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The Protest of Emmanuel Jenkins
A Guest Quarters Story
by
Jason Muller
 Bells rang from the church tower, marking high-noon. The day was gray, the breeze briskly cold, and there I stood in the aged and dank cemetery, surrounded by centuries of death and burial, about to engage in a task that entailed unthinkable events. Although I have worked in a host of cemeteries over the past two years, the strangeness of this event exceeded my anticipation. But I can say now that I am more acutely aware of all things sinister, and never again will I regard the cold stillness of old and forgotten tombs with the same eyes.
St. John's Cathedral towered over the bone-yard which rested peacefully at its rear. It stood in the town of Sheyville—a fishing community in south Louisiana—and was a fine display composed of quaint features: glass of Germanic origin flanked the length of the structure on each side; the red brick used in construction was of the finest quality and had been set by diligent hands during the Civil War. Resting atop the rounded pinnacle of the cathedral's foremost tower was a weathervane characterized by a sharp protruding tip. This fixture had been passed down from the original Acadians, whose queer and unnatural history extends deeper than even the most treacherous of Louisiana's marshes, in which grow looming cypress trees adorned with the curled mystery of Spanish moss.
Always had I managed to become captivated and consumed by the immensity of this religious structure; so much to the point that I would often get lost in some dazed fantasy while working among the graves, soiled and weary, hands blistered from shoveling fresh earth for the freshly deceased. It was here, inside the parameters of black iron gates, wrought over a century ago, where terrible things waited and my fears were stretched immensely. The bell's metallic hum faded to silence, and all that I had ever known was soon to be forever changed.
I accompanied the mortician, Francis Speights, who, in addition to embalming the dead, labored with me in cemetery work. He, too, was my overseer and dubious friend, and together we had experienced much as gravediggers. He was a big man, tall and husky, eyes the color of dirty ice. Together we ascended the stone steps leading to a small house at the rear of the church, where inside resided the old groundskeeper, John Nimm, who had strictly managed the cemetery for quite some time. I held great pity for this man, whose fingers had never taken a ring from a woman. His pale, ashy, and cracked hands were a testament to his insufferable life. He couldn't have been more than the age of sixty-five, though by judging the deep wrinkles on his face and the thin white hair upon his head, he seemed to possess an aspect wholly parallel to the walking dead.
On more than one occasion I had observed him watching us, peeking through the contorted rows of headstones, and I do say that the sneaking slither of his eyes frightened me tremendously. Nevertheless, into his office we entered, and upon his office wall was a browned and brittle map stretching several feet across, depicting—by numbered rows—the several avenues within the vast cemetery. On the map, Mr. Nimm located the area we sought: the tomb of Emmanuel Jenkins. After acquiring this information, as well as the key required to unlock the vault, Francis and I left the office and reentered the cemetery to locate the tomb.
Dead grass and brittle leaves crunched beneath my steps. Names and dates of birth and death, engraved on moss-coated headstones, spoke the lives of the entombed dead. It was unknown at the time whether or not the exhumation that lay ahead would be gruesome; nevertheless, it was difficult to imagine a task of this kind being anything less, regardless of the stage at which death, in its progressive ferocity, was laboriously decomposing the remains. It had been years since Emmanuel Jenkins surrendered to death and was placed at eternal rest. I wondered if death had completed the most repugnant of its duties; by this time decomposition should have reduced his body to a pile of brittle and scattered bones. This thought calmed me slightly and soon I experienced a slight shiver of optimism, but my companion, whose demeanor had always been strange, seemed to dwell in some peculiar exhilaration. Walking a few feet in front of me, Francis stopped, turned, and motioned me down a stark alley of tombs, among which stood the one belonging to this Jenkins fellow.
Unlike me, Francis had been steeled by late hours of embalming the dead, by extensive exposure to victims of vile murder, and by grisly sights of violent, untimely death. At times I wondered if his profession had drained his sanity. Surely it must have, what with his odd character, which was seldom inclined to behave seriously or even appropriately, even to the most lurid situations. Rather it was more likely that Francis Speights would act childishly crude and unfit to uphold the ethical expectations of a mortician. The day of which I speak was no exception, however, since his demeanor was unpredictable and his actions bizarre; he had always acknowledged my fear and apprehension in the most spiteful ways. I had accomplished much in the cemetery, true, though never had I engaged in anything quite as gruesome as exhuming the dead. Regardless of the apprehension that gripped me, we approached the stone steps of the vault. Across the oblong marble top was the deeply carved name: JENKINS.
