The sky was bitter with the early autumn. The wind bit into Lucy Taylor’s flesh, intensifying the heebie-jeebies she already felt. Behind her, she could hear the faint giggles of the girls as they huddled together. Fifteen-year-old Lucy had to focus on restraining her worry. She couldn’t let them witness her fear. The Black Duchess sat a few feet in front of her, and she knew her friends wouldn’t come any closer.
Lucy approached cautiously, ignoring the twitter of the girls. They weren’t courageous enough to accept the dare, and Lucy was, so she couldn’t understand what was so darned funny. It was easy for them to laugh, they weren’t staring into the face of the Black Duchess. She stood at the base of the statue now, at the head of the grave that it guarded. She gingerly reached out and caressed the smooth onyx stone of it’s lap.
Amazingly enough, while none of the residents knew exactly where the statue had come from, everyone seemed to know the sad tale behind who was buried at it’s feet. Lucy obeyed the proper etiquette warned of in the legend and humbly bowed her head to offer respect for the poor woman resting beneath the soil and carefully manicured grass.
Occasionally, Lucy fell into a predicament that presented a challenge to her, and she never could understand why she always had to wear the façade of a courageous person. She couldn’t help herself. This time was no different. Before she knew what was happening, her hand had shot into the air, as if by it’s own will, and volunteered her. And now, there was nothing she could do about it. If she were to change her mind now, her friends would ridicule her relentlessly, and possibly cruelly. She’d never live it down, which was the worst outcome imaginable, as far as Lucy was concerned. She’d rather imagine horrible things all night than turn back and have them point and laugh and call her chicken.
Besides, they wouldn’t be very far away. It wasn’t very far to the gate of the cemetery, and they promised to sleep just on the other side of the short wrought iron fence that surrounded the property. If Lucy needed them, she could yell, and her friends would jump that fence and be by her side in under a minute… if they woke up right away.
Another shudder passed through her small body as she looked up into the featureless face.
“Come on, Lucy! Get up there!” Kelly yelled.
“Nah, she’s scared,” replied another girl, loud enough so that Lucy could hear her.
Lucy didn’t dare turn around to look in their direction. If the moonlight was shining just right, they might note that her eyes pooled with true fear. She responded in the best way she knew how, and clambered up onto the lap of the statue. Once up, she turned so she wouldn’t have to look into the lifeless carved eyes. The grave seemed so far below her, and from her vantage point, the gate seemed farther than it had before.
She summoned a sincere smile and a wave to her friends. They stood there and watched her for several more minutes and finally turned to jump the fence and settle in for the night.
By the time she was alone, Lucy’s nerves had calmed a little, and while she still wasn’t comfortable with the idea, she was skeptical about things such as superstition, legends, and the supernatural. It was the history of the person buried beneath the plot that frayed her nerves so badly.
Everyone knew parts of the story, but precious few knew it in its entirety. Buried at the base of the statue was poor Gladys Simpson, pious and devout during her life. Her story was truly sad, when one weighed all the facts. Gladys was known by nearly everyone in town, as recently as eighteen years ago. Many knew her from St. John’s church; others knew her from the various charities she often volunteered for. Still young at the time of her death at age twenty-four, rather than devoting her weekend time to something as menial as dating, Gladys spent her time on a higher purpose. She was usually seen working at the local Salvation Army, dishing out meals for the poor and sometimes delivering to those who were homebound, either by illness or weather.
With all that she gave the community, the whole town mourned her death. Most shocking, while Gladys had put smiles on so many faces when they needed them most of all, she committed suicide, the one unforgivable sin. Their ray of sunshine wasn’t only gone from their lives, but she was a lost soul as well, although no one would actually ever voice it. It just wasn’t something people discussed. By the time someone passes on, the point is moot, and it’s far easier to allow the survivors to take comfort in something more joyous.
Surprisingly enough, very few townspeople knew the reason for the suicide. Kelly’s father was a police officer at the time of Gladys’ death and had been witness to the horrific scene and present the night they found her. According to the stories Sheriff Bernard told his daughter, he’d seen the note – logged it into evidence, as a matter of fact. Gladys Simpson was a jilted lover. In spite of the numerous activities she participated in, she had still found time to meet someone and date him, and managed to keep it under wraps. They had no choice but to keep it a secret, for the man seeing Gladys was already married, and had been for no less than a year. The note betrayed his identity, and as often as Lucy’s friend Kelly tried to get her father to confide in her, he refused.
