Let Sleeping Corpses Lie

      A mild and morbid curiosity had always been with him concerning the dead. Even from childhood, he had been enamored by the mystery, the secrecy of what happens to a dead body after disposition, after burial, after entombment.
      Thinking back, he oft times remembered the stories that his mother had told him. The death of her sister Velma, who had died from complications that arose after the birth of her still borne baby. The agony of her prolonged death, like a mournful fan slowly coasting to a stop. On and on she had suffered for weeks, her hollow eyes begging for relief, even to the point of offering forgiveness to her own brother, if only he would put a bullet in her brain. How, standing above her sister's coffin on that late warm April afternoon in 1948 and looking down into the newly made grave, she could see the side of the box that held the infant, embedded in the dirt at the edge of the trench, about three feet down. She stood amazed, being surprised that the baby wasn't buried deeper.
        The prairie breeze slightly shifted and she caught a wisp of rotting human flesh emitting from the infant's eternal cradle. It was a sickening, yet sweet smell. She was taken back within herself that she wasn't entirely repulsed by it. Although it was a bad stink, it wasn't something like a dead dog's rot, but rather one that seemed somehow more natural, friendlier, and almost familiar.
        In other tales, she told of a mausoleum in Wichita, Kansas, where she lived in her younger years. It was huge, state of the art with white marble walls and floors that had swirling patterns which painted a beautiful and peaceful feeling. Bedecked with brass and golden urns filled with fragrant flowers, and glowing chandeliers that shone down from above, it was a place that one would wish to reside in death. A gleaming city of the dead.  Always comfortable, dry, and forever beautiful. She described this edifice with amazing accuracy for one having never been there. She had only heard stories and descriptions. She knew that she had no business thinking about being interred in such a place. It was for the rich, not for country folks like her, being raised on a farm with pigs and chickens. No. It was for the few who were born into families of mansions and well-kept grounds. She told of how the families of the dead were given keys to the vaults, how they slid their loved ones out to look upon them, all encased in glass. The bodies had held their beauty for time immemorial having been mummified and vacuum sealed. You could sit and talk to them, weep over them, kiss the glass just a few inches over their preserved statue-like beauty, and roll them back into their niche to await your next visit.
        These were the stories that had stayed with him throughout his youth and into his adulthood. He had never questioned them. The time of questioning was at his mother's knee as she crocheted her current projects and patiently answered all of his queries about death and the dying.
        He lost his mother in the 1980s. It was a peaceful death, and he often thought of how she was at last re-united with her sister Velma and her infant, who had long ago rotted down into nothingness in that dry Kansas dirt. When visiting his mother's grave, he would contemplate the condition of her body lying there a few feet beneath, wondering how she looked; the degree of decay, of smell. It didn't seem odd to him, this obsession with such vile things. After all, it was her who had spawned this in him. This morbid sense of the dead, which had led him into fascinations that most people do not ponder, such as the cause and conditions of sunken graves, the beauty and art of tombstones, the endless study of mausoleums and their design.
        It was this very heart-felt love of the hidden dead that moved him to apply for every job that came up in the local paper concerning the death-care related field, until one day he landed the job of a life time, the mausoleum and grounds keeper of the Saxton Cemetery at Mission, Kansas, on the Western edge of Kansas City. It was perfect. An elderly cemetery established in the 1880s with plenty of old ancient stones, monuments, cast iron fences, and antique statuettes that resided under a canopy of old crooked trees of elm and pine. Located on twelve acres, it was a thing of beauty to Harold as he worked his internship side by side with John Lotz, the retiring cemetery sexton.
        "Sexton of the Saxton" was how John introduced himself with a snaggle-toothed grin and a firm handshake. "I chew, I spit, dig graves and shit." chuckled the old man as he spewed out the first of his many anecdotes.
        "Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!" You could smell his foul breath as it was propelled by his laughter.
        "Damn, what a demonic cackle."  thought Harold.
        Harold learned many things under the watchful eye of Mr. Lotz, important things to a sexton like grave plating (proper location of graves. where and where not to dig.)
        "You can tell right where any old 'Joe Blow' is buried even if the grave aint marked."
        Other useful sexton secrets, such as watering down the grave after it had been filled and tamped, to secure a good solid 'ceiling' that won't sink in, and placing B Bs under a casket before you slide it into a mausoleum crypt so that it goes in with ease.
