The Paupers' Crypt (4 page)

If people have gotten out before,
Brian wondered,
how did they do it?

“John,” Brian said.

John looked at him.

“Feel like keeping busy?” Brian asked.

“How so?” John asked.

“Well,” Brian said, “I’m thinking if maybe people disappearing in the cemetery isn’t a new thing, maybe there’s a record of some kind.”

John stood up. “It’s not a big place.”

“So there shouldn’t be too many spots to hide it,” Brian said.

“I like the sound of that,” John said. “Where do you want to start?”

“I’ll take the files on the left if you want the ones on the right,” Brian replied.

“Fair enough,” John agreed.

The two men went to their respective walls, and they started to look.

Brian focused on the top drawer of the far left cabinet, which was labeled “Section 1 – A thru D.” Within the metal, he found row upon row of dark green hanging folders, each one with the legend “S.1” and then the person’s name. Thus, the first file read, “S.1 Aaronson, Aaron A.” In the file, was a small note card which listed the row number, along with the plot number, and who was buried on either side of Mr. Aaronson. It also included who had purchased the plot and the headstone.

Yet there was nothing else other than that. No information on what to do if the cemetery decided it was time to lock the new caretaker in.

Brian sighed, shook his head, and moved on to the next file.

And the next, and the next.

“Hey,” John said, breaking the silence after nearly forty-five minutes.

“What’s up?” Brian asked, turning around.

John held up a thin sheaf of papers kept together with a large paperclip. With a grin, he read, “
What to do when trapped in Woods Cemetery.”

“Where did you find that?” Brian asked, closing the drawer he had been looking in.

“Section seven. Defoe, Daniel,” John said.

“Someone sure had a sense of humor,” Brian said.

“Yup,” John agreed. He held the papers out to Brian. “You seem to know a lot more than I do about this stuff.”

Brian took them with a nod. He went and sat down in the side chair while John limped back to the desk. Quietly, he flipped back the title page and read the first page aloud,

“
If the fog has risen from the marshes, and the gates have closed and locked themselves, you must beware of the stones. The dead buried here are less than peaceful. They do not slumber in the embrace of our Heavenly Father. They remain bound to their flesh and are maddened by it.

“Do not think of the office as a sanctuary. It will not keep out the dead for long. While the sill and threshold have been salted, and the nails which bind the building together are of iron, the dead always find their way in.

“It is best for you to make your way to the Paupers’ Crypt. This, however, is risky, for within the Crypt, the dead are awake. There are several places to hide amongst the Paupers, yet they will ferret you out should you remain there long. Find a place of safety in the Crypt. You may have to move from one place to another, try not to lose hope.

“Beware of the Man though, for He is a deceiver, and one who will seek your end with all of His abilities.”

Brian looked up at John and saw the man’s face was grim, his mouth set in a hard line. The scar had gone a deathly pale and Brian saw the murder and hate in the man’s eyes.

“My Emily is trapped here,” John said softly.

Brian could only nod his agreement.

“Read on,” John said tightly.

Brian flipped the page and saw a drawing.

“It’s a map,” Brian said, showing it to John.

“Looks like a path through the graves to the crypt. And there’s something written at the bottom. It says, ‘
Follow the path and stay in its center. The dead will reach for you
,
but along this way, you are safe.'
”

Brian turned to the last page.

“
In the desk, you will find two keys. One for the outer door of the Crypt, and one for the inner door you shall come upon. Leave each unlocked as you pass, lest you become trapped, if you must flee.”

“This,” John said, “sounds absolutely terrible.”

Brian turned back to the map, looked at John and said, “I couldn’t agree more.”

Chapter 7: Running for It, 8:50 AM, May 2
^nd
, 2016

“Are you ready?” Brian asked him.

John looked at the younger man and laughed. “Hell no. Feels like something’s biting my leg and trying to work it right out of the socket.”

“You’ll make it?” Brian said.

John gave him a hard grin. “Yes, I’ll make it. Don’t worry about it. At least now I know what to expect. Let’s do it.”

“Okay,” Brian said. He took hold of the doorknob and swung the door wide open.

A flesh-biting cold came sweeping into the office. It set John’s teeth on edge, and he shivered.

“Damn,” Brian said in a low voice. “This is bad.”

“True,” John said.

Brian led the way out with the map in his hand. He glanced at John and said, “Alright, John, follow me.”

John kept close to the man, who took a few steps, referred to the map, and then proceeded a little more.

On either side of them, John observed the headstones. They were spread out a little further than the others, and luckily so. On the other side of the cemetery’s wrought iron fence, the fog moved, curling in upon itself as it traveled along the length of the metal barrier. Yet the fog never crossed to mingle among the markers.

From each stone, the dead peered. Men and women. Children, too. Various ages and different shaped faces. Yet, all of them bore expressions of malice and hate. Their dead black eyes remained fixed upon the men and John felt uncomfortable. The slightest misstep, just an inch or two to the right, John realized, and the dead would grab him. His leg ached steadily, and the thought of another cold-burn like it pumped fear into his stomach.

And what would happen if Brian couldn’t get to you in time?
John asked himself.
What if the next one was quicker, stronger than the first? What’s waiting for you in those stones?

For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to join Emily in her cell in the cemetery. He remembered her gentle touch, the smell of her hair, the way she would smile.

And then he saw the hatred in her face. The black eyes which had once been green.

His stomach threatened to revolt and cast up the oatmeal he had eaten for breakfast. With a dry mouth and a mutinous gut, John continued to follow Brian’s slow and steady lead.

Time passed slowly, and while it felt as if an hour or two had fled by, his watch revealed it was only nine when they reached the crypt. John had never seen it. Never bothered to. Neither he nor Emily had been one to enjoy a stroll through a cemetery. Occasionally, they would visit her parents’ graves, place flowers there and trim back some errant grass. But, it was a place of burial and sadness.

