Chapter 5: Shots Fired

As they sat quietly, they could pick up sounds of yelling, really faint, like someone was demanding something. The moon had tucked behind a cloud, so it was hard to catch any sign of what was going on. Another shot rang out.
Cole jumped to his feet. “Let’s get back with the others,” he demanded, extending his hand as a gesture of sorrow for knocking his friend down. Clay promptly responded, holding his jaw as a reminder of what just happened. Cole paid no attention.

“Let’s get back to the car and get the girls out of here,” snapped Cole, as though he was taking charge of this operation. Cole began to walk towards the lot, over the graves that opened the path to his return. But Clay jumped in front of him, reasserting his authority.

“We must walk on the road, not on the graves,” he demanded. “Someone or something is grabbing our friends from underneath. The road is much safer. I insist.”

Cole looked at little agitated, but didn’t argue. He followed his friend over to the road that laid some 30-40 yards beyond the big oak tree. It would take longer to return using the road, they would have to take one road and then another to exit back onto the parking lot. But, they both agreed, the road perhaps offered a safer route back than say the alternative. An extra few minutes travel may save them time in the long haul then, say, having to free your ankle from a goulish hand that pops from the grave to pull you under.

The two men ran down the middle of road, turned left onto a second and then a right onto a third, keeping themselves clear of the road side, not chancing a ghoul or dead corpse to grab them unexpectedly. They finally enter the parking lot, sighing a sound of relief, thanking the Load above for their safe ruturn.

They stood for a moment, resting from their hard run, when they noticed together that everyone was missing except for Mark, who was standing alone by the edge of the cementary with the gun down his side. Clay looked at Cole, who appreared as bewildered as he. You could see it his is eyes . . . ‘where is everybody?’

Cole walks over to the cars and peers inside. Perhaps everyone was crouched inside. As he approaches, he notices that passenger-side door on the car housed the girls at that time they left was opened. Cole peered inside. Nobody inside. He looks back as Clay, who acknowledged his find, and then started his walk over to Mark.

“Hey! What happened?,” Clay commented, as he approached Mark from behind. “We heard three shots. And where is everybody?”

Mark made no acknowledgment that Clay was talking to him. He stood motionless, staring in the abyss, whimpering a smidge, wishing that his mother would grab him away from this hellish place. But Clay was in no mood for mothering. Something happened and Clay wanted answers . . . NOW.

Clay grabbed Mark and started to shake him hard, “tell me what happened, you yellow-belly-piece of . . . “
“Hold it!,” Cole jumps in, “look over there. That is a giantic tomb. It wasn’t there when we first left. It’s new.”
Clay removed his hands from Mark’s shoulder to observe the marking that Cole was referring to. It was a large tomb, standing about 6-7 feet higher than many of the tombs around it. On its top was a figurine, facing the parking lot, standing guard over the ground it lighted upon. Cole was correct. That tomb, so prominant, was not there before. It was only yards from the edge of the gully that separated the cemetary grounds from the parking lot. Its unique position from that angle Clay stood blocked the large oak tree that moments ago was the controversy that witnessed the disappearce of earlier friends. He had a clear vision of the tree from that spot. Now, the tree was hidden by this large, protruding monument.

Clay stood erect as Cole scurries over to the edge of the cementary and then proceeds some 10-15 yards into the cementary. He flicked his light on a large granite monument. Stood for a moment. And then walks around the entire tomb. It had four sides square sides at its base, with an aspiring pike shooting straight up.
Clay calls out to Cole, questioning what he had found, but Cole doesn’t respond. Cole walks around the tomb again, more slowly this time, and then returns to the front, with his back facing Clay. He drops to his knees and begins pounding the ground with his fists. Clay knew what had happened. He was reluctant to join his friend, but his moral obligations overpowered his fear as we walks slowly over to Cole. His worst fears came true when he approached the tomb:

Here Lies Brock Alan Davis
Birth: March 24, 1980
Died: October 31, 2000

Brock and Cole were brothers — twin brothers. They were very close. Clay remembers meeting them for the first time when he and his mother moved to their neighborhood back when he can barely remember. Brock and Cole, who lived a few houses down, took Clay in and treated him like their own. Clay spent many hours at their house, sometimes eating dinner, sometimes spending the night. And when the three boys graduated from high school, they decided to room together when they attended the University. And now here they are, one of them missing. Clay started to cry.

Cole remained crouched on his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Clay picked up the light and examined the four faces of the gigantic tomb. Just as he expected. Names, birth dates, and death dates — all October 31, 2000 — were found for everyone else in the party. There was Virginia, Melennie, Karen, Stuart, Patti . . . poor Patti, Clay thought. She was the one who resisted coming here tonight when Clay first mentioned the idea back at the Frat house.
“It happened right here,” came an approaching voice. It was Mark, who approached silently joined them by the large granite tomb. “It happened right here,” was his second remark, this time more audible.

