Tales From Valleyview Cemetery Read online

  John Brhel & J. Sullivan

  Tales From Valleyview Cemetery

  Published by Cemetery Gates Media

  Binghamton, NY

  Copyright © 2015 by John Brhel and J. Sullivan

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission.

  ISBN: 978-1-329-71095-5

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  Cover illustration and design by Chad Wehrle

  Interior illustration “Charlie” by Chad Wehrle

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Angel Music

  Married, Buried

  Other Voices, Other Tombs

  The Caretaker

  A Matter of Course

  All Hallow’s Eve

  Knocking Back

  Out to Lunch

  Scry the Crow

  Vermin

  Dead Can Dance

  Easy Prey

  Randall's Complex

  Moira’s Homecoming

  One Foot in the Grave

  After the Game

  Pact and Principle

  Appendix A

  Appendix B

  Appendix C

  Notes

  Acknowledgments

  INTRODUCTION

  That damn cemetery. It sits there across the street, just waiting for us to croak...

  The stories in this book are meant to stand individually, as legends, chillers, and tales of terror for a reader to consume at his or her leisure. However, there are additional themes and narratives that travel from story to story, rarely sequentially, that an astute reader may patch together to obtain a bigger picture of what it means to live, work, and play in the presence of Valleyview Cemetery and its centuries-old curse.

  Valleyview is the heart and soul of Lestershire, while the curse itself predates the town and the cemetery’s formation. Each story is meant to add additional character to the land and the people it serves—sometimes dark and malicious, sometimes playful and altruistic.

  There are appendices referred to at the end of three of the stories. They can be read at the end of each tale for additional insight, or saved for future curiosity about recurring characters and motifs.

  The notes section is meant to serve as an accompaniment to the appendices, in assisting a reader who might be interested in more information about each story, from an authorial perspective.

  There is more than meets the eye in ol’ Valleyview. Dig deep enough and you’ll find horrors both unimaginable and oddly familiar. When you piece it all together, you’ll see that this cemetery is one unique resting place.

  Enjoy your visit (just make sure to leave before dark.)

  John and Joe

  October 2015

  ANGEL MUSIC

  On her walk to work one morning, Brenda Wells heard the faint sound of a pipe organ as she passed the local cemetery. She thought nothing of the music, and continued down Memorial Drive to her small office space which overlooked the river. The cemetery, like so many other local landmarks, held little to no memory for her—as she had only come to Lestershire as an adult to attend college.

  It was a warm spring morning the next time she passed the cemetery and heard the organ music. She had left her apartment early, so she had a moment to pause and listen. She thought back to her Romantic Period music class in freshman year, which was probably the last time she had really listened to Classical-era compositions.

  The music could have been Brahms, she thought. Schicksalslied was her all-time favorite orchestral piece, and she remembered some of his organ chorales distinctly, as they were tested for on the final exam. She recalled listening to some of those works dozens of times during the last week of class. As she walked, she paid close attention to the execution; even to a layperson it would be obvious the performer was exemplary.

  When she passed the main gate she saw two girls playing tag just off the entrance roadway, among a few of the taller obelisks. Brenda passed under the gate, curious about the children, who looked about eight or nine years old.

  “Hi, girls. Isn’t there school today?” She smiled at the pair as she startled them from their game. The girls turned to face her. When she saw their eyes she instinctively shuddered. Both sets were obviously cataract, a filmy white fog obscured their irises.

  “We don’t go to the public school. The kids make fun of us,” said the smaller of the two. Brenda felt sorry for the girls and remembered how terrible children could be to one another.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Brenda as the girls came over to her. “Where’s the music coming from?”

  The girls pointed toward a stone chapel that was blocked from street view by a row of bushes and pines. Strangely, the organ seemed fainter from inside the cemetery. Brenda looked at her watch and knew she had to be on her way, so she thanked the girls and left.

  The next morning as Brenda passed the cemetery, the organ was inarguably louder than the day before. She had listened to a few of her older CDs from school the previous night and was sure the organist was playing a Brahm’s piece. The girls were jumping rope just inside the cemetery gate and she went in to talk with them again.

  “How’s it going, ladies?”

  The girls stopped jumping and greeted her warmly.

  “Hello, ma’am,” said the shorter girl, her milky-white eyes looking dead in the sunlight.

  Concerned that the girls might be neglected, she asked them again about their schooling. “Do you guys go to the Catholic elementary down the road?”

  The girls paused. The delayed manner in which they reacted to her voice made Brenda think that they might both be blind.

  “We don’t go to school,” said the taller child.

  “Then who’s watching over you?” Brenda looked around. The cemetery was empty as far as she could tell; no one was visiting or cutting the grass.

  “Our angel,” the girls replied in near unison. Brenda was confused by what they meant. She thought about the organ that had been continually playing while she visited with them.

  “Who—the organ player?”

  They nodded.

