Sylvia's Day
"There goes crazy old Sylvia Merriwether" is what they would say on those chilly October nights when she could be seen driving that old Datsun of hers down to Meadow Point, three sheets to the wind and dressed in an old gown, yellowed with age and nicotine, stinking of mothballs and Ben Gay. Old people smell. She went down to Meadow Point every October 25th, like clockwork, arriving at exactly 7:15 PM, like clockwork and leaving sometime after midnight, like clockwork.
"Thing is, nobody knows why," Artie Pimn said with a slicked back, greasy grin. Rayburn grinned and sipped his coffee. Artie wasn't what you'd call a Rhode's scholar, worked twelve years up to the textile mill until he lost his hand in the press, settled out of court for five-hundred grand, pissed that away on beer and other bulls**t inside of a year.
"You mean Meadow Point, the cemetery?" That was Ben Haskill, the new buck in town. Not a bad looking guy, but just about as dumb as a post. Still, it was enough to turn most of the women in Cedar Creek's heads quicker than a White Sale at the Woolworth's. Not that there were many women to be impressed with in a backwater town like Cedar Creek. Only woman worth a damn was Junie, she owned The Break Room, little diner-slash-poolhall where all the factory bums would go after work. In fact, they were there now. Rayburn had a thing for Junie since highschool, just never had the gumption to say a word on the subject. Junie'd married for a spell right out of highschool, married Joe Drummond, best fullback Destiny High ever had, back in 1976, that is. Got drunk and busted out his knee. Ended up at the mill just like everybody else in this stink hole town. Thought he could beat on her, she had different ideas. Bit of a scandal there, but not much. Sheriff Grayson and the boys had a big laugh when they found old Joe nailed to a chair. Long rail spike shoved right through his balls. Needless to say, he never said who did it and sure as s**t didn't want to press charges. Hell, everybody knew who did it. Junie still had that rail spike hanging on the wall behind the counter.
"That'd be the cemetery all right," Rayburn said.
"Reckon she's got kin up there?" Ben's eyes were wide, like some kind of goddamned kid. Rayburn wanted to laugh in his pretty little face. Rayburn wanted to do a lot of things. Wanted to tell Ben that he himself was young once, that he used to turn heads, same as Ben, but that the factory just sucks all that out of you like some kind of goddamned vampire. The separators with their razor sharp teeth would sink into you and one day, you wake up and women don't look at you like they used to. Women you used to turn down are now calling you "sir" Wasted Goddamned life.
"Reckon she's got somebody up there. But Sylvia Merriwether ain't got no kin that nobody can recall. Never even married, that nobody can recall," Rayburn said, all the while watching Junie behind the counter and wondering what wonders were waiting behind that tight blouse of hers. Rayburn sure could go for a little mountain climbing, scaling the twin peaks of Cedar Creek.
"So, what's she going up to Meadow Land for anyway? Got no kin there."
"Nobody knows," Artie said, tapping his prosthetic hand against the table in that annoying way of his. Rayburn often thought about ripping that sum bitch off at the stump and clocking him but good with it. "Been doing it longer than any one of us been around."
"Anybody ever go up there, find out?" Ben looked from Rayburn to Artie, his eyes moving faster than a jackrabbit hopped up on crack. Rayburn looked over to Artie, who was about to say something, and shook his head at him. Little s**t best keep things to himself, specially if he wanted to stay out of trouble.
Artie looked back at Rayburn and screwed up his face. He slammed his prosthetic hand on the table and stammered out the words "No, nobody has and nobody's gonna!"
"You wanna watch my tables, Artie?" Junie shot him daggers from behind the counter. Artie sank in his chair like a scolded child.
"Sorry Mrs. Junie," He said, sliding his hand under the table. Good thing too, Rayburn couldn't stand that sight of that hand, not since he caught Artie jacking off with it in the bathroom at the Break Room. Some sick s**t, he thought. Things like that best done in private and with your own goddamned hand. Christ, it would be like getting a hand job from Bob f**king Dole.
