Cemetery Mythos

By Edward T. May

Despite the best of intentions, a little boy's prayer brings horrifying consequences to a small village in Mexico.

In the chaos following Hurricane Katrina a man is forced to confront his greatest phobia as a precondition for departure.

A college student in search of a hallucinogenic experience gets more than he bargained for.

A young woman obsessed with the occult discovers hidden messages in epitaphs, and acts on them.

A troubled teen hopes to find relief from a tedious existence behind the door of a mysterious mausoleum.

After having a premonition involving a premature burial a man takes action thinking he may yet cheat fate.

A writer delves into the facts surrounding a witchcraft trial and its horrifying aftermath.

Death and madness drip from the pages of Cemetery Mythos, composed of sixteen short stories, five poems and one script. Each selection hinges on the one place where the majority of us will spend most of our earthly existence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 11, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595894802

Edward T. May

Edward T. May graduated from the University of Colorado in 1981 with a B.S. in Aerospace Engineering. Currently, he divides his time between teaching and writing. He has authored four previous collections of short stories. He resides in Colorado with his wife and two sons.

Book preview

CEMETERY MYTHOS

Edward T. May

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

Cemetery Mythos

Copyright © 2007 by Edward T. May

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-45170-8 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-5958-9480-2 (ebk)

Contents

BECOMING

STRAIGHT AND NARROW

ANY LAST REGRETS?

DID YOU?

DIVINE FIRE

THE BAY ROAD BURIAL GROUND

THE FEAR OF GOD

GENERAL SHERMAN VISITS ATLANTA—1864

THE STRANGE CASE OF RICHARD DONNELLY

OUT OF AREA

AT THE CROSSROADS, A SUICIDE’S LAMENT

A WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN

TISH

RIPE

FAMILY TREE

WHY DOES THE SUGARCANE NOT GROW?

NINA

FINAL PURIFICATION

WIND AND WATER

SENTENCES FROM CHALK DUST

SEARCH FOR … ARCHETYPES

JUST ANOTHER ZOMBIE FLICK

For my incomparable wife.

BECOMING  

Ernie Whitcomb leaned against the street sign informing him he’d reached a dead end. Beyond the sign sprawled Cedar Grove Cemetery sprouting crosses and obelisks and headstones like so many bouquets flaunting their aromatic attributes in unabashed contradistinction to what lay beneath. Ernie glanced to his right, eyeing his late Uncle Jacob’s house. Although old, as old as the cemetery, the house had been lovingly maintained over the years. That was Uncle Jacob for you, a stickler for neatness, everything was always in apple-pie order at his house. Good old Uncle Jacob, a firm believer in ‘a place for everything and everything in its place,’ etc. etc. The house sat squarely in the middle of a neatly trimmed yard with strategically placed flowerbeds while around the perimeter a white picket fence marched with parade ground precision. On the whole it reminded Ernie of a well-kept cemetery plot.

Dead end, Ernie muttered. No truer words …

Ernie thought about the advice Murray Riley, the administrator of the halfway house, had given him the day he learned his Uncle Jacob had passed away.

Ernie, my lad, Murray had said in his endearing Irish accent. "This is an opportunity that doesn’t come around very often and you’ve got to make the most of it me boy. Don’t dishonor your uncle by taking what he’s built over the years, and handed over to you, and wasting it on the drink. I’ve spoken with the grounds keeper at Cedar Grove. It took some finagling to get you a position. But you know by now I’m a mighty good finagler. Mind you, it’s not the same job your uncle had. After all, he’d worked there for thirty-two years. But it’s a start.

It’s a foothold. You can climb back into society now that you’ve got a job, a house, a car. You’ve got a new life, lad. Don’t drink it all away."

Murray had said these words with a sense of urgency, conviction, verve. Murray was like that. Murray took life too seriously.

Ernie shouldered the duffel bag containing his worldly possessions, which amounted to little more than stained underwear and threadbare socks, and trudged across the street to the front gate of his Uncle Jacob’s house.

"My house," Ernie thought.

The thought felt strange as it rattled around in Ernie’s head.

Bees bobbed around the late summer flowers with economy of motion and businesslike vibrations while butterflies frolicked in their distinctive giddy flight to nowhere. Petunias and snapdragons melted and blurred in the heat in shameless imitation of impressionist artwork. Marigolds painted broad brushstrokes of perfumed air against the cerulean sky. Ernie breathed it all in as he unlatched the gate, walked to the porch and climbed the steps.

