THE NIGHT BLOGGER The Graveyard Game (and other cemetery plots) Episode One 'The Graveyard Game'

By Al Bruno III

August 14th: Alone and fearless, Sara Bishop entered the long-abandoned Pinewood Cemetery so she could play the graveyard game. She had promised to meet someone at the hole in the chain-link fence, a cautious skeptic who would chronicle the entire event with prose, pictures, and maybe even a little video. Even though she had only met her conspirator via email and Skype, she had promised not to start the ceremony without him.

But in the end, her enthusiasm got the better of her...

###

...by the time I found Sara, she was glassy-eyed and barely breathing. She wouldn’t move. She wouldn’t react, not even when I snapped my fingers inches from her nose. I took her hand in mine and started patting her wrist because that always seemed to work in the movies. Her hand was deathly pale with well-chewed fingernails and old scars marking the skin of the wrist.

As I always do at moments like this, I imagined the voice of my landlady and frequent poster of bail, Mrs. Vinchenzo: “Oh Brian, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

What indeed.

After a few more minutes of trying to get Sara to react, I stood up and pulled out my iPhone. The app for taking pictures at night was already active, so I started snapping away.

Click: Sara Bishop, comatose and staring vacantly into the starless sky.

I felt guilty going into reporter mode like this, but experience had taught me to trust my instincts. Something weird was going on, and as my frequent readers know, weird happenings and straw fedoras are my twin passions.

Click: the abandoned cemetery, toppled headstones partially hidden by knee deep grass.

The Graveyard Game was a ceremony gaining popularity on the Internet, rumored to summon the spirits of those who share your name. Even among strange ceremonies, its origins were murky. Some said it was an ancient ritual rediscovered in obscure forums, while others claimed it was a modern hoax designed to scare thrill-seekers. As far as I was concerned, it was half shadowy rumors and half outright lies. But the chatter on the FEAR AND TRUTH message board had been just enough to pique the curiosity of member Justice4Mina.

Justice4Mina’s real name was Sara Bishop, and she discovered the game while researching obscure occult practices for her thesis. She meticulously tracked down every mention of a Sara Bishop in old cemetery records, newspapers, and genealogical websites. When she stumbled upon the neglected Pinewood Cemetery and learned of the existence of a gravestone with her name, she knew what she had to do. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and her determination to uncover the truth—or at least a good story—convinced me to join her. Besides, I kind of liked her a little.

And look where that had gotten her.

Click: the two candles, one on the tombstone, the other where Sara had been kneeling.

The rules of the game were simple, find a gravestone that shares your name. Light two candles, one goes at the top of the headstone, the other in front of you. It was that simple, or so they said on the Internet.

If everything was done properly, the spirit of your namesake would appear to you.

Click: A building off in the distance, too big to be a caretaker’s house, too square to be a chapel.

I wondered how she had found this particular grave, this particular place. The Pinewood Cemetery had been left neglected for almost forty years. Surely, there had been other, more easily found Sara Bishops out there.

Click: Back to Sara again. Sitting up and staring at me.

A yelping sound caught in my throat, "Thank- thank goodness you're alright."

She tittered, but there was no recognition in her eyes—just a distant, otherworldly gleam. The twin candles began to sputter and brighten, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance around us.

"It's me, Brian Foster. Remember? We talked on Facebook?" I pulled her to her feet. Still giggling, she swooned into my arms. "I think I should get you home."

Her grin widened, and her voice took on a strange, echoing quality. "I am home." The words sent a chill down my spine.

I tried to understand what was happening. Was she possessed by the spirit of another Sara Bishop, one long dead and buried here? The candles flared again, and I caught a glimpse of something—an ethereal form superimposed over Sara's body, a shadowy figure from another time. It was as if two beings were occupying the same space, and the spirit was struggling to take control.

