Candles In The Cemetary

Ok, I know growing up in a small town that has has the mentality that all goths or metalheads must worship some being called The Devil has been a fact of life but isn't there a time when people just need to grow up and start using their brains?

Rayne had been talking to me as she was living in Maine before she arrived here. Though I've told her time and again how this town is devoid of an intellectual aptitude, quick to rely mostly on superstition and speculation rather than cold, hard fact and all the cemetaries are open after dark, she refused to believe me.

Tonight, we set out on a small journey to prove only one of those points. Our journey started after we ate. Along the way, I illustrated the point that, by and large, people only seek what's readily accessable. Not many are willing to do the work to see what's under the surface, which is far more valuable. I pointed out that while independently labelled bands are largely better than what's featured in mainstream radio, independently published writers are dismissed as being "no good" in the eyes of popular media and independent movies are sometimes dismissed the same in the realm of corporate studios, people want to believe that the readily accessable is the best thing and most believable thing because some are too weak of mind to actually get off their lazy posteriors and do the digging. In some cases, for a small price, you don't even have to do the digging. Others have done it for you but, since it's not palatable, it too will be dismissed.

Bara, of London's Kalling (http://www.londons-kalling.com) once told me that there are DJs on the internet who have thousands of songs on their hard drives or even hundreds of CDs, their playlists don't reflect it because they never use them. I told Rayne, in illustration of my point, that people all over are born with minds of their own but they'll never use them. They'll let themselves believe what they're told, when they're told, and they'll never question it.

Naturally, I proceeded to take shortcuts. We were going through the part of town that is predominantly black people. In small pockets, I know some of them. They're good people trying to work, pay bills and get a living as best they can. On the way, we ran into friends, had some laughs and proceeded on our way. Rayne was terrified of one young man on a bicycle that asked in the darkness "Who you be?!" and then proceeded to say to me, "Oh, you're white!" and went on his way. She thought he was racist to say such a thing to me when I told her that I should have added, "Yeah, I'm a round-eye too. I have a severe complex about going to Japan because of that."

As we rounded the corner, getting onto Rigmaiden Cemetary Road, I found I had to keep reminding her to relax. She was getting completely antsy now that the streetlights had run out and the road down which we had travelled was now totally dark. I could see once my eyes did a quick adjustment to the darkness. The display I was seeing as Rayne panicked about the possibility of some feral beast jumping from the woods and attacking her, was beautiful. Lightning bugs were everywhere on either side of the road, illuminating our path and putting on one helluva show for us. They were everywhere, the sight was spectacular.

As we stood upon the threshhold of the bridge that closed a gap in the road to the cemetary, I gave her one last reminder.

"Look at it," I said, "You're standing here worried about some black guy making light of the fact I'm white and then you're scared of some beast jumping out of the woods but look around. There's all these lightning bugs, lighting our way. They're practically putting on a show for us and it's the most beautiful natural event in the world and all you can do is worry."

"Besides," I added, as I crossed the bridge, "The only thing you have to worry about is the Gnar Gnar Troll underneath this bridge." She knew I was only rusing her and, knowing this, she shrugged me off and followed me.

The familiar sounds of Disturbed's song "Stricken" flooded the silent air. Lisa was calling. When I opened the RAZR and put it to my ear, I immediately began clowning Rayne. We came back into the sparse light of a few streetlamps along the cemetary and I continued my tirade of storytelling and making light of Rayne's fears about racist people and things that go bump in the night. Finally, I'd made it to the only standing mausoleum in the cemetary. My intention there was only to stand there with Rayne to point out plots where people I knew were buried. I had no idea of the time and Lisa wanted to talk to her. I handed Rayne the phone and lit a cigarette. My last one in the pack. As she talked, I took a look around. One of the stone benches in the front of the mausoleum had been broken. Not that it couldn't be repaired. All it would have taken was maybe two people to lift the slab bench and a couple more to restack the bricks that held it up on one side. If there was any other damage to the cemetary that had been done due to the elements, I couldn't see it. Soon after a car passed us, I saw headlights coming upon the rear of the cemetary. At first, I thought that it was a car leaving the driveway of a house that was nearby but then I noticed the movement of the car around the back fenceline of the cemetary and knew that it wasn't natural. I thought it was odd, this usually didn't happen.

