Midnight at the Mausoleum

There was but one corpse left in the mausoleum when they found me.


In due time you will learn of how it got that way. But first you must know my name - Carson Forte. It is one that has been with me even before birth, if you can believe it, because with it carried the expectation of a household name that boasted resilience, perseverance, hard work and, altogether, strength. Indeed, the last name Forte derives from the Italian word strong, so it goes without saying that my birth name already instilled in me something to aspire to and emulate. Of course, with lineage dating back to farmers and herders in the old country, the word strength certainly referred to something more daunting and physical, particularly in terms of what it meant to pursue a career.


I became a writer. A little known fact amongst my family that spread like wildfire after that fateful day I revealed to my parents of my passion for the written word.


“So you, like, write words and stuff?”


“Yes, ma, I write words and stuff.”


“And you can get paid for that?”


Money. It was always everything anything boiled down to. Try telling an Italian that money means nothing and you might get a schiaffo across the forehead. Very little is done with elegance and grace in much of the Italian culture, save for food, perhaps. But food meant nothing to me if I couldn’t write about it. Too, food meant nothing if I couldn’t afford it.


Which is why I was hoping to finish one of the seven manuscripts I had going at the moment. See, the issue with me is that I begin to write something and it suddenly becomes lost within the pantheon of works that boast the incomplete sticker come the end of the year. If only I had the perseverance like my name suggested to finish one of these things, I might just be able to query it and obtain an agent and secure a publishing deal. Then I could look upon my passion as an actual profession. I could actually mitigate with pride my relationship with my family and friends.


I could probably even afford food.


As you can tell, this deliberation has inspired bipolar thoughts within my mind. At once crude and frustrating, and altogether exciting and ambitious, my passion for the written word extends far beyond just a schoolboy hobby. I love crafting characters that leap off the page, that become colourful and shaded as the story progresses; too, I love the idea of taking readers on a journey, that being able to help them forget their woes for a few hours provides them with joy, surprise, shock, terror and perhaps even helping to ignite inspirations of their own. How wonderful it would be to share my voice with others, and in turn being able to affect them in such a way that inspires them to raise their voices within the maelstrom of shit being said every day. There’s no better feeling, I think, than that.


But who’s to say my voice is anything worth listening to at all? Hell, whenever I hear my voice played back in a recording I cringe. I coddle up inside and my organs whiplash in my stomach. I feel like exhaling a great amount of muck, as the sheer stupidity of my voice reverberates in a world that doesn’t deserve to hear it’s ugliness.


Maybe that’s why I prefer books. After all, aren’t they just words on a page, waiting to be brought to life by some reader in a cozy armchair?


Indeed, thought I, but first there needed to be words on that page. This was a problem as of late. It’s a thing that many like to call writer’s block, but that I like to call something much more crude and on-the-nose.


Performance issues.


Two words that any biologically active being dreads. And isn’t being a writer much like being a biologist? Of course, far from it in terms of the science and the smarts involved, but more along the lines of how the reproduction process occurs. Are writers not reproducing at sometimes exponential rates? Forming words from random letters, and placing them into sentences; and aren’t sentences put together in such a way as to create bodies, bodies of paragraphs, yes, but more to the point, the pieces of a larger sequence, a larger story? That was how I looked at things. Unusual, I know, and probably brimming with plot holes, but it was a process that I often found exhilarating to think about and particularly exciting to be apart of.


Imagine my irritation, then, as my mind became plagued with a heavy case of performance issues one solitary night. It was the night of July 12th, to be exact, and a cool air complimented the silvery moonlight as it fell upon the measly fire escape of my measly apartment. I often sat out on the rusted metal steps late at night, tablet in hand, either brainstorming or full on writing stories. I admired this time of day - late night, almost midnight - because the world was quiet and it helped me think. Ideas often flowed like waves in my mind, kissing the beach with delicate grace, then retreating back into the recesses of my mind whenever something wasn’t clicking. Then, with a crash, the wave would come back with something novel and inspiring, and sometimes, that wave created a ripple effect that turned into a story.


Tonight, that just wasn’t happening. I don’t know why, and I’m sure there isn’t an exact science to it, but my brain just couldn’t perform at the level I would have liked it to. I needed to finish this novel. Even this chapter would be nice! But some supernatural force was impaling my efforts at every turn. My hand stayed as I found the digital keyboard, my mind paused as I looked at the abundance of white, of nothingness.


If only I had the encouraging words of the one person who really did believe in me. I reminded myself that she was gone. Gone, for almost four years, now. She had been taken from this world far too soon, sickened by a cancer that blackened her brain and ate away at the memories that would exist like ethereal orbs in the back of my mind.


