My dad never drinks when my mom’s around, but now he’s buying beer and whiskey. There’s already one empty bottle of rye in the recycle bin. He doesn’t even keep the booze out of reach—just puts it right next to the cereal. So easy to steal.
My original plan was to pour the alcohol into a water bottle, but there is already a noticeable amount missing. Instead, I shove the entire bottle into my backpack. Dad snores from the living room, and I write him a small note, even though I doubt he’ll even see it before I get back.
Sleeping over at Steve’s house. Be back in the morning.
I meet Steve an hour earlier than the girls are supposed to arrive. We help ourselves to the booze. A couple shots in and Steve can’t stop talking about boobs.
Ally and Megan arrive on time. The alcohol makes us flirtatious, which even Megan seems to find charming. I think she likes Steve by the way she laughs harder at his jokes.
I don’t offer the girls any of our whiskey, still unsure of how that will play out. I put on my backpack, loaded with the alcohol, chips, chocolate bars, and trail mix that Steve added. We travel by bike. We leave our anxious town behind.
***
Our cemetery rests high in the mountains that surround Silver Creek. I don’t know too much about the history, but most of the headstones are old; the most-recent deaths being in the 1960s.
From our town to the cemetery, it’s about thirty minutes by car. Because the road is so windy it never gets steep, making it easy for us to bike. It usually takes me an hour and a half to ride it, but I figure having the girls with us adds an extra hour. The inappropriate amount of effort Megan has put into her outfit—heavy make-up and revealing shirt—gives me the impression that she’s not much of an athlete, and Steve keeps getting distracted by her cleavage.
The sun dwindles. I want to get up the mountain before nightfall. The road up to the cemetery is unlit and could be dangerous at night. Dangerous and frightening.
We travel fast like witches, our bikes kicking up dead leaves. The dying-summer wind rustles Ally’s black hair. None of us wear helmets, and the alcohol makes my steering carefree and sloppy. A fast-moving car honks, nearly knocking me off my bike. I give it the finger. Even Megan laughs. It feels really good not to be scared.
The end of the main street is the beginning of the mountain road. The path to the cemetery. We don’t look back as we climb.
***
After an hour of climbing, it’s hard to breathe. None of us smile anymore. The whiskey wears off, and I’m left with a dull sensation. The beginning of a headache. Only the girls were smart enough to bring water. Tall oak trees line the road so thick that it blocks the sun, creating a false twilight and lowering the temperature. I shiver in a layer of drying sweat.
We stop at a little dirt pull off to take a break. The girls drink from their water bottles. I’m ravenous for it. I feel dumb for not bringing my own.
“Are we almost there?” Megan asks. Sweaty bangs stick to her forehead.
“We probably have a couple more miles to go,” I say. “We haven’t even got to the dirt road yet.”
Megan looks at me, appalled.
“It turns into a dirt road a mile away from the actual cemetery.” I feel like a deer caught in Megan’s headlights. I look to Steve for support.
“It’s not so bad,” Steve says. He’s the most athletic out of all of us. “And it gets less steep up there.”
“It better,” Megan snaps.
An owl hoots above us, making me feel very isolated. Vulnerable.
“You know,” Ally says. “This cemetery is the last place Greg Mackie went before he disappeared.” Her eyes widen at the foreboding statement
“How do you know?”
“It’s the last time I saw him. He told me that he was going to do some location scouting, you know, for the movie. He thought that the cemetery would be a good setting.”
“I didn’t write any scenes for a cemetery,” I say.
“That’s what he told me. The next day, there was one of those announcements at school.”
She means when the principal gets on the intercom to alert the students of another disappearance. We’re told that we should be extra careful and sympathetic regarding this sensitive issue and so on. Most of the time, the principal mispronounces the name.
“He was gone,” Ally clarifies, and she looks to the surrounding woods as if expecting Greg to jump out and scare us all.
“That doesn’t mean that he disappeared in the graveyard,” Steve says, looking at me for verification. He looks scared, but it could be the dehydration. “I mean, he probably ran away.”
“If that’s what you think happens to them,” Ally says.
“Do you girls like whiskey?” Steve tries to change the subject.
“Wait,” I say. “What do you think happens to them?”
“I don’t know,” Ally becomes defensive.
“You have whiskey?” Megan asks, in a better mood.
