A Dead-End Job by Justin Alcala

Author:Justin Alcala [Alcala, Justin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781953539922
Publisher: The Parliament House

15

I’d been sitting in bed drinking thoughts for breakfast. I was drowning in speculation and needed somewhere to clear my head. This is what happened when you’re fresh out of Zoloft and didn’t have money for a refill. I’d done a bit of internet research and found that The Mad Knight’s story checked out.

Ancient Irish mythology stated that there was a legendary witch named Carman with three wicked sons. Though stories contradicted one another, folklorists agreed that she’d created a great blight in Ireland that had only ended when some ancient fairy race known as the Tuatha Dé Danann had stepped in. After Luna woke up, I checked under the bed for real monsters before crisping elbows of raisin bread for breakfast. When we were done eating, we packed the van and headed to see Denise. Now that Ms. Boise, and more importantly The Mad Knight, knew where I lived, I decided to take provisions for a few days just in case. I brought a change of clothes, the last of the food in the cupboard, and tap water in a milk jug. We made our way southwest to Resurrection Cemetery.

It was a sunny Friday in Chicago, which meant that come four o’clock, everyone would be outside enjoying the only three months of warmth in the Midwest. No one in the three-one-two area code knew exactly what we had done to offend nature, but it was clearly unforgivable.

Luckily, it was early so Luna and I had a few hours to spare. It took three cigarettes and an hour of driving to get to Resurrection Cemetery. The famous rust stains along the gate’s bars were known throughout Chicagoland as the grip marks of Resurrection Mary, resident ghost.

Legend had it that the famous vanishing hitchhiker was struck down by a car along Archer Avenue in the 1930s. Since her death, she’s terrorized motorists by asking for rides to Resurrection Cemetery. Most folks said that she was a beautiful young woman in her early twenties, and appeared very much alive, clad in period ballroom clothes. It’s only when she vanished at the entrance or singed the bars with her grip to release the lock that witnesses realized she’d been a ghost. The story has inspired other tales across the country, but it all started here.

I told the Luna the story as we approached and watched her gaze narrow and follow the gate stains as we drove through. It was funny to think that a vicious werewolf would be afraid of a ghost, but kids will be kids. We swerved through acres of cemetery road, pulling over underneath a tree near Denise’s grave. I turned the key, letting the engine rumble idle while staring at the steering wheel’s horn. A murder of crows balancing on the oak’s arms above us cawed their cemetery hymn. It was never easy to visit Denise’s grave. Although I tended to leave with peace of mind, it was not without awakening feelings and regrets that I’d rather let sleep.

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