Джеффри Дивер - Nothing Good Happens After Midnight - A Suspense Magazine Anthology

As Tommy told his friends, “She could wrap those legs around a man in a way that couldn’t even be imagined.”

Hayley had tried very hard to explain this to Marcy, but Marcy was convinced that she had her chance. Tiffany was a silly, shrieking shrew — while she had at least some semblance of decency and intelligence. Tommy would see that.

And he hadn’t even suggested Tiffany be invited that night. That was a sign, as far as Marcy was concerned.

Marcy’s father was out of town. She was about to graduate; she was an adult, eighteen in a month, and he could trust her, of course. And Marcy was responsible. Usually. She’d even told her dad about having a slumber party. She just hadn’t told him she was hosting a slumber party that wouldn’t be in the house — she’d have it in the cemetery.

Marcy swung around to look at Hayley, grinning with triumph. “Hayley, finish the story.”

Hayley smiled weakly. “They thought poor Elizabeth was a vampire. They dragged her from the coffin, cut out her heart, and burned it — before her poor mother’s eyes.” She hesitated. Mary Boucher looked really frightened. Hayley chanced her cousin’s wrath by continuing with, “Of course, the poor young woman had suffered from ‘consumption,’ or tuberculosis, a disease which couldn’t be cured at the time. The saddest part of the story is they weren’t always embalming people back then and it’s most likely that she was buried alive. The disease had spread, causing others to contract it and those people might well awake spitting blood. And the scratch marks on the coffin... I can only think how horrible that must have been, except, hopefully, she was barely conscious in there, or... died quickly without even being aware how desperately she’d scratched against the coffin to get out.”

Marcy gave her a stern frown. She was supposed to be scaring people — not reassuring them.

“Yes! Imagine! Being buried alive in Louisiana in such a vault where, they say, in just a year and a day the sun will burn down, scorch, and bring flesh and blood and bone truly back to basics, nothing but man — or woman — as dust and ash!”

“Good story,” Tommy Hilliard said, pretending to suppress a yawn.

“Shush,” Marcy said suddenly.

“Why? What? A zombie is coming?” Tommy asked, laughing. He was almost eighteen — solid as a rock and inching over six-feet tall. He had already been recruited by a dozen colleges.

“No,” Marcy said, grinning. “Officer Claymore — hurry, let’s get back into the house — he always comes by here right at midnight, making sure no vandals are running around.”

They headed quickly through the small open gate which led to the rear of Marcy’s house. Her yard was enclosed as well with the same brickwork that surrounded the cemetery, except that, in most areas of the cemetery, the wall was only about two-and-a-half feet tall.

The doorbell rang just as they came in. Marcy murmured something and hurried to it, smiling sweetly as she opened it.

It was indeed Officer Claymore. “You all right, Marcy?” he asked, looking beyond her to the group inside.

“Fine, Officer Claymore — and thank you.”

“Yeah, I heard your dad is out of town,” Claymore said. He was a middle-aged man with something of a round look. He tended to smile — but Marcy had seen him in action when a couple of thugs had tried to rob a local bakery.

He was pudgy maybe, but he could be damned fierce.

“My friends are keeping me company tonight,” Marcy said.

“Good.” He looked around at the group.

“There’s a strange man hanging around town,” Claymore told them. “From what I hear, sounds like a harmless fellow, carries a sign that he’s a veteran and needs help. Scruffy-looking fellow, long, unkempt hair, big coat.”

“We won’t bother him if we see him,” Marcy said.

Claymore grinned and shrugged. “Either that — I mean he’s a harmless old guy — or he’s the ghost of Ethan Fray, fellow shot down and killed in the streets after he got back from active military duty. I’ve heard he runs around attacking people in the shadows.”

“Funny, funny,” Marcy said softly, smiling. “You trying to scare us, Officer Claymore?”

Claymore suddenly drew serious, frowning. “Kids, you have to be smart and careful. Keep doors locked. This is serious. They had a couple of murders in New Orleans in the last weeks. They think there may be a serial killer loose — he slices up his victims and leaves them displayed bizarrely. They’re calling him the City Slicer. So, yeah, I’m serious.”

“New Orleans,” Art said. “All the crazies go to New Orleans. We’re, like, more real out here in the bayou country.”

“Please, we’re good kids, honest,” Marcy said.

“Okay, so we’re not New Orleans. That doesn’t make us safe. I’m hoping you’re all smart enough to be careful, not scared,” Claymore said. “You see a ghost — well, scream like hell. You see a poor fellow down and out who needs help — well, leave him be. I say, if you see him trying to sleep by one of the tombs, leave him alone — good idea if he’s a ghost or a real man, right? You should never be in that cemetery at night, anyway. If you see anything—”

“Like the City Slicer?” Art asked.

“Scream blue blazes and run like hell. Look, yes, any city seems to draw more crazies. That doesn’t mean that weird or bad things can’t happen here.”

Tommy Hilliard barely suppressed a laugh. “Like a ghost — or a vampire rising?” he asked.

Officer Claymore looked at him. “Who knows about Ethan Fray, hmm? But I guess it was before your day, Tommy Hilliard. While legends may be legends, what people do with them can be bad. Trust me — nothing good happens after midnight in that cemetery.”

Art let out a soft laugh. “Ah, come on, Officer Claymore! No disrespect intended, sir — but it’s a cemetery.” Art was getting tall, too, but he had a lean build. He could run like a rabbit, and he had done the community proud with many an amazing touchdown.

“Right,” Frank Legrand said. “The dead don’t really come back to life.”

“No?” Claymore asked, smiling slightly. “There’s been a saying for years — don’t go into the old cemetery after midnight.”

“Someone cursed it, right?” Mary asked nervously.

“Of course!” Marcy said.

“Ah, come on,” Art said. “Every good cemetery should have a curse. Even an ‘after midnight’ curse. I mean, we’re all creeped out by death.”

“Mr. Richard—” Claymore began, using the customary pronunciation of the name.

“ Ree-chard ,” Art corrected. “Old Cajun family,” he told Claymore, shaking his head and looking around. “Not Art Richard. Art Ree-chard .”

Claymore nodded. “All right, Mr. Ree-chard . The curse supposedly came with our famous vampire, Elizabeth Barclay. She supposedly came back to life — even with her heart cut out and burned — and warned people to stay out of the cemetery after midnight. And in 1923, cops back then found a pair of lovers with their throats slit in front of the Barclay vault on a fine, sunny morning — they’d last told friends they were heading into the cemetery for real privacy.”

“A century ago,” Frank murmured. He smiled. “But that’s cool, Officer. We’re here to just have a slumber party in the parlor — you know we all graduate and go off soon, and this is... well, you know, we’re going to just kind of have some quality time before going in different directions.”

“1950,” Officer Claymore continued. “Someone strung up a man like a scarecrow — on the side of the Barclay vault. And in 1980 — not long after the vampire craze hit New Orleans and surrounding areas — we found an unidentified woman drained of blood and left... left right by the gate to this house. Maybe she was trying to escape the cemetery and the curse and just didn’t make it. She wasn’t found in the yard — her body was in the cemetery. So, hey, I’m a logical man. But I still say, don’t go fooling around in the cemetery now. Is the cemetery cursed, or do crazy killers just like cemeteries? I don’t know. Just watch out now because it is after midnight.”