Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories (27 page)

“What’s an ofrenda?”

“An altar you place at a loved-one’s gravesite. You put pictures of them on it, maybe some keepsakes they loved in real life, candles, bowls of their favorite foods . . . ”

“Do you believe people’s souls actually come back on the Day of the Dead?”

Maria shrugged, smiling wistfully. “I don’t know. I know it’s an important part of my culture . . . which my parents want to ignore. I’m not going to get all traditional or anything. I like America fine. But I want this
one
thing from my heritage, y’know? And I’m going to celebrate it from now on.”

Blazing inspiration pumped Whitey’s heart. “Can I . . . celebrate it with you? I mean . . . can boys have their faces painted, too?”

They’d reached the next-to-last intersection before Samara Hill. Maria turned and favored him with an earnest expression of affection which burned its way into his soul. “Of
course
boys can have their faces painted as a calavera. And of course you can celebrate it with me.”

She reached out and gently took his hand. Squeezed it, and held on to it. He smiled, and, because he didn’t trust himself to speak (and maybe she likewise) they turned and crossed the street, Whitey realizing he’d done something far greater than simply ask Maria Alverez to the annual Halloween movie.

***

A soft knock on the door pulled Whitey from his memories. His knees tired and sore (as always these days), he didn’t stand. Only looked up and said, “Come in.”

The door opened. Sheriff Chris Baker removed his hat and stepped in. “Evening, Whitey.” He gestured at Whitey with his hat. “Your Elegant Catrin looks especially fine, this year. Wasn’t sure you’d be celebrating, especially after . . . well. Happy to see you’re carrying on.”

Whitey smiled slightly. Sheriff Baker was young and relatively new on the job, and he still had some things to learn. But he knew how to flatter his elders. “Thank you, Sheriff. I’m not so fine, really. A tired old man wearing white face paint and a dusty old tuxedo bought forty years ago at Handy’s Pawn and Thrift. Nothing more.”

Sheriff Baker waved off Whitey’s dismissal. “Humble as always, Whitey, but this town loves you as much as it loved Maria.”

Whitey smiled fully now, blinking back an irritating wetness in his eyes. “You’re too kind, Sheriff. Parents obviously taught you some manners.”

“My mother didn’t suffer fools, sure enough.”

Whitey folded his hands in his lap, feeling mild impatience at being interrupted (something he’d felt more and more the past few years, because he was old, and tired, and interruptions wearied him, and he hated the whole feeling, which only made him feel older). “What brings you out here, Sheriff?”

Sheriff Baker shrugged. “Patrolling. Halloween and all. Wanted to stop by, make sure none of the kids were sneaking around here, getting into mischief.”

Despite his irritation at the interruption, Whitey chuckled. “We haven’t had any problems in the cemetery since before your time, Sheriff. Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here.”

Sheriff Baker’s smile faltered. He actually appeared embarrassed. “Well. Understand, Whitey . . . no one’s been talking behind your back. We all imagine how you’re feeling right now, this being your first Day of the Dead without Maria. But a few folks have noticed you didn’t put up your ofrenda or Day of the Dead decorations this year . . . and they’re worried, I guess. Hoping you’re all right.”

Whitey forced a smile. “Death is a part of life, Sheriff. Maria taught me that.
But
.” He allowed his smile to slip a bit; he’d come to respect and like the new sheriff, and believed he could trust him with some of the truth.

Some, of course.

Not all.

“I wasn’t quite up for it this year. I did answer the door for a few children, but I didn’t have it in me for anything more.” He offered the Sheriff a sad smile. “I’m sure you understand how much it takes out of a man to his lose his wife, regardless of the age.”

Sheriff Baker nodded, distant pain glimmering in his eyes. Whitey didn’t like thinking he was taking advantage of the Sheriff’s recent loss—his wife had died shortly after he took office here in Clifton Heights—but a growing impatience for the sheriff’s departure warred with his sense of propriety. The time was coming to welcome Maria’s spirit from the Other Side. He wanted to be alone, and his desire outweighed his concerns for the sheriff’s own grief. “I know you understand what it means to lose your wife. I didn’t have the gumption for the whole production this year.”

Sheriff Baker nodded. He glanced around the shed, gesturing with his hat. “Got things nice and fixed up. You comfortable out here? Not too cold or anything?”

Whitey sighed and leaned back against the wall, stifling a grimace at the small brace of pain in his lower back. “All right, Sheriff. Who sent you? Which of my boys called you, asked you to come out and check on me?”

