DARK: A Creepy Collection

  Rebel that I am, I chose not to wear sunglasses or use any other methods to hide my different appearance. I refused to be another mask-wearing zombie. I am who I am, like it or not.

  But that was a choice that contributed to a lonely life.

  Stubbornly, I insisted that if I couldn’t be loved and appreciated for my own specific beauty, then they didn’t deserve to have me, anyway.

  So I became more and more isolated from the world. Sure, I got out. But I felt best right there in my apartment, with my beloved radio.

  After talking with Gavin’s Grampa, it struck me that maybe there was someone out there who could understand me. Someone who didn’t care about my appearance, who didn’t need to gaze into a pair of eyes to experience the real me.

  Someone who wouldn’t consider me a freak for seeing the universe as it really is.

  Someone I could share my special reality with.

  But how could I find such a person?

  Unfortunately, the first answer to pop into my head seemed idiotic.

  Funerals.

  If I was already considered a freak, surely an eyeless woman loitering at burials would get me labeled a downright menace.

  But it made the most sense – funerals seemed the most likely place to run into others with my abilities. When I first developed a sense of souls – in my teens – I crashed a number of funerals. I wanted to discover just what it was that I could do, figure out how and why, learn more about myself. Like a pubescent kid experimenting with her developing body, I was curious, a little ashamed, and had no one I could talk to about it.

  So I cruised the cemeteries on Saturday afternoons. I’d stand off a ways, out of sight of the mourners, and after the final stragglers wandered back to their limousines, I’d go visit with the dearly departed. I got to meet some great people that way. It was during that time that I started to prefer the company of the dead.

  I found them refreshing.

  None of them judged me or looked at me oddly. They were often confused, sometimes sad, but mostly they were just people trying to make their way in their new existence.

  But after a couple of years of graveyard get-togethers, I realized I needed to return to the land of the living. One kindly old woman who’d lived an incredible life of love, pain and sacrifice, talked me into getting on with my life.

  Her name in life had been Ada Moulson. She’d emigrated to the United States from England as a little girl, and her family had struggled hard to carve out a good life. She explained to me that I needed to make the most of my time – she convinced me to live my life.

  “You’re young – full of vibrance,” Ada had said. “I’m sure those who’ve passed away appreciate having you around – I know I do – but Dear, people who are yet to pass on could certainly use what you have to offer as well. And they can offer things to you that we – the dead – cannot.”

  So, I stopped visiting funerals, and, for a time, I made a go of it in the mortal world. But gradually, I withdrew into my own space. Disappointment after disappointment pushed me down. Before too long, I found myself listening to the radio most of the time, only leaving the apartment to buy my essentials with my disability check.

  But now, it was time to return to the cemeteries. I needed to find some friends – maybe even one special friend.

  Only this time – I’d be searching among the living.

  #

  Now that I was seeking it, it was easy to find.

  At the second funeral I attended, I vibed her.

  She was standing back, wearing a dark dress like the other grieving people in the crowd.

  Only, she wasn’t grieving.

  She was just . . . waiting.

  When everyone left, this tall, slim woman with a fuzzy, stuffy aura that made me choke a little, slowly stepped toward the grave. She leaned down, and instead of placing a flower by the headstone, her lips moved, and I heard her whisper, “Yes, that’s right – I’ve been here all along.”

  I started to walk toward her – to introduce myself – to let her know that we shared a kindred ability.

  Then I vibed him.

  The dead man she was talking to.

  He was sitting beside his own marker, gently rubbing his hand along the edge of the dark gray granite.

  He was melancholy.

  As I approached, I could perceive that the woman wasn’t really seeing him. She was just talking for her own benefit.

  “That’s right, Sterling. You may have been too clever by half, socking away all the money so can’t get to it – but I got the last laugh, didn’t I? And while you’re rotting, I’ll be figuring out how to unlock those investments. So long, sucker.”

  I stopped in my tracks.

  I was still far away, and out of her line of sight.

  With her last statement, Sterling spoke up, smiling slightly, his chin raised defiantly. “You’ll never be able to touch it, Marcia. And I hope you spend the rest of your pathetic life trying.”

  Marcia seemed to get a chill. She stood up straight, stared down at the grave with disdain, and attempted to spit on it. A brief gust of wind redirected her spittle onto her shoulder, instead. She wiped it off with her cuff, then marched off toward the parking lot without looking back.

  I waited until she had driven off before moving to the grave. The head stone simply read STERLING M. REEVES 1976 – 2012.

  “Hello, Sterling,” I said.

  “Hmm,” he said aloud to himself. “I’ve never seen her before.”

  “Sterling,” I said. “I’m not just talking to a grave, like Marcia was. I’m talking directly to you. I know you’re sitting there, beside the marker.”

  He did a double-take. “Uh – what? You can see me?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” I said, “I have no eyes. I can’t see anything – at least not as most people understand it. But I perceive you. I know you’re there. I vibe you. And, of course, I can hear you talk.”

  He stood up slowly, scratching his head. “That’s amazing. Well, what – uh – what do you want?”

