Graveyard Games

“A cemetery is a little cliché, don’t you think?” a voice that sounded not unlike an out-of-tune flute asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Come on, Uncle Rex,” Hayleigh-Beth continued. “I’ve heard too many scary stories about a cemetery. It’s an overused trope.”

“Okay, first of all, you’re like six,” I said. “And second, shut up.”

“I’m seven,” Hayleigh-Beth corrected. “And Mommy says we’re not allowed to say that in our house.”

“Well, Hayleigh-Beth, do you know what Mommy can do?”

“What can mommy—“

“Shut up.”

“You’re not a very good Guncle.”

“I hate that word,” I brushed her off with a flick of my wrist. “Now, put a sucker in your mouth or something, and let’s get back to the story.”

“Fine,” she agreed. “You were saying that you and my mom and her then-boyfriend had just arrived at the stupid cemetery.”

Alaiya, Chuck and I had just arrived at the not-so-stupid cemetery. The air felt wet on our noses and smelled of rotted bouquets, petrichor from the fresh rain, and somehow, the sweet scent of vanilla. Nature was on full display in its lively soundscape, with owls repetitively asking who, the distant coyotes howling into the navy-blue, star-speckled sky, and the harsh wind whistling through the towering weeping willow trees, their long braids swaying to and fro. Weeping willows aren’t native to this area, so they would have intentionally planted them here. A suitable choice for a cemetery.

A crunching sound from behind quickly caught my attention.

“What was that?” I whipped my head around, hoping my eyes wouldn’t find a creature of the night chomping away on some poor person’s femur.

“Nature Valley bar,” Chuck said through a mouth full of granola escaping his lips. “Want one?”

“Did you really have to bring the messiest, loudest, and the most generationally accepted as annoying snack on planet Earth to the cemetery?” I said with a roll of my eyes at Chuck.

“What do they care?” Chuck shrugged. “They’re all dead. I don’t think they’ll mind a little mess or noise. This place is a dump, anyhow.”

“What if you wake a spirit or something?” Alaiya asked.

“That’ll only happen if you’re the kind of idiot who believes in that stuff,” Chuck laughed.

“Hey Chuckles,” I said, “Let’s not be a dick to my best friend, okay? I didn’t actually invite you to come with us. I’ve got a shovel in my trunk and I’d have no problem leaving you here.”

“Is that a threat, Pipsqueak?”

“Maybe it is,” I stepped closer to him. “I’m just not sure I could dig a hole in the ground big enough for your ego. Your brain, however…” I said, making a gesture that meant tiny with my index finger and thumb.

“Boys! Stop!” Alaiya shouted. “Great, now I’m definitely going to wake the dead.”

“Why are we here, anyway?” Chuck asked, sitting down on top of a mossy headstone.

“Chuck,” Alaiya said, making an effort to read the headstone. “I don’t think Adelaide B. Parker would appreciate being sat on.”

“Yeah, have some respect, Chuck,” I added.

He stood and wiped the damp moss from his ass. “My sincerest apologies, Addi,” Chuck mocked.

“Hey,” Alaiya said, quickly crouching down at the headstone. “She had the same birthday as me. April 16th, 1872.”

“I didn’t know you were a hundred and fifty-two years old,” Chuck joked.

“She’d be a hundred and fifty-four, genius,” I corrected.

“You guys,” Alaiya aggressively whispered. “Adelaide B. Parker. Alaiya Barbara Patterson.”

“Your middle name is Barbara?” Chuck spat. “That’s like a Grandma’s name.”

“It was her Grandma’s name, you ass,” I said. “Do you not see what she’s saying? They have the same initials. And birthday.” I joined her, kneeling at the headstone.

“I’m scared.” Alaiya said. “Does that mean I’m going to die on—” she scratched off the moss to reveal, “October 30th?”

A sharp, high-pitched tearing sound jolted us to our feet. Somehow, we stood straight up from kneeling, jumped a full one-eighty, and grabbed each other into a hug in one fluid, quick motion.

“Barbecue chips, anyone?” Chuck offered as he loudly crunched down on a potato chip.

“Jesus fuck, Chuck!” I yelled.

“What? What’s wrong with barbecue?” he asked.

“What’s wrong with you!” I returned.

“You guys, October 30th is two days away!” Alaiya said, stomping her feet in the red, brown, and orange leaves like a toddler. “What if I only have two days left to live?”

“I’d eat some barbecue chips, then,” Chuck said, holding out the bag.

“Okay, forget about the chips,” I said, snatching the bag from Chuck. “And forget about Adelaide B. Parker. It’s just a creepy coincidence. You’re not going to die on Friday, Alaiya.”

“Yeah, you can’t die before Halloween!” Chuck moaned. “Who would be the She-Ra to my He-Man? I mean, I guess I could ask my sister, but that might be kinda weird.”