Cold wind whistled through the branches of pines, carrying upon its invisible contours the scent of sap and verdant needle. Mr. John, with his withered features and sorrow filled life, stood in the distance near the cathedral, watching to see that we upheld the tedious rules of cemetery etiquette. Weather and time had smoothed the surface of the marble door which sealed the vault, making it difficult to read the inscription. Upon further effort to ascertain the words, which were inscribed long ago, I realized that our effort was in vain, for the years had dissolved the marble to a point which no longer recognized he who was once memorialized on it. We could both see where the words once had depth and strong legibility; light gray marks that felt smooth to the fingers, but failed to offer even a Braille-like letter or impression. Knowing that old Mr. John was watching us from afar, we both turned to him with a finger pointed at the tomb, as if to ask if we were at the correct location. Through our tacit communication, he nodded and pointed in our direction, affirming that it was indeed the resting place of Emmanuel Jenkins. Satisfied with the verification, we gathered our tools. Although these tools would aid us in the infiltration of Jenkins' tomb, they would fail to aid me in the events that followed. I anxiously looked around—back and forth, left and right, the tombs, the church, the distant field where ripened wheat swayed—in a way as I imagine an accomplice to crime would while aiding in some terrible offense. Although we were not involved in a crime of any kind (Francis being a mortician provided us with the proper documentation) and though we had approval from the church as well as from the distant relative for whom we were exhuming the body, I nevertheless felt as if we were intruding upon something sacred, something that was better left untouched and unopened.
It was earlier that morning, while at our company shop, Sheyville Memorial, when I had first learned of the exhumation we would perform. Curiosity forced me to question the legitimacy of exhuming a body, for never had I heard of such a foul task being undertaken. Francis was quite succinct with his reply: we were to remove the remains of Emmanuel Jenkins for a relative who wanted them buried in a remote town—forty miles north of Sheyville. Before leaving for the cemetery, Francis informed me that our job would require two days: one to remove the body and one to deliver it to its new location. He grinned with strange delight as he spoke, always seeming to derive some perverse pleasure in ill-related things.
But now, as my frantic eyes scanned the surrounding cemetery, Francis struck delicately with a hammer and chisel, carefully cracking the mildew-darkened mortar of the marble door that sealed the accursed tomb. Also required was the key to unlock the old and oxidized padlock that, over time, had become encrusted with green patina. After breaking away the mortar from the door, Francis inserted the key and struggled with the unrelenting lock, but after some time the lock surrendered, and the marble door slipped in place, freeing it from its locked and mortared bounds.
The door was indeed formidable as it was fortified by a stone-strong width of about three feet, and height of about four, enough for any reasonably-sized man to traverse. After a brief struggle requiring considerable strength and intricate maneuvering, Francis and I were able to open the door; its rusty hinges cried out radically upon being freed from its arthritic permanence.
A dry and acrid odor aired from the once long-sealed tomb, clenching my nostrils and the back of my throat with rancid intent. If ever, during this task, I had felt like a perpetrator it was then. As before, I nervously looked around to see if the eyes of onlookers were peering scornfully onto our sordid undertaking. There was no one other than preoccupied school-children playing in the school-yard adjacent to the church and cemetery, interested in nothing more than childish games; but as soon as my eyes returned to the dark opening of the tomb, and though they were soon transfixed by the unknown aura of what lay within, my peripheral vision alerted me to something at my rear, and immediately I knew that inquisitive eyes were upon us. His gaze chilled me greater than before. Watching through the half-open curtain of his office window, I could make out the curious eyes of Mr. Nimm staring in our direction.
The thought of disinterring the remains of this... Emmanuel Jenkins, a man whom I had never known in life, was a thought that I both loathed and derived mysterious intrigue. I began to exhibit an escalating sense of morbid curiosity. Never before had I disturbed the dead while they rested in spectral sleep, but Francis had; it was obvious in the display of his now uplifted demeanor. With a smile stretching wickedly across his face, he pointed, referring to the bodies that lay within. He easily sensed my fear of the unknown and played on this damning attribute of mine.