"Music should be starting up soon," Artie looked over to Rayburn to make sure he could say that. Rayburn nodded, taking another sip from his coffee. All he could think about these das, besides Junie, was why the hell he didn't run as far away from here as he could, far, far away.
"Music?" Ben's eyes got big as pie plates.
"Old timey music," Rayburn said. "Big Band, I think. She drags out an old phonograph, winds it up, and plays that s**t until midnight."
Sure enough, almost on cue, the music started up. It was Glenn Miller, it was always Glenn Miller to start with. 'In the Mood', to be exact. Cranked up so loud, you'd think old Glenn's bones trolled up to Meadow Point with his full band in tow.
"Jesus, please us!" Ben said. "Maybe somebody should go up there, have a look."
"You go up there," Rayburn said. "Ain't nothing worth looking at but a dusty old woman and a bunch of headstones!"
"Right,' Artie said carefully, "Bunch of goddamned headstones."
There never was much to do in Destiny except drink or gossip, sometimes both. Not much went on that didn't get discussed either at The Break Room or over to Melba's parlor. Hell, even over to Grantham's where you could still get a shave, a haircut and the latest on whose doing who. Even still, there are dry spells where not much is going on, so you get the reruns, like that time a million years ago when Bedelia Marsh beat her husband, Edward Marsh to death with a statue of Venus. Beat him so many times, they say wasn't nothing left of his head aside from a bloody pulp. Or that time about fifteen years ago when Amelia Cross hung herself in the fruit cellar of her house. Didn't nobody find that body for a month and by then, they say she looked like a goddamned mummy.
Talk of late seemed to center mostly around what happened on Marsh lane last year, the explosion up to the old Marsh house. Even had a lot of reporters snooping around over that one. Course, Rayburn wasn't nobody's fool. He'd just as soon get on Junie's bad side and have his nuts nailed to a chair as go anywhere near that old house, or what was left of it. About a month after the explosion, some wiry little insurance adjuster came into The Break Room, eyes like the moon, looking at photographs of that old house like he was trying to put something together. Said the craziest thing. Said he'd taken pictures right after the explosion and came back for a follow-up and some of the damage was gone. Said it was like the house was healing. Now Rayburn wasn't sure he believed that, but he was damned sure not in a hurry to find out for himself.
Ben looked out the window, straining to see up to Meadow Point.
"S**t, kid! You that curious, shy don't you go have a look for yourself," Rayburn said with a laugh. If he really wanted to scare the kid right, he could tell him what he did know.
"Maybe I will," Ben said. "Anything's better than sitting around here wondering."
Ben started to get up, Rayburn grabbed his arm tight and yanked him back down. Ben looked at him with a hurtful expression, and a little bit of shock. That was good, Rayburn thought. Little punk was learning the goddamned food chain around here.
"You sit your ass down boy, if you want to keep it!" Rayburn hissed.
"F**k's gotten into you, Rayburn?" Ben looked like he was about to cry. Rayburn released his grip, there was a huge red mark where his hand had been. He didn't know he'd grabbed him like that.
"Some thing's best left alone boy!" Rayburn said. Ben looked back out the window and that told Rayburn that it just wasn't sinking in, so maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea, maybe not such a bad idea at all.
"Let me tell you something, boy, and nothing up to Meadow Point except a bunch of dead people and that's something you don't want to go messing around with, especially around here."
"F**k are you talking about?" Ben was still rubbing his arm. The welt was starting to turn purple.
"Sylvia Merriwether's what I' talking about, and what she does up to Meadow Point on ever October 25th, like clockwork."
"Thought you didn't know nothing about that?" Ben said. Artie shot him daggers.
"Just listen to what the man's got to say, kid," Artie said. "You need to go to school, kid!"
"It was in the summer of '41," Rayburn said.
"No, it was '42," Junie called out from the counter. "That's when it happened, the summer of '42."