  I started to answer, but all the words that came to my mouth sounded silly in my head before I spoke them.

  I came looking for other weirdoes like me?

  I was cruising the graveyard looking for a date?

  I hoped to meet someone who wasn’t revolted by my eyeless face?

  “I just wanted someone to talk to, I guess,” was what I ended up saying.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” said Sterling. “I’ve got nothing but time – and nobody else to talk to.”

  I liked Sterling already – he was soft and kind, understanding and gentle. He didn’t demand or expect anything from me. And he didn’t seem the least put off by the smooth folds of skin that stood in place my eye sockets.

  “So, how did you die?” I asked.

  “That’s always a good ice breaker,” he said.

  I laughed.

  I realized it had been a while since I’d done that.

  “Sorry – I understand that’s kind of personal,” I said.

  “So, when did you start seeing – er, I mean, vibing – dead people?”

  “When I was a teenager,” I said. I loved that he was using my terminology. No one had ever done that.

  We talked until after the sun went down, chilling the air.

  “I better go,” I said at last.

  “Will you come back tomorrow?” he asked quickly.

  I wasn’t used to being wanted. “Um, sure. I’ll come back.”

  “And bring a picnic.”

  “A picnic? Hate to break this to you, Sterling, but you don’t have a body. No more food for you.”

  He chuckled. “No, no, I won’t be hungry – but I was thinking you might be. At least, if you’re willing to spend a few hours with me.”

  A few hours. I really was wanted.

  “Thanks. Maybe I’ll do that. Well, good bye. For now.”

/>   “Bye.”

  That night, I couldn’t sleep.

  I was starting to doubt if I should return to the cemetery.

  Sterling was all the things I’d gone seeking after – a kind, funny, smart, attractive guy.

  Who actually liked me for who I am.

  But then there was that whole dead part.

  I started to think maybe I was deluding myself. Just because I could vibe Sterling, didn’t mean I was supposed to be getting too close.

  After all, what kind of future could we have together?

  I tossed and turned.

  When I finally passed out, I dreamed strange dreams of car crashes and picnics with zombies.

  #

  In the morning, I got up and made myself pretty, put together some snacks, and headed out to Memory Meadows.

  “I was worried,” said Sterling, who was pacing around his own grave. “I thought you might not come back.”

  I smiled. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

  We enjoyed a deep conversation throughout the morning and into the late afternoon. Eventually, I ran out of snacks and water, and had to leave for the day.

  I visited him daily over the next couple of weeks. He started opening up to me. He talked about his death. He told me all about Marcia – how she’d married him for his money, betrayed him, tried to steal his fortune, and eventually murdered him in cold blood.

  She was a smart one – never got caught.

  But Sterling was smarter – he had his lawyers tie up all his finances such that Marcia would never see a dime.

  Sterling was fascinating, funny, and full of life.

  For a dead guy.

  “Why in the world did you ever marry such a shallow, cruel and calculating witch?” I asked.

  Sterling rubbed his chin, shook his head. “She deceived me, plain and simple. Played me for the sentimental, romantic old fool I am, I guess. She pretended to be interested in my work, kissed up to my family. A real Academy Award winner, she was.”

  “I’m sorry. When did you start to suspect she wasn’t – wasn’t in it for love?”

  “Things started to deteriorate about a year ago. The mask started slipping from her face – more and more. Then she just seemed to give up – like she’d grown impatient. I’m not sure what she was waiting for, but she no longer wished to wait. So she went on the offensive.”

  “I take it things got ugly.”

  “You could say that. The last few months of my life, we weren’t even living in the same house. She was spending all her time trying to triangulate on the financial empire – to get herself a slice of the pie. Thing is, I think I’d have given her half of everything I’d built if she’d just go away.”

  “But she wanted it all.”

  “Yes. And I think she had grown to hate me – so she relished the thought of not just having it all, but of taking it away from me. She wanted to hurt me.”

  “And then she did.”

  Sterling just nodded, then sat in silence for a minute.

  “I’m sorry. How about a happier subject?”

  “Works for me.”

  Sterling proceeded to ask me about my family.

  “Uh, I thought we were going to move to a happy topic,” I said.

  “Oh – sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Well, it’s not like I had a horrible, abusive childhood or anything. It was just – different.”

  “Will you tell me?”

  I sighed. “Both my parents were blind. I was an only child. After I was born – like this – the doctors discouraged them from having any more children. We moved around a lot when I was growing up. My parents both died young – Dad when I was eleven, and Mom when I was thirteen. And that’s basically it.”

  “Have you ever talked to them? I mean, since they passed on?”

  “No. I’ve never vibed them.”

  I was bitter about that. I wondered why they never came to visit me. I felt a little rejected.

  Getting to know each other was good, even if the conversation was not always easy. A little later, we called it a day, and that night I longed to return to be with him again.

  #

  Over he next few visits, Sterling’s mobility improved, and we started getting out more – visiting locations off the cemetery grounds.

