyes moved a bit from side to side, getting closer, and closer. He closed his eyes, thinking that he was only dreaming. He kept whispering he was dreaming as he perspired and began to taste the sweat on his lips despite the unnaturally cool nature of the room. He opened his eyes again to see that the blue eyes were gone.

Relief crept back to his nerves and a smile cracked on the corner of his mouth in response to his silliness. Jordan got up and turned around to try to open up the door but something caught his attention in the corner of his eye. He looked up above the door and there, stationary, were those two same blue unblinking eyes, staring at him from the ceiling. A shriek echoed within all the house and then, silence. After a few moments, the door unlocked itself and I walked in to find, with my flashlight, no one to be seen except fresh blood that trailed back to the closet. Cautiously, I walked over to the closet, and quietly opened the door only to find an empty space with a few blood drops at the end of the trail……..

Jordan is missing up to this day and those events still haunt me. His family has moved on but we all still miss him.

Notes on We Don’t Go Up There At Night

The house