15 Apr They Can Hear You
CHECK OUT MORE STORIES SORTED BY:🏆 Top-Ranked Stories 📅 Recently Published 📚 Category ⌛ Length 📝 Author 📖 Title 📅 Published on April 15, 2015
"They Can Hear You"Written by
Estimated reading time — 39 minutes
Eleven P.M., Monday.
“And that’s pretty much the gist of it, you got all that down?”
In the mental notebook that was locked deep within Greg’s concentration, he did manage to get it all down. His first night on the shift was going to be a smooth one if he had anything to say about it. Greg wasn’t too pleased with the gig, but if it meant getting paid during the time where his college loans had just become his worst debt collector than he wasn’t going to screw this up.
Greg Cassidy, a young fletching twenty-three year old anxiously waiting for his chance to prove his worth Having graduated from college only four months ago with a bachelor’s in accounting, Greg had hoped his proving would immediately come in the form of filling out people’s taxes or heading his own firm. Some might have called him determined; others might have simply called him an idiot. But after multiple denied applications and the sheer financial weight of student loans, Greg couldn’t afford to wait around for his big chance.
And so here he was, getting trained on how to operate the graveyard shift in the most ironic of places, a graveyard. After looking through the help wanted section of the paper and finding the night shift at the local grave yard was likely his best bet (due to simplicity and his minimal knowledge in fixing pipes), he applied and got called back within two days. Plus the pay was pretty nice too, fifteen dollars an hour to play night watch for a bunch of corpses. At least it would be a nice money maker until he landed a real job in his field.
“Yes Sir Mr. Foreman,” Greg replied. “Got it all up here.”
Greg was sitting in the employee’s lounge across from the lumbering foreman. A beefy looking gentleman with a deep voice and a beard pulled straight out of Norse mythology. Greg had thought that the man looked right to be in a foreman’s position. If anything were to disturb his graveyard, he looked more than capable of dealing with it himself.
“Good to hear,” the foreman said. “Now you said your name first name was Greg, is that right Mr. Cassidy?”
“Yes sir,” Greg said.
“And how old are you Greg?”
“I’m twenty-three sir, fresh out of college no less.”
“Yeah, I noticed that on your resume. Well let me tell ya something Greg. I’m thirty-one, so cut the ‘sir’ shit. Makes me feel like I need to be in the ground out there with the dead. We go on a first name basis around here; helps lighten up the whole doom and gloom of working a graveyard if you catch my drift. While I may be in charge around here, think of me like one of your close friends and not your boss. And call me Crawford while you’re at it.”
Greg was aware of doom and gloom, he had read enough ghost stories in college to last him a lifetime. Some of it came from one of his elective courses in gothic horror during his junior year, but most came from a fascination with the arcane. The surge of adrenaline that came with being scared late at night while thinking there is something moving in the darkest corner of his bedroom was fun to Greg. For a brief moment Greg actually got excited for starting work tonight, he figured he would feel right at home.
“Sure thing Crawford,” Greg said.
“Good, than I guess that covers all the formalities. I’m going to call Jim back so that you could join him tonight on your watch. In the meantime get your gear from the storage locker in the next room. Once you got the stuff you’ll head out and start working. Remember everything that I told you and you’ll do fine. It’s a pretty simple job when the people you’re watching are dead.”
He gave Greg a pat on the shoulder and motioned for the door that lead to the storage room. As Greg went inside he could hear Crawford conversing over his walkie talkie, most likely to the guy named Jim that Greg would be spending the rest of the night with. Greg was met with a couple of shelves containing snacks and assorted cleaning supplies and a row of lockers along the wall. Greg’s locker was to the left of Jim’s whose locker hung slightly open revealing itself to be void of any contents. To the right of Jim’s was one belonging to a Ryan, and beyond that a final locker for an Ethan. The last two lockers were shut tight, giving Greg the notion that only he and Jim were going to be out on duty tonight. He was hoping that Jim had some experience in this line of work; not because Greg was frightened by working a graveyard at night, but because he didn’t want to be the new guy who messed something up on the first night.
Greg opened his locker accompanied by the creaking wail of the metal hinges of the door. Inside he found a long belt with multiple holsters hanging on a metal hook. On the top shelf he saw a flashlight, a single walkie talkie, a few double A batteries, and a folded map of the cemetery grounds. As he lifted the belt off the hook and lock it around his hips, he began to whistle to the tune of “Pop Goes the Weasel.”
Before he could finish the final notes, Crawford called out from the lounge.
“Hey Greg, is that you whistling in there?”
“Yeah it’s me,” Greg replied. “Sometimes I whistle to pass the time, been doing it since I was a kid.”
“I know I didn’t mention it before, but don’t do that while working your shift. Remember what I said about doom and gloom?”
“Helps lighten up the whole doom and gloom of working a graveyard…” he wasn’t too fond of the consideration of having to give up whistling while working on the job. For as long as Greg could remember, he always had a compulsive need to whistle. Odd as it may seem, not only did it help him ease boredom, but it also allowed him to think and focus when his mind wasn’t up to the task. He remembered many times in high school and college when he would get in trouble for whistling during an exam. He couldn’t comprehend not being allowed to whistle on the job; especially since he had a bachelor’s degree to prove whistling didn’t lead to total failure.
Still, Crawford had a point when attributing whistling to doom and gloom. Greg recalled a scene in Disney’s “The Legend of Sleepy Hallow” where Ichabod Crane whistled during his trek through the dark forest only to be hunted down later by the headless horsemen. Greg figured he could put his vocal chords on hiatus during work, even if he knew it wasn’t likely that the headless horseman would ride out and kill him if he did.
Once Greg had all his belongings holstered into his belt, he shut the locker door with a loud clang. It was then that he looked up on the inscription that was centered on the locker. He hadn’t noticed before, but behind the metal frame drilled into the door where the locker owner’s name would be placed was a small note card with his name scribbled in black sharpie. The other lockers had fancy etchings on their doors, small plaques that signified their own personal quarters. While he wasn’t upset he didn’t get the royal treatment, Greg figured that the brevity of time between now and being hired didn’t allow for Crawford to get a new name plague of his locker. He also deduced that from the creak in the door hinge the locker wasn’t placed their just for Greg, it had a previous owner.
Greg made his way back through the lounge and to the front door. He noticed Crawford sitting in a chair watching highlights from the football game with a freshly opened can of Bud Light in his left hand. Before Greg could turn the knob to head outside, curiosity over took him.
