Zeke
Julia.
I overheard her introducing herself to the foreman yesterday, which is how I learned her name.
My mind conjures the memory of her staring up at me, lips slightly parted and eyes widened in surprise. I do feel bad for having startled her earlier. She’d seemed so shaken up. It makes me wonder if something else has happened to her today, something unexplainable.
From where I stand amidst the crumbling tombstones jutting out of the cemetery, I peer through the twisted trunks of the cypress trees toward the house. The white façade shines like ivory beneath the unrelenting summer sun. Neat rows of windows gleam, and my eyes roam upward as I catch a flash of movement in one of them.
Julia, wrapped in nothing but a towel, walks past. Her long auburn hair is twisted up in a bun, but a few strands have escaped to frame her face. She doesn’t seem to realize that anybody could see her. My gaze lowers to the spot where the top of the towel conceals her chest before the guilt kicks in.
I immediately turn away, blushing furiously. That’s no way to treat a lady. My own mother, God rest her soul, would have whooped me for doing such a thing. Besides, there are a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t even let myself consider Julia in such a way, one of the biggest being that she’s married.
My heart sinks further as the face of her husband, Jake, looms in my thoughts. The man is devilishly handsome and exudes a sort of rakish energy that I could never muster. Plus, he’s clearly wealthy. How else could he afford to build a place like this? I’ve seen his extensive collection of sports, cars and it must be costing more than a small fortune to disinter all of these graves and drain the swamp.
No, even if the circumstances were different, there’s no way I’d ever be able to compete with somebody like Jake Carter. After all, what could I possibly offer Julia that he couldn’t provide?
And yet, the woman in question didn’t seem to be happy.
Even though I’d done some laboring jobs on the property in the past, I’d only just returned yesterday due to the work in the graveyard, so it isn’t like I’ve seen much of their relationship. But still, the tension between the couple had been palpable yesterday. Jake had looked like he couldn’t wait to be gone. Hell, he hadn’t even given his wife a proper kiss goodbye.
After Jake had left, Julia’s loneliness had seemed so obvious. I’d analyzed her carefully as she bent over one of the freshly uprooted tombstones a few minutes after her husband pulled out of the driveway.
“Hezekiah James,” she had read, sounding out the unfamiliar name with some confusion. And then she had shivered in spite of the cloying heat of the day before retreating back inside the gleaming, monstrous house.
She’d seemed even more spooked this morning. Did something happened in the house? Did she see something?
It wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve spent my fair share of time out at the old Gregory place, and it would be a lie to say that I’ve never experienced anything out of the ordinary. I’ve heard strange noises, seen shadows shift out in the swamp.
And there are darker things out here, too, things buried beneath centuries of mud that are not so easily exhumed. There are graves, old and unmarked, that should be left untouched.
Some things were never meant to be unearthed.
It worries me that Julia’s here. I’ve resided in Hahnville for quite some time now, and I know the stories as well as I know my own name. I’ve heard all of the theories about witches and demons, ghosts and curses. Frankly, I’m inclined to believe them.
What else could explain all of the people who have gone missing over the years? There have been murders, too. At one point, the police had been adamant that a serial killer was on the loose in town, though their investigations had dredged up nothing but whispers and superstition. Suicides run rampant, and it’s well known that several women have gone insane on the property over the years.
I think back to Miss Penny, the previous owner of the property. She had almost met a similar fate not too long ago. Riddled with health problems and tended to by a team of nurses and doctors, she kept the old house from collapsing into the swamp through nothing but sheer willpower. That is, until a mysterious fire broke out and burned the building to the ground, nearly taking the old woman with it.
But Miss Penny escaped, along with the nurses and a lodger. Luckily, no lives were lost that day. And now, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, the new house built by the Carters stands partially on the old foundation, defiant against the ancient tangle of marsh that lays siege to its borders.
I hoped that this building, all shiny and new, would mark the start of a better era for the property. Perhaps new bones and new blood would be enough to break the cycle of horror that has played on repeat for centuries.
As I stare up at the house, my eyes dutifully sliding over the window in which Julia previously appeared, that hope feels like silt sliding through my fingers to sink into the depths of the swamp.
Something spooked Julia.
I’m sure of it. Even now, surrounded by workmen out in the cemetery, I can feel hungry eyes staring through me. I wonder if the others notice too.
As if on cue, one of the men calls out, “Hey, I think I’ve found something!”
“What, your brain?” another asks as he straightens up and leans on the shovel.
“Very funny,” the first guy scoffs, rolling his eyes. “It’s a box, I think.”
The foreman drops his shovel and ambles over to where the man stands, item in hand. It does indeed look like a metal box, though it’s caked in years’ worth of putrid mud and debris.
