Just Inside the Cemetery

Are you one of the frightened?

Arthur Wingate was a fairly well-to- do lawyer in the small town of Morrisville. It's a quiet, orderly town. Nothing out of the way ever happens there. Or so he thought for thirty years. But then one day all of it changed -and his whole life lay before him. Like the day he saw those men digging that fresh grave just inside the cemetery gate on his way home from work. You resemble Arthur Wingate, friend. Listen closely and you may avoid the terrible thing that happened to him. . .

It had been a hot, dusty day in Morrisville. Possibly it was the hot sun, but a sudden headache came over Arthur Wingate. His hands were moist, his brow feverish. He decided to go home to his own farm land just over the hill beyond the town. It wasn't too long a walk and maybe the fresh air would do him some good. So Arthur Wingate left his office and walked slowly down main street. It was odd but he met no one on the way. Soon, he was drawing abreast of the long, low- lying wall that bordered Morisville's only cemetery. The rhythmic sound of pickaxes attacking the soft sod came to him from beyond the wall. Someone had died. Life and Death went on in Morrisville same as any other town. But opposite the front gate where the sounds of digging were loudest, Arthur Wingate suddenly halted in confusion. No one had died recently to his knowledge except the Starkey boy and his burial had been a month ago.

Puzzled, Arthur Wingate went into the cemetery, and, just inside the wall, two men were grimly spading the earth into heaping ugly mounds. The heads and shoulders of the men were barely visible. Arthur Wingate approached them and asked them what they were doing. The faces of the two men were strange to him but they both seemed to consider his question even stranger.

"Somebody died," the taller of the two sneered and they both jeered at Arthur Wingate, whose headache was suddenly worse. Feverishly, he stumbled from the cemetery and finally reached home. The day had been too much for him. He fell into a long exhausted sleep. But his mind would not let him rest. The scene at the cemetery stayed with him. Who could have died?

Arthur Wingate felt the cold wind of something fan his spine. He had a curious sensation of unreality that he could not shake off. He could not wait a second longer. He left his home near midnight and ran to the cemetery. It looked eerie, forlorn and cold in the moonlight. The metal gate squealed as he stepped inside. He splashed light in the direction of where he remembered the grave to be. It was still there -but there was something else too.

A pine box was placed to one side of the grave, its lid angled backward to show the contents. Arthur Wingate drew nearer and slowly, fearfully, aimed his flashlight at the interior of the oblong box. The fact that it was empty was far more frightening than if it had been occupied. There was a tag on the box, dangling from a metal hinge. The wind in the graveyard howled and tore at the thing as Arthur Wingate held it up to the light.

Scrawled across the tab in a spidery hand were the words. . . Arthur Wingate. . .1907- 1964. He saw no more. A hideous scream ripped from his throat and he pitched forward into the empty box, the lid slamming down behind him, shutting him in.

Of course, when they found him there the next morning he was dead. Heart attack. Nothing had been written on the tag except a series of numbers indicating the grave's dimensions. And the box had been for the Starkey boy because his grave was being moved at the mother's request. But Arthur Wingate had met his death. . . by premonition, by fate, by manifest destiny. . .

Yes, perhaps it's an interesting tale. . .quiet, unusual. . . but I hear them all the time. . . in my business, you understand. . . huh? Oh, I'm an undertaker. . . can I interest you in a plot of ground. . . at our summer rates?

By Michael Avallone in Tales of the Frightened