Whispers in the Night Page 34

  What few people knew was that he’d never so much as set foot in the cemetery. Why should he? Using the cemetery’s proximity to his home as a PR ploy was clever; but the thought of walking amongst the graves, especially at night, scared the hell out of him.

  He couldn’t explain his fear; it was a primitive dread that seemed to be biologically hard-wired into him, the same way irrational fears of the dark, enclosed spaces, and the number thirteen affected some people. Was there an official, psychological term for graveyard phobia?

  An hour before midnight, after spending yet another evening meandering at his keyboard, Andrew stood beside his Range Rover. He wore a light jacket and gripped a yellow utility flashlight. In front of him lay the deep, dark forest. Beyond the woods, the cemetery awaited.

  Andrew shivered, but his chill had nothing to do with the cool March breeze that swept across the parking lot.

  A pale, full moon gazed down at him. His mind, so attuned to the ominous meanings of full moons, night-blackened forests, and graveyards, churned out a carnival of nightmarish images: hulking werewolves creeping through the forest; rotted corpses struggling out of the earth; phantoms drifting like smoke across headstones . . .

  “Okay, cut it out,” he said to himself. “Go in there, walk around for a few minutes, and come home. Save the macabre imagery for the book.”

  He exhaled. Then, heart thrumming, he entered the forest.

  Viewed from the lighted parking lot, the woods had appeared to be dark. But when Andrew actually stepped into the forest, it seemed much darker, as if light could not penetrate the area.

  He resisted his compulsion to flick on the flashlight. Artificial light would ruin the mood. The whole point of this exercise was to help him tap into the spirit of the night, if there was such a thing. He carried the flashlight for an emergency.

  What kind of emergency, Andrew? Like being chased by a headless corpse, for example?

  He shook off the absurd thought and crept through the undergrowth, grass crunching beneath his boots. Leaves brushed his face, and twigs probed him like fingers, the darkness alive with the sounds of nocturnal creatures.

  The cemetery lay ahead, bathed in soft moonlight and shrouded in mist.

  As he stepped out of the woods, a length of barbed wire snagged his jeans.

  “Shit.” Stepping back, he tore the denim loose from the wire. There goes a pair of good jeans. He noticed, concealed in the shrubbery at the edge of the forest, a low, barbed-wire fence that seemed to run the entire length of the woods on this side. Was it there to keep the forest-dwelling creatures out of the cemetery? Or . . . was it there to keep something in the graveyard out of the forest and the world beyond?

  He laughed at himself. Danita had been right. This little jaunt was filling his head with all kinds of strange ideas.

  He leapt over the fence and into the cemetery. Fog enveloped the area. He noted, on his left, a huge mound of dirt, like a man-made hill. Ahead, he saw countless graves, most marked by footstones on which stood metallic tubes filled with sprays of flowers. The funeral home lay in the distance, barely visible through the mist.

  Silence had cloaked the night. He could hear his heart pounding.

  “All right,” he said to himself. “Walk around for a few, soak up some atmosphere, then go home. That’s all I need to do.”

  He started forward. The churning fog seemed to thicken around him as he moved. He was tempted to turn on the flashlight, but he decided against it. Certainly, a caretaker patrolled the grounds at night. A light shining in the darkness would be a dead giveaway. He could imagine how he’d explain why he was there. “Well, I’m a horror writer, mister. I came here seeking inspiration for my novel. My name is Andrew Graves. Graves is roaming the graveyard, you know? Pretty funny, huh—”

  Wrapped in mist and his own thoughts, Andrew didn’t see the dark pit yawning in front of him. He walked into emptiness and fell, screaming—all the way to the bottom of a freshly dug grave.

  “Hey, are you okay down there?”

  Lying on his side on the hard, damp earth, his head spinning, Andrew thought he was hearing things. It was a young woman’s voice—soft, musical, soothing. Like something out of a dream.

