"Death-Love, In Oakland Cemetery" ((A Story Of Horror)(Second Revision)(Part One Of Two))
(Horror Poetry: a strange poetic prose story of death meets love in Oakland CeMetery-face to face-in St. Paul, Minnesota, November, 1971)
We were alone, her and I (she was twenty, I twenty-four), beyond a mound or two, two-hundred yards east of us, were gravediggers; approximately every person had gone, left the ceMetery, and the gates were locked (they lock the gates at 5:30 Pm sharp to the front entrance of Oakland Cemetery, the side gate would be used by the diggers, to go home; the arc lights had just come on. She, Isabella de La Ree, had a bag; it had weight to it, Isabella looked at me, as a wolf would to its prey, if ever a face showed imminent death, hers did (almost a sorry face, with grim, slim wrinkles of love)! Then I noticed her crucifix was upside down, rays with images of anguish, of orange, purple and red, fell on them, from the lower world I'd guess. I looked towards the gravediggers they were gone (there was such a stillness, quietness in the cemetery now), I could hear the last sounds of their footsteps-as if descending down a spiral stAirway, leaving us alone, for it was a full moon, and they knew something was stirring in this prodigious night.
I pulled out a flashlight from my jacket pocket, it was fall, and a chill was in the evening Air (tons and tons of leaves everywhere, piles of them, racked by the caretaker, I could even smell some burnt leaves, the smell is indistinguishable, and very convenient to me); it would be dark soon, near winter, the sun has a Menial task, it rises quick, and descends Fast, and twilight, without a word glares like a lamp of mist, half full, flickering rays of rose-colored clouds, sandy moon above it, it is like a stammering drunk, and the lamp lit moon, this evening, seemed to full, and wanted to fall, it was right over us, over our heads, with sharp-looking teeth-carved by the shades and shadows that crept through its light.
Then a cat began to cry as if it was fighting with a rat, which squealed a long agonized weeping squeal, both as if in pain, as if in a love and death exchange, other and other cry came, seeping into the wind, approximately in echoes surrounding the cemetery, they were somewhere beyond the grasp of me, in this gloom of the night. And they became louder and sharper cries, that of a ripping-death, as if flesh and more flesh were being ripped to shreds. Then the sounds died down, and I seemed to sink into a morbid chill.
(From the street, beyond the side gate of the cemetery, I could now hear the sounds of the Tires of cars going down Jackson Street, a grim silence prevailed in-between, I looked helplessly about with eyes of terror, every side of me seemed to have caliches of death. I looked and could even see the drivers in their front seats driving, and disappearing, and then I shook my head and suddenly became more aware to the task at hand.
The contents of her bag, seemed to wiggle as if something was alive in it, a rounded shape something, then came sounds of rattling teeth, clanking teeth.
"Let's do what we came for," she said (a flame burned in her eyes) knees bending, a groan from within her chest, her inner spirit, noisily developMent her head twitch, like a puppet, came out of her mouth, words jagged I didn't understand.
"She must be in a trance," I said out loud, as if talking to myself or person who wasn't there, for assuredly she heard (as imMense bolt of chills, ran up and down my arms, legs, and spine.)
For a occasion I concept she was carrying a bomb, I stood in silence where not knowing what to do, or say, then suddenly, I heard a whisper come from the bag, as she started digging next to a gravestone, on her knees and elbows, with a pocket shovel, one normally used for a garden.
"Is this assuredly necessary?" I asked her.
"Just wait a while and you shall see, and judge for you..." she groaned, and mumbled, as her face grew harder, as she stared longer at the engaging bag.
I took a step forward, towards her; I was a few steps back. The instant I did, she motioned in gesture, not to step to close to the bag, she moved it impulsively towards her knee, holding out her hand to stop me, should I investMent beyond a threshold she had created in her head, I'm sure I would have been dead, her face now as cold as ice, likened to the palm of death, saying:
"Don't come closer for inside this bag is love and death!"
We had met the night before, at a nightclub in downtown, St. Paul, Minnesota, from there we strolled drunk, uPh Meter or two as it paced back and forth, and then become visible. It was a foul smelling foe, a mammal that came from who knows where, more on the Giant Finn of Ireland, order, or maybe the Grendel order, of the Scandinavian lands of the 5th Century or so. A pondering evil I lived with for three months in the dojo, an ere fiend, with flame advent from its eyes. And I could tell it had a sudden grip, for when it tossed the chairs about and colse to the dojo, it smashed them hard. It was huge, maybe 400-pounds, and eight feet tall, a monster who could have devoured me, now that I look back, and there I slept where no other black belts would dare sleep, for they told me the place was haunted. I did not seek to trap him, I explained to him, we needed to put up with each other for a time being, and that was that, adding, I leave him alone if he left me alone.)
