Here’s a story suitable for Halloween!

Grave Consequences 

By Alfonse Meridian

“Get your hand off my arm, will you?”  said Mike.  “Jesus, your fingernails are sharp.  Don’t you ever cut those things?” 

The sun was a dull, fiery smear just above the trees, and shadows began to stretch away from the pink and gray markers.  Eternal flames on the hill would soon look like townspeople coming to storm Frankenstein’s castle, their torches held high, their distant voices full of fear and hatred. 

“Sorry,”  said Art.  “I know you think I’m crazy, but the security guard is probably starting to close up already.  We can hide the car behind the maintenance shed like I was saying and I’ll show you just like I promised.” 

Mike shook his head and looked hard enough at his younger brother to cause Art to remove his hand and take a step back. 

“I think this whole thing is crazy.  You’ve got to let it go.” 

“I knew you’d back out,”  said Art. 

“Wouldn’t you?  Hiding out in a graveyard, sneaking around like punk teenagers—who wouldn’t back out?  If I wasn’t your brother I wouldn’t be here at all.  And I’ve never, ever backed away when you needed me.  Ever since that night when you got hurt I never, ever backed out and left you hanging.” 

Art nodded, then said,  “I’m telling you, it’s the truth.  When the sun goes down, Dad’s grave is gone.  I saw it happen last night.” 

It was in a dream, but it’s going to happen,  thought Art. 

Mike bit his lip and clenched his hands together.  He relaxed his fingers, then reached up with his right hand and ran them along the layer of sweat that beaded on his neck beneath his collar.  It was June seventh, which meant his father had been dead and buried for exactly one year.  The air was as hot, moist, and heavy as the dirt that had been shoveled onto his dad’s grave twelve months ago on a day so hot and humid that Reverend Garand had actually unbuttoned his top collar. 

“This is nuts,”  said Mike.  “The security guard is about to lock us in this graveyard for the night.  I’m glad it’s your damned car.  And that’s another thing.  How are you planning to get us out of here after we check this out?” 

“It’s an old gate.” 

“Yeah?  So what?  On the way in it still looked to be about eight feet high with spikes on the top.” 

“It’s an old gate with an old lock,”  said Art.  “The lock doesn’t close all the way.  It just looks like it.” 

“And you know this how?” 

“I was a security guard here when I was working my way through school.” 

“No.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I thought you were working in some mall or something.” 

“For maybe a week, yeah, but I did three months here at Millennium Memorial .” 

“Millennium?  I thought that was a pants store.  Huh.  I thought that’s where you were working.  But you were working here in this stinkhole?  For real?  No lie?” 

“No lie.” 

“Huh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And you can get us out.  For sure?” 

“They’re the same gates, the same locks.” 

“Yeah, but I want you to say it. 
“Okay, Mike.  I can get us out of here.” 

“How come every time you want to dog something supernatural it’s always got to involve something illegal?”  asked Mike.  “That’s what I want to know.” 

Art shrugged.  “That’s the beauty of it,”  he said.  “If anybody finds us, we just tell them that we forgot the time and then we got lost.  We can’t get in trouble that way.  It’s natural.  Must happen to people all of the time.  It’ll be okay.  Don’t worry.” 

“Ever happen to anybody while you were working here?”  asked Mike. 

“Not really, no.  But that’s not the point.  It could have happened, and I would have believed it.  If it happened on my shift, which it couldn’t.” 

“Why not?”  demanded Mike. 

“I worked the midnight shift.  Nobody came in during the midnight shift.” 

“You worked the midnight shift in a cemetery?  This cemetery?  I guess they don’t have midnight shifts at the mall.” 

“Sure don’t.” 

“I didn’t have a clue.  Huh.  Where was I?” 

“Chasing girls.  You were always real busy chasing girls.” 

“Better than studying.” 

“That’s why I got the degree and you didn’t.” 

“Who makes more money?” 

“I’ll catch up.  Give me time.  You had a few years head start.” 

“Yeah.  Is it always this quiet in this place?” 

Art looked around and took in the fading light and silence and then said,  “I always had the radio on in the car when I was doing my rounds.  But it went out on me one night.  After that, I brought two battery operated radios and kept them in the car with me just in case.” 

“In case what?”  asked Mike. 

“In case one went out.  I never wanted to be here again without music or news or something.  Your mind can play tricks on you at night in a place like this.  If there’s nothing to keep your mind on, you can start, well, you can start hearing things.  Seeing things.” 

“I don’t even know what we’re doing here,”  said Mike.  “This is straight out nuts.  It’s almost dark.  I still can’t believe you did the midnight shift here.” 

“I’ve done a lot of things you don’t know about.  Now come on, let’s move the car.” 

As they walked back to Art’s compact car, Mike’s eye flitted from gravestone to gravestone, then moved to the rapidly darkening sky.  Gravestones the colors of old bones and night being pulled over them like a moss blanket.  He keened his ears for sounds but could hear nothing except the movement of their feet through grass so carefully maintained that it stood only as high as the top of his shoes. 

Mike stopped at the passenger side of Art’s old Malibu. 

“Where are we going to park this again?” 

“Behind the maintenance shed.  Come on.  Get in.” 

Mike’s fingers balked at pulling on the door handle. 

“You know we can’t turn on the headlights or we’ll get caught.  There’s a security guard here, right?  So how are we going to find this shed in the dark?” 

“First, we’ve got the moon.  Second, I used to work here, remember?  Come on.  Get in and let’s get going.” 

“I don’t know why I’m doing this.” 
“Because I’m your brother and you promised.  Now get in the car.” 

As Mike closed the door behind him, he said,  “That was a long time ago when you used to work here.  How come the dome light didn’t come on?” 

“You don’t watch movies?  I unscrewed the bulb.” 

“Did you get that out of a movie?” 

“No.  Grace Allen showed me when we used to park and make out.  She didn’t like the idea of getting caught half naked.  I think she’d had the experience before.” 

As Art started the car, put it into Drive and eased down the dirt road toward the maintenance shed, his brother snickered. 

“Yeah,”  said Mike.  “I’d say so.” 

“What?  Say so what?” 

“That she had the experience before.” 

“I hate you,”  said Art. 

“Man, she could really make out—hey watch out.” 

Art slammed on the brakes, but even crawling along at seven miles per hour he wasn’t quick enough to prevent the car from rolling onto the animal that had darted in front of them.  There was a sound like a balloon full of oil bursting as the full weight of the car settled on the body and slid a few feet—the animal’s blood acting like an oil patch. 