Memories, all of them whirling in the hard drive of thoughts since that day I was forced to say goodbye. Jenna. Her name was Jenna, and she had the most beautiful blonde hair. It flowed upon her shoulders in delicate abandon, and would glisten within the moonlight on nights like tonight. Her hands were tiny, soft and skinny, and when they touched you it wasn’t coarse or rough, but gentle. She was a nurse, but that didn’t stop her hands from being the number one thing she loved to tend to. Often soaked in water, and often chewed at from the demands of her job, Jenna made it a point to upkeep them to the best of her ability. And it showed. No set of hands in all the land matched my beautiful fiancee’s.


And now they were gone, with nobody left to hold them.


Sadness crept in from some dark place in my mind. The blue light from the tablet shot up and drenched my face in perpetual sorrow. Or at least, that’s how I imagined it looked from anyone watching me down below. I locked the screen and placed its body gently down upon the rusted stair. I looked out over the town as it began its slumber in the heart of night. Not a soul navigated those empty streets. It was quiet, bristling with a faint aura that I couldn’t quite define. And there in the distance I could see it. The mausoleum. As my eyes fixated upon that holy place even the sounds of wildlife began to dim. A hushed silence wafted over me, bleeding with possibility and drive.


Oftentimes I would find an isolated spot to write. My bedroom, this fire escape, the library; so why not try writing someplace else tonight? Perhaps that was my issue - a lack of surroundings that encouraged blistering thought. With that idea in mind I picked up the tablet and grabbed my sweater. It was cool out tonight, and I had no working knowledge of how long I would be in that space. Sometimes, when I really got into the routine of writing, hours would pass by without me even realizing it. Those were the most fruitful occasions, and I could only hope this change of scenery would allow me that experience tonight.


A ten minute trek brought me to the entrance of the mausoleum. The clock struck midnight as I studied the marble build of the structure. A white and grey sheen extended across the upper plane of the mausoleum; below, black lines searched like veins through the pristine body of the immaculate stone. A set of stairs, marble also, ushered you in to the place like some grand entryway to a castle. Hanging from either end of that entrance were pots of flowers that spilled out over their confines. A cascade of colour greeted the eye from that spot, with foliage ranging from every lineage of leaf. Wonder often overcame me as I visited this holy place of remembrance. So detailed and so brilliant was its make that anybody who saw it became floored by its magnificence.


I walked up the stairs and punched in the code that unlocked the door. A confirmation beep acknowledged my command and the door easily opened as I pulled my way in. A dead silence greeted me upon arrival, and a faint musty smell welcomed me forward. It was all so familiar to me now; after having visited Jenna’s grave for over four years, the routine became simple and the landscape, knowable. To my immediate right was a set of stairs that lead to the upper level of the mausoleum. To my left stood a set of doors that lead to the east wing of the building. There, more graves decorated the walls from either end of the windowed halls, and up, up, up those graves went to the second floor, visible from down below.


Before me, upon entering the mausoleum, was a small chapel area where funeral processions were often held. It was empty now, but I will always remember the amount of people that populated that space for Jenna’s ceremony. Friends, family and colleagues all crowded into that space, exceeding the maximum capacity that the mausoleum staff like to follow. There were just too many people Jenna had socialized with in life, that in death there just couldn’t be any proper satisfaction with saying goodbye to everyone.


I walked into that chapel and took a seat at one of the pews near the back end. An enormous stain-glass window stood over the podium near the front of the space, depicting the Lord Almighty. Here, the moonlight was drenched a deep crimson red, falling ethereally through the painted panes of glass. My eyes studied that depiction of Christ. Thoughts altogether foreign to my mind blistered in and out of consciousness. The space was silent. Serene. Peaceful, yet tinged with a sense of morbidity that became almost overwhelming.


What was I doing here? I was in the middle of writing a romance, for Christ’s sake! This was a mistake coming here, as it often was, according to my family and friends. A sense of attachment hovered over me these past few years since Jenna’s death, and it wouldn’t let go. It was with an iron grip that her memory grabbed onto my heart and plagued my mind with notions of depression and death. Shaking that feeling would often prove to be a difficult task. More difficult, even, than kick-starting my imagination out of one of my writer’s blocks.


But what instantly helped that issue, believe it or not, was writing. Writing, even for the sake of putting something down on paper. If it was less than stellar, than I would edit it. If it was absolute trash, then I would binge on alcohol and write something else. This was the routine that helped me continue with my writing.


At least, it was the routine I had fallen into since she had passed.


Never mind that now. Blocking her from my memory, I arose from my seat and strolled down the alley of graves. It never saddened me to see these plaques remembering the dead the way it might for anyone else. Instead, I reveled in the knickknacks that many of the families had placed at the foot of their loved one’s stones. Crucifixes were the most common artifacts found, yet sometimes one would often more surprising objects that revealed the more eclectic tastes of the dead. Jewelry, handbags, money, alcohol and even literature graced the shelves of those cremated in death, and from these examples I often took inspiration for characters in my stories.


