Grave Images
Dunston Greene was an artist, a talented sculptor who enjoyed creating small statues, what many people called "knickknacks." Like most artists, he was forced to strike a compromise between his love of art and his need for a paycheck. Thus, he worked as a designer for a company that mass-produced inexpensive collectibles that were sold in souvenir shops, discount stores and sometimes even at dollar stores.
His situation was far from satisfying. Whenever Dunston saw his creations placed next to key chains, pencil sharpeners, cheap ashtrays and plastic coffee cups, he felt resentment toward his employer and disappointment in himself. He had only to look at the price tags on the Hummel children, Royal Doulton Toby mugs or Harbour Lights lighthouses to know there was a much more profitable market for a man of his talent. Since he had been unable to find a job with any of the more prestigious manufacturers such as Lladro or Lenox, Dunston felt his only hope was to come up with a line of collectibles of his own. Unfortunately, he could not think of a unique subject that he could transform into a series of miniature sculptures. The market was already flooded with teddy bears, birds, animals, angels, historical figures, Victorian cottages, children and Disney characters.
Then one day Dunston took his fifteen-year-old niece, Brianna, to Rockaway Townsquare Mall to shop for her birthday present.
"What do want?" he asked. "Clothes? A couple of CDs? A computer game?"
"Nah," she replied. "I want a doll."
Dunston was surprised that a girl her age still played with dolls. Of course, people of all ages collected them, both men and women alike.
"How about one of those special edition Barbies?"
"No way! I'm not ten years old," she answered and then led him to a store that looked like it had been decorated by a set designer for a Tim Burton movie.
"I thought Halloween was last month," he laughed as they passed the large gargoyles that flanked both sides of the shop's entrance.
"Very funny! It's a gothic store," Briana explained as she and her uncle walked past racks of black clothes, nose and belly button rings and studded dog collar jewelry to the back of the store where there was a small selection of gifts.
The girl picked up a doll and showed it to her uncle.
"This is what I want."
The doll, which came in a coffin-shaped cardboard box, looked like a victim of either a sadistic serial killer or a fatal car crash.
"Is this a joke?" Dunston asked.
"No. It's a Living Dead doll. I have sixteen of them already. I want to collect them all."
"You mean there are more of these?"
"Yeah! There's Bloody Mary, Jack the Ripper, the Black Dahlia, one for each of the seven deadly sins, Walpurgis, Lizzie Borden ...."
"Lizzie Borden?"
"The axe murderer. Although she was actually acquitted of the crimes."
"I know who Lizzie Borden was. I just can't understand why anyone would want such gruesome dolls."
"But they're awesome! Look, each one comes with its own death certificate."
Dunston shook his head, amazed at what some people wanted to collect.
* * *
On his way to work the following day, the artist passed Laurel Grove Cemetery, where he spotted a young man taking photographs of some of the more elaborate monuments, and he was reminded of his niece's collection of macabre dolls.
What is all this sudden preoccupation with death and burial? he wondered.
On impulse, Dunston pulled his car to the side of the road and walked into the cemetery. He followed in the man's wake, examining the grave markers as he walked. He supposed there was a certain beauty in the granite statuary. Angels, floral engravings and the occasional old photograph of the deceased gave a dignified magnificence to the state of death.
Perhaps I should get a job carving headstones. At least they won't wind up being sold at Dollar General or Five Below.
Dunston literally stopped in his tracks as a flash of inspiration struck him.
If people will buy dolls of axe murderers and dead children, why not ceramic miniatures of famous grave markers?
It was, if nothing else, a unique idea.
Dunston took out his BlackBerry, phoned his employer and called in sick. He then went back to his apartment, turned on his computer and got onto the Internet. He spent the rest of the morning researching the graves of celebrities, sports heroes and historical figures. He printed out photos of the monuments for nearly two dozen people including Edgar Allan Poe, Johnny Ramone, F. Scott Fitzgerald and John Belushi.