"Which Sara is this?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Which Sara!" She laughed out loud, her voice a disturbing blend of her own and something ancient and cold. She raked her hand down the side of my face. I dropped her. She landed like a cat, then bolted into the shadows and tall grass.

Pain flared on the side of my face, sharp and hot. I reached up, my fingers coming away wet with blood. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum. Panic clawed at the edges of my mind. What had she become? What had I gotten myself into?

I blinked in confusion, trying to reconcile the memory of her short, blunt fingernails with the deep gouges on my face. The sound of movement surrounded me, whispers and rustles in the tall grass. The circle of illumination from the candles seemed to be closing in, the darkness pressing against the flickering light.

Run. The instinct was primal, a voice screaming in the back of my mind. I had to get out of there, but could I outrun a madwoman—or whatever she had become?

My legs felt like lead, but I forced myself to move, every step a battle against the paralyzing fear. "Foe of radiance and mate of gloom…" Her voice had become a whispering chant, the words curling around me like cold fingers, "…howl of dogs rejoicing… Through tombs of lifeless dust! Gorgo! Mormo! Luna!"

I fumbled for my iPhone, my hands shaking. The night vision app flicked on, casting everything in a ghostly green. I turned in place, scanning the area, every shadow a potential threat. Was she crawling through the tall grass toward me, or was she gone? Was I going to make it home tonight?

Suddenly, there was a swift, animal-like movement, then a flare of pain as she clawed my arm, tearing through my shirt and skin. Panic surged through me, raw and overwhelming. I crashed headlong into the tombstone and hit the ground, bringing the candle down with me.

Hot wax scalded my right hand and drowned out the sputtering wick. Sara shrieked and fell to her knees. The other candle fluttered, went out, and plunged us into darkness...

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...we got the Hell out of the cemetery and found our way to an all-night doughnut shop. Sara told me she didn't remember anything, that all she knew was that she had been blind and cold. Over several cups of lousy coffee, I explained to her what had happened. There was no way she could doubt me, not when my face looked like I had just tried to field neuter a badger.

The sun is rising, and I'm back in my apartment, tapping away at my keyboard. I looked up the little chant I'd heard "Gorgo, Mormo" and all that. It is an incantation, a calling up of hungry spirits. My face and my arm are still sore to the touch. Had I almost ended up as something's midnight snack?

Again?

I keep thinking about what she said right before she scratched me. I'd asked her which Sara she was, and I thought she was just mockingly repeating my words back at me.

But maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was giving me my answer.

Had she said 'Which Sara'?

Or 'Witch Sara'?

There's a thought to keep me up at night.

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Seventeen: A Touch Of Red

Amidst a world ravaged by a deadly virus, a woman and her husband cope with fear, loneliness, and their crumbling marriage while facing their inevitable fate.

A Touch Of Red was written by Al Bruno III

It was produced and read by Auravoice

Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton

The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams

Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G 

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FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: A Touch Of Red

By

Al Bruno III

My husband and I couldn’t leave the city, we weren’t allowed.

We both tested positive for the Red Virus. That gave us two years to live, three tops. In other countries the infected were being executed, killed in the streets. Here in enlightened America things were different, the President insisted on treating the infected ‘humanely’. Humane or not, only citizens with a clean bill of health got to go to the safe zones in the Midwest. The rest of us were forced to stay in the cities on the coast, observed by scientists in hazmat suits and protected by soldiers that wouldn’t look us in the eye.

When I think of what the disease will do to me, how it will transform me into something not quite human or alive anymore, I start to lose hope. I’ve seen the videos of what the press has dubbed ‘ghoul-things’. I’ve seen what they do.

A few weeks ago the government relocated all of us to a series of high-rise tenements on the East Side. They said that they would be able to defend us more easily this way. The apartments here are larger and nicer than anything we could have afforded in our old life, so I tried to make the best of it. My husband Brian, however, insisted that we were only there so that when the time came they could liquidate us more easily. He blames me for this, he thinks that I brought the disease home because I worked in a hospital, but I was in the billing office! He was just as likely to be the one that touched an unseen speck of dried blood somewhere, somehow.

