Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (28 page)

Emily gaped at him in surprise as he smiled back in the same witchy-stoner way he had at his shop. She’d never mistake all those tattoos. Evidently he had no problem recognizing her, either.

“Yo. If it ain’t the Muse-lady! Dinesh said you’d come here, I just didn’t believe him.” He smiled broadly and motioned to the man behind the piano.

A long-haired Indian stoner, whom she could only assume to be Dinesh, nodded at her in response like Lurch from
The Addams Family
. He kicked the emaciated bald guy bent at the harp, who looked over his shoulder at Emily. She heard him utter, “Holy shit,” over a woeful chord. A few of the mourners’ heads popped up in alarm.

“What are you doing here?” Emily asked in disbelief.

“Shop’s closed on Mondays. Just working here to earn a little extra scratch. That’s Buck next to Dinesh—they’re aiding the dearly beloved with the passing of their dearly departed, yada, yada, yada. Little do they know, Mr. Lipswitch’s hanging out on the third floor balcony with his wife. She’s bitching about all the people who didn’t show up. Can’t you see him, the fat dude with the mustache?”

Emily peered up into the dim gallery. “Um, no. I don’t think so. But I think I’m a one-woman ghost watcher, though. You can see them all? Every one?”

“Yeah. It’s a bummer, though. Seems like they’ve all got something that’s harshing their mellow. One ghost can’t stand to be near his ex-wife’s ashes ’cause it’s eating away at what’s left of him. Another one is rotting from all the shit she dumped on everybody in her life. Issues, issues, issues. A nasty bunch here, if I do say so myself.”

Emily wanted to hug him at that moment; he was the first smiling face she had seen all day. The realization made all the strength she had girded herself with to survive the past few hours nearly crumble away.

“Dwayne, your name’s Dwayne, right?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice even.

He gave her the thumbs up and showed off his rather fancy nametag. “Dwayne Cobshib.”

“Pleased to meet you again, Dwayne Cobshib. I’m Emily, Emily Thomas.” She shook his hand with a brisk, business-like nature which confused him a bit. “I need your help. I need to find someone, well, the remains of someone who I think is here. Is there a directory or book or anything I could check?”

He looked uncomfortable. “Uh, actually, I’m pretty new here.”

“How new?”

“My first week. Dinesh got me the job.”

Emily groaned.

“Yo, yo, Muse-lady, don’t start freaking. I don’t think there’s anything like that, anyway. You know, privacy and all. Some really famous people are boxed up here.”

“You don’t suppose you could ask, um…” Emily glanced up at the gallery where she thought Mr. Lipswitch might be standing.

“Whoa. No way. It’s a member’s only club, and they’re tighter than a nun’s budget with that shit. They take those secrets to the grave.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? She told me to be here at dusk, and I came without even knowing why. Do you know what I’ve been through today? Do you have any idea? Now I’m standing here in some God-forsaken crypt, the reason for which I have no idea, my friends are probably apoplectic wondering where the hell I am, and all I want to do is go home and forget this whole day ever happened. Do you understand? Do you?!”

It was the moment she knew was coming, she just didn’t picture it happening in front of a security guard/palm reader, the entire grieving Lipswitch family, two stoner musicians, and countless disembodied dead people. Grabbing him, her face inches from his, she began to shake the shoulders of a tattooed man who weeks ago had told her she’d spent lifetimes loving the man who was probably going to kill her the minute she walked in the door tonight. “Do you understand?”

Dwayne looked petrified, like someone had just handed him a ticking time bomb, which wasn’t far from the truth. He awkwardly put his arms around her, guiding her off and up the stairs with Emily resisting all the way until they reached the top. A couch was tucked in the corner, the back covered in an abundance of velvet pillows.

Emily finally gave in to his efforts and felt a stray tear steal down her face as she turned her head into the pot-reeking softness of his shoulder. He sat there as she unloaded her whole day, her whole week, her whole month into his tattooed arms.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, her voice raw from the telling and a few more of her tears shouldered away, the equally wary faces of Dinesh and Buck poked around the corner. Dinesh ventured closer and offered her a large glass of wine that she took with shaking hands.