Among the misshapen, rotting caskets—some metal, some wood—resting on shelves within the tombs, we identified the one we sought. Our flashlights revealed thin mats of detritus and various insectile parts which lay amongst thick and sticky pools of some dark, strange substance, which apparently had seeped from a few of the caskets. Atop Emmanuel Jenkins' casket—old, metal and thoroughly rusted—a thoughtful arrangement of boutonničres had once been placed, the only evidence being a rusted needle through a tough and shriveled stem of what once was a flower. As we slid the casket from the shelf, Metal shrieked against the stone shelf as we slid the casket from its place. Loose fragments of rusted debris and thick dust scattered in a trail as we removed it from its resting place. While holding the casket's handles on either side, fearing the bottom would yield to collapse, we quickly exited the tomb, descended the stone steps, and placed the crumbling casket in an ill-lit alley running alongside the tomb. Here, shielded between rows of ancient graves, we were beyond the sight of unwanted spectators. From our pile of tools, Francis retrieved a long, iron bar to force the opening of the casket, for its locking mechanism had been seized by decades of corrosion.
With profound and copious repeat, he thrust the bar into the lock and hinges and anywhere else his aimless vigor landed those blows; he had the look of a madman exercising limitless maniacal impulses. All I could do was stand there in bewilderment as those violent blows furiously echoed throughout the cemetery. I hardly shuttered when Francis threw open the casket lid, revealing that lurid specimen grinning at me from his dank and rusty bed. But it wasn't long before I realized exactly what I was looking at—I could not avert my eyes. Regardless of my hardened perception, which resulted from my vocation as a gravedigger, I felt as though my eyes had been magnetically invited to relish this sight. Then, just as my eyes were zooming in to scrutinize the grotesque corpse, an abrupt ringing sound severed my attention, dislodging me from my trance. I looked up, followed that sound, and realized it was only the school-bell beyond summoning the school-children back to class. I then glanced behind me, toward the cathedral, and feared not that John Nimm was watching us from under a large oak tree standing outside his office. Averting my eyes from Nimm and back to the body, I stared with profound intensity.
Never before had my eyes rested upon a sight of such rich and remarkable repugnance, though it roused my interest in some peculiar way— before me laid the decomposed body of Emmanuel Jenkins. It was then, without forewarning, that a sudden influx of curiosity bombarded my emotions and set my mind ablaze with unprecedented thoughts.
Who was this man during the years when blood flowed through his veins and thoughts processed through his cerebral channels? Was he a man who had been loved by friends and family, who had served some role of importance during his life? Was he a man who had made love to a woman; a man whose mouth once uttered kind and caring words; a mouth whose lips once delicately embraced the tenderness of a woman's lips; a mouth whose tongue playfully brushed atop the nipple of a woman's breast and all other sensuous and tempting aspects of a woman's body? My mind was teeming with these inquisitions.
What astonished me most, besides the putrid odor, was the effort involved in correlating these surreal and inviting thoughts with the dead man before me. His mouth was fully agape, as if grinning mockingly, which is hardly a sight worth a woman's consideration. The flesh remaining was grotesquely thin and dry, yet to my eyes appeared soft and slick in texture. His festering cheeks were outlined with gray, soggy flesh. The corners of his mouth were blistered and oozed not blood but some horrible fluid that I hesitate to recall. His once soft and cozy casket, which long ago had certainly been picked out for him with great care, was soiled and rank; his once warm and impeccable attire— a quaint black suit with prim uplifted collars—was stiff with rot and decay. The years had yielded terrible assault to this man, and having already endured decades of relentless decomposition, he was to be further violated. Although I was reluctant to have any part in this ordeal, I proceeded with the job, but with great trepidation. The whole situation nauseated me.
We each put on a set of rubber gloves. After preparing a body bag for Mr. Jenkins, we worked carefully in removing his misshapen and moldy corpse from his rusty carriage. I was astonished at how light and listless the body was; it hardly shifted as we moved it, for it was bone stiff. After placing the stiff into the bag, Francis kicked the casket lid closed and pointed to the bag.
"There's your body", he said, insinuating that I had been afraid of a lifeless and rotten body. "There's your body", he repeated with a sense of relief. "That wasn't too bad now, was it?"
I said nothing.
