by Stephen Reid Andrews
All rights reserved in the author
I am in
a graveyard. I know I’m in a graveyard because there are headstones of various
shapes and sizes, and there are people dressed in black all around me. Although
the graveyard should be gloomy, the surrounding colors are radiant and bright,
and my presence here feels surreal and subconscious as if no one in the
graveyard can see me. I am in a modest hospital gown, but I am not embarrassed
of my lack of appropriate clothing because no one seems to be aware of me.
I look
around at the people in the graveyard. I don’t recognize any of them. Most of
the people are sad, but one or two of them appear pleased that the graveyard is
full to its capacity. I study the man closest to me. He is walking around
between the headstones with a pen and notebook in his hand. As he looks at each
headstone, he checks something off in his notebook. The man is wearing a black
hat and sunglasses, but I can tell, even with the obstruction, that the man is
intense. His face is rough with a five-o’clock
shadow, his jaw is pointed, and he sports a deep scar that runs down the side
of his face from his eyebrow to the bottom of his ear. The man’s aura is
threatening, so I direct my attention elsewhere.
As the
chill of death brushes by, I draw my head down to the headstones. Surveying the
ground, I am aware, without counting, that there are exactly twenty-two
headstones. I look back to the headstone directly in front of me. I am standing
only feet away from it and can read the name clearly: Geneveve Blackmore.
The headstone is frail and old, with several cracks, and the corners of the
stone are chipped. At first look, this stone appears older than the other
stones in its immediate vicinity, but I have not yet looked closely at the
other stones and might be mistaken.
I
suddenly have a desire to read the names on all of the remaining stones.
Without delay, I move to the next stone. This stone is about half the size of
the first, is in much better condition, and, if a stone can look younger, looks
younger than the first stone by at least twenty years. The name on this
headstone sticks out in raised letters. Tamara James.
Moving
from this stone, I look at the next stones in sequence: the third is a dark
grey almost black stone approximately the age of the one immediately before it
with the name John E. Farley; the
next is a smaller headstone with the name Nathan
Farley; the next is a headstone that appears almost glaring white, with a
chip in the center and the name Sara
Farley (I assume the Farleys must be related to one another).
The sixth
headstone catches my eye enough that I examine it closer, a foggy mist is
encircling the stone, but I am able to wave the fog away with my hand revealing
the name Ronald Pierce. The name is
blood red, and, once the fog is fully dissipated, I see that this headstone
sticks out as compared to the others – as if this headstone should be my focus.
Regardless of the appearance of this headstone, my curiosity forces me to move
on to the other stones.
Moving
rapidly because I plan to return to the stone with the blood-red letters, I
bring myself in front of the other stones one by one, reading the names: James T. Fitzgerald; Allison Mitchell; Whitney Ann Warren; Julia
Keiley; Isabel Stuart; Thomas L. Brandt; Paul Shreyer; Victor Daniels;
and Nora Hahn Foreman. I have looked
at sixteen of the twenty-two stones – only six remain.
The
seventeenth stone is set apart from the others, but I can see it clearly. The name
on the stone sends a chill down my spine that makes me wonder if this is
reality because I have never felt such strong emotion in a dream. I stare at
the name, wanting to cry, but I can’t. Jennifer
Roberts Palmer. Roberts was the maiden name of my wife. The headstone
represents Jennifer – I am sure of it.
I fall
on my knees to bring myself directly on level with the stone, my plan to return
to the stone with the blood-red letters pushed to the side. My head swirls, and
I want to collapse. The hurt I feel for Jennifer is overwhelming, but
involuntarily, my legs force me to a standing position and draw me to look at
the final five stones. The five stones vary in appearance and size in the same
manner that the first seventeen varied. The difference with these stones is
that a name doesn’t appear on any of them. They are blank and smooth, waiting
for a name to be written upon them.
In the
shadows, behind the blank headstones, a figure eerily moves from one side of
the graveyard until it arrives just a few feet in front of me. The presence
inexplicably fills me with terror. The dark figure begins to shake back and
forth, and it becomes apparent that the person to whom the shadow belongs is
laughing maniacally. As the figure shudders with delight, its face moves into
the light just enough for me to see the side of a face. It is the man with the
sunglasses, and his scar is prominently visible.
In
disbelief, I stare at the man but am interrupted as I feel a tap on my
shoulder. I turn around to see my brother, Trevor, sitting in a chair near one
of the headstones. He is holding a Sports Illustrated magazine with LeBron
James on the Cover and looks up at me with a concerned look. He looks older
now, as if he had aged more than a year since I last saw him.
“You
gave me a scare there bro. We thought you might not wake up again,” he says as
he stands up.
I try
to reply, but, as the vision ends, I can’t speak.