“Drink up, sister. You look like the dead.”

She snorted and gulped the wine down in one swallow. It hit her stomach like a fist. Dinesh glanced at Buck who begrudgingly handed his glass over. “But it’s good vino, man. Those Lipshit people are loaded.”

“Lipswitch,” mumbled Dinesh.

The second glass disappeared without a hitch. Warm tendrils of alcohol spiraled down to Emily’s feet.

“Look, we’d really like to help,” said Dwayne, “but we got another gig across town. There’s a Wiccan spiral dance over on Valencia. We promised Dinesh’s girlfriend, Lucretia, we’d be there like a half hour ago. She’s gonna turn me into a newt or some other shit if I don’t get going. Man, witches…”

Buck didn’t utter a word, just looked apologetic and shrugged his shoulders as if to agree with the vagaries of the supernatural.

“Meet you in the van, dude,” said Dinesh as Buck followed silently, and with a wave goodbye, their footsteps clodded away leaving Dwayne staring down at her.

“Look, it’ll probably get me fired, but why don’t you stick around and look for those cre-mains? Just flick the lock on the door when you leave. It ain’t like you’ll be getting any visitors this late at night. I’m just gonna close up the office downstairs. Can you believe them giving me an office? Righteous.

“Oh, yeah, here, if you have any problems.” He patted his jacket and withdrew a card.

Emily held it up in the dim light:

Dwayne Cobshib

Palmist, Tarot Card Reader, Spiritualist, and Security Guard,
The Columbarium

His phone number was listed, followed by the e-mail address of
[email protected]
. She managed a smile.

“A séance might be just what you need,” Dwayne informed her. “They really like to dish the dirt on each other. The secret is to find the right spirit guide to allow the positive energy to flow.”

Emily nodded weakly and wondered how she had gotten to this point, sitting in a crypt after hours, chatting about communicating with the Great Beyond after barely escaping the clutches of a very live man with the help of a very dead woman. She hung her head and chuckled miserably.

“Thank you, Dwayne. I suppose I’ll just start looking around. Guess here’s as good a place as any. You wouldn’t happen to know how many um, uh, remains are here?”

“Ehhhh, about seven thousand.”

Her heart fell to her lap. Seven thousand! How the hell was she going to find Nora amidst seven thousand vaults?

“Although there’s a bunch that are gonna be moved to other locations tomorrow, so it’ll lower the number by a few.”

“Moved to other locations? Which ones?”

“They’re marked with a red tag. Something about money running out from the estates or something. Bummer, though. It’s going to make for a ton of even more pissed off spirits.”

Hope rose up in her. Time was running out. Is that what Nora meant? Time was running out before her ashes would be sent to God knows where? And if they were lost, there would be no way to reunite them with her husband.

“Oh, one more thing.” Dwayne handed her his flashlight. “You’re going to need this. The lights are on a timer. They’ll be going off in a few hours.”

Great. She was going to be left in the spookiest place in San Francisco, victim to a thousand ghosts, with only a flashlight to protect her.

“Who you looking for, by the way?”

She told him, and he shrugged his shoulders. “Look, gotta run. Dinesh hates to wait. Good luck there, Muse-lady.”

Even with the lights on, the lower floor, with its heavy, breathing silence, preyed on her nerves. Every corridor was lined with countless vaults up and down their high walls, making her search seem doomed. With each step, she could hear the unmistakable fall of footsteps behind her. They ceased when she paused. The chill of the air brushed against her hair as though someone—or something—had breathed against her ear. Looking over her shoulder, her heart plummeted into the pit of her stomach when she saw the emaciated shape of an eyeless face slither into the shadows.

