Dead Silence
Where were you last night? I waited and waited for you at the Mad Hatter Coffee House. You promised to meet me there. Look at me! I am so cold I can barely feel my body. My vision has grayed out. How can you just stand there staring at me? You promised to help me. What was so important that you had to leave me to face him alone? You miserable excuse for a friend; this is all your fault.
You were the one who came up with the dare. Remember? All of us were sitting at our regular table starting our sixth pot of coffee. The clock chimed 3:00 a.m. and I made a lame joke about the hour of death. You agreed with me and then dared us all to face the dead at this hour. If we hadn’t all been awake for more than 24 hours and high on caffeine and nerves, we would have laughed at you. Instead, Carol said it would be great source material for our writing; we should tell our adviser and make it a project.
So we did. Remember that. You started this; you could have stopped it, but you were having too much fun being the group leader for a change. Our professor acted a little uneasy about the idea, but agreed to approve a visit to the morgue at St. Mark’s Hospital. We went as a group, with you in the lead, Carol and Bill right behind you and me, trying hard to keep up. As if you cared.
I still get shivers down my spine as I remember the morgue. The air was cold and stale. I could hear the sounds of each footstep as we entered. Once inside, the smell of formaldehyde was overpowering. You, of course, were prepared; as I backed into you, caught a whiff of the vaporizing rub you had applied just under your nose. I also saw that faintly superior half-smile you wore as you waved, the lights reflecting cheerily off of the heavy gold of your men’s style class ring. Freud would have a field day with you.
There came a sound like a soul in pain. Carol screamed and fainted. Bill didn’t even try to catch her, the jerk. We all gaped at the corpse that sat up on its own. For one eternal moment, those eyes seemed to stare straight at me. Then you and the attendant laughed. I swear I could have strangled you. The attendant explained that corpses behave that way sometimes because of post-mortem bio-somethings. I admit I wasn’t paying attention. Neither was Bill; he took the opportunity to look up Carol’s miniskirt before reviving her. Don’t bother to look disgusted; I’ve seen you peek when you thought no one was watching. True writers are observant.
Well, you know what happened next. You went home, laughing all the way, no doubt, while the rest of us caught the campus cab back to our dorms. The next day, we reported to the professor and he gave us our assignments. Carol was really angry about fainting. She took her role as campus feminist very seriously. When we met a week later, without Bill, she said she was going to take the dare a step farther. She planned to go to the cemetery behind the Methodist Church at 3:00 a.m., to really get in the mood. I tried to talk her out of it, but you cheered her on. I think telling her that Gloria Steinem would have done the same thing was lowdown, even for you. I remember saying if you were so eager you should go with her, but you didn’t want “to undermine her confidence or esteem by implying that she couldn’t go by herself”. Of course, that meant I couldn’t join her either. Do you ever think about these nasty things you say, about the harm they can cause? It’s getting so that even your friends are starting to wonder about you.
I found Carol’s body at dawn. I couldn’t sleep so I took a walk around five in the morning. I decided to walk through the churchyard so that I could tell everyone I saw Carol’s footprints. Instead, I found Carol; with her eyes missing and her throat slit ear to ear like a sick parody of those smiley-face buttons people are wearing now. Part of me went numb; some detached part of myself picked up her knapsack and rifled through her belongings. I removed her tape recorder before setting the bag where I found it. I hid this evidence in my own knapsack. Why? I still don’t know.
Maybe I was afraid of getting Carol in trouble; the church is off limits after sunset. Maybe I was angry with her for being so reckless, at myself for not going along anyway, at you for cheering her on. Maybe I didn’t want justice for Carol; maybe I wanted revenge. All I do know is that I had a bad feeling about that tape and my feelings were never wrong, especially since I moved to town.
So I came to you. (I never claimed to have perfect judgment.) Your family owns the whole damned town; you have the power to make things happen. I told you everything; you said you’d listen to the tape while I called the police and told them about Carol. We could decide what to do next after we both had a chance to hear it. We did.
I was stunned. Bill murdered Carol. From the noises on that awful tape (some were completely foreign, but others I could almost guess what they were) it seemed that Carol stumbled onto Bill enacting an obscene ritual. You and I heard enough to know he had done some heavy black magic. He had killed his own girlfriend to keep her quiet and used her death to raise more arcane power. How pragmatic; waste not want not, right you slimy vulture?
The police were never going to believe this, even with proof. We would have to take care of this ourselves. You invited me to your house for the weekend, so we could plan. I knew your family was interested in the occult, but I never expected to see so many books. My parents were archaeologists who took me around the globe on digs; when I misbehaved, my punishment was four hours translating clay tablets. As I looked at the volumes written in several dead languages, I had to fight the urge to say “but I didn’t do anything wrong”. No, this punishment was not mine.
