By day, Brad is a mild-mannered Account Manager. But at night and in the wee hours of the morning, he summons the muses and transcribes the tales that their devilish tongues whisper in his ear. Always a horror fan, Brad loves writing and telling scary stories. He enjoys the torturing of kids on Halloween, making them decide whether or not to brave the frights before them for the reward of a sweet morsel.
Brad haunts the neighbourhoods in Central Texas with his wife and their ever-hungry, never-satiated four teenagers. His debut novel “The Night Crew” is set to be released in 2024 by Wicked House Publishing. You can learn more about Brad by following him on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/BradRicksAuthor or visiting his site https://BradRicks.com
SHADOW PINES
by
Brad Ricks
Bill worked as the groundskeeper for Shadow Pines Cemetery. For the past forty years, he did his job well. His father, Homer, worked The Shadow before him, and his grandfather before him. As far back the Sanders went, The Shadow was their home.
The Shadow was …unique. People wouldn’t know it by looking at it. It looked as any normal cemetery did. Headstones dotted the field. The occasional bouquet of flowers, some brightly colored, others as dead as those they were left for, rested against the marble slabs. In the center stood a tall pine tree, giving The Shadow its namesake.
That first night, some forty years ago, when Homer took Bill out to The Shadow, he told him the secret.
“Bill, we have a hard job. It might not seem like it, but our job is probably the most important one around.”
Bill recalled looking up at his father with some confusion. Tending to a cemetery seemed like it’d be easy.
“I don’t know why. Your grandfather didn’t know why. I doubt his grandfather knew why. But those buried here don’t like to stay that way. Maybe the land has some old Native American curse on it or maybe it’s that damned tree, who knows. Each night, I sit here and listen for the bells to ring. It’s not all of them every night. Usually just one or two. But when I hear it, I rush out to the plot. The dirt will start to sink, and hands will start to claw their way out. I take the shovel and beat it back down. Usually takes a few good wallops on the head for them to get the point. When the sun finally rises, I get the dirt out of the coffin, tie the string back to their ankle, and rebury them.”
“Do they stay dead after that?” the sixteen-year-old Bill asked.
“Oh, no,” Homer answered. “Old Man Jones, he died about ten years ago, I’ve reburied him a dozen or so times now.”
Bill rocked back in his chair, watching the sunset and remembering those first days fondly. That was before his back ached like it did. Lately, he’d been relying too much on Tylenol and Jack Daniels to take care of The Shadow each night.
The sun made its descent below the horizon, and the moon rose to take its place. A layer of dark clouds rolled in, blacking out the stars.
With his shovel leaned next to him against the shed, Bill propped his feet up on a stump and rocked in his chair. His half-filled Mason jar of Jack sat cupped in his lap between both hands. His knees alerted him to the storm long before any wind could. He took a sip and waited.
Bill felt a strong gust blow across his weathered face. He had mixed emotions about the wind. The autumn chill was a welcomed relief from the scorching heat, but it brought another problem. Bill took a deep breath and sighed as ringing broke out all across The Shadow with bells swaying in the wind.
He reached down next to him and grabbed the flashlight. He pressed the power button and fired a bright beam of light across the cemetery. With the flashlight extended in front of him, Bill slowly surveyed each resident’s eternal home. The light passed by Old Man Jones’s headstone. Bill had put him back down at least a couple of dozen times over the years. His old schoolteacher, Mrs. Westerfield, rested a few plots over. She had tried to get up at least ten times. Mrs. Skinner, she taught Sunday school, slept back in the corner. Six times for her. After living and working here for so long, he knew everybody.
As the wind slowed, the sound of one bell rang out over the others.
Bill dashed the light toward the sound.
The dirt was already dimpled.
He gulped down the last of his JD and placed the jar on the ground. He dropped his feet off the stump and stood up. Bill’s head did a loop, and he caught himself before falling back in his chair. Reaching for the shovel, he heard another loud bell.
Damn it, he thought. Two already.
With shovel in hand, he strolled to the first. The hole quickly widened. It wouldn’t be long before hands reached for the night sky. Bill stood at the ready.
Behind him, another bell followed by another and then one more.
This wasn’t right. Never had there been more than three in an entire night. Now, he counted five all at the same time.
He spun around with his flashlight to find the ringers. The beam danced across headstones and earthen mounds. He saw the first two. Already depressions dotted the ground. He’d have to be quick. But where were the others?
He listened but didn’t hear the bells anymore. The wind must be playing tricks on him.
Turning back to the first, he saw hands break free of the ground. Any moment now, he’d see the decaying head. He raised his shovel high in the air. The head rose above the ground. He jerked his arms down, but they didn’t move more than an inch.
The shovel was stuck behind him.
Bill turned and saw the decaying corpse of Coach Bradshaw holding the end of the shovel. Other familiar faces stood behind him. Their bells lay strewn across the ground behind them.
Bill let go of the shovel. The shotgun was in the shed. He’d run for it instead.
As he took a step, another set of hands broke free from its interment and gripped his ankle.
Bill fell to the ground, face first. He rolled over on his back as the hungry, decaying residents of Shadow Pines Cemetery descended upon him.
“Well,” he thought as everything faded to black, “time for someone else to put them down.”