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It was a long and chilly night, crouched in the shrubbery of the cemetery. We could have no fire or torchlight, otherwise our presence would be alerted to any foul intruders. So, swaddled in our great coats, scarves and blankets, we spied from our hiding place the quiet graveyard with only starlight for illumination.
On information from the dread-stricken caretaker, we positioned ourselves close to the freshest grave, that of a Miss Clara Smythe, interned two weeks prior after passing away at the age of eighty-nine. The caretaker had hurriedly shown us the grave before making a quick departure at sunset. Both Withers and the Professor agreed that it seemed to be relatively new graves the fiends disturbed for their terrible purposes.
The night was quiet until about one o'clock when I spied movement and heard some guttural sounds in the direction of, horror of horrors, the grave of the recently reburied corpse we had come upon so blasphemously desecrated that morning. I managed to suppress the images of hellish Ghouls as I alerted the Professor and Withers to the disturbance.
As we crept towards the sounds of scratching in the earth, whimperings and guttural growls became more apparent. In the dim starlight I made out several shapes moving close to the ground on top of the grave. Were we about to come face to face with the dreadful flesh-devouring Ghoul creatures from their hellish burrows? I felt my knees weaken as we crept, but strengthened my resolve in a determined effort not to embarrass my father once again.
When we were within six yards of the mysterious commotion, my father shone his electric torch on the night-hidden things. I gasped as his beam revealed a face of animal eyes, protruding snout and vicious fangs. But merciful reason prevailed as the beam moved to illuminate more of the shapes, and I saw that these were not unearthly Ghouls but dogs. Dogs of the fiercest, wildest kind.
At our approach all but one the beasts scampered away. The largest dog remained, facing us with bared teeth and a low growl. For a moment there was a stand-off between us and that ferocious beast. The animal's yellow eyes were entrancing and filled with hate for us. I jumped when a shot cracked through the night and the dog fell to the ground with a whimper. Withers' revolver had made short work of the canine.
As we examined the expired dog by torchlight, Withers seemed somewhat disturbed by our find. "It certainly is a powerfully built dog. It could easily be mistaken for a wolf by an uneducated eye," he mused. "Such a ferocious dog is highly irregular. To stand and face three men instead of scurrying off is quite perplexing. Resembles the behaviour attributed to the Familiars of a witch…"
"That's quite enough of that kind of talk, Mr. Withers," the Professor interjected. "The most powerful dog will always rise to lead such a pack. That is obviously the case with the specimen before us."
I silently agreed with my father, for although the dead animal was no mongrel mutt, it was plain to see it was no ghoul.
The torchlight also revealed where the dogs had dug and scratched around the grave. "The mutts obviously had a ghastly feed last night at this very spot and came back for more," my father said. "This explains the ragged wounds on the corpse, does it not, Withers?"
"Certainly, Professor. The real grave robbers sawed off their hideous bounty with some kind of specialist instrument, whilst the dogs, probably attracted by the odour, were responsible for the further mauling of the corpse."
The commotion at a close, we returned to our leafy cover to await more devious intruders, yet the rest of the evening passed without incident. We were greeted at dawn by the frenzied caretaker, leading a gaggle of locals to the cemetery gates.
"We all heard the shot last night," the caretaker said breathlessly. "We feared the worst, as everyone knows bullets be doin' no harm to Ghouls."
"Ignorant man," the Professor spat. He pointed towards the corpse of the dog. "There is your so-called 'ghoul'".
The mob of about a dozen or so gawping locals moved to where the animal lay with a mixture of fear and primitive excitement dictating their pace. As they viewed the dead animal, their disappointment at finding a mere dog was palpable, until old Aunt Lizzie piped, "'Tis a wolf! Friends, 'tis a werewolf! Werewolves haunt us now, as well as ghouls!"