As I searched the volumes, I found references that explained why Carol’s body was drained of blood and missing eyes. There was a whole treatise on zombies; how to raise one, types of zombies, and the occult uses of animated body parts. The eyes and blood turned out to have many varied uses; Bill probably kept them in a jar (the book stated the parts had to be close at hand to be effective). I was horrified, yet I could not stop reading. Another of my feelings compelled me to keep reading, although I wished I hadn’t eaten that burger and fries.
The rest of the book was even worse. It stated that any corpse could be raised for a brief time (night was preferred) but the remains of one who in life was a practitioner of any kind could be raised as a zombie servant. It would not decompose and whatever it practiced in life would be stronger. These servants could be used as familiars, capable of holding raw power for its master’s use. There was a page missing from this section; if it was anything like the rest of the book, it could stay gone. The whole thing was disgusting. I made a mental note to call my attorney in the morning; forget a funeral; I want to be cremated. How did you manage to sit there so calmly listening to these hideous rites? I suppose you’re used to it.
Then, you went still. Your eyes lit up and your face seemed to glow. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said you were in love. You looked at me and smiled. I felt a little uneasy, but they were your friends as well as mine, so your need for revenge was understandable. You showed me an ancient passage in a Sumerian dialect that I had learned one long rebellious year. (Did you learn the passage or Sumerian that year?) It read:
O, Ancient Ones who guard the night heed my plea.
O, Ancient Ones who hide the light hear from me.
Accept this vessel for use in thy mysteries.
Condemn the flawed one before me as unworthy of thy power.
Remove thine gifts from the unworthy for all hours.
The debt is paid as serviced owed for thy favor.
The sacrifice willing, the master’s blood thine to savor.
Heed my pleas, O Ancient Ones, as one does bleed and make the bond.
Grant thy servants what is needed and thou wilt is served in the mysterious beyond.
I reached for the book to read the rest. Mother always said that Sumerians were trickier than any ten attorneys in writing contracts. I wanted revenge, but not at the cost of my immortal soul. You frowned and told me you’d read the whole thing when you were younger. You looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Bethany, I promise you that your soul isn’t going anywhere. You will keep it, no matter what.” I was ashamed for a moment. I knew you were telling the truth; few people can lie to my face.
You cut your finger. A trickle of blood emerged. You said you were willing if I was. I recited the passage as your blood drained and concentrated on an image of Bill. I thought of him walking across campus, whistling a Beatles song. Outrage heated my blood. The room grew cold and I smiled. Whatever the price, it was worth it.
We arranged to meet at the Mad Hatter and go to the churchyard from there. You were going to visit the funeral home to make sure Carol was still “resting”. You never came! I even called Carol’s family; they hadn’t seen you. Bill walked in at 2:00 a.m., still whistling. He came to our table and called the waitress to order a pot of coffee. He had the nerve to look like everything was normal, like he didn’t kill the woman he’d been sleeping with for eight months.
He gently nudged my mug and touched my hand. Suddenly, Carol’s death overwhelmed me. I buried my face in my hands and cried. Bill handed me a handkerchief. Our fingers brushed and I saw Carol’s body again. I ran to the restroom and lost at least three meals and some stomach lining. So of course, I went back out for more coffee with a deranged warlock. I kept pouring coffee, something to keep my hands occupied. Bill was speaking to me, words of comfort and condolence, but I could not hear him. I watched his lips move, wondering if the slurping sounds on the tape had been him sucking her blood.
I waited for you, you rotten coward. I drank coffee like an automaton, staring at the door until my eyes lost focus, looking for you. My eyelids itched; I needed sleep. Bill was still there, talking to the waitress, making gestures to her…. Then nothing.
Until now.
I woke up at dusk in a dark place. I don’t know where, but it felt…bad, somehow. I stumbled around until there was enough light for me to see. Then I came straight to you. I don’t know why. Heaven knows you can’t be trusted. I counted on you and you failed me. I should have gone to someone, anyone else. But I am so weary and you were easy to find.
Why are you just standing there? Why don’t you say something? You act as though I hadn’t insulted you over and over. In fact, you just look stunned. Why are we staring at each other in the dark? Don’t you care that Bill is still roaming free? He must have drugged me, or something.
Wait. I am not really speaking. My voice doesn’t work. I have had my hand over my mouth for three minutes and nothing sounded different. You are not reacting because you haven’t heard a word. Why won’t my lips move? Stop! I didn’t want my hand to go back to my side. I can’t move.
In the dim light I can see your lips move. What are you saying?
“You may speak.”
What? What is that supposed to mean? You arrogant bitch, I’ll speak all right. I’ll…I’ll…I’ll…
“What do you wish, master?” My voice.
No. Not mine, never mine again.
I know why I can’t see clearly.
You have my eyes.
Master.
Originally published at http://malautumnwood.com.
