A bunch of us waited in a haunted house.
That’s the most succinct way I can describe it. To be clearer, seven of us waited in a living room from a bygone era. Fire was the primary source of illumination. Candelabras were disseminated on piles of books and the window ledge. Flames in an open wood burning hearth gave more light and served as the only heating in mid-October.
There were cobwebs on the ceiling and a half-spent dusty decanter on a coffee table with some crackers and cheese set out. Refreshments nobody expected or wanted except for John Smith, noted idiot in a community already full of people making bad decisions.
I was a wannabe amongst them, a recent high-school grad with a romantic notion of thieves, acquired from a video game; this is the first time I’ve admitted that because it’s embarrassing.
I’ve actually never stolen anything of great value: One Swedish berry from the corner store when I was eight; a bag of chips from a party at seventeen. I got away with both surprisingly thrilling misdeeds.
Social isolation after covid and a shitty serving job motivated an excursion into the dark web where I stumbled into a nefarious and vague proposal: Graverobbers required. It was a simple request and antiquated like the house, a dilapidated Victorian tucked behind a cemetery so old there were soldiers buried there from the War of 1812.
I thought it might be role-playing at first but the messages gave real locations, an address, and a meeting time: Midnight the following week, the perfect time for those with a naive and slightly romantic notion of theft.
I kept reminding myself this could all be for fun. I mean, why would anyone rob a grave these days?
The proposal in a thief-for-hire forum also attracted idiots like John Smith; he was the only one who posted a real picture of himself and often argued with other posters over the tricks of the trade. His writing was so full of spelling errors that it was hard to take him seriously. In this room, however, he looked like the only real criminal: Big and tattooed, and one of his eyes constantly looked half shut like he’d been in a recent brawl.
The rest looked as nervous as me. We’d been admitted to the house by an older man wearing a pinstripe suit. I thought he was like a butler or bodyguard past his prime, maybe. We were received from the verandah without a greeting or introduction and delivered to the antique living room where we waited for the stroke of midnight and then waited some more.
“This is some bologna,” John Smith said into his dirty glass of mystery liquor from the decanter. It was brown; whisky, I guess.
“It’s almost 12:30,” a skinny guy with an oiled mustache said, pointing unnecessarily to the grandfather clock. He couldn’t be a real thief. Too sweaty.
A pocket door slid into the wall, and the man in the pinstripe suit appeared again. He smiled and bowed slightly, and a stale church smell drifted into the room from behind him.
“My apologies for keeping you waiting.” He entered, and everyone backed away from him as he strode to the fire and warmed his hands. For an old guy, he was big and muscular, but it wasn’t his physicality that made us give way at his approach; there was a calm detachment and authority in his bearing. Plus, he was the most handsome guy in the room.
“I am… Reed.” The pause made it seem like he’d made up the name. “You all know I’ve invited you here for a job, and you know the nature of that job, in part, is to dig up a grave in the cemetery nearby. What you don’t know, however, is that the grave contains the remains of my recently deceased daughter, Elizabeth.”
His words were spoken so rapidly, it was impossible to tell how he felt. You’d think he’d be pretty torn up. He stared into the dying fire, fingers weaved together while his index fingers rubbed the opposite knuckle.
“Your task is simple: Open her casket and secure for me a vial of her blood, a lock of her hair, and no less than three fingernail trimmings. You’ll be paid when the items are delivered.”
Nobody moved or said a word. Most had their arms crossed.
“And we get 5k?” John Smith asked. “That’s not much between seven.”
Only I was able to see the old man’s profile and the little smile he wore.
“It won’t be seven,” Reed said. “At least three of you have already decided to leave, now that you know I am not kidding, and this is not a game. If you are not committed, now would be the time to leave. Go ahead. But be quick about it.” Again with the fast talking, making those with weaker resolve wince as it overwhelmed their ability to think.
John looked around. We all did. Who would be the ones to leave? Four quietly filed from the living room, into the hall, and out into the cold.
John Smith, Mustache Sweat, and I remained.