  “Hello?” she called again. “If you’re conscious, please say something.”

  “I’m here,” he said, shakily. He sat up, winced as pain bolted through his shoulder. He didn’t think he had broken any bones, and though his shoulder ached, he knew that it wasn’t dislocated. He’d dislocated his shoulder when playing high school football, and this pain was not nearly as bad as that had been.

  He looked up. The woman’s face, a featureless black oval, peered down at him.

  “Can you stand?” she asked. “Give me your hands and I’ll help you climb out of there.”

  “Okay.” Who was this woman? The caretaker?

  He stuffed the flashlight into his jacket pocket and struggled to his feet. The hole was six feet deep; the top a couple of inches above his head.

  The woman’s hands seemed to float toward him through the mist, as if they belonged to a disembodied spirit. His heart stalled . . . and when he moved closer, he saw, clearly, that her hands were ordinary flesh. His imagination was running away with him.

  He grasped her hands—her soft, warm skin sending an unexpected thrill through him—and she pulled him up. He worried that he’d be too heavy for her, but she tugged him upward with ease.

  She was a few inches shorter than him, slender, wrapped in a knee-length, silvery jacket. Her dark hair flowed to her shoulders. In the darkness, he couldn’t see much of her face.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I don’t know how I fell in there. I guess I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

  She shook a cigarette out of a pack and struck a match. When she brought the flame near her face, his breath caught in his throat.

  She was absolutely gorgeous. She looked like a black porcelian doll, her features too perfect to be real.

  Maybe she’s not real. Maybe I hit my head when I fell and I’m really lying in the grave unconscious, dreaming up all of this.

  Seemingly unaware of his admiration, no doubt accustomed to causing hearts to stutter, the woman slowly took a draw from her cigarette. “I wasn’t going to ask you how you fell in there. I was going to ask you what you’re doing here.”

  “Why?” he asked. “Do you work here? Are you going to throw me out?”

  She laughed—a low, throaty chuckle. “I asked first.”

  “So you did,” he said. He motioned behind him. “I live in a condo near here. I’m a writer and . . . uh, well, I guess I was looking for some inspiration.”

  “Why would you of all people need to visit a cemetery for inspiration? Andrew Graves, the most exciting new horror writer of the decade?”

  She laughed at the surprise on his face, and then took his hand.

  “Come with me, sweetie,” she said. “We’ve got some things to talk about.”

  Okay, this could be the plotline for a story, he thought. A horror writer crippled with writer’s block wanders into a nearby graveyard seeking inspiration. He foolishly walks into an empty grave, and is rescued by a beautiful woman who thinks he’s brilliant.

  But then what happens?

  Feeling like a hapless character in one of his own tales, Andrew followed her.

  A dozen yards away, a black granite sarcophagus stood about six feet high. The woman climbed on top and invited him to join her. There, as if in the midst of a picnic, she’d spread a blanket on which stood a bottle of Merlot, a wine glass, a leather-bound notebook, and a shiny Waterford pen.

  Her name was Alexandria, and she didn’t work at the cemetery. She was a writer, she said, and the solitude of a graveyard, at night, stimulated her creativity.

  Andrew realized that many writers were eccentric, but he had never heard of a writer regarding a cemetery as the ideal place in which to write. It was strange as hell.

  He would’ve made up an excu
se to leave, but he stayed for three reasons: one, she claimed to be a huge fan of his, and he needed an ego boost. Two—he felt an instant and profound chemistry with her that had nothing to do with her good looks. Three—well, she was heart-achingly beautiful. He made his living with words, and he could not describe the startling impact her beauty had on him. Although he loved his girlfriend, when he looked at Alexandria he found it hard to remember what Danita even looked like.

  He’d never been under a magic spell, but it must feel exactly like this.

  “I’ve read your novel three times,” Alexandria said. “You’re so talented, amazingly so. Why would you need to come here for inspiration? That sort of thing is reserved for amateurs like me.” She laughed, took another drag of her cigarette.

