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What’s on the other end?
“Do we have time?” I ask.
Christian grunts. “We need to leave; the cemetery won’t be available much longer.”
“Isn’t this something you should be investigating?”
“Do you want me investigating this?” He gestures to the collection of amorphous globs of flesh drifting along the pond’s surface.
“Forget it. Take me to this cemetery.” I throw my hands up, earning a deep chuckle. “I thought you needed my help with investigating. You’re just doing a lot of brooding.” Dusting my hands against my slacks, I stand. He guides me back to his vehicle, pausing to glance back at the lake.
“The arrogance of man will give us plenty of time.” Christian crests the small hill and furtively glances at me. His eyes reflect the very mysteries of my own mind. What is this man’s true intention with me?
Christian drives us deeper into the forest, the road bumpy and jagged.
Did anyone at the house figure out I’m missing yet? And why do I feel like a petulant teenager out with a boy she’s forbidden to see? I wrap my hands around my stomach and peer out of the window. There is only darkness. We could have driven a mile or hardly an inch the way the scenery unfolds beside us.
A sudden divot in the terrain pulls me away from the outside. We’ve arrived at a narrowed path, at the end which holds a small iron lychgate that sits unperturbed atop a bed of frilly grass. The sight of it without the bolster of a connecting fence almost renders it useless.
I can see the beauty of its ruin though.
“Come on,” Christian commands, stepping out of the vehicle.
Pausing, I consider the bright moon, always near in the sky. A pale, watchful eye.
Christian opens my door and lifts me out before I can reply. The instant we step onto the path, a raw, frigid wind penetrates my clothing. The moon appears to blink, drenching us in a darkness only for a quick second.
“Is this another trick of the mind? Will something happen to us?” I ask as we begin walking.
“The dead never stay buried in Devil’s Bay.” Christian positions himself to my rear, just enough to cover me if anything ambushes us from the forest. His eyes track every tumble of a leaf to every groan of a branch as we tepidly approach the ruined cemetery. There is no sound aside from our mingled breaths. Mine, even and Christian’s, harsh.
“Are we expecting grave robbers?” I probe, knowing he feels the pressure at our necks.
We’re being watched.
“No, there are no buried dead in Devil’s Bay. It’s one open graveyard.”
“So why are we here then, if the dead like to roam?”
Christian stops at the gate and tilts his head up to the sky as if silently gauging whether we’d be granted entrance. Wind threads through the trees, carrying with it a ghostly moan. He exhales, shoulders slacking. “There are still some graves left untouched,” he replies.
Graves hold no truths.
I have yet to figure out if the voice in my head is truly mine. She sounds wiser. Whereas me? I am merely a bird being carried by the wind. I have no control. Someday, or tonight, I could careen straight into an unwanted experience. I could have no family, or been abducted from my true family and sacrificed to a cult as read about in salacious newspaper articles or what if I was an invention? A body crafted from the lives of others? I shove the thoughts aside and move closer to Christian. His muscular frame could serve as a sturdy shield in the event a creature decides to slinker from the shadows.
Christian’s hand finds the rusted iron gate and presses. It opens with a reluctant groan. The sound ripples through the clearing, then dies—as much dead as a cemetery can be—and filters through the trees clustered around it.
On the precipice, neither of us steps forward.
The meager scattering of headstones waits patiently, watching just like everything else does in this place.
“After you,” he murmurs, resting a protective hand on the small of my back. I cross the threshold and my vision blurs; in a minuscule moment it’s hazy, blurring like a paralyzing nightmare, showing me a clear summer’s day. Warm light shimmers through a thick canopy of trees, showcasing a myriad of small shadows on the mossy forest floor. Ahead, where the same headstones now lay draped in misery was the cheerier mirror of itself. Two figures stand below a bowed branch, low lying leaves dangle around them carelessly fluttering in the wind. The woman leans her head against the man’s shoulder. He seems tense, not reciprocating the softness she’s attempting to infuse into him. His hands are stuffed into his slacks, hers are hovering slightly over his heart. They’re dressed in black. The image of them dissipates into soft shimmering light.
“Marisa.” Christian’s voice splices through the hazy vision. He rests his hands on my shoulders and gently shakes. “Are you okay?”
Behind him now is a single grave. Not the numerous crooked headstones that greeted us mere minutes ago. It stands at the center of the clearing, unmarred by weeds or time. The name of the dead is the only sharp detail.
Richard Valen.