When the front door shut quietly, Reed continued. “So it’s you three? Good.” He took a leather covered box from the mantel and passed it to me. “Inside you’ll find three vials. One for each item requested, obviously. Do you have a shovel?”
I suddenly felt like an idiot for not bringing one.
“I have one,” John said, “in my car.” The man clearly did not give a shit about being caught. Driving your own car to the crime scene seemed like the ultimate stupidity.
“Very good,” Reed said. “Please return before dawn. Her grave is clearly marked. She is the only Elizabeth in the cemetery.” He walked to the pocket door, stepped through to the adjoining dining room, and shut us out.
The three of us waited around like something else ought to happen.
“Well,” I said, “Let’s… go?”
Rather undramatically, we shuffled out onto the verandah. John Smith stomped down to the sidewalk and turned around to look up to the high windows of the Victorian. He smiled and then proceeded to laugh his ass off.
“W-what’s so funny?” Mustache Sweat asked.
John could barely speak; he was in such guffaws. “That guy thinks we’re gonna dig up his daughter for blood and hair and shit? Are you fucking kidding me?” His laughter petered out, and he wiped some drool from his mouth.
He looked at me and Mustache and his dull face became concerned. “Don’t you guys get it? We give him some hair, and blood, a toenail, and boom! Payday!” He started walking, off the curb, across the street and to the open cemetery gates.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” he repeated back. “You really want to dig up a body? News flash dummy, it’s super hard to get blood from a dead body. It isn’t flowing anymore and gravity makes it pool in the lowest portion of the corpse. Throw in some decay and boom! It leaks out of the corpse.”
“Stop saying boom,” I advised him. It annoyed me that he seemed to know something I did not. “Why would he send us for something we can’t get? Back me up, Mustache.”
Mustache frowned. “My name is Richard.”
“That your real name?” I asked him.
He stopped walking and his pale skin reddened. “No,” he lied, poorly.
I shook my head. “That can’t be true,” I said to John.
He kept walking into the cemetery, through the withered stones, and weathered names. Mustache and I jogged to catch up as he struggled up the first rolling hill with his thick body. “Blood congeals after death. Then the decay. If you freeze the body, keep it preserved, maybe. But any decent mortician sucks out all the fluid anyway. So the chances of getting blood are like…zero.”
“It’s pretty cold out,” I said. “Maybe there’s a chance?” I wanted to get paid and didn’t want to deceive our patron. If I was going to be a thief - like the one in the video game - then I’d follow a vague and sort of contradictory code of conduct. I was still working that part out.
Plus, there was something about Reed. His size and confidence were factors contributing to his overall clout but there was definitely something more. In retrospect, it was like being in water with a shark. Not that I’ve ever done that, but once, when I was like eight-years-old, I imagined that scenario in a pool and freaked myself out so bad I had to get out.
“No chance,” John said, sitting down on a big stone coffin from two centuries ago.
“So why are we in the cemetery?” I asked. “If we’re just going to trick him, I mean.”
“Because,” John said. “We need a spot to get our samples, and if he’s watching us, it’ll look like we really did it when we come walking out of the cemetery.”
There were a few problems with his reasoning, all of which I was happy to point out. First, we didn’t walk in with a shovel and would not likely walk out with one either; his car, if he had one, had not actually been in sight of Reed’s place. Second, if he thought Reed might be watching, why laugh your ass off in front of the house and then spill the entirety of the con, loudly, practically on the man’s porch? Last, we didn’t know the colour of Elizabeth’s hair.
“Shit!” John’s curses produced spouts of frosty spit air from his lips. “What are we gonna do?!” Suddenly, it was somebody else’s job to figure out a plan, and Mustache Sweat wasn’t going to step up.
“Get a shovel,” I said, “Dig her up.” Then we could get the hair and fingernails at least. “We’ll figure out the blood after.”
Mustache Sweat Richard looked like he might vomit. “I don’t want to touch a dead body.” He gestured jerkily to the cemetery in general. “Look at how old these stones are. They don’t bury people here anymore.” When neither John nor I reacted, he shook his head. “I don’t believe that man’s daughter is buried here.”