Then, there was the blinding spotlight. It was a cop and I knew it. Rayne was still in the middle of recounting her side of the previous tale to Lisa when I said, "Come on, bet I know who it is, let's go meet them."

That didn't take long. I'll admit I love being in the spotlight. I do my best entertaiment in the spotlight but not literally and not when it's coming from a patrol car. That's when the local police and I met. One of them, I knew. Jason's been a friend of the family for ages. He's known of my eccentricities from day one and the tale that follows will raise questions in your mind.

Before I begin, let me note that all gates to the cemetary are open at all times. They never close and I often wonder why they are there. Note also that we were wearing black. I wear it constantly, it's my signature trademark. I walk around at night because well, I'm a night person. Rayne doesn't always wear black but tonight, way totally different story and, to be honest, I have no clue as to why she picked tonight to wear it.

Jason stepped out of the car first as he was driving.

"Dude, what are you doing here so late?" he asked, "We got a call that someone was burning candles out here."

"I have a white one right here," I said, holding up the cigarette I'd just dragged on, "it says 'Marlboro' on it." Niether of them looked amused. That's when the second one pulled up, two more stepped out of that one.

"What in the hell are you doing out here at eleven at night?" he asked.

Rayne was still on the phone, talking.

"She's from Maine," I said, "before she moved down here I'd been telling her that the cemetaries and ball parks are always open but she never believed me. I told her I'd bring her out here to prove it, we just didn't make it during the day."

"The cemetaries are closed after dark," he spat at me.

"Why do they leave these gates open then?" I asked, "I assumed that they were always open if the gates were open. There's no times posted. Nothing here indicating other than the light in the sky that they're closed. Most of the people that I know think the same thing." He looked lividly at me. Being a figure in authority at work, I can tell when honest questions get ready to make the authority "click off" so to speak and this one looked ready to throw me a beating. Rayne had been worried about being unarmed in a dark place earlier, now, I was glad that none of us even had so much as a pocketknife on us.

"Any of you have ID on you?" he asked, his tone was frustrated. In a sense of logic, I'd had him cornered and he knew it. When that happens, the authority figure goes into the "Let's Find Something Legit On This Smartass" Mode. I gave him mine and he went packing with it, running it. Fine.

I snuffed my cigarette, really wanting another one and I began looking around as I picked up the butt and tossed it into the empty cigarette box.

I looked at Jason's partner.

"Hey," I said, "know where a trash can is so I can ditch this?"

"What's in it?" he asked

"Just a dead cigarette butt and the box itself," I said, "Nothing superlative really."

He simply shook his head at me. I was amazed he didn't look into it. That's when Jason stepped up.

"You knew this had to happen sometime, man," he said, "You know how it is."

"I do now," I said. During this conversation, one of the parish sheriff's deputies arrived and began talking to one of the others from the second car. Later on, he called me off to the side.

"Now tell me what you were doing out here," he said. From his mannerisms, tone and look, he seemed as though he wanted to tell them to get the hell out of there, that it was just some stupid local panicking.

"Okay, here's what's happening," I said, "She's from Maine. Before she moved down here I'd been telling her that the cemetaries and ball parks are always open but she never believed me. I told her I'd bring her out here to prove it, we just didn't make it during the day. We've been planning this outing for two days and that short guy, Royer, worked with me. He's known that I usually come out here to either sit here at the mausoleum and dictate stuff I write on my voice recorder, show this place to people from out of town or to visit my grandfather's final resting place which is all the way to the back over your right shoulder. That's it. We weren't even here five minutes before this happened."

"How did you get here?" he asked.

"On foot. We were already out for a walk," I explained.

"Ok," he said, "Technically, the cemetaries are closed after dark unless you're visiting the grave of a friend or relative."

"Which is where we were heading next," I added.

"Where again?" he asked

"Your four o'clock," I said, "all the way to the back."

"Ok," he said, "I'm gonna go ahead and take down the info on your license. If there are any grave desecrations out here, we're gonna come talk to you."

"Fair enough," I said.