After a quick lunch, he prepared a rough estimate of the startup expenses for this new venture and reviewed the state of his personal finances. He had some money put away in a savings account and a certificate of deposit, and, if necessary, he could always borrow from his 401k or take out a mortgage on the house, which he had inherited from his parents. It was a gamble, but Dunston, still a bachelor with no financial obligations hanging over his head, was willing to take the risk.
For the next ten months, the enterprising artist designed his inexpensive knickknacks during the day and then came home and sculpted his own miniatures during the evening. When he had completed ten of them, he turned his attention to designing a concept to package his artwork. He contracted a retired high school shop teacher to construct small, inexpensive caskets out of balsa wood. His sister then painted the coffins black and sewed and glued white satin-smocked liners into them. Even Brianna joined in by creating the floral arrangements that were used to adorn her uncle's ceramic miniatures.
"What are you going to call them?" the teenager asked. "You'll need a catchy name if you want them to be successful sellers."
"I hadn't decided yet."
Dunston picked up a replica of Cecil B. DeMille's monument and looked at it from several angles.
"What about Cemetery Creations?" he asked.
Brianna rolled her eyes.
"How dull! Your sculptures will never sell if you call them that."
"Funereal Figurines?"
"That's even worse."
"Gravestones of the Great? Tiny Tombstones? Hallowed Headstones?"
"You need something that sounds dark and gothic. I've got it: Grave Images."
Dunston thought a moment, nodded his head and announced, "It has a nice ring to it."
"And you can enclose an obituary with each figure as a certificate of authenticity."
"That's a great idea!" he exclaimed, impressed by the girl's marketing ideas. "Then I'll sign, number and date each piece and sell them as limited editions."
* * *
Once the legal work was completed, Grave Images became a reality. With a fair supply of figures to sell, Dunston was faced with the difficult task of getting them on the market. He had no intention of selling them in the same stores that bought the kind of mass-produced items his employer turned out, but none of the buyers for the more exclusive gift shops would agree to meet with him. Finally, he decided to sell his Grave Images directly to the public. He took out full-page ads in several popular collectors' magazines and hoped for the best.
Three months went by. A few orders trickled in but not many. Brianna came to her uncle's aid once again, designing a macabre website to showcase his work.
"I'm going to set you up with a PayPal account as well as a secure server so that you can accept credit card payments directly," she informed him.
"If I ever get any orders," he moaned, discouraged by the lackluster response he had received from the magazine ads.
"Cheer up. Grave Images will be a huge success once word spreads. You just have to accept the fact that your target market is not going to be sweet old ladies or middle-aged housewives who buy Thomas Kincaid prints, Department 56 Christmas villages or Snoopy music boxes."
"All right, Miss Smart Aleck, just who is going to buy my collectibles then?"
"Teenagers, college kids, aging hippies and horror movie buffs," Brittany replied. "The sort of people who frequent haunted attractions at Halloween or like to shop at Spencer's and Hot Topic."
"I don't care if my target market includes self-professed witches and vampires. Their money is just as green as the sweet old ladies' and middle-aged housewives' dollars," Dunston laughed.
"Spoken like a true capitalist!"
At first, the online orders were no more impressive than those generated by the magazine ads, but then business slowly began to grow. Before Grave Images celebrated its second anniversary, Dunston was making enough money that he could quit his job designing knickknacks.
By its third anniversary, he had hired Brianna—recently graduated from high school—as his assistant. His niece proved invaluable in many ways. Her first major contribution was arranging a deal with a music store chain to sell an exclusive edition Grave Image of Jim Morrison's final resting place in Cimetière du Père-Lachaise in Paris. Not only were the sales of this item so good that the music store requested additional pieces, but other stores also signed up for rights to sell exclusive figures.
Much to its creator's surprise, by its fourth anniversary, Grave Images had become one of the hottest collectibles on the market.