John calmed down for a second to process whether or not he should resume ranting. “Who cares?!” He made the decision fast. “How we gonna get paid?”
“Stop yelling, John,” I said. His carrying on had stirred the nightlife in the cemetery. Bridal Veil Lake has always had issues with poverty and homelessness but it’d gotten much worse in the last few years. Drugs and their captives openly used in the streets and occupied spaces you’d never think to lie down. Like a cemetery.
Rail thin shadows seemed to rise from the dead to view the morons in their midst. The cliche fog of late late night or severely early morn clung to their legs like a faithful movie prop. There were maybe a dozen empty eyes staring at us from under the shadow of a large maple tree.
Big man John did what a small man thinks big men do. “What the fuck do you want?! Money?! Fuck off!” He looked like an ape.
A shovel bounced off the ground at their feet.
They were giving us a shovel.
Why did they have a shovel?
Why give it to us?
Questions that would remain unanswered.
“Thank you!” John said. He acted like he deserved their help and didn’t hesitate to retrieve the shovel. His swagger vanished when he got to the bottom of the hill, close to the druggies. Clutching the shovel, he backed away until he was with us again. “Those aren’t junkies,” he said quietly.
“What?” I asked.
“Sh!” he snapped before turning and walking away while trying to keep his eyes on the people below. He plowed through a worn gravestone with his shin, and it snapped like chalk.
“Damn it,” I said, “watch where you’re going.”
The fact he nodded without any argument freaked me out. If they weren’t vagrants, then who were those people?
“Guys,” Mustache Sweat said. He’d walked ahead of us. I saw him looking toward the gates, and was certain he was about to flee. He’d found something else though: Elizabeth’s marker.
He didn’t look happy about it, and that was appropriate. Her chiseled name and the fact she had died was about all I could make out. The year of death or birth might have said 1800 but I couldn’t tell for sure. Also, that didn’t make any sense. Reed had said it was his daughter buried here, and that she’d died like yesterday. But Mustache was right; they didn’t bury the newly dead here.
John Smith leapt on the shovel to chop through the grass.
“Hold on,” I said. “This can’t be right.”
He didn’t stop. “The old guy said there’s only one Elizabeth. So this is it. I don’t give a crap about anything but the money, so…” The scrape of the shovel finished the thought. John began to sweat and breathe rapidly. His progress was swift like this wasn’t his first grave robbery.
I opened the leather case from Reed and found the vials packed in cloth. Nail clippers, scissors, and the biggest syringe ever made had also been included. I had to screw the needle into the plunger.
John had tired of digging and conscripted Mustache to the task. He winced with each plunge and wasn’t nearly as fast. I got impatient with him and grabbed the shovel. He gave it up without protest and sat in a patch of wet grass.
I couldn’t go much faster, and it was John who lost patience with me and took the shovel. As turd-like as he was, John was certainly the strongest of our trio. He struck the casket at no more than four feet of depth. Then his feet plunged through the rotted lid, crushing Elizabeth’s dusty chest cavity.
“For fuck’s sake!” he raged and I felt a little better because his resumed assholery meant the encounter with the cemetery people hadn’t permanently scarred his simple brain. John tried stepping out of Elizabeth but the casket was as paper thin as her, and he ended up stomping a lot of her lower body.
John climbed out and used the shovel to remove the lid remnants and fully reveal the long deceased. I held the nail clippers and scissors out to him.
“Why should I-“
I interrupted his protest. “Because you’re already covered in Elizabeth,” I said. He took both instruments and leapt back in, viciously stomping her legs.
He cut ragged strands of soiled brown hair and explained how lucky we were that she still had fingernails. “Fingernails decay slow but they still decay. We’re really lucky.” John handed Mustache the hair first.
“I feel so lucky,” Mustache said. I held open a vial and made him poke it down until I could put in the stopper. John leapt out with a handful of fingers instead of nails.
He shrugged. “Just easier.”