Especially when he had said goodbye to Emily.

A hand lashed out at John’s foot, and he pulled it away quickly. He nearly tumbled but managed to keep his balance.

Brian stopped and looked back, concern on his face. “You okay?”

John nodded and caught his breath.

“Constance Woolson, here,” he said, gesturing towards the headstone whose owner had tried to snatch him. “Seems like she wanted me to visit.”

“Told her no?” Brian asked.

“Yup,” John said.

“Good, let’s get away from them and into the crypt,” Brian said. He rolled the papers, stuffed them into a back pocket and fished out his keys. “Ready?”

“Let’s go,” John said.

Together they passed through the last of the headstone gauntlet and walked up to the crypt’s door. It was a massive, iron affair with a couple of hinges as long as John’s forearms. Brian pushed aside a small keyhole plate, slid the key in and turned it until the lock’s tumblers fell into place. The hinges groaned, and the door swung outward easily.

Once it was opened completely, the two men stood and looked into the darkness beyond.

“Don’t suppose it has lights, does it?” John asked after a moment.

“Probably not,” Brian said.

“Hell,” John said, “this just keeps getting better and better.”

“Evidently. Think we should wait until we absolutely have to go in there?” Brian asked. “I mean, the dead aren’t exactly leaving their graves just yet. We may have a little bit of time.”

Before John could agree with Brian, a noise interrupted him.

A laugh. A high, shrill laugh.

Both of them turned around and looked behind them, off towards the center of the cemetery. At first, John couldn’t see anything other than the trees and the grass, the headstones and the thin road.

Then, without a word, Brian pointed.

John followed the line of sight and felt his heart skip more than a fair share of beats.

The laughter hadn’t come from one person, or even two people. But four children, ones of various ages, had stepped out onto the road. Three were boys, and one was a girl. They were all dressed in what must have been their Sunday finest, although those Sundays had probably occurred shortly after the end of the Civil War. Their skin, John saw, was as gray as the hand which had grabbed him near the gate.

And their eyes just as black.

A foul, nose-burning stench came racing along the cold air to him, and John took an involuntary step backward.

One of the boys laughed, and the children began to run towards them.

Brian grabbed hold of his arm and yelled, “Inside!
Now!
”

John nodded his agreement.

Chapter 8: Inside the Crypt, 9:03 AM, May 2
^nd
, 2016

Brian let go of John, turned around, took hold of a small handle and pulled on the door. Normally, he would have wondered about a handle on the interior of a crypt, but now he was thankful for its existence.

The dead children, their hair a polluted brown and free in the air, shouted and laughed as they gained ground.

Brian finally managed to get the door closed, and the happy laughter of the children transformed into shrieks of rage. They came to a stop just outside and screamed at him. Wordless sounds full of a deep and chilling hatred.

“Watch your eyes,” John said, his voice coming from the left in the utter darkness of the crypt.

Brian closed them.

There was a roll and a snap and John said, “Okay.”

When Brian looked, he saw John held a lighter above his head. It cast a small circle of light and as John turned, it illuminated an old flashlight the size of a car battery as well as a hurricane lamp. The items stood on a small shelf cut into the earthen wall.

Brian brushed some webs off the flashlight, hit the switch and was pleased to see it spray light across the crypt.

Although what it revealed quickly tempered his happiness. Row upon row of stone markers were set into the sides of the crypt. Hundreds of them. Each bore a number, and nothing more.

Brian saw that the ceiling was arched, cobwebs thick in the barely penetrated darkness. At the far end of the flashlight’s range, he caught sight of a second door. It was smaller, much smaller than the one which they had entered. From what he could tell, it too, was made of iron.

The air around them was heavy and cold.

“I think we should get to the second door, sooner rather than later,” John whispered.

Brian nodded.

John took the hurricane lamp and together they began to walk quickly towards the far end of the crypt.

They had gone no more than a dozen paces when Brian felt as though he was being watched.

A quick glance at the stone doors of the burial niches revealed it to be true.

Faces peered out of the stone. Some of them were confused. Others angry. None of them looked especially pleased to see either Brian or John. Brian didn’t want to find out why, or what the dead would do about it. He had a suspicion it wouldn’t be good.

“Got the key?” John asked in a low voice.

“Yeah,” Brian answered, keeping his own voice barely above a whisper. He had the key ready.

Hands appeared. They reached out of the stone doors to grasp the edges. Slowly, almost casually, the ghosts began to pull themselves out.

Whispers filled the air.

“… see you …”

“… smell you …”

“… are you afraid?”

And more words and phrases he couldn’t quite catch. The closer he and John drew to the second door, the louder the voices became.

The angrier their tones grew.

“Quick!” John hissed as they reached the iron barrier.

Brian kept the flashlight in one hand, and the weight of it made the muscles of his forearm scream in protest. He ignored them, slammed the key into the lock and turned it sharply. For a moment, it caught, and he had a flash of panic.

Did I break the key? Is the lock jammed?
he wondered.

And then the door opened.

It swung into another room, and he and John hastened into it.

Brian pulled the key free, and John slammed the door back into place.

“Oh no,” Brian said, shining his light around him.

“What?” John asked, turning around. “Oh! Oh, this isn’t good at all.”

Brian couldn’t respond. He couldn’t look away from the skeleton which lay on the floor before them.

Chapter 9: Jenny Makes a Call, 9:10 AM, May 2
^nd
, 2016

When her boss, Anne, stepped out for a quick cigarette, Jenny picked up her phone and sent Brian a text. Nothing more than an emoticon with hearts for eyes and a swooning look.

A second after she hit ‘send’ the phone buzzed, she smiled, and looked down at it.