Chapter 4: The Names on the Tomb Stones

Clay invites Brock and Cole to follow him back inside the cemetary over towards the big oak tree where they witnessed the last scene of their friends. Cole beams his flashlight deep inside the cementary, providing a trail of light as the friends inched themselves forward. After about 100 feet, Clays breaks the silence by removing his gun from its holster.

“What we need to look for is any evidence that they disappeared. If someone grabbed them, I want to see if there is struggle, anything that suggests fowl play. And then . . .what’s wrong?,” Clay stops abruptly to notice that Brock suddenly stopped in his tracks, allowing his two friends to walk a few feet before him.

“You really believe there is some foul play going on?,” Brock suddenly demands, “I thought this was some game you cocked up. Hey!, I am not going in there if you believe some psycho is roaming these grounds. I getting the hell out of here.” Brock started to turn before Clay grabbed his arm to prevent him fleeing.

“Hold it . . . hold it,” gasped Clay as he struggles to keep Brock from breaking free, “why did you think I brought this?” Clay shoves his revolver into Brock’s face to convince him that if anything even dares to make a move, they will end up as dead men.

“I am going to kill the mother bastard who ever is behind this. Any questions?” Clay was somewhat surprised by Brock’s sudden reversal. How dare he walk inside this dark cementary with comments like that. What does he have to do to convince him or anyone else that this is not a joke. Three people are missing. Something strange is going onwhat is going on without any kind of protection. Why does he hang around guys who don’t think.

“Hey!, I don’t want any part of this,” said Brock as he broke free of Clay’s grip. “If there is some psycho lurking behind that tree, I don’t want to make introductions, thank you. I will just head back and protect the women if you don’t mind.”

Brock started his journey back. It wasn’t far. You could still see Mark standing guard next to the women and Stuart (who was not much braver than the women), cuddling close behind Mark. Clay and Cole didn’t persuade Brock otherwise. As long as they packed the firepower, it was probably better that the search party stayed at two. They had about another 40 yards to cover and time was running out. They first bid farewell to Brock as he continued back through the dark, and then simutaneously turned around and continued their journey to the big oak tree, each step bringing them closer to something they hope not to find.

The oak tree towered majestically over all the other trees around it. It situated as if the master of all the trees around it. The moon light was a bit stronger at this hour, Cole’s flashlight didn’t provide much better light. But Cole flashed it wildly, like someone in a detective scene, hoping that the movement of light would scare away any psycho, if there was such a person. Clay wasn’t much braver. He grasped his gun like some Miami Vice Squad. Ready for the moment to pull its trigger at anything that dared to threaten.

The two boys came closer with each step. From a distance, nothing seemed amiss. Plenty of towering granite stones and scrubs that scowered the ground and hid the many names sketched on the tombs. They stepped sheepishly along the grounds, eyes focused on the ground with an unbelievable sense that any moment some hand was going to come out and grabbed their legs. Clay scurried ahead of Cole up the little hill that served as the base for the giant tree. Cole quickly followed.

The boys rested a second under the lazy branches before scouring around for clues. Nothing seemed unusual. The ground cracked as each boy stepped on the acorns that scattered the ground. Cole lit up another cigarette and he held his flashlight under his arm, it beam shining endlessly onto a shining object not far from Clay’s feet.

“Look over there!” Clay barked out a command instructing Cole not to move his light. “Look! It’s someone’s school ring.” Clay steps a-two over to the shining object reflecting from the Cole’s flashlight, bends down on one knee and picks it up, examing every detail of the ring to determine why a valuable object like this would be left on the groung.
“It must have been a struggle,” Clay continues, realizing that the ring belonged to either Phil or Van Kirk. It was a high school graduation ring from last year.

Clay stands up and walks several yards around the perimeter of the tree looking for something that explains why a valuable ring like this was left stranded on the ground. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Lots of tomb stones and nestled leaves. Something strange was going on. If this was a joke the that Phil or Van Kirk had cooked up, why would they leave a valuble ring like this on the ground that was accidently found. He looks around again, on the ground, off to the distance, back to the ground again, and then fixes his eyes on Cole, who approached Clay for a moment, but suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, looking down, flashlight off.

