chaosorc

She lay in bed crying and trying to fall asleep. Faded beach tan, her honey blond hair spread out on the pillows.

A song bopped along with a man singing as a snare drum and bass popped in a conversation, a tale of a man in a five yearlong marriage, the weight of the ring and the sunk cost, and how she should never be sad about it because it will keep him around.

She sobbed and writhed, uncomfortable and unable to explain it.

She gripped her phone, the last message she sent, desolate.

•

In the morning she stood in the kitchen and waited for the toast to pop up. She sipped her tea and looked at her book bag wondering what she forgot. She realized it was the pen, fetched it from her room and on the way back the toast popped up.

She looked at her phone, no notifications.

She unlocked it and opened the photo social media app, a new photo appeared in the timeline. She turned her head and picked up the butter knife, held it in a tight grip and stabbed at the butter.

Maeghan and David at the beach, arm in arm with a towel shared between them, pushed out and flapping in the wind.

She sat on the couch eating the buttered toast, drinking her tea in silence. Just the crunch of the food. Then, picked up her bag and left.

•

A weather warning appeared on her phone as she was walking home from class. The sky was going dark and the wind picking up. It had come out of nowhere, people in school talking about it.

She reached the end of the street and it was thick with water, she would have to go around it. She followed the fence next to the cemetery and part of the fence had fallen away.

She stared into the opening where two trees came together over a dark stretch, low tombstones lined up and angling away into the depths. She turned around and a gust of wind hit her, knocking her off balance, she fell backwards over the stonework wall and into the grass. When she sat up her honey blond hair was drenched, earthworms and grass roots clinging. Dark clouds swirled and she could barely see the street, she rolled over and pushed herself to her feet, mud and sod clinging to her knees and palms, running down to her elbows.

Sheets of rain hit her back and she could see cobwebs stretched in the dark opening, beads of liquid clinging. She turned around and a man stood there in a plain black suit, black tie, his hair disheveled and wet, dripping. His skin was white and his hands gripped her arms, he stared into her eyes.

Touch me, she whispered.

He lifted her in his arms, feet kicking droplets off the nearby tree as he carried her into the darkness.

•

They went past wide plots separated by concrete risers with tall columns, some with angels cast in light color stone. Others as dark obelisks, some crumbling and some new and reflecting the fading light.

They reached a single crypt mausoleum with black bars at the entrance. The roof of the mausoleum shrouded in yellow flame, crackling, with dark rainwater pouring from its stooped eaves, smoke flowing up from the building.

Inside thunder clapped and lightning flashed, lighting up the halls of the mausoleum. He carried her through the green and purple lit stone corridors and stopped in the central crypt. Above it, the word “Nomed” was spelled out on an iron arch set between the two purple windows that framed the raised stone coffin in the center of the room.

Inside the coffin the shadow made a slow salute to Chelsea and she smiled, her eyes glowing yellow. She approached the crypt hand in hand with the man in the suit. Seven rats appeared to witness the spectacle. He traced the stonework with his hand, cutting his finger. She looked at the drop of blood on his finger tip. The crypt slid open and green smoke billowed out, a clawed hand poked out to greet her.