Memento Mori

Sensitive themes: Death and Innuendo.

Malcolm Wood and Robin Cousteau held hands as they walked from work that night. October sky burned orange for them as the sun set; the world made ochre. Dead leaves were strewn about the graveyard they cut through on their way home. The two would find the crunchiest deceased foliage, and compete to see who made the most satisfying sound with a stomp or step.

Mal had been forced to stay late that night. He worked for the local bank, and had a loan meeting with a business owner. Robin had got off early; she worked as a freelance dance instructor. Her athletic legs wrapped in fluffy black pants that made a “woosh” when she walked. Her long, midnight hair braided, and swinging between her shoulder blades. She was elegant in both stature and stride in her sneakers, and oversized gray sweatshirt.

Mal was dressed in brown corduroy pants, with brown boots, and a brown jacket with patches on the elbows; the only pop of color was the white shirt, and green knit tie he wore underneath. His appearance was, in a word, nerdy. He wore readers that he had lost for an hour in his fine-as-silk hair; black with reddish strands. She had to remind him twice that they were on his head, but he neglected to move them each time. She suspected there was a third reminder coming soon.

“We should check those ones out,” Robin pointed at a far corner of the yard. They hadn’t lived in the area long, and made an effort to see all the folks they were walking with. The two would research a person each week and light a candle for them. The couple knew it was very likely that the old graves were long forgotten. Someone should think of them after their passing. Someone should remember them.

Mal’s face shifted uncomfortably. “We have to wait until Monday, we still have Lucielle Hill.”

“Fair enough. You want that white pizza from the pub tonight?”

“Prisoner of Azkaban?”

“Hell yeah.”

“I’m a lucky man.”

“Mhm!”

The weekend came and went, the two managed to get through four of the series’ films. Robin and Mal took turns making each other tea or coffee, and one night he made them a ramen dish. The television turned up high — Mal’s hearing was going.

Rain came fast and hard that weekend, it pounded on their apartment ceiling, and they snuggled together in thick sweaters. Their movie marathon was interspersed with breaks for showers, or reading books, work prep, or when either of them felt even slightly concupiscent — it was a miracle they made it through those four films.

Monday came, October 30th. All Hallows Eve.

Mal had to work late again.

Robin got out early. She waited for him first in a cafe, and then a bar; sipping on wine and working on a third reread of Pride and Prejudice. Waving away the young men who tried to approach her with a Mr. Darcy quote. It began to pour. Heavy drops shattered against the sidewalk, and smashed the tops of the cars parked on the street.

The door swung open, and a drenched boyfriend skipped inside.

“Sorry darling!” he sat down next to Robin at the stool the other men had been trying to warm. He waved to the tender, “Pinot Noir please, Jere.”

“You got it Mal.”

“How many was it this time?” Mal asked Robin.

“Four.”

“How's that?” he put his hand behind his ear, leaning in, and closing his eyes to focus on her voice. “Damn my ears.”

“Three,” her eyes were locked on the page until she found a good stopping spot. “But they’re such cute ears.” she lifted from the page for a moment to hold one in her hand.

“Which?”

“That table,” she jarred a thumb over to a table of college guys, before locking back in on the book. “I think they were taking bets on who could get the digits first.”

“Can you blame them?” he kissed her check, making eye contact with the crew. The hyenas looked back. Mal, contrary to his appearance, did not have the constitution of a wet blanket. He liked to fight, and missed his days in the boxing ring. He had given the gym up, but he was stronger than he looked. Mal wrapped his arm around her waist, he smiled at the young men as if to say, “she’s mine boys, lay-off.”

He pulled off his jacket, and slicked his rain-soaked hair back. She stopped reading. Looking up at her man, he looked like he belonged in the Dirty Thirties. A professional air about him, but with dark bags under his eyes. His soul was old, but so was hers.

The two drank their alcohol; warm bellies for the walk home. The rain had ceased.

Sky grew dark, still filled with those pausing rain clouds, the sun long gone — night had set in. Robin’s arm was wrapped in his, the left side of her body getting wet from his drenched suit. They entered the graveyard. ,

SNAP.

A twig broke behind them.

“What was that?” Mal did not trust his hearing. “Maybe those frat boys.”