Clays breaks the silence. “Found anything?” Cole beckens him over.

“I noticed something very weird — just call me super detective, if you don’t mind,” Cole hastens his friend forward.
“Look around at the rows of tombstones,” Cole flicks back on his flashlight to guide Clay in the observation he is about to make, “notice that all of the tombs over there and over there ...,” Cole moves his light in a full circe, “...are methodically laid out in rows and columns. Like some organized manner. But over hear,” Cole walks forward a few feet and shines his light on a lowly tomb about 40 feet next to another tree sharing the night glory with the grand oak, “there is this single tomb that appears out of place.” Cole puffs another smoke, places the cigarette between his lips to free his hands, one to point the flashlight to the tomb he was talking about, the other to invite Clay to follow closely behind.

They both walk to the tomb, Clay reluctantly following, not wishing to left alone.

“Just as I thought,” Cole walks around to the front of the tomb and shines his light on its face. Clay joins him and peers down at the inscription:

Phillip Joseph Wade
Born: November 4, 1981
Died: October 31, 2000

Cole lifts the beam of his flashlight in the air and flicks it off. “Good God!, What in the hell is going on?” Both boys looked at each other, speechless. Nothing makes sense ... or does it now, something evil.

“What are your thinking?,” asks Clay, who now feels his gun might not be of use. Is there a stone for Van Kirk?”
Cole flicks back on again his flashlight to search the surrounding perimeter. Any of the hundreds of stones could bear the name of a friend. Names upon names . . . Davis . . . Hazel . . . McGhee . . . Glauser . . . Jacobs . . . Stewart . . . Johnson . . . Milazi . . . Peterson . . . Zsrkovki . . .name after name after name. Cole searches among each row, nothing out the ordinary except for one stone that looks different than the others. Cole walks some yards over to the stone, peers down, and finally reads with horror the inscription on the face:

Joseph Van Kirk.
Born: February 29, 1980
Died: October 31, 2000

“Clay! Come quickly. I found Van Kirk,” says Cole with some atonishment. It puzzeled him odd each stone was so different from the others. Its purpose, gave no answer.

Clay scampered over to the far right side of the tree that sheltered the rows of tombs where Cole was standing. Peering down at the tomb, it read just like Susans and Phils, all death times dated October 31, 2000.

Cole speaks first, “the birth date is Van Kirk’s. He was a February 29 baby. The only person I knew that had that birthday on that date. By the way, what’s your birth date? Just in case I come across your tomb later this evening.”
Clay didn’t find Cole’s statement very amusing. Either someone was playing a sick joke on them or something has gone completely insane. He felt like he was in a bad dream from which he couldn’t awake from. Only one thing seemed to bring him comfort right now and he motions Cole for one of his cigarettes.

Cole was reluctant at first, knowing very well that Clay disapproved of his bad habit. But after several promtings and finally, the cocked position of Clay’s gun, Cole reached into his pocket and pulled out a drag. He then reached in his other pocket for the matches, which he accidently dropped as he struggled to release them from his pocket. He bent down to pick them up when he noticed something strange sticking outside of the ground. He moved his flashlight into position.

“Oh God!., look at this”, Cole moves his light to point out part of a tennis shoe protruding out of the ground next to Van Kirk’s tomb. “That’s a brand new shoe. Looky there, New Balance,” Cole points to the engraved brand name insription on the back-side of the shoe. A shoe like this, half tucked in the ground without any wear or tear, looked like a shoe that could have been worn by the missing occupant whose name was on this tomb. Cole continues, “It looks like a shoe Van Kirk would wear.”

Van Kirk was “Gap” kind-of kid. Always dressed with the latest fashions. If anyone wore a high-priced shoe like this, it would be Van Kirk. And since it was half tucked in the ground next to a tomb that bore his name, it seemed only obvious that the ring found earlier and now the shoe indicated some kind of struggle — what kind of struggle, by whom, for what reason — only maginifed the anxiety felt by the two boys at this time. Clay bends down to touch the shoe, with a half-crumbled cigarette dangling in his mouth.