“Hey Crawford, was there another guy here before me?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, he had that locker before you. He left the job about two weeks ago, that’s why we put the help wanted ad in the paper.”
“Why’d he leave?”
Crawford took his gaze off the television, looked to Greg, and gave a smart assed smirk.
“Because he whistled too much. Now get out there and make sure those bodies don’t get out of bed.”
Eleven-Ten P.M., Monday
Jim’s consistent dragging of his cigarette gave him the effect of a dormant fire breathing dragon in the dark. He was leaning against the wall of the employee building when Greg stepped out into the night. Jim had a rather slim figure, but since Greg’s eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness any other feature was too hard to decipher.
“Hey there, you must be Greg,” Jim said. “I’m Jim Shelton, Crawford just radioed in to come and get’cha.”
They shook hands in the shadows, bathed only in the dim light of the stars above.
“Hello Jim,” Greg said. “I’m really excited to start working here.”
“I see Crawford already told you about using first names, that’s good. I’m guessing he covered all the basics then.”
“Sure did. Everything from staying on the path to not developing relationships with the tenants.”
Jim gave an elusive chuckle. “You seem real chipper. Don’t be, this job is certainly easy but it’s also really fucking boring. After a few nights on duty you’ll be wishing some of these bodies would rise from the grave and do an Irish jig.”
Jim quietly attempted to clear his throat. Greg could never get behind smoking; he figured it would just lead to bad health and an untimely death. Greg wasn’t looking to make a bad impression however; he played along.
“Is it wrong to wish for the bodies rising out of their graves and dancing? I feel that would be a great story to tell the parents.”
“You can certainly wish for it, but I wouldn’t count on it. Now, let me show you around so you can get a feel for the place. Save your questions until we make it the whole way around the place. You should get a good enough feel for it all visually, just keep close.”
Jim flicked his cigarette bud into the neighboring grass and made his way down the left path. Greg followed close behind. It only took a few steps before they were truly in the subdivisions of the dead. On both sides were rows of tombstones, accented by a few hanging trees for an added spice of creepy. Unlike Greg’s normal picture of a movie graveyard, there was an absence of a low hanging fog or company of owl’s calling for the living to beware their surroundings. With no fog to impair his now adjusted vision, Greg noticed a single structure that sat behind the back rows of tombstones on the left; a mausoleum. It stood with quiet solace, crafted stone to honor the lucky (or simply rich) soul who now called it their tomb. Greg had hoped that when he would die, he would get the same treatment.
Eventually they made it the whole way around the grounds and back to the employees building. Jim lit another cigarette and offered one to Greg.
“No thanks,” Greg said. “Addiction runs in the family.” A lie to cover up his pure disdain for death on a stick.
“Fair enough,” Jim said through a cloud of smoke. “So got any questions? As you can tell it’s a pretty simple layout, and with the map that was in your locker you should have no problems getting back on track.”
“No questions really come to mind, but it sure is pretty quiet around here.”
“Well there’s not a lot of cheer going on around here, plus I’m sure you noticed this place is pretty isolated. Two miles to the nearest, well, anything. It’s nice most of the time, helps you think more easily.”
That’s exactly what Greg was trying to do. He didn’t want to look like the pious newbie who figured one pass through was enough to get him working the ground floor. Then again, maybe his lack of questions would make Jim think he had a good handle on the place and was ready to get cracking. He looked around quickly, and in the distance on top of the hill, he noticed the mausoleum in silent devotion.
“I wasn’t aware you had mausoleums here,” Greg said.
“Yeah we only build those when we have high paying customers, or at least close relatives of said customer. We have nine of them currently, and Crawford will put money into building more once the need arises. Some of them are pretty old considering this plot has been in Crawford’s family for five generations, but the first one we passed was actually finished only a few days ago.”
Greg didn’t know why, but the thought from earlier suddenly crept back in.
“Crawford said there was a guy before I came here.”
“Who, Matt?” Jim said. “He worked here for about a month or two, he looked a bit older than you but I can’t remember his age.”
“Why did he leave? This seems like a pretty easy well paid gig.”
“Well paid, that’s one of the reasons I still work here. I’m not really sure why he left. Crawford said he just barged into the employee building one night on his shift, left all his gear, and never came back. The monotony probably got to him.”
“Couldn’t have been more boring than being six feet under like all the others here.”
“That may be so, but you’ll come to find out that how boring this job can get. After all, boredom can kill a man. Let me give you one more round, just to be safe.”
They set off again, tracing the entire course of the plot until they eventually made it back to the employee building. It was then time for Greg and Jim to split up to cover more ground. It was official; Greg Cassidy began his job as a cemetery curator working the graveyard shift. The first three nights went off without a hitch.
Six A.M., Thursday
Greg closed his storage locker door with a loud thud and wondered as to why the lockers didn’t have any sort of locking system installed. He knew that none of his coworkers would likely steal any of his equipment from the unit, but Greg was never exposed to lockers that didn’t have some sort of protective measures to them. He also wasn’t usually prone to overanalyze the small things, but after three nights on his new job the frequency at which he thought about trivial things was severely amplified.
He walked out into the lounge where Crawford was at his desk fiddling with some drawers. His speed was enough to signify understanding within Greg’s psyche; Crawford was ready to go home too. Greg made his way over to the time clock on the opposite wall and punched out before striking conversation.
“You in a hurry Crawford?” Greg said.
“I can hear my bed calling me from here,” Crawford said with a chuckle. “What about you, have you adjust to the time differences yet?”
“First night was rough, but I think I’m slowly getting used to it.”
“By next week I’m sure you won’t even recall spending most of your waking hours while the sun is out. You’re on the fast track to become a night crawler like the rest of us.”
Greg laughed at the befitting title. Comprised of an ensemble of guys who didn’t have the patience or will to deal with daytime labor, the night crawlers were the night shift workers who Greg now found himself a semi-established member of. By now Greg had met the majority of them and was scheduled to work with the only member he had yet to meet on Monday. There was Jim, the chain smoker who he met the first night; Ethan, a slim figured man in his late thirties who seemed like a rather religious person due to the cross he always bore around his neck; and Crawford, the brandished leader who gave the orders rather than executed them. Ryan was the only one Greg had yet to meet, and if the versatility amongst the others was to hold up, Greg had no idea what to expect out of him.
“Speaking of night crawlers, did Ethan already head out?” Greg asked.
“Yeah, just about ten minutes ago. Told me he had to run some errands before heading back home.”