* * *
At fifty years old, Dunston Greene was a successful and wealthy man. He had also acquired a strange celebrity that placed him in the company of Elvira, Zacherley, Stephen King, Anne Rice, Rob Zombie and several other kings and queens of horror. He had been interviewed by Howard Stern, appeared on the cover of People magazine and was even invited to be the center square on the Halloween episode of Hollywood Squares.
Unfortunately, the taste of success was one Dunston soon craved in larger doses. He was not content to continue adding a dozen or so new pieces to his line each year. He pushed himself to design at least one a week. He also pressured his niece to find new distributors.
With so many Grave Images on the market, the inevitable happened: as the supply increased, the demand decreased. For the first time since the company's inception, sales began to drop. The sculptor was deeply troubled by this turn of events and thoughtlessly took his disappointment out on his young niece.
"Just look at these sales figures," he growled when Brianna was getting ready to leave the office one evening.
"I've already seen them," she replied somberly.
"Well, what do you intend to do about it?"
Brianna looked at her uncle with sympathy.
"I've been trying to put this conversation off for several months now," she said. "I guess the time has finally come."
Dunston looked at her questioningly.
"Are you quitting?" he asked.
"No. I'm not the kind of person to desert a sinking ship."
"What do you mean sinking ship?" he asked, his voice rising with anger.
"You know that old joke? The only difference between this place and the Titanic is the Titanic had a band," she joked humorlessly. "Look, Uncle Dun, you have to face facts, unpleasant as they may be. Grave Images is going the way of Cabbage Patch dolls, Pokemon cards and Beanie Babies."
"You don't know what you're talking about. You've had your mind on that young man you're planning on marrying, and you've let your job responsibilities slip."
Brianna reacted to his anger with sadness. She knew her uncle loved her dearly, but he couldn't face losing his business and the quasi-celebrity it brought him.
"You don't need all this aggravation. Why don't you sell out to that Japanese toy company? Their offer was a very generous one. You can retire, maybe travel and enjoy your life for a change."
"Never! I built this company with my own two hands. I'll never sell it no matter how much money they offer. I'll turn Grave Images around and make it a bigger success than it was before, with or without your help."
* * *
After stopping at a nearby Irish pub for one of its delicious chicken boxties and a pint of Guinness, Dunston headed home. Once he shed his suit and tie and donned a pair of well-worn jeans and a comfortable sweatshirt, he went upstairs to his studio. As he had so many times in the past, he opened a container of modeling clay, pulled out a large handful and squeezed it through his fingers.
Brianna was right about one thing: the market for his miniature headstones was dwindling. What Dunston had to do was come up with a new line of collectibles. He was back at square one, but this time he had plenty of capital to invest. He would not be risking the roof over his head gambling on the success of a new venture.
The sculptor let his hands idly play with the clay, hoping to find some spark of inspiration in this simple act. After spending three hours creating and destroying a dozen failed experiments, Dunston absentmindedly formed a pillar-like shape that bore a strong resemblance to a memorial marker. He put it down with disgust.
I've been designing these damned things so long that I can make them in my sleep.
He looked up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly one in the morning.
Perhaps if I sleep on it, something will come to me.
The following morning when he awoke, he still had no idea for a new line. Despondently, he walked into his studio with the intent of cleaning up the mess from the previous evening.
Maybe Brianna is right. Maybe I should sell out to the Japanese, retire and take a six-month tour of Europe. I've always wanted to see England and France. While I'm over there, I can stop in Paris and see the grave of Jim Morrison.
He sat down with a start.
What's happened to me? I never had a morbid fascination with death before. That does it! I'm getting out of this business before I go completely off my rocker.
As he was putting his tools away, he found the pillar-like shape he'd sculpted the night before. Something about it looked different, however. There was a name engraved near the base of the figure that wasn't there the previous night. Dunston put on his glasses and took a closer look.