“Chuck, stop allowing words to come out of your mouth,” I said. “Now, let’s get back to why we are here.”

“Which is?” Chuck asked.

“Well, we used to have a tradition as kids,” I started explaining. “We’d come here at night, just the two of us, or sometimes with other friends. We’d pick a starting grave, and then from there, you have to run off and find another grave with the same name. For example, if we started here, we’d have to go find another Adelaide, and the first to find one and come back to this grave wins.”

“Or, sometimes,” Alaiya jumped in. “We’d look for our own names. But I’m a little too freaked out to play that version of the game tonight.”

“So you have to go off on your own in the cemetery?” Chuck asked.

“Yeah,” I confirmed. “The thrill is what makes it fun.”

“Actually,” Alaiya piped up. “I think I’m a little too freaked out for that, too.”

“You’ve grown soft on me, Lay-Lay,” I pout to her. “But fine. You can go with Chuck, and I’ll go off on my own.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Let’s find our starting point.”

“Over here!” Chuck shouted before we even noticed he had run off. “Richard S. Douglas! I’m sure there are lots of dicks around here!”

“Good luck with him,” I whispered, patting Alaiya on the shoulder.

“In this game, or in general?”

“Both. He’s a dud.”

“I don’t know, Rex. I think he might be the one.”

“And so were James, Oliver, Charlie, and Vincent,” I reminded her.

“Shut up.” She shoved me away and linked arms with her soulmate.

“Okay, so we’re looking for Richard,” I said to the linked-lovers. “First person to find another one and get back here wins.”

“Aren’t you scared to go off on your own?” Alaiya asked.

“No, and to prove it, I’m giving myself a head start!” I said, peeling off from them and leaving leaves flying in my wake on my solo search for Dick.

Running through the moist, grassy rows of cement headstones, my eyes stopped on any name that started with the letter R: Randy, Roman, Ryan, Rose, Rupert, Rosalind. But no Richard. Not even a Rex.

It was always hard growing up playing the version of this game where we searched for our own names, given that both Alaiya and I have quite unique ones. My parents named me Rex because it means king in Italian. It’s what Kings of England use after their first name when signing documents. Charles R, Richard R, Henry R. Queens use Regina, which is what my name would have been if I were a girl.

“Like Regina George?” Hayleigh-Beth interrupted.

“No, like Regina, Saskatchewan,” I said. I was tempted to say it’s like vagina, but that’s for a different audience. “Let’s refill your goldfish crackers and get back to the story, Hayleigh-Beth.”

“Did anyone find Richard?” she asked after her mouth was once again full.

A curdling scream shot shivers up my spine and made the hair on my neck stand up as if it were in the military. I pulled out my phone, which was at six percent, and called Alaiya as fast as I could before it could die in the graveyard, too.

“Rex!” Alaiya answered.

“Did you hear that?” I shout-whispered into my phone.

“Yes, I did,” she whimpered back. “It was Chuck!”

“Oh shit! Is he okay?”

“He twisted his ankle looking for Dick!”

“If I had a nickel,” I laughed.

“Rex! He can’t move!”

“Okay, stay calm! I’ll come find you. Where are you?”

“All the last names around here start with T.”

“So you’re in the southern section,” I said. “What are the names immediately around you?”

“Um, I see Samuel, Mary and—”

My phone died.

Immediately, I started bolting across the cemetery. I didn’t realize we had gotten so much distance between us. I saw the last names starting with R and S, so I knew I was getting close. The cold air was almost burning my face as I ran through it, and the scent of vanilla continued to linger in the air.

Thompson, Tilly, Turner, Taylor. I made it to the right area. Now I just needed to find Samuel and Mary to find Alaiya and Chuck, which shouldn’t be difficult.

I found Mary E. Tucker, and next to her was Samuel J. Thompson. But no Alaiya or Chuck. This is where they said they’d be. How could they have gotten anywhere if Chuck couldn’t move? My mind began to spiral, and I turned in circles looking for them.

“Alaiya!” I shouted, frantically looking around. “Chuck!” I screamed louder. “RICHARD!” I shouted, my eyes landing upon the headstone behind Mary and Samuel, bearing the winning name. I turned around again, looking off in the distance, wondering if they saw this headstone and hobbled their way back to our starting point. Was this just a distraction method after all? Or did they run off because they saw something scary? Or perhaps they were kidnapped.

A tap on my shoulder extracted the soul from my body. I screamed, and turning around, my shriek intensified as I realized it was not Alaiya or Chuck staring back at me with a grin and an overpowering smell of vanilla, instantly locking in the headache my screaming ushered in.

“Apologies, sir,” the man said. “I didn’t intend to startle you.”

He was a peculiar-looking man, but he didn’t seem to be a threat. He was dressed in a long, slick, black suit jacket that hung to his knees, with a brown button-up vest, a white collared shirt with a brown bowtie, and black and grey pinstriped pants. Round glasses and a black top hat completed the outfit that must have taken him forty minutes to get into this morning. And here I am in a grey hoodie, black sweatpants from high school with my grad year on them, and red Crocs.

