Banquet of Bones
By T. M. Gray

         The complaint came in at daybreak from a terrified jogger.  Officer Blane Bailey answered the call, then dialed Police Commissioner, Jack Davis.  "Something’s happened at Oakdale Cemetery.  It's serious.  Can you meet me there?" 
        Jack yawned, making sure that Blane knew he woke him up.  "Sure.  Vandals again?" 
        "It's worse than vandalism, Commish.  We have empty graves and corpses on our hands." 
        "I’ll be right there."  Jack hung up the phone, now fully awake.

#

        "Who the hell would do anything like this?"  Jack forced his gaze upon the carnage surrounding Oakdale Cemetery.  Headstones lie broken and toppled like rows of bad teeth.  Shreds of plastic flowers added colorful confetti to the molested corpses that littered the ground.  The closest was that of a woman.  She’d been posed beside an empty grave, cradling a dead infant in her mottled arms. 
        "Beats me, Commish."  Blane gagged into his cupped hand a couple times, whirled away from Jack and vomited his breakfast of sausage and eggs into the muddied grass.  "Oh god," he said at last, "sorry about that, Jack.  It's just the smell.  It kind of got to me." 
        "It’s ok."  Jack walked over to the crypt, where two adult corpses lay atop a pile of long-dead children.  Jack tasted the acrid rise of bile his throat and forced it down with a swallow.  Blane followed, wiping his mouth.
         "Takes a sick bastard to desecrate the graves of kids," Blane commented with a frown.  "How in hell does anyone find a clue in all this?" 
        "The forensic unit is on the way," Jack told him.  "Until they get here we should conduct a quick search of our own.  I’ll start at this end and you work up from the south side.  Keep your eyes open and don’t touch anything."
        "I wouldn’t want to touch anything.  Hell, I don’t even want to be here." 
        Jack shrugged.  "Then take a break.  Go get yourself a coffee."
        "Do you mean it?  You won’t mind being left alone here?"
        "Look around, Blane.  I’m not alone." 
        "If you say so, Commish.  Can I bring you back a coffee?" 
        "Sure, make it black, no sugar.  Oh, and be sure to slide the barricade door shut on your way out."  Jack watched Blane leave, skirting around corpses and the gaping empty graves as if flames were licking at his heels.
        Jack slowly made his way across the ruined graveyard, struggling not to let neither the sights that affronted his eyes nor the sickly-sweet stench of decay creep too far into his brain.
        The perpetrator had been creative; he had to admit, going straight for the startle-effect with the horrific efficiency of a demented puppeteer.  Jack stopped at the desecration of a family’s gravesite.  The Beckett’s.  They’d died a month earlier in a car accident.
        Now the Beckett family was on hideous display. 
        Anne Beckett, with her shattered skull, lay beside her dead teenaged son, Jerry, between her legs.  Jerry’s head had been sheared clean off in the accident.  George Beckett, missing a leg, sat beside his empty grave with his dead daughter, Missy, on his lap.  Feeling green, Jack turned his head so he’d stop staring.
        Everywhere he looked, though, he saw the dead in vile and twisted poses.
        The perpetrator had interlocked bones to make skeletons stand up, embracing tall head stones; others he'd hung from stone crosses.  He’d reconstructed bodies, some now having legs instead of arms and others having arms instead of legs.  And the heads, some of them had been turned around backwards.  Jack started feeling very faint, recognizing the faces of the newer dead.  Hal Sanders from Oakdale Pharmacy lay before the kneeling corpse of Shirley Glass, the librarian.  A brown rope of stagnant intestines ran from Sander’s belly to her mouth.  Brent Peters, a rookie cop shot in the face during his downtown beat last month, now sat with Sue Myer, who succumbed to cancer a year ago.  Her finger plugged the hole in his skull.
        As he turned away, sickened, something else caught Jack’s eye.  His grandmother’s grave.  His confidence faltered.  I really can’t handle this as well as I thought I could.  What has he done to poor Nanna?  Quickly, Jack removed his coat, despite the brisk October breeze, and with trepidation, approached Nanna Davis’s grave.