  Ordinarily, he didn’t like to be around smoke, but her smoking didn’t bother him. In a way, it added to her appeal, as though she were a film star from decades ago when famous actresses smoked and it was considered glamorous, sexy. Alexandria had an air of grace and sophistication that recalled those fabled silver screen goddesses.

  And she’d read his book three times! Now, that was flattering—after completing the book, he hadn’t wanted to read it even once.

  “The first novel came very easily,” he said. “Maybe too easily. I got spoiled. Writing this second book is like being thrown in a tub of cold water—having to face the reality that writing isn’t always easy. It’s work.”

  “You’re damn right it’s work.” She tapped her leather-bound notebook. “I’ve been working on this novel for two years, and I’m nowhere near done.”

  “What’s the title?” he said.

  “A Midnight Haunting,” she said. “It’s a ghost story, and a love story, all wrapped up into one wondrous, Gothic tale.”

  “Sounds interesting. I’d like to read it when you finish.”

  “If I ever finish. When I’m most frustrated with it, I think of hiring a ghostwriter to complete it for me. I simply want to be done with it! But I doubt I could ever do that. A ghostwriter would have to be completely filled with my spirit to do any justice to the story. Know what I mean?”

  “Definitely. Our work can be so close to us, so personal, that we have to write it ourselves.”

  Her eyes were dreamy, her voice a whisper. “My only wish is to complete the novel before I die—and if I die before I’m done, then I’d want to have my ghostwriter finish the tale. But I like to think that I have a full life ahead of me, and that I have plenty of time. I don’t have a real deadline like you have.”

  When she saw him frown, she giggled and said, “Oh, sorry. I’m sure you didn’t want to be reminded.”

  “That’s okay.” He sighed, looking around. Although fog rolled across the gravestones, and the night was as dark as ever, the graveyard did not seem quite as forbidding as before. “You know, I’ve never hung out at a cemetery. How long do you usually stay here?”

  “Until I’m ready to leave.” She refilled her wineglass. “I didn’t bring another glass since I wasn’t expecting company. Would you like some?”

  “Sure.” She was a relative stranger to him, and here they were drinking from the same glass. He and Danita had not drunk out of the same cup until after they had been dating for a month, at least.

  He sipped the wine. It was dry, yet smooth. Delicious warmth spread across his chest. As he reeled in the drink’s potency, Alexandria unloosened the belt straps of her jacket and shrugged out of the garment.

  Andrew almost dropped the glass.

  She wore a black lace slip that barely reached past the top of her thighs. Her cleavage swelled out, adorned with a tiny silver crucifix that glittered in the moonlight.

  Although the night was cool, probably fifty degrees, Alexandria raised her head to the sky and stretched languorously, as though luxuriating in the moon rays.

  “I love night in the cemetery,” she said. “To be here with you, my favorite writer, in my special place, is like a dream.”

  “Is there a caretaker here?” he said. “Someone who might . . . see us?”

  “You don’t need to worry,” she said. “It’s only us, and the dead.” She laughed.

  He laughed, too, much harder and longer than he should have. He felt drunk—intoxicated by the wine and by this bizarre, fabulous woman.

  They talked long into the night about books, movies, traveling, their families, and countless other subjects. She was fiercely intelligent and shared deep insights that challenged him, moved him. She laughed at his dry wit, and she amused him with her comedic timing.

  When their conversation finally dipped into a lull, Alexandria slid closer, pressed her body against his. She took the wine from him and ran her tongue across where his lips had touched the glass.

  “You inspire me,” she whispered. She placed her hand against his thigh, squeezed. “I want to be your inspiration, too, my brilliant writer.”

  He closed his hand over hers, brought her slender fingers to his lips, and kissed them.

  “You already are,” he said.

  Sometime later that night—Andrew had lost all track of time—he made his way back home. He stumbled through the door, exhausted, yet excited, his nerves jangling. What an incredible night. It had been beyond anything within his ability to imagine.

