The Insomniac

I’ve never tricked anyone out of their money. I just sell a convincing lie.

Before Momma died, she taught her “little girl” all about selling things.

Rule one is simple: never lie, but bend the truth like a stripe on a candy cane.

I see examples all around me. The way my grandma calls me “imaginative” with a nervous twitch to her lips really means I’m weird. When the sales lady at Justice says, “I’m not sure we have anything in your size,” it’s code for “You look fat.” Even when I see the pile of unopened envelopes on the kitchen counter grow and when Dad gets the constant phone calls from automated voices with the bank saying they’re calling about a personal matter, I know the bend in my father’s reply. “You don’t need to worry about it.”

What I do doesn’t require much of a lie.

I sell people on life after death.

This ain’t that angels-singing-and-playing-harps, float-to-Heaven version, though. No, I give them that rotting, groaning, Walking Dead immortality.

Don’t judge me. When my momma died two years ago, I discovered Dad wasn’t what you’d call a bread winner. He’s not lazy or stupid, but I definitely got my sly from Momma. Dad mows other people’s lawns, which is funny, because our one-bedroom apartment doesn’t have a yard.

Dad takes the bedroom. I get the sofa. It’s not all that bad, because I can watch TV later than my friends. Also makes it a lot easier to sneak out in the middle of the night so I can earn some cash.

I make my money on Friday and Saturday nights at Hollywood Cemetery.

Nothing sells a product like word of mouth. That’s rule number two: build a reputation that’ll feed you.

That’s how I ended up climbing into Terrell Oliver’s black Chevy on South Cherry Street at two in the morning on a Saturday. He’s a senior at Manchester High. Short as Lil’ T.O. is, you’d never guess what a terror he is on the basketball court. Most guys like him come to me on a dare.

I hop onto the passenger seat and foam pokes out of a cut in the leather between my legs as if it’s sticking its tongue out at me. When I look at T.O., I see that reaction I’ve come to expect.

“Are you kidding me?” he says. “What are you, nine?”

“I’m twelve.”

He slides his sunglasses down his nose to make sure I’m not a figment. “You’re Madame Absinthe?”

Really? “No, it’s just Absinthe.” Suppose I shouldn’t complain, because that’s how most of my “customers” hear about me. My name’s really just Abby, but nobody wants to say they went to a girl named Abby to see her raise the dead.

That’s rule number three: packaging sells the product.

I’d love to dress in some gothic gown and throw on some eye shadow, but that doesn’t work so well tromping through a hilly cemetery in the dark. When I first started convincing people I could raise the dead, I tried to dress like some miniature New Orleans witch. One girl laughed in my face and told me Trick or Treat wasn’t until October.

Instead, I keep it simple with a black hoodie over a BLKHRTS t-shirt. Can’t say I really like the group, but the t-shirt shows a black heart on the front. I’m not talking some cute heart shape. This looks like an actual human heart. Ew. Still, older kids see it and take me seriously.

The first six months required the most work. I’d hang out at sci-fi conventions and outside nightclubs that cater to the goth crowd. I even posted flyers with my email address printed a dozen times at the bottom for people to rip one off and take it with them. Then the reputation took over. You wanna see a real zombie, then “Madame Absinthe” is the girl to see.

“I’m still waiting.” I pull out my smart phone and wiggle it for him to see the open Venmo app. I do all my business over Venmo. It’s social media meets commerce. Nothing makes a teenage boy pay up faster than getting publicly shamed by a “little kid.” I once posted a video of a guy running from the grave. That boy screamed like a baby racing back to momma. My giggles in the background didn’t hurt the blackmail quality of the video. You bet he paid to have me take it down.

When Lil’ T.O. hesitates, I cross my arms. “Seventy-five dollars now and another seventy-five after.”

“Let’s make it fifty up front.” He smiles as if he’s doing me a favor.