        He lifted his eyes to her corpse, trying not to stare at the blackish bits of flesh that clung to her bones.  Even so, Jack could still hear her voice crackle in his ears: Does Jacky want a cookie?  I’ve got a fresh batch straight from the oven!  Toll house cookies, all warm and gooey!  Shivering, he lifted his coat.  He was about to spread it over her to cover her up when something stopped him.  There was something white between her dentures.  A piece of paper.  With shaking hands, Jack reached out and gently removed it from her mouth.  He read it with a groan:
        I’ve played with your dead.  Shall I start with your living?  I’ll call you at home tonight, 10 sharp.  Answer the phone or Jill is next.
        Ice knifed through Jack’s heart.  How did this madman get my number?  How does he know about Jill?
        Jack slipped the note into his pants pocket as the forensic team pulled up in their black sedans, followed by an unmarked utility van.  This is crazy.  My phone number’s unlisted.  Jill and I have been divorced for 10 years.  It has to be someone I know or someone who knows me.  Or someone who has access to my records.  A list of possible suspects began to form in Jack’s mind, but he filed it away to pick over later.  There were plenty of people who wanted to harm him, especially those convicts he’d helped put behind bars.  It would be impossible to spend twenty-seven years in the police force without making enemies.
        "So sorry, Nanna," Jack whispered as he gently draped his coat over his grandmother’s corpse.  The memory of eating warm chocolate chip cookies at her kitchen table caused a hard lump to form in his throat.  I’ll get the bastard who did this to you, he added with a catch in his voice.
        He turned to meet the state forensic team as they walked up the hill, three grim-faced men and one woman.  "Thank you for coming on such short notice," Jack said.  "We’ve never had a case like this one and I appreciate your help." 
        The tall man with glasses spoke up.  "How long have you been at the scene, Commissioner?" 
        Jack paused, glancing at his watch.  "Less than an hour." 
        "Did you find any evidence that might shed some light on the perp's ID?" 
        "No,' Jack said quickly, thinking about the note in his pocket.  I’ll handle that on my own.
        "Did you touch anything?" 
        Jack nodded and pointed behind him.  "Yes, I did.  I put my coat over my grandmother.  For the sake of decency." 
        The woman, a plain brunette with her hair in a bun, spoke up, her eyes soft.  "In light of what’s happened here, that’s perfectly understandable, Commissioner Davis." 
        "We’re going to have to move the barricade so we can drive the van in.  All the bodies will be taken to the lab for identification," the short, plump man said as he slipped on a pair of gloves.
        "How could anyone do this?" Jack asked.  "I mean, I thought corpses go stiff because of rigor mortis." 
        The woman looked around, shaking her head.  "It’s my guess that there was more than one perp at work here.  You told us that one of your officers drove by this cemetery at nine last night and everything was fine.  That leaves eight hours before five a.m. when the complaint came in.  There’s no way just one person could do all this destruction working alone in that time frame." 
        The tall man with glasses nodded.  "In answer to your question, Sir, I suspect mallets were used to break the joints of the corpses to make them easier to pose.  And as for corpses going stiff, after initial rigor mortis, bodies do go limp, then re-stiffen in time."
        "Reminds me of some bizarre artwork," the short man said, shivering slightly as he looked around.  "Can’t remember the artist’s name, though." 
        "Salvador Dali," the woman and tall man said together.
        Jack reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette.  After he lit up, he said, "I’ll move the barricade so you can get the van in.  Mind you, though, I’ll be putting it back in place.  I’d rather not have folks see what’s been done up here." 
        At that moment, Blane returned holding a Styrofoam cup, which he passed to Jack.  "This is Officer Bailey," Jack told the forensic team.  "He’ll give you a hand bagging the bodies." 
        Blane’s mouth dropped.  "Geez, thanks, Commish." 
        Jack rolled his eyes.  "Now’s the chance to earn that raise, Blane.  I’m going to station an officer at the barricade, and then I’m going to my office to update the vandalism report."  He looked at the group before leaving.  "If you uncover any evidence, no matter how trite, I'd like the documentation on my desk as soon as possible."