“I can’t believe it,”  said Art,  then he banged his right fist onto the steering wheel. 

“What was it?”  asked Mike. 

“Damn it, damn it, damn it,”  said Art, the flat thud of his fist against the leather-wrapped wheel counting out the curses. 

The car idled so quietly that it was like an obedient hum, the sound almost drowned out by the fan that blew air conditioning from the panel vents. 

“Are we just going to sit here?”  asked Mike. 

“We’d better get out and see what it was,”  said Art. 

“Why?  What’s the difference?  It’s dead.” 

“Yeah, well I probably just killed it, but I’m going to get out and make sure.  It’s my fault.  You just going to sit here in the car?” 

Mike’s head pulled back just a bit, and his eyes narrowed. 

“You saying I’m chicken?”  he asked. 

Art shook his head and got out, closed the door quietly behind him then walked to the front bumper.  A few moments later he heard the clicks of the passenger side door opening and closing and Mike’s steady footsteps coming toward him. 

“You got a flashlight?”  Mike asked. 

“Yeah,”  said Art.  “I’ve got a flashlight.” 

“Well, where is it?  We can’t see for shit.” 

The night had sealed them in as quietly and quickly as a door pushed tight behind them and locked by someone that they did not know. 

“It’s in my pocket.  Keep your voice down.” 

“There’s nobody here but us, Art.  Unless you think some of these bones are going jump right out of their graves and tell us to keep it down.” 

A sudden wind sprang up from the grass beside the gravel road as though it had been hiding.  Its passage covered Art’s sigh.  

From his right front pocket, Art withdrew a pencil flashlight.  He kneeled down near the grill, cupped the palm of his hand over it, and flicked the switch to shine the beam beneath the bumper.   

“Shit, look at that,”  said Mike.  “It’s a black cat.  You ran over a black cat in a cemetery.  Good going, Slick.” 

“Don’t call me that,”  said Art. 

“Okay, but I’m not calling you Mr. Good Luck charm, either.  Black cat in a cemetery?  That’s a hell of a lot of bad luck, brother.  You might want to back the tire off its head so we can drive around it.” 

With a soft click, the thin beam of light was gone.  As Art stood up, he heard his right knee pop the way that those little plastic bubbles that they packed in cartons did when you stepped on them. 

“You smell that?”  he asked. 

“What?  Cat guts?  I don’t need to smell cat guts,”  said Mike.  “I’m getting back in the car and let’s get out of here.” 

“That’s not cat guts, Mike.” 

“Who cares what it is?  Let’s get moving.” 

“I can smell it,”  said Art.  “I’m not imagining it.” 

“Okay, I give.  What is it you think you smell?” 

Art sniffed the now still air of the cemetery the way that a suspicious dog sniffs the wind. 

“Well?”  demanded Mike. 

“Sulfur, Mike.  I smell sulfur.” 

Art had smelled sulfur once before in his life, on the night that he had been clawed and bitten and scarred.   

He and Mike had gone camping with their father.  After their parent’s divorce, summer camping trips had been a regular event between the boys and their father.  Their father slept in one tent and the boys in another.  It was their big adventure and they looked forward to it as nothing else.  “Just the three of us,” their father used to say. 

One night he changed that, and that was the year that the trips had ended. 

Art’s father had for the first time brought along a girlfriend.  That night he had sent the boys to their tent a little earlier than he normally would have, telling them that he was tired, that he and Shari would be calling it a night, too. 

Mike had not been feeling well that day, and for the first time on any camping trip then or since, he fell asleep within ten minutes after lights out, leaving Art sitting up alone with a flashlight trying to read comics since no video games were allowed.  After about an hour of this, the soft drinks he had had earlier in the evening caught up with him and he had to pee. 

Art never went out to pee at the edge of the camp alone.  His brother Mike or their father always went with him so that he wouldn’t be afraid.  Looking down at his sleeping brother, Art decided that he would ask his father to go with him so that Mike could get rest enough to feel better in the morning.  Art was still dressed in the same blue t-shirt and red shorts that he had worn all day, but he slipped his tennis shoes back on so that he didn’t step on anything like a rock or a snake. 

He made his way past the embers of the crude campfire that they had made in a ring of stones.  It was, according to his father, the same way that the early settlers had made their fires to keep away the animals at night.  In his right hand, he clutched the flashlight that his mother had given him to take on these trips.  It was a child’s size flashlight- the kind that took “C” size batteries instead of the more adult “D” batteries. 

From somewhere up and over the trees, Art heard the sound of thunder.  Lightening cracked through the overhead darkness and flashed the sky so clearly that Art saw an owl fly away from a tree branch, the sudden, startling brightness sending the night-predator flapping away into the night.  Art ran toward his father’s tent but stopped just as he was going to pull away the flap and go inside.  He heard whispering and exertion and heat lightening brightened the sky and through a partially pulled back flap and through the netting he saw his father’s girlfriend Shari and his father rolling around  on their spread-open sleeping bags.  

Art, still too young to understand but old enough to know anyway, turned and ran past the edge of the camp and into the darkness.  He ran and he ran and he tripped and he got up and he ran some more. 

His chest hurt and he was gasping for breath, really working at it, when his foot hit an exposed tree limb and he went down, hitting his head on the edge of a rock as he did so, then passing into a dark, hard sleep. 

As he slept, footsteps cracked through bushes and fallen branches and urgent whisperings moved toward him.  His brother Mike snored, his father and Shari entwined, and Art lay floating in the darkness between conscious and unconscious.  Lightening and terrible electrical glows and discharges built up in the turbulent dark sky overhead as a storm descended upon the woods. 

“Come to me, little one,”  crackled a voice more frightening than the storm.  “I can smell you, yes Lily can.  Come to me, my little one.  Lost and afraid and so far from home.” 

The wind leaped up as she approached his fallen form and blasted her with dirt and leaves as though trying to protect him.  She screeched and put her hands over her eyes.  

“I won’t be denied,”  she screeched. 

The wind fell away. 

“Ah, there’s the little one,”  she said as she pulled her hands away from her eyes.  “Oh, yes, oh yes.  There’s the little one all alone.” 

She stopped before the boy and looked down at him, rubbing her hands together in anticipation.  From somewhere in the trees there came a deep growling. 

“Mine,”  she hissed.  “Go away.” 

And, whatever it was, it did. 

