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  The walking tour took a little over an hour and a half to complete, and finished back on St. George Street, not far from the spot where they had started. Thanking her group, Ssabra bade them a fond farewell and sent them on their way. Some members of the group headed back to the cemeteries for another look, hoping to see a real ghost. The others wandered off to explore the city’s various night clubs.

  Since the evening was still fairly young, Ssabra decided to grab herself an ice-cream cone before heading back to her car. She enjoyed the ice cream while sitting on an empty park bench, watching the tourists move slowly along St. George Street. After the ice cream, she was still in no hurry to go home and decided to wander around for a little while. St. Augustine was a fairly safe place to walk at night, even for a woman by herself. For one thing there were usually other people out and about until the wee hours of the morning.

  Choosing streets less crowded, she walked along looking at the majestic old homes. Ssabra wished she had enough money to purchase one of the old Victorian homes in the city, turning it into a bed and breakfast, but those homes were well beyond her price range. Even the ones that needed extensive remodeling usually sold for a minimum of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

  It was a little after eleven p.m. when she decided to call it a night and go home. She was on the north side of the old section, walking past the Huguenot Cemetery, when she detected the faint odor of pipe tobacco. Curious, she turned around to look for the source of the aroma, but there was no one else in the area. Perhaps the smell of pipe tobacco had been carried from further up the street. There was a little tobacco shop on St. George, so maybe a customer had lit up after making a purchase.

  She sniffed again. The odor was still there, even more noticeable than before. Odd, but it smelled like it was coming from inside the cemetery. Curious about the aroma, she approached the stone wall that ran along the south side of the graveyard.

  The Huguenot was quite dark, and it was hard to make out even the tombstones, but she didn’t think anyone had gotten inside the cemetery. At least she didn’t see anyone. Still, if there was someone there, she probably wouldn’t be able to see them unless they were walking around. If they were standing still, sitting, or hiding in the shadows of an oak tree, they would be practically invisible. If someone had sneaked in, then they weren’t too intelligent; for if she could smell the aroma of their pipe, then so too could the police.

  She stood there for a few moments longer, searching for an intruder, but she didn’t see anyone. The aroma of pipe tobacco had also faded. It had probably come from somewhere down the street, and she had been foolish for wasting her time around the old cemetery.

  Turning her back on the Huguenot, she started back toward St. George Street. She had just taken a few steps, however, when she heard a man’s voice, deep and rich.

  “Osiyo.”

  Ssabra spun around, startled by the voice. She expected to find someone standing behind her, but no one was there.

  “Who said that?” she asked, her eyes searching the darkness for the person who had spoken.

  A chill danced down her spine. The voice had come from behind her as she turned away from the cemetery, which meant the voice had come from within the graveyard. She had been right earlier, in thinking that someone might have sneaked onto the grounds. Unlike the Tolomato Cemetery, there wasn’t a high fence, or strands of barbed wire, guarding the Huguenot. It would be easy to scale the low stone wall on the south side to gain entrance into the cemetery.

  But if someone was sneaking around inside the graveyard, then why were they making their presence known? The city authorities took a dim view of trespassers, especially when it came to the historic spots of St. Augustine. The police would arrest such people, making an example of them to warn others. The only possible explanation could be that the man was drunk. A sober vandal would not be so stupid as to light a pipe and speak to others.

  Knowing she might be taking a risk, Ssabra felt compelled to warn the man of his foolishness. She should call the police and report him, but she didn’t want to see anyone get into trouble, not when it could be avoided.

  “You had better get out of there.” She spoke loud enough to be heard by anyone who might be listening. “The police will have your hide for going in that cemetery.”

  She waited a few moments for a reply, but there was only silence. “Do you hear me? You had better get out of there before you get into trouble.”

  Ssabra turned and looked up and down the street, hoping someone else would come along. She didn’t like hanging around the cemetery, speaking to the unseen man. He was probably just a drunk, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. Unfortunately, the street was empty. She was alone.

  Wishing she had a cell phone, or some pepper spray, Ssabra crept closer to the stone wall. She was thinking that maybe the man was sitting just on the inside of the wall, which would explain why she couldn’t see him. He was probably just an old wino too drunk to walk, and had gotten into the cemetery to sleep it off. Still, she needed to get him out of there before the police found him.

  Reaching the wall, she leaned over and looked on the other side, but there was no one there. At least she didn’t see anyone. She was still peering over the wall, when she again heard the voice.

  “Osiyo.”

  Ssabra jumped back. The voice came from directly above her. Startled, she looked up into the branches of a nearby oak tree, but she didn’t see anyone. The branches were empty; there was no one there.

  She was starting to get nervous. She suddenly remembered hearing the same word spoken earlier while leading the tour group. At the time she thought one of her group had asked a question, but now she knew otherwise. Someone inside the cemetery had been speaking to her, someone who could be heard but not seen.

  “Enough of this.” She turned away from the cemetery. “You can stay in there all night, for all I care. I’m out of here.”