"Clark Wilson," he read.
I don't remember etching his name in the clay. Hell, why would I? Clark Wilson is still alive. In fact, he's scheduled to pitch in game four of the World Series.
Feeling serious concern for his sanity, he crushed the figure with his fist and threw the ball of clay into the trashcan.
Although it was already past nine, he decided to dress and go to the office. He wanted to meet with Brianna first thing and tell her of his decision to sell the company. Also, he would give her a full one-fourth of the profit he made on the sale. After all, he owed much of his success to her hard work and wise business decisions.
While Dunston was pulling his Mercedes out of the driveway, a newscaster interrupted Eric Burden and the Animals' "The House of the Rising Sun" with a special announcement.
"The baseball world is shocked and saddened today," the radio newscaster said, "by the death of Yankee pitcher Clark Wilson. Wilson, the Bombers' ace lefthander was killed in a car accident on the Cross Bronx Expressway last evening ...."
Dunston pulled onto the shoulder of the road. He was shaking so badly he couldn't drive. Again he wondered how Wilson's name had gotten on that grave marker.
I wasn't listening to the radio or watching television last night, so there was no way I could have known about Wilson's death.
Suddenly, the falling sales of Grave Images didn't seem like such a catastrophe.
Badly shaken, the sculptor turned his Mercedes around and headed back home. He phoned the office and left a message on the answering machine for Brianna, telling her he wanted to take the rest of the week off.
Dunston spent the next few days living the life of a man of leisure. He slept a great deal, read a book and tried desperately not to think about grave markers, death or precognition. He wasn't successful, though, for the clay sculpture with Clark Wilson's name carved in it preyed on his mind.
This is insane! he realized a few days later. I can't stay cooped up in this house, avoiding the world for the twenty or thirty years I have left on this earth. I'm gonna go to bed and get a good night's sleep, and tomorrow I'll phone those people from Japan. Then I'll take Brianna and her fiancé out to dinner to celebrate my retirement.
The following morning, however, when Dunston walked into his kitchen to put the coffee on, he saw his sketchpad lying open on the kitchen table. He crossed the room and picked it up. When he saw the drawing of a fresh grave and an elaborate marker bearing the name of actor Hugh Conners, he dropped the pad with sudden fright.
His eyes darted to the television in the next room. Part of him wanted to turn it on, to see if Hugh Conners had suddenly died as Clark Wilson had, but another part of him wanted to return to bed, pull the covers over his head and shut out the nightmare in which he found himself. For twenty minutes he resisted the urge to know, but then he gave in. He turned on the television, dreading a news broadcast, but as he scanned through the channels, he found nothing but morning talk shows and infomercials.
Relieved, he poured himself a second cup of coffee, hoping that Maxwell House would boost his courage, and then he headed for his office. He kept the radio on during the drive, but there was no mention of Hugh Conners.
What was I thinking? That I was some kind of psychic? he asked himself, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Still, the questions surrounding the Clark Wilson miniature and the sketch of Hugh Conners' grave gnawed at him. He tried to think of a logical explanation.
Some people walk in their sleep. Others talk in their sleep. I suppose sculpting in your sleep is not so farfetched, especially for someone who is under a great deal of stress.
By the time he got to his office, he had managed to calm himself considerably. He sat at his desk and read the mail that had piled up while he was out. An hour later Brianna walked into the office.
"Uncle Dunston?" she asked with surprise. "I didn't expect you in today."
"I'm feeling much better now. Why don't you sit down, Bri? We have to talk about this offer from the Japanese firm."
"I thought you didn't want ...."
"I've given it serious thought, and I decided you're right. I'm going to take the money and run," he laughed.
"I ... I ...," Brianna stammered.
Dunston looked at his watch.
"It's almost noon. Why don't we discuss the sale over lunch?"
"Sure. Let me take care of a few things first, though," Brianna said, heading toward her own office.