Sheriff Baker frowned, confusion and also worry showing in his expression. “The boys? Whitey . . . I don’t understand. The boys . . . ”

***

“ . . .
have been asking for you, Maria. They wanted to be here, but they can’t come yet
.”

A weak, fluttering smile. Eyes sad and regretful, yet understanding. “
You haven’t told anyone, have you? About the boys? I don’t think they’d understand, and I don’t want
. . . ”

“
No, Maria. That’s nobody else’s business. But they miss you. They miss their Momma
.”

Another sad smile, stretching tight skin over sharp cheekbones. “
I know. But it is the way of things. We live, then die. So long as you build the ofrenda, light my candles on Dia de los Muertos, if you prepare . . . I will come. I promise
.”

“
I’ve made all the preparations. Like you’ve always wanted. Like you said you wanted, if
. . . ”

Raw emotion closed his throat. He’d tried to be strong. God, he’d tried. He’d managed to put a good face on it; he’d managed to act brave, but he couldn’t do it anymore. “
Maria, please. Don’t leave me
.”

A slow blink. Eyes dulling as their light receded, faint voice rasping, “
I must. It is the way of things
.”

“
But I can’t. The boys. They keep nagging me. Night and day. They keep telling me what I can and can’t do. I’m not a child. I don’t want to move into an old folks’ home, or a nursing home, but the boys, they won’t . . . the boys . . .
”

***

On their first trip to Mexico, they saw the catacombs. They stayed in Mexico City on November 2nd because Maria wanted to see the Day of the Dead up close. They watched parades with hundreds of people dressed as the Coqueta Catrina and the Elegent Catrin, wearing Calaveras face paintings the likes of which they’d never seen. They munched on sugar candy skulls bearing their names. They listened enraptured to men playing Guitarrones on the street corners. When night fell, they visited the graveyard on the outskirts of town and watched in awe and reverence as families lit candles on ofrendas at tombstones and sang songs to their beloved dead.

Maria was inspired. She asked Whitey to build an ofrenda in their front yard, for all of Clifton Heights to see on Halloween night. And it was on that trip, the next day, when Maria told Whitey—made him swear on his solemn word—how she wanted him to celebrate Dia de los Muertos with her, should she pass first.

***

Whitey realized his slip soon as Sheriff Baker frowned. “The boys? I’m . . . not sure I follow, Whitey.”

Whitey offered him a weak smile, hoping he appeared as baffled as Sheriff Baker no doubt imagined he was. “Pay no mind to me, Sheriff. I’m an old, sad man rambling after losing the love of his life, is all.”

Whitey could see he’d inflected the right tone, as the younger man’s face relaxed. “I understand. After Liz passed, I wandered in a daze for weeks. Didn’t know which end was up.”

He gestured around the cabin with his hat again. “Whitey. It’s none of my business. But is everything okay? You managing all right at home? You mentioned the boys, and I . . . ”

Another flickering, weak-old-man-can’t-blame-me-I’m-losing-my-mind grin. “Apologies, Sheriff. I’m not myself right yet. Still haven’t gotten my wits about me.”

Sheriff Baker nodded, sympathy glimmering in his eyes. “I understand. Certainly do.” He replaced his hat on his head and moved to leave, but paused before stepping out the door. “Listen, Whitey. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Thank you,” Whitey said sincerely, lying with his next words, “I will.”

Sheriff Baker nodded, tipped his hat, said “Happy Halloween, Whitey. Feliz dia muerte,” and stepped out into the night.

***

Whitey eased himself down the ladder, rung by rung, into the cellar he’d dug under the shed when he’d rebuilt it shortly after accepting the head caretaker’s position. Back then he’d only the barest idea as to why he’d dug the cellar. The old shed he’d rebuilt because it had been a ramshackle affair. He’d wanted something better, so he’d erected a finely built shed which doubled as a surprisingly comfortable sleepover when he’d occasionally drank too much at The Stumble Inn. Maria had nothing against drinking and had never persecuted him for having a few too many, but he’d never felt comfortable coming home tipsy, worried one of the boys would see him stumbling to bed.

Oddly enough, he hadn’t any booze the entire time he’d slept here since Maria passed.

He stepped off the last rung and onto the cellar’s concrete floor. He put his hands on his hips and looked around, appraising his handiwork, thinking how pleased Maria would be when she saw it because, after all . . . it was what she’d asked for. The day after Dia de los Muertos, in Mecico City.