She dropped to her knees beside Art and picked up his arm.  Art’s eyelids began to flutter as though somewhere within him he knew that he was in danger and needed to wake up.  Even as she leaned over and just before she bit him in the shoulder he screamed,  “help me” so loud that even the thunder did not drown it out. 

His eyes snapped open as her claws raked his neck, and Art looked toward the sky as though looking to God himself and cried for help. 

As her head dipped down to bite him again, Art saw something in the clouds, something bright and swift and then, as her teeth made contact with his bicep, something flashed from the heavens as though hurled down at them and a bright light exploded above his arm. 

When they found him later, he was burned and cut and clawed, but he was alive and alone. 

According to plan, Art had parked the car behind the maintenance shed and led Mike through the dark toward the section of the cemetery where their father had been buried.  Neither of them said a word as they walked through the grass beside the gravel road.  They had only walked five feet on the road itself before stepping off to the side by unspoken mutual agreement.  In the eerie stillness, the crunch of gravel beneath their shoes had seemed too loud.   

Much too loud. 

Moonlight the color of a werewolf’s eyes glowed the grass and tombstones, and as they reached the top of the last hill before their father’s grave they saw the fog hanging low in the hollow between the hill that they had crested and the smaller mound where their father and other relatives lay buried.  They stopped and stared at the smoky mist, neither of them ready to take another step. 

“What is that?”  asked Mike. 

“I think it’s fog,”  said Art. 

“We put you through college for that?  I mean, what is it doing there?  You see fog any place else?” 

Art swiveled his head from side to side, peering into the darkness.  He saw granite and marble cut and polished and worn and dull; he saw tall trees with leaves of darkness that resembled full cowls.  He smelled condensate rich air tainted with sulfur.  He felt the wind touch his face, probing the hollows of his cheeks, tousling his hair, and feeling the angles of his nose, the contours of his jaw.   

A faint tingle quivered his skin and he felt as though he were charged with electricity. 

The wind, he thought, is checking me out. 

“It’s just collecting there because it’s a low spot,”  said Art. 

“Uh-huh,”  said Mike.  “A low spot.  I feel better.  Who owns this place—Frankenstein?” 

Art pushed his hands into his pants pockets and took a little breath before answering him.  He wrapped his fingers around the pocketknife that his father had given him years ago.  It was a special knife for dealing with special terrors. 

“I don’t know.  Some old woman.  I heard her name once when I was working here, but I forgot.   I saw her once.” 

“Okay,”  said Mike.  “What’d she look like?” 

“I don’t know.  I mean, it was like two or three in the morning.” 

“You’re jacking me.  She came out to check up on you at three in the morning? What a witch.” 

“Treach,”  said Art.  “That’s it.  Something or other Treach.  I was driving around in my car checking things out.” 

“What was there to check out?  Everybody’s dead and buried here.  What were you supposed to do, see if any of the coffins popped open and were missing a vampire?  God, I’m creeping myself out here.” 

A sound cut through the night air, a wailing whimper like an aging dog pleading to be put to sleep. 

“About time we got out of here, wouldn’t you say, brother?”  asked Mike. 

“Lily.  That was it,”  said Art, and as he said the name, he pulled his right hand out of his pocket and reached back to rub the back of his neck as though  it were sore.  “Lily Treach.” 

“Like I said, it’s about time to get out of here,”  repeated Mike. 

But Art’s eyes were remembering a scene from his past, seeing it in all the grays and browns and blacks of a night long ago. 

“It was that night the radio went.  It was snowing.  Looked like frosted wheat flakes floating down from space.  It was cold, Mike.  You know how everything squeaks when it’s cold?  You step on snow, and it sounds like you’re breaking mouse bones.  I got out of the car to check out the back tire.  No way I wanted to be stuck, so I was checking it out before the snow got too deep.  The tire was okay, I was just paranoid. 

“So, I got back in the car and tossed the flashlight into the glove box.  I blew on my hands and tried rubbing them to warm them up.  The heat was on in the car, but it was one of those old Volkswagens, the ones without fans on the heater.  To get the heat going, you had to drive, but I just wanted to warm my hands up first. 

“The windows were getting a little foggy, so I rolled one down.  The radio on the seat next to me was blasting away.  I don’t know why I had it so loud.  Sometimes I kept it down because I got nervous, sometimes I cranked it up because I got nervous.  I don’t know. 

“Anyway, I cranked the window down a few inches.  It was enough that I remember seeing my breath and I was thinking that I would fog the windows with my breath.  But I forgot about that when the radio went dead just as I see this horse and rider stop about thirty feet away from me in this circle of headstones.  It was her— the lady that owned the place.  She had a hooded cape that was flapping behind her in the wind like a black sheet.  

“I should have been wondering what she was doing out in the freezing cold at that time of night, but what I was thinking was that she was looking at me like she knew who I was.  My brain was numb, but my hand and my foot started acting like they had brains of their own.  I swear I wasn’t even thinking when my hand pulled back the gearshift and my foot pushed on the gas pedal.  The tires started spinning for a couple of seconds and then I was on my way, sliding down the road, yanking the wheel this side and that trying to keep from shooting off and knocking down a couple of tombstones.” 

  “You quit the next day, right?”  Mike asked. 

Art nodded. 

“I was out of there that night.  I drove as fast as I could to the front gates.  I didn’t even know why I was on the run.  I don’t know why I was so scared.  I’d just gotten out of high school and I was acting like I was ten years old just because the old lady that owned the place looked at me.  But I wasn’t thinking.  I was just scared.  I’m older now.  I know there’s nothing to be afraid of here just because it’s where dead-—I mean people who have passed on are laid to rest.  I’m an adult.  I don’t think like that now. 

“But that night, I was lucky I didn’t run that Bug into a tree and kill myself.  I was freaked out.” 

“You probably,”  said Mike with tight smile that just about worked but not quite,  “scared the old woman.” 

Art tuned his head away from his brother and stared down into the dead pool of white that hung in the depression before them. 

“I don’t think so,”  he said. 

“Come on,”  said Mike.  “You were a teenager.  She spooked you.  You spooked her.  She probably rode off the other way fast, like her horse had a cattle prod up its ass.” 
“I wish,”  said Art.  “She was pacing me.  I was driving that car like a maniac down these cemetery roads trying to get to the gate and she was  riding after me like she was the Headless Horsewoman.” 

“How come you didn’t tell me all of this before we got in here?”  asked Mike.  “I could have stayed home and watched monster movies and drank beer.  And why are we really here?   Did Dad’s grave really disappear at midnight?  Or did you just want me along to prove to yourself you’re not scared anymore?  Is that why we’re here?  Or is this one of those reality scare shows?  Are there cameras hidden behind the gravestones?  Are there people watching us at home right now and laughing their asses off?” 

