Voices in the Night

Names

Graveyards fascinated him. People said he was crazy, even morbid, but he knew he wasn't. For him, it was all about the history. What did the people look like? What did they sound like?

It was quiet out here, serene. The dead don't talk, unless you listen. He, himself, didn't have any ghost stories, and he wasn't one to doubt their existence, but if they were out here, he figured they'd gotten use to him by now. And if they hadn't, well...he didn't give a flying fuck.

Besides, it was Saturday, his day off. And today, he had some serious work to do: he had to come up for a good name for his main character. It was for a story in English Composition.

He didn't like his teacher all that well. She was a prudish, religious fanatic that liked to strangle creativity and free speech, because anything other than that violated her "moral code". Although he never turned it in, he wrote a short story about a teacher that was murdered for the same reason.

Well, maybe murdered was a stretch. In his story, the teacher liked to chew on her pencil and roll it between her teeth. Anyway, the pencil broke and the teacher choked on the damn thing. He got a right good chuckle out of it. Maybe he'd sell it to a magazine and give her a copy.

He found a place under a tree and opened his notebook. Thing in the Woods was scrawled across the top in his barely legible handwriting. His name, Dexter Clapp, was written underneath it. He hated the name Dexter almost as much as he did his English teacher, which was why he went with Dex.

Though he wasn't gothic, by any means, people usually steered clear of someone who had a curious fetish for the resting place of the dead. His nickname garnered much criticism. Hey, Dex, have you had sex? Dex likes butt sex!

He pushed the thoughts out of his head as he went over the list of names he had accumulated; he crossed out the ones he didn't like and circled the ones he did. By the time it had reached two o'clock, he had whittled down his choices to ten first names and eight last names. He felt satisfied with this. If anything, his character could have a first name for a last name. You heard that sort of shit all the time.

He closed his notebook and sat it off to the side. Time for lunch. He opened his lunch box and found a peanut butter sandwich in a small bag and an Apple. He ate slowly and watched as golden brown leaves began to fall onto the graves. Some caught a good wind and sailed into the air like a kite, disappearing over the horizon, or behind some house.

Like Rip Van Winkle, who fell asleep under a tree, Dex laid his head against the moss covered bark, and closed his eyes.

I'll only take a little nap, he thought.

He had slumped over onto his right side when he awoke that evening. Dex was so startled to see that the bright sun had been replaced with a night sky and full moon, he lunged to his feet. He fell back against the tree as his head swam with dizziness.

Goosebumps raised up on his arms like mountains on a topographic map as something moved in the leaves in the distance. Sweat formed on his brow and ran down past his eyes. Not only did he have to take a piss, but his bowels loosened with his apprehension. He clung to the tree like a sailor tied to the mast of a sinking ship.

Dense fog had crossed the highway and had begun to encroach upon the cemetery grounds; cloud moved and coiled around headstones like that of a snake. One-by-one, grave markers fell into obscurity as the ominous vapor seemed to threaten his very existence. All the while, Dex had forgotten the approaching sound of rustling and crunching leaves, until a long shadow appeared to his left.

Dex's mouth dropped open and his eyes bulged as the long shadow approached. His breathing became more rapid, and came out in raspy wheezes.

It could be cop! His mother! His father! Hell, what if it were a serial killer? Wasn't that BTK Killer a citizen of a small town?

He could call for help, couldn't he? What Good would that Do? If the killer didn't know he was here, yelling would certainly do the trick. Clenching his eyes shut, he could feel the mist from the cloud wetting his face. Maybe the fog would hide him.

The shuffling sounds stopped. An eerie calm fell over the cemetery. Oh, please, God, he thought as he listened to the heavy breathing just a few feet away. Please, don't let them kill me!

Whoof!

Dex's eyes slowly opened, his grip on the tree loosened, and he rolled his head slowly to the left. He brayed with laughter at the sight of the squat, tattered old dog. He fell onto his back and rolled in the wet grass. The dog, however, cocked his head to the side, befuddled by the lunatic before him. He hunkered down, tucked his tail between his legs and ran off.

"Hey!" Dexter yelled into the darkness. A shaft of light, cut by the branches of his tree, shined down on the place where the dog had stood. "Where'd you go?"

He scrambled to his feet and picked up his notebook. The fog had covered the entire cemetery now, and shrouded the granite, marble and stone markers in a sinister haze. As he stepped onto the asphalt path, he envisioned his mom as she sat in her recliner, hair disheveled and a pall of blue/gray cigarette smoke looming over her.

From behind him, not too far in the distance, he heard an agonized whimper and yelp of a dog that met a fateful end. Was that the mangy dog he had seen only moments before? He didn't know. But one thing he did know, was that he wasn't alone.

Cold sweat seeped from his pores and his shirt clung to his skin. Up ahead and to his right was a mausoleum on a hill. Its brick facade was covered in lime and water stains. Several of its stained glass windows had been broken; the work of vandalism, no doubt. Its forbidding appearance bid men to move on, but Dexter feared what had gotten to that dog and was, thusly, behind him.

His legs churned on the wet ground, slipping several times before reaching the door. A rusty chain and padlock laid on the cement between him and the tomb. He kicked it aside and pulled open the door. Listening to the wrought iron fence creak on its hinges was like hearing nails on a chalk board. The musty, fetid smell of the mausoleum was enough to cause his stomach to revolt, but at least he was safe.

He could stay here til daylight, he reasoned. His mom would forbid him from ever going to the cemetery again, but he'd rather be here than out there with whatever that was.

Though he was in considerably decent shape, his muscles ached. He pressed his back against the wall and read the name etched on a plaque across from him: Elizabeth Scheumann. Dead: 1973.

She's been here a long time.

Dexter allowed his rubbery legs to bend until the seat of his pants rested on the cold concrete. His head fell backwards and landed with a loud thump. Though he had been awake for such a short time, he felt exhausted. Falling asleep was what got him into this mess, wasn't it? He began to breathe easier now, the pungent odor of the mausoleum no longer affected him quite as bad.

He had closed his eyes and was relaxed when he heard the feminine voice coming from the casket:

"Help me!"