“Looks old,” the foreman comments. “Maybe somebody buried a pet?”
I shake my head. I have a terrible feeling that whatever is in there is definitely not somebody’s deceased poodle, but nobody seems to pay me any mind.
“Let’s open it and find out.”
Unease swirls through me at the suggestion. Every ounce of my soul screams that this is wrong, that we should just toss this thing back in the swamp where it belongs. But the rest of the men working here don’t seem to notice anything’s amiss. They look intrigued, captivated, as though the box itself is drawing them in.
Open it.
A voice slithers out from the swamp, wrapping around my brain and squeezing. It’s cold and unnerving, like something imitating human speech but not quite getting it right.
Open it.
Let me out.
I clamp my hands over my ears. I can’t tell if the voice is just in my mind or if the others can hear it too.
The foreman holds out his hands in a silent request for the box, and the worker offers it wordlessly. Both wear the same blank expression. Their eyes are bright, almost feverish, never once straying from the grimy object.
This is wrong. The surety of it surges through me as the foreman uses his fingers to pry the thick mud away from the latch and hinges. I want to speak, to reach out and knock the box from his hands, but I’m frozen.
“It’s locked,” the man snarls as he pushes the grime away to reveal an ancient padlock. Anger flashes in his eyes, and he slams the box down on the ground with enough force for it to sink a few inches into the mossy ground. The rest of us flinch at the outburst, and it’s like a spell has been broken.
“Boss?” one guy asks tentatively. “You okay?”
There’s no reply. Ignoring the worker completely, the foreman turns and snatches up his shovel, wrenching it from the earth where he had planted it only moments before.
“Boss?” the man repeats. This time, his voice is creased with fear as the foreman rounds on him, brandishing the shovel. “What are you doing?”
Eyes shimmering in the oppressive sunlight, the foreman stares emptily down as the box. His gaze is as blank as the windows of the house, blind and unseeing. He raises the shovel high in the air, and for one horrible moment, I think he’s going to bring it down on the workman.
When he moves, he strikes like a snake. The shovel flashes as it descends before it connects with the metal box with a sickening crack.
“Holy fuck!” the original man shrieks, jumping backward out of range. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“We need to open it,” the foreman says flatly.
“Yeah, well I need to not be decapitated by a fucking shovel,” the guy spits back, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
The others chatter in agreement, but the foreman doesn’t pay them any mind. Instead, he squats next to the box and pries the broken lock loose. Tossing the misshapen chunk of metal aside, he yanks the lid open and then freezes.
The putrid stench of death wafts toward me, and I have to fight back the urge to gag. Maybe there is a body, or part of one, buried in there after all.
“Oh God,” one man heaves, grabbing the neck of his shirt and lifting it up over his mouth and nose. “What the hell is that smell?”
In spite of the rancid scent emanating from the box, I can’t help but lean in to try to catch a glimpse of the contents. Different possibilities whirl through my mind as I strain to see the object inside clearly, each one more grisly than the last.
The foreman reaches into the box and holds the thing up to the sunlight.
“A rock?” a guy gasps. “That’s it?”
That does seem to be it. It’s a smooth river stone, unblemished and unremarkable. Though the box has clearly been lost to the mire for centuries, the rock itself is spotless.
But when he turns it over in his hands, a chill strikes me through the core of my being.
There are letters carved into the underside of the rock. They’re sloppy and primitive, like the writing of a child. The text is a sharp contrast to the neatly chiseled, albeit mostly faded, letters on the surrounding tombstones. This scrawl is desperate and primal, a plea into the dark set in stone for centuries.
That, however, is not what haunts me now. No, it’s what those letters spell that frightens me. It’s a name I know well, one that’s devoured my hope with pointed teeth and stalked me through my nightmares.
ASMODEUS.
Energy rushes through the clearing, whipping the cypress trees into a split-second frenzy. It fades before anybody else notices it, but I can feel him here now, more solid than he’s ever been.
By opening that box, they broke the spell and freed him from his bindings. He’ll be out for revenge now.
He’ll be out for blood.
And with mounting horror, I realize who his first victim will be.
Julia.
He’ll claim Julia as his own.
The shrill sound of music playing fills the air as the foreman leaps backward, the rock slipping from his hands. Everyone startles, backing up. The foreman says, “It’s just my fucking phone,” and reaches into his pocket, but he doesn’t turn the music off right away. He puzzles over it for a moment, like he’s never heard that song before.
Folks, I’m goin’ down to St. James Infirmary, see my baby there…
She’s stretched out on a long, white table, so sweet, so cold, so fair…