"One or the other," Rayburn tried to hide his annoyance. "Year don't matter."
"You gonna tell the story, Rayburn, tell it right," Junie said. She was at the table now, her soft perfume sort of tickling the air and making it just a little more breathable.
"It was '42," she continued "That was when she met him, summer of '42, at the June dance. She was only 20 back then, and beautiful! You wouldn't believe it if you didn't see it firsthand. Seen pictures myself, in the papers. Real whirlwind courtship. Met him at the June dance, Gregory Hartwood, well, it was Lt. Gregory Hartwood."
"Hartwood mining?" Ben asked. Rayburn was surprised the little s**t knew that much.
"The very same. His daddy was Victor Hartwood, owned the company outright. Big time money and lost of it. Pulled a lot of strings to get his boy a nice, safe position during the war. They had more money than God. Problem was, Victor Hartwood wasn't known for being a nice guy. He didn't cotton much to the idea of his son carrying on with some white trash from the boonies. Took even less of a liking to finding out they'd gone and gotten engaged in July. Met in June and got engaged in July. Imagine that."
"So'd they get hitched?" Ben said. Junie shook her head.
"Victor Hartwood would hear nothing of it. Tried everything, even tried bribing old Sylvia. Well, that didn't take to well. They were supposed to be married in August. Of course, Victor Hartwood had other plans. He pulled some string and got his boy shipped out earlier, he was gone by July 15th.
"Of course, young love being what it is, that didn't stop them. He was supposed to get a leave in November, they were going to get married then. Sylvia even went and picked out a dress, picked out a cake, told her family, had everything all worked out."
"So what happened?"
Junie smiled grimly. "Accidents will happen, Ben, accidents will happen. In his rush to save his son from what Victor thought was the biggest mistake of his life, he made a big mistake. Some say it was paperwork got crossed somewhere along the line. Others say somebody had it in for Victor, somebody with better strings at his disposal, others say Victor got wind of his son's plans and set up the whole thing himself. Either way, Lt. Gregory Hartwood suddenly found himself shipped to the front. He wrote to Sylvia as often as he could, told her all the s**t he was seeing. He lasted longer than anyone would have expected. On October 25th, he was killed. Horde of Japanese soldiers stormed them, took a lot of prisoners, no survivors. He was in such a state they say that when he was sent back home, there wasn't much left to identify. Cut him to pieces. They never did find his head."
"Jesus, Please us!" Ben's face grew white, but he looked hungry for more just the same.
"Old man had him buried up to Meadow Point," Rayburn said.
"That's right," Junie said. "Had him buried up to Meadow Point."
"So that's why she goes there?" Ben's hand shook as he brought his cup up to his mouth.
"Oh no," Junie smiled. "There's more to the story than that. They say that, at 7:15 PM, sharp, Sylvia heard a tapping at her window, looked down and saw Gregory, probably looking pretty as a penny in his dress uniform. Sylvia rushed downstairs, slipping on her best dress, and ran outside to meet him. He told her, they reckon, that he didn't have much time before he had to leave again. Took her down to Meadow Point with a phonograph, and they danced until midnight. Then he just up and disappeared."
"Disappeared"
"That's right. Nobody is entirely sure, but most folks have a good idea. 7:15 PM, our time, our date, was the day Gregory Hartwood's platoon was taken, exact time too. Figure midnight was around the time he died. They tortured him for nearly five hours before they killed him."
"Jesus, please us!"
"So they say, she goes up to Meadow Point every year to dance with him again. Ever year at exactly 7:15 PM."
"S**t, Junie," Rayburn said, glaring at the clock. "It's half past eight, whistle's probably done blown up to the mill. Best get back while there's still a job to get back to."