“Well they won’t fit into the vial,” I said. John handed me the clippers and I carefully trimmed up the nails, which fell off the fingers too easily. After placing the stopper, we stood around like idiots, wondering about the blood.
Elizabeth’s corpse looked drier than dry; no blood in there. No chance.
We knew it, but discussing a solution required the sensitivity of someone with none. Fortunately, we had John.
“Okay kid,” John said to Mustache, “roll up your sleeve.” I raised the syringe, index and middle fingers placed firmly into the steel rings on the base.
“W-why me?”
“Because you haven’t done shit yet,” John said.
I nodded, mostly because I didn’t want to get stabbed by last millennium’s needle. It was cool as shit to be holding it though. Very eldritch Lovecraft without the racism.
“Guess I have- ow! Fuck!”
I stabbed him in the bicep, figuring it’d be better if he didn’t see it coming. It was not. Retracting the blood wasn’t easy, but I got it done even with his heavy breathing leading to the verge of a panic attack.
I restored everything to the leather case and John gave me an approving nod that I didn’t need. The approval of an idiot is an insult.
John tossed down the shovel and nobody griped about re-burying Elizabeth. We got the hell out of there. The shadows beneath the tree had crept forward and their eyes shimmered like cats’.
We mounted the porch and I knocked. Just like before, Reed took us into the living room, where the fire had been built up more. I wrung my hands over the flames but they wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Very good,” Reed said without emotion. He reached for the case. John got in between us.
“Whoa, hold on there,” John said. “We need to be paid first.”
The old man retracted his hand into his back pocket smoothly and produced a fat dad wallet, stuffed with cash and business cards. He handed John his cut in cash, and John counted it out loud: $1,666.00. We were going to be stiffed on two dollars. I didn’t think John would be cool with that. Luckily, he was too stupid to notice the short. And smart enough to take the money and leave immediately.
Reed paid Mustache and I next. We gave him the leather case. I guess we were more polite because neither of us hit the bricks even though the old man said nothing and simply watched us for longer than comfort would allow.
”Your hesitation suggests curiosity,” he said. “Would you like to see what these items are for?”
“No, I-“
But he turned abruptly and made for the open pocket door. Mustache Sweat followed like Reed had guessed his feelings correctly. I could have left then. It’s a good thing I didn’t, I suppose. Maybe I’d be dead then. Maybe that would’ve been better. I followed.
Reed walked us through the dining room to a basement door and down some unfinished stairs to a dirt floor basement. There were tables and tool benches everywhere and all of it covered in white tarps. It smelled moist, which is a gross word.
Mustache blocked my way, lingering on the bottom step. Reed didn’t notice or didn’t care. He removed a tarp from one of the side benches and there lay the cold, lifeless body of a child. That was enough for me, and I would’ve run if Mustache didn’t push me down on his way out.
Reed laughed. “It’s not real,” he said. “Come, look.” I went over reluctantly and with slight hope I wasn’t seeing a child murder victim on display. “It’s wax over stone over plastic.” As if that explained anything.
The girl had no hair, no fingernails, and certainly no blood coursing through non-existent veins. She wore a black dress like Wednesday from the Addams Family. I’d say she’d been crafted to look about seven-years-of-age.
“That wasn’t your daughter in the cemetery,” I said as I continued studying the doll.
“No,” he conceded. “She is.” He meant the girl on the table. “But I required reliable people, and couldn’t think of a better way to find one.”
“A test?”
“Yes, and no. I do need these items.” Reed placed the case on the table, above the wax figure’s head. “But I’m going to need a lot more. A lot more.” He emphasized “a lot” a lot on the second repetition. “Looks like you’re the one. What do you say?”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking,” I said, creeping backwards toward the stairs. He crossed the distance fast and clutched my tiny wrists in strong, dry hands.
“We’ll see you in church this Sunday,” he said, placing the antique syringe in my hands. “You’ll know what to bring, I’m sure. Be careful on your way out.” He suddenly turned his attention back to the wax girl and the leather case. I’d been released or dismissed.
