It Was Left On Her Grave

The pale light of a quarter moon fades into nothingness, the glow momentarily hidden behind a thick cloak of gathering storm clouds. Rain is in the air, along with an odour neither fresh nor invigorating. The putrid scent of death and decay, of rotting flesh, burnt garlic, and overripe fruit grows stronger as a shadow falls across Mary Walton’s lichen-etched tombstone. The rasping noise of breath hard won accompanies the sound of something soft and plump, an object once flowing with a lifeblood of its own, landing wetly on the grave. Another ragged breath, the crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot, and the shadow moves on.

***

“What do you mean, it was left on her grave? Who by? An animal of some sort?” George Evans gazed with undisguised distaste at the rain-sodden lump of flesh, perhaps an eviscerated animal’s organ or muscle that Matthew Blake had just dropped onto his workbench. George prodded the lump with the end of his screwdriver, recoiling in revulsion as the pulpy mass rippled under the light pressure of the blade. “What the devil is it?”

Matthew, his lips pulled back over his teeth in an expression of extreme loathing, grabbed one of George’s welding gloves off the benchtop and used it to turn the tattered object over. He pointed at what might have been a small face in the otherwise indistinguishable mess. “Looks like a baby.”

“A baby?” George peered at it more closely, only to reel back as the disgusting odour assailed his nostrils and ripped at the back of his throat. “Jesus, it stinks.”

“Yeah, looks like a baby to me. An unborn one, not properly formed.” Matthew gnawed at his chapped lower lip, the skin permanently marred by too long spent outdoors in the harsh sun and unrelenting wind. His job as both assistant undertaker and junior groundskeeper for the Church of Mother Mary meant his lean, perpetually hunched figure was most often seen digging graves, clearing fallen branches, weeding around the gravestones, or maintaining the undulating lawns that surrounded the church buildings.

“And you found it on Mary Walton’s grave?” George picked up an oil-stained cloth and dropped it over the object, unable to bear looking at it any longer. “Why would anyone leave it there?”

Matthew scratched at the sparse hairs on his chin, his eyes remaining fixed on the small shape beneath the cloth. “Don’t know. She’s been dead 15 years now and no one ever visits her. Not anyone I’ve seen, anyway.” His words were slurred and indistinct but George understood him well enough. Matthew Blake’s mental abilities weren’t incapacitated in any way, despite what others might say when they heard him attempting to get his words out in the right order and with the right cadence.

“Do you think it was a prank? School kids?”

“Dunno. Where would they get a dead baby from?”

George shook his head, still revolted by the sight now seared upon his eyeballs. “Can you get rid of it? I can taste the stink of it in my mouth.”

Matthew tenderly wrapped the cloth around the foetus and carried it over to the door. He glanced back over his shoulder at George, awaiting his next instructions. “Should I bury it? Or call the police?”

George felt the small hairs on the back of his neck stand on end at the mention of the police. George and the law did not have a history of amicable past relationships and he had no intention of staging a reconciliation any time soon. “Bury it,” he grunted. “No sense in getting the police involved.”

He watched as Matthew shuffled away, the man’s distinctive limp favouring his left leg as he lurched out the door. Matthew was one of those unfortunate people born with more burdens than most others should have to deal with in a lifetime; a shortened left leg, a speech impediment, and a face only a mother could love. Not that his mother had ever loved him – the only thing she’d ever loved were the drugs that eventually killed her. Matthew had dropped out of school at 14 and moped around for a few years doing short-term garbage collection and property-clearing work until George mentioned to Pastor Travers that the boy might be of use in the church grounds. After all, he was fit, strong, and not averse to performing tasks that other people might turn their noses up at. George Evans might have a loose respect for authority but he wasn’t heartless and he’d developed a bit of a soft spot for the lad.

George returned to his work dismantling the engine chassis of Pastor Travers’ ancient and decrepit old jalopy. Funds were slim this year, with a falling away of flock numbers as the regular churchgoers moved on to greener pastures and Pastor Travers had ordained that broken equipment was to be repaired rather than replaced. All of which suited George down to the ground as it meant more work for him. Humming to himself, he put Matthew and his disgusting find out of his head and carried on with his task.

