Hi I'm a Social Disease: Horror Stories Part 8

"But why?"

"Because sometimes the dead can't forget. Sometimes the pull of life is too great and they are not ready to relinquish control of that."

"But this is an abomination."

"Be careful of what you say in mixed company, Mr. Thrip. You never know who you might be insulting."

"You're dead."

"No. I once was dead. Now I am very much alive." Nascent grabbed Thrip's hand and placed it on his heart. Thrip felt the organ beating slowly but strongly against his palm.

"Let us begin the funeral," Mr. Nascent said.

He pulled a heavy black book from his overcoat and stood at the foot of the grave. The others at the ceremony gathered around him as he read in a language Thrip did not recognize. Not only was the language unknown to him, the intonations were strange and garbled, like nothing he had ever heard before.

Thrip watched as the ground trembled slightly, the gra.s.s and dirt being pushed away before Mr. Thornburg pulled himself up, dragging himself from the earth. The process was slow, Nascent's chanting oration hallucinatory. With Thornburg halfway out of the grave, a burly man in a tattered tuxedo who Thrip identified as Dr. Kittinger came to aid him in his further struggle. Now all the way out, Thornburg looked around at his surroundings, confusion naked in his eyes.

"It is not unlike birth," Nascent said. "But imagine being born with all of the faculties you had at your death."

Thrip turned his head away. He didn't want to make eye contact with the risen man.

"Kittinger? Could you lead him away? Let him know what is happening to him."

Kittinger led the man into the fog on the far side of the cemetery.

"I've seen enough," Thrip said. He didn't think he could bear it anymore. If there was one thing he had gained through his funeral attendance, it was an immense respect for the dead. Since he was unable to rationalize death in any other way, he could only truly see it as a final, eternal rest.

He turned to leave but Nascent grabbed his arm.

"Now, Mr. Thrip, wouldn't you like to know why we invited you here this evening? It seems we are not the only ones with abominable skills."

"I would turn it off if I could," Thrip said. "Please let go of my arm."

Nascent gripped stronger. Others from the funeral gathered around him.

"One of the interesting things about death, Mr. Thrip, is that the deceased never really remember what death feels like. We don't even remember exactly how it was that we died. Can you imagine having those gaps in your life... in your life after death?"

"I don't know what you're getting at."

"I think you do know what we're getting at. I want you to come with us. I want you to tell us the stories of our deaths."

"I can't do that."

"You don't have a choice. And... Yes. There's something else."

"Just let me leave."

"I can't let you leave. If I let you leave, then I don't get to hear the story of my death. Nor do I get to fulfill my life's work."

"What is your life's work?"

Nascent gripped Thrip's other arm, pulling him closer to his gaunt dead face.

"Look closely. Think back about six years."

Thrip studied the man's face, recognition flooding him. Thrip remembered being in the body of a twenty-year-old woman, staring at the face in front of him as the life left her. At the time, the face was a little thinner, a little hairier...

"Oh G.o.d," Thrip said.

"That's right. She was not the first. She was merely the apex. I had developed quite a taste for murder and you stopped that. Well, you stopped me... The taste is still very much there."

More and more of the incident flooded back to Thrip. The girl's murder had not been quick and painless. It was the most drawn out, excruciating death he had ever experienced, keeping him awake for two days while some hidden part of his psyche felt it all. The man had kept the woman blindfolded the entire time but, at the end, during the last few seconds of her life, he had removed the blindfold. Thrip felt stupid for not realizing who Mr. Nascent was from the beginning. But, aside from the surface physical differences, the context was completely different. Like seeing one of your grade school teachers in the grocery store. Besides, he had spent years trying to forget that face, trying to forget that entire episode, just like he did after every death. Most of the time, he could even manage to forget the name of the deceased. But not this time. Melinda Kendrick. The name stuck with him, always somewhere in the back of his mind.

"You're a monster," Thrip said.

"Oh, that was just the beginning."

Thrip struggled to get away but Nascent's grip proved to be almost supernaturally strong and Thrip was not exactly powerful to begin with. There were others surrounding him, grabbing him, others every bit as strong as Nascent. The more he struggled, the harder they gripped.

"The best part of this whole death business," Nascent said. "Is that, the more people we kill, the stronger we grow, the greater our numbers."

As a whole, the funeral party dragged Thrip into the woods behind the cemetery. And there, they made him repeat the stories of their deaths. Most nights, Thrip was only able to get through one story. The stories left him bereft of nearly everything except sorrow. He ritualistically collapsed onto the ground, weeping and shaking, wanting desperately to be away from these people, wanting to get beyond the cemetery gates so he could breathe a single breath of life. And each night, the strange tribe claimed another victim, bringing them from all over the country but always making sure they died within the borders of the town, within the perimeter of Thrip's knowledge. The Olden Memorial Cemetery had long since been used up. Now there were only the new arrivals and the ones they murdered themselves. Their reach was staggering.

The dead had no concern for him, using him only for the individual stories of their deaths. And the stories were always told on an individual basis, the deceased and Thrip, away from the ear shot of all the others because, in the end, death was a very personal thing. The deceased were given a gun to shoot Thrip with if he tried to get away. They were instructed not to shoot with intentions of killing.

Afterwards, the gun pa.s.sed like a morbid baton, they gathered around one another, some exchanging their new found information and wondering if death would find them a second time. They speculated on how they would take the next victim, inventing new ways so the story would always be entertaining. In a way, Thrip thought, they told the stories themselves.

Soon, Thrip begged them to kill him. He refused to eat so they beat him until he did so. Nascent told him they could not let him die. Once they killed him, Nascent said, all of the stories would go with him, along with the memories of his own death.

