The wind seemed to breathe out a rush of cold air as Marcy’s words settled on their small crowd. The trees in the center lane of the “city of the dead” where vault after vault arose in majestic lichen-covered splendor rustled, as if someone moved around them.
Yes, Marcy was good.
But her cousin smiled then, saying, “The townspeople found a way to end the horror! They marched to the cemetery with torches. They broke the gate to the vault and battered down the old wooden door. They broke open her tomb and wrenched the coffin from the vault, dragging it back outside. And there, while her poor mother watched and screamed and cried, they opened her coffin. Horrible scratch marks ripped through the lid of the coffin, revealing what was inside. There she lay! Elizabeth, fresh as the day they had buried her weeks before, her beautiful face a soft shade of alabaster, eyes sweetly closed — and blood, yes, blood, a trickle of it, running from her ruby red lips!”
Marcy paused again for effect.
Her little crowd was silent at first; Mary Boucher, pretty and petite, seemed to be shivering, though it was a warm Louisiana night. Tommy Hilliard, captain of the football team, had a crooked smile on his face, but Hayley wondered if even he might be a little bit unnerved. Next to him were Frank Legrand and Art Richard, also on the football team.
Tonight, Marcy’s guests were the cream of the crop of the local high school. She had three of the best players on the football team, and the guest list rounded out with little Mary Boucher — captain of the cheerleaders — and, of course, Hayley.
Marcy wasn’t always in the elite group, though she had managed to stay on the edge of it — and tonight, of course, she’d been able to come up with a great play to get such an illustrious group together — her father was out of town. She’d invited them all on a bit of a dare and an adventure that might not come their way again.
She’d had a crush on Tommy Hilliard forever, and he’d recently broken up with his girlfriend, Tiffany Myers.
Tiffany hadn’t been invited. But just as Marcy had pined for Tommy Hilliard forever, she had hated Tiffany. But then, to be fair, it had always seemed to Hayley that Tiffany had gone out of her way to be cruel to Marcy, mocking her as the “grave-digger’s dirty daughter” and other such names.
Tiffany hadn’t been nice to anyone, really. She was rich and — in her mind, at least — entitled. It wasn’t being rich, Hayley had decided, since she knew other rich kids were darn decent and good to others. It was the way that Tiffany had of mocking anyone poor, anyone with a handicap — anyone she didn’t like or want in her circle.
Hayley had heard Tommy talking earlier; he’d told Frank and Art that he’d probably wind up back with Tiffany. In truth, Tiffany was a stunning blue-eyed blonde with a perfect body that didn’t stop — Tiffany worked hard to keep it that way. Her legs were legendary.
As Tommy told his friends, “She could wrap those legs around a man in a way that couldn’t even be imagined.”
Hayley had tried very hard to explain this to Marcy, but Marcy was convinced that she had her chance. Tiffany was a silly, shrieking shrew — while she had at least some semblance of decency and intelligence. Tommy would see that.
And he hadn’t even suggested Tiffany be invited that night. That was a sign, as far as Marcy was concerned.
Marcy’s father was out of town. She was about to graduate; she was an adult, eighteen in a month, and he could trust her, of course. And Marcy was responsible. Usually. She’d even told her dad about having a slumber party. She just hadn’t told him she was hosting a slumber party that wouldn’t be in the house — she’d have it in the cemetery.
Marcy swung around to look at Hayley, grinning with triumph. “Hayley, finish the story.”
Hayley smiled weakly. “They thought poor Elizabeth was a vampire. They dragged her from the coffin, cut out her heart, and burned it — before her poor mother’s eyes.” She hesitated. Mary Boucher looked really frightened. Hayley chanced her cousin’s wrath by continuing with, “Of course, the poor young woman had suffered from ‘consumption,’ or tuberculosis, a disease which couldn’t be cured at the time. The saddest part of the story is they weren’t always embalming people back then and it’s most likely that she was buried alive. The disease had spread, causing others to contract it and those people might well awake spitting blood. And the scratch marks on the coffin... I can only think how horrible that must have been, except, hopefully, she was barely conscious in there, or... died quickly without even being aware how desperately she’d scratched against the coffin to get out.”
Marcy gave her a stern frown. She was supposed to be scaring people — not reassuring them.
“Yes! Imagine! Being buried alive in Louisiana in such a vault where, they say, in just a year and a day the sun will burn down, scorch, and bring flesh and blood and bone truly back to basics, nothing but man — or woman — as dust and ash!”
“Good story,” Tommy Hilliard said, pretending to suppress a yawn.
“Shush,” Marcy said suddenly.
“Why? What? A zombie is coming?” Tommy asked, laughing. He was almost eighteen — solid as a rock and inching over six-feet tall. He had already been recruited by a dozen colleges.
“No,” Marcy said, grinning. “Officer Claymore — hurry, let’s get back into the house — he always comes by here right at midnight, making sure no vandals are running around.”
They headed quickly through the small open gate which led to the rear of Marcy’s house. Her yard was enclosed as well with the same brickwork that surrounded the cemetery, except that, in most areas of the cemetery, the wall was only about two-and-a-half feet tall.
The doorbell rang just as they came in. Marcy murmured something and hurried to it, smiling sweetly as she opened it.
It was indeed Officer Claymore. “You all right, Marcy?” he asked, looking beyond her to the group inside.
“Fine, Officer Claymore — and thank you.”
“Yeah, I heard your dad is out of town,” Claymore said. He was a middle-aged man with something of a round look. He tended to smile — but Marcy had seen him in action when a couple of thugs had tried to rob a local bakery.
He was pudgy maybe, but he could be damned fierce.
“My friends are keeping me company tonight,” Marcy said.
“Good.” He looked around at the group.
“There’s a strange man hanging around town,” Claymore told them. “From what I hear, sounds like a harmless fellow, carries a sign that he’s a veteran and needs help. Scruffy-looking fellow, long, unkempt hair, big coat.”
“We won’t bother him if we see him,” Marcy said.
Claymore grinned and shrugged. “Either that — I mean he’s a harmless old guy — or he’s the ghost of Ethan Fray, fellow shot down and killed in the streets after he got back from active military duty. I’ve heard he runs around attacking people in the shadows.”
“Funny, funny,” Marcy said softly, smiling. “You trying to scare us, Officer Claymore?”
Claymore suddenly drew serious, frowning. “Kids, you have to be smart and careful. Keep doors locked. This is serious. They had a couple of murders in New Orleans in the last weeks. They think there may be a serial killer loose — he slices up his victims and leaves them displayed bizarrely. They’re calling him the City Slicer. So, yeah, I’m serious.”
“New Orleans,” Art said. “All the crazies go to New Orleans. We’re, like, more real out here in the bayou country.”
“Please, we’re good kids, honest,” Marcy said.
“Okay, so we’re not New Orleans. That doesn’t make us safe. I’m hoping you’re all smart enough to be careful, not scared,” Claymore said. “You see a ghost — well, scream like hell. You see a poor fellow down and out who needs help — well, leave him be. I say, if you see him trying to sleep by one of the tombs, leave him alone — good idea if he’s a ghost or a real man, right? You should never be in that cemetery at night, anyway. If you see anything—”