“It’s probably nothing.”

SNAP. CRACK. And then a sickening, POP!

Mal whipped around, his dress shoe shrieking on the cobbled walk. His hands ready, there were four figures — shades in the dark that followed them. “Come on out then!” he shouted, voice echoing through the emptiness of the cemetery.

One of the clouds moved.

Moonlight shone down upon the scene. A ray of light struck the figure. Rotten flesh. One gleaming eye glared back, the other socket vacant of gelatin. Another figure was transparent, a woman in a flapper dress, with a jeweled bandeau wrapped around platinum blonde hair; she was weeping. The two other figures brushed dirt off their pinstripe suits and fedoras, readying ghostly tommy guns.

Robin and Mal thought for a moment that the quartet were kids in costumes looking to harass folks the day before trick-or-treating.

The first figure's arm raised, the fingers bent at grotesque angles, the carrion covered phalange snapping off and falling to the ground. Then a horrible, grating, deep voice spoke, “Mallllcolmmmm.” The figure’s back snapped; blood-stained, rotting hands reaching for the cobblestone. The creature howled, and ran toward them on all fours.

Robin was pulling Mal, dragging him toward the exit. Whatever was chasing them was decidedly evil.

The two sprinted past the headstones, the leaves crunching and snapping under their feet.

Robin’s sneaker struck a stone and she rocketed through the air, splashing into a lucky grass patch. She could see the creature's eye shining, bouncing as it ran. Her ankle seared with pain. Mal went to her, hoisting her in his arms. He carried her like a bride, sprinting toward the iron gate in the distance. POP POP POP, the spectral guns flared, jovial laughter followed behind. The weeping sounds got louder. “Mal!” Robin shouted. The creature jumped at them. He tossed her onto the grass lawn, inches from the edge of the graveyard. She slid on her butt across the wet grass wincing as her ankle found purchase.

Mal reared around, pulling a fountain pen from his jacket with his left hand, and wrapping his right hand around his keys. The monster clawed at him and he decked it with a right uppercut. The corpse’s bottom jaw soared into the air. He knocked it to the ground, punching over and over and over. Mal took the pen and stabbed it into the thing’s good eye. It sounded a scream like a dying cat.

Robin wanted to help, but something was keeping her anchored there. Two cold clamps clutched her body, pinning it to the ground.

Robin witnessed in horror, she tried to stand, but fell forward into the muddy autumn earth, those claws tearing her back. She watched as Mal got angry, ripping the corpse apart. “I’m not going back!” he roared as he pulled a rotten leg from its pelvis.

The weeping got louder.

When the creature hunting them was thoroughly disassembled, he huffed and threw the matter away. Turning back to Robin.

She saw a ghostly hand erupt from the ground; it grabbed his ankle. Mal slammed to the ground, his nose cracking against the cobblestone. “Robin!” he screamed, his hands reaching out.

“I’m coming!” she mustered herself up, and in a limping run, she followed. Pushing through the pain, adrenaline kicked it - a sudden burst of speed!

The hand dragged faster, and faster, and Mal skid away from her. She couldn’t keep up. “Robin!” he yelled again, she could hear the fear in his voice. The moon’s light hit his tears, little silver raindrops running down his face.

Mal’s body was pulled to that far corner of the graveyard. He was coughing on dirt, choking to scream, “Robi-”. Mal was gone, and so were the apparitions. The two gun-toting ghouls had vanished, and the sobbing stopped. The remnants of the corpse Mal had torn asunder melted back into the ground. Silence.

The cops believed Robin. They believed that four people dressed in strange costumes attacked her boyfriend. That he had been dragged off, kidnapped by a group of folks. It could happen. A missing persons report was filed, and a search began.

A week later the search was called off, and it was deemed that he had likely run off. Or that he was dead — either was more believable than Robin’s story, which she kept to herself.

A month later she forced herself to walk through the graveyard, stepping carefully through a thin layer of snow. She let out a sigh when she saw the name. Robin was unfazed, made numb in the last weeks. She knew what it would say...

“Malcolm Wood

Loving Husband

Killed by Grady Gang

1902 - 1935”

When Robin arrived back home to their apartment she lit a candle for Mal. Wrapped in one of his sweaters, she watched the movies with him.