Cole sprang to his feet and grabbed Mark by his neck, “what happened you son-of-a-bitch. What happened to my brother?” Cole shook Mark violently, but was unable to bring him down. Clay rushed over to them to free him from Cole’s clutches. Mark tried to tell his story, but he slurred so many words that nothing was making sense. Something horrible happened that traumatized the young man.

Mark excused himself and went back to the cars. Clay again motioned Cole to join them. But we wouldn’t move. He was not going to leave his brother’s side.

“Nonsense, you stupid fool,” Clay reminded Cole, “let’s go over to the car, get in, and get the hell out of here. Capise. Let’s go!” Clay motioned Cole again. But Cole refused to move. He sat quietly on the ground, knees curled up with his arms tucked underneath, repeating the words over and over, “yellow bastards.”

Clay reluctantly left Cole where he was and walked backed to query Mark again on what happened. Three shots were fired and now everyone is missing. Mark seem dazed as he approached. Almost motionless. But Clay was persistent. He needed answers. He pounded Mark with one phrase after another.

“Three shots, Mark. Who were you firing at?,” motions Clay, “three shots, Mark. Three shots,” Clay said over and over again until Mark woke from his sub-conscious stupor.

Mark tried to tell his story in little pieces that seemed all scrambled up. But Clay pieced together enough comments to get some story out of Mark on what really happened. It went like this:

Brock came back to the group after you guys left to investigate the strange disappearance of Phil and Van Kirk. He suggested that we get in the cars and drive into town, and that he will wait here for Clay and Cole to return. He continued that Clay was not playing a game and that something seriously is going down.

The girls started to cry again. Even Stuart looked frightened, which convinced Brock and myself that nobody in the group were directly involved in what was going on. We helped the girls inside two cars. I (Mark) was to drive one car, Stuart the other. But when we got in the car, crank the ignition, neither engine would turn over. We then tried Clay’s car. Same thing. Engine dead. Everyone panicked. Including Brock.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Patti screamed. We looked over by the cementary and there stood Phil, Van Kirk and Susan. They were motioning to us to come over to them. They were mentioning words like joke, pranster, having fun, and other crazy gestures all in a convincing way that brought some temporary relief to the tense atmosphere the kept us bound for the past hour or two.

There they stood, strangly at first, motioning us again to come over. Brock approached first, but held his distance. He appeared suspicious, accusing them of scaring everyone and sabotaging our cars. They just chuckled and smiled, gesturing us to come over and join them in the fun.

The girls stepped out of the cars. Patti was the first to exit and run quickly over to Susan. It was the first smile she bore since that infamous run Clay sparked that started this whole nightmare. She and Susan hugged each other. Such affection brough assurance to the other girls to join their friends on the cementary lawn. Stuart also started to walk over. He gave a high-five to Philip and a arm butt slap to Van Kirk. The three men huddled together as if planning the next move.

I remained by the car. I was feeling relieved that our friends were back together. But strangely, from the corner of my eye, I noticed that Brock kept his distance. He stood at the very edge of the road, next to the small ravine the separated the road from the cemetary grounds. He was probably thirty or some feet from the group, staring into Susan’s face as she hugged and grasped each girl. I looked at Brock, then at Susan, then again at Brock. He stood motionless, staring Susan right in the eye, saying nothing but just staring, with a “not-so-sure” look.

I followed suit, standing more erect this time, trying to find anything that kept Brock spell-bound. I looked at Susan’s face as she talked freely among her friends. I walked over to Brock, standing a couple of feet behind, to catch a better glimpse. Susan hugged Patti one more time, embracing her tight, with her eyes facing us. She stared into our eyes as she held Patti tight. It was that look that told me the person I now see was not Patti.

I couldn’t tell what it was, but apparently Brock saw the same thing. She stared us down intently, keeping Patti closed in a tight embrace. Patti at first didn’t mind, it was a sign of affection that the two shared as friends. But as Patti tried to loosen herself free, Susan tighten her grip with a hand glasp that kept Patti bound. Susan stared at us intently, knowing probably inside that her secret was not hidden from Brock and myself. She smiled at us, and then it became apparent, the person holding Patti was not Susan. The person had a sinister look that was unlike the Susan they knew. They wondered aloud whether Patti or the other girls noticed. Maybe not. The joy of reunion perhaps overpowered any suspecion that Brock and Mark now held.