I liked to think he still loved me but he’d stopped saying it, and he wouldn’t touch me, not even in passing. We didn’t sleep together, I stayed in one luxurious bedroom and he stayed in another.

Not that anyone around here ever really slept that much. All of us, the scientists, the soldiers, the infected, stole catnaps whenever we could in the mornings and afternoons.

There was no rest at night, the night belonged to the monsters. They knew right where to find us, something about the infection calls to them. They howled at the barricades from sundown to sunup. Sometimes they would manage to break through the fortifications. Then the howls would be drowned out with gunfire and order would be restored by morning.

I think that’s why we started having the parties. It wasn’t a conscious decision you understand, it’s just that the nights were too long and terrible to experience alone.

At first, we got together in little groups, no more than five at a time. We didn’t want to make our protectors uneasy, but as our hopes dwindled our gatherings got more elaborate. Soon all thirty or so of us were congregating nightly in the penthouse. We would cook drink and laugh and try to ignore the horrors going on out in the streets and inside our bodies. Brian was always there but he would just sit and sulk out on the balcony, drinking until he passed out, leaving me to carry him back to our apartment at dawn.

One nice thing about our keepers, they were pretty damn generous with the booze and food. I guess it was better to have us fat and happy than terrified and ready to riot.

Tonight’s gathering was going along nicely. Someone had scrounged up a karaoke machine and we were all four sheets to the wind, doing our best to belt out the songs of our glory days.

All except for Brian of course. He was out on the balcony, occasionally I would glance over and catch him glaring reproachfully at us. I kept trying to get him to join in or just return one of my smiles. It was hopeless.

About halfway through a rambling version of ‘Paradise by The Dashboard Lights’ Brian started screaming.  He was pointing and gesturing to the east. I ran out to the balcony to see what was wrong.

Ghoul-things. Thousands of them. The streets were clogged with walls of mutated flesh, twisted limbs and distended faces moving towards us. The soldiers on the rooftop were shooting at them, they were using machine guns and grenade launchers but for every monster they blew to pieces four more stepped into its place. We could hear the terror in the solders’ voices as they barked orders to one another and called for air support.

I reached for Brian’s hand. He pulled away, saying something ugly under his breath. I don’t know. I went crazy. I was afraid and I wanted someone to touch me and if he wouldn’t…

Next thing I knew I had the karaoke microphone in my hand and I said something like, “Let’s live tonight ‘cause we’ll all be dead by morning!”

Then I grabbed the nearest man and kissed him hard. At first he pulled away, then he pressed against me. We fell back onto an overstuffed chair, then onto the floor. We were like animals.

It was like a floodgate had opened. We were joined by another couple, then another. It was surreal, it was an orgy We were all trying to shut out the world and for a while it did. 

After a while we exhausted ourselves and the sounds of the slaughter going on outside reached us again. Brian was gone. For a moment I gloried in the thought of how the sight of me in the arms of others must have burned him. Then another thought occurred to me. It was enough to send me running half-dressed down the stairs to our apartment

I found Brian on his bed, passed out and barely breathing. Blood had begun to leak from his pores. He was changing. You could see it happening. It was like an army of maggots was running wild under his skin. I could her the subtle crackling of his bones remaking themselves.

There are procedures for the final stages, they had been drilled into us every morning, there were posters on the walls reminding us. We were told to watch each other for signs of changes. If you see something say something. You call for the scientists, and they call for the soldiers. The infected are taken away for one last examination and then it’s cremation by flame thrower.

I laid down beside him.

I’m waiting now, I’ve been waiting for almost two hours. The battle is still going on outside but I could care less. The Red Virus will be done with its work soon and what sits up beside me won’t quite be Brian anymore but he’s going to touch me.

One last time.