A DARK ADVENTURE WITH MAN OF MANY MARVELS: By Brick Marlin
Thursday, June 17th, 2010Cold against the skin was the wet shirt on little Matthew. The October wind whipped through the trees overhead and whispered around the gravestones. A cracked, concrete pathway wound around them, scurrying off into darkness.
Matthew stood there, scared, clutching his favorite toy, the Man of Many Marvels. An unseen hoot owl startled him, drawing out a chill along his spine. He had no idea why he was here. He could not remember how he even arrived here.
The wind blew again, a voice came along with it: “Matthew…”
He could not place the voice. He suddenly thought of his mom, how much he wanted to be in her arms this second!
“Matthew…,” the voice beckoned.
Something, he felt in his flesh, pulled him forward and he took a step - or, rather, his feet automatically did it for him.
“Come…”
His legs and feet pulled his upper body in tow. He passed a grave with the headstone tipped slightly to the side and the ground, over the span of many years, was slowly consuming it whole. It read, etched into the stone:
HERE LIES THE ONE WHO USED TO SHINE
At the arc-shaped top, a small crack was working itself downward.
Matthew stumbled forward.
Another hoot from the owl came.
The next gravestone was a pillar with a round top. Etched into it were the words:
HERE LIES THE ONE WHO USED TO LAUGH
Somewhere, unless it was his imagination, Matthew heard low laughter.
Delivered further along the path, passing other gravestones where there was no writing, worn off over the years, he hurried along. Some of them stood tall, while some kept that slightly tipped posture, sinking slowly into the earth.
Beside Matthew, at a grave, there was a sound. He held Man of Many Marvels against his chest, feeling its stiff body, feeling the coldness of his wet shirt.
“Matthew…”
This time the voice was louder, not as subtle. Had he heard that voice before? He tried to pick his brain for an answer but it was like trying to find a patch of pale flesh on a month old -
“Matthew, come…”
corpse.
Moving deeper into the graveyard the gravestones seemed to grow taller, and became more prominent in his eyes, like mourners dressed in black at a wake. And one, off to the left, read:
HERE LIES THE ONE WHO USED TO CRY
A muffled sob hit the air.
Another gravestone read:
HERE LIES THE ONE WHO USED TO HURT
A voice moaned in pain.
Confusion plagued Matthew. What did all of the words mean? Still, why was he here? Where was his mommy?
Suddenly the ground under a gravestone moved, rocking it, making him stumble back. Clawing through the dirt and rising, shoving the gravestone to the side, causing it to wobble but not fall, a zombie stood up and reached out a hand to Matthew, its head slanted a bit to the side and the mouth creaked open like a coffin lid.
Matthew wanted to shriek but the sound caught in his throat.
Out of the side of the decayed flesh of the zombie’s neck came black bugs scurrying down his frame, circling his legs like the red, blue, and white colors on a barber’s pole, then draining back into the open grave.
The zombie stumbled forward.
Terror touched the back of his neck, a feeling that scraped his spine.
Matthew sprinted off, deeper into the graveyard where the darkness pressed against him, nearly shielding his vision. Losing his balance, he fell in front of another gravestone that read:
HERE LIES THE ONE WHO USED TO SCREAM
From beneath the ground, a faint scream oozed out.
Horrified, Matthew began to cry. Fear and terror had melted into his skin, wrapping silently around his bones. He rose up, ran off, but, where to?
Abruptly, the concrete path ended and he stepped one foot into wet soil, stumbled, fell on his knees. The ground around him moved. The graves were opening up, hands clawed to the surface.
Matthew sobbed. He wanted to go home. He wanted away from here!
Corpses rose from their graves and circled the child while tears streamed down his cheeks. One in particular bent down, holding out a decrepit hand, explaining that it was going to be okay now, no reason to be afraid.
Hesitant at first, Matthew did not reach out his own hand. But after looking into the long face of his grandpa who had been dead for a few years, he realized that everything was okay. His grandpa explained further about why he was now in a graveyard.
The drive with his mother…
The rain coming down in sheets…
The crash into the truck…
For the first time Matthew looked down at his shirt. A crimson stain, still very wet, lay there. Wiping tears from his eyes he rose and grabbed his grandpa’s hand as they descended into a freshly dug grave.
________________
©2010 Brick Marlin
Married to a woman who keeps him chained up in a room so he won’t try and escape from home and turn his fiction into reality, Brick Marlin resides in the Ohio Valley. Brick has written and published numerous short stories and novels. His books include The Darkened Image, Raising Riley (Now, free to read at Scribd.com), Saturated and Crimson, and his most recent release Dark Places of Rest. This year two more of his books, Sectors (Whiskey Creek Press) and An Ensanguined Path (Double DragonPublishing),will be available.