        Learning all of these things was, at first, like candy to Harold's soul. Oh, how he had longed all of his life to learn the mysteries of a cemetery keeper, to see and do the things that they did every day. He was now an 'insider' with the strange privileges that belonged only to the few of the brotherhood. But even still, at the back of his mind was that ever-present longing, the yearning. That thing that he felt he had to know, had to see. So came the day, when Harold felt that the timing was just right, he worked up his courage and asked.
        "A disinterment?  Good gawd boy!! That's the nastiest damned job on the face of this earth! Why the HELL do you want to see that?"
        "Well -  it's not that I want to SEE one, It's just that I, uh, - "
        "Just stick your head in a bucket of shit boy, that should answer all of your questions!  It's the same color and smells just about as bad!"
        Harold was embarrassed now, humiliated by that damned old man with a slouch hat and dirty overalls. He wished that he would have never even brought it up. It would have all happened in good time anyway, if only he had waited.
        "Tell ya what!, the old man crowed, "When I die, just give me a few months to ferment, then you can dig up my rotten old ass!"
        With this, the old geezer fell to his knees, over on his side and laughed until his sides hurt and the tears streamed from his eyes, tobacco juice dribbling from between pale thin lips.
        "Bastard", thought Harold.
        Over next few weeks, the relationship between Harold and old John began to wane. He just wouldn't let up. Every chance that came, the old man took as an opportunity to harp on Harold's mistake.
        "Lookie there at this old tomb, built in 1900, pure granite. Shall we pop the lid on her and see how much she stinks? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
        (Son-of-a-bitch!)
        By now, Harold had learned many things, including the fact that his dear mother's story about the mausoleum in Wichita with the perfectly preserved bodies encased in glass was a bunch of bullshit. It probably wasn't her fault. She must have been a gullible girl and was obviously the target of some asshole's fun and games. But these 'fun and games' had left a mark on Harold that he had carried for a long time until his own experiences had brought him into the real world, discovering actual truths about his chosen profession. Truths like, all things die and rot; the beauty of a cemetery takes one hell of a lot of hard work; mowing, watering, grading, digging, and hiding. Yes, hiding, something that no one had ever told him about the cemetery business. Hiding while the funeral is going on at the graveside; hiding until the last car has cleared the gate so that the family won't see you emerge from your cover with the shovels, backhoe and truck load of dirt to dump in over their loved one. From the solemn beauty of the polished casket: floral arrangements and suits, to the indignity of the heavy machinery, noise, dirt and greasy coveralls, all within a few minutes. Secrets of the brotherhood.
        And so it was that Harold worked on, day after day, year after year, well past the time of the old man's retirement. On the day John walked out of the gate for the last time, he looked back and said, "Kid, you are doin' one hell of a job. Keep doin' the things that I taughtcha and you'll do alright!"
        Thoughts of John came and went over the next few short years. Mostly good thoughts, but then, there were the others, the ones that enraged Harold; the laughing, the taunting. Harold preferred not to think of those times. He felt better for it.
        He was on a ladder putting in a new light bulb above the shop door one cold morning when Glenda, the local mail carrier called up to him from her stop at the mail box.
        "Howdy Harold!, did you hear about old John? He died in his sleep last night. I 'spect they'll be gettin' hold of you about the cemetery space sometime today."
        Harold already knew all about that. He had been told at the coffee shop. It was all around town. Deaths in Mission, Kansas can't be kept under wraps. The farmers here are like a bunch of old hens when somebody dies. He also knew about the cemetery space - crypt #49 in the mausoleum. Right next to his best pal Wayne Jacques. The two had been inseparable at one time. Old fishing buddies.
        "Hell, these damned crypt spaces don't sell here worth a shit, I might as well use one of them. It might just keep me up out of the worms!"
        It was a Tuesday and it was raining when Harold and his helper Sammy threw a couple of hands full of B Bs into crypt #49 and slid John's cheap coffin into its niche from the scissor lift. Next came the inner liner, the caulking, and the decorative outer plate of granite.
        "There, all done." said Sammy "John's in his 'hole in the wall' for eternity."