One, two, three, he counted automatically, unconsciously, and then laughed when he realized what he was doing. Just like Murray told me to take life, one step at a time.

Ernie fished the key out of his pocket and opened the door. The house was cool and dark and smelled of nostalgia. Ernie dropped his duffel just inside the entryway, glad to be rid of his burden and relieved to be out of the heat and glare of an August afternoon. He surveyed his new possession. The stairway to the upper floor was directly in front of the entry. A grandfather clock ticked away unconcernedly in a recess next to the stairwell. To his right, a room with a fireplace, bookshelves, sofa, chair, hardwood floor, windows looking out on the front and side yards. His aunt and uncle had called it a ‘sitting room’ which Ernie had always found an amusing name. So quaint, so old fashioned and, when you came right down to it, rather silly. After all, who’d ever heard of a ‘standing room’ or a ‘walking room?’ Ernie slowly walked past the stairs, noting a bathroom on his left, and entered the kitchen located at the rear of the house. Retracing his steps to the stairway he ascended to the second floor where he found the bedroom and another bathroom. Obviously the bathroom had not been an original part of the house but rather added on over the course of the years.

I know how that is Uncle Jacob. Those midnight visits to the downstairs bathroom must have gotten old in a hurry, Ernie commiserated.

The bedroom was sparsely but comfortably furnished. A cedar chest rested against the foot of the bed. A nightstand and chair stood on either side of the bed and a chest of drawers occupied the opposite wall. A mirror hung above the chest of drawers while the other three walls sported a variety of landscape paintings.

The bed was covered in a homemade quilt.

It was Ernie’s house now but it would always be Uncle Jacob’s home.

Ernie accepted the fact he owned a house, but he wasn’t sure he could have a home. He wasn’t sure at all. Not after what his wife had done, leaving for no reason, leaving him to wonder why. When he couldn’t figure out a reason, the drinking had begun. Soon after that he lost his job, his friends, his house, his home. At least he knew why he lost them and he could comfort himself, in a manner of speaking, with that thought. Cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless. Anyway, ‘home’ just didn’t have the same connotation anymore. It never would. It never could.

Ernie wandered back down the stairs and into the kitchen. He quickly scanned the contents of the refrigerator and then began an inspection of the cupboards. He made a mental note to visit the supermarket as he pulled some stale crackers off one shelf and a bottle of whiskey from another. He examined the label on the bottle and caressed the neck as Murray’s words echoed in his head.

You’ve got a new life, lad. Don’t drink it all away.

I like the old life, Murray, no disrespect intended. It’s comfortable. It fits, Ernie said as he pulled the cork and took a swallow.

After paring a few slices from a brick of cheddar, Ernie took the cheese, the stale crackers and the bottle of whiskey into the sitting room. He placed the food on the coffee table. Taking the bottle with him he turned his attention to the bookcases. He cocked his head and read the spines one at a time, occasionally taking a sip from the bottle. He spied an album of photographs on the top of one of the bookcases. Curious, he took the album and eased his body down on the sofa to inspect the pictures.

Ernie recognized many of his relatives and even came across a few pictures of himself. Most of the photographs depicted his Aunt Margaret and Uncle Jacob, along with their dog, Socks. As Ernie turned a page near the end of the album a slip of paper fell from between two of the leaves. Ernie examined the paper, finding a short verse written in his uncle’s ragged script.

I’m becoming Margaret, Margaret’s becoming me, Socks and I are becoming, What an odd group, we three.

A poet laureate you ain’t, Ernie observed uncharitably. Just doggerel, and average at that.

At first, Ernie was mystified by the little rhyme. What was all this talk of ‘becoming?’ Becoming what? He looked through the album again. Beginning with the first page he carefully considered each picture. One picture, not more than a year old, showed Socks, a wire-haired terrier, and Ernie’s uncle together. Uncle Jacob’s head sported short, springy hair and the whiskers on his face were trimmed such that they drooped around the sides of his mouth. Though shorter than average height, Jacob had always possessed a physical toughness along with a feisty temperament. Ernie remembered his uncle’s firm handshake and how powerful his wiry muscles seemed.

Wiry muscles, Ernie mused, his thoughts free flowing.

"Wiry … wiry … doggerel … dog … wire-haired …"

He looked again at dog and master. The short springy hair, whiskers, physical stature, it all matched. They looked alike. That is, as much as an animal and a human can look alike.