“He’s a nice guy. I noticed the cross hanging from the necklace he wears. Is he really religious?”
“He wasn’t always, only up until recently has he started wearing that. He reads the bible in here on his breaks so I suppose he takes it pretty seriously now.”
Greg was never much of a religious person. He always claimed that he enjoyed being centered in logic and reality when it came to the afterlife and higher orders. His love for horror and fiction however always made it hypocritical to claim that the edicts and laws of religion were completely ridiculous. Gods and monsters, to each his own.
“Well I’m going to head out,” Greg said. “Is there anything I could do for you before I go?”
“No don’t sweat it,” Crawford said, “you already punched out anyway. Just make sure to close the main gate behind you when you exit. Ethan should have already taken care of the locks when he left so it should just be a simple effort of pushing and pulling on your part.”
“Alright then, see ya Sunday night.”
“See ya then, have a good morning.”
Greg gave a slight smirk as he closed the door behind him and walked outside. Greg knew Crawford had a sense of humor, but he always seemed to be the most chipper when the sun came up. Greg figured it was because the arrival of the sun meant night shift was over, and therefore allowed Crawford to leave. Greg knew in time he would start feeling the same way about seeing the sun come up. Whereas before the sun meant waking up to go to class, now it meant leaving work and going home to rest; it would take some getting used to.
The employee building was only a few paces from the main gate where Greg’s car and the parking lot lie beyond. He pushed the metal gates open as they swayed outward with lumbering force, and once Greg was on the other side he pushed them back to their closed position. As he wiped his hands off from the residue left from the aged metal, he noticed the locks Crawford had mentioned before Greg left; not one, but three. They were gold plated with large chains that coiled around the bars of the gate’s right door. They looked as though they could stop a stampede from breaking through if necessary, but Greg knew panicked groups of wildlife didn’t usually run through this part of the country, or any part for that matter.
“Well Crawford sure likes to take more precaution with his front door than his lockers,” Greg said amusingly.
And with that Greg turned from the gate, made his way towards his car, and drove off down the road with locks and doors swirling through his mind.
One A.M., Friday
Jim walked into the employee’s building with a heavy sigh as he wiped the dirt off his boots against the ragged floor mat. Crawford was in his usual spot, sitting at his deck observing a mound of paperwork that didn’t seem to be getting any smaller. His eyes were not deterred from their present course.
“Is it one o’clock already?” Crawford said behind his stack of papers. “I swear signing papers makes time fly by.”
“I’ve been working for you for four years Crawford,” Jim said. “I never knew you to be a good liar and your sarcasm hasn’t gotten better with age. Besides, if you find paper work so boring I’ll gladly take your comfy desk work while you go out and babysit a bunch of corpses.”
They both shared a laugh as Jim made his way to the coffee maker.
“Sorry about your luck Jim,” Crawford said. “But someone’s got to do it.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” Jim said as he poured a cup of coffee. “But right now is my break, and Ryan has all the weight on his shoulders right now holding down the fort.”
“Not too bad out there tonight?”
“Same as always… dead.”
Silenced ensued as Jim sat down at the lunch table towards the center of the room with coffee mug in hand. The only sound that filled the air between them was Crawford’s pen fervently scratching against his papers. He knew Crawford wasn’t fond of having noise present while he did paperwork, but after working three hours in total silence Jim was yearning for some audible accompaniment to relax his tension. Crawford’s paperwork could wait.
“So the new guy is off tonight?” Jim said. “Greg is it?”
“Yeah,” Crawford replied. “He has tonight and the weekends off. That’s liable to change of course, but I figured I’d start him off with something he’s used to.”
“Having weekends off, like a normal job.”
“Well I certainly agree this job is anything but normal.”
Crawford gave a dismissing grunt and continued with his work. Jim took a few short sips of his coffee. The pungent taste always kept him moving through his shift, even if Crawford wasn’t a master at brewing the perfect blend. He was glad Crawford actually dished out the money to get an actual coffee maker rather than small packets of powder that had to be mixed with hot water. The powder would never fully dissolve and always leave behind little chunks that would float in the liquid. It would give the effect that Jim had specs of dirt in his coffee; it would constantly remind him of his job.
“You think he’ll last here long?” Jim said.
“I think he’ll do fine,” Crawford replied. “So long as he sticks to the general guide lines he’ll find this job to be quite rewarding.”
Jim hung his coffee mug in front of his mouth before taking another sip. Someone else had just crept back into Jim’s mind; the welcome mat wasn’t out to greet him.
“Just like Matt did?”
Crawford’s pen halted its present course, the tension in the air becoming a smoke screen of deceit. Crawford looked up to meet Jim for the first time since he entered the building.
“And here I thought we agreed not to bring him up again,” Crawford said.
“I assumed you were going to tell the kid about our little issue we have here.”
“There’s nothing to tell so long as he sticks to the rules.”
“I’m pretty sure Matt knew the rules well enough and look what happened to him.”
“He stepped out of line Jim, plain and simple.”
“What’s to say Greg won’t flub up and do the same? He knows Matt was here before him and-”
“You told him about Matt?!”
“No, not yet at least. I lied to him on his first night so that he would ease his way into working here, I told him Matt barged in here one night and quit on the spot. But he can’t fully assimilate into the job if you keep putting a curtain up between him and the truth.”
“Are you questioning my authority to run the show around here Jim?”
“No, sir, I’m just questioning why we’re keeping Greg in the dark.”
Crawford tossed his pen onto the desk and leaned back in his chair. The expression on his face gave that of someone who was playfully amused, but Jim knew all too well that deep down Crawford was anything but pleased.
“What good will the truth do him Jim, hmm? Even if I did tell him, how do you think he would react?”
“At least he would have it in the back of his mind in case it does happen. Do you realize how easy it is around here for everything to go to shit in a matter of seconds? You know as well as I do that our job can get boring really quick, and when you get bored you’ll try to find any way to pass the time. If Greg isn’t carefully aware of what can happen here… well, it’s like I told him on his first night; boredom can kill a man.”
Crawford’s expression retreated from amusement into sullen remorse as he turned slightly in his chair. Jim garnered from the change in expressions that he struck a chord within Crawford, allowing him to see the error of his ways. Crawford’s recollection was enough to make Jim tremble with fear.