"Okay, but don't take too long. I'm famished."
Fifteen minutes later Brianna stood in Dunston's doorway.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Why don't we try that new Italian restaurant over in Lincoln Park? I have a craving for fettuccini alfredo."
Brianna threw him a warning look.
"Are you sure you should be eating that? I thought Dr. Ryerson told you to cut down the fat in your diet."
"I've been eating fatty foods all my life, and they haven't killed me yet."
"I'm sure Hugh Conners felt the same way," Brianna laughed.
Dunston came to an abrupt stop.
"What made you bring him up?" he asked.
"Haven't you heard the news? Hugh Conners suffered a massive heart attack this morning while filming a movie on Martha's Vineyard. Paramedics medevacked him to Boston General, but he was dead on arrival."
All color drained from Dunston's face.
"Are you all right?" his niece asked with concern on her pretty face.
Dunston shook his head.
"Forget about going to lunch," Brianna insisted. "I'm taking you home."
Her uncle didn't protest.
* * *
"Now, don't you worry about a thing," Brianna said after she tucked her uncle into his king-size bed. "I'll meet with the Japanese people and see what kind of deal I can broker. After all, you've always trusted my business decisions in the past, and I haven't let you down yet."
Brianna's good humor was lost on her uncle, who was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, trapped in his own private purgatory.
"I'll stop in later this evening to make you something to eat and check on you."
Hours passed. The sun set and rose, and set and rose again. Dunston stayed in bed, getting up only to use the bathroom. Brianna, always the devoted niece, stopped by his house three times a day to cook and clean for him.
"I thought about calling a doctor," she said, although she might just as well have been talking to the bedpost for all the response she received. "But I think all you need is some rest."
She reached for the dinner tray on the nightstand beside his bed.
"I'll take this down to the kitchen. Then I've got to leave. I have a date with Ron tonight."
She didn't wait for a reply; she knew none would be forthcoming.
It was after two in the morning when the pressure in his bladder woke Dunston. He got out of bed, stumbled toward the bathroom, turned on the light, walked to the toilet, lifted the seat, relieved himself, put the seat back down and flushed the toilet—all actions done by habit rather than with any conscious effort on his part. Then he turned to the sink to wash his hands, instinctively reaching for the bar of Irish Spring.
An alarm went off in his brain. Something was wrong. Soap was not supposed to be that hard. He opened his hand and stared at a miniature ceramic cemetery stone, a Grave Image to be precise.
How did this get here? he wondered, shocked out of his trance-like state.
Dunston looked more closely at the object in his hand. It was not one of his designs. He went to the bedroom, put on his glasses and read the inscription. A scream died in his throat. The pain in his heart made screaming, speaking or even breathing unbearable. He clutched at his chest, and the pain shot to his arms. Within moments Dunston Greene was as dead as Clark Wilson and Hugh Conners.
* * *
Brianna, who since the death of her mother was the sculptor's only living relative and the sole beneficiary of his estate, sat at the gravesite, wiping a tear from her eyes as the mourners filed past her uncle's casket. Ron Dyckman, her fiancé, sat beside her, lending moral support. When the services were over, the two drove to Dunston's house where a catered buffet was provided for the hungry mourners. Before anyone else arrived, however, Brianna snuck upstairs to her uncle's bedroom, reached behind the dresser and removed the Grave Image from the place where she'd hidden it.
"I thought you got rid of that thing," Ron said from the bedroom doorway.
"I didn't want to risk being seen sneaking back in the house. While my uncle was alive I could come and go without rousing any suspicion. Once he was dead—well, I didn't want to take any unnecessary chances."
"You should have destroyed it before you called the ambulance."
"I was going to, but then I thought, what if the EMTs manage to revive him? Then I'd have to make another one of these so we could scare him again. I can't turn these stupid knickknacks out as fast as my uncle could. He was the so-called artist of the family, not me."