***

“I found another one. Another baby.” Matthew’s eyes were wide and scared as he hovered in the doorway of George’s workshop. Thankfully, he hadn’t lugged the carcass inside this time although George could see the stain of fresh blood on his hands.

“What? Where?” The cold fingers of dread began to make their nasty, creeping way up George’s spine. One abandoned foetus could be passed off as a bad taste prank, but two were a different story entirely.

“On Joanne Simpson’s grave. Buried last year. Car accident.” Matthew’s nostrils briefly flared. “I liked her. She was kind to me. She always said hello.”

“I remember her. What have you done with the other… thing.” He couldn’t bring himself to say baby. That last gory lump of flesh had looked nothing like a baby in his eyes.

“Buried it by the oak tree at the back of the cemetery.”

“Good boy.” George gave him a tight smile. “Bury this one too, but keep it to yourself, okay? No need to get folks up in arms for no reason.”

Matthew nodded, apparently pleased to be given his instructions in such a calm and measured manner. “I promise I won’t tell anyone, George.”

He shuffled away, leaving George staring out through the cobwebbed window of the workshop. This was worrying, the discovery of the second foetus. It had only been a week since Matthew found the first – where were they coming from? Who had access to the bodies of unborn babies? Someone who worked at the hospital or perhaps the morgue? But why leave the foetuses on the graves of dead girls? George knew better than anyone just how fucked up the world could be but this was on a whole new level of depravity.

He flicked on the grimy switch of the electric kettle to boil water for a cuppa, shocked out of a working frame of mind for now. He’d thought all of life’s challenges were behind him and Lord knew he’d suffered his fair share. Some might argue that many of the challenges were George’s own fault but he was never one to back down from a good argument. Or a bad one, for that matter.

Aside from his past problems with wives, both his own and other men’s, George’s regular run-ins with the local police force were well documented. George didn’t consider all of the situations that had attracted the interest of the law to be that bad, although it seemed the coppers took a different view. As he’d tried to tell the judge on numerous occasions, some of his pursuits and activities were nothing more than simple curiosity and the authorities would’ve done well to keep their noses out of it. However, the judge did not agree and unfortunately, George had spent some of his earlier years languishing in the county prison. Nevertheless, that was all behind him now and he was able to put the skills he had learned in the prison machine shop to good use these days. Luckily, Pastor Travers was the forgiving type and once he knew of George’s mechanical abilities, he had given him the role of maintenance supervisor for the church and its surrounding properties.

He set his chipped and stained coffee cup down on the scarred wood of the workbench and reached for the electric kettle. Yes, George Evans had a colourful past but even so, he’d never come across anything quite like this latest incident. Dead babies were another thing entirely and no one with a speck of human decency would have a bar of such a grotesque caper.

He looked up, frowning, as the sound of a terrified shout came from outside. Matthew was suddenly back at the door, breathless and panting. He tried to speak, his slurred words running into each other as he gripped the doorframe and attempted to catch his breath. George held up his hand, already apprehensive over what Matthew was about to say. “Slow. Go slow. Hurrying won’t help you none.”

Matthew swallowed hard, struggling to breathe and talk at the same time. “More babies. Two. Twin babies on Sarah Jones’ grave.”

George felt faint and woozy. He reached for the workbench to steady himself. It was time to bring Pastor Travers in on the awful discoveries within the sanctity of his church grounds, and sooner rather than later.

***

“Babies?” Pastor Travers pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger, a gesture he fell back on during times of consternation or stress. “On the graves?”

George glanced at the cowering Matthew before going on to explain. “Matthew found the first one a week ago. I thought it might be a horrible prank played by some of the local kids but he came back this morning to tell me he’d found another one. He’s just told me about the twin bodies so I thought it was time to let you know.”

Matthew pressed in behind George, unsuccessfully attempting to hide himself. George knew he didn’t like coming in here, complaining that it smelled too strongly of mothballs and the heavily scented incense that the pastor used for his blessing ceremonies. George absentmindedly wondered how Matthew could bear the stench of the rotting baby he’d carried into the workshop yet couldn’t stand the smell of patchouli and lavender.