“On Greg’s first night, after I instructed him on the job, he went back into the storage room to grab his gear. I remember I was sitting here when he went back, I was probably doing more paper signing or something. After a minute or two of silence, I began to hear whistling coming from the storage room, ‘Pop goes the weasel’ or something close to that.” Crawford gave a slight laugh under his breath. “I’ve never been so terrified in my life. You know how Matt liked to whistle a lot, he would sit there during breaks and work his wind pipe till it ran dry. When the noise came I had forgotten that Greg was still in the building, so when I heard the sound I thought that… Matt, he had come back… and that…”
Crawford shook his head in woeful disbelief. Jim understood Crawford’s feelings; he had expected to run into Matt again multiple times before. Matt was a good kid and a fine worker, but it wasn’t in Jim’s best interest to have a chance meeting with his former co-worker. It wasn’t in anyone’s interest at all.
“I can relate to you Crawford,” Jim said. “I’m scared to see Matt again just as much as you are. And had I been in your shoes during that moment, I probably would have wet myself. But that’s why you should realize more than anyone why it’s important to tell Greg the truth. We either tell him the easy way, or he figures it out the hard way.”
For a moment Jim thought Crawford would drop his ever present barriers and actually succumb to rational thought. He expected Crawford, just this once, to realize what was at stake for not only Greg but the entire team who worked the night shifts. Jim gave a disappointed sigh when he realized he had expected too much
“I feel for the kid Jim, he’s young and bound to make mistakes. But he’s also an adult, and one who’s able to understand the workings of the world that have been presented to him for over twenty years. This cemetery has been in my family’s care for five generations, it’s basically a part of my lineage. I fear for the kid, I really do, but I’m not going to lose this place over him. Telling him the facts would just sully our reputation in his eyes. We’ll keep holding it off until something actually happens. If we were to tell him about Matt he would think we were playing some sort of prank on him. That we were confusing dreams with reality, or that we were going insane.”
Jim looked into his mug to find only a gulp of his coffee remained. He examined the latent liquid with disgust. It resembled the color of dirt, finely packed and unwavering in solidarity. He poured the rest down the drain and rinsed the cup out in the sink.
“Well, maybe we are going insane. Little by little, night after night, until our sanity falls down into nothingness. I’ve stuck with you this long because I saw what can happen here, and I know how to avoid it. Ethan and Ryan know as well, and that’s the only reason they still stick around here. If you keep this kid in the dark any longer, one of these nights he’s going to be gone. And if that happens a second time, I might just hang up my curtain as well.”
Crawford looked onto Jim with a blank expression. The line between dreams and reality was thick, but even the brightest nights had a way of obscuring the borders, and make attempts at deciphering the signs all the more difficult.
“If you want to quit, I won’t stop you. Until then though, we keep what we know between ourselves, and if he tells me you’ve been telling him any weird stories about this place, I’ll tell him you’re just trying to spook him on the job. Now, I think your break just finished.”
Jim looked up to the clock along the wall.
“1:15 A.M.? I swear time flies when I’m arguing with you Crawford.”
Jim placed his empty mug on the counter and made his way for the door. With each step he felt as though Crawford was going to shoot him in the back, end his troubles before they had time to walk out the door. Once Jim opened the door and felt the cold wind brush against his body, he felt that a loud blast from behind was out of the question. With his head slightly turned back, he figured he would give Crawford one more piece of his mind before returning to duty.
“That knowledge only we know of might just kill that kid,” said Jim. “And I won’t be the one to take the blame for it… not again.”
With that Jim closed the door behind him, leaving Crawford alone with his thoughts and a large stack of paperwork he suddenly didn’t have the right mood to work on.
The moon was bright against the backdrop of vast stars and galaxies across the night. Jim could only look with perplexity as he wondered if anyone out there had the same problems as those who worked with him into the long hours of the night. Such a unique issue, did anyone else across the globe face the same as they had? His gaze was broken as he noticed Ethan come down the path out of the corner of his eye and make his way towards the building. He didn’t speak until they were inches apart.
“Your break over?” Ethan asked.
“Yeah,” Jim replied. “Me and Crawford got in a bit of a verbal tussle.”
“Oh yeah, what about?”
“Just over the new kid Greg and how he’s doing.”
“I’ve only worked with him two nights, but I think he’s settling in pretty well. Before we know it he’ll join us in the veterans circle, finally get an actual name plaque on his locker.”
“I certainly hope he makes it that far.”
There was a brief silence amid the two of them, the whistling of the wind filling the void between the loss of words. At least, they hoped it was the wind.
“I’m heading down the left,” Ethan said. “You want to cover the right?”
“Sure,” Jim said. “I’ll see ya around.”
They both began to tread down their respective paths, keeping their thoughts locked into the confines of their minds. Jim thought some more about Greg. He thought about Ethan being in on the “veteran knowledge” that he and Crawford knew as well. He wondered how Ethan felt about Greg not sharing in the knowledge the others knew. He thought about Crawford’s submissiveness, Ryan’s opinions, and Matt’s reasons for no longer being with them.
He thought long, and noticed the field of gravestones that rested quietly to the right of the path. He didn’t dare speak any of it aloud.
Two A.M., Friday
Greg sat on his couch as a slave to the frequencies, flipping through channels looking for a broadcast pot of gold. It was late at night and Greg was still wide awake, he had gotten used to it. His adjustment to the life style of night shift workers came much quicker than expected, but after three days of work he figured he was in full swing.
It wasn’t all so bad for him. The first two days were hard as he had trouble sleeping while the sun was out and eating breakfast when he would have normally been eating dinner. But even his appetite seemed to adjust rather quickly, and once he had it down he found that he took to the change like he had been doing it for years. He figured his previous college years might have helped him out some. Greg had gone to plenty of parties in his four year tenure at college, and he knew what it meant to stay up all night and sleep all day. He was just glad he wouldn’t have to juggle the job along with college classes; he was long passed that possibility.
There was also the dissipation of little to no cars out on the roads at night. Greg had always considered his town was full of idiot drivers. So when night fell and the day jobbers went to rest, he and the other sparse few who owned the night took to the roads with miniscule hindrance during commute. Unfortunate that half his trip to work was occupied by the single road that drove out to the isolated cemetery, he wouldn’t mind driving a longer distance if it meant enjoying the midnight rides that much more.
The change had its downsides though. For one most locations around town wouldn’t open until ten A.M. or later. This meant that when Greg would get off at six in the morning, the only places he could go were back to his studio apartment or twenty-four hour breakfast joints. That was something he hadn’t yet adjusted to, breakfast at dinner time (or vice versa) just didn’t seem right.