Swallowing down a mouthful of fear, she began searching for the vaults with red tags tied to their locks. Most were little niches with glass fronts, and they usually held an urn or some other receptacle for the ashes and other memorabilia from the departed. Some even smoothed her jarred nerves: a teapot, a piggy bank, a cocktail shaker that she double checked, sure it had to be Nora’s, but it wasn’t. Pictures of family were on display inside too, as well as decorated boxes and letters. Her hand dusted along as if greeting these people by name, seeing their lives defined by such heartfelt things. Other vaults brought back her trepidation. They were old, forbidding metal drawers, ornate gilded fronts with no visibility to the secrets within. As she crept about, her belief solidified that Nora’s warning must have meant that her ashes were in jeopardy of being lost. Time passed, and with each weary footstep, the gravity and weight of the day began to sink in.

There were no such things as ghosts, Vandin had said, mocking her. But she knew there were, and now she could feel them creeping out of the shadows to stalk her progress. No longer did they seem the dismissive lot that Dwayne had spoken of. Some felt lifeless in their stillness, some lurking, some waiting and watching. The hair on her arms stood up, her body keenly aware of their presence. Vandin’s voice whispered among them:
Ghosts are not reality, neither is love. They’re both figments of the imagination to keep us from the void, from madness
.

That’s when the lights went out.

Suddenly the air whispered with a thousand voices, hushing and hissing; the darkness about her was heavy with their swirling shapes. She flicked on the flashlight but it shook in her hand as the bulb began to wane. She jostled it a little more, but only an anemic sliver of light shone in the night. Faceless beings began to sweep around her, white, living cobwebs, moist and freezing as they passed. A palpable resentment filled them as though she had invaded their sanctum, stayed too long in a place she did not belong.

Their growing crush made her clutch at the wrought iron railing, compelling her to take one step at a time as she fought against the force that sought to drain her, to drag her down. She closed her eyes in an attempt to banish them, but she felt their souls lash at her skin, equally enraged and fascinated by her humanity. Vandin’s words reverberated again in her mind:
To keep us from the void, madness.

No. She was in control, she insisted to herself, not the fear around her. Looking up she saw the top of the basilica—the last place she needed to search. Struggling to navigate the remaining flight of steps, she could feel the ghosts’ increasing hostility at her trespassing, their curiosity turning heated. All the air seemed driven from her lungs, and the walls of crypts threatened to suffocate her. Intense claustrophobia seized her. She remembered the awful childhood memory of being locked in a hallway closet. A wild mouse was trapped along with her. It scratched madly in the corner, its red eyes flashing in the thin line of light under the frame. Only a few seconds till she passed out. She thought of the cool night and the sweetness of the air, but she couldn’t move.

“Nora!” she shouted into the blackness.

“Norrrraaaa!” returned to her unanswered. She had to get to out to open space. She couldn’t breathe. Unseen hands shoved her closer to the edge of the basilica’s railing, the marble floor barely visible from on high, its tiles pulling her to them like lead weights.

“Join us,” she could hear the voices whisper. “One more step, Emily.” Her hands clenched the metal handrail, her palms slicked with cold sweat. Long-dead fingers speared her shoulders and combed through her hair, leaving a chilled touch in their wake.

“No, let her be,” another voice muttered. “She doesn’t belong here. Make her go away,” a child cried. A thin, dry voice spat, “She’d be better off dead.” Paralyzed, she felt arms heave her up the railing.

“No!” she screamed into the night. “No!” She wrenched away from the death grip and threw herself toward the stairs. A hand reached out and grabbed hers, but she slammed her body hard against it.

“Emily,” she heard a woman shout.

Emily twisted about, hearing Nora’s voice. The emptiness and desolation of this place took root in her. “Nora!” Emily cried out in return.

Then silence. A horrible, chilling silence swelled up in the darkness. And a rattle, a wheezing death rattle sounded from down far below on the marble floor. The lurid sound of a dead limb being dragged across the tiles. Terrified, Emily froze on the landing. Fear paralyzed her. Step by step, the thing lumbered up the rings of the basilica until something rose out of the pitch black. Rags covered milky eyes. Dead black nails covered gray veined fingers.