***

“Ay, dios mio,” Maria whispered as she descended the rickety wooden ladder after Whitey and their guide, into the subterranean depths of the catacombs outside Mexico City. “I’ve read about it and seen pictures, but I’ve never . . . ”

Their tour guide, a plain-faced man named Juan, glanced at her in mild surprise. “You are Mexican, si?”

Maria smiled apologetically at him. “Si. But I was raised American. My parents became citizens before I was born. But all my life, I’ve . . . I’ve felt something in
here
,” she thumped her heart with a closed fist. “A wish to know who I was. To know my culture. I’ve studied and read for years, but this . . . ” she gestured at the shadowed depths of the catacombs, lit by flickering orange light bulbs hanging by wires from the ceiling, “ . . . this, and the celebrations, Dia de los Muertos . . . seeing this is a dream come true, since I was a teenager.”

Juan nodded once with a small smile, as if he’d seen it before, and didn’t find it strange. “Well then,
señorita
.” He waved ahead. “Welcome to the catacombs.”

As they followed Juan down the narrow corridor dug out of red hardpan and rock, Whitey marveled at how dry the air was, but also how cool. It didn’t smell foul or rotten, as he’d feared it would. The only scent tickling his nostrils was of dust, an ancient spice he couldn’t place, and the musk of old books.

They passed the corpses leaned upright against the wall. Whitey was amazed at their condition. Their desiccated skin—like dried leather—had pulled tight without rot. No maggots, rats or any of the more sensational signs of decay. Something about the dry, cool air, perhaps. Or something done special to the bodies themselves, like with Egyptian mummies.

Or, perhaps it was fortunate they hadn’t descended into the catacombs after a recently interred body. In either case, the experience—especially for Maria—of walking down the softly lit dirt corridor past rows of the dead wasn’t ghoulish, or ghastly, or stomach-churning in the least. It was intriguing, mysterious, enthralling . . .

And it was peaceful. Even the corpses’ faces appeared composed and relaxed. Their hands folded on their midsections (Whitey had never been sure how the arms had stayed put; perhaps they’d been wired into place), their empty eyes gazing nowhere.

“Oh yes,” Maria murmured, hands clasped together in eerie pantomime of the corpses leaning against the wall, her eyes shining, “Yes, Whitey. Like this someday. Promise me, all of us together, like a family.”

“Of course,” Whitey murmured, thinking nothing of it, thinking it was only inspiration from the moment, nothing more.

“
Promise
me, Whitey. Please.”

And he did.

***

Whitey stomped his boots on the cellar’s cement floor. Thankfully, he’d poured several feet of sand and gravel before laying the concrete. Amazingly, after all these years, the floor was still relatively smooth, with few cracks and no heaving.

He placed a hand on the brick wall he’d mortared himself. It felt cool and dry, mostly, as did the air. Not quite as arid as the Mexican catacombs, but it was the best he could manage in the Adirondacks, and would have to suffice.

Flickering light drew his gaze to the cellar’s far wall. He faced the ofrenda he’d so lovingly constructed for Maria years ago, when she’d first decided to celebrate the Day of the Dead on Halloween night. He’d had to disassemble it, bring its parts here to reassemble. It hadn’t been easy. His hands shook these days, and his back hurt. Of course, he’d had since Maria’s diagnosis to complete it. He’d sensed from the beginning hers was a losing battle.

For a moment, gazing upon the ofrenda, sharp grief twisted his insides. Thick white candles had been lit on all the ofrenda’s shelves, firing the bouquets of red, orange and yellow marigolds. Framed pictures of Maria from when he’d started dating her to pictures from before her illness lined the top shelf. Next to them, sugar candy skulls he’d made himself, with her name written on their white crystalline foreheads. Also, some of her favorite bits of jewelry. The floppy gardening hat she always wore when tending the flowers lining the front walk. Sheets of wax paper and the thick black sticks of wax she used for her tombstone rubbings, a hobby she’d begun ten years ago.

The ofrenda’s second shelf burned with candles and was lined with marigolds also, but featured pictures of both Marcus and Carlos. Next to the pictures, toys from their youth. A football, basketball, soccer ball, and a baseball. Marcus’s old Nikon camera, from before he’d discovered writing. A hammer, saw and a clutch of nails, because Carlos had fallen in love with Whitey’s hobby of carpentry and had pursued it as a career. Both of them, good boys. Strong boys. Devoted boys, as unique as day and night.