Art shook his head, then pointed to the hill on the far side of the fog.  “That’s Dad’s grave over there, remember?  The square one.  The tall one with the point on it is Great Grandma’s.  It used to be a cross.  That point.  It used to be a cross.  I came to check for flowers  last week and it was broken off.” 

Mike rubbed his forearms because he was cold, because they were covered with goosebumps.  He looked down at the patch of fog waiting at the bottom of the hill and swore under his breath. 

“It’s that damned fog,”  he said.  “This frigging place is colder the closer we get to it.  It’s the middle of June and I’m freezing.  You know you get me into more crap.” 

“Mike—,”  Art began. 

“Yeah, I know.  You’re a fully grown adult.  You’re not a kid anymore and I’m not you’re big brother.  We’re older now and when you hit middle age nobody’s little anymore- we’re all just fatter and older.” 

“That’s not what I was going to say,”  said Art.  “I was going to say that in a place like this, it’s nice to have your big brother with you.” 

Mike leaned his head back and pulled his chin in the way that he had done since childhood when he was surprised and embarrassed. 

For a few minutes, they stood and stared at the swirling mist, each thinking their own thoughts, sedating their own fears and rationalizations. 

“How’d you get out of this place that night with that her after you?”  asked Mike.  “Did you climb over the fence?” 

“No.  Those spikes aren’t for decoration.  They keep people from climbing over the top.  They’re sharp.  If I had tried that and slipped, I would have had a lot of prongs sticking in my back.” 

“So, how’d you get out?”   

“Like I was telling you,”  said Art.  “The lock wasn’t that good.” 

“What’d you do, just wiggle it until it came loose?” 

For the first and last time that night, Art smiled. 

“No,”  he said.  “I ran the car straight into the gates, busted the lock, headed out onto the road and kept peeling.” 

“Did the old witch try to keep up with that four-cylinder Bug engine?” 

Art closed his eyes again, seeing the scene as he saw it that night. 

“No,”  he said after a moment.  “As soon as she got to the gate, she stopped.  Like she couldn’t leave the cemetery.  I couldn’t see her face in the rearview mirror, but I think she was really pissed.” 

“I don’t like the looks of that,”  said Mike, gesturing at the fog.  “Why don’t we go around it?  It looks like… fumes or something.  Maybe it’s not fog.  I just don’t like the way it looks.  It’s the ugliest damned fog I’ve ever seen.” 

Art looked down at it.  It was the only fog that he had ever seen that looked like it was composed of oil droplets.  The first explanation that came to him was that it was caused by the moonlight.  Perhaps there was a lot of pollution in the air that caused it to look as though it were brewed from a batch of bad chemicals.  The air was thick with humidity.  Perhaps a combination of the two made it look that way.  Yet, he had never seen oily fog. 

His mind ticked off explanations, but looking at it still made his stomach nervous. 

“I don’t like it either,”  Art said finally. 

“So we go around it?” 

“I don’t think it works like that.” 

“Like what?” 

Art considered the question. 

“I think we have to go through it.” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know.  Something.” 

“Well,”  said Mike,  “I’m going around it.  If you want to go through it, be my guest.  Something doesn’t look right.  I’m telling you it looks toxic.” 

“I think she was the one,”  said Art suddenly.  The scar that covered his shoulder and arm felt thick and tight, like an old scab getting ready to split and peel.  His neck and chest were sticky with sweat. 

“Whoa, let’s back up here,”  said Mike.  “Who is what one?” 
“The old woman.  The old woman on the horse that night in the cemetery.  And when I was a kid.  The thing that bit me.  The thing that wanted to eat me.  I think it was her.” 

Mike took a quick two steps toward his brother, grabbed his collar and pulled him up to his tiptoes.  Over Mike’s shoulder, Art could see the moon suddenly slightly blurred and wavy as though it were behind a thin curtain being blown about by the wind. 

“Look at me,”  snapped Mike.  “What is going on here?  Can’t you get this stuff out of your head?  You’ve got to get some treatment or something.  When you called me about this, the first thing I thought was I’ve either got to get you in for treatment or committed some day.”  He shook Art to emphasize the point.  “I figured I’d play along with you, though, just one last time.  Maybe try to talk you out of this stuff that goes through your head all of the time.  Monsters in the night, ghosts, demons, phantom trucks and boats and goblins hooting around in the bushes.  And now this—  disappearing graves and some spooky old woman.  You’re losing it, Art.  Can’t you get this shit out of your head?” 

“What about that?”  asked Art, and he jerked his thumb toward the lurking fog.  “How do you explain that?  Does that stuff look normal to you?  And could you put me down?  You’re killing my armpits.” 

Mike looked toward the fog.  Stared at it as though willing it to go away.  He looked back at Art and then at the fog again. Then, very gently, he let his brother slide down onto the soles of his feet again. 

“I ought to just drag your butt back to the car, throw you in, and dump you at a hospital for the whacked out,”  said Mike.  “What the hell is going on here?  Is this really about dad’s grave?  Did you really see it disappear?  Did that really happen?  Is that why we’re really here?” 

“It really happened.  I really saw it disappear at midnight.” 

“Okay,”  said Mike, shaking his head like maybe it did, maybe it didn’t happen.  “But what the hell were you doing here?  Really.  And I’m not buying the line of crap that you just came here and sat around until you lost track of time.  You’re running something down, Art, I know you.  Why were you here at midnight in the first place?  Did you know it was going to happen?  Or you get some kind of psychic dream that at midnight the old man’s grave was going gone?  The truth.  Just tell me the truth.” 
Art looked at his watch again, and then at the fog. 

“There’s no way around it,”  he said.  “We’re going to have to go through the fog.  I don’t know why, but there’s no other way.” 

“Maybe,”  said Mike.  “But why were you here that night?  Give.” 

“We don’t have much time.” 

“Tell me,”  Mike repeated. 

“Maybe you won’t go with me if I tell you.” 

“Since that night we went camping have I ever let you go any place bad by yourself?  Have I?” 

“No,”  Art admitted. 

“Well?” 

From somewhere in the darkness towards town, something squealed like a dog with its paw caught in a closing door hinge.  Both men looked toward the sound, waiting to hear more, waiting to confirm that it was real, that they had really heard it at all.  For a few moments, they stood as grim and attentive as the grave markers around them. 