Brock finally demanded that the person release Patti instantly. He stepped forward, making a threathening gesture, but keeping his distance. I remained behind Brock with my eye fixed on the Susan (or whomever it was that held Patti bound). Brock demanded a second time that the person holding Patti release her grip. But the person stared us down sternly, tightening her grip even more, forcing the other girls to come to Patti’s help.

Stuart, who was talking to Phil and Van Kirk turned to face Brock. He seemed startled by the comotion that was going on. As he walked closer to Susan, Phil grabbed Stuart by the arm and dragged him back. That is when it all happened. The person, or the person who resembled Susan, slowly changed their face into a third, evil-looking person. The person bit down on Patti’s shoulder to quiet her struggle, then lifted her off her feet and slowly descended into the Cementary ground below.

Stuart, who was snagged from helping Patti, yanked his arm from the grip of Phil. He fell to the ground. Phil, or whomever it was, jumped on Stuart’s back, wrestled him completely to the ground, looked up at us, and then like Susan, dragged Stuart down into the cementary grounds. It was shocking, as though the ground opened up and swallowed in slow motion its victim.

Brock was horrified. He quickly jumped into help, but pulled back, not realizing what help he could provide against a power so unknown. The girls next to Patti screamed. But before they could react, the ground let loose some twenty hands that grabbed the girls by their ankles. All of them were being dragged down into the ground. Some of the girls went quickly, feet first, then leg to waist, then completely gone. One girl fell to the ground. Another hand came up and grab her by the neck, pulling her head first into a hole that appeared from nowhere. Another girl broke loose and tried to reach the safety of the parking lot where Brock and I now stood. But the person who was suppose to be Van Kirk stopped her instantly, lifting her off her feet as he descended below the ground. The girl was kicking and screaming, frantically trying to free herself to no avail.

The screams prompted Brock to action. He sprang onto the ground to help free the girl from the hell she was descending. A hand came out of the ground and grabbed Brock’s ankle. He struggled himself free and kicked it. Then another hand, this one bloody and decayed, came out the other side and grabbed his other leg. I had to help. Realizing that you earlier gave me a gun for protection, I took it out and fired two shots, hoping the shots would startled the hands the held Brock bound. But it was no use. Two more hands appeared and grabbed his legs and slowly, methodically, pulled him down to his waist. He was struggling to get free. But the hands kept a tight grip and kept pulling, kept pulling, kept pulling. Inch by inch, Brock descended further into the ground.

I couldn’t do anything to help him. I was afraid they would grab me. I kept my distance. All the others were gone, except for one whose one leg was still protruding above the ground and for Stuart, whose back of their head. Brock’s descension was taking the longest. He kept kicking and struggling to set himself free, but slowly, as if by inch by inch, he kept descending lower and lower into the ground.

He then burst out yelling, saying crazy things that they were eating his legs. Do something, he demanded? They were eating his legs. I couldn’t move. I stayed fixed on the parking lot to prevent anything from grabbing me. Stuart, whose head was buried, except for the top of his crown, suddenly popped up out of the ground. His face had been eaten. Pieces of his flesh dangling from his face. He cried for help, but what could I do. Suddenly, hands came out of the ground and buried his head completely under.

Brock still struggled. Fighting hard. But he was slowly sinking into the ground, almost up to his chest. He kept yelling that they are eating me. He demanded that I shoot him to end this miserable hell. He kept yelling at me. Shoot me. Shoot me. Shoot me.

He broke free for a bit and used his arms to lift himself out to his waist. You could see that he was right. His whole stomach was exposed. You could see his skeletal structure around his waist. Suddenly, more hands came out of the ground and began pulling him under. Shoot me damn-it. He continued. Shoot me. And so I fired the third shot. I don’t think the shot come near him. He disappeared deep inside the ground after that.

Clay wanted to hear no more. It was fast approaching midnight and perhaps, with Halloween night ending at the stroke of 12, this nightmare will all come to an end. Clay was glad that Cole did not hear Mark’s story, if it was true. Who knows. This whole night has been strange. Clay left Mark in the parking lot and returned to comfort Cole. He came up next to him, trying his best to provide some sense to everything that was happening. But Cole sat crouched on his knees next to the large granite, staring, crying a little, and paying no attention to Clay’s comforting words.
Clay stood silently, looking entirely around him at the quiet scene that prevailed at the moment. It was hard to believe moments earlier of a scene artfully described by Mark.

Clay started to feel some responsibility for the evening events. None of this would have happened if they stayed home. But something motivated him to come tonight. Something that has been happening several weeks now. It started about a month ago when he had a dream, visiting some strange place like this to meet his father. It was a pleasant dream, since Clay never knew his father. But the dream abruptly ended. Clay couldn’t point his finger on it, for he couldn’t remember why the dream never continued. But the dream will reoccur many nights thereafter with the same results.