  Brenda continued, “Will they be mad if I pop in and listen?” It was already 8:45. She was too curious about the situation, the girls, and the music at that point to worry about being late for work.

  “Angel loves visitors,” said the smaller child.

  Brenda smiled at the girls and walked the path to the chapel.

  As she approached the stone structure and its big wooden doors, the music seemed to increase in volume and intensity. Brenda’s pulse quickened in time with the tune. Her body was consumed by the power of the organ as she nudged one of the heavy doors open.

  She walked the main aisle, studying the dark interior of the chapel, which seemed much bigger than it had appeared from the outside. The ornate, stained-glass windows were its only light source, shining mostly on the center interior. The pews were older—a rich, dark wood—and the carpet was well-worn. She could just make out a figure seated at the organ off to the left side of the raised altar area.

  As the figure continued to play, her heart raced. A sense of foreboding arose within her, but she advanced to the front of the chapel, driven by curiosity. The figure didn’t seem to know or care that she had
entered, and she couldn’t speak up and let him know she was there due to the overwhelming power of the music.

  Brenda approached the seated figure, who seemed to be enshrouded within a black robe. When she was a few paces away the music stopped—though the organist didn’t immediately reveal himself.

  “Sorry to disturb you, your playing is beautiful and…” She froze when the hooded figure stood, turning to face her. What she saw could only be described as demonic; a leathery, burnt face with red-lit eyes.

  “Oh, my God!” Her shriek was cut short as a long, crooked knife appeared from beneath the robe and drove into her soft center. She gasped and choked on blood; a rivulet crawled down her lip and cheek as she fell to the floor of the chapel, motionless.

  Brenda slowly faded from the world of the living on that chapel floor, but before she left consciousness she saw the two girls in the frame of the open door. She watched the hooded figure walk toward them and had enough wits about her to rasp a barely audible warning.

  The demon reached in its robe as if to draw the knife—but instead revealed a puppy, handing it to one of the girls.

  “Thank you, Angel!” The girls were overjoyed at their new toy and returned to the cemetery to play. The door closed behind them and Brenda’s last vision of life was that of the approaching horror.

  MARRIED, BURIED

  "I'll be back in 20 minutes, dear," said Peter Reynolds to his wife, Maggie, as he put on his coat and stepped out of his beige ranch home for his evening walk. He walked down Memorial Drive, past the model homes of his neighbors, and stopped in front of Murphy’s Delicatessen, a big grin on his face.

  “Good evening, Shirley,” he said as he approached the thin brunette standing outside.

  “Hi, Peter,” said Shirley. She was tall and graceful, with a flattering waistline and an ass to match. She was dressed in a smart, white blouse and a pair of tight-fitting Gloria Vanderbilt jeans with a little swan on the back pocket.

  The pair walked the neighborhood together, mocking their spouses, discussing the previous night’s episode of All in the Family, laughing, flirting.

  From the kitchen window of that beige ranch up the hill, Maggie Reynolds watched her husband as she scrubbed dried-up potatoes off his dinner plate. That’s the third night this week I’ve seen him with that shrew! thought Maggie. It can’t be a coincidence. I’m no fool.

  A few houses down, looking out the front window of his baby-blue ranch, was Shirley's husband, Ted. What's that son of a bitch think he's doing? he thought as he cleaned the barrel of his pistol with a soft, yellow cloth.

  Later that night, Peter and Shirley caught hell from their spouses. Accusations were made. Fingers pointed. Someone’s face may have been slapped.

  "Why are you always walking with that guy?"

  "Are you and Shirley Elliott best buddies now? Hmmm?"

  "I don't want to see you with that asshole again, you got it?"

  "What's she got that I don't have?"

  The jig was up. It was obvious to anybody with a pulse that Peter and Shirley weren’t meeting up every night by accident—and Shirley had a black eye to prove it.

  The secret lovers decided that they would have to meet in a more secluded place from that point on. Valleyview Cemetery seemed like an odd choice, at first. Mausoleums and the constant specter of Death aren't necessarily the keys to a romantic evening, but it was private.

  A few nights later, Shirley was standing next to a grave with the name Wintermute carved into it when Peter came walking down the cemetery path.

  "I was worried you wouldn't show," said Peter, grinning. "Thought you'd be too creeped out."

  Shirley laughed. "Hey, I'll put up with ghosts and zombies if it keeps me away from Ted for an hour." Peter held out his hand and Shirley took hold of it, firmly, absolutely.

  They walked for a while before kissing against a mausoleum like foolhardy teenagers. Ted grabbed Shirley and pulled her in close. As they made out, they crossed a barrier they hadn't dared cross before. They explored new avenues of their relationship as they moved from grave to grave, tumbling and caressing on hallowed ground.

  To say that Maggie gave Peter "shit" for coming home two hours after leaving for a leisurely evening walk would be a massive understatement. She berated him, called him a good-for-nothing. Said he would never measure up as a father. She might as well have cut off his balls and mailed them to Siberia.