“Just tell me,”  said Mike. 

“Things have been happening to me,”  Art said.  “Stuff like the stuff that no one ever believes.  I know that I’ve been hooked on this stuff since I was a kid.  I know I’ve driven you and everyone else crazy with it, but I just can’t give it up.  My life is like a twenty-four hour a day Art Bell show with all the crazies on the planet calling in with every weird thing that happened to them that nobody ever believed but that they’re absolutely positive that it actually happened to them. 

“Look where we’re at Mike.  It’s coming up on midnight and me and my big brother are standing in a cemetery trying to get to our dad’s grave so I can prove that at midnight it really disappears like it was never there in the first place.” 

“And?”  asked Mike. 

“One night I’m getting ready to get myself something to eat.  I open the freezer door to get some frozen Chinese food from the freezer and when I opened that door, I swear that every box, every bag, and every ice cube in that freezer each burst into flames at the same time.  I’m not talking about a psychic vision, Mike.  These things were really burning.  There was smoke coming out of my freezer.  Real smoke.  The kitchen stunk for days.  It smelled like mom’s side of the family came over puffing on Winstons all day and night.  I got a pitcher of water from the sink and tossed it into the freezer and kept doing that until the fire was out.  The smoke alarm was going off the whole time.  This happened in my freezer, Mike.  This happened in my freezer.” 

“Smoke like when it’s cold outside and your breath looks like smoke?”  asked Mike hopefully. 

“There are scorch marks still inside my freezer.  And cold air doesn’t set off the smoke detector.  You want to hear more of this?” 
“Is it going to tell me what we’re doing here?”  asked Mike. 

Art looked at his watch again.  It was ten minutes to midnight. 

“Later on in the week, I was sitting down at my desk in the living room, and I leaned back my head against the wall.  I started hearing voices, like somebody was whispering.  It was coming from the furnace vent.  You know what my place is like—there’s no basement even.  But I was hearing this whispering coming from the vent near my desk.  It was like that psst psst psst noise we make when we were kids trying to annoy each other, but I could  almost make out words.  It was somebody trying to tell me something, I was sure of it.” 

Mike gave his brother the same look that he had given him since they were kids whenever Art started going over the edge.  From when they were kids right up until that moment, he had always told himself that he followed Art on his paranormal hunts just because he was his older brother.  But with midnight approaching, Mike wasn’t sure anymore.   

“Furnaces make lots of noises sometimes,”  Mike said. 

“That’s what I thought,”  said Art.  “So, I leaned over and finally got down on my hands and knees because it seemed as though no matter how close to the vent I got, I could still only almost make out the words.” 

“That’s an old furnace in your house, anyway,”  said Mike.  “I bet it’s the one that came with the place.  How old is that house?  When was it built, back in the fifties or sixties?  I’m surprised it hasn’t blown up by now.  Hey, maybe there were fumes coming from the furnace that were explosive and they got up into the refrigerator and they collected in the freezer and when you opened the door to the freezer it caused some kind of spark and…” 

Mike’s idea petered off as he realized how stupid it was. 

“So anyway,”  continued Art,  “I finally get right down on my hands and knees, and I can almost make it out, but not quite.  So, I lean my head right up against the grill—” 

“And?”  interrupted Mike. 

“And this hideous voice screams ‘I said I’m still hungry.’  Screams it right out of the vent.  Like there’s someone inside.  It scared me so much that I stood up, hit the desk, and fell right over backwards over the top of it and was out cold before it even hurt 

“This stuff just started happening.  Something different every day.” 

“Why?”  asked Mike. 

“Just to get to me.  Just to let me know what she could do.  Just to try and get me to come back.  Now I think she’s using dad’s grave to get me back.” 

“Art, are you talking about the old woman you saw riding a horse in here that night?  This is the cemetery where it happened, right?  Is she really what this is all about?” 

Art nodded. 

“And you’re still afraid of her?” 
He nodded again. 

“Then what in the hell are we doing here?  I don’t exactly get why you’re really afraid of her, but…” 

“I told you.  She was the one.  She was the one that bit me that night in the woods.  I know it.” 

“How could you know that?  That’s what I want to know.  How could you know that?” 

“Because she told me.” 

“You talked to her?” 

“No.  She talked to me.  In a dream.  And then I saw Dad’s grave disappear at midnight.  In the dream.  As real as us standing here.” 

“You mean that you never actually saw it happen here in this cemetery?  You just saw it in a dream.  You asshole,”  said Mike. 

“But it happened,”  said Art.  “The dream was real.  In the dream she told me.” 

“Ah, Jesus, Art.  Come on; let’s just get the hell out of this place.” 

“It’s the truth.” 

“Okay, so it’s the truth that you dreamed about her talking to you in a dream.  I can buy that.  Then you con me into thinking you saw it in real life.  This is sick, Art.” 

“She told me that dad hadn’t passed.  That his soul was still with his remains.  She told me that she was going to claim his soul.” 

Mike put his hands over his face and breathed out slowly.  He closed his eyes and almost prayed for God to show Art that he was crazy. 

“Each time the grave disappears, she’s closer to claiming his soul for good.  That’s what she told me.” 

“Stop it,”  said Mike from behind his hands. 

“She’s doing it to trap me into coming here.  I know that.” 

“I said stop it,”  Mike said. 

“She doesn’t want dad’s soul.  She wants me.  When she bit me, she marked me.” 

“Stop it,”  Mike said again.  He took his hands away from his face and looked at Art.  “You’re crazy.  You are.  You’re really crazy.  You’re my brother and I love you but you are crazier than those whacked out old ladies that stand on the corner and talk to fire hydrants.  I can’t go through with this.  I’m going back to the car.  I’ll wait for you there.  You do what you’ve got to do and then come back and we’ll get out of here.” 

“I’m afraid to go alone, Mike.  She’ll be waiting there for me,”  he said, and pointed to the fog.  “She’ll be right there at dad’s grave.  I need you there with me.  Together we’ll be safe.” 

Mike shook his head.  “I’m sorry for what happened to you when you were a kid.  I’m sorry it messed you up so bad.  I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.  I’m sorry that I was asleep and didn’t know what was going on.  But damn it, this has got to stop.  There is no old woman waiting by dad’s grave at midnight to eat you.  It was a long time ago and you’ve just get to let go of it once and for all.  If I go over there with you and there’s nothing there we’ll have to go through this same thing all over again for the rest of our lives.  It’s got to stop now.  If you’re going, you’ve got to go by yourself to put this behind you.  You go there, there’s no old boogey-woman waiting there for you, and it’s over.” 