Pastor Travers raked one hand through his thinning hair and automatically reached for his Bible with the other. “Does he know which graves they were left on?”

George quelled his flicker of irritation. “He can hear, you know. He can talk too. You can ask him yourself.”

“I find it hard to understand him,” the pastor said stiffly. “I’m sure it’s no great hardship for you to translate for me.”

George stifled the urge to roll his eyes. “He found each foetus on a different female’s grave. They were all young women, with the dates of their deaths ranging from 15 years to one month ago.”

“And they were definitely foetuses rather than newborn infants?” Pastor Travers pressed the Bible against his chest, crossing his pale hands over the leather bound cover.

“I only saw one, and it certainly wasn’t a fully formed baby.” George shuddered at the memory.

“Where are they now?”

“He buried the first two, but I don’t know about the twins.” George spun around to address Matthew, who was now staring down at his boots with his hands shoved deep into his pockets and his head jutted forward. “What have you done with the last two babies?”

Matthew darted a fearful glance at Pastor Travers before replying, his eyes fixed on George’s face as he spoke. “On Sarah Jones’ grave. I didn’t touch them. They were…” He made a helpless clasping motion with his hands. “They were stuck together.”

George frowned. “What? Like Siamese twins? Sharing the same body or head or something?”

Matthew vigorously shook his head. “No. Stuck together with their…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Their tube. Their cord.”

George looked back at the pastor. “Sounds like the umbilical cord was still attached. What do you make of it?”

“It’s horrifying, I’ll agree with you there.” Parson Travers shook his head in disbelief. “I’d never expected such a thing to happen in my cemetery. It’s an out of the way plot with barely enough history or interest attached to it to attract the ghoulish or mischievous.” He dragged his brows together impatiently as Matthew mumbled something else. “What’s he saying now?”

“He said the dirt around Sarah’s grave was disturbed a few months ago. He tidied it up, thinking it might be wild animals.” George listened again as Matthew launched into an excitable spiel. “He said he remembers now that the other graves had also been interfered with before the babies appeared but he’s only just put it all together in his head.”

“Disturbed? Interfered with? What does that mean?”

George listened carefully as Matthew explained himself further, accompanying his speech with wild hand gestures and vigorous nods of his head. “He thinks someone might have tried to dig the women’s bodies up.”

The colour drained from Pastor Travers’ face. He gave Matthew a terse nod, although Matthew still refused to meet his gaze. “You did well, Matthew. You’re not in any trouble. Go and see Mrs. Johnson and she’ll give you some hot chocolate and a cookie. That’s a boy.” He watched him go before turning back to George. “You don’t think he has anything to do with it? I have to ask, and you know him better than anyone.”

“I’d swear on me own grandmother’s grave that he knows nothing. I thought he was going to keel over dead when he came and told me about finding the twins.”

Pastor Travers reached for the old-fashioned desk phone that he refused to trade in for a more modern version of communication. “I’ll call Jim Carson. He’s experienced in this kind of thing, performs exorcisms and whatnot across the county. He’s busy though, often booked out weeks in advance. You’d be surprised how often we find ourselves dealing with matters of the occult although I have to admit this is the first time that human foetuses have been involved.”

***

Later that evening, as the full moon rises over the church steeple and a hoot owl calls its scornful cry, the undeniable odour of death and decay seeps across the graveyard. A dark figure, too tall and too broad to be wholly human, makes its way between the neat rows of graves and places a wet, bloody object on Isabella Morgan’s memorial stone. It hesitates, as if deep in thought, before lumbering away. It weaves its way over to a freshly dug mound where only yesterday Louise Jordan’s family and friends wept over her passing. Soft murmurs of ‘taken too soon’ still hang in the air and flower bouquets cover the ground.

The creature stands beside the grave and mutters an indecipherable, hellish incantation, its evilly enchanted words pulling Louise’s corpse up from her final resting place. The demonic abomination copulates with the lifeless, dirt-covered body atop the grave before returning the deceased to her bed of soil, its actions almost tender in the treatment of its dead lover. The unspeakable act complete, the demon slowly moves away - but not before taking careful note of where it should return with Louise’s baby when the time is right.

The End