        "Well, not eternity." Thought Harold, "Every building falls down at some time in history, but he'll be there until he turns into powder, long after we are both gone."
        As Harold returned back to his daily grind, he often thought of old John laying there next to his fishing buddy, rotting away, stinking up the crypt, black bodily fluids pooling on the concrete floor beneath the decaying coffin's rusty bottom; oozing their way back toward the drain at the rear of his niche. And John, with his eyes sunk in deeply, the molded cheeks, the disgusting maggots from the phorid flies' never-ending quest for rotten meat, eating away at his decaying body.
        He found these thoughts returning daily, more and more often, until, without even realizing it, he had become obsessed with these horrible morbid notions. He longed to look upon him; to check the progress of his decomposing body, to see that long-dead face that he knew so well in life. He found that he not only wanted to see a disinterment, he wanted to see John's.
        It seemed fitting. He remembered how that old bastard used to hound him about it, rake him over the coals, and often in front of his drinking buddies who had stopped by the digger's house almost every evening before quitting time for a snort over the old heating stove.
        Then, he remembered - It came to him.- Lotz's very words.
        "Tell ya what! When I die, just give me a few months to ferment, then you can dig up my rotten old ass!"
        For the first time in his life, he shuttered in morbid ecstasy. This was it! This was what he had been waiting for. He couldn't believe his fortune. It was something he must do.
        It was around 2AM on a Friday morning. There were no sounds save the beating of his own heart throbbing in his ears as he stood before John's tomb with his tools of the trade. A Phillips-head screwdriver removed the brass corner stars which held the outer granite plate in place. He strained to lift it off, let it down, and lean it against the wall. There, now he was at the inner fiberglass plate. With a Stanley knife, he began cutting the silicone caulking around the outer edge that sealed the tomb itself from the outside elements. He was surprised that there was no smell coming from the cuts as he worked. First the top; sides, and then the bottom. It was time now to remove the only barrier that stood between him and John's earthly remains.
        He felt numb and scared. His heart pounding even louder than it had before. With his flat iron, he wedged it into a side cut and pried. The plate popped loose and fell out of the hole. The stench hit him full on. It was overwhelming. He gagged. He retched. He puked. He puked until he thought he could puke no more, and then the puking started up again. He was weak, he was sick. He stood off from the gaping hole for the much needed air that he had to have, covering his mouth and nose with his handkerchief. 
        "Oh gawd, what the hell am I doing?"
        He felt his heart stop as the silence of the night was broken by an utterance. It was like the whispering of the wind as it sighs and moans through the top of winter sycamores; soft, distant, with a reverberation that sent chills down his spine and deep into his soul. From his very being, his spirit responded. He knew that this was a communication of some manner.
        He turned about to face it, only to be greeted by the quiet of the fog laden night.
        "Dammit! My imagination will end up getting me hurt or killed!", he found himself saying aloud.
        Then he waited, expecting to hear a retort of some kind - nothing. Still he waited; his breath visible in the backlight of the distant workshop's yard light, his body trembling - still, nothing.
        Through his sickness, he found himself back in front of the entrance of niche #49. Unaware of his own actions, he had somehow put his work gloves back on and grasped the foot handle of the casket.
        He took a deep breath over his shoulder and he heaved. His arm jerked to a sudden stop. The box was glued to the bottom of the tomb by John's effluents. He jerked again- again- again. Harder! - It broke loose. The sudden momentum of the casket letting go of its bed caused Harold to fall back a few steps, pulling it with him. He caught his balance and stood startled for a few seconds. He could hear liquid sloshing around the coffin's insides. A few more tugs and the container fell out of its second tier resting place and landed with a thud on the ground standing grotesquely upright. A putrescent molasses-like substance began oozing in a pool around its foot.
        Half in horror, half in delight, Harold stood back, shining his lamp upon this coffin, which, although once new, was now rotting and stained from years of seeping body and embalming fluids. He found himself almost in a trance to have reached this apex, gazing at the evidence of the mystery that lies hidden in the grave. It was horrible. It was putrid. It was beautiful. Once again, with his flat bar in his hand, he approached the coffin and fit the pry between the lid and the box. One - two – three,  he bore all of his weight upon the bar, but it didn't need all of his weight. It needed only a fraction and the lid sprung open. At the sudden motion, Harold's lamp slipped from his grip and hit the ground, breaking the bulb. Gripped with terror, he stood alone in the darkness with the newly opened coffin, and the faint light that shone through the foggy trees from the distant workshop's yard light. He held his breath. The only sound in the night was the outlying call from the cemetery's big-horned owl, as if inquiring about the noise coming from the crypts.