Another disadvantage was late night television. To those who normally sleep through the night it may seem rather submissive, but for those who have time off and are adjusted to night schedules, the television becomes a crutch of displeasure. Every channel either had hour long infomercials or sappy shows that only insomniacs could find enjoyment out of in their intrepid states. Greg began to wish for the old days when TV stations would sign off, play the national anthem, and then cut to a long drone of static. At least it would give him an excuse to go do something else.
But sacrifices had to be made in order to work his current position, and at the end of the day (or rather night) Greg was able to accept his current place in life. The job paid well and was easy enough. Sure it could get boring at times, and the night life was abysmal in comparison to the hustle and bustle of the day, but Greg wasn’t one to be picky. If he was, he would still be a college grad searching for his big break within his field of study, and that would mean no money was coming in. Acceptable losses; surprisingly they didn’t teach that in business school.
Greg continued to flip channels until he eventually hit a winner. Showing in its original unaltered state was George Romero’s “Night of the Living Dead.” While it was made way before he was even born, Greg had seen the film multiple times before and retained the knowledge to know that it was a bonafide horror classic. As he watched the makeup zombies sluggishly eat the flesh of their victim’s bones in black and white filtration, he couldn’t help but see right through the façade of “movie magic.” Granted, 1968 wasn’t anywhere near the technological prowess of 2015, but he still didn’t find any of the scenes truly fear inducing. And at this point in Hollywood cinema, Greg figured zombies had been severely overdone to death. He chuckled lightly at his own comedic prowess.
He needed something new and fresh to shake up the zombie genre, something to separate the future from the works of the past. Fictitious brain dead corpses stalking prey like cumbersome lions in the savannah just wasn’t cutting it for Greg’s definition of true horror.
But that’s all it was to him; fictitious.
One-Thirty A.M., Monday
Greg thought that must’ve been the twelfth time he passed that mausoleum tonight. Or maybe it was the eleventh; it wouldn’t be out of the question to say Greg possibly lost count.
For the past three hours Greg had been caught in the androgynous process of nightly routine. Walk around your designated route, make sure the grounds are kept, and keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. That’s exactly what Greg was hoping for, something out of the ordinary. At least it would make this pass more exciting than the last eleven; or twelve.
After the three nights last week Greg knew the layout of the cemetery pretty well and could find his way around with little to no problems whatsoever. He knew that currently he was standing in the North West portion of the land, mostly due to the slight elevation by being situated on a large bulbous hill. He was also aware of his position because he was near the mausoleum he commented to Jim about on his first night. This section was the newest addition to the cemetery and therefore contained the newest offerings that willingly fed the ground. He figured that at this point Ryan, who was working as well this night, would be due somewhere between East and South East of the general plot of land. Sure enough, off in the distance Greg could see Ryan’s flashlight peering around like an oppressive ray against those who would attempt to invade his space.
Greg met and started working with Ryan earlier in the night. Ryan had a muscular stature to the same effect as Crawford minus the Viking beard. Greg almost mistook them for brothers when he first laid eyes on Ryan, but Crawford was quick to kill that rumor where it conceived. Ryan was in his early forties and was the oldest of the night watch composition. Greg found Ryan’s age to be comforting when he was working with him; older age, more experience.
The guys also claimed Ryan to be a bit of a funny guy, one who liked to play pranks and joke around with the others. Greg didn’t seem to find much of the jokester in their first meeting, but he did find his advice for those who worked into the long hours of the night particularly on point: “Find a way to pass the time or else you’ll want to dig a hole for yourself and join the others.”
It was similar advice to what Jim had told him his first night on the job. Walking in circles at night while watching mounds of dirt and stone tablets had an easy time becoming dull after a while. Ryan’s advice on passing the time was singing entire albums in your head, but Greg wasn’t much of a musical guy and he knew they didn’t play albums on the Top 40. Jim’s advice was more succinct: “Find a hobby that involves a lot of thinking. Writing, problem solving, whatever. Find a subject and then think about it all night while you work. Before you know it the sun will be coming up over the horizon and it’ll be time to go home.” At times Greg would start writing mock ledgers in his head and start balancing budgets while he walked the paths over and over again. But even his number skills proved to be too stale at times, and he would begin to notice that only an hour had gone by in his seven hour shift. At least he had nights leading into Fridays and the weekends off; it was something to look forward to once the sun finally came up.
Greg took his eyes off Ryan’s light from the distance and did a 180 to face the woods a few yards behind him. Since this was the newest section of the cemetery, it was the closest portion against the neighboring woods and the closest thing to bountiful life in the fifteen acres that made up the current layout. Greg knew however that the trees were destined to meet the same end as the thousands of corpses that called this place their ultimate home. When there wasn’t enough room for more bodies, Crawford would issue an order to make more room. Crawford had no problems cutting down the woods to make more room for the continuous number of bodies that were coming in monthly. Greg wondered how the trees felt about such actions against their kind. He wondered if the trees were simply waiting for the next lumber crew to come in so that they may come to life and kill every human in their site. Oaks killing humans over the land where both their kind had been laid to rest; poetic justice.
Greg shook the thought from his head as he thought he saw a shadow move in the tree line. He pointed his flashlight beam in the direction of the movement, only to reveal a hanging branch swaying in the wind. He gave a sigh of disappointment at the revelation. Not only because he was duped by a strong gust of wind against a tree branch (they really were out to get him), but moreover because he found that he really wanted something excited to happen. He had hoped he would shine his beam of light over to find some masked lunatic holding a decapitated head, breathing heavily through a mutilated Halloween mask that had clearly run out its usefulness by now. A twisted fantasy, a fun game; anything to break the boredom.
Greg looked back across the east to find Ryan had moved slightly further down the path and into faded view. He figured stopping for a minute or two wouldn’t be noticeable when he crossed paths with Ethan later down the path. He turned his focus to a single line of graves that made their way down the hill in perfect formation, the unmoving march of the dead. He never took the time to actually read any of the grave stones in his multiple walkthroughs. When combining the darkness, thousands of other stones, and trying to keep your sanity from nose diving into the abyss, he couldn’t really blame himself for not noticing them before. He figured now would be a more perfect time than ever to enjoy the handiwork that helped roll in his paycheck every night.
Eeny, meeny, miny, MO!
Greg stopped his flashlight upon two graves paired closely together, oddly close together in fact. He moved in closer to get a better look. They were two marble slabs only six inches apart from each other, the left one being slightly larger than the right. Greg fixed his light on the first stone and then moved to the second.
