Bloody Granite
By Jess Sentgeorge
Photo by Anna Shevchuk
Soft raindrops pelted down on the freshly upturned soil below a marbled headstone where “James Cranshaw, Loving Father and Husband” was inscribed. The undertaker, swathed in black, adjusted the lapels on his achromatic dark wool coat. He was an older gentleman, well into his fifties, with flecks of silver starting to appear in his immaculate slide rule moustache. His mirthless, coal black eyes roved over the cemetery. After thirty-seven years, the eerie aura of the boneyard had lost much of its luster.
The metallic tang of stone in the air coupled with the clean detoxifying scent of rain was permeated by the pungent smell of eucalyptus aftershave, which exuded from one of the mourners at James Cranshaw’s grave. This man appeared to be about forty, and he pulled his trench coat tighter around him as the tempo of the rain picked up. The other mourner was the grieving widow, whose face was shrouded in a thin, jet-black veil.
Several headstones away, a hook nosed, bulky, ginger-headed gravedigger named Cyrus, who had a toothpick firmly clamped in the right side of his jaws, was clearing away dead, rotting flowers from inside the grave curb of another headstone. He spoke no words, but jerked his head in greeting to the Undertaker, who returned the gesture and then swiftly turned, striding back to the hearse, the exterior of which was now slick from the falling water droplets.
Merely moments after the hearse and accompanying funeral parlor vehicle disappeared down the street and their iridescent tail lights faded, the man standing by the grave site turned, and briskly walked back to his own car. A hard gust of wind blew the branches of the massive oak tree which leaned over where Cyrus worked. The tree was planted just inside the wrought iron fence that lined the cemetery in a strict looming shadow. The paved path, which snaked through the headstones, around the massive oak tree, then branched out into the rows of gravestones, like a grotesque, scaly hand. Cyrus stood up and grasped the bucket containing the rotted flowers, and began his trek to properly dispose of the rancid plants.
The invasive scent of rot permeated the air and Cyrus gagged, covering his mouth with his arm. The smell of rancid, decaying flesh assaulted his senses. The cemetery seemed to close in on him suddenly. The serene faces of the granite angels twisted into cruel and judgmental sneers. And the head of an ancient stone gargoyle turned and bared its sharp fangs. And behind Cyrus, the soil in the grave curb that he had just plucked the rotted flowers from began to fall away, as if something were ravenously clawing its way out. The smell of death amplified, and a humanoid figure bent at the waist and sat up. The figure had clearly once been human, but was now crafted of stitched together, seeping, rotted flesh and discolored bone.
Perhaps it had once been John Crawford, the man buried below that tombstone. But now, it appeared that some kind of parasite had slithered into his partially eroded skull and seized control of the rotting body. The head of the creature turned and its sightless, milky eyes bored into Cyrus. Most of the creature’s hair was missing, but the strands that remained were greasy, curly and matted. They reached the creature’s shoulders. The creature opened its grotesque, pale, waxy lips and revealed a mess of rotted broken teeth before it let out a piercing shriek. The thing rose up and began to walk. It stomped right past Cyrus, who was paralyzed with terror. And yet, something was familiar. The swagger as the creature stomped forwards perhaps. Cyrus let out a pathetic squeak of fright and the creature turned and lumbered towards him. Cyrus was rooted to the ground, unable to move as the creature grew closer. Cyrus could make out the tattered flannel shirt it donned and its foul breath invaded his mouth. Cyrus swung his arm, the trowel clasped in his hand scored across the beast’s face. It let out a howl, and fresh blood poured down its face in a sticky crimson haze. But the creature kept advancing and Cyrus’ eyes rolled back in his skull while his unconscious body slumped to the ground.
The creature stumped into the wooded area just beyond the wrought iron fencing. A single porch light emitted a pinprick of brightness from the groundskeeper’s cabin. The cabin and supply shed housed a multitude of equipment needed for keeping the cemetery in pristine condition. The creature tromped up the creaking wooden steps. The stairs were slick with rainwater.
The creature reached out with a clammy, decaying hand. Layers of skin on the appendage had shriveled and rotted, leaving bone and blackened flesh. The door swung open under the creature’s grasp. A massive bulldog of a man, whose face resembled a squished up pig snout, sat at the table cleaning a weed whacker. He looked up as the creature approached, its milky eyes fixated on him. He tossed the weed whacker at the creature, but it batted the piece of equipment aside easily. The man lunged for the window and stuffed his head and shoulders through. But the man’s bulk exceeded the surface area of the window and he dangled, helpless and kicking, as the creature stomped towards him. He screamed as the creature sank its rancid, broken teeth into his stomach and chomped down, tearing his flesh from his body. Sanguine, copper tasting fluid poured from the wound as the creature chomped another chunk of flesh away.
Cyrus groaned, and rubbed his eyes with his beefy right hand. He yanked his hand away from his face as he realized he was still wearing his gloves. Gloves that were covered in dirt, grime, and sludge of rotted flowers. He pried his eyes open and was met with the sight of the Undertaker, whose name he had never bothered to learn, and who looked immaculate down to the hairs of his mustache. Yet there was one significant difference. He now sported a nasty cut across his face in a slash that could have only been made by a curved blade, such as the pinnacle trowel. Cyrus looked to his left and saw the tombstone of John Crawford. And beneath it, freshly upturned soil soaked in a scarlet liquid and littered with torn pieces of fabric. And for the first time in all his years at the cemetery, Cyrus read the epitaph on John Crawford’s gravestone.
“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream” – Edgar Allen Poe.