Turning to the open bag where Emmanuel peeked out with a grin, Francis removed his gloves, placed his hands on his hips, and leaned down to speak to the defenseless corpse.
"That wasn't too bad—was it, Mr. Jenkins?" He then reached down into the bag, grabbed Mr. Jenkins decrepit hand, and shook it vigorously with his bare hand.
"It was nice doing business with you, Mr. Jenkins. We're gonna go ahead and load you up in the back of our trailer here. You're gonna come on a little ride with us and sleep over at our shop tonight, my friend." He looked at the casket and frowned dramatically, shook his head. "I'm sorry that we had to destroy your casket ol' buddy, but that's okay, see—your relative has picked another out for you, a wooden one. I hope you like wood...oh I forgot...you're dead, you won't mind."
I had little respect for Francis. This was precisely the reason why our friendship was dubious. Always did he mock the dead and pervert what little dignity adhered to their memory. I noticed that Francis took interest in a gold ring around an emaciated finger of Mr. Jenkins, and as he proceeded to remove it from the frail finger, I was eager to intervene with force— and so I did. After pushing him away from the corpse, I challenged Francis' outlandish behavior, demanding him to explain why he dared to rob the dead. A look into his eyes revealed no sign of remorse, and whether or not my intervention prompted his decision to stop, he did, but still he remained surly. After loading and locking up the body in our cargo trailer, thus completing our work for the day, we headed back to our shop in the darkening twilight— silence prevailed between us the entire way. I felt consumed by some strange feeling of misconduct: the mangled, tarp-covered casket sitting in the truck bed; its former resident trailing behind us in the cargo trailer, grinning wickedly. We parked the truck and the affixed trailer inside the shop, locked up, and went our separate ways for the evening without exchanging farewells. That night sleep did not find me, for the stiffened images of a wicked grin terrified and dominated my thoughts. As I commuted to my place of work in the early gray of damp morning and through the empty streets that still slept, I was hoping that Francis would arrive at work before me; entering that shop with a dead man locked within greatly unnerved me. Fortunately, as I pulled up I noticed Francis' vehicle parked out front, and instantly a breeze of relief settled me. I stepped out of my vehicle and began walking toward the shop.
However, that relieving moment abruptly dwindled at the sight of a withered old fiend approaching my vehicle.
There was an old drunk who often lingered about the premises and solicited help to finance his thirst; his beard was always unkempt and tangled; he was thin, fragile and often ambled as if his bones were made of brittle PVC. On that morning he approached me, feigning neediness, claiming he hadn't eaten in two days. Knowing that the damn drunk would refuse, I offered him a job that required an extra set of hands and offered to pay him a reasonable sum. My anticipation did not fail me, for as soon as those words fell upon him he protested, demanding that I submit what little change I had to aid his poor, helpless soul. I refused and sent him off in a commanding tone, watching him until he neared the desolate road from which our shop rested a few yards back. It was then that a car sped by, and the drunk threw up his arms in disapproval, swearing and making violent gestures with his hands, claiming that he had almost been hit. He then stumbled away from the road and disappeared into an alley that separated our shop from an old abandoned warehouse, where of which I suspected the old drunk resided. I scoffed with amazement at his pathetic life, and turned around to face the shop, where inside awaited the ominous task that needed to be completed. I gathered myself as best I could and approached the shop.
Doors were unlocked and lights were on. The radio we often used was on, though nothing but static was being broadcast. The trailer remained locked and hooked to the truck, just as we had left it. All signs indicated that Francis was there, yet I could not find him. I checked in the overhead storage area, which could only be accessed by a rickety set of wooden steps. I checked the office, the machine room, and even an old condemned storage closet. I also checked the bathroom. Nothing. I began to worry, more so for my sake; being alone with that unsightly corpse resting in our cargo trailer... The weather had not changed much from the previous day. Wind beat against the loose metal sheets which constructed the shop, slapped them together, producing metallic shrieks that alerted me to something terrible in motion. The wind's cool touch whistled and vibrated throughout the metal structure in harmonies of a sinister suggestion, as if speaking to me from some dark and barren wasteland where all things animate suffered. After exiting the thru the side door, now outside beneath the ashen sky, I made my way to the rear of the shop. While walking, I looked incessantly to my rear, fearing the old drunk would rob me of the change in my pockets, simply to lubricate his senses. I saw nothing but the road, the stark and sloping vista beyond, and deciduous trees in the distance, whose dull and woody branches stretched out as if in prayer to some cosmic entity. Perhaps I was delusional. Perhaps I was paranoid. Or maybe it was the uncanny ambiance of it all, but I was indeed disturbed by the notion of eyes observing me from far overhanging places nearby and by chilling events about to unfold. A nearby tree revealed the prudent eyes of a barred owl, whose intense gaze rattled me.
