The Graveyard Feeder

By Jack Keaton

Jackson Boylen, an elderly man, races through the woods terrified and white as a ghost. He rushes into his home, locking every door. Hearing the basement bulkhead crash open, he quietly sneaks down. Observing his beloved wife Delores, he discovers a terrible secret she's b

• Language: English
• Publisher: Decayed Films, Ltd.
• Release date: Sep 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087972367

Jack Keaton

Jack Keaton is the pen name of Rich Robinson. Robinson is a professional writer/producer/director of narrative film, television and commercial productions. He began his studies in animation, photography and drawing at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, MA. He went on to further his film studies at the University of North Carolina School of the Arts-School of Filmmaking. For over fifteen years, Robinson has worked with several influential filmmakers like George Romero (Night of the Living Dead, Creepshow), Joseph Zito (Missing in Action, Red Scorpion) and Steven Gonzales (George Washington, Shotgun Stories). He has worked with an amazing pool of talent including Sean Bridgers ("Deadwood", "Get Shorty," Room, Jug Face, The Graveyard Feeder short film) and Scoot McNairy ("Fargo", Argo, Killing them Softly) to name a few. He's also worked with a long list of companies such as Warner Home Video, Skywalker Sound, Taurus Entertainment, UTA, Untitled and Big Wheel Production Group in North Carolina. Robinson has received several remarkable reviews and interviews on many horror websites and published magazines such as Fangoria and Rue Morgue. He has premiered at several international festivals and has spent many years at the annual AFM (American Film Market). His feature film MARCUS sold to Warner Home Video and was released in 2007. His films (both short and feature length) have premiered internationally at Bram Stoker International Film Festival, Dead by Dawn Film Festival and the Telluride Horror Show (to name a few). He's won two Best Feature awards for his feature film, Marcus and the prestigious IndieFest Award in Excellence for one of his short films, prophet. His legal representation is Wayne Alexander of Alexander, Nau, Frumes & Labowitz in Beverly Hills, CA.

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Jack Keaton

The Graveyard Feeder

Copyright © 2020 by Jack Keaton

All rights reserved

No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means–electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or other–except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without prior permission of the author.

Cover art © 2020 by Studio Ronin

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-0879-7235-0

EBook ISBN: 978-1-0879-7236-7

for Rich, Jeff, and Aaron

The Dreamer awakes

The shadow goes by

The tale I have told you,

That tale is a lie.

But listen to me,

Bright maiden, proud youth

The tale is a lie;

What it tells is the truth.

—Traditional folktale

And those who were seen dancing

were thought to be insane

by those who could not hear the music.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

Prologue

It’s the crying of a baby that stirs the Old Man from his deep slumber. Ominous but distinct, and closer than he initially thought. At first, he suspects it’s his wife snoring or having another nightmare, but the crying persists and sounds as though it is coming from outside his home. But when the crying turns into shrieks and screams before abruptly fading away—deep into the surrounding woods—the Old Man opens his eyes. When he realizes his wife isn’t lying in bed next to him, like she has every night for the past thirty-seven years, he gets worried. Something deep inside instructs him not to get up—but the screams linger inside his head.

Something isn’t right.

Instead, here he is leaning against a broken tree limb, lost deep in the forest surrounding his proud home and soaked to the bone. His tattered pajamas cling to his scrawny body. He shakes uncontrollably as he wipes the wetness from his bushy brows. His large hands, covered in liver spots, tremble between fear and what is sure to be the first signs of hypothermia. This rain is as harsh as it is cold.

The child! How old was that child? Couldn’t have been more than two. It can’t be. . . . She wouldn’t dare! It couldn’t have been her. This is all a nightmare. I’ll wake up soon. In my bed. My wife next to me. Sound asleep. . . . My wife! It was just a baby!

Oh, God, what do I do? the Old Man cries. He’s barely able to hear the sound of his voice over the pounding rain, followed by a thunderous boom from high above. Lightning flashes, illuminating the tall pines and spruces around him. Their branches close in, reaching and scratching at his clothes. It flashes once again, and in the distance, the Old Man spots the back of his proud home—a modest two-story cabin far removed from anything or anyone. He hears a branch crack behind him and yelps, kicking mud up from his slippers as he runs as fast as his weak, atrophied legs will carry him. He finds a passageway through the puzzle of foliage and dashes onward. He hasn’t run this fast in forty years, and he feels it from his achy joints all the way up to his old ticker.

Thump-thump!

The Old Man, wheezing loudly, looks over his shoulder with dread before tripping over his own feet. He lands face-first in a puddle of mud. He scrambles to his feet, leaving one slipper stuck in the sludge. He passes a steel bulkhead and limps up the back porch, never looking back over his shoulder. He reaches the back door and enters, slamming it shut behind him.

