An Unexpected Treasure Hunt

“Torch?”

“Check”

“Snacks?”

“Check.”

“Tent?”

“Also check.”

The two young men perched in front of the gates of the Willowbrook cemetery shake the backpacks settled on the ground between them. The headlights of a passing car briefly illuminate the two. Frayed hoodies and worn boots.

“Alright I think we’ve got everything Tim.” Brian grins at his best-friend, gap tooth leaking shadows in the night.

Tim nods. The scar stretching around the skin on his throat grinning at Brian in the dim light. A whistling sound coming from his answering grin, right hand making a small circling thumbs up over the packs. All right.

The cemetery gate is shrouded in darkness. Shadows spilling from the void beyond.

The two men take one look at the ate, glance at the other, nod, and turn to the wall beside the gate. Tim takes a few steps back, before running for the wall and running up to wing himself over.

Brian opts instead to jump and pull himself up. Hoisting one leg up to aid in rolling over the top. “Hey, remember when this used to be hard.” The wall crumbles slightly beneath his hands as he clambers over, cement breadcrumb sticking to his palms and digging into his knees. He drops down the other side.

“Hey!”

They both freeze, blinking in the sudden beam of torchlight illuminating their faces. The security guard holding the torch huffs. Waves towards the gate and mutters “impatient buggers”.

Tim slowly crouches, surreptitiously grabbing his backpack, while Brian shifts in front of him, nudging a piece of broken cement into the shadows with his foot. 

Stalking forward till he’s inches from the two break-ins. A large ring of brass keys is shaken vigorously in their faces. “You couldn’t wait for me! Two minutes!”

“Hehe sorry Mr Sticks,” Brian throws him finger guns and a lopsided grin, “couldn’t waste any time ya know.” He quickly snatches up his backpack and slides around the guard. He follows Tim in inching around the guard and they take off running.

“You broke my wall,” there’s the dull thunk of a boot hitting cement, “again!”

*                 *                   *

The tombstones that greet the two nearer the entrance are well-tended to, made of gleaming white marble and pearled slate as is the current fashion. The torchlight bounces from stone to stone, kaleidoscope-ing around them in spider web patterns.

But the further the two go, the less often they pass shimmering marble and instead find dark slates or sandy angels waving them through.

The path breaks, an offshoot curving off to the right between two small Myrtle trees. A wonky sign poking out from the underbrush to the side, the faded inscription of ‘children’s cemetery’ weeping painted tears.

Tim bops the leaves overhead as they pass.

Brian and Tim eventually stop in front of a small gravestone in the upper left quadrant. The inscription etched into the stone reads Martin Smithson, Beloved Son and Friend, 1998-2009.

A line of action figures is tied to the grainy stone, the one on the far left’s colours have faded, leaves and moss are stuck to the plastic by spider webs. The white strands stretch halfway down the line, while the figures on the right show lesser signs of water damage and wear.

An eleven-year-old boy is sat in the dirt, clothes clean despite the dampness of the ground. The wheels on his heelie shoes reflect the moonlight and the blue of his jumper is bright despite the moon being hidden behind the clouds. A perfect copy of the first action figure is held in one hand, he tilts it this way and that in mock conversation with the others on the tombstone. Each time he moves, phantom blood on his face and side seems to briefly flicker into existence. The tombstone and ground behind him also become visible through his translucent visage.

“Heya Marty.”

He jolts and looks up. Realizing who they are, he grins and jumps to his feet. “Brian! Tim!” He flings himself forward and they both open their arms. The two men carefully watch where they place their hands, Brian’s almost streaking through Martin’s shoulder and Tim narrowly avoiding sending his through Martin’s skull. They fabric of their hoodies doesn’t depress against his ghostly weight, and if it weren’t for the burning cold and his bright appearance, the two wouldn’t have believed he was there.

The boy steps back and Brian answers his smile with an open-mouthed grin of his own. Tim tucks his torch under his arm and signs quickly, Martin nodding along and jumping up and down.

“There’s a new season of Super Rangers”

Three of them.

“Are they the same team?”

Nope, they’re dinosaur themed.

Unseen by the ghostly boy, Brian ties a new robot action figure to his tombstone. Throwing a thumbs up to Tim once his clandestine mission is complete.

Martin’s expressions of glee echo throughout the entire cemetery when he sees his new toy.

*                     *                        *

THWACK.

BANG.

CRASH.

“Take that evildoer!”

The heroes in brightly coloured suits leap around the screen of the laptop settled in front of the tent pitched next to Martin’s gravestone. The boy in question floating between the two men lying in the tent. A lantern placed to the side reflecting in the whites of their eyes.

“Having superpowers would be amazing,” Martin flips upside down, “if you could have any superpower, what would you have?”