#

        Jack paced in his living room, keeping an eye on the clock.  It was three minutes to ten and time was grinding at a maddeningly slow pace.  Everything was set, the tracer was ready and the recorder was on standby, waiting for the phone to ring.
        Two and a half minutes remained.  Jack thought about the list of evidence at the crime scene, compiled by Officer Blane.  Blane had noted that there had been no distinguishable footprints or shovel marks.  A pile of rotten clothing had been found behind the locked caretaker’s shed, apparently taken from several corpses.  As for posing the dead, the joints of the corpses had been broken, but not by a mallet, according to the forensic team.  They appeared to be shattered from the inside outward.  I don’t know what to make of this, Blane wrote at the bottom of the paper. 
        Neither did Jack, a disbeliever in the supernatural.  Everything has a logical explanation, he surmised, gods and devils serve as excuses for that which cannot be readily explained.
        Jill was a believer, however, and it was their differences in beliefs that split them apart in 1990.  He’d called her that morning to make sure she was okay and to suggest that she leave town for a few days.
        "You’ve got to be joking, Jack," she’d told him.  "I can’t leave.  I have a career, remember?" 
        "Then use some sick time.  We’ve got a hard case on our hands and your safety is at stake.  I don’t want to see anything happen to you, Jill." 
        "I’ll be careful, Jack.  I promise." 
        Jack made her promise a second time before hanging up the phone.
        He glanced at the phone again.  Sally, his girlfriend, a younger, blonder version of Jill, should be home by now.  Jack had feigned a headache and sent her home at nine, as there was no need for her involvement.  I should call to make sure she’s ok, too, Jack decided. I will, right after...
        The phone rang, startling Jack from his thoughts.
        Jack picked up the receiver and flipped on the recorder.  The light on the tracer was flashing green. "Yes?" 
        Jack Davis?  The voice coming through the phone lines sounded strange, mechanically brittle.  Jack surmised the caller was disguising his voice.
        "Speaking.  What do you want?" 
        Did you enjoy my work at the bone yard, hmmm, Jackie-boy?
        "No, I most certainly did not!" 
        It wasn’t terribly pleasant for me, either.  The living are much more sport than the dead, if you know what I mean.
        "Who are you?" 
        <manic laughter>  Names!  So hung up on names!  Does the name Oscar Fulch ring a bell?
        Oscar Fulch.  The mention of the convicted killer caused the blood to thin in Jack’s veins.  Ten years ago, he’d put Fulch behind bars.  The heinous nature of those murders made national headlines, the media dubbing Fulch 'The Mad Magician.'  Before his arrest, Fulch worked as a magician in a traveling carnival.  On stage Fulch’s act was astonishing in his slight of hand mastery.  Off stage, Fulch had a nasty habit of sawing his victims in half for real.  For Jack Davis, arresting Oscar Fulch had been a stepping stone to the office of Commissioner of Police.
        Jack swallowed.  "You’re obviously not Oscar Fulch.  So what’s your connection?" 
        I owed him a favor. 
        Jack‘s jaw tightened.  "If this is a joke... "
        It’s no joke, Jack-o.
        "I don’t believe this," Jack said hoarsely into the receiver. 
        Then believe in what I left for you on the doorstep.  You’ll be fun to play with.  Pity you’ll die so easily. <More manic laughter> 
        Jack glanced at the tracer.  The green light stopped flashing, meaning a successful trace. 
        I suspect you want to open your front door, Jack-o.  Then you’ll want to find out where I’m calling from.  I’ll hang up now so you can attend your business.  You’ll know where to find me. 
        The voice was replaced by the steady buzz signaling the end of the conversation.
        This is madness, Jack thought as he set the receiver down in its cradle.  He hurried to the front door and put an ear against it.  Quickly, he withdrew his gun.  He waited.  Hearing nothing, he turned on the outside light and opened the door cautiously.
        Something that looked like a pile of clothing was heaped on his stoop; four long pinkish-gray flaps and a blond curly wig connected something filmy and blue.
        How bizarre, Jack thought as he peered around to see if anyone was lurking in his yard.  The street and sidewalk were devoid of activity.  In the distance, he could hear the barking of a dog.
        Jack knelt to examine the wig.  He tried to lift it, but it was heavy, attached to another pinkish-gray flap.  His heart skipped a beat.  By illumination of the porch light, Jack realized the flap was a human face with sunken eyes and gaping mouth.  The nose was a long tag of skin, hanging limp.
        Jack dropped it immediately and rubbed his hand on his pants leg.  It had felt rubbery to the touch, cold and slightly greasy.  It’s a person suit, Jack thought, A latex theatrical prop.  Some trick.
        He reached out and picked up what looked like an arm.  It ended in blue- tipped fingernails.  Jack brought the hand to his nose and sniffed.  It didn’t smell at all like rubber, but something else.  Something familiar. 
        Jack’s stomach churned.
        Sally had painted her fingernails blue.  Jack remembered telling her he didn’t like it.  He liked it even less now.
        Jack shook his head, breathing hard.  Even the wig had Sally’s color and texture -- blond from a bottle, permed at a salon.  The blue filmy cloth was the negligee he’d bought for her birthday. 
        Tears filled his eyes as he wondered: Sweet Jesus, where’s the rest of her?
        Jack fell back on his haunches, stunned.  It was as if her flesh and bones had been pulled out, leaving Sally as deflated as a popped balloon.  It didn’t make sense.  It’s impossible.  There’s no blood, no lacerations, Jack reasoned.  I’m losing my freaking mind!
        Jack broke out in a sweat as he struggled to his feet.  Leaving the door open, he staggered back inside and picked up the phone to dial Sally’s number.
        It rang 20 times before he gave up.
        As soon as than Jack put down the phone, it rang, causing him to jump.
        "Sally?  Is that you?" 
        Guess again, Jack-o.
        Jack groaned.  "What have you done to her?" 
        <Manic laughter>  Isn’t it obvious?  I skinned her like a bunny.
        "You bastard!" 
        Now before you go off the deep end, Jackie-boy, you'd better talk to Oscar Fulch.  He’s the one who arranged all of this. 
        The phone clicked and a long, steady buzz followed.  Heart pounding, Jack hung up and ran the tracer.  The number that came up was from the State Penitentiary in Augusta.
        Jack knew what he had to do.