And the noisiness in the karate dojo, where I lived in San Francisco, went silent, in the clap of an eye, in the middle of the night, and the beast that appeared, that shook the building and chairs, and window sills, had gone, disappeared.
And now here we were, I stimulating and bracing for some kind of a thrill,
silently and quietly next to twilight waiting for a bag to be opened, as she dug deep into the earth, I guessed to seal the fate of what was in that bag.
I told myself, now leaning against a gravestone, development a graceful sigh, 'I shall pray to make it out of here alive,' knowing somehow I'd regret, having come with her this evening if I did not, absolutely, for my part I knew not why I remained, for all it seemed to me to be, was person observing the insane. I knew in a heartbeat, there would be no more tomorrow's with her and I, and maybe for the better.
At this point I had wished I had done supper, which I had not-for I was getting hungry even with such bleak happenings colse to me, and had rushed to meet her for this journey, this discreet and morbid journey, which humanity would have forbid, had they known it was as it would be.
For the first time, I had now noticed her nails were long, and those of her thumb, on the right hand, was pointed, thick as a knife: this somehow brought a horrid feeling of nausea, it came over me like hard bark on a tree. There silent for a occasion I stood staring again, at the bag, looking in the black Cloth that now covered its contents, with the moon's light shinning on it, I could see some kind of expression, indented expression, as if a face to be, then I knelt to her level and said,
"I am getting quite Tired. I must leave, I live but a few blocks from here, maybe tomorrow we can meet, I shall let you cease alone whatever it is you must do." (I lied of course; I never wanted to see her again, to be quite frank.)
And with a courteous bow, more of a nod of my head I stood back up to leave (being in a deep sea of wonder, yet in a high fear of the unknown, and not wanting to face or undergo the strange things that were about to creep send out of this night), I did pray, "God keep me safe," if not only for my loved ones dear to me!
I did not leave though, my mind had went absent for a while, and I forgot what I had said, and my intentions to leave, somehow evaporated in my head. maybe a spell she place upon me, this beautiful and costliest witch.
My body shuddered from her witch and devilish scorn she seemed to born upon her face and limbs, for the dead in this cemetery- if whatever I felt I should salute her for her bravery, and hearty way she was handling this mysterious night-so tranquilly.
"What are you doing," I asked inquisitively, and she whispered in a most horrid voice (with a vibrating haunting echo) as if it was not her voice:
"Digging a tomb!" the voice replied.
"For what or whom?" I asked, holding my breath.
And she pointed to the sack... And she then opened it, inside was a living head, and she said to me, in a most bewildering intonation,
"I can't kill it!" And she rolled it out, and into the dirt tomb, the newly dug grave, and then stood up; strolled about it, as if mad (it was that lady I had seen from the house yesterday, I told my mind's eye).
I knew I had said all I could say about leaving, so I just looked. Isabella now looked up at me, said,
"You may go anywhere you wish now," but my mind was locked into this moment, adding, "All things are as they are, even if you wish to understand them, and you cannot. And there is presuppose for all things to be as they are."
"I am sure of this," I replied, "our ways are distinct to say the least."
"Not too different, from what you have told me," she responded, as she paced and kept out of the way of the head, observing it.
Then Sara cried, it was evident the head wanted to speak, but only said "Nay," as if it did not want to be buried alive, for Isabella kicked sand it her mouth, saying,
"Foul head, of the demons, loathing nightmare, voluptuous bloodstained mouth, lay where yea be, and be silent, for none will pardon thee, fall into the hole, my friend, my death-love."
And the head looked up at me, as if it wanted to plead. Then cried Isabella to me,
"Come now, my friend, let her rest in peace, I can do no more, this is all
death-love can offer a demonic whore, any way visible she may be, she is captured inside of a dead beauty, preserved by habitable bleeding, and receiving; I can't kill it, she belongs to the un-dead, and she will not leave the body, so I severed the head, she has immortality, but I can keep her head from her body, so she can no longer multiply-so now she must remain in the grave or go back to her evil world."
Dyson DC5
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