“Hold this light,” insisted Cole as he gets on his knees and passes the light onto Clay. Clay respectively obeys, but not first without asking the question, “what are you going to do?”

Cole leans up on his knees and stares Clay in the face. “I could use a shoe like this, Dummy. This is one high-priced shoe that is just my size.” Clay chuckles. His first in this long evening that won’t come to an end. Cole was always the guy that took advantage of a bargain when it came around. Coming from a family with little means, a shoe like this, if only one, was a valuable find. But again, perhaps Cole wanted to gather evidence in the event someone with a higher authority required such. In any event, Clay nodded in agreement and took the light and shined it down as Cole retook his position and proceeded to free the shoe from the ground that held it tightly.

It suddenly twitched . . . just a little. But it twitched enough “voltage” to knock Cole right on his butt. He gasped, “hot damn!, that shoe moved. Look!”

Clay shines the light directly on the shoe. The shoe twitches again, this time back and forth as though someone was struggling to free itself from the confines of the shoe. Cole was now yellling, “it’s moving, damn-it! It’s moving!”
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Clays springs to his feet to set in motion for another run. Cole jumps up instantly and faces Clay down.

“We’re not leaving, you’re scared son-of-a-bitch. Van Kirk is alive and you and I are going to get him out. Do you understand?”

“Are you crazy!”, it was now Clay’s turn to act authoritative. “That can’t be him, buried alive under six feet of dirt. If that is Van Kirk, the powers that dragged him under are not going to GIVE HIM UP,” Clay shouts loudly, hoping that not only will Cole understand the madness that now faces them, but perhaps, just perhaps, his expressed anger slows the approach of any devilish fiend that may be at this time coming for them. Clay finishes with a command, “now let’s get out of here before we are dragged under to join him.”

Cole spits on the ground in defiance. “Like hell! I’m not leaving our friends.” He returns to his prostrate position and starts pulling the shoe out of the ground. It twitches further, like signaling its approval to keep pulling. Cole responds by pulling harder. And harder he did. Little by little the entire shoe appeared with a foot and leg still attached inside.
Clay, totally surprised by his friends persistence stupidity, reluctantly lends a hand as the two of them pulled and pulled. Inch by inch the ankle than the calf and then the knee seemed to break loose and appeared above the ground. The leg was moving wildly, frantically wrestling itself free from the dirt that held it bound. Cole and Clay stopped a moment to catch their senses and to protect themselves from the frantic kicking, when suddenly, totally unexpected, the whole leg and shoe was pulled quickly back inside the ground as though some underground force grab the whole body and yanked it from its mortal existence.

Poof!, it was gone. It happened so fast that both men barely knew what had happened. The sudden disappearance knocked both men down, like a sudden blast of wind, from which they scurried back up to retrieve their possession before the ground swallowed everything up.

“You sons-of-a-bitches!” Cole was frantically yelling, clawing his way through the earth that was closing as fast as he could dig. “Sons-of-a-bitches!, . . . sons-of-a-bitches!,” Cole repeated this phase over and over as he clawed and kicked the ground, which ground was closing up as though nothing had happened.

Clay interceded and tried to calm his friend down. But Cole shoved him away. Clay again interceded. This time Cole punched Clay in the mouth.

“Let me be, you Son-of-a-bitch,” reminding Clay that this crazy adventure was his idea. “They took my friend. They took MY FRIEND, DAMIT. I must get him out, you son-of-a-bitch.”

Cole’s shock, then anger, was now envolving into an emotional panic. He returned to his frantic digging leaving Clay stunned and bewildered, laying on his back, holding his jaw, not knowing what to do next. Cole was not being rational. Clay knew that something dark, something evil, was punishing his friends. Their best course of action is to leave this place, quickly now, before one of they become the next victim pulled under.

Clay leaned up, quickly analyzing on what he need to do, when suddenly, like a sudden whip in the cold night, two shots were fired from the direction of the car. Cole stopped digging and looked up, first at Clay, and then in the direction of the parking lot. It was too far to see anything. Cole looked back at Clay, who sat motionless, jaw in hand. Not a word was said between them. They sat, quietly, cuffing their ears to pick up any answer that floated the air.