Rayburn gave Junie the good old once over behind her back before excusing himself. Graveyard was a bitch, even worse pulling double shifts. To eleven and then eleven to seven. That prick Joiner up in management said it was necessary, had to bring up production. Course, all that after laying off half the f**king plant. Asshole! . He walked out into the chilly night, fumbling in his pocket for his keys. Glenn Miller was still "In the Mood." Crazy bitch had to play that f**king song a thousand time, now it was rolling around in his head so clearly he wasn't sure if he was hearing it, or just imagining it. He got into his beat up old Chevy and turned the key, whistling that damned song and hating himself for whistling it.
Of course, that wouldn't be the end of it, and Rayburn knew it. He knew it by the look on Joiner's face the next day that sickly, pallor that fell like a shroud over his face. Rayburn was clocking in when he heard the announcement. Of course, he didn't need to hear a word. He already knew what the announcement was.
"Ben Haskill was found dead up to Meadow Point early this morning. Police are still trying to figure out what happened. That means somebody's going to have to cover his shift and we're going to have to work extra hard to meet out quotas, so no slaking off!"
Yeah, that Joiner was a real humanitarian alright. Humanitarian, like vegetarian. Stupid goddamned kid, Rayburn thought. Stupid goddamned kid wen up to Meadow Point even after all that, went up and got himself killed. Rayburn looked over at the lockers and saw Artie. Artie saw him too, because his face grew white and he started moving faster, hoping to get away. Rayburn sauntered over to him and slammed the locker on his fake hand.
"S**t, Rayburn, what you want to go and do that for? That cost me a $900 dollar co pay!"
"Gonna cost you a lot more than that, you s**tter, if you don't tell me what the sam hell happened last night!"
"I tried to stop him," Artie pleaded. "Honest I did, but he'd hear nothing of it. He went up to Meadow Point to see for himself. I tried to stop him, honest I did."
It was about 9:00 that night when Ben Haskill left The Break Room. He was stealing the occasional glance up at Meadow Point, the music beating down like some great force from another reality.
"C'mon kid," Artie said, "You don't wanna go messing around up there, do you? Let's go to the titty bar, I'm buying."
There was pleading in Artie's voice. Had Ben been just a little smarter than he was, he'd have picked up on that, sensed the danger, but smarts was not exactly his strong suit. Besides, there was something strange about that cemetery. It seemed somehow less dark than anything else around. In fact, Ben could swear it was glowing.
"Just gonna take a peek," Ben was still transfixed, staring hypnotically at Meadow Point. "Just a quick peek is all."
"Ain't nothing to see," Artie grabbed Ben's arm. Ben turned quick, his face distorted in anger.
"Second time one of you old f**kers couldn't keep you hands to yourself. You wanna lose the other one, old man? Better let me go."
Artie could tell by the look on his face that he meant it.
"Okay Ben," Artie let go slowly, then backed away nice and easy. "You was warned though, so don't say you wasn't!"
"F**k off, old man!" Ben turned back to Meadow Point. "I'll tell you chickens**ts all about it tomorrow."
Ben walked slowly, the gravel crackling below his feet drowned out by the increasing volume of the music. As he got closer, he felt a knot in his stomach nd heard a voice inside his head warning him to turn back. Like hell, he thought. Turn back and let those two old faggots have their good laugh? Not on your life! He approached the gate, his head was starting to throb from the music. It sounded so clear, not canned or scratchy like a record.
"Jesus please us!" Ben said as he approached the gate. It wasn't just his imagination, it was brighter up there. There was a soft, blue glow emanating from several strings of lights that seemed to hang in midair, suspended from nothing. He carefully opened the gate nd walked in, trying to be quiet, not that it mattered. The music was so loud, he could have come in here with a herd of elephants and nobody's hear it.
Strangest thing was, it didn't really look like a cemetery. There were no head stones, no graves. Then the music stopped. There was thunderous applause and he could, for the first time, hear the sounds of laughter, the din of conversations overlapping. It was some kind of f**king party, he thought. He ventured further in.