"You don't give yourself enough credit, my darling," Ron laughed. "I think this plan of yours to get your hands on your uncle's millions was a real masterpiece!"
"True. But then I always did have a good head for business. Even my uncle knew that."
With a heartless laugh, Brianna walked over to the fireplace, picked up the heavy poker and smashed the ceramic miniature to pieces. All that remained was a pile of broken chunks and dusty slivers. She then swept the mess into the palm of her hand and tossed it into the wastebasket.
"You're not going to leave the evidence there are you?" Ron asked.
"Don't worry. I pulverized it. No one will ever know that the name carved on that stone was Dunston Greene's."
* * *
Six months later, a very wealthy and radiant Brianna, wearing an original wedding dress from a Paris fashion house, said "I do" in front of nearly five hundred guests. Then she and Ron, after stopping for a quick photo session with their wedding photographer, drove to one of the most exclusive yacht clubs in Massachusetts for their reception. Brianna smiled graciously and basked in the attention of her friends and business associates.
"It's too bad your uncle didn't live long enough to see you get married," one old woman remarked as she shook the bride's hand.
"Yes," Brianna replied, casting her eyes down in mock sadness. "After my mother died, he was all the family I had left."
"Who was that?" Ron asked when the old lady walked away.
"I have no idea."
The evening passed, and after an open bar, a five-course dinner and the traditional first dance as man and wife, it was time for the bride and groom to cut the cake. The band struck up a traditional tune as the huge, four-tiered wedding cake was wheeled in from the kitchen. Brianna, who never missed even the smallest detail, was upset when she saw it.
"Damn it!" she swore under her breath so that only Ron could hear. "Those incompetent fools at the bakery forgot to put the bride and groom on top of the cake. I'll see that someone loses his job over this blunder."
As Brianna reached for the engraved sterling silver knife to cut the cake and feed it to her husband, the strange old woman emerged from the crowd of guests.
"Wait," she said. "I forgot to give you your wedding present."
Brianna smiled and looked around at the faces of her guests.
"I'm sorry, but first we cut the cake; then we'll collect the gifts."
"It's important that you open this gift now," the old woman persisted. "It can't wait."
Brianna felt her anger simmering, but she didn't want to create a scene at her own wedding.
"Okay," she said, reaching for the small box wrapped in gold metallic paper. "Let's see what is so important that I have to make all my guests wait for their dessert."
She removed the wrapping paper and saw the familiar balsa wood coffin underneath.
"Very funny," she laughed humorlessly. "You bought me a gift from my own company."
"Oh, the gift's not from me. It's from your late Uncle Dunston. He made it just for you before he died and left instructions that I was to give it to you and your husband."
Brianna stared at the old woman. Did she know something? Was this a clever blackmail scheme? Did this Grave Image box contain a reproduction of the headstone Brianna had used to scare her uncle to death?
Brianna thought quickly. Her uncle died of natural causes: a heart attack. No one, least of all this old woman, could prove otherwise. With a defiant smile on her face, the bride opened the balsa wood coffin, took out the certificate of authenticity and the small ring of artificial flowers and removed the ceramic collectible. With horror, she saw the names engraved on the miniature double headstone: Brianna and Ronald Dyckman.
"What a thoughtful gift," the bride said, trying to maintain her composure. "My uncle made me and Ron a one-of-a-kind Grave Image."
Two days later the newlyweds were killed in a boating accident while on their honeymoon in Aruba. Thus, Dunston Greene's death had been avenged through his talent as an artist.
Living Dead Dolls is a registered trademark of Mezco Toyz.
Barbie is a registered trademark of Mattel, Inc.
Beanie Babies is a registered trademark of Ty Inc.
Pokemon is a registered trademark of Nintento.
Cabbage Patch Kids is a registered trademark of Original Appalachian Artworks, Inc.
This is Salem's favorite Living Dead Doll: Jinx and her Hellcat.