Clara Davidson, born February 19th, 1986. Died May 10th, 2015.
Sydney Davidson, born October 3rd, 2007. Died May 10th, 2015.
It was always hard for Greg to fathom people, especially children, dying at such a young age. He remembered at the age of fifteen when his parents told him his twelve year old cousin had just died in a car crash. It was the first close death Greg had ever experienced, and it was enough to turn his world upside down. To cope with someone you know no longer being alive is a hard thing, turning that someone into someone you had a close relationship with can be earth shattering. Greg knew death all too well; he did work in a graveyard after all.
He gave a long whistle of astonishment before speaking. It singed his throat with depression.
“You sure died young kid, and it was only two months ago when it happened? I’m sorry you won’t be able to experience a full life, but sometimes life just happens to be unfair to the best of us. At least you died with your mother… but there’s no grave for the father. How did you two die? Hmph, this job has driven me to beg questions from corpses in order to pass the time. Not like you can tell me anyway.”
Just then, Greg heard a faint whistle ring out to the left of him. He quickly shot up and shone his flashlight in the direction of the noise. There was nothing to see but more grave stones, the lone mausoleum, and the tree line in the distance. He looked to his right and across the field to see Ryan’s flashlight faintly extend over the hill. Greg figured that the wind passing through the trees was the cause of the sound.
Ryan is too far away for me to hear him from this distance and I suppose the wind right now is strong enough to create whistling noises. At least I got that scare I was hoping for tonight.
Greg made his way back onto the path with a slight smirk. He pictured someone off in the tree line whistling from the shadows attempting to draw him in, a modern day siren that would lead Greg to his untimely demise. The gruesome deaths he played out in his mind once he would be lured in were beyond a PG-13 rated level.
Greg gave a slight shudder at the thought, and though he didn’t notice it, the ground under Sydney Davidson’s grave did the same.
Eleven P.M., Tuesday
Greg began to rummage through the supplies in his storage locker when he heard the door behind him pushed open. He turned his head slightly to see Jim walk through the door way into the room. The stench of cigarettes followed in his wake.
“I didn’t know you were working tonight,” Greg said.
“Yeah well, Ryan is sick tonight and someone had to cover for him,” Jim replied as he swung his locker door open. “I imagine you could have handled tonight by yourself, but it doesn’t hurt to have help.”
Handled tonight by yourself, Greg appreciated the comment. It had only been a week and a half since he had started work here and already the more experienced members were throwing comments of admiration his way. He was starting to truly feel established among the others, an expert at pacing laps around a plot of land and keeping watch late into the night. If anything, it was enough to make him look forward to working his shift.
“I wouldn’t be one to call you wrong Jim, but I don’t think I’m quite the expert on the caretaker game yet. Maybe in another month or two I’ll be on that high a level.”
“You’ve been doing well so far, and you’re only looking to improve from here on out. Just make sure you’re ready for any sort of pop quiz Crawford might throw your way.”
“Like what? Like how the lamp post between the fifth mausoleum and the eastern road flickers on and off? Or that he only likes International Delight coffee cream in his mugs?”
Jim gave a hearty laugh at Greg’s observations.
“Color me impressed. With that kind of knowledge at your disposal you could probably ace any sort of question Crawford could send your way. It seems we have a modern day Alex Trebek on the team.”
“And I can do the theme pretty well too.”
Without a second of comprehension or doubt, Greg began to whistle the first few notes of the Jeopardy theme aloud in the storage room. He had forgotten how good it felt to whistle, to clear his pipes and bring out simple tunes to calm the nerves. It wasn’t until a few seconds later that he noticed the expression on Jim’s face and recalled one of the golden rules of the job.
“S-sorry,” Greg said. “Doom and gloom, I almost forgot.”
Jim was unwavering in his stance. With his eyes wide and gaze fixed he stared forward into his locker as though he had found himself staring into the jaws of a hungry tiger. Greg was questioning what he did to make Jim freeze in place. He didn’t expect that Jim had any bad memories when it came to Jeopardy. Maybe he was a contestant once and managed to go negative before final jeopardy occurred, maybe it was family matters. Greg didn’t know what to think, and he felt that it was business he would be better off not treading into. Greg erased the thought, gathered his stuff, and shut his locker with a mild push.
“I’ll uh, see you out there Jim.”
Jim didn’t move. The same stare persisted as it gazed in on the confines of the locker’s interior. Greg figured it best just to leave him alone until he snapped out of it. He turned and made his way for the door, but before he could, Jim called out to him.
“Greg,” Jim said in a solemn voice. “Before you go, I just want you to know that…”
“Yes…” Greg replied. “Know what?”
Jim thought back to what Crawford had told him during his break a few nights before. Would Greg really think him an idiot, or that he would be pulling a prank on him? Would he believe something so outlandish and unbelievable? Would he…
“You’re doing well,” Jim said as he snapped out of his daze. “Don’t do anything to mess it up. I’m not trying to be stern towards you, but I don’t want to see you leave so soon. Matt, the guy before you, he didn’t stick around long after being hired. Let’s just… let’s just say I don’t want another Matt.”
Greg felt the comments to be a little conspicuous; something was odd about Jim’s tone and words. As Jim continued to grab his stuff, Greg figured he might as well accept the compliment rather than question Jim any further.
“Thanks,” Greg said. “I’m trying my best to make an impression around here. And sorry about whatever I did a few moments ago. It seemed to strike a chord with you. Anyway, see you around.”
Greg left the storage room with a hushed pace, and after a few seconds Jim heard the door leading outside shut with a thump. Jim slowly stared at the ground beneath him as he pushed his locker door closed. He stood there for a bit, still as thought he were rooted to the position by invisible vines. Others might have looked upon the ground Jim was standing on and figured he simply had some odd fascination with it. But for him, the image below along with Greg’s comments had terrified him to his core.
“It’s not what you did,” Jim said quietly, “it’s what this place did.”
And if this place had its way once again, Greg’s path towards becoming an “expert” would come to a grinding halt.
Three-Thirty A.M., Wednesday
Greg rounded around the bend of the path and made his way towards the North West section of the cemetery. It had to have been the twentieth time he had passed around the employee building, and the boredom of the shift was really starting to set in. He had already taken his break earlier in the night, so the only salvation Greg had left for escape was the glorious dawn of the sun over the horizon. He looked around to see if Jim was out somewhere across the fields, but his flashlight ray was nowhere to be found.
Probably just over the hill where I can’t see him, I’ll likely run into him somewhere further in. Greg heaved a heavy sigh as he continued up the path.