“Later, Lil’ T.” I open the door. That’s one of Momma’s rules, too. Don’t hesitate to walk away. The minute they see you’re not willing to, they’ll yank your chain and drag you around like a dog tied to the back of a car.

That doesn’t stop the knot that ties into my empty stomach as I slam the door shut. Most of the skeptics stop me before this point. Once I make it this far, the next step involves the crimson glow of brake lights as they put the car in gear and drive off.

That happened with my first customer earlier this night. My eleven o’clock never even let me make it into the car. They took one look at me, told me to go home, and left me coughing on exhaust fumes.

Dad doesn’t even realize I’m the reason our cell phones still work. If he does, then he doesn’t want to admit it. The text from the phone company we got earlier today means we’re a week away from our phones going dark. Dad needs that phone to find work. If he doesn’t get calls to go to people’s yards, then it won’t take long before we lose the cable and Internet, then the power, and then probably the house.

But I have to walk away, or I might as well not bother doing this “Madame Absinthe” nonsense.

I make it five feet from the car when T.O. climbs out of his car.

“Fine!”

I turn in time to see him shove his car door shut. He rests his elbows on top of the car as his thumbs get to work on his iPhone. Its light bathes his face in a blue glow.

A moment later, my phone chimes with a notification from Venmo. No clue how I stop myself from breaking into a dance. Probably because this isn’t enough to pay our cell phone bill. I still need the other seventy-five.

“Let’s go.” I lead him to a set of cement steps that go down from the sidewalk.

“So, you’re like some kind of necrophile?” Lil’ T.O. asks as his car’s lights flash to the click of his doors locking.

I do prefer the company of the dead, because too many people just turn out stupid like this moron. Just the way he says “necrophile” makes it clear he has no clue what he’s really asking.

“It’s called ‘necromancer.’” If your inner dictionary isn’t kicking in, that means I communicate with the dead.

The stairs from the dead end of South Cherry Street end at a locked gate. A flashlight shines against my back.

“Turn that off.” I roll my eyes, not that he sees. Hard enough seeing in the dark without some bozo’s flashlight ruining my night vision. It’s not like I don’t send them an email ahead of time with instructions. You wouldn’t think a sentence like “No flashlights” would be complicated, but these idiots always bring one or use the light on their phones. “We’re breaking into a cemetery. You really wanna bring the cops?”

“You got a big mouth for a little kid.”

Oh, I do love the witty banter of the teenager. Are half my brain cells going to commit seppuku when I turn thirteen? If so, I’ll stay twelve. Thank you.

“The first seventy-five gets you in the cemetery.” A chain with a lock keeps people from opening the gate, but the slack leaves plenty of room. I slip through the gap in the gate and wave for him to follow. He climbs the fence. Winter gloves keep him from cutting his hands on the sharp, metal edges at the top.

From there, we go down this path until we reach the base of a steep hill.

“This better be for real.” Lil’ T.O. grunts as we’re halfway up to the cemetery.

I smell the wet dirt. It sticks under my nails as I climb.

“Don’t they have a place you can just walk inside?” Lil’ T.O. means the front gate off of Albemarle Street near the office which they never lock.

“Sure, if you don’t mind getting caught by the security guard.”

The guard is why I wait once we reach the top near Palmer Chapel. The long, flat, grey building sits along the road that runs through the cemetery. Sometimes, the guard’s van rolls by right as I make it here, but we’re in luck tonight. No sign of the guy.

Lil’ T.O. doesn’t bother with caution. He walks to the middle of the road before he rests, hunched over with his hands on his knees. “Now where?”

“Now, we need to find someone who isn’t sleeping.”

I take him the long way, going in circles. The dark makes sure he’ll be completely lost by the time I reach the grave I want.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” he whispers.

“Yes and no.”

Lil’ T.O. curses under his breath.

I pass names I’ve come to recognize as better landmarks than the street signs. There’s Ashton and McCarthy. Then I pass the Herndons and Binfords. I’m getting close, so it’s time to start my show.