  Now he needed to write. He had to write. This very minute.

  Trembling, he raced to his office and switched on the computer. It began to go through its boot-up cycle. He drummed the desk impatiently.

  This wasn’t right. He couldn’t do this on a machine. That was the problem with this book. It demanded to be handwritten—a purer method of writing.

  He found a spiral notebook in the desk drawer.

  His Mont Blanc pen, which Danita had given him as a Christmas gift, was in a case on his desk.

  With paper and pen in hand, he rushed to the glass dinette table. He uncapped the pen and tore open the notebook.

  He wrote nonstop until dawn.

  “Drew, you look like you need some rest,” Danita said. “Your eyes are bloodshot.”

  They were at Danita’s town house, reclining on the living room sofa. They’d ordered a pizza and were watching a movie; some sappy chick flick that Danita had insisted on renting. Although Andrew’s eyes were on the screen, he saw only mental images of the story he was writing—and breathtaking visions of Alexandria.

  Danita tapped his shoulder. “Did you hear me? You’ve been zoning out all evening. Are you okay?”

  He glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty. He had a date that evening. At midnight. In the cemetery.

  “Drew!”

  He looked at Danita. “What?”

  “What’s wrong with you? You aren’t yourself.”

  “The book is coming to me. Finally. I was up all night, spent most of the day on it, too. I don’t even remember whether I slept or not. The book is blocking out everything.” Everything except Alexandria, that is.

  “I see,” she said carefully. “So, did you take my advice and visit the cemetery?”

  “Not yet.” He looked away. The cemetery would remain his secret. “The book hit me last night and has been flowing ever since. I’ve never felt a flow like this. This is unreal.”

  “Hmm.” Her eyes held a trace of suspicion, and then she sighed, her suspicion giving way to resignation. “This is what I get for dating a writer. Occasional weird moods and temporary obsession. But I love you anyway.” She leaned forward and kissed him.

  He quickly broke off the kiss and stood up. “Danita, I’ve gotta go.”

  “To write?”

  He nodded fervently. “It’s taking me over, calling to me. I don’t know how else to explain it. I’m . . . under a spell.”

  “I won’t pretend that I understand, Drew,” she said. “Because I don’t. But go handle your business.”

  Driving back to his home, he swung into the parking lot of Tom’s Beverage Depot. He bought five bottles of Merlot—the same French label he and Alexandria had shared.

&n
bsp; He also bought a carton of Newport cigarettes. Her favorite.

  At midnight, they found each other at their special meeting place: the empty grave he had fallen into the first night they met.

  “I missed you,” Alexandria said, pulling him into her embrace. He wound his fingers through her silky hair. He could hold her forever. He never wanted to leave her. She inspired him. She excited him. She understood him. She loved him.

  Before meeting Alexandria, if anyone had asked him whether it was possible to fall in love within minutes of meeting someone, he would’ve called that person a hopelessly romantic fool.

  Now he knew better.

  Wrapped in each other’s arms, they went to their spot on the big granite tomb.

  Later, when he returned home, his creative batteries more powerfully charged than ever, he scribbled in his notebook for twelve hours straight.

  For five consecutive days, the book was Andrew’s world, and Alexandria was his sun.

  They met each night at midnight, always in the cemetery, always at the same location. Once they embraced, time spun out like spools of thread, became meaningless. They drank wine, talked, made love, drank wine, talked, made love . . .

  Within five days, he had filled the notebook’s five hundred pages with words. The novel was done.

  He couldn’t wait to tell Alexandria.

  A few minutes before midnight, he dashed out of his condo and into the woods. He followed the path that he had created during his previous trips, and then jumped over the barbed-wire fence and wandered into the cemetery.

  It was midnight when he arrived at the grave, their meeting spot. But Alexandria wasn’t there. Odd. She was always on time.