Tonight, a one Julia Dawson captured my attention. An unfortunate demise, yielded from the birth date and the death date. Like Jenna my beloved, Julia had perished much too early. The girl’s parents had plastered photos of her in grade school, middle school, and high school. Pictures that showed Julia living a life of exuberance, happiness and livelihood. Beside those photographs were medals and trophies won at her local school’s track meet. First place all around. An athletically gifted student. My attention was then brought towards a newspaper clipping taped to the side of her grave revealing a tragic ATV accident that took the poor girl’s life. Unfortunate still was the implication in the article that the accident had occurred because of an abundance of alcohol. It was a sad, depressing affair that emanated from this Julia Dawson character.


I would probably use her as the main character’s wily roommate in my novel. Lovestruck, torn and on edge, the main character would go to her for advice, and find from a drunk friend the solace of friendship and respect. I could imagine the scene then: the two characters meet in a bar, drudge on about life and work and love; drink, get drunk, and wander home in each other’s arms knowing well enough that their friendship would last longer than any relationship tried at by some man and his woes.


And zombies, maybe I’d throw in some flesh-eating creatures for good measure. A good Romero-esque tone and atmosphere once the infection begins to spread.


Horror, now, really? I reminded myself that this began as a love story, realizing then that it was quickly becoming something for Weird Tales.


You see? You see the way my mind prods and wanders?


The path lead me deeper into the mausoleum’s labyrinthine halls. Lights flickered as I rounded each corner down every walkway. Shadows seemed to dance before my eyes; from a writing high or from exhaustion, I cannot tell, but an imposing atmosphere seemed to creep in as I ventured deeper into that place of the dead.


As time passed so too did my inability to craft story and character. In fact, visiting that mausoleum was just the tonic I needed to keep instigating the details of my story. Julia Dawson was the first character I fleshed out, but she was certainly not the last. With wild verve I outlined seventeen characters that would populate my novel - everyone from the main character’s parents (names taken from an old Polish couple next to Julia’s grave), her boss at work (a particularly evil-looking bat two spots above the Polish couple’s), her gay best friend (the husband of a woman who’s photograph was doused in some hazing material), and the man she would eventually fall for (a man, young and seemingly free-spirited in life judging by the photos of him wearing jeans and sandals).


The zombies would probably eat him, first. I had no doubt about it then. And as I walked through that gruesome setting of decaying corpses, I managed to fill the roster that my mind had previously abandoned only a short time ago. Meticulously, and quite frankly, simply, I managed to outline the characters that had eluded me before entering that mausoleum. It was as if I had stolen from the dead their identities and given them something else to live for. Was that considered grave robbing? The notion circled my mind like ravens taunting their prey. Perhaps it was, yet not in any traditional sense of the term.


Trite though it may seem, my irreverent high came crashing down with the chorus of moaning that echoed those empty halls of the mausoleum. I had seen no one else enter or leave that space in the hour I had been there, nor were there any staff members who had announced their nightly rounds during the graveyard shift. I was alone, completely and utterly isolated from the world outside. The shadows that tricked my mind earlier had slithered their way back into the landscape of the dead. A shivery blast climbed up the otherwise sweaty shirt that had clung to my back in the marathon of creativity.


Suddenly the lights dimmed. It was an altogether slow, imposing gesture that haunted the space before me. The act was not unlike that of a cinema’s routine show, when just before the previews begin the crowd gathers and that the lights dim on cue. Now, the fluorescent light offered a sickening glow to the space. Disease and gross inadequacy foiled my mind as I ventured into that mausoleum. Like a neglected Mayan temple, the halls of the mausoleum became ancient and full of doom. Centuries of decay had suddenly entered that space and filled its corridors with the putrid stench of a rotting corpse.


I shielded my nose from this disgust. As if a fan had suddenly blasted a fresh wave of blister and death, the air became humid and dry with the nightmarish quality of a morgue. Scenes of flesh and blood darted into my mind like a projection at twenty-four frames per second. My balance became weakened and stale. I fumbled to the side of the hallway and caught my balance upon an open casket.


An open casket.


The shock nearly tackled me to the ground, loosening the bag of air that kept its abundant supply healthy and whole. I gagged. The smell overpowered my senses - all of my senses, all at once, and I couldn’t see before me any longer. The dimness of the light played more tricks with my eyes, and shadows moved like jackals around the corners of the mausoleum. A soft but sinister clicking sound reverberated those stone halls, and formless figures seemed to ballet with the darkness that seeped into the space. My head darted back and forth to try and catch a glimpse of what exactly it was that moved in front of me. Failure reigned as my eyes couldn’t quite adjust to the freakishly fast movements of the figures. I only just found my footing as my eyes finally came into focus.