Confused and relieved, I mounted the steps and arrived in the upstairs hall to a commotion outside. Somebody yelled and somebody squawked and I had an inkling of what I might discover. I put my fingers through the steel rings and stepped onto the verandah to find my expectations realized.
John Smith stood over top of Mustache Sweat cowering on the sidewalk. There were bills at his feet, and when he glimpsed at me, Mustache took the opportunity to scurry off and begin a sprint down the road. We watched him go and it took awhile before he turned a corner and went out of sight.
“So you know how this goes,” John said. “Just give me your cut and we’re good.” He held out his palm.
“Not gonna happen.” I don’t know how I said those words because I really was scared. The man was bigger than me and seemed to know how to throw a punch.
“Then this goes,” he said, striding with confidence along the walkway to the verandah. I stabbed him in the cheek with the syringe. He fell backward and hit his head. Then he spasmed, legs kicking, until he coughed up blood and started breathing again. No, he didn’t die. I looked around for witnesses and that’s when I saw Reed in an upstairs window, him and that girl of his. She stood and lived and waved and her lips moved and I couldn’t hear her but I could tell what she said: “We’ll see you in church this Sunday.”
Then she let down some kind of mental facade, some mirage, and I saw what she was briefly. It makes little sense to define things by what they aren’t because that doesn’t tell you what they are. However, I can’t do much better than that.
She wasn’t human. She wasn’t a doll. She wasn’t living, and she wasn’t dead. She wasn’t the porcelain skin she wore and she certainly wasn’t a little girl.
There in that body dwelled an entity like no other, a homunculus housing an entity, an ancient foe my primal self recognized. I was currency to it or, at best, a traitor to bring others of my kind into its ethereal sway. If I’m being vague and dramatic it’s because I don’t have many literal words to describe what I saw.
Imagine bleached white bones twisted around a torso, under pressure from within by a darkness so complete it strangled the light. There were eyes too, eyes you could feel like a grip under your chin, forcing you to look into the abyss of its hidden self.
And that is only what it chose to reveal.
A moment later she appeared as a little girl in an old dress once more. As Reed nodded, so did she. I knew what they wanted.
I took John’s blood and left, stumbling around till early dawn, and realizing it was Sunday morning when I finally looked at my phone.
Time to get to church. Which church? Did it matter? I guess it didn’t because I picked one at random or maybe it directed my steps to the right one.
Nervous smiles under suspicious scrutiny of my messy hair and dirty clothes were my introduction to the Catholic Church. Parishioners guided me to a pew in the back. I still held the syringe but I guess my coat sleeve hid it.
Two men sat in front of me and seemed excited.
“They say he’s a Thaumaturge.”
“What’s a thauma…a tham…”
“Thaumaturge. It’s like a miracle worker or something.”
“Like a saint?”
The other man didn’t look certain. “Nah, otherwise they’d call him that, right?”
Reed arrived in his priestly raiment to conduct the service and the men stopped talking. The little girl didn’t arrive with him and she sat alone in the front row.
I’m not a catholic or religious, so I didn’t understand the rituals and didn’t bother to follow along as they stood up, sat down, and knelt to pray. I waited until he came and invited me into some kind of dressing room.
She was there, and I gave her John’s blood, which she squinted into her mouth directly from the filthy syringe. Both of them smiled at me and stared and didn’t offer a word until I tried to leave.
“We’ll see you in church next Sunday,” the girl said.
I remember nodding enthusiastically.
I go every week. I bring new blood. It can never be the same. I don’t know if this is a necessity or a preference or if there’s a difference to a monster such as this.
I prefer blood from those willing to give it. However, it’s rare to find cooperative donors. The dark web is useful in that regard. John Smith offered his blood again for fifty bucks. He’d just try to rob me or maybe he wanted revenge for stabbing him in the neck.
Plus, it already has his blood.
I know you try to help those who write to you AP Cleriot.
Would you or anyone you know help me with a sample?
It’ll only hurt a little.
We could meet at church.