“This is real,”  said Art.  “It’s always been real.  She’s a witch.  And she’ll be there tonight, right by dad’s grave.” 

“A witch?  Art, there’s no such thing as real witches.  There’s just people that go to psychic fairs and read books about the glory days of Wicca.” 

“I need your help,”  said Art. 

“No.  You need to let this thing go.  Let’s go home, brother.” 

“I can’t.  I’ve got to face her.” 

“There’s not going to be anyone to face.  Dad’s grave isn’t going to disappear and there won’t be a witch there, either.  I’m going now.  I thought coming along would help you make it through this, help you see you need to forget all of this stuff.  But you’re like an alcoholic.  One more drink.  Just one more drink.  With you it’s one more ghost.  One more haunted house.  And now it’s one more witch.  I’m going back to the car.  Are you coming with me?” 

Art lifted his wrist to his face and checked the time by pushing a button again.  “It’s five minutes to midnight,”  said Art.  “I’ve got to go.” 

“Don’t do this,”  said Mike. 

“When we were kids,”  said Art,  “after it happened, you promised me you’d always protect me.  You said you’d never let me go into the dark alone again.  Ever.  Please go with me just this one more time.” 

Mike shook his head.  “No,”  he said.  “I made a mistake.” 

“Okay,”  said Art, and he turned and took a step toward the fog that stood between him and his father’s grave. 

Mike looked after him, unable to go forward, unable to go back. 

It was deeper than it looked.  The fog rose up towards his neck, up to his nose, and then over his head.  He was immersed in a world of swirling moist darkness, like a man walking through waters that he could not quite get his head above. 

Once in the fog, he forgot about time and direction.  Somehow he knew that being in the fog before midnight was what needed to be done.  From somewhere in the distance he thought he heard his brother’s voice as muffled as when they used to try to talk to each other from beneath pillows to stay awake after bedtime.  He heard the sounds, but he kept walking. 

The cemetery grass felt more like foam beneath his feet.  The smell was no longer that of mowed grass.  There was a faint odor of decay mixed with sulfur in the air.  Though he was afraid of what he would find at his father’s grave, he was suddenly more afraid of never escaping from the fog.  He walked faster. 

Art felt his insides thinning.  The strength and safety that he felt in the presence of his brother had faded more with each step that he walked away from Mike and toward the witch. 

He knew what she was.   

He knew what was at stake. 

She came after me because I was a kid and I was lost and helpless,  he thought,  but I’m not a kid anymore. 

But in the fluid darkness, he felt smaller.  He felt lost.  He felt helpless. 

“You keep this with you, Arty,”  his father had told him when he was eight years old,  “and don’t you ever be afraid again.  It’s a Schraeder, and for my money there’s no better working blade around.” 

Art stopped walking, reached into his right pants pocket and felt the worn edges of the knife’s handle.  With a practiced motion, he held it in his hands, gripped the edge of the blade’s backbone between his thumb and his index finger, and with a quick snap the blade flicked out and locked into place.  He brought it closer to his face to see the blade.  With only the faintest of moonlight filtering through the occult mist he could see the silver ideograms that he had cut and pressed into each side of the blade. 

“For my money,”  he whispered,  “there’s no better working blade around….” 

With his father’s knife and his brother with him, Art told himself that he would not have been afraid. 

But he was alone. 

With his left hand, he folded the blade back into the handle and put it into his pocket.  He closed his eyes and took in a slow breath. 

I’m coming, dad,  he thought. 

He started walking again, and it did not seem as though he had taken ten additional steps when he was through the fog and into the night air again.  He was halfway up the hill and could see his Great Grandmother’s grave spire and his father’s marker as well.  In the vague moonlight, both were the color of pollution-stained concrete. 

His wristwatch read five minutes to midnight, as though not a minute had passed since he had made his first step toward the fog. 

The urge to turn and look behind him was so strong that once he almost stopped and turned to see if he could look out over the fog and see Mike.  There was some comfort in the idea that his brother could at least see him, some comfort in the idea that if Mike saw that he was in trouble that he could run through the fog and save him.  But the possibility that Art would turn and see that Mike had indeed left him and gone back to the car stopped him from looking back.   

As he walked, he sniffed the night air the way that a dog would sniff a stranger’s hand.  The smell of sulfur tinged with creosote made his nose stuff.  He looked up and saw that the moon was the color of a soiled sheet and the clouds lay still scattered throughout the sky like piles of dirty clothes. 

I know she is here,  thought Art,  I can smell her. 

He closed his eyes and then one step, another step, until he came to the top of the hill.  When he re-opened his eyes, he wasn’t sure what he would see, but there were only grave markers and the broken spire marking his grandmother’s resting place.  The tree that stood near the head of his father’s grave and to the right was a silent sentinel watching over his father’s remains. 

Art looked around, walking in a tight circle, and, seeing no one, he kneeled down next to the grave marker and ran his fingertips over the dates and the inscription. 

I’m sorry, Dad,  he thought.  She’s using you as bait. 

It was one minute until midnight according to his watch. 

Without thinking about it, he rubbed his scar.  It was stretched tighter and burned like alcohol had been poured on raw skin. 

Midnight. 

The air about him grew dense and harder to inhale.  The smell of sulfur caused him to gag for breath.  

He remembered the voice from the vent screaming,  “I said I’m still hungry.” 

Art took a step and leaned his hand against the tree, gasping for breath.  A wave of vertigo washed through him and was gone as quickly as it had come.  The urge to run was like a strong hand pushing at his back, trying to thrust him away. 

Mike was right,  he though,  I am going insane.  A witch?  

The numbers on his digital watch read one past midnight and thirty four, thirty five, thirty six seconds and still counting.  Mike was right.  No witch and the grave was still there.  Everything was going to be okay.  He was just losing his mind.  He was obsessed with things that no one should dwell on.  A childhood terror that would not let him go had brought him.  A childhood terror that had left him with a horrible certainty had sent him scouring through dark, abandoned houses, following eerie lights, ordering strange books at the library and dragging his brother and every friend that he had ever had along with him just to prove that the supernatural was real. 

Never once had they found anything. 

Eventually, one by one, they had put distance between them and him- all except for Mike.  When the moving lights through an old, dead man’s house had turned out to be the headlights of passing cars passing from window to window one friend had given up and so it had gone until tonight, when even his own brother had left. 

And now this. 

In the dreams it had happened at midnight. 