#

        A shadowy cloud of black smoke began to form in the upper corner of Oscar Fulch’s cell.  Oscar saw it and sat up on his mattress, grinning.
        "Did you do what I said?" Oscar whispered.
        Yes.
        "And you talked to Davis?" 
        Twice.
        "Good.  You’ll soon be rewarded.  Where is our Commissioner now?" 
        On his way.
        Oscar clapped his hands together.  "Perfect.  You’ve done well.  When he arrives, you'll know what to do." 
        Of course.
        "Now do me another favor.  Change your form.  That black smoke crap gives me the creeps."
        All in due time.  You’d do well to remember that your soul is mine.
        Oscar frowned.  "We have a contract.  I gave you freedom and you'll give me freedom.  An even trade." 
        I haven’t forgotten.

#

        Oscar heard the clicking echo of footsteps on the tiled floor of the long corridor.  He stood up, and went to the bars of his cell, expectantly waiting.  Behind him, in the upper corner of his jail cell, the black cloud boiled.
        Recognizing Jack Davis, Oscar managed a friendly smile.  "Why hello, Commissioner Davis.  What brings you down here in the middle of the night?" 
        "You know why I’ve come, Fulch.  Who did you hire to kill Sally?  Are they the same ones who destroyed Oakdale Cemetery?" 
        Oscar’s smile dropped.  "And I hoped this would be a friendly visit.  To answer your questions, I haven’t a penny to my name, thanks to you.  How could I possibly hire anyone?" 
        Jack lifted an eyebrow.  "Someone must owe you a favor?" 
        Oscar tilted his head, amused.  "Well, if you put it that way, Commissioner, someone does.  He’s right here, if you’d like to meet him." 
        Jack stepped forward.  "You’re in a solitary cell, Fulch.  There's no one else here." 
        Oscar stepped back, glancing at the ceiling.  "Not anymore."  Jack watched as a swirling black cloud lowered in smoky tendrils to the floor.
        "I haven’t got time for magic tricks, Fulch." 
        Oscar held up his hand.  "No tricks, Commissioner.  Watch this." 
        The smoke began to take on human form.  Jack could see a head, shoulders and arms materializing and he still found it hard to believe it was really happening.
        The being towered over Oscar, red eyes glowering. 
        "This is my accomplice," Oscar announced with an eloquent bow.
        Like hell, the demon bellowed.  I am your master!
        By this time, the prisoners in neighboring cells were listening, terrified.  One yelled out, "Oscar, you weirdo-freak, what have you done?" 
        Jack said nothing as he stepped back away from the cell.
        It’s time to fulfill the contract, Oscar.  Are you ready?
        "More than ready, my fiendish friend." 
        At this, the cloudy figure advanced toward Oscar.  A tendril of black smoke stretched like a finger to Oscar’s face, stroking his cheek.  Oscar began to cry.  Jack wasn’t sure if it was for joy or pain.
        I’m grateful that you released me from bondage, Oscar.  Now I shall release you from yours.
        The finger of black smoke found its way into Oscar’s mouth.
        Just then, Oscar grabbed his neck with both hands, his eyes bulging.  "What are you doing?" he croaked as a haze of pink-colored steam burst from his mouth.  Oscar fell to the floor of his cell puking even more steam into the air.
        The black figure opened its hand and the long fingers of smoke captured the steam coming from the mouth and nose of the fallen man.
        Jack’s screams joined those of the other prisoners.  "Stop, you’re killing him!" 
        It was over in a matter of seconds.  Oscar Fulch’s skin lay spread on the floor of his cell.  His arms and legs were pinkish-gray flaps protruding from his crumpled orange prison uniform.  The demon stepped on him as he slipped through the cell bars and advanced upon Jack.
        Yours is the body I require now.
        Jack could hear the iron door at the end of the corridor being opened.  No doubt, the screaming had alerted the warden. 
        Jack backed up against the bars of the opposite cell and reached for his gun. 