And, of course, Thrip thought of other ways to die besides starvation. Like escaping just long enough to take his own life. Or removing his tongue and then his hands so he couldn't write the stories down. But they guarded against this. He was watched at all times. And there he stayed, in their keep, waiting for insanity or a natural death to claim him so that he could, for once, be done with death. Then he thought about what Nascent had said about all the dead retaining the faculties they had gained in life. And Thrip knew they would continue to keep him around. His "gift" would not leave him. He would have to escape.

Months later, a man named Alex Kendrick died from complications due to liver cancer. One night thereafter, the man came to Thrip to learn of his death. Thrip sat on an old tombstone by a small fire, still s.h.i.+vering. He was always cold these days.

Kendrick was a thin man, ravaged by his disease and, perhaps, Thrip thought, he was haunted long before that. He sat down across the fire from Thrip.

"So, I'm sure it was the cancer..." Kendrick began. "I just want to know if my wife was there. Was she holding my hand? Did she say anything?"

Surrept.i.tiously, Thrip surveyed the surroundings. "You know," he said. "This doesn't have to be the end. This doesn't have to be your afterlife."

"What other option do I have? Lying in a hole in the ground until the worms come?"

"The afterlife is whatever you thought it would be before these... ghouls came and dug you up."

"It's too late for philosophy, I'm afraid," Kendrick said.

"Did you have a daughter named *Melinda'?"

Kendrick's eyes grew wide.

"Yeah. How did you..."

"She was murdered, wasn't she?"

"Yeah, she most definitely was. It was a tragedy. So young. So beautiful." Thrip knew the man would have cried if the dead were capable of tears.

"I can tell you who did it."

"I already know who did it. His name was Gregory Nascent. He killed a number of people in this area and... Hey, are you the one who tipped off the cops?"

"I am," Thrip said, wis.h.i.+ng he could feel good about it. "And I guess you haven't exchanged names with all of your... cronies, yet?"

"There seem to be an awful lot of us. Soon we'll outnumber the living."

It was true. There must have been nearly a thousand of them now. They had moved from the surface of the woods to an elaborate underground city beneath the cemetery. Odd that they would choose a place so similar to where they would still be if they had never risen.

"The man who killed your daughter is there. I'm sure you'll meet him eventually. I can describe him to you if you let me go."

"I can't let you go. They've told me what happens if I let you go."

"What? They kill you?"

"Something like that."

"But maybe that's not such a bad thing."

"I don't know. I know that now, I'm able to walk around, I'm able to experience life."

"Have they told you about the murders yet? About how they go out hunting at night? Why do you think there are so many of them? They get you hooked on this perverse life after death and they bleed everything else from you. They wouldn't let you strike out and do what you want. So kill their leader and become their new leader. Tell them what they have to do."

Kendrick looked at the ground, ran a hand across the stubble on his gray cheek.

"How many people get the chance to avenge a loved one's' murderer with no repercussions? You're beyond the law now. All you have to do is let me walk through those gates."

Kendrick took a deep breath.

"And I suppose I'll never know what happened before I died?"

"Do you really want to know? It's never as good as you want it to be."

Freedom was so close. Thrip could feel it in his cold, thin fingers.

"If I saw him, I would recognize him," Kendrick said. "And then I would take him apart. I don't really need you. If I let you go, it'll be like bringing a house of cards down on myself."

"So you really think you'll recognize him?"

"How could I forget? You know, I was there, when they put the needle into his arm. He looked happy. That face is in my brain for good. Definitely. I couldn't forget him."

"Mr. Kendrick!" a voice called out from behind Thrip.

Nascent.

"Others are waiting, good sir!" Nascent said.

"Recognize him?"

"Of course, that's the man who resurrected me."

By this time Nascent was standing next to Thrip.

"He's out of context. Look closely," Thrip said.

"Closely at what?" Nascent asked but, as though he knew what they had been talking about, his hand clamped around Thrip's thin arm. Thrip would have pulled away if he had the strength.

"Nothing," Kendrick said.

"One does not ask a person to look closely at nothing, Mr. Kendrick."

"You know all of the stories, don't you?" Kendrick asked. "Even the private ones?"

"Of course not."

"But you listen in. Like you were just now."

"Only because you're a special case."

"Why?"

Thrip felt like a third wheel. Kendrick hadn't believed him. Thought for sure he would recognize his daughter's killer. He was trying to get Nascent to confess himself.

"Oh, I think you and I both know, don't we, Mr. Kendrick?"

"By the way," Kendrick said. "I don't think we've been properly introduced yet. You know my name, probably read it right off the headstone, but I didn't get yours."

"Would you like to guess?" Nascent said.

"Rumpelstiltskin?" Kendrick said. Thrip almost laughed.

"Close," Nascent said.

And the night exploded in gunfire and pain.

A bullet tore into Thrip's upper arm where Nascent had held him. But Nascent's hand had been torn to gore, along with part of Thrip's arm.

Everything in slow motion, Thrip turned to see Nascent staring at Kendrick. Nascent held the stump of his left wrist out before him. Thrip was already moving away, out of this chamber and toward the surface. He hoped no one tried stopping him. The gun fired continuously behind him.

By the time he reached the cemetery gates, Thrip felt, for the first time, what it was like to feel someone die a second time. Once safely outside the gates, he collapsed onto the ground, reeling with the vast torment of Nascent's afterlife. If the man had escaped death once, Thrip didn't see how he was going to escape it a second time. Not with his body as torn apart as his soul.

Thrip watched the dawn gray the dark purple of the sky. His first dawn in months. He picked himself up from the ground, damp with dew, and went in search of a convenient store. He desperately needed a cigarette.