“You did startle me,” I said. “But it’s okay.”

“Are you?” He asked. “Okay? What is a young lad like you doing in a graveyard after midnight?”

“Just for fun. I’m not alone. I’m with my friends.”

“A graveyard isn’t exactly the place for fun, Rex.”

“How did you—wait. I’ve been smelling vanilla all night. Have you been following us?”

“It’s always been my signature scent. A few drops on the handkerchief works wonders.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Didn’t I?”

“Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

“Visiting old friends. My name is Bertie. Most folks call me Mr. Buckshire. A pleasure to meet you, Rex.” He extended his gloved hand to mine to shake it.

“Do you have a cell phone? Mine died and I need to find my friends.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. But I do believe they scurried off in that direction,” he said, pointing north. “I can stay here in case they come back.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Just don’t yell so much. It upsets the dead.”

“Sorry, dead people!” I yelled as I started running back off in the direction I came, searching for my friends.

I wouldn’t put it past Alaiya to have Chuck wobble back in excruciating pain to our starting point just so she can win the game. Finally, I found Richard S. Douglas again, but no Alaiya B. Patterson or Chuck whatever-his-full name-is. I was about to start shouting their names again, before the lingering scent of vanilla reminded me not to upset the dead.

“I’m out of crackers again!” Hayleigh-Beth cried. “And can I have a juice box?”

“Apple or orange?”

“Grape!”

“First of all, who willingly chooses grape? And second, what do you say?” I pulled on my right earlobe as my mom always did when asking for manners.

“Please, Uncle Rex?”

“There you go.”

“What does vanilla smell like?” she asked as I handed her another round of goldfish crackers and a grape juice box.

“It’s warm and sweet, a little woody, a bit smokey. It’s actually what your mom uses as a freshener in the bathroom.”

“So what happened to Mommy and not-Daddy?”

Alaiya and Chuck were still nowhere to be found, and my phone was still as dead as Richard S. Douglas. I figured they must have been wandering around looking for me, so my best bet was to stay put and hope they came back to me. So I planted my butt on the headstone.

“You know, I don’t think Richard here would appreciate being sat on.”

“Jesus, Bertie!” I jumped. “Can you wear a fucking bell or something?”

“Grave bells only work for those under the ground. But the days of chatelaines are over, and I lost my Albert chain years ago.”

“Come again? What does any of that mean?”

“People used to be terribly afraid of being buried alive. So they attached a string to the deceased in their coffin so that, if the person were alive, they could ring the bell above ground to call for help.”

“You have a habit of never answering more than one question, huh?”

“I see you haven’t found your friends.”

“I see you’re still following me. What if they went back to Mary and Samuel?”

“They didn’t,” he said.

“Rex!” a shrill voice shouted from a distance.

“Alaiya!” I shouted back.

“Bertie!” Bertie quietly said to himself.

I bolted in the direction of Alaiya’s voice, only to find her alone. “Where’s Chuck?”

“I sent him home in a cab,” she said. “I’m sorry I let him ruin the night.”

“It’s okay, but is he okay? Shouldn’t you have sent him to a hospital in an ambulance?”

“His mom is an emergency room nurse. He’ll be fine at home. I’m sorry I left you all alone! It must have been scary.”

“I mean, it’s how the game was intended, right?” I said, as we walked back to Bertie and Richard. “And I wasn’t entirely alone. I had Bertie.”

“Bertie?”

“Yeah, the vanilla we kept smelling? It was him. He was following us around. He helped me try to find you guys.”

“So we have a stalker?”

“Not a stalker, he’s kind! A dapper fellow, too. Let me introduce you to him.”

We got back to the spot, but once again, Bertie had wandered off. The scent of vanilla let me know he hadn’t gone far.

“Bertie?” I shout-whisper, so as not to wake the dead.

“Bertie?” Alaiya questioned.

“Yes, Bertie Buckshire, that’s his name, he said.”

“R-Rex?” Alaiya stuttered. “Is Bertie short for Albert?”

“Probably! He mentioned something about an Albert chain.”

“R-Rex,” she said again, pointing down.

The strong scent of vanilla intensified, overwhelming my senses, clouding my vision as my eyes tried to follow her shaking index finger down to a headstone. They widened into what I could only assume were the size of golf balls as they read the old writing etched into the headstone.

ALBERT “BERTIE” BUCKSHIRE, January 13, 1867 - December 21, 1898.

“And then what happened?!” Hayleigh-Beth asked, on the edge of her seat, the bowl of goldfish crackers full but set aside, her juice box not yet punctured with the straw.

“Your mom and I gasped and shot a look at each other, our hearts sinking into the wet grass, as we both whispered, ‘Did you just tap my shoulder?’ ”