Pulphouse Fiction Magazine Issue #24 by Dean Wesley Smith

Author:Dean Wesley Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: WMG Publishing

It only takes him two days. Clothilde and I have been spending our time in the life-size manger set up in the bike shed next to the church, debating which wise man is which and admiring the brand new sheep some parishioner brought in as a gift. We have sort of managed to let the screams fade into the background—a necessary skill when spending years in a place like this.

For the past three hours, we’ve been waiting at the new grave, Clothilde perched on the neighboring mausoleum and I sitting cross-legged at the limit of the freshly dug dirt, while admiring the lights strung along the eaves of the church, making the whole cemetery look magical despite the lack of snow.

The man is down to random yells every fifteen minutes or so, and the pounding is intermittent. From the grumbling, I’m guessing he has realized his hands and legs don’t hurt from hitting the wood for days on end, nor is he hungry or have any other bodily needs.

The moment you realize you’re lying down there on top of your own dead body is usually when you accept your fate.

It’s a quarter to midnight and there’s not a sound from the village or the nearby forest when a head pops out of the dirt.

“Hello,” I say with a polite smile. “And welcome to our cemetery. I’m Robert and this is Clothilde.” I indicate my friend, who slips one hand from underneath her thigh to give a halfhearted wave.

“What the hell is going on?” The head becomes a bust and once he’s figured out how to pretend some things are solid and some aren’t, a large man crawls out. He’s at least half a head taller than me, has longish hair on the top of his head but the sides shaved clean, and is dressed exactly like his friends at the funeral. Looks like it’s some type of uniform.

“You’ve become a ghost,” I reply, tone neutral and I hope devoid of any judgment. “This will be your new home until you’re able to move on.”

Brushing nonexistent dirt from his clothing, the man snorts and looks from me to Clothilde. “I don’t think so. I have business to take care of.” And he strides toward the parking lot, eating up the ground with long, confident strides.

We know from experience that people need to test their limits by themselves. Usually, we tell them anyway—they’re stuck within the cemetery walls—but neither of us want to speak up this time. We’ll just let him figure it out by himself.

Takes his time about it, too. He tries the parking lot gate first. Screams at it when it won’t let him through. The gate behind the church is next. No better. The back gate close to our graves, same thing.

When he passes us, he throws us a dirty look, as if it is our fault we’re all stuck in here, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s probably not the type to like asking for directions.

There’s only one way out of here, and he’s clearly not ready to hear it.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.