        Before he could pull it free from its holster, the demon was upon him.  He felt it enter his mouth--a cold dark oiliness, bitter to the taste.  He managed to clamp his jaw shut.  The smoke went up his nose instead, filing his sinuses, burning his tender mucous membranes.  Jack felt his lungs slowly expand like helium balloons.  His stomach felt like a blowtorch and his legs cramped with the pressure.
        Something inside him popped.  Jack heard it and felt it.  Then he felt no more.
        The warden was approaching, armed with a billy club.  "What the hell is going on here?  Commissioner, are you all right?"  He took Jack’s arm.  "Tell me, what happened, Sir?  What was all that screaming about?"
        Jack said nothing, but pointed to Oscar Fulch’s cell. 
        Warden Harris walked over to the cell and peered in through the bars at the skin on the floor.  "What the hell is that?" 
        "A demon!" the nearest prisoner shouted.  "A demon killed Oscar and now it’s inside the Commissioner!" 
        The warden turned to Jack.  "Can you explain this?" 
        At that, Jack reached out and plunged his hand into the warden’s beefy chest, penetrating skin, fat, muscle and bone, working into internal organs.  The billy club fell to the floor, followed by the body of the warden.  The prisoners howled at the gaping hole in his chest. 
        Jack looked at the heart in his hand.  Blood flowed freely from the torn aorta, splashing the floor in crimson.  Jack walked, carrying the heart to the center of the corridor, as the prisoners watched nervously.  Most of them were crying.
        Who wants freedom? Jack asked.
        The prisoner in cell 18 shook his fist.  "None of us, if it means the kind of freedom you gave Oscar Fulch!" 
        Jack turned, his face a mask of rage.  Fulch was an idiot!  He thought he was my master just because he called me here.  Well, I have news for you!  I’m not a genie and I don’t grant wishes.  His face softened as he gazed at the bloody heart with a smile.  I need an army, though.  A force of tough recruits who aren’t above breaking a few rules.  Jack approached cell 18 and put his free hand on the barred door.  Don’t worry, big feller.  All you have to do is volunteer.  Simple as that.
        Jack squeezed the bar with his fingers.  The door clicked and he pulled it open.  See how easy it is?  Now will you volunteer?
        The prisoner shrugged.  "Probably better off with you than waiting for my execution date.  Are you sure you won't hurt me?" 
        Jack dipped a thumb in the blood of the heart and pressed it to the prisoner’s forehead.  I'll never harm you.  You’re free.  He turned and looked at the row of cells.  Anyone else want to join up?
        The prisoner from cell 18 held up his palms, turning with a grin.  "Hey, no skin off my back.  Come on, guys.  Isn’t this what we always dreamed of?"
        One by one, Jack gained their confidence until every cell was empty. 
        "So when can we leave?" someone asked.
        Jack set the warden’s heart down on the floor.  With blood, he drew a circle around it.
        The anxious voices now grew quiet.  What’s he doing?  Shhh, I don’t know.
        Jack pointed his finger at the heart.  Immediately, it danced with fire, crackling and smoking, almost smelling like something good enough to eat.  He began to chant.
        The iron bars in each cell began to rattle and shake.  The tiled floor began to quiver.  Flecks of paint and plaster rained down from ceiling above.  Overhead, the row of fluorescent lights blinked, then went out all at once.  Terrified, the men gathered in a group, illuminated only by the fiery heart.
        The Commissioner stopped chanting.  Friends, he said, if there is anything you want, take it.  If someone stands in your way, kill them.  I set you to rape, pillage and plunder in the name of Darkness!
        A great groaning shook the corridor and the cement walls began to crumble.  Moments later, when the doors flew off the State Penitentiary, it marked the birth of the new, dark millennium.