There was a lit gazebo and inside the gazebo was a band, full brass and strings. The band leader raised his baton and Glenn Miller's "In the Mood" started up again. All around him, people were dancing, swirilling around, clear as day. But something seemed off, something seemed not quite right about this, no siree bo, not quite right at all. They were all dressed in 40's style clothes, all dancing like in the old movies. The band leader moved his hands to the music, cigarette dangling from his mouth as the band played on.
Ben felt a tap on his shoulder and nearly lost his skin. He turned around and there was this gorgeous creature, hair up in a bun, wearing a blue sequined dress. Her bright red lips drew back into a seductive smile as she took out a gold cigarette case and clicked it open.
"You're new," She said "What I mean is that I've never seen you around here before."
"Jesus please us!" Ben said. "What the hell is going on here?"
"It's a dance, can't you tell?" She fluttered her eyes and lowered them seductively. "Only thing is, I've nobody to dance with."
"Who set this up?" Ben backed away.
"Hey, don't get your nose in a twist mack. This is just a party, so let's kick up our heels a little, what do you say?"
He looked at the strange woman and something wasn't right, something wasn't right at all. He could see her, obviously he could touch her. Christ, he could even smell her perfume. But that was the problem, there was something beneath her perfume, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, something like that sickly sweet smell on a summer's day when the crows were circling. Ben backed away slowly and got another jolt that nearly sent him squealing like a little girl. There was something behind him, stopping him from backing up any further. Ben turned around, and there he was, whoever he was. He had no idea, but it was clear that he was there. Tall guy, wearing a bright red jacket, wavy blond hair and startling blue eyes. The man flashed him a charming smile.
"Don't look like you're having fun, Mr. Haskill," The man's voice had a strange resonance to it. It was calming, but at the same time frightening. It reminded him of that time he watched the Boa constrictor at the zoo being fed that mouse. The way that snake curled itself around the mouse slowly, massaging the mouse until it drifted off to sleep, then it just scooped that little mouse into its mouth.
"Ain't like no kind of party I've ever seen," Ben said.
"Then you, dear boy, need to get out more," The man tipped his cane, there was a silver emblem with the goddess Venus in the center. The man bowed, turned swiftly, and walked away, whistling some ragtime tune, "The Entertainer."
Ben looked around, everything was moving to fast before his eyes, the music, the lights, the moving bodies, all gave him a sense of vertigo. He looked for the way he came in, but couldn't find it. Somewhere, a woman laughed, it mingled with the music and the ten million other sounds that didn't belong in this place of the dead. Ben wandered for a time, not even sure who he was anymore, lat alone where he was. Then something familiar caught his eye. If he had an imagination, he could have said he imagined it before, when Junie told him the story, but he didn't. Still, there they were, and somehow he knew it was them. Gregory Hartwood, in his dress uniform, dancing with the beautiful young woman in a white dress. He heard the man in red saying in the distance "And they say you go to heaven for the music!" and the woman laughed again.
Ben watched the two lovers dance and was spellbound. The way they looked into each others eyes, the way they held each other. The way they spoke to each other. He could almost hear it, even over the music.
"I promised I would come back," Gregory said.
"I promised I would wait, my beloved," The woman said dreamily.
The man in red called out again. "Helluva a band," He said. "But where did you dig up that bandleader! He's stiff as board!" The laughing woman laughed again. Then, the music stopped. There was a roar of applause, but the two young lovers held their embrace. Gregory turned his head slowly and his eyes met with Ben's. Something was wrong with his eyes, they were as black as coals, with a single red dot in the center of each eye, glowing like fire.
"Are you in the mood?" Gregory asked Ben. Ben was unable to answer, unable to speak even. The music picked up again, but the lights had faded. The man in red spoke again.