“Yeah, we do. Have you ever had it before?”
“I’ve snuck some of my dad’s beer. Once.”
“You’re probably right,” continues Ally. “He probably just ran away.”
Ally gets on her bike and starts to climb the hill again. Steve and Megan are still talking about alcohol.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go. We should get to the cemetery before it gets dark. We can have the whiskey when we get there.”
***
Once the road turns to dirt, we stop riding. We’re tired, and our bikes don’t have very good traction. We finish the rest on foot, pushing our bikes. Owls hoot overhead. Noiseless silhouettes of bats fly over us and spiral up to the heavens, probably waiting for the night’s permission to turn into vampires. The sky turns overcast, making everything look black and white and underexposed. Every crack from a falling branch sets me on edge. My legs hurt from all the riding, and the dull feeling in my skull progresses into a full-blown headache. I don’t feel like resting. A mosquito lands on my neck and I smack it; my hand comes back speckled.
We turn a corner and see where the path narrows and funnels into the gate—the cemetery entrance. The rock wall that runs the parameter rises high and forms into a giant archway over the gate, with an iron “G” cemented in at its apex. None of us know what it stands for.
Two headlights flash on when we come close. Two eyes sitting under the archway.
The cemetery’s guardian.
A motor starts and the car creeps toward us. I look at my friends and think of the practicality of running off the road into the woods. The car sounds old from the way it coughs and sputters. Probably as old as the cemetery.
When it’s close enough, the driver rolls the window down. At first I think it’s a student because of the letterman jacket, but then he talks and my eyes adjust from the sudden blinding of the headlights. He’s not young, but skeleton-esque. His eyes bulge under a thin crew cut. His jaw looks sunken because of the way his cheekbones protrude. His voice is high and delirious.
“Hey kids,” he falsettos. “Whatcha doing?
“Nothing,” I say.
“Camping,” Steve says.
“In the graveyard?” This sends him into a fit of laughter. “Shit. Don’t you know about the curfew? There’s a monster out there snatching up kids.” He scans our group and runs a gray tongue over his gapped smile.
A woman rises from his lap. Lipstick smears the corner of her mouth like a giant cold sore. She’s only wearing a bra. Her hair hangs down and covers her eyes. “It’s gonna be dark soon,” she says in a deeply raspy voice that is anything but sexy. “We can give you a ride if you want.”
“No thanks,” Ally says, tugging my arm.
“I see how it is,” the guy says, eyeing Ally. “Come on Darline. Let’s leave these kids alone, so they can … camp.” A low chuckle. “We warmed it up for you!” That sends him into a hysterical fit, and the two screech off down the dirt road. I hear him laughing until they disappear around a corner.
None of us are having fun anymore.
We enter the cemetery, and it swallows us.
***
Nighttime looms, and I’m sure behind every headstone there’s a ravenous ghoul ready to pounce on any one of us. The clouds part, and the moon illuminates the graveyard. Every firefly is a set of werewolf eyes. Ally walks close to me, and I let my hand hit hers as we walk. She doesn’t move to avoid it. Megan and Steve bring up the rear. Every now and then, they giggle. It’s a nervous laugh, and I wish they would stop. We enter the clearing at the edge of the tombstones. A group of vampires flies overhead.
“I think we should stop here.”
We take off our backpacks and huddle in a small circle. We pass the water around and finish it.
“Anybody want some whiskey?” Steve pulls the bottle out of my backpack without asking.
Megan smiles. “Totally.”
We pass the bottle around. Our inexperience makes us retch with each swallow. Ally looks like she wants to vomit and passes on the second time around. The liquor works quickly. My initial fear is replaced by warmth and eagerness. My headache subsides. Being in the cemetery isn’t such a bad idea after all. Steve hiccups. Megan rolls her head around on her shoulders. I slant toward Ally and move my hand so our pinkies touch.
“Shit,” Steve says after a drink. He takes another swig, half of it running down his chin. “Fuck, man.”
We crack up. It’s the only thing to fend off the monsters lurking in the woods surrounding us.
“Didn’t you bring an Ouija board?” I ask.
“No,” Ally says. “There wasn’t any room left in the backpack.”
“I wish we had an Ouija board.” Megan emphasizes the last few syllables to cover up the slurring: wee gee board.