As he crossed another row of headstones, he began to replay the scene that transpired in the storage room earlier that night back into his head. What was it that affected Jim like that? Why did he seem so deterred? Greg didn’t have any clue then and still didn’t now, but guessing gave him something to do while he walked along the darkness. He began to recall that Jim was set off when Greg whistled the Jeopardy theme. Then, without hesitation or thought, Greg whistled a note through his lips before stopping himself from going any further.
He looked around quickly to see if anyone heard him, that Crawford might jump out behind a gravestone and give him a scolding. But all was silent and still, nothing moved except the lugs filling Greg’s chest with air. Greg felt a sense of relaxation and pleasure from the whistle. Whether it was simply working his pipes or the defiance of authority, it felt good. He did another double take around the area until, with a smile, spouted out another two notes. Then three, then four, he continued until he was laughing at his own enjoyment.
Doom and gloom eh? What is there to be worried about? There’s no problem to just a few little whistles. Besides, if it helps pass the time then I’m all for it.
He licked his lips and began to whistle the thirty notes of “Pop Goes the Weasel” aloud. As he did, he looked around cautiously once again to see if anyone was noticing. Once the final note escaped Greg’s lips, all fell silent again as though nothing had disturbed the solidarity. He gave a silent laugh towards his amusement and pressed on with warm vindication.
Up ahead he could see the mausoleum near the graves of the Davidson girls. He looked to his left and noticed the tree line where he was spooked by the branch a few nights before. He began to whistle the tune for a second time, this time slightly louder than the first. His song went uninterrupted, and the satisfaction kept pouring down in droves.
Greg had just passed the mausoleum when he began his third rendition of “Pop Goes the Weasel.” This time he figured he would slow it down a bit and make it louder so all the dead he was watching could enjoy the tune with him. He started up once again as though he was whistling to the heavens themselves, he didn’t care if Jim or anyone else would hear him, in that moment he was in his own. Greg finished the first twenty-five notes without pause, but before he could sound off the last five, something else finished the song for him.
“Shooo, shooo, shoo shoo, shoooo.”
Greg froze in place as his heart sank deeper into his chest. The eeriness of the notes sounded like a noise only capable of being created by the denizens of hell. The notes were long and held out; making the atmosphere around Greg seem even grimmer than it already established itself to be. As he regained some control of his body he slowly turned his head to see the mausoleum door being pushed from the inside out.
A single figure stood in the shadows of the door frame. From the distance it looked to Greg as though it was human, perhaps one of the guys simply playing a trick on him during his shift. He gave a sigh of relief as he spoke out to the shadows.
“Jim, Crawford? Is that you? You scared me pretty good just then, even though I think it was a bit over the top.”
The figure didn’t move, nor did it respond to Greg’s calls. Greg began t squint his eyes in an attempt to get a better look at the person in the door way. But once his eyes adjusted, he began to notice that he didn’t recognize the person smothered in the darkness before him. He looked across the rest of the figures body and noticed that it was missing a pretty obvious feature. Where the figures right arm should have been resting was completely void of any structure or familiarity. And then it spoke.
“Jim?” the figure said slowly. “I haven’t, seen him in, a while.”
It spoke in long croaked sighs, as though it was short on breath while having a knot in its throat. The voice was shrill and quiet but carried far enough to create goose bumps all over Greg’s body. From the voice Greg could tell it wasn’t Jim or Ryan, it wasn’t anybody from the night crew either. Reluctantly, Greg couldn’t compare the sound to anything human. This was something else entirely.
“I, heard you, whis-tle,” the figure said. “I used to, whistle, too when I, worked here. Th-at, was before, this.”
The figure slowly stepped out from the shadows inside the mausoleum into the dim light of the moon. The picture became clear as Greg witnessed the horrifying sight that began to creep towards him. It was human at some point in the past, but now it was twisted and deformed, dead-like in nature. Its skin was a dull grey; any form of coloration was washed out leaving behind a lifeless tone. Chunks of flesh hung off the figures body in clumps revealing the faded vermillion muscle underneath. And the absence of a right arm Greg noticed earlier was now clear; where the right shoulder should have been was replaced by crimson soaked cloth tattered from his shirt. This thing used to have an arm, but it was physically torn from its socket.
Greg was paralyzed by fear, rooted to the ground where he stood being forced to watch a twisted perversion of life and death not only move, but talk to him as well. What Greg would have passed off as an elaborate prank earlier now seemed all too real, though so unreal at the same time. With eyes wide and jaw a gap, Greg could only watch in horror as the figure made its way closer and closer.
“This is, what happ-ens when, you’re left here, to rot,” the figure said. “You, don’t die… you just, sleep. They bur-ied, me here. Thought it was, a moral ob-ligat-ion towards, me. I, hate them for, this. And if, you’re working, with them…”
The figure began to slowly trudge its way towards Greg. It moved with a twitchy limp, its limbs convulsing as though the body was readjusting from a prolonged sleep. With only the path separating the two of them, Greg gained the minimal strength needed to back away from the figure. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the thing that walked before him, the horror that lied ahead. Is this how Ichabod Crane felt before he was hunted down? He would have preferred the headless horseman over whatever this thing was.
“Didn’t Craw-ford and, the others tell, you not to be, loud during the, night,” the figure continued. “They told me, while I was here, before you took, my place. They can, hear you. WE can, hear you.”
Greg suddenly ran into an object with the back of his legs and toppled over it with a thud. When he raised himself from the ground he noticed he had backed right into Clara Davidson’s headstone. It was then that Greg began to notice the ground slowly pulsate under Clara’s headstone, making him back up on his hands until he sat up against another headstone. He sat there transfixed on the shifting dirt while the figure continued to slowly make its way towards Greg’s position. He figured it couldn’t get any worse. And that was when a pestilent ridden arm broke through the ground and dragged the rest of the body up through the dirt. From Clara Davidson’s grave crawled out a sickening woman with a twisted neck and gaze of death.
“Is that, you my dear?” the woman said. “I’ve mi-issed you, so much.”
Greg’s panting had become a shrill wheezing as he tried to make rational sense of the whole situation. But his mind was too dumbfounded, and all he could utter were a few simple words.
“What are you talking about?” Greg said between successions of heavy breathing. “I don’t know you; I don’t know either of you.”
By this point the first figure was almost to Greg’s new position while the woman crawled further forward. Greg began to wonder how and why the dead could rise up and move as though life was a familiarity. But more importantly, how was that they could actually speak.
