Second Skin, Prologue
July 8th, 5:08 AM
As cemeteries went, Pastor's Rest was nice - reserved for those certain few who chose to remain as rich in death as they had been in life. Though not truly elegant, it was exclusive and peaceful almost to a fault. Various species of trees dotted the well tended lawn, providing shade for those who had been fortunate enough to be able to reserve such desired lots. Some graves featured stone angels, watching over and protecting the cemetery and all of its occupants; others had life-sized statues of the departed themselves - as if they expected visitors to stare at them in death with the same reverence that they had come to revel in during the living years. Eight mausoleums, each designed in a different architectural style, added variety to the area and much-desired room for a family of several generations.
Set back several yards from the street, the perimeter was defined by a wrought iron fence that stood a full eight feet tall. Each inch-wide bar ended in a hand-pounded arrowhead that pointed heavenward, as if giving the deceased an indication as to which way they should go. Every tenth bar arched downward at the top, its metal gnarled and twisted, warning which direction was the less favorable option. Visitors to the area could see little through the large weeping willows that stood like sentinels just inside the fence, making certain that the dead slept in privacy at Pastor's Rest - protected from vandals, ghost hunters, and drunk teenagers - as well as from the innocuous interest of passersby.
The sky yet to lighten with the coming of day, it was the time of the morning that most people would have considered the most disturbing to be out among the dead: the hour before the dawn. The silence and fog gave the area a sense of the macabre, though there was never anything more dangerous to be found at Pastor's Rest than the occasional hungry mosquito. Still, there was a bewitching quality to the cemetery - reminding mortals that their time was finite and that only death lasted forever.
That never bothered Michael Billmeyer. It was his job to be there. And the dead tended to keep to themselves.
The seventy-three year-old caretaker pulled his truck up to the Northern edge of the property, where a heavy gate restricted the only access road to the cemetery. He stepped out of the antiquated vehicle, fumbling with a ring full of keys until he found the one that could open the large, gothic-style padlock that secured the chain. When the lock fell open it made an eerie, grinding noise that reverberated throughout the length of the fence. Michael waited for the sound to fade away before he pushed the entrance wide open to allow him passage.
Returning to his truck, he drove inside, then climbed out again, shutting and locking the enormous gate. Groaning as his bones creaked, Michael struggled back into the driver's seat, noting to himself that the constant climbing in and out of the tall vehicle was perhaps the most difficult part of the job. Keeping his eyes ahead, he drove slowly into the heart of the grounds, being careful not to run off the path and into any of the nearby headstones - as he had been unfortunate enough to do in the past.
On the South end of the yard stood the caretaker's shack, carefully constructed to resemble a large tomb so as not to disturb the serene quality Pastor's Rest had become famous for. From a distance a visitor might wonder who was interred in the stately sepulcher, but had they ever ventured to travel around the back of the structure they would have discovered a window and wooden door - things for which the deceased had little need. Michael parked his truck beside the door, hiding the rusty red vehicle from direct view, then climbed out of the Ford and stretched. Yawning in the early morning air, he stepped around the faux mausoleum and stared into the fog.
Looking out at the yard before him, the man sighed. It was always so peaceful here, so quiet and serene. But now, even in the dim predawn hour, Michael could see that it was not quite so serene as it should have been. At first, just what was incongruous was not readily apparent - but after several long seconds of consideration, his sight set upon the answer. A grave that had just been occupied and filled the day before was disheveled, the green turf torn from its top and dirt thrown out in various directions. Curiosity compelling him, the caretaker moved slowly forward, his eyes on the grave.
Apprehensively, he stepped up to the lip of the pit and looked down into the darkness, squinting to see what he was certain he did not want to behold. The blackness below him was absolute and impossible for his aged eyes to penetrate, so he reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a penlight and twisting it on. Hesitating a few moments, the caretaker then shone the small beam down into the disturbed grave.
His eyes grew wide and he recoiled as if physically struck. His foot slipped on the loose soil and he felt the ground beneath him disappear. Landing upright, he felt a sharp pain strike his right ankle, running up his leg to the knee. He collapsed into a heap at the bottom of the grave, wincing while he clutched at the injury. Realizing his position, Michael shuffled back until his spine hit the hard dirt wall behind him.
Looking into his hand, the caretaker discovered that the flashlight was still tightly in his grip. He furrowed his already wrinkled brow and shone the light ahead, taking in the gruesome sight before him. A chill traveled up the old man's spine and he began to regret that this was not his younger days, the days when this sort of thing would not have shocked him.
Shaking off the thought, Michael shifted his position and another sharp pain traveled up his leg, reminding him of the rough landing that had ended his fall. Redirected the flashlight's beam at his boat shoe, he pulled up his pant leg, examining the steadily swelling joint beneath it. The gentleman shook his head, damning himself for the lack of composure that had led him to the accident. Struggling to standing on his left foot, he reached up to the lip of the grave, trying to find a secure hold above him. Unable to grip the loosened dirt, his fingers failed him, sending his equilibrium into chaos. Instinctively, Michael tried to regain his balance with the aid of his injured ankle. The attempt failed and he found himself falling once again, this time landing atop the corpse within the smashed-open coffin.
Eye-to-eye with the relic, the old man struggled back to sitting as far away from the cadaver as he could manage within the tight space. He tightened his jaw and let out a breath, rubbing the center of his forehead as he fought with himself over his options. As it turned out, options were few - and at the moment there was only one that seemed remotely rational. He reached into his jacket pocket once more and brought out a cellular phone, looking at it for several long seconds before flipping it open and dialing.
He set the phone to his ear and listened as the line rang once, twice - there was a click on the other end, followed by a tired yawn.
"Hello?" came the man's voice on the line.
"Davy?" Michael said, trying to keep his voice even.
"Dad?"
"Yeah," the old man cleared his throat. "Did I wake you?"
There was a pause. "Dad, it's five in the morning. Is something wrong?"
"I had a bit of a mishap," he told his son. "Could you come down to the yard and give me a hand?"
"What happened? Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Michael lied as he stared ahead at the corpse. "I just... I fell in a hole. I'm a little stuck, is all."
"A hole?" Davy asked. "You mean a grave?"
"Yeah. I think I broke my ankle."
"Damn, Dad... you're lucky you didn't break your neck!" Davy said, suddenly sounding much more awake. "I'll be right there. Is the gate locked?"
"Don't worry about it, just go ahead and cut the chain."
"Okay. Hold on, I'll be there soon!" the son said, then the line died as he hung up his end.
Michael pushed a button on his phone, turning it off, then looked again at the body. He moved slightly ahead, examining it closely with a scientific eye. His mind searched for answers, explanations. But despite his attempted logic, the human factor bled through, striking his emotions head-on.
Michael knew that dead men could not feel pain, but if they could he was certain that this one would have been in mortal agony. The man's back had been gouged, torn straight down from the base of his neck, and the skin had been peeled from the whole of his body - leaving nothing except raw, exposed muscles.