  With those parting words, she hurried across the street, fleeing the darkness of the cemetery for the lights along St. George Street. She didn’t slow down as she passed through the old City Gate. Nor did she look back toward the Huguenot Cemetery, fearful of what she might see. But had she stopped to look, she might have noticed a thin bluish wisp of tobacco smoke that drifted up from the lowest branch of an oak tree, dancing upon the night wind. And she might have heard the distinct laughter of a man who was well pleased with himself.

  Chapter 6

  Kevin Bess sat at a quiet little bar on Cordova Street, slowly nursing a bottle of Budweiser. The beer, and the muscle relaxers he had taken earlier, helped to ease the pain in his lower back, but did not entirely eliminate it. Nothing ever stopped the pain. It was with him all the time, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, a constant reminder of a fateful moment in time five years earlier.

  He had been a carpenter, with a good paying job working for a local construction company. Employed and happy, he owned a nice little condo near the beach; he also owned a beautiful blue Harley Davidson. But everything changed one fateful Friday night when a Cadillac made an illegal left turn in front of him. He tried to avoid hitting the car, but the road was slick from an August thunderstorm, and he smashed into the vehicle at nearly fifty miles an hour. Kevin went airborne over the car, doing a less than graceful half gainer, slamming down on the hard street. He broke his left leg in three places, and crushed several of the vertebrae in his spine.

  The driver of the Cadillac was a retired judge, and still had clout in the legal system, so the accident was not charged to either party. Which meant the other guy’s insurance company didn’t have to pay for the damage to Kevin’s bike, or the damage to his body.

  He spent nearly a month in the hospital, with an additional six months bedridden at home. Unable to work, he lost his job with the construction company. He also lost his condo when he couldn’t keep up with the monthly mortgage payments. He finally healed enough to get out of bed and walk, but there was now a weakness in his
back that had never been there before. Going back to his old job was out of the question. No way he could swing a hammer, or carry lumber for a living. He had to settle for the small amount of money he received every two weeks from social security.

  In addition to the weakness, there was also a great deal of pain in his back. Pain that always seemed to be with him, morning, noon, and night. Pain that took the beauty from his life, and made him see things with tired, bitter eyes. The bitterness had taken over his life, causing his girlfriend of three years to finally give up on him and move in with somebody else.

  Kevin drank his beer, and then ordered another. He wasn’t worried about getting drunk, because he wasn’t driving. Not that he owned a car, or even a motorcycle. Such things were luxuries of the past. He had just enough money for beer, and to pay the rent on the decrepit, one-room apartment he now called his home. He wouldn’t even have enough money for that if his older sister didn’t help him out from time to time.

  “Thank God for big sisters,” he said, lifting the new bottle of beer the waitress had brought him. The waitress just frowned and walked away.

  The employees of the bar didn’t really like him hanging out in their establishment several nights a week, but they tolerated his presence. He always sat alone at a corner table, listening to what the other customers had to say but never attempting to join in on the conversation.

  The bar had already announced last call for the evening, and most of the customers had gone home, when he finally decided to call it a night. Finishing the last of his beer, he laid a dollar on the table, grabbed his walking cane, and slowly stood up. The beer and medication had gone to his head, giving him a pleasant buzz that was almost pain free. Almost, for as soon as he stood up, a fiery twinge shot up his back, letting him know that things had not changed.

  Using the cane to help support a leg that would never be completely healed, he hobbled out the front door and down the wooden steps to the street. He lived six blocks north of the bar, and it usually took him close to an hour to walk home, depending on how much booze and how many pills he had consumed during the evening. Pausing to light an unfiltered cigarette, he started down the street, his body quickly falling into a rhythmic gate that was part hobble and part drunken stagger.

  He turned right on Cordova Street, passing several Victorian homes that had been converted into bed and breakfasts. Though lights burned in the ornate, two-story buildings, it was doubtful if anyone was still up at such a late hour. The temporary residents were probably sound asleep on antique beds, and feather pillows, dreaming of stock trades, bank mergers, and what flavor jam they would put on their croissants in the morning.

  “Fuck them,” he whispered under his breath. “Fuck them all.”

  Hobbling past the bed and breakfasts, he came to the Tolomato Cemetery. The cemetery stood empty and dark, a place of dense shadows and eerie silence. Kevin paused for a moment in front of the cemetery’s front gates, wondering about the people who were buried inside. He wondered if being dead was any easier than being alive, a thought that often crossed his mind when passing the old cemetery. He had pondered the same question on nights when the pain got too bad for him to sleep, during the hours of endless darkness when he would sit in his tiny living room with a loaded pistol in his hand. One night, maybe soon, he would learn the answer to his question.

  “You guys are the lucky ones,” he said out loud, his words slurring slightly. “All you have to do is lay there and sleep. No more pain. You ought to come out here, in the real world, and put up with the things I have to put up with.”

  He smiled, swaying slightly on his feet. Finally, here were some people who would listen to what he had to say.

  “That’s right. You’ve got it easy. All of you. Why don’t you come on out and join me? Come out and see what the real world is like. Come on. I dare you. I double dare you.”