After checking several locations where Francis could have been I had failed to locate him, and soon I began to succumb to a terrible sense of fear and despair mounting upon my conscious. He was not outside, at the rear of the shop, where only rotten scraps of wood from past projects lay scattered amongst twisted metal and old damaged headstones, which had become infested with an overgrowth of weeds and textured mosses. An old tractor, which had not been put to use in quite some time, stood next to me. I ascended the rusty steps and sat atop its rear. From my company phone I dialed Francis' cell. After twelve rings and a ridiculously crude voice message that Francis thought humorous, I hung up, redialed, endured twelve more rings—still no answer. Distraught, I hopped down from the tractor and began walking back towards the shop. I dialed again, my fingers rushing across the dial pad.
After another failed attempt to contact Francis, I entered once more into the dismal interior of my workplace and called out for him. There was no answer, only the sound of my feeble voice reverberating off the sheeted metal. Overhead I could hear an ominous, bone-scraping noise scurrying with the rhythm of the wind, and immediately I attributed this sound to the thickened copse of pecan trees which grew in that darkened alley where the old drunk had entered. Irrational thoughts of Emmanuel Jenkins and his hideous grin began to fill my mind, and for a moment I conjured unlikely yet terrible images of him creeping among the dark crevices within the shop: crawling here among the stack of granite slabs, peeking there from behind the small spaces separating them, sneering from behind the stock of blank gravestones, which someday would be inscribed with the names of persons who currently were among the living. I withdraw my keys from my pocket, and nervously acted upon my irrational yet overpowering urge to confirm that the body bag containing the corpse lay motionless in the rear of the cargo trailer. Just before I inserted the key into the lock, I reflected on just how ridiculous I was reacting. Nevertheless I needed to be assured that the bagged body still rested in the trailer and thus rid myself of these terrible thoughts.
I inserted the key, the lock clicked, I disengaged the latch, and threw open the door. My paranoia had failed me. Lying there as still as stone, the condemned body bag remained where we had put it the previous day. I could see the horrible contours of the body billowing and protruding from inside that wretched bag, like malign growths of some cancerous disease. I exhaled with relief upon seeing this, and for a moment I was lost once again in a daze saturated with macabre fantasies. I expected to see that menacing bag break out in uncontrollable pulses; to see and hear the arms and legs of the dead man wriggling crazily within. It was as my guard was lowering that something very strange fell before my eyes. It looked as though a drop of some dark substance had fallen from above and landed with a thick splat on the concrete ground before me. I slowly tilted my head upward and noticed that the ceiling vent was laced with a dark red substance. Soon thereafter it began to drip incessantly; a drop fell upon my shoe, another, my bare hand. As I brought my hand to my face I knew it was blood, and so the horror began.
Dazed and frightened by this sight, I detected, from the corner of my eye, some movement which crept directly behind me. I called the name of Francis, hoping it to be him. No answer.... closer it came. Frozen with terror, still facing the trailer's interior, I called out again...silence....closer...closer it came. From this moment, after swiftly turning to confront who or what approached me, I can remember nothing more than seeing a long metal bar swiftly—and intentionally—descending upon my head with great force.
At some later time I awoke. Vibrating darkness, rich as midnight oil, shrouded me. My head throbbed with warm pain and a wet sticky substance was upon my face. Beneath me I could vaguely interpret the crumpling plastic as being the bag containing Emmanuel Jenkins. While lying atop this unseen thing I was conscious enough to discern that I was within the eerie confines of the cargo trailer, in transit to some unknown destination.