  We even took in a musical play downtown – the first time I’d been to a show in many years.

  I was happier than I’d ever been.

  “So, how did you make your millions?” I asked one warm afternoon, about a month after we’d met.

  I sat beside his grave on the soft grass, smelling the flowers that wafted across the breeze from the other plots. The sun made me tingle as it warmed my skin.

  Like many recently-deceased, Sterling’s mobility was very limited. We’d strolled around the cemetery together a time or two, but he was easily exhausted, and he could never seem to move very far beyond the garden gates unless he was having a very good day.

  I told him that would change with time, from what I knew about dead people.

  So for now, we stuck pretty close to his “final resting place.”

  “I was in bioengineering. My company, Reeves BioTech, pioneered a number of organ-replacement technologies. Maybe you’ve heard of us.”

  “Nope.”

  “We provided a new liver for our governor – completely synthetic.”

  “Since the old one was too marinated in alcohol?”

  “Yeah,” he laughed. “His was the high-profile case, but it paved the way for us to help a lot of everyday folk who didn’t make the news. We also developed other organs. In fact, we were working on creating a bio-cyber eye when Marcia cut my work off in my prime.”

  I caught my breath, but said nothing.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  Moments passed.

  “Do you ever – do you ever wish you had eyes?”

  “For what? I see far more than eyeballed people. My perception is light years ahead of –” I caught myself sounding very defensive, indignant. I didn’t like that tone in my voice. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “It’s all right, Brooke,” Sterling said. “I understand. In my line of work, I met a lot of people with different abilities. I talked with many who’d lost eyes, ears, hands, legs, kidneys. It’s tough to talk about, and it can be really difficult to balance satisfaction with one’s self, acceptance of the hand we’re dealt, and a yearning or striving for more.”

  “That’s not it,” I said. I brushed my palm across the bristly blades of grass. “I don’t want eyes. I mean, yes, it would be nice, I guess, to look normal, to fit in. But if I had eyes – if I could see like regular people – I’d lose this. I would lose the vision I have, which is far superior to mere sight. I’d be constrained to the mundane world of light and dark, rather than the clear world of pure truth.”

  “Peoples’ eyes deceive them all the time, it’s true. But have you ever thought that your own vision may be imperfect?”

  “What? No. I mean – no! What I see is truth.”

  “Okay,” said Sterling, “how do you see yourself?”

  I had to think about that. My self-image was not the healthiest. “I’m a thirty-five year old woman with a good heart.”

  “Okay. I agree. What else?”

  “Uh, hmm. I can cook a fine meal. Too bad for you.”

  Sterling chuckled. “Nice. Make fun of the dead guy’s inability to eat. Listen, Brooke. You are a tremendously beautiful woman. You are intelligent, kind, talented.”

  “You must really want me to make you dinner.”

  “Why are you spending your time with a dead man? You have so much to offer – you should be out there – somewhere – getting married, having kids, living life. Why do you sell yourself short?”

  “I’m – I – I don’t want to go be with other people. And they don’t want me. I just like being with you, S
terling. You accept me for who I am. You expect nothing from me. You make me happy.”

  “And you bring me joy, Brooke. I’m happier spending time with you than I ever was in life. Your insights make me think, and you make me laugh.”

  “But.”

  “But – you have to realize this won’t work. I long to reach out and touch you, to feel your skin, hold your hand. But –”

  I felt the same way. I wanted to run my fingers through his hair, and wrap my arms around his chest, bury my face in his neck.

  I wished we’d met when he was alive.

  It made me wish I was dead.

  #

  Over the next few weeks, Sterling tried to convince me to start seeing other people. For my own good. And for his – it was driving him crazy that he couldn’t hold me and kiss me.

  We both knew it couldn’t last – not like this.

  One day, late in the fall, when the leaves carpeted the cemetery, wet and cool, a low mist hung in the air as the morning sun struggled in vain to burn a hole through the moisture.

  Goosebumps covered my skin as I approached Sterling’s grave.

  It wasn’t the chill air – something else was going on.

  “Sterling?”

  “Right here.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “She was here. She came to spew her hatred, not even knowing that I am here and can hear her.”

  “Nice. I’m sorry, Sterling.”

  “Why are you speaking my dead husband’s name?”

  The voice from behind me was colder than the frost that covered the shadow behind the head stone.

  “Look out!” Sterling cried.

  I turned around just as something hard came down on my skull.

  The pain washed over and through me like a thick, fast-moving river of misery. My stomach turned. I felt the blood trickle down my face, across my empty eye sockets, over my trembling lips.

  My sense of balance – normally unwavering – slipped away from me, and I stumbled, landing on my knees in the damp grass.

  The poisonous voice of Marcia Reeves echoed in my ears.

  “I don’t know what your game is, Weirdo, but you are not going to get a piece of my money! Not! One! Dime!”

  She punctuated each word with a club to my head.

  Sterling yelled and scrambled in vain to protect me, but could do nothing, his clamoring arms passing right through Marcia.

  He was still too newly-dead to be able to have any impact on the material world.