After marveling at the similarity between Socks and his uncle, Ernie turned to a group of pictures at the front of the album showing his aunt and uncle on their wedding day. He then found a photograph of a party celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. He flipped back and forth between the two sets of photos a number of times. The newly wedded groom looked like a younger version of his counterpart in the picture from the 50th wedding anniversary celebration. Just as Aunt Margaret the new bride looked like a younger version of Aunt Margaret who’d been married for fifty years. It was obvious the handsome young groom and his blushing bride did not resemble each other in the least. Yet the physical similarity between the old Jacob and the old Margaret was nothing short of uncanny. But it wasn’t just superficialities, gray hair and glasses for instance. It seemed to Ernie that cheekbones and noses were structured differently. How could that be?

In the past, Ernie had heard people comment on how husbands and wives tended to grow alike in appearance as they aged, but he’d never really given the concept much thought. Nor had he ever thought to compare older couples while they were in his presence to see if the notion was true. This train of thought presently derailed as Ernie began thinking about his own wife. Had his wife stayed, would they have grown to resemble each other? He would never know because she was gone and she wasn’t coming back.

Ernie took another pull on the bottle, munched on some crackers and cheese, then washed the remnants down with another swig. As the minutes passed, Ernie accomplished far more swigging than munching. He eventually fell asleep on the sofa and dreamed of his wife. She leaned over him as he slept, attempting to deliver a kiss of penitence. A single kiss, one destined to remove all the pain of the past. Ernie quivered with anticipation, but instead of warm, moist, soft lips pressing against his own Ernie felt a cold, smooth, hard surface and woke to find his lips wrapped around his whiskey bottle.

He also woke with a hangover.

He was on familiar ground there.

Surprised to find it was morning already, Ernie quickly made two slices of blackened toast, washed them down with black coffee and stumbled off to his new job. He also made a mental note to visit to the supermarket.

After a morning of cutting grass and adjusting sprinkler heads Ernie’s hangover disappeared in a sweat. A short lunch and then it was more of the same in the afternoon coupled with the arduous task of grave digging.

Ernie made it home that evening hardly knowing which end was up. It had been a long time since he’d done any more than a token amount of physical labor. He quickly cobbled together a sandwich out of the meager supplies available.

Got to get some groceries, he mumbled. But not now. I’ve just got to rest for awhile.

He took his sandwich, grabbed the depleted bottle of bourbon he’d suckled on the previous evening and adjourned to the sofa in the sitting room. As he twisted the cork upwards he delighted in the distinctive squeaky noise it made, and then there was the silly sounding ‘whumph’ as the cork finally came free of the bottle and then the long swig and … oh, damn didn’t that taste good!

Not having the energy to move, Ernie was content to sit and take in the details of his surroundings. The grandfather clock ticked away in its cozy niche, its three bronze weights nearly at their limit of travel, the shiny circular pendulum reflected the front door. The bright face with hour and minute hands, numerals and manufacturer’s name stared back at Ernie in disgust. Or was it mockery? Ernie couldn’t tell for sure. And didn’t care.

Ernie toasted the clock with a tip of the bottle and turned his attention to the stone fireplace with its broad oak mantle. A picture of his aunt, his uncle and Socks anchored one end of the mantle and was offset by a cameo of appropriate size on the other end. Between these two items a trio of porcelain cottages had been neatly arranged. Taken as a whole it was tasteful and appropriate. That was Aunt Margaret for you, forever knowledgeable about the arcane mysteries associated with interior decorating. Over the mantle a shotgun was mounted and above the shotgun a startled pheasant winged away in taxidermic flight.

Ernie’s eyes returned to the shotgun. He’d done some hunting in his time, before, well … before. Ernie liked to call it his ‘previous existence.’ His curiosity eventually overcame his lethargy and he struggled out of the plush confines of the sofa. He staggered over to the fireplace and examined the gun. A hunting scene was carved into the walnut stock depicting a dog flushing a pheasant from a cornfield. Decorative scrollwork, etched into the metal, snaked along the barrel. Ernie nodded his head in approval. He replaced the gun and moved across the room to one of the bookcases.

Ernie spied a volume of Poe and found it an appropriate choice of reading material. After all, he lived next to a cemetery and worked in a cemetery. He took it back to the sofa and made himself comfortable. Starting at the front cover he began leafing through the pages one by one. He enjoyed the feel of the paper. The accumulated smells, once trapped between the pages, seeped forth again as he released them from their imprisonment. He noticed a scrap of paper wedged near the spine of the tome, apparently an ad hoc bookmark. He turned to the page so marked and removed the fragment of paper, glancing at it as he did so. It appeared to be more of his uncle’s poetry. Ernie’s brain was already becoming muddied by alcohol and the words made