Cemetery Dreams by N.R. Allen
When she was alive, Momma would always say that it was pointless for him to clean his shack of a house. She'd say, "Bathing a dead dog still gives you a dead dog. He might smell nice for a few minutes, but he's still dead."
I keep our house clean. But the smell's still there. I guess Momma was right.
The snow's setting in. If I don't get out tonight, I won't. The world's a mean place is what Ephraim used to say when he was alive. Real soon, I think it's gonna get a whole lot meaner.
More of them dead ones are in front of the house.
Watching me like I watch Miss Cline. Except their eyes are a whole lot meaner. The ones that got eyes, anyway.
Ephraim's on the porch. I can hear his boots creaking against the loose floorboards, making a long whine kind of sound. Momma's in the back bedroom. She hadn't made a noise for a few days now. I don't go into her room no more. I don't want to see what's left.
When Ephraim and Momma took sick, I stayed with them.
Back when she was alive she always said I'd never leave her. Said there was no reason to leave. Family was family. And you cain't never trust no one like family.
Miss Cline's got music on tonight on some kind of wind-up record player. I haven't seen nothing like that in a long time. It's a soft kind of music, like a love song.
I'll wait for you forever . . . and I'll never let you go. You'll always be mine . . . Always . . . Always . . . And I'll take care of you, just know . . .
And I can hear Ephraim on the porch. He's scratching at the door like a hungry dog wanting in for supper and I can hear him whisper real soft, like he's singing to the music.
. . . And I'll take care of you . . .
Food's gone. No heat. No power. But that ain't the storm. Hadn't had power for a long time. Up here we lose power a lot. But the city . . . there's always the city.
I make myself go out the back door.
The snow keeps sliding softly down and I feel it all over me, little bits of cold digging into my eyes. As the wind spirals by, the snowflakes swirl like ants swarming on a dead thing. It's hard to see. Everything's all grey. No colors. It's easy to get turned around in the dark. In the snow. I could go back home. Go through the motions. Pretend.
But that look in their eyes . . . and the smell . . .
I kind of want to break something. Just so I can hear some noise. Hear something to remind me I'm not dead. That I'm not them.
And then I do hear something in the woods. I hope it's just wolves. I hope I didn't wait too long. But I promised Momma I'd take care of her.
. . . Always . . . Always . . .
Behind me, the boot prints I made are being filled up with fresh snow. I bet Miss Cline is still listening to her song.
Always . . . Always . . .
I just keep going, trying not to look back.
And I'll take care of you . . .
If I make it a little farther, I should be able to see lights from the city. I want to see those lights. If I can't . . . No, if their power's out, then there'll be fires. There'll be something, little lights like fireflies stuck out in the grey. I almost start laughing. Used to catch them things when I was real little. As a kid, I felt bad when I put them in a jar and woke up the next morning and they was all dead.
I'm crawling up the hill now, slipping and sliding every which way. Gonna go as fast as I can. But I'm gonna see them lights. I'm gonna see them. Momma used to take me up here when I was real small. Then I look.
Lights.
I'm laughing like an idiot until I feel a hand on my shoulder that's colder than the snow.
And I think of Miss Cline and her cats.
. . . until the world ends . . .
Got a feeling that Momma ain't been in her room for awhile. Maybe she just wanted to see the lights, too. Then I hear a voice, real soft like the snow.
". . . and I'll never let you go . . ." Momma says.
. . . Always . . . Always . . .
The Wolf at the Attic Door
"There's a wolf at the attic door. It's growlin' in the dark and waitin' . . ."My father's voice is the biggest part of him. It booms through the church sanctuary and worms its way up into the attic. It's what wakes me up.
". . . clawin' and scratchin' . . . dark things don't want in, ya see. Dark things are always a-wantin' out—"
The dark is nice. I can feel it around me and I want to go back to sleep, to slip back to where I was before. Warmth, that's what I want. But I'm not going to find it in the attic while I'm sprawled on the old sanctuary table. This do, in remembrance of me. As my hands slip down, I can feel the words etched into the side and I remember how I used to play under it while my father wandered through the empty pews on Monday mornings, meticulously checking the hymnals for pencil marks and torn pages.
Churches are different on Mondays. There are no amens and no music. No singing. They're silent and hollow.
". . . each of us got that hungry part that tries to fill us up . . . "
My father smiles sometimes. Mainly when he's putting on his show in the pulpit as he calls it. You have to make a show or no one listens. At home, he's always different—like a church on Mondays. Every time he talks to me, it's like he's reading a eulogy for someone he never really liked.
My mother tried to cover the old sanctuary table with a fancy tablecloth when it broke the first time. I was seven back then and I'd play under it and feel the cloth tickle against my arm. It was a whispery kind of touch.
". . . that thing lurkin' under our skins, it's in anybody. Any man can give into that wolf. . . "
Sitting up on the table, I notice the jack-o-lantern next to me. It's one of the few things I ever did with my father. It's our ritual. Yellow candlelight fills its triangle eyes and leaks out its jagged mouth.
". . . once you open that door . . . once you give into that hunger . . . "
The girl tonight was nineteen and a year older than me. She fought and she cried.
". . . hunger . . . in the end, we got to remember that everything's hungry."
She was beautiful and I used to watch her when she'd swim down by the river after dark. Someone else did more than watch. He cut her. And she fought him. I couldn't move. The man with the knife carved a jack-o-lantern's zigzag smile across her perfect throat. And I was too late to save her, but I saw his face. I knew him and he knew me.
". . . and we're always too scared to call that wolf by name, to throw open that door and call him out . . . "
I wasn't. Not by the river. I said, "Dad."
You've stepped into the grown up world, Levi, the hungry world, he said yesterday by the river. He hit me in the face until the world became blurry and then held my head under the water. Drowning takes a long time.
". . . hunger . . ."
Water's always hungry. It sucks you down and doesn't want to give you back. But my father brought me back here after I died. He tucked me away in his attic. Everyone thinks I killed that girl and the others. What he's saying down there is an apology and that I ran off.
My father used to say that superstitions are just insurance against dark things.
". . . in the old days, they carved pumpkins to keep evil away . . . when the veil between the living and the dead is thin like . . ."
It is tonight.
"A face to frighten and a candle to hold the dark things at bay . . . "
But there are other voices now and they're louder than my father's. I can hear them—the girl my father killed tonight and all the others. Their bodies left down by the river. Their voices are so soft, so cold. Like the water. And I can understand the one word that they whisper--hungry.
". . . as long as we've got that light burnin', that bit of good, we can keep that ole wolf away. He can try to scratch and paw and claw . . . But as long as we have that light, he's locked in that attic . . . we're safe . . . "
And I think about
"Hungry," they whisper, their voices soft like old fabric.
And my father's voice makes me smile now. ". . . you see the dark it's got teeth and nails and it's . . . "
Hungry.
The little flame in the jack-o-lantern flickers. When I peer in through the eye, I can see the simple white candle and the pools of wax it's floating in. Just a little insurance against the dark, my father used to say. Something to keep the hungry dark away. To keep us safe.
I lean over to the jack-o-lantern and blow out the candle. Then I reach for the door.
I'm so very, very hungry.
About the Author
N.R. Allen grew up in the small town of Dooms, VA, and currently lives in Blacksburg, VA, with her husband and family. She has written and published short stories, poetry, and flash fiction. Visit her on Facebook or check out her website at https://sites.google.com/site/silverkestral/ to find out more about her work.