Her argument was always the same. The tragedy happened eighteen years ago, and what harm could it possibly do now? Just last week, he’d given her the reason – the man named in the note still resided in Ivy Hills, and not only was he well-known and respected, but he had a daughter Kelly’s age, who might be a friend of hers. While poor Gladys Simpson thought she’d gotten her revenge and then taken the coward’s way out, there were other people involved who could be irreversibly hurt in indescribable ways.
When Kelly told the tale to the slumber party less than an hour ago, the others, including Lucy, were enraptured with the tale. Each looked to the others, wondering if she might be the unnamed daughter of the cheater. After fifteen minutes, it was agreed that a midnight trek to Ivy Hills Cemetery was called for. It was a ridiculous notion, but one they couldn’t refuse. They had to see if any clues existed around her grave that would indicate a particular man that they all knew. Maybe they would get lucky and find a bouquet of flowers that had been anonymously left there and one of them would recognize the handwriting of her father. It was worth a shot.
So, they’d all snuck out Amy’s second floor bedroom and shimmied down the trellis with the dying vines. Talk of Gladys and the rumors that surrounded her death accompanied them during the ten-block walk to the edge of town. Upon arrival, they began daring each other to see who would enter first, and while they all fought about it, Lucy hopped the fence and held up her arms. It was no big deal. No hands reached out of graves to capture their ankles and tug them in. One by one, the others climbed over, and that’s when Amy said, “I bet no one’s brave enough to spend the night out here—“
Lucy volunteered as Amy finished with, “—in the lap of the Black Duchess.” Lucy gulped at the end of Amy’s statement and swore she’s start thinking before acting from this point on.
From her perch, Lucy looked down. No flowers had been left, anonymous or otherwise. She bent her knees and laid her head on top of them, tucking her hands underneath. It was a stupid thought; probably a set up from the very beginning, she now realized. Somehow, Kelly and Amy were in this together and knew how willingly Lucy would volunteer for something this crazy, and furthermore, knew she wouldn’t allow herself to back out of it.
She wished she’d brought a warmer jacket. Spring was ending, and while the first official day of autumn hadn’t arrived yet, the crispness of the season filled the air, especially at night. Soft light spilled from the full moon and illuminated the graveyard, and until that moment, Lucy didn’t realize how beautiful the place could be, even at night. Silence surrounded her, and rather than feeling creeped out, like she’d expected to, she found herself in awe at the ornate carvings of the headstones around her, the ancient feel of history, the devotion that so lovingly presided over lost husbands, wives, mothers, fathers and others that had passed on.
Lucy sat in the twilight like that for a long time, straining her eyes to focus on one tombstone and then the next in the dim light, marveling quietly at the beauty, the faint sounds of insects singing in the background. She didn’t even realize right away that they had stopped – that all sounds had ceased completely.
With everything quiet and serene, it startled her when she felt something like a mosquito bite on her dangling leg. She slapped at the sting and brutally scratched, and as she did, she saw the glow of the sparks emitted from the base of the statue. Lucy’s eyes widened in fright, and just as she tried to jump down, thinking to hell with being called a chicken, she knew it was too late. The strong grip had already started closing in on her left arm.
~~~
“Do you think she’ll be mad, Amy?”
“Kelly, she’s not even awake yet. If she was, she would have come and found us at the house and knew we didn’t stay where we said we would.” The neared the gate and spotted Lucy in the distance. “See? She’s still all stretched out and asleep. She’ll never even know we weren’t here all night.”
The rest of the girls from the slumber party had gone home, in spite of the early morning hour. Their needs rested with sleep, after being up half the night and then being awakened so crudely by the alarm clock at five so they could return to the cemetery and get Lucy.
They climbed over the fence less than gracefully and took a few more steps, until Amy grabbed Kelly’s arm and squeezed.
“What are you doing? Ouch!” Kelly looked where Amy’s fearful stare was directed, and her stomach turned. She fell to the ground, fighting back the nausea she felt and tried not to look at Lucy’s remains.
She lie in the lap of the statue, one of it’s hands around her ankles, the other around her arms. She had been twisted, as if she were no less than a mere dishrag being wrung out. Most shocking, was the engraved message at the base of the statue that Amy read aloud. “My murder has been avenged now, Frank. I’ve taken your only daughter as payment for the life I’ve missed. Gladys.”