  From somewhere in the distance a dog suddenly howled, its cry carried like ghostly music on the wind. Hushing his drunken banter, Kevin paused to listen. The dog howled twice more, then grew quiet, probably hushed by its owner.

  Turning his attention back to the cemetery, he studied the row of graves closest to the front wall. The graves were quiet and undisturbed; no one had accepted his invitation to join him in the real world.

  “Cowards.”

  Disappointed, he turned and started down the street, weaving a little more than he had earlier as the beers and muscle relaxers started to catch up with him. He wished he had a car to drive, but he didn’t. Maybe he should call his sister and ask for a ride. She wouldn’t be too happy to receive a phone call at two in the morning, but he was family. She would come to get him, even if it meant he had to listen to a lecture all the way home.

  Deciding he would indeed call his sister, if he could find a pay phone, Kevin continued walking in the direction of his apartment. He had just reached the Old Drugstore when he heard a strange sound coming from behind him.It was an odd clanging noise, metal on metal, like a mechanic beating a wrench against an old car engine. Thinking that someone might be having trouble, he stopped and turned around. But the street was empty of people and cars, deserted except for the drunken cripple who stood listening in the darkness. Curious about the noise, he started retracing his steps.

  He had only gone about half a block, however, when he located the source of the metallic clanging. The sound was caused by the front gates of the Tolomato Cemetery, and the metal chain that held them closed. The gates were jerking back and forth, as if being blown by a strong wind, straining at the heavy chain. But no wind blew; the night air was heavy and still.

  The metal gates moved almost a foot one way, then slammed back in the opposite direction. Back and forth they went, slamming against the chain, looking as if someone was jerking the gates in an attempt to break free from the cemetery.

  “What the hell?” He stepped off the sidewalk and moved out into the street, wanting to get a better view of what was happening. Even in the middle of the street there was no breeze to be felt, so it could not be the wind that moved the gates. Nor was anyone trapped on the inside of the cemetery, trying desperately to get out. He could see through the metal gates into the graveyard, and there was no one there. Still, the gates continued to bang back and forth, their motion growing more frenzied by the moment.

  A sudden thought came to him, causing his alcoholic buzz to depart and sending a chill dancing down his spine. A few moments ago he had dared the dead to join him in the real world, and now it looked like someone was trying to take him up on the offer.

  “Shit,” he whispered, his mouth going dry. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  Then, as he stood there watching, the gates stopped their frantic movement. The night again grew quiet.

  Kevin laughed nervously. “They must have given up.”

  His laugher quickly died, however, as a horrible odor rolled over him. It was the smell of old roadkill, of something lying dead and rotten in the hot Florida sunshine, the stench of a swollen possum on a back country road. The smell came from inside the Tolomato Cemetery, rolling thick and pungent out into the street, causing him to gag.

  With the odor came something else, a sight much too terrifying to describe. He thought at first his eyes must be playing tricks on him, but it was no trick that he saw. Nor was it a result of too many Budweisers, and too many pills. Something large and black was moving across the grounds of the cemetery, making its way from the back of the graveyard to the front gates. A nearly shapeless mass of infinite darkness that seemed to swallow up everything in its path.

  “Dear Jesus, what in the hell is that?”

  It was like a low-lying cloud, a patch of fog hugging the ground as it rolled toward the front of the cemetery. Churning, billowing, expanding outward, only to shrink back on itself, it seemed to shimmer and change shape as it moved. As the rolling cloud of blackness drew nearer, it reached out to him with ebony tentacles.

  Kevin blinked and shook his head, trying to comprehend what h
e was seeing. The patch of darkness grew more solid the closer it got to him, took on definition in the night. It looked like a giant black octopus, or maybe a spider.

  That was it. The thing moving through the Tolomato Cemetery looked like a giant spider, a nightmarish, mutant spider that continually changed its shape and definition. One moment it was large and round, the next it was thin and narrow.

  Suddenly, the thing changed shapes again, transforming into a figure that was almost human. Almost, for the apparition had the body and head of a man, bearded and dressed in a flowing dark robe, but it had long black tentacles for arms. The tentacles stretched out toward the front of the cemetery, reaching for the frightened crippled man who stood in the middle of the street.

  It was the thing’s almost-human appearance that terrified him most of all, and he damn sure didn’t trust the locked gates to keep it inside the cemetery. Instinct told him that bars and chains could not stop such a thing. Hell, guns and tanks probably couldn’t stop it.

  Deciding that a hasty retreat was the best plan of action, he stifled a cry and turned away from the Tolomato. He tried to put as much distance between himself and the nightmarish creature as he possibly could, but he could only hobble so fast. Even the added adrenaline rush of fear could not make his body move any quicker.

  He had just reached the Old Drugstore when the thing reached the front of the cemetery, nearly ripping the metal gates off their hinges. Flowing out into the street, the multilegged beast of darkness scurried after its prey, its movements silent except for a muffled hooting sound.

  Kevin turned and looked behind him, watching in horror as the monster moved out into the street, his bladder silently relieving itself of a night’s worth of good beer. He prayed that the thing would go the other direction, but God must not have heard his prayer, for it came after him.