“We could tell ghost stories,” Ally says.
We each tell our stories, shining a flashlight beneath our chins to under light our faces. Ally begins to tell the story of the green ribbon, but halfway through she can’t remember if the girl was killed by her boyfriend or in some automobile accident, and she doesn’t even end it with the head falling off. Megan’s story is about the babysitter whose stalker is actually calling from within the house. It’s boring, but Steve pretends to be interested. I tell one about a phantom hitchhiker, ending it with a loud yell that doesn’t scare anybody. Steve’s idea of a ghost story is just some zombie tale, but it keeps going off on gory tangents. When he starts to talk about gouging eyes, Megan asks him to stop.
“Gross. Let’s do something else.”
With the liquor gone and our courage replenished, we decide to look at the headstones. A lot of graves are tagged or broken from weekend visitors.
“Look at this one.”
Here Lies Phillip T. Wright
Born: March 29, 1895
Died: May 21, 1957
Smoker
The word “shitassmotherfucker” is tagged on it.
“A warning from the grave,” Steve says, curling his fingers toward Megan. In a demonic, guttural voice, he says: “Don’t smoke, shit-ass-mother-fucker.”
“Stop it.”
“Look, here’s another one.” Ally leans in close to brush some dirt off the tombstone. It’s an old-fashioned cross with one of the arms broken off. Someone drew a heart with initials in it: an RB and JB. I wonder if it is the handiwork of the disgusting couple in the car. The tombstone reads:
Here lies Abigail T. Buchanan
Born: October 14, 1943
Died: October 14, 1957
A Touching Angel, In Loving Splendor
“She died on the same day she was born,” Ally says. “On her fourteenth birthday.”
Same age as Ally.
“C’mon,” Steve says, drunk and flirting with Megan. “Let’s go look at the other graves.” I get the hint and don’t tag along.
“You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?” Ally asks after our friends disappear.
“Sure.”
“How come?” She sits down and leans against the dead girl’s broken tombstone. I sit next to her.
“I guess it’s a little boring to think that I can touch everything that scares me.”
She considers my answer. I try to picture what she looks like under her sweatshirt, but the residual unease of the graveyard dulls my imagination. “That’s probably the best reason I’ve heard for believing in ghosts,” she says. “Still not going to convince me though.” She puts her hand on mine and leans against me. I’m pretty sure it’s on purpose.
“How many funerals have you been to?” I ask.
“Just one. It was my grandpa’s. I was pretty young, so I didn’t understand the whole death thing. I just remember everyone crying. But I do remember him. It actually makes me pretty sad to think that I didn’t cry at his funeral.”
“You were little.”
“Yeah.”
“Kids are dumb.” I add, which makes her smile.
“I know.”
“So let’s say there are ghosts, and you could see any dead person you wanted. Would it be your grandpa?”
“So theoretically there are ghosts”—she looks up from my shoulder to emphasize her doubt—“and I could pick any dead person to see.” She pauses and considers her options. I move my arm around her shoulder so we’re cuddling. “I actually think I would want to see my old golden retriever, Brittany. I think seeing a ghost dog would be like a hundred times more adorable than seeing a human ghost.”
I knew she wouldn’t take my question seriously.
“Who would you want to see?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“You know, you’re just afraid to say it. I’m afraid to say it too.”
“I don’t know if he’s dead though,” I say.
“Yeah—” Ally trails off. She snuggles closer to me, and my hand drops from her shoulder to her waist. “Do you miss him?”
“It seems a lot of things remind me of him lately,” I say.
She’s quiet before saying the words that I should’ve said, “I miss him.”
A breeze picks up. She leans in closer for warmth. The wind tosses dead leaves around in little whirlwinds and drowns out the shouting and laughter of our friends. Time slows down. Her hair blows in my face. I don’t even brush it away. The moonlight flickers on our moment. She raises her head and our eyes meet. She looks at me like a stranger. She leans in. With eyes closed in anticipation, I feel the warmth of her mouth pressing on mine. She opens wider and her tongue touches mine. I try to impress her with kissing styles I’ve learned from movies. I reach up and cradle her face in my hand, but then slide my fingers up in her hair, messing it passionately.