  Peter spent the night in his car. The next morning, he woke up with a sore neck and the stark realization that things couldn't go on this way. He was in too deep with Maggie—they had co-signed a loan for their house just nine months prior. It had to stop.

  A couple days later, after things had cooled down, Peter walked into Valleyview to break it off with Shirley. Though only nights had passed since they'd last seen each other, the cemetery seemed as if it had grown darker, the graves crowded closer together. He didn’t recall feeling this uneasy the first time they had met there, but now the place gave him the creeps.

  Shirley stood at Mr. Wintermute's grave, a broken look on her face. She gave Peter a little half-smile as he approached.

  "Hi, Peter."

  "Hi, Shirley.” Peter bit his lip and shuffled his feet on the gravel pathway. "We need to talk."

  Shirley's eyes opened wide and the moon reflected off her pupils, making them look like shimmering pools. "Peter. I know this seems crazy, but I think we could make this work. If we just—"

  "Don't." He cut her off before she could change his mind (and with eyes like those, it wouldn't take much, he thought.) "This can't go on any longer. They know, alright? We knew this would never work..."

  There was the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching and Peter felt someone suddenly grab him by the neck. Before he had time to react or see who had attacked him, he was thrown to the ground, next to a cold, hard tombstone. A few inches closer and he would have had an instant lobotomy.

  He looked up to see his neighbor, Ted Elliott, standing over him with a frenzied look in his eyes. Ted was an ass, but the worst Peter had ever seen him was the day he had run over a tree stump and broke his new lawnmower. He thought Ted was angry that day.

  Ted picked him up by the shirt collar and was about to throw him back down again, but Peter swept his leg and the two of them fell to the ground. They rolled around, trading punches, socks to the head and gut. Peter found himself on top of Ted and brought down both of his fists on his chest like he was a choking victim. Ted let out a harsh wheeze as Peter's balled-up fists connected with his body.

  Peter was about to bring his fists down for another round when a large rock struck his skull, unleashing a flurry of blood and sending him thumping to the ground. Ted looked over to see his wife, Shirley, holding the blood-soaked rock in her trembling hands. She dropped to her knees and started wailing.

  "What have I done!?" she screamed, her cries echoing throughout the cemetery. Ted walked over to her and stared, mouth agape. "I had to do it, Ted! He was going to kill you."

  She was delirious. "I know; I know it was wrong of me. It was just a fling; you hear? He didn't mean anything. It was just a fling. This little voice in my head said I had to help you, Ted. Then it was just screaming at me—I can’t explain it. And when I saw him coming down on you like that. Oh, I just couldn't take it. I love you, Ted!"

  Ted pressed the palm of his hand firmly over her mouth. "Shut up! Just shut up, right now! Do you realize what you've done?" He looked down at Peter, who lay on the ground, motionless. "You killed the good-for-nothing bastard."

  Without saying another word, he walked away. Shirley sat on the grass, her eyes frozen, staring at the body of her lover.

  Ted returned a minute later, holding a shovel he lifted from the caretaker’s shed. He walked to an overgrown, seemingly neglected corner of the cemetery and started digging. When he was done he walked back toward where Shirley knelt in the grass crying silently, his clothes covered in dirt and blood—his and Peter's.

  "Help me carr
y him," said Ted. He looked at her as if he would snap her neck if she didn't comply. They each picked up one side of Peter's body—Ted, the legs; Shirley, the head, though she strained to hold her end—and carried him over to the freshly dug hole.

  They dropped his body into the shallow grave and Ted picked the shovel back up like he was doing any other routine job in the back garden. He started to dump the dirt over Peter when Shirley jumped in and started weeping on Peter's chest.

  "Don't!" yelled Shirley. "Ted, what are we doing? This is Peter Reynolds! You used to be in the same bowling league. He helped us clean up when the basement flooded last spring. I know what I did was wrong, something hideous just took ahold of me. I'll make it up to you and the Lord — but please, we can't do this! We have to turn ourselves in. I mean, is he even dead? How do we know for sure?" She put her head to Peter’s chest.

  Ted held the shovel in his hands, gripping the handle tighter and tighter. The more Shirley cried, and the more he thought of her screwing Peter, the more he wanted to act.

  Suddenly, he felt the shovel torn from his hands and he turned to see Maggie Reynolds holding it. He hadn't ever seen her hold anything heavier than a trayful of finger foods. Shirley stood, facing her husband and former lover’s wife, resigned to their final judgment.

  "Oh, shut your trap you cheating whore," said Maggie as she whacked Shirley in the face with the shovel. Blood gushed from her open wound and she fell over, landing on top of her former lover. Shirley lay in the shallow grave, seemingly as motionless as Peter.

  Ted looked at Maggie. Without saying a word, she handed the shovel back to him and he threw dirt over the unmarked burial of Peter Reynolds and Shirley Elliott. Ted and Maggie had both noticed a slight shifting in the dirt as it accumulated, but neither spoke of it that night or any time after.