Brian’s head drops to the ground, “I don’t knoooooowwwwww. There’s too many good powers.”

The power to make money. Or magic treasure.

“Why?”

Brian looks up at Tim and lets out a ruthful chuckle when he signs an explanation. “We’re broke Marty.”

Martin frowns and slowly floats down to sit cross-legged in front of the laptop. The credits faintly visible in the pale mirage of the ghost boy.

Money doesn’t solve everything.

“Pretty sure a magic treasure would fix everything.”

Martin jumps to his feet. “What if you did?”

“Did what?”

Martin smirks, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Had a magic treasure to fix all your problems.”

*                  *               *

Set near the back of the graveyard on top of a hill, flanked by an oak tree and an open drop on the other. The McGregor Mausoleum is a hulking mass of grey brick and gnarled carvings that would be majestic in the daylight but is creepy in the night. The stones held together more by the creepers clutching to the slabs rather than the mortar they were set with.

Martin hovers by the door, watching Brian and Tim climb the stairs up the hill.

Tim reaches the top first and leans back with his hands on his hips. He whistles a low tune and moves his right hand, open palmed, down in front of his chest before raising it in a thumbs up motion with his left supporting it. Need help?

Brian wheezes a chuckle as he climbs, hand clutching his side as he crawls the last few steps. He rolls to the side, depositing his backpack and clambering to his feet. Tapping his fingers together

Tim signs in return. Maybe if you exercised like me…

He’s cut off by Brian throwing himself into his arms, a laugh of “catch me oh strong one” his only warning. Tim pushes Brian back, rolling his eyes at Martin’s laughing. Hands fly

“Come on. There’s a hole in the roof.”

Brian kneels down and interlocks his fingers. At Tim’s unimpressed expression he exclaims, “I can handle it!” However, he doesn’t hide his strained groan when he fights to his feet, boosting the lithe male up onto the roof of the stone structure.

He takes a second to shake out his hands and jumps up to grab Tim’s outstretched hand. “Don’t drop me.” Tim hauls him up faster than Brian boosted him. “Show off.”

The hole is less of a hole and more a collapsing section of building, the long beams holding the roof having snapped in two and creating a diagonal slide into the entrance of the Mausoleum.

 Inside, the creepers have spread, creating a green carpet from the door to the stairs down. The winding staircase descends into the darkness, the rust coating the railing giving the impression of a tongue lolling from the gaping maw. Martin hovers over the gap and points down. “It’s a network of tunnels built into the hill. I heard the third one from the end in the left…no, right section has the old McGregor fortune in it.”

Brian whistles as he looks down. “Not sure that’ll hold,” he looks up at the ghost, “you sure you got your facts right”.

Martin shakes his head and says, in that tone parents use when trying to convince children their fears are unfounded, “I heard it from Lily McGregor herself. It’s in her uncle’s grave all right”.

Brian has gone pale, a sure sign of either oncoming vomit or imminent unconsciousness. Tim has an equally apprehensive look on his face, pointing down into the dark before making a slashing motion across his throat that needs no translation.

“We’re graverobbing. This is graverobbing.” The usually upbeat male’s hands are shaking violently. He stares into the darkness and his face twists in unease. “This is a bad idea. It’s just like before. I don’t want to die.” He stills when Tim places a hand on his shoulder, looking over at his friend.

You okay? We can leave. Go back to the movies. Tim pauses. Start looking for a better job tomorrow.

Brian straightens and takes a deep breath. He rubs his hands together and blows warm air on them, while he walks in small circles near the stabler side of the entrance. “You got me there, buddy.” He comes back and pats the railing; a shower of rust dust falls from the aging metal. The clang echoes down into the tomb, rising back up as an eerie moaning. “Um…should…should I go first.”

Tim wheezes and shakes his head. Patting Brian on the shoulder he points his torch down into the hole. The shadows are blasted away in the light and the previously abyss-like drop is revealed to only be three flights of windy stone stairs flanked with metal railings and lined with metal supports.  

Tim cautiously descends, carefully placing his feet as close to the wall as possible. Crouching low. A Bang suddenly echoes in the darkness, and he shoots forward, slinking down the edge of the spiral with catlike grace and borderline panic. There’s an ominous creaking as the metal protests the action after years of disuse.  He hits the bottom just as the support on the last two stairs comes loose, clattering to the ground and whacking the back of his ankles. He hisses and skitters forward before turning and frowning at the offending objects.

Brian shrinks back from the top of the stairs when Tim throws him a thumbs-up and waves him down. He shivers when Martin pats his shoulder and watches him float straight down through the stairs. “Come on, Brian!”