We’re both breathing hard, and I taste her whiskey mouth. Letting gravity hold us, we fall to the hard ground. Cold seeps up into my back. Ally’s whimpering seems very far away. I open my eyes, and the grave looms over us while I crave her mouth. The whimpering still seems very far away, but more urgent. I realize that it’s not coming from Ally anymore but a child. A child screaming.
My brain persists to break through the thickness that’s attacking all my senses. It tries to tell me that it’s not a child screaming. It’s one my friends. A girl screaming. Ally hears it too. She lifts her head out of our embrace. Then a frightened look and a struggle to get free from me. It’s a zombie, is the only thing that would destroy this moment: A zombie with eyes rotted out and one arm. It must’ve eaten Megan. That bitch. The speed of time returning to normal is jarring, causing me to stumble as I try to catch up with Ally.
There are no zombies. Just Megan, screaming.
“What’s going on—” I start, but stop when I get close enough for a better view.
There is a small finger on the ground.
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.” Megan speaks in quick gasps.
“Fuck, man,” says Steve. “Shit.”
It’s hard to tell if the finger is a small child’s, or if it’s just a pinky finger. I bend down to get a closer view. Megan puts her hand over her mouth and turns away. The finger is old. It’s been decomposing for weeks. The skin at the base is jagged, ripped off. A piece of sharp bone sticks out, also broken. Someone behind me holds up the flashlight and we see flies jumping all around it. It’s probably so cold and stiff that it only serves as delightful-smelling platform for them to play on. The knuckle is worn down, exposing more bone, but I think the most dreadful thing is the dirt under the fingernails. I can’t help but think of the poor kid who showed off his filthy fingers like he would a merit badge in the last days of summer. I kick the digit over so I don’t have to look at the dirt, and the bottom of the finger is skinless, just black from where creatures have come up from the dirt for a nibble.
“Let’s get out of here.” No one objects.
Our faces redden when we run down the hill toward our bikes. I hold Ally’s hand as we jump headstones and slip on dewy grass. When I look over at her, I see lines of wetness reflected in the moonlight run down her cheeks. My shoe comes undone, and I almost trip. I stop to fix it, and Ally’s hand slips out of mine.
“Hang on,” I mumble to myself, watching everyone pick up their bikes and ride into the night, outside the cemetery gate.
My laces are muddy. It takes me three tries to tie them. Ages later, I finish. I’m about to make the final lunge toward my bike when I hear something behind me.
A rustle of leaves. Against all instincts, I turn around to look.
Two eyes stare back at me, red and reflecting. A terrible roar comes from the darkness and then a horrible sound that could be cackling.
The laughter fades behind me. I’m on my bike and flying.
***
I pedal blindly down the dirt road, every moment expecting the graveyard monster to throw itself on my back and rip me from my bike. From every dark nook and brush, more eyes watch me escape. They wait for any vulnerability. I don’t give them any.
I speed around a bend and there’s a body in the middle of the road.
I almost don’t stop. Just got to make it home where there are no more dead things. I see the bike on the ground next to it.
Oh no.
I skid to a stop and run over to find Ally curled, hugging her knees with her arms. She’s sobbing, and for the first time in my life I feel that I have the right, the duty, to comfort a girlfriend.
“What happened?” I ask.
Her syllables come out between sobs. “I-I-I fell.” She moves her arms away from her knees. Road-rash extends from her knees all the way up her thighs, blood soaking into her shorts. Despite a bloody nose, I’m surprised at how little injury her face sustained overall. “I just want to go home,” she finishes and I’ve never wanted anything more myself.
I help her up and we turn her bike into a makeshift crutch. We walk the rest of the way. The scene is so pitiful that the surrounding monsters allow us to make it all the way home without killing us.
***
It’s a long, slow journey home. By the time we make it to my house, the light of dawn lines the horizon. Early-morning birds replace the omniscient hooting of owls, which filled our mostly-silent walk. My head throbs from the combination of hangover and no sleep, but the promise of daylight and getting some have kept my mood chipper.
Dad’s still asleep. An empty bottle of wine on the counter lets me know that we don’t have to be especially quiet. I clean Ally’s wounds. I give her a jungle wildlife Band-Aid as a finishing touch. I usually refuse to wear something so childish, but Ally seems into it. I secretly thank my mom for buying them.
Before she leaves, she asks: “Do you want to go to the aquarium sometime?”
I try not to smile too much when I say, “Yeah.”