Whether it was the swollen laceration across my scalp or the imminent horror of the corpse lying beneath me, I do not know, but I passed out once more into new darkness where images of unsightly things harassed my unconsciousness and where visions of mountains being tectonically pushed to fantastic heights baffled my intellect. And here, upon the zenith of the highest mountain, marveling at this enigmatic geological display, I found myself standing upon the border of earth's atmosphere, just where it met space. Here the wind was absent and the temperature uncanny. My gaze below revealed thick, opalescent clouds, suggesting to me that twilight was upon the earth. But this captivating moment did not last long, for I felt something tugging me from around my waist and realized I was affixed, by rope, to some place behind me. That place yielded nothing more than the sinister eyes of Francis Speights staring wickedly into mine. In his grip was a taut line that would trail above my falling body if released. Among this madness I saw, too, the crescent moon, which, at this altitude, appeared closer than I had ever observed it. What I saw sitting upon its shadowy craters and luminous crust terrified me more than the sinister grin upon Francis Speights' face, and chilled my blood significantly more than the prospect of falling from atop the mountain and through those clouds that feigned a soft and accepting impact. Nevertheless my dream—if that's what it was—saw to it that I would find out precisely how soft those clouds were, for the line securing me had been released, and I found myself falling from ethereal heights.
Through cloud and mist; through a sky where the absence of fowl frightened me and committed my perception to sullen realities...I fell down, down...steadily increasing in velocity.... During this bleak descent, I struggled to revoke the terror gripping my sanity; nevertheless falling fast I was. Having passed swiftly through pastel-colored clouds, I could see a partitioned landscape below. Gravity pulled me closer to images of a landscape that I was beginning to recollect, though never before from that position had I witnessed the cathedral's perimeter, wherein rested countless rows of tombs that, from this reducing height, grew larger and larger as I drew nearer, descending now with incredible speed. But what attracted my eye most was a particular tomb that I knew too well, and atop it was John Nimm pointing in my direction. Closer and closer; gravity strengthened, my heart pulsated recklessly...... I awoke. No longer was I falling. No longer did that threatening line surround my waist. Traces of descending momentum still lingered and challenged the strength of my bodily organs, but provided me with enhanced acuteness. My heart beat uncontrollably and I could feel the lining of my veins flexing with an increasing flow of blood. Though that unconscious experience lent me acute perception, I was unable to fully see my surroundings. But as my eyesight adjusted to the darkness, I began to hazily comprehend the hideously familiar environment around me. Fractions of grim daylight squeezed through mortared cracks and through gossamer seams where mortar once filled. Provided with this meager illumination and keen insight, I at once realized I was in a familiar place: The Jenkins family tomb.
Startled, I stood erect and was nearly brought to my knees by a headache that throbbed with tremendous pressure. As I tried to counter my body's compulsion to acquiesce to collapse, I reached to brace myself against something, anything, to prevent me from passing out and returning to that dreaded dream. Despite my best efforts to avoid this possibility I fell, but remained conscious. And though I did not fall into unconsciousness, I did, however fall upon something more ghastly than any dream. That familiar, plastic crumpling sound accompanied the aftermath of my fall, and upon my fingertips was the menacing touch of the plastic-covered corpse. If there was ever a chance of me returning to that unconscious state it was surely over now, for fear ignited within me the strength to stand, and I immediately dashed to that formidable stone door.
Locked, sealed, nevertheless- CLOSED. I threw my shoulder into the door...kicked it...braced my back against a shelf where other coffins were stacked, and attempted to leg press the door to some yielding position— all attempts to no avail. I called out in despair, hoping that someone was nearby to hear my cry. I held my breath to better hear a response if indeed there was one. There was nothing other than that ominous whistle of the wind soughing through the trees nearby, and through the mortared cracks where gray slivers of daylight bled. I cried out again, and this time the fear in my voice was erratic and evoked feelings of perilous awareness.
Accepting the belief that no one, except the rotten corpses surrounding me, had heard my plea, I nervously reached into my pocket to retrieve my cell phone— the bright digital display cast a luminous, green glow within the tomb. Haste resulted in me pressing numbers that I intended not to press, and finally, after a deep and somewhat revitalizing inhalation, I slowly exhaled and calmly as I could, correctly punched in the number of Francis Speights. The line was ringing.
