Nights in Commerfield

NIGHTS IN COMMERFIELD

Commerfield is just a tiny place hidden in the cornfields of central Illinois, it's population barely 1,000.

Every night here in Commerfield, the corpses come out to dance. This sort of thing never happened in Seattle, so when I moved to Commerfield in third grade, I was scared at first. Now, though, I'm used to it, and I like to watch them out my window. They don't really like it when people stand outside the cemetery gates and watch, I guess it makes them self-conscious; I don't see why, because they're better dancers than anyone I've ever seen. Waltzes, tangoes, polkas, you name it, they can do it all. You should come visit Commerfield some time, these dancing corpses are a treat to watch. People are real nice here, too. You should make sure to taste the pumpkin pie at Cindy's Bake Shop before you go.

There's only one motel you could stay at, though, if you do decided to visit us. It's called the Comfy Commerfield Inn, and it's right next to the cemetery. It's a nice little place, just be sure to bring some earplugs, because the clinking and knocking of the corpses' bones can get pretty noisy at times. Especially if they get into one of their wild tarantellas. On more than one occasion, a few of the more decomposed individuals lost some parts and the town maintainance volunteers had to go in the next morning and clean up some ears and fingers and stuff scattered on the ground. That's what happens when the dancing gets crazy.

The first one shows up around midnight. He is a tall, gangling skeleton with a crooked jaw and a tattered top hat. He wears a raggedy black suit which probably made him look quite dashing in his day. Despite that the large stone crypt he always emerges from is engraved with the family name "O'HANLON," around here we got our own name for him: the Bandmaster. If you are lucky enough to be watching right before midnight, you will see the Bandmaster shove open the iron door of his crypt and come out, dusting himslef off and adjusting his jacket like a perfect gentleman. He then turns toward the front gates of the graveyard, looking aroundas iff surverying a massive audience in a grand auditorium; to top it off, he takes a bow. With the bow comes an inhuman scream hailing midnight, and the earth seems to rupture as countless corpses awaken for their grisly ball. It's quite a remarkable sight, I'd love to show you some time.

There's never any music or anything, just lots of wailing and even screaming. The terror of the screaming and sadness of the wailing seems to correspond with the intensity of the dancing. It's as if the unsettling nightly ritual is more horrifying to its participants than to anyone else. Perhaps the years spent beneath the ground have rusted their joints and ligaments so thoroughly that price of dancing is excruciating pain. Or maybe, for all the shredded skin, dangling entrails, and snakes of rotted hair atop crackling skulls, these cemetery residents are just completely afraid of the sight of each other.

At dawn, the Bandmaster's bestial scream rings through the vail of shrieks and croons, and the Bandmaster is et again standing before the large iron gates. Behind him, the rest of the corpses are tucking themselves into their tombs and neatening the dirt over their heads. The Bandmaster takes the gates' heavy padlock into his bony hands and fiddles with it until the gates swing open with a resounding creak. He looks around, takes a final bow of gratitude for the night's consistent patronage. Then, he too returns to his tomb.

Commerfield is just a small place, but I think you'd really like it here. Make sure to try the pumpkin pie at Cindy's Bake Shop before you go.