A Shallow Grave

by

David Bowlin
950 words

A glowing moon shown down from a sky that was darker than the dirt covering the freshly dug grave. The
woman felt weary to the bone. Her daughter was dead, without any explanation. "Natural causes" just
didn't cut it; how could a perfectly healthy child die of natural causes? She wondered if her daughter had
been a human sacrifice by the Cult of 13 Satanist Believers that had been haunting their small village.
There was no way to know.

Or was there? Some dark part Cheryl's mind whispered that there was a way to find out, if only she could
accept the consequences.

With the grace of motherhood, she placed a single possession on the gravea small rag doll, her
daughter's favorite. She wasn't a superstitious woman, but perhaps her daughter could enjoy this last gift
of love, somehow, somewhere. "I love you, my sweetness," she whispered to the dirt that covered her
daughter.

She stood and started back to her small, lonely cottage at the end of the woods.

***
Along the way, Cheryl made up her mind to find out the truth. Her child, her precious little girl was dead,
and she would not rest until she found out why. Even though it would cost her soul, he would find out.

She made her way by moonlight to a dark and damp cave in the deepest part of the woods. Growing
around the edge, she found some small purple plants with yellow buds. She picked four of these, already
uneasy about what was coming next.

The water was boiling over the fire, and the purple and yellow plants gave off a tangy scent that burned
Cheryl's eyes. She dipped an old, dented metal cup in the water and set it on the floor to cool. With dirt
from her daughter's fresh grave, she made a pentagram in the middle of the small cottage, the only light
the blazing fire at her back. Outside, rain had begun to fall, and a howling, tormented wind beat against
her door as if it were trying to get in to eat her very soul. Perhaps it was.

The pentagram was complete, the potion was cool enough to drink. Cheryl stepped into the protective
magical symbol with the drink and chanted the words of an ancient ritual learned from her grandmother
long, long ago. Her grandmother had been a powerful witch, but Cheryl's mother had forbidden the
arcane knowledge from being passed on to her daughter. This bit of magic was learned in secret, among
others. For the first time in her life, and the last, she was sure, Cheryl was using the dark magic.

The old medieval prayer poured from her lips in holy reverence, and she drank the steaming brew in one
gulp. The cottage looked surreal, fading away into blackness around her. The wind quieted, and was
gone. Nothing remained but the pentagram, now glowing a deep, bloody red.

A whispered voice from behind her cut through the darkness like a knife through the belly of a pig. "Who
has dared disturb me, and for what unholy purpose have I been awakened from the depths of Hell?"

A voice so low she could hardly hear it herself, Cheryl answered as the demon walked in front of her,
being careful not to touch the glowing pentagram. "I have called thee, Brutal Master!"

"Why have I been called, Human?" The eyes of the demon blazed with Hell fire. Smoke curled from its
tusked nostrils and puffed from its hideous mouth.
Cheryl shook from fear, but her voice was rock steady. "Knowledge, Master! I wish to know who or what
killed the innocent child from who's grave this pentagram is made. See! It glows with her blood that must
be avenged!"

The purple-tongued demon licked its blistered lips. "And what shall be payment for this knowledge?"

Last chance to back out, Cheryl thought. Last chance...

Before she could change her mind, Cheryl blurted out the words that would condemn her for eternity. "My
soul, Master. My body and my soul! When my knowledge is complete, they will be yours forever."

"It is agreed, Human. Break the pentagram, and I will give you the answer that you seek."

Slowly, very slowly Cheryl scratched away a portion of the pentagram with her foot. The demon could
now enter the sacred ground on which she stood to claim its payment.

Hunger burned in the demon's eyes as it started forward. Cheryl screamed as the demon's answer sank
into her mind. "The child died of fright, Human. She dreamed she saw a demon coming for her mother..."

***

A hand reached out and grabbed Jack around the neck. He screamed and dropped his soda pop to the
dusty, thorn-pricked ground.

Samantha, Jessica, Monica, and Ricky laughed out loud, albeit a little nervously.

"Scare you, kid?" Adam asked Jack. "Bet you almost wet yourself."

"Jerk," Jack replied. "Hey, Ricky, was that a true story, or is it another of your made up tales?"
All eyes turned to the small, rickety cottage a few yards away. Dust and cobwebs hung over it like a
corpse's blanket.

"My old man says it's true, so I guess it is," Ricky said. "Only one way to find out, though." All eyes turned
back to Ricky. Jack could have sworn Ricky's eyes briefly glowed a fiery red, but it could have been the
reflection of their own little fire. "Let's see if we can find that little girl's grave. After all, tonight's the night
that the dead walk, the graves speak, and devils ravage the earth...

The six friends were never found, but the remains of a long dead child in a shallow grave were found
behind an ancient cabin, and were finally put to rest in consecrated ground.

[ end ]

David Bowlin
September 5, 2002
9:39 p.m.

Rewrite of "A Tale For All Hallow's Eve", originally

written October 5, 2001, David Bowlin.