What I heard resonating from that wretched body bag I still fear, and never have I since regarded the ring of a telephone with the same opinion. A new level of terror began to unravel, and suddenly I realized why Francis had not answered his phone earlier; realized why every sign pointed to his being in the shop, but being unable to find him. Of everything eerie and ominous that confounded my senses, nothing would qualify as being more horrible than the very phone of Francis Speights ringing from below me. Forgetting my previous fears, I fell to my knees and with clumsy haste unzipped the bag. Within lay a mutilated body whose facial identity I could barely discern as being that of Francis Speights. Of this hideous sight I wish no longer to speak.
The tide had changed drastically. My previous beliefs in all things relevant to space and time and all other things grotesque or jovial, instantly acquired new meaning. Instinct guided my hands back to the phone's key pad, and without error I dialed 911... SEND.
I cannot describe the astonishment that overflowed from my mind when I heard the approaching sound of sirens screaming in the distant, and furthermore the increasing momentum of public tumult beginning to concentrate from the direction of the cathedral. It was as if my call had been answered and the authorities instantly summoned by the mere entry of 911. Nevertheless, I flipped the phone closed and began crying out from those mildew-laden seams louder than ever, persistent and animal-driven, as if a prisoner locked in the bowels of a sinking ship.
After several moments I heard footsteps rushing toward my position. I continued to scream, hoping that my voice would guide rescuers to my location. Shortly thereafter a voice shouted from the other side of the marble door. "Sheyville police! Stand back, we're gonna bust the lock off!"
After giving me too short a period to gather my senses and dress my wounds, the group of officers who had freed me from the tomb sprinted back to a confused group of people huddling around the base of the cathedral, gazing upward at some spectacle. Sitting on the steps of the tomb with a bandage across my head, I noticed to my left several officers who were rummaging in and out of our truck and trailer, wherein they uncovered the tarp and reacted in disgust towards the empty casket. Returning my gaze to the clamor, I traced the gaze of the garrulous spectators up, up, up the cathedral. And here, as I fixed my eyes to the zenith of the foremost tower, I experienced terror upon terror. Atop the weathervane, John Nimm lay sprawled and dead; the vane's piercing tip protruded from his chest; trails of blood flowed in hideous amounts. Panicking, head wound seeping fresh blood; I immediately located a nearby officer and suggested that a team be assembled at once to locate Emmanuel Jenkins, for I knew it was he who was responsible for the slayings. After explaining to them who Jenkins was, I received nothing but jeers and mocking insults from both the Sheyville Police and thrill-seeking crowd. I also received hours of intense questioning that encompassed implications suggesting that it was I who had committed those gruesome murders.
I have since terminated my employment with Sheyville Memorial. To this day I have yet to encounter one soul who regards my account as being true, and as a result I remain an outcast of society, a stranger to all those who had once held a liking for me. Local merchants are indifferent and women shroud their children's eyes when my presence nears them. Though the Sheyville authorities had greatly suspected me, they could not incriminate me for the brutal murder of Francis Speights. There was hardly enough evidence to prosecute me for the grotesque and bizarre way in which John Nimm was killed—a killing that had been clairvoyantly exposed atop the moon in that terrible "dream"; it was Nimm who, later discovering, had initially placed the 911 call that prompted the police, and I still have difficulty erasing from my imagination the possible ways that his murderer could have climbed to the apex of the cathedral. The authorities, too, could not link me to the dead drunk, whose body was found tangled and dismembered atop the shop, from which his liquor-riddled blood had fallen upon my skin like drops of sour cancer. And though I am comforted by being sanely aware that my hands took no part in those terrible massacres, I lay awake at night, unable to sleep with the daunting moon looming overhead and, more horribly, with the tormenting awareness that the body of Emmanuel Jenkins has yet to be discovered.
END  Jason Muller currently studies Economics and English at The University of Louisiana at Lafayette. Upon graduation, he plans on attending graduate school to study Speech Pathology. In addition to being awarded honorable mention for essays written at the collegiate level, his work has been short-listed in the Journal of College Writers. His passion for writing first began after reading Ghosts along the Bayou, a book of tales pertaining to the lore and haunted history of the Deep South. Prior to his job as a full-time student, he worked as a grave digger, a job he found to be most intriguing. When he is not overwhelmed with the demands of academia, he enjoys reading and writing and taking early morning fishing trips to cleanse his mind. He lives with his supportive wife, Amy, and their cat, Janis, in South Louisiana.
Story by Jason Muller, Copyright 2008
Image by Rory Clark, Stopped Motion Photography, Copyright 2008
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