“They’re just stairs.” He takes one step, and another, and another. Squinting down at the stones below and the slits of light from Tim’s torch leaking between them. The air grows heavy and he stops. “Uh Martin, Tim, you both still there.” He slowly shuffles towards the centre and looks over the railing, leaning on it for support, “I think I need…”

His words cut of as the metal gives way. Brian tumbles head over heels, only stopping when he’s cut short by his dead grip on the railing, which dangles precariously from the stone. He yelps, quickly reaching up for the more stable stone step above. Aws he pulls on it, a fracture in the stone suddenly splits under the stress and it tumbles down into the dark.

Martin flits anxiously to-and-fro above him, while Tim squeaks anxiously down below. “I may be waiting for you to die so we can move on together, but not right now!” He flips head-over-heels behind Brian, scanning the stairway. “Hey, there’s a stable bit to your left.”

Brian reaches up and fumbles in the darkness, flinching when his fingers snag against unseen sharp edges. Suddenly the space is illuminated, Brian’s shadow dancing erratically on the wall.

“That’s it, grab it. Next to the broken stair piece.”

A clammy palm finds slick metal and holds fast. Knuckles white and muscles strained. Brian begins to slowly pull himself up to swing his left leg up, hooking it over the not collapsed stairs just ahead. He hisses when sliding over the sharp rusted edges to safety. Almost falling again when he is halted in his ascent by the fabric of his jumper catching on them, and then promptly ripping. The edges scouring through his t-shirt and cutting the skin beneath. Not deep enough to kill, just light scratches that only sting when the fabric rubs against them but should be treated in case of infection.

“Ha…ha…. I…” He starts coughing and rolls closer to the wall. Hurried footsteps rise up to meet him as Tim comes into view slinking along the wall, Martin close behind. “Hey buddy, almost lost me there huh.”

Tim snorts and offers a hand to pull him up. Dragging Brian into a hug when he takes the proffered hand. Patting the wall twice, he leads the way down into the darkness, Brian two steps behind. Jumping the two missing steps and turning to warn Brian, only to end up wheezing when he falls missing the gap and stumbles into the wall.

“Who are you?” A stern man with flaming hair stands behind Tim. He makes a swipe to grab Tim’s shoulder, but his hand phases straight through. He stares at it in consternation. “Oh. Of course.”

He glares at the three trespassers. “I may not be able to chase you out,” he swipes at Martin who floats too close, “but I can hinder you. And haunt you for all eternity. Why are you here?”

“Well sir, we were thinking of doing some charity work…”

Martin interrupts him excitedly, “we’re here for the treasure!”

“Why?”

Martin flounders for a moment before quietly muttering, “because their broke.”

“I didn’t hear that.”

“My friends are…broke.”

“Then they can work, like everyone else. Goodbye.”

Tim holds out a hand and the man stops, tapping his foot impatiently. What if we made a trade?

Brian snaps his fingers in agreement. “That is excellent, Tim. Mr McGregor, sir, what could we possibly do for you that would make you give up your treasure?”

The man frowns, squinting at the three friends in annoyance.  He sighs and looks about before suddenly grinning maliciously. “If you can find my missing descendent, and give them half the treasure, I will let you take it without consequences.”

“Why are they missing? Misplace them. Their name rub off their tombstone.”

“They are alive!” The ghost slaps his hand through Brian’s head, “they just moved away from Willowbrook a few generations after me.”

As one, Tim and Brian fish their phones from their pockets. Squinting into the bright illumination.

“I’ll check the library’s new archive, while you check the census.”

Forty-five minutes of fierce googling under the watchful eye of the McGregor ancestor results in Tim proudly showing off the social media page of one Soren Tate. The man in the picture is shown holding up a tux next to his wife who is aided in holding her wedding dress by three children.

Martin hangs upside down next to Tim and excitedly points to the phone as the McGregor ghost leans in to examine the photo. “Well Mister McSpooks, seems we found them.”

“They don’t have the nose.”

Tim and Brian roll their eyes in sync.

“Excuse me, but genetics evolve over time. The ancestry website is not wrong.” Brian points aggressively at the photo. “I mean, just look at the kid’s hair.”

The ghost scoffs and grumbles, hair glowing brighter. “Fine. Take it. If you can.” He fades into the darkness.

 “This way.” Martin wastes no time in zooming into the tunnel and flying straight to the end of the right branch. The two men running close behind.  Stones set into the walls mark the tombs of the McGregor family. Martin pokes his head through each one till he finds the one holding treasure, tapping it excitedly.

Tim and Brian both sigh relief and hope flooding through them.

“Score!”

No more cheap pot noodle.

“You know what Martin. I’m gonna name my future kid after you.”

The two begin to dream of what they will do with their newfound wealth. Only for their glee to be short-lived when they realise, they forgot to bring any tools with which to break the stone to get the treasure.

“It’s okay guys, we’ll just go out and come back.”

“Fine but uh, just let us rest for a bit.”

I think you need to go to the hospital.