        "Hoo.... Hotoo, Hoo.. Hoo Hoo.. Hoo Hoo"
        Harold grew faint. His knees buckled. In the dim grey light he could make out the open rectangle of the upper coffin's interior, exposed by the lid's opening, and nothing more. Horrified, he felt himself dribble in his pants. With all of the courage he could muster, he reached for the matchbox in his left hand coat pocket, and for the first time in his life, he was thankful that he was a smoker, for he knew exactly where the matches were. With shaking trembling hands, he struck a blaze.
        His eyes strained hard to see what lie in the flickering light of the opening. He could see the stained material. It looked to be a deep dark brown. He tried to assemble some sort of features: a nose, teeth, hair, anything human-like. Finally he focused.
        "What the hell?"
        He couldn't believe it.
        "OUCH!!"
        The match had burned his finger above his thumb.
        "Shit!"
          A quick reaction found his finger in his mouth to ease the burn.
        "Shit!"
        "Pa-tooh!"
        "Pa-tooh!"
          He spat, over and over, trying to remove the foul taste of rotted juices from his mouth. His gloves must have soaked through. The whole damn thing was starting to piss him off. It was just one mis-step after another. What a gawd-awful taste! He felt little droplets of cold sweat forming on his forehead. His gut began to cramp.
        "I'm gonna be sick again."
        He lost it and retched until his stomach felt that it would rupture with the dry heaves. For what seemed like an hour, he sat upon the ground with his head between his knees until he felt somewhat better.
        With the next match, he had less trouble. He was not shaking. He made the strike and leaned over the opening. The stench was awful, but he was used to it by now, and besides, he had to see into that box.
        "Oh my gawd!"
        It was empty!  The damned casket was empty!  He threw down his torch, and picked the bar up off of the ground. With almost uncanny ease, he pried open the bottom lid, and struck another match. EMPTY!
        What manner of trick was this? Had this grave been robbed right under his own watch as cemetery sexton? John's body just couldn't disappear and leave behind only a stinking mess like this! Where the hell was it? He stepped around the coffin, and leaning into the crypt, struck yet another match. He could see the light bouncing off of the walls of the empty tomb.
        “Where the hell are you?", his voice echoed.
        His question was instantly answered. The air was chilled as it bolted up from behind, accompanied by a deafening mighty roar.
        "HERE I AM YOU LITTLE SHIT!"
        With a force never known to him, Harold was struck from the backside and slammed forward into the tomb, smashing up against the far wall like a rag doll. He lay there as if he were an insect that had been stepped on, smashed. The breath had been hammered from him. Warm blood was pouring from somewhere above his eyes. The pain was sickening; intense, overpowering. He began seeing stars, his eyes faded and he lost awareness.


        Harold awoke to soft tapping, scraping and total darkness. He could hear an almost-forgotten yet familiar sound, one that somehow brought a bizarre comfort. Then as assimilation began to set in, he recognized if for what it was - the humming and whistling of, -  of, -  John?, - John Lotz? 
    Yes, it was indeed John, just beyond the fiberglass wall that had been placed over the tomb's entrance.

        "No!!!  Nooo!!!" he heard himself moan from his broken and twisted state. He was becoming aware of lying on the left side of his broken body in that black icky stench of grease that the previous tomb's owner had left behind. He could feel the B Bs under his cheek, still there after all this time. A new wave of horror swept over him.
        He could hear the dragging of the heavy marble slab. It sounded like big claws being raked over a chalkboard as it was nearing its position.
      "You want to see a disinterment? I'll let you ferment a couple of months and then we'll dig your worthless ass up and have a look!  ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!"
        The lid thumped into place. Over the ringing of his own labored gasps pulsing from the concrete walls within his burial chamber, he could hear the muffled squeaks of the screws as they tightened against the brass holding stars, John's stiff footsteps dragging away, his fading hideous laughter.
        Now Harold would await his own death. His own disinterment.