#

        Officer Bailey looked up as the commissioner entered the department.  "Hey, where have you been, Jack?  You're never this late."
        Jack grunted and went for the coffee maker.  Blane watched him put four teaspoons of sugar in his cup.
        "Uh, Commish . . . are you feeling ok?"
        Yeah, I feel fine.  Why?
        Blane hesitated.  "Well, I didn't think you were supposed to have sugar because of your diabetes.  I mean, won't it mess up your insulin?"
        I'm not worried about it.
        Blane raised his eyebrows and mouthed a long and silent okay.  He quickly decided to change the subject.  "Hey, did you hear about the breakout at the state pen last night?  It's been all over the news.  There's an A.P.B. out on all the prisoners."
        Is that so?
        "Yeah.  There's speculation it was an earthquake.  I guess the whole place just tumbled down.  Pretty weird, huh?"
        The way Jack gulped his coffee caused Blane to wonder how he could stand to drink it like that.  "Are you sure you feel okay, boss?"
        Would you stop asking me that!
        Blane held up his hands.  "Hey, if you don't want to talk about it that's fine by me."  He reached down and picked up a paper from his desk.  "Sally's boss called this morning.  Apparently, she didn't come into work and can't be reached at home.  He wants to know if you know where she is."
        Jack gave Blane a brittle smile and put down his coffee cup.  How would I know where she is?
        "Didn't you have a date last night?"
        Mmmm.  Yeah.
        "Jack?"  Blane looked into Jack's eyes, noting something was amiss.  He wanted to ask again if Jack was okay, then thought better of it.  Maybe he and Sally had an argument?
        Blane opened a manila folder instead.  "About the Oakdale Cemetery case, the forensic team says they have every corpse accounted for.  Reburial will take place on Friday."
        Good.  Jack picked up his cup and finished his coffee in a few gulps.  We have a lot of work to do today, Blane.  I want you to pull all the files we have on any prisoners at the state pen.
        Blane smiled.  "That's a great idea, boss.  We'll run off some picture ID's and distribute them to the post offices."
        That's not what I had in mind.
        "Well, okay.  What then?"
        We're going to free those men.
        Blane sat back in his chair and scratched his head.  "What do you mean free them?"
        They've been through enough all ready.  The earthquake must have scared them away.  They'll be safer if they're free.
        Blane sat forward suddenly.  "Are you crazy?  Those are convicted murderers and rapists!  You helped put some of them behind bars . . . now you say you want to free them?!"  Blane watched in horror as Jack reached for his gun.  "Hey, I didn't mean it about the crazy part, boss.  Sorry, it just sounded ludicrous..."
        You've been a pain in my butt since the day you signed on, Blane.  Jack raised the gun and cocked it.  I hate to have to do this...
        As Blane's eyes widened, a shot rang out. 
        Blane Bailey slumped over his desk. 
        He felt hands shaking his arm and after a moment passed, he dared to open his eyes.
        "Wha--what happened?!"
        Marcy Penquist, the department filing clerk, began to cry.
        Are you all right, Blane?  I was on my way in when I saw Jack aim his gun at you.  He was ready to fire--I had to do something . . . my god, I think I killed him!

The End

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E-Mail the Author at: tmgray@acadia.net