It was all Professor Slogar’s fault. She’s the one who invited Angel to the damn party. It didn’t matter she would’ve crashed anyway to continue spying on her next victim, but as a crashee she never would’ve indulged in a glass of the very delicious, definitely non-Nyquil tasting punch or five. And now Mum has taken her knife kit! And her bone saw! All for “embarrassing her in front of that vile, not-fit-to-breathe-the-same-air-as-them family.” Angel would have to wait two weeks, weeks!, before adding to her kill tally. It was completely ridiculous. And all Cousin Mordecai fault, too! If he hadn’t coughed all over her, she would’ve already killed that horrible, nasty girl instead of being laid up in bed.
Suddenly a delightfully, delicious idea came to Angel. “Mordecai!,” she yelled sweetly. “I have a message for you. It’s from Willamina.”
_ _ _
Cousin Mordecai suppressed a shiver. Gaze darting from one dark shadow to another, he wrapped his arms around his torso. A cemetery was a strange place for his dear, sweet Willamina to want to meet. He didn’t like grave yards. They were full of dead people. But lest she think him unmanly, he arrived ten minutes early, flowers in hand, and walked to the Mausoleum in the center of the cemetery.
Mordecai glanced at his bare wrist. He’d forgotten his Power Puff Girls watch at home, but thirty minutes must have gone by already. Sweet Willamina was probably brushing her hair. He’d show her he could be patient. He’d wait all night for—
Mordecai froze. What was that?
The high, metallic sound made him jump. “Will—Willamina? Is that you?”
Whoosh. Swish. Thump.
With a strangled cry, Mordecai dropped the flowers and began to run. He’d wait for Willamina by the entrance. The very lit entrance.
The ground suddenly disappeared and Mordecai fell, hands reaching and grasping at air. He landed on the cold, damp earth with a jolt. Rolling, he stared up. It took him a few moments to figure out where he was. “Help,” he whimpered. “Someone?”
Cousin Mordecai, haunted by horrors, had fallen into an empty, open grave.
_ _ _
Willem Stark leaned against his shovel to wipe a sleeve against his itchy forehead. Plagued by pox, his whole body was covered with small red bumps. And they itched like crazy. But there wasn’t nothing he wouldn’t do for the Dam. And she needed the coin in Sir Dam’s grave. So a coin he was after. The shovel clanked against the headstone as he maneuvered to scoop another pile of dirt. Digging and undigging graves was his specialty. It was all in the wrist.
Whoosh. Sink the shovel deep into the earth.
Swish. With a flick of the wrist, raise it up.
Thump. Dump the dirt onto the ever-growing pile.
Willem paused. Cocked his head. Was that a cry?
Shrugging, he went back to his work. Whoosh. Swish. Thump. There were all kinds of crazies in the cemetery at night.
_ _ _
Lord Slogar: -45
Professor Helena Slogar: 0
Melissa Slogar: 0
Elias E. Gorr: -30
The Old Dam 0
Cousin Mordecai: -40
Willem Stark: -30
Gloomy Writing Prompt: Mother-in-law coming to town? A zombie apocalypse? Write a scene where your character is haunted by horrors.
Have you missed a GW post? Click the Gloomy Wednesday category from the drop down menu on the right to find the others.