“Of course, you know me, swee-tie,” the woman continued. “You were the, only one to sur-vive the crash, that day. We were, separated, but now we’re, back together. Sydney dear, your daddy is, here. Come see him.”
Under Sydney Davidson’s grave, the ground began to convulse until two small hands clawed their way out from under the dirt, bringing with them a small girl whose jaw was hanging on one end and had a large gash down her forehead. Her speech was a choking gargle due to her jaw being half disconnected, but Greg was able to faintly make out one word amongst the gibberish.
“Daddy?” It was enough to make him scream.
He rocketed up from the ground and made his way bounded his way onto the path where the lamp post gave him some solace from the nightmare around him. All around he began to see more people rise from their graves, sick and twisted forms rising from the dirt in droves. Most of them were fresh, but others seemed to carry death with more fealty than the rest. In his panic he could see five bodies sluggishly making their way towards him while four others were not much further behind. He could see Clara Davidson dragging her body across the ground while Matt kept up right by her side. And he could see Sydney Davidson inching her way closer and closer, arms outstretched as though she wanted a hug.
He backed away from the bodies only to be intercepted by more lumbering towards him. He looked in every direction as he was cut off by dozens of reanimated dead shuffling towards him. Those who weren’t already out of their graves were pushing through the dirt with grim purpose, awakened by the most malevolent of intentions. Fiction had come to life as Greg slowly saw the bodies he was paid to watch crawl and pace their way towards him. The lions were out of their cages, and they had the gazelle cornered.
And as the mob of corpses descended upon him like a plague of locust, Greg could only manage to scream as his body was slowly torn to pieces. It was the greatest scare of his life.
Three-Thirty-Five A.M, Wednesday
Jim was a quarter of the way towards the employee building on the eastern side of the cemetery when he heard the scream echo out across the area. He jumped from the burst of sound, startled by the sudden presence of noise in the quiet surroundings of the graveyard. He looked around quickly at the graves placed on both sides of the path, but nothing moved.
Still deterred by the noise, Jim fumbled for his walkie talkie and pressed the PTT button on its side. He spoke quietly into the voice box.
“Crawford, you there? Pick up.”
A few seconds later, Crawford’s voice spoke through.
“Jim? You know we don’t really use these things while you guys are out in the field.”
“Yeah yeah, I know but did you hear that noise just a second ago?”
“I have the radio on in here so I didn’t hear anything. What was it?”
“Sounded like a scream came up from the western hill. I think Greg was over there last time I checked. I don’t know if it was him or not but it might have set off some trouble up there. I’m towards the east and nothing has happened yet.”
“Alright, I’ll call Greg’s walkie and see-”
But before Crawford could finish another scream broke out from the west shortly followed by a constant flux of bloodcurdling anguish that rang out across the field. As Jim looked in the noises direction, he assumed the worst had come to fruition.
“Oh god, no.”
Jim began to hear the ground shift all around him in dozens of different spots. He shook out of his daze and began to sprint his way down the path toward the employee building. As he ran he saw as the hands and bodies of the dead creep their way out of their eternal rest and back into the land of the living. He could see them twist and jerk their bodies like puppets on a string. But worse of all, he could hear them speak their gasps of confusion. Some cried out for loved ones, others cried out for revenge. It was more than enough reason to make Jim increase his speed and run for his life.
He ran into the employee building door with full force as it swung open against his weight. Once inside he quickly turned to slam the door behind him, furiously clasping both locks into their positions. He heaved and puffed as he looked through the small window on the upper half of the door out into the darkness with terror. He became startled when a hand from behind clasped his shoulder.
“Get away from the door,” Crawford shouted. “Did they see you come in here?”
“I, I don’t know,” Jim said trying to catch his breath. “They’re all over, Jesus Christ every fucking one of them is out there and moving.”
“Did you see Greg anywhere?”
“No I didn’t see him at all. I, I think he was the one that screamed.”
Crawford gave a sigh of disappointment at the revelation. He quickly made his way behind his desk and pulled out a double barreled shotgun with a few boxes of ammunition from underneath. As he loaded in two shells, he called out to Jim in a hurried pace.
“The only way in here is through that door. The windows will be too high for them to get through. Go around and turn off all the lights, we’ll set up in here for the night until the sun comes up.”
“What about the window on the door, don’t you think they could break through that.”
“That’s why we turn the lights off. The front gates are locked up tight, so none of them are getting out. This building is fortified enough if we just hide and keep quiet.”
Jim gave a nod and rushed around the rooms flicking every switch he could. Once every light was out, he made his way back into the darkened lounge and crouched down into a corner near Crawford. They sat in the dark for ten minutes without saying a word. Crawford kept his gun close to his chest while Jim’s mind was on overload from the nightmare that had come to life once again. Outside, the calls of the dead rang out like a riot in a city square. Had it not been for all the commotion outside, the room was quiet enough to hear a pin needle drop.
“What time is it?” Jim whispered.
Crawford pressed the background light on his watch.
“Three-Fifty-Four,” Crawford replied. “The sun should come up around five-thirty, so we just have to stay in here until then.
Jim recalled back to the first time things went to shit like this. He was on duty with Ethan and Matt when the dead came pouring out of their graves. They had held up for the night in the employee building just as they were currently doing now. Once the sun came up, the dead just mindlessly wondered back into their graves. They couldn’t give any rationality to what had happened, but they knew if anyone found out about what transpired the cemetery would be shut down for good. That was enough reason for Crawford not to speak up, but it’s not like anyone would have believed them anyway. Live undead were a hot thing in the entertainment industry right now, but having them actually walk the earth? At least they survived the first encounter. Crawford, Ethan, and he had made it out alive. But Matt was…
Just then Jim’s thoughts were interrupted by a shrill noise coming from outside the door to the building. Crawford tensed up on his gun as they both kept a pressured gaze on the door. At first the sound was long and continuous, like a gust of wind. But then it broke apart and formed rhythmic beats. From beyond the door, Jim and Crawford could hear “Pop Goes the Weasel” being whistled out in the darkness. On the final five notes, Matt’s decrepit face became clear in the window.
Both Jim and Crawford screamed at the sight before them, it was enough to draw the entire horde outside to their location.
Credit To – Mike Kane
🔔 More stories from author:
Rate this story:
Creepypasta.com is proud to accept horror fiction and true scary story submissions year-round, from both amateur and published authors. To submit your original work for consideration, please visit our story submissions page today.