"Almost time to beat it," He said. "Party's dead anyway." The laughing woman laughed again, but this time, the laugh turned into a cackle, a man, guttural sound. Ben heard the sound of water sloshing somewhere. It was coming from the gazebo, from the bandstand. He turned around slowly. The band leader was directing with his baton, still. The thin rob pursed between a pair of greenish, slimy fingers. His hair was covered with moss and seaweed, his clothes, tattered and soaked rags. A cigarette jutted from his exposed jaw. The saxophonist blared out a somber note, skeletal hands keying up. How the hell was he playing that thing? Ben thought. He's got no lips! Jesus, please us! He's got no f**king lips!
"Party always dies around midnight," The man in red said. Ben looked over toward him. His face was a contorted mass of tissue, scarred and disfigured beyond comprehension. A pair of luminous, red eyes peered back at him from beneath a caul of putrefied flesh. The laughing woman laughed again, he law coming unhinged as she did. Her face was as shriveled, drawn tight against her skull like wet tissue paper. The man in red smiled, revealing a mouth full of jagged, yellowed teeth, too long and sharp to possibly fit in his mouth.
"Everything always dies at midnight," He said. The laughing corpse cackled.
Ben looked around him at this image from hell. Corpses tripping the light fantastic. Hellish dead things in tattered clothes dancing slowly, limbs breaking off, a head rolled off one woman. But the band played on. Then he saw them again, and this time he did scream. He screamed like a scared little girl. The young lover were still in their embrace, only now, it was old Sylvia Merriwether dancing with a headless corpse, a rotting pile of meat suspending itself in mid air. Little more than a torso with arms. Rotten earth and crawling things fell from its chest cavity as it floated to the music. Then it spoke, in a hoarse voice, a whisper of wind like the air from an old soda can.
"This is your night, Sylvia. It's always your night!"
The old woman in the yellowed dress lay her head against the foul things chest. A beetle crawled from between its rib cage and jutted across her cheek.
"Thing about parties, Benny," The man in red, the creature in red, was behind Ben. Ben felt that cramp gnawing away, the trickle of warm, metallic saliva washing through his mouth. He couldn't hold it in any longer, he hunched over and puked up every last thing in his stomach, puked until all he could manage was a dry heave.
"Thing about parties is there's always one guest who doesn't know when to leave."
Weakly, Ben looked up at the man in red. Shred of torn flesh slid across its cheek as it spoke. Behind him were the rest of the party guests in all their gruesome splendor. The man in red smiled, its lips peeled back, way back, splitting to its ears, revealing layers of teeth, like a shark.
"Will you, won't you, will you wont you," It sang. "Won't you join the dance?"
Nobody heard Ben's final scream. Junie thought she heard something when she locked up, but figured it was just the wind. When the police found Ben, he was lying next to a puddle of his own vomit, staring blankly into the early morning twilight. Sheriff Grayson didn't put much to it. Kid just got s**t faced and scared himself to death, not hard to do in this old cemetery. Of course, that would have been easier for him to believe if he hadn't seen it. In Ben's hair was confetti, and a single red streamer. Not the kind of thing you'd expect to find in Destiny. Then again, Destiny was that kind of place and last night was Sylvia's night.
"And that's exactly how it happened," Rayburn sipped his coffee. "One year ago to the day!"
"Like clockwork," Artie said. "Just like f**king clockwork!"
"Jesus!" Was all the kid could manage. His name was Jeff Barker. Some college kid, going to the University of Alabama, trying to 'do it himself', work his way through. "Of course," He said. "I don't believe a word of it."
"Well, it's true. They even buried Ben up to Meadow Point. One thing's certain around here and that's that all of us gonna go up to Meadow Point eventually. There's just no point in being in a hurry to get there," Rayburn snuffed out his cigarette.
"So what do you think happened to him?" Jeff said. "To Ben, I mean?"
"I don't think," Rayburn said. "I like to sleep when I can."
In the distance, the sound of Glenn Miller piped down from Meadow Point. Somewhere, behind the music, a woman laughed. If anyone was stupid enough to go up to Meadow Point, Rayburn thought, they'd probably see that dumb ass Ben there, dancing with the rest of them. This was, after all, Sylvia's night.