As the mob shuddered and muttered at Aunt Lizzie's declaration, I glimpsed the pale face of Abigail Peters in the midst of the throng. She clutched the arm of a dishevelled older man who's regular stumbling and slurred words betrayed drunkenness, but her gaze seemed to be wholly concerned with me. In the usual scheme of things, I am not too modest to recognise a look of admiration when it is directed at me from the fairer sex, but I must say that this was not such an occasion. I will admit that the intensity of her stare did stir me somewhat, and that I did find her face and startling eyes quite handsome, yet her look conveyed more in the vein of a desperate plea rather than a romantic interest. Just what the nature of that plea was, I could not tell.
"Let us leave these fools to fan the flames of their own hysteria," the Professor said. "Our lodgings beckon, and hopefully a partially-eatable breakfast."
"Father, it may be useful for me to remain here for a while to see if anything of note arises with these troublemakers," I said, nodding towards the mob. "I will make a show of examining some of the gravestones out of historic interest, and report to you later."
"Very well, Percival. I cannot see the value of such a course of action, but frankly I'm too tired to argue." Withers smiled mysteriously at me before following the Professor back to our lodgings.
I wandered amongst the gravestones, stopping to peer now and then at the inscriptions, all the while keeping an eye on the activities of the crowd. Aunt Lizzie was lecturing her congregation on how to kill a werewolf with a wooden stake, and at one stage the man who had accompanied Abigail took the floor and in slurred tones said "that them niggers an' jews were to blame". The man was distracted in his moment of revelation, and Abigail slipped away from the throng towards where I stood. My heartbeat accelerated and I centred all my attention on the gravestone in front of me. Thus, my eyes did not see her approach, yet I could clearly hear the long grass that grew in that unkempt cemetery brush against the hem of her dress. A scent of freshly washed hair and perhaps a hint of a floral perfume wafted towards me. I sensed her halt just behind me, yet she did not immediately speak.
"A curious stone, this one," I said. "The cursive style of the inscription is unusual for one of this period."
"Are you interested in gravestones, sir?" Her voice was soft, but a degree of quiet confidence was evident in her tone. Judging by her approach, she was not as shy as she had seemed the other day.
I stood straight and turned to her. Again, I was taken by her fair, heart-shaped face and those striking eyes. "I have a passing interest in such things, but no more than that."
She glanced around the cemetery. "Once I saw a gentleman from Boston rub the engravings from some of these headstones onto paper with a piece of charcoal. When I asked him about it, he told me he collected them from far and wide across the country." She paused for a moment, and her eyes met mine again. "Do you think it strange, Mr Tyler, that someone should collect such things? That a person should wish to collect the dead, as it were."
"Morbid interests are not uncommon," I replied, thinking of my fascination with the pulpy journals of my youth. Her gaze fell to the ground, and she kicked at the earth with her boot. It seemed she was seeing how close she could touch the toe of her boot to the edge of the nearby grave without infringing on its consecrated perimeter, and I fancied it may have been some kind of superstitious game. She said something very softly under her breath.
"I didn't quite catch that, miss," I said. I thought I had heard Abigail's words quite clearly, but what I thought had heard was so strange that I wanted her to repeat it. But before she could we were interrupted by a foul cursing off the side of where we stood. We turned to see the drunken man who had accompanied Abigail had tripped over a headstone whilst stumbling towards us.
"Howdy there, young sir," he said as he limped over. "See you've met me daughter, Abigail. She's a fine girl, sir. Fine girl." He grabbed Abigail by the arm and pushed her towards me, whilst brushing the hair away from her face with his other grubby hand. Her eyes remained on the ground, and a great sadness coloured her face. I fancied this feeling was not unfamiliar to her. "She ain't promised to anyone, either. Make a young man a fine wife. Got yerself a sweetheart, sir?"
"Must be going," I said curtly. I tried to catch her sapphire eyes one last time as I moved away, but her miserable gaze remained on the ground. Ignoring her father's further appeals and offers, I left the cemetery behind me.
On return to our lodgings, I told my father that there was nothing to report from the cemetery. Laying on my bed after breakfast, I replayed those words I had heard Abigail mutter before her distasteful father had joined us. The dead have nothing to lose, but much to offer.
Copyright Clinton Green, 2006.
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