A Visit

The grave was shallow so he hadn’t been digging for a long time when his shovel thumped against the top of the casket. He froze for a moment, then resumed, seeking the casket’s edges with the shovel’s blade. In the flat-wick lamplight his forehead glistened with sweat and the wide whites of his frantic eyes glowed yellow. The night was quiet and cool. A thin fog had crept through the high surrounding hills and rested over the sunken streets of the town below.

He had unearthed the whole of the casket lid and was stooped over to pull it open when he heard voices, faint but unmistakably human. 

He snatched up his lamp and drew down the wick. He pulled a derringer from his jacket pocket and peered over the lip of the grave. A hearse was being pulled through the entrance of the cemetery and up the lane by a Clydesdale. He heard its hooves clopping on the flagstones. Two men sat atop the carriage seat, one holding a lantern with an outstretched arm and the other driving the reins. He watched as the driver steered the hearse left and headed toward the opposite end of the cemetery grounds, and he tucked the derringer back into his jacket. The driver brought the gelding to a halt with a low “woah”, and the two men climbed down and unloaded a coffin out of the back. The low murmur of their voices carried across the cemetery but what they said could not be distinguished. They set the coffin on blocks, fed rope under either end and lowered it into an open hole. One of the men let slip his length of rope and the coffin crashed hard into the hole. The other man cursed at him. Arguing with each other, they retrieved the rope, climbed back into the carriage seat, and started back down the lane and out the cemetery’s entrance over which stretched a rusted iron archway.

He watched them as they drove away until the light of their lantern disappeared around the dark stand of trees which grew between the town and the cemetery. He brightened the lamp in his hand and, setting it aside, he turned his attention back to the exposed casket which he stood upon. Dropping to one knee, he took hold of the lid of the upper half and eased it open, the hinges creaking hideously, the lamplight spilling into the cavity underneath. What he saw set his heart to pounding. He dropped the casket lid and stumbled backward. The lid slammed shut, and his elbow caught the lamp, sending it tumbling into the hole. The kerosine reservoir shattered against the casket and the kerosine burst up in a blaze of sudden light and heat. He scrambled up over the lip of the grave and stomped out his flaming shoe and pant leg. Then he stood over the grave half-dazed, staring down into the fire which was now beginning to sink its teeth into the casket, the wood glaze boiling up under the bite of the flames. He shook his head as if to bring himself out of a trance, and he snatched up the shovel and began scooping wet earth back into the hole. The fire hissed in anger, then relinquished its hold on the casket and gave way to a snaking plume of smoke which drifted upward and loomed uncannily in the moonlight. After he finished replacing the dirt he started back into town, walking briskly with long strides, head down, smiling to himself in the dark.

So it’s all true, he thought to himself. Of course! How could it have been any other way? Did it really surprise you? No, no, you knew. You felt it from the beginning. But how strange! And you knew all along… Oh, that devil! Well, now you know for certain. He laughed quietly to himself and looked up at the crescent moon peeking through the low clouds.

“Now I know for certain,” he said aloud, clutching the shovel with both fists as he walked.

He hurried back to the hotel at which he had been staying for the past three days, stashing the shovel in the alley before walking through the front doors. He greeted the clerk with a big smile, who returned a look of curious terror at the general appearance of the man, and he floated up the stairs and waltzed down the hall to his room. As he slid the key into the lock, he stopped. He looked over both shoulders. The hall was poorly lit by two pitiful wall lamps, one at either end. The hotel’s frame creaked softly in the breeze. There he stood for a long time, dead still, his heart beating in his ears.

Your eyes are playing tricks on you, he thought to himself as he strained them into the shadows. Then at once he turned the doorknob, jumped into the room, and locked the door behind him. Resting against the inside of the door, he let out a sigh, and in the pitch black of the room he groped along the wall toward the dresser on top of which sat a tallow candle and matchbook. He struck a match and put it to the wick and the darkness retreated to the edges of the room. As he fell into the bed, he set the candle on the nightstand and stared up at the dimly glowing ceiling.

He awoke in the afternoon. The sun cascaded into the room through the window. The candle was a puddle of hardened grease on the nightstand. As his eyes cracked opened, sleep slowly loosening its grip on him, there came three raps at the door which jolted him upright in the bed. He was still. There was silence. 

Couldn’t be the police, he thought. Could it? Maybe they followed me. No, impossible. Yes, they could’ve followed me to the cemetery and watched from the trees, then investigated the disturbed grave after I had gone. I knew I had felt eyes on me. They should look in the box and see for themselves! I could escape through the window. Drop down to the balcony below and from there down to the street...

There came another rapping. He swung out of bed, still fully dressed, with muddy shoes and a charred pant leg, and leapt over to the peephole and peered through. The blood drained from his face. His legs became heavy. The doorknob rattled. He heard the sound of a key in the latch. He stepped back slowly, his knees all but giving way under him. The doorknob turned, the door creaked open. He stumbled over his open suitcase, scattering its contents across the floor — no clothes, only blank sheets of writing paper, a dozen or so ceremonial candlesticks, and a thick book bound in sheepskin. There in the open doorway stood a tall dark figure.

No… not me! the man screamed, and he thrust his hand into his jacket and pulled out the derringer, pressed it to his own temple, and pulled the trigger. The hammer clacked shut but no shot was fired. The charge was damp. A look of horror-filled rage came over the man's face. He threw the pistol aside and lunged for the window. The dark figure stood there in the doorway, unmoving. The man crashed through the glass. A moment later a woman screamed somewhere below.