He locks every bolt as fast as he can. He stumbles and turns on a small lamp on a nearby table. He’s a gentle-looking man who has aged well despite his thinning hairline and sagging skin.

The home inside is decorated with rustic antiquities and stuffed trophies from a variety of species—some common and many exotic. Shivering and distraught, the Old Man slumps to the ground directly below a giant stuffed wolf head mounted on the wall. Lightning flashes, and the animal’s shadow casts a threatening image across the room as if its menacing jaws were about to bite down and it was about to consume him. He buries his face into his large hands and sobs.

I did nothing but watch. Frozen in absolute fear of her and her actions. Oh, how relieved I felt when the babe’s crying abruptly stopped. But it was that sound. That horrible sound of . . . was she eating—

The Old Man violently shakes his head as if the action would make the horrors he’s just seen fade away. It doesn’t.

CRASH! BANG! The sounds of the outdoor steel bulkhead doors swing open.

He looks up, terrified. He jumps to his feet and quickly turns off the lamp. He goes to the window and looks below. Through the rain-splattered windowpane, he sees the light from the root cellar spilling out onto the flooded lawn. The bulkhead doors remain open, and a shadow descends the concrete steps. The Old Man covers his mouth and backs up against the wall. His eyes follow the muffled sounds of movement beneath the floor. A thud here, a thud there.

She’s home.

He stares at an old black-and-white framed photograph of him and his youthful bride. She really is quite stunning. Piercing eyes and a smile that could put a spell on anyone. The couple appear happier than a pair of clams.

Am I that shallow of a man to not see what was right in front of me this whole time? Is she a monster?

Yes, he whispers. He quietly crosses the room and approaches the recessed shelves in the adjacent wall. The shelf where the framed photograph stands. He presses his hand against the frame of the shelf and pushes firmly. It unlatches and swings open, revealing a secret walk-in food pantry with stairs leading below. The Old Man takes a step, disappearing into the darkness.

A few low-hanging light bulbs sway above his head as he descends the stairs, trying not to make a sound. Canned and dry foods are stored on the shelves above his head. He reaches the bottom step and hops over it, knowing that bottom step is a bitch and would surely give him away. The basement is damp and earthy with a washer-dryer combo off to the side along with a workbench. A crawlspace surrounds the basement’s perimeter. Concrete steps lead up through the bulkhead; its steel doors wide open. Outside, the downpour of rain is relentless. Across the basement—within the dark shadows—is the outline of a door hanging slightly ajar. The light from the other side creates an eerie glow outlining its frame.

It looks like a passage to Hell.

The Old Man goes to it and peers through the crack, which creates a peephole into the root cellar. Inside, it’s quite large with rows of shelves running along the dirt walls, each lined with jars filled with otherworldly oddities. On the other side of the room is his darling Wife. She wears her usual nightgown, which is soaked from the rain and stained with mud—

—and blood.

She’s a lovely specimen, with lips red as rose petals and a youthfulness that would make any elderly person green with envy. She appears quite happy as she hums a soft melody while working. It’s the chorus from the oldie but goodie Too Late to Turn Back Now by Cornelius Bros and Sister Rose. As she continues screwing the lids onto several mason jars, her humming turns into the haunting chorus:

It’s too late to turn back now

I believe, I believe I’m falling in love

The Old Man remains unseen as he watches his wife turn to the wall behind her. It’s covered with a dirty, old sheet. She gives it a yank, and the sheet falls, revealing a glass case. With a satisfied smile, she reaches up to the top shelf where a single mason jar sits, a dingy piece of cheesecloth covering it. She looks at it with a strange fondness. Her eyes have a shimmering, violet shine to them. She quietly returns the jar to its spot and walks toward the closed door. Hidden in the shadows, her husband holds his breath as she walks by him, still humming her song and completely oblivious to his presence. She goes to the washing machine and begins unloading dirty laundry from inside a potato sack into the washer.

Dear God, those are the child’s clothes!

The Old Man closes his eyes, reliving the toddler’s screams in his head. He slips inside the root cellar and carefully lumbers over to the hidden shelf behind the dirty sheet. He reaches into the glass case and with a shaky hand removes the cheesecloth. Inside the mason jar is a black human heart with purple veins. He stares in disbelief until the heart beats once, compressing and expanding.

Thump-thump!

Horror settles on the Old Man’s face. He returns the cheesecloth and cranes his neck toward the basement. He walks to the door and stares at the back of his wife from across the room. He