“I know my way around here, but I’ve gotta find the right body.” Even as dark as it is, I see skepticism wrinkle his forehead. “What people don’t realize is that we all become zombies when we die, but the dead would rather sleep. I’ve got to find one who can’t rest. He needs to be just hungry enough…”

I stop as I reach the grave. “Oh, looks like it’s a ‘she’ tonight.”

T.O. stops just short of the grave and edges his way around the imaginary box where he assumes the casket is buried. The way he leans from the side reminds me of someone looking down into a pool. He turns his head enough to read the flat grave marker.

“Sherrilyn Austin.” He frowns at me. “What makes this one special?”

I reach into the dirt and pull up a fistful of earth. Wet clumps slip free as I roll it around in my hand. “This one must walk a lot. Ground is still loose.” A glance at our surroundings confirms the security guard isn’t near. “A grave where the grass can’t take hold shows a troubled soul.”

T.O. steps back. “She’s only been dead a couple of years.”

I nod. “They need to be young. Skeletons can’t walk by themselves.” I stand and brush my hand off against my pants leg. “Even the dead need something to hold their bones together.”

He keeps a straight face as I smile, but I don’t miss the way he moves back to the foot of the grave, making sure to keep his feet on the grass. After bringing enough of these gawkers here, I’ve learned I don’t need to ham it up. The more natural my smile, the more they panic.

“You ready?” I lean my phone against a neighboring grave’s headstone to capture his reaction on video.

No matter how many times I do this, my body tenses as I sit next to the grave. What if she doesn’t walk? The thought alone makes me want to cry, because I wasn’t lying about the condition of the body. No matter how much she can’t sleep, if the body isn’t willing, the soul’s desire means nothing.

“I expect to get paid.” I glare at T.O.

My threat draws a scowl from him. “This is bull.”

“If she walks, then you pay. We clear?”

“Yeah, right.” He crosses his arms.

I reach into my hoodie and pull out three chicken bones. I position them in a triangle on the grave. They’re nothing special, just leftovers from drumsticks Dad bought for dinner a few months ago. This is another of Momma’s rules: never make up a reason for good props. Let your customer watch and make their own assumptions.

I shut my eyes as I mumble what amounts to a bunch of nonsense syllables. I practice this to make it sound natural. The need in my voice? That’s not faked, though. I learned after the first few visits, the words don’t matter, only the desperation that backs them.

The ground stirs. My skeptical customer stumbles back as a hand claws its way up into the night.

I stop calling. She no longer needs the encouragement. Her hand bursts into the open air. I stand and enjoy the show, not the zombie coming out of the ground, but my customer’s reaction.

The dark hand grasps for purchase. T.O. wobbles right to left, looking for the trick, but he won’t find any strings.

“You will pay me tonight, or I might send her or another after you.”

He doesn’t answer, eyes locked on the grave as the second hand bursts free. This one reaches out far enough to reveal the dirty sleeve draped along a withered forearm.

“Are we clear?” I ask.

He screams as the upper half of the body breaks loose. The sight of dirt raining from her torso and her groans send him running with a shrieked promise to pay.

“Baby girl?” Her voice comes out rougher than it used to, and that makes my heart ache.

“Hi, Momma.” I hug her as her skeletal arms embrace me. I don’t hold her too tightly for fear of breaking her bones. That first night I snuck in here and cried at her grave, Momma answered me.

Her body shudders against mine as she chuckles. “I missed you, Abby.”

I look into her eyes and see this is a good night. Sometimes, she forgets how many times I’ve visited, thinking that night is our first.

The sight of her decay terrifies these teenagers, but the love in her faded eyes keeps her beautiful to me.

“You’ve gotten so tall.” She strokes my cheek with her thumb. “Are you and your daddy doing well?”

My phone, still resting on the nearby headstone, chimes with a notification. I know what it means, and part of me relaxes. I’ll be able to keep the phones on, and Dad can find more work.

“Yeah.” I rest my head on Momma’s shoulder. “We’re doing all right.”