Mike had been right.  In the end, he had had to face his obsession alone, with no one else to lean on so that he could see it for what it was.  In the morning, he would make a call to a number from a business card that he had carried in his wallet for over a year.  Tomorrow he would ask for help.  Time to shed his past.  Mike was waiting back at the car.  It was time for him to go hitch a ride. 

But there was something wrong with the grave.   

The dirt was moving, squirming as though it were filled with gray wiggling worms instead of covered with grass.  And the color started to change.  It grew lighter.  It turned from dark gray to light gray, from light gray to a soft blue, from soft blue to the color of a squashed plum, then orange, then the color of blood and there was a sound like a damn bursting and scarlet mist sprayed up and out into the night.   

Art ran behind the tree and the leaves shielded him from the blood rain that followed.  He cowered in fear as smoke plumed out from the place where the grave had been to replace the geyser of blood.  Art put his hands in front of his eyes to shield them, but before his fingers were only mouth level, the light was gone.   

Where his father’s grave had been there was now only a black rectangle. 

Art wrapped his arms around the tree with the ferocity of a man clinging to the last thing afloat in a sea of turbulence and chaos.  The tree bark scraped against and bit into his skin as he pressed his face against it. 

Oh, God, Mike, why didn’t you come with me?  How could you leave me this time?  You were wrong and I was right.  I was right and everyone else was wrong.  Why can’t you be here to see it?  Why did you leave me?  Why now?  I need you.  Can you hear me, brother?  Can you? 

He tried to project his thoughts above and over the fog so that his brother might hear them in his mind. 

The darkness within the grave began to move.  Art could not take his eyes off of it.  The bark cut against his fingertips, but he was not going to let go.  He was safe if he stayed away from the grave. 

I need you Mike,   he thought.   

Art did not know whether to believe in ESP or not, but at that moment, he prayed that it was real. 

Something caught at the upper edge of his vision, a squirming, bug-like thing.  There came a thin flash of moonlight and he could see a cloud colored thread extending downward from the tree branches overhead, and he realized that the thing at the end of it was a spider. 

“Go away,”  he said. 

“I’m still hungry,”  hissed the insect. 

I am losing my mind, he thought.  . 

He leaned forward to look more closely at the spider.  It was hard to get a good look in the moonlight, but finally, when he was no more than length of his nose away from it, he sucked in a gulp of air and held it in so that he wouldn’t scream.  At the end of the rope was a miniature Lily Treach, dangling and spinning and cursing. 

Art let go of the tree and slapped the thing that screeched at the end of the spider’s silk.  He swung his hand like a major leaguer swinging a ball bat and the spider-witch flew into the bleachers of the night. 

“Jesus,”  he said. 

The arm that he had used trembled so badly that he had to grab it with his free hand before it would stop.   

“What the hell am I doing here?”  he asked out loud. 

His father.  His father’s soul was in danger.  No.  It was just a trap and he had known it before he came. 

“I’ve got to get out of here,”  he said. 

He walked toward the fog, but as he came to the rectangular darkness that had been his father’s grave, he stopped and stared.  Within the blackness, he could just make out slick stone steps leading downward into a place lit with a soft, eerie purple-green light.  Low wailings came from somewhere deep within and Art’s back shivered and jumped as though he had been poked with a cattle prod. 

A step closer and a high-pitched squeal came from below, the sound of an animal caught unexpectedly by a mouthful of teeth. 

Go down,  prodded the devil perched on his left shoulder. 

Run,  urged the angel on his right. 

Art listened to the angel and ran as hard as he could toward the fog.  A few steps before he got there, he slipped and fell flat on his face, his arms stretched out before him.  The impact flattened his nose and he felt a slight crunch and the smell of blood filled his nostrils.  His extended right hand touched the edge of the fog, and a horrible burning pain etched his fingers and the back of his hand.  It felt as though he had stuck his fingers into burning oil, and he yanked his hand back, held it to his chest, and rocked back and forth as his fingers swelled and throbbed.   

He heard a sound and panic slapped him into action.  In a few seconds he was to his feet again facing the fog that hung like a thick curtain in front of him.  The raw pulsing of his fingers still pained him, but he knew that if he could get through the fog, he could make a run for it.  Tentatively, he reached his left hand toward it and just grazed his fingertips across the gray-white curtain.  The fiery pain was immediate, as though the fog had turned into a vaporous acid mist.  

I can’t get out,  he thought.  She’s trapped me.  I’ll burn to death if I go through this stuff.  Jesus, why am I here alone?  Mike, why did you leave me?  I can’t do this by myself. 

But he knew why he was there.  He couldn’t let it go. 

Another sound behind him; this one was like a body being dragged across the cemetery grass. 

Without looking around to see what it was, he tried to reach his right hand into his jeans pocket to pull out his father’s knife.  The pain was so great that it paralyzed his entire right hand.  There was an awful feeling, as though skin were peeling away from his fingers.  He yanked his hand from his pocket and screamed. 

“Wake the dead,”  cackled a hideous voice behind him.  “You’ll wake the dead and then where will you be?” 

Art closed his eyes and tears leaked from beneath the lids.  His hand felt like an open boil.  The mist-acid was eating his hand. 

“Go away,”  he said in a jerking, halting voice.  “You’re not real.  Please don’t be real.” 

A laugh like shattered glass taunted him. 

“Oh, but I am, little dearie.  Lily’s as real as head lice and gangrene and a little boy’s bad dreams.  You remember those, don’t you, my delectable?” 

Art’s hair was clenched and twisted from behind by bony hard fingers, and as he cried out, a tongue like wet pumice dragged across the side of his neck. 

“Please don’t hurt me,”  begged Art. 

He smelled stale, sulfur breath from somewhere behind him, and his whole body began to shake. 

Why did he ever want to know?  Why couldn’t he just have let it go? 

A whisper in his ear as soft as a cobweb brushing against skin. 

“When you stare into the darkness, little boy, the darkness might want to eat you.” 

“Oh, God,”  breathed Art. 

“Too late, too late,”  came another cackle from behind.  “Why you’ve never even gone to church.” 

Ragged edged fingernails poked at his Adam’s apple, and he could feel a tall, thin bundle of clothes pushing against his back as Lily held him up on his toes with one hand, and poked and prodded him for tenderness with the other. 

“No,”  he screamed, and he jammed his right hand into his pocket, ripping and tearing the seared skin.  He yanked the knife out, ripping his jeans as he did and flipped the blade out.    

“You die,”  he yelled and turned into her, flashing his knife as he did. 