What stood before me was a complete and utter abomination in the truest sense of the word. A corpse, scabbed and abraded with rotting flesh, stared me down from across the corridor. Its bones hung from the meager skeleton that peaked from the peeled skin of years of decay. Its eyes were no longer eyes but sockets within which black orbits hovered into. The pupils had digressed long ago, leaving only the hollow tombs for eyes long dead and gone. In that regard, the thing wasn’t quite staring at me - but it was staring at me. The thing was aware of my weak and frightened presence, and it could smell the fear that emanated from my sweaty palms and hear the horror I felt from my chattering teeth.


A calm, assured step brought the corpse closer towards me. Only for a second did my fear trump any sense of flight, but once my body reacted to the scenario I was away and gone out of that corridor like a flash of light. I rounded the corner and headed for the door - yet, the the door was all the way down at the main level, and the corpse had been blocking the stairway leading down to it. Luckily, the mausoleum was designed like a square, so as the corpse followed my path away from that hallway, I only had to come back around to reach the doorway that would now stand clear of any rotting inhabitants.


Sure enough, I managed to make it down the stairs and away from that horrible, gruesome, nightmarish fiend. Though, just as I was about to round the corner for the entrance, a second, unfamiliar corpse blocked my path. It too had been discarded by the years of decomposition, and from it wafted an even more unbelievable stench than the last. This corpse was older, I thought, and it clearly showed.


That corpse was no less agile, though. It ventured towards me with mindless zeal, spewing from its throat a thick, guttural cry that yearned for something more lively than death. Tonight would not be the night I would allow it that satisfaction. As the shadows continued their operatic show, I posited a path towards the backdoor. Now, that door was normally shut and locked for the night, as the tenants of the mausoleum often advertised upon their displays, but it was no less worth trying to escape this horrific scene. In terms of worst case scenarios, shattering the glass wouldn’t be entirely bad, especially given the circumstances.


Yet as I came to that doorway a score of corpses now bristled along those hallways of the mausoleum. In favor of their throaty calls came a chorus of howling cries from the dead. All seemed to pursue one thing and one thing only - me - as if they had been given a direct order by some hellish devil of the supernatural realm. My soul was on the line, I could feel it ticking in my chest like the rhythm of some Victorian era clock, both grand and bombastic, appealing to a more grandiose nature than what my mortal life seemed to be worth.


Thankfully, or by some divine miracle, a trash can was placed beside the frame of the doorway. The door was locked, but with my heart beating so frantically within my chest all I could think about was with haste did I need to escape that darkening hell. So I lifted the trash can with all of my strength and aimed it precisely at the center of the door and with a great, lumbering swoop I-


Lowered the trash can. From the mass of innumerable corpses came a voice that I thought I would never hear again in my life. It was a soft, melodic voice that would ensnare jealousy in even the most angelic soul. The voice belonged to my Jenna. And the voice spoke directly to me now in that dead of night.


“Carson, it’s me.”


I turned to face the canvas of death that bled and oozed and brittled with grisly terror. There, standing before the horde of corpses, was my Jenna. Blonde hair, though wiry and scabbed with blood, hung in sparse rows of neglect. Her face had been blackened by the darkest form of disease and decay. Unlike her fellow dead comrades, Jenna’s illness had eaten away at the beauty that so many living souls had admired for only a short while. A tragedy that such a beautiful face would be taken from this world without being captured again and again with infinite solace.


My eyes saw none of that horror, though. They compelled away the demons that haunted my mind and reminded me that Jenna had been dead for over four years. No, my eyes saw the beauty that so many others had seen, that so many others had said goodbye to all those years ago, they were eyes that I could never unsee in all my life.


Nor, the hands that I thought I would never be able to hold again. My eyes saw those, but not as you might see them in that dim light of death, but as they were before the illness and before her untimely demise. They reached out toward me in lonely strength, those pitiful and weak hands that had been decomposing all those years. Jenna would have fainted at the frightful sight her hands had now become. But they were still beautiful to me, warm even to the touch, as I stepped forward and delicately held on to that bruised bit of meat.


“I’ve missed you,” I said to my love.


“I’ve missed you, too,” said she to me in return.


Behind us, the company of the dead evaporated into a dark mist that furrowed down the corridor and out of that place of remembrance forever. As stated, the mausoleum was empty.


And as she cupped her cold, rotting hands upon my cheek, I felt the warm embrace of her decaying lips upon my own.


That was how the officers found me.


-CM