He went off with my license and I looked back to see Rayne surrounded by four of our finest. I began seeing an irony in this. Someone drops a dead goat in my yard on Christmas Night, they come screaming down the highway in under minimum response time, waking me up and poking and prodding me for answers I do not posess. My house gets robbed on the one day I lock the door, nothing. My cat gets mauled beyond repair, nothing. I had to take the poor thing out to the middle of nowhere and bury two bullets into one of our most affectionate cats. The neighbor behind me calls the police about my roomies dogs in my yard, they're very quick to follow that lead and now...candles in the cemetary. I'd looked around earlier and had seen the candles, true but they were many yards away, most of them were red and they were burning when we arrived. None of them were set alight nor arranged by us. Now, there was this quandry with which to contend. I suppose, with our black clothing, we could have hidden and we probably would have done an excellent job of such but we did nothing of the sort. We met them, head on and now, our credibility was in question.

I couldn't help but think it was a joke. Rayne had finished with my phone and had handed it back to me. The deputy had handed my license back to me with the order to "Book it the way you came."

Booked it is. Made public knowledge even.

All of the cars had left, not even really staying to ensure that we had really gone. They'd left before we did. Down Rigmaiden Cemetary Road, retracing our steps, we poked fun at their questions, thinking of phrases in response to the repeated questions of "What were you doing here?" in the forms of, "Well, dawn's coming in several hours and we need somewhere to sleep" to the smartassed, "Well, we contemplated raising the dead so we could have some interesting people to talk to" being among the wide variety of responses we were laughing about. I even went as far as mocking the caller.

My intelligence has never been this insulted. I've actually lit a candle in the cemetary before...on the grave of my departed friend, mentor and grandfather William Tobin Fitz-Gerald and I left it there after saying my ...I'd guess you'd call it a prayer for him. I left it there, only returning the next night, to collect the holder and ensuring no wax had been left upon the grave itself. I pride myself on being clean in that respect at least. I've never lit one since.

We stopped off at a friend's house on the way back and clowned the local police the entire time. I recounted my story in full there as a means of protection should something come up later. It was on Grand Avenue that I'd told Rayne, "We're going back tomorrow."

"For what?" she asked.

"To take pictures," I said, "Knowing my luck, some chucklehead's gonna get a wild hair up their back ends to actually desecrate a grave and I want to ensure we have a little insurance on hand."

We knew all the stores were closed but we found ourselves thirsty as hell. Pepsi time. As we made our way toward the only store that was open, I became infuriated. Jason Royer, I had thought, was a stand-up guy. He's had opportunity to tell me about that little after dark thing so he was wrong...this did not "have to happen sometime." I became really troubled. Why didn't he just say something a long time ago? It seems simple enough of a thing to do. If he'd simply said that, I probably would have chosen another spot for swordplay practice, my walks or I'd have visited those gravesites from people I know during the afternoon hours. Seems simple enough. So why didn't he do it? The parish Sheriff's office is shorthanded and that's the only reason local police were there from the beginning. Then, he'd just found out about this tonight. He'd already informed his partner and his sergeant (the one whom I'd cornered with logic) that he knew it was me and that we were up to nada. They were all aggravated and for one simple reason...someone couldn't mind their own business.

He told me via phone just now that their night was full of these calls. And this is what it amounted to...people not minding their own business. Okay. Now whom do I slide my vengeful pen to?

My answer? This sinkhole town's backward mentality.

People would be a lot better off if they just minded their own business. It's one of those things that you risk in a free country...people doing things, practicing religions, listening to and performing music and any assortment of things with which you don't agree or you think is "Wierd."

Rest assured, ladies and gentlemen I'm only a freak out of necessity. I'm only a monster when it's warranted. I'm only your adversary if I'm made to be one. Minding your own business is one of the things that is a plus with me. Leave me and my freakish aversion to the sun out of it. Leave me to my occultism and free thought if you choose not to practice it yourself. Most of all, leave the people who choose to align themselves with me out of it. They are not to blame.

Now, with logic in mind. Let's say for the sake of arguement that I'm some freakish, demonically-posessed satanist who practices dark arts in cemetaries as I sacrifice human beings (THANK YOU GERALDO RIVERA!!!)

With this in mind, should the caller have not taken into mind that I would somehow attune myself to dark forces within the energy stream, lock on to his or her aural signature and then terrorize his or her dreams for the rest of their natural existence and then cover my tracks in such a way as there is no way in hell to prove beyond the shadow of resonable doubt in a courtroom that I am the one plaguing him or her? Surely, they'd be committed to some institution before I was ever linked to such a thing. Well see, the caller never took that into effect. Now granted if I'm that powerful and could do all these hideous things then let me give you some food for thought...

What do I need ritual for?

I'm done.