She slapped him on the side of the head.  He fell back a step. 

Lily was up in the air, floating a foot of the ground, darting and weaving like a hideous spectral boxer.  She flew in and slapped him hard and was gone.  Like a blind man Art swung his knife wildly up and down and to the left and the right and then back again.  Lily was up high, flew down low and kicked him in the head as she flashed by him. 

Wherever Art’s knife was, she was not. 

A flash of blackness flew between his legs, almost knocking him to the ground.  Up and in front of his face, a wickedly pointed fingernail jabbed up into his nose like an ice pick thrust toward his brain.  Art screamed and twisted his head and the nail ripped through the side of his nostril.  Blood streamed from the torn flesh. 

In the ring of fog, Art fought for his life.  He swung the knife at her throat, her face, her back and once the blade sliced through tattered black cloth. 

Another slap to the side of his head, bony hands grabbed his right ear and yanked.  He swung the blade upward at her as she flew back, ripping off part of his ear as she flew away.  The blade arced through the empty night air as Lily flew up another three feet higher and, as Art looked up into her crinkled face, she popped the torn flap of skin into her mouth. 

“That’s my ear,”  he screamed. 

He jumped straight up and swung the knife at her.  He was so possessed by terror and fear and anger that he could not feel the burning pain in his hand. 

As the knife blade neared her stomach, the old witch rolled in mid air and grabbed Art’s forearm with her leathery hands.  She pulled it to her mouth and sunk her teeth into his forearm as she flew a few feet higher, dangling Art below her. 

Lost in pain and fear and dangling from the mouth of the witch, Art blacked out and the knife fell from his hand and dropped straight into the open grave. 

Her teeth sunk into his forearm and the old witch lapped the blood as she settled slowly toward the cemetery.  Three feet above, she dropped Art’s unconscious form to the ground. 

“Coming in for a landing, pretty boy,”  she hissed. 

The impact wakened Art with a start and he opened his eyes to see the old woman in dark fluttering clothes floating downward toward the earth.  Pain and violation tore at his nervous system.  Scratch marks and teeth marks.  A crushed nose.  Blood on his arm, burned, peeling skin on his hand and fingers.  His ear ripped away and his nose torn.  His nerves fired off emergency impulses every second and he could barely think.  He looked frantically about the lawn, but his magic knife was nowhere to be seen. 

“Help me,”  he screamed.  “Somebody help me.” 

Lily’s feet touched the ground.  She licked her lips and sniffed the air.  Sulfur and blood.  The perfume of a wicked night. 

She looked down at Art. 

She took a forward step. 

A scream burst from the fog and stopped beside Art laying in the grass.  A dripping, burned apparition with bubbled skin and dissolving eyelids and clothing that was melting into flesh. 

Art pulled back in horror. 

“Ardddtttt-,”  said the thing. 

Art moved back by digging his elbows into the dirt and pushing away from the witch.  He felt blood running across his lips and onto his chin. 

Mike screamed as the wisps of fog that clung to him continued to sear into his skin.  His body spasmed and he looked ahead and saw the witch  hovering above the empty rectangle that had been their father’s grave.  He looked at his Art and saw him through the red burned mist of his ruined eyes. 

“Uh-huh,”  he managed. 

“Mike, look out,”  screamed Art. 

Lily had launched herself through the air at Mike. 

Mike turned and saw the projectile horror, but ran straight at her, grabbing her mid-air and running with her the way that he had rammed into other players and drove them back in high school football. 

What Art saw was the mass of blisters, raw skin and blood that was his brother collide with the apparition  and keep running, driving her back until they were over the edge of the grave and both disappeared with shrieks and screams into the rippling unreality that was the portal to the horror below. 

The ring of fog was gone. 

His father’s grave was as it was. 

But Art stood on the hilltop alone in a cemetery that had returned to normal, in a world that had returned to sanity. 

“Take me instead,”  Art yelled and leaned back his head toward the overhead stars. 

He dropped to his knees and with his left hand held his torn right arm and blistered right hand to his body and began to weep. 

Obsession.  He couldn’t let it go. 

And now death. 

He shook his head and vomit rose in his throat, but did not come up and out.  It wasn’t worth it.  His brother was gone.  Burned by the fog and buried with the witch.  What had he done?  What had he allowed his obsessions to lead to?  He had caused his brother’s death. 

“Take me instead,”  he cried again. 

His father’s grave split open, spilling earth to either side as a spray of blood and evil green light poured out. 

Art was staring straight at the grave as the old woman’s head could be seen and then her shoulders and then she was walking up the stone steps.  Her smile was wicked and intense and her eyes were bright and locked on him.  Art cowered low, trying to hide his entire body beneath two inch tall grass. 

He looked up and saw that she was almost all of the way to the top. 

An agonized groan came from behind her and Art saw two thick arms wrap around Lily Treach’s neck.  The misshapen hulk that was his brother wrestled her backward until they teetered and fell backwards again down the steps, thumping like severed heads bouncing down an escalator. 

The light and the spray were gone and the grave was as it had been. 

This time Art got to his feet as quick as he could and headed toward the car as fast as he could without stumbling.  He sobbed as he walked, his body jerking from the force and his tears mingling with the blood still draining from his nose. 

He stopped only once to turn and look towards his father’s grave. 

“I’ll be back, old woman,”  he yelled.  “Nothing on this earth or in your stinking hell will stop me.  I’m coming for you, old woman.  Some day, I’m coming for you.  I’m not afraid of you anymore.  I’m going to get you.” 

On the way to his car, he stumbled and twice more, but got to his feet both times.  He did not listen for dark and hideous things behind him.  With the witch in the grave, Art was the most frightening thing in the cemetery as he lurched and started across the graves. 

The fever hit him as he walked, and he began to talk to himself. 

After a while, he clearly heard a devil on his right shoulder say,  “Get another knife, come back, and rip that old woman’s stomach right open.  Hammer a stake through her heart, cut off her head, and stuff her mouth full of garlic.” 

“No,”  the angel on his right shoulder told him.  “Let it go.” 

Art stopped, remembering that his brother went through an acid fog to save him, to fight something that might or not be there.  He burned himself beyond recognition to be by Art’s side not knowing if the danger to Art was real or not. 

Art looked at his left shoulder and saw nothing there.  He looked at his right and saw only a ripped shirt and his bleeding right shoulder.  He shook his head to clear the imaginaries away. 

He remembered the night in the woods that had been the beginning of it all. 

“She started it,”  he said.