Chapter 5
Spring break passed far too quickly, ending with the resuming of class, every student would now dedicate the next two months to passing their finals. Only then, could they breathe a sigh of relief and begin summer vacation without the stress of homework, required readings, and pop quizzes. Going back to school meant returning to the grinding pace for teachers as well. While the academic routine had been reestablished, Henry, once again, found himself pulled into the hallway traffic as he made his way from one class to another. The routine was automatic, almost reflexive, as Henry almost mindlessly walked among his fellow students. He wasn't so much against receiving an education, he just didn't like going to school. He was the kind of person who could stand in a crowded room and still feel very much alone. Socially, he was barely a spectator and invisible to what he referred to as 'the herd' and resented the cliquish mentality common to high school students and was often left on the sidelines while others whispered about him behind his back.
One of the classes he was taking was American history. For Henry, nothing could be more boring, but he needed the credit and the more interesting classes had filled up early. On his way to class, Eric caught up to him in the hallway, and as usual, startled him from behind.
“Jesus Christ, Eric!” Henry yelled. “Why do you have to be such an asshole!?”
Eric gave him an enthusiastic slap on the back.
“So, how's Sam doing?” he asked.
Henry rolled his eyes in frustration.
“I don't know,” he replied. “You'll have to ask her.”
Eric pulled Henry's shoulder back and stepped up in front of him.
“You mean that wasn't you I saw eating pizza with her last week?” he said.
Henry felt his face flush with embarrassment. It wasn't bad enough that it was Eric who had noticed them together but that he was going out of his way to humiliate him in public. He seemed to take great pleasure in making others miserable and often targeted those who lacked the ability to stand up for themselves.
“C'mon, Wolfman,” Eric continued. “Did you get any pussy?”
Henry became infuriated. He wasn't normally one who openly displayed anger, but Eric had gone too far. Henry and Samantha were certainly not dating and probably never would. But a friendship had blossomed and Henry still cared about her. His suddenly anger led to an outburst, taking place in the middle of the hallway.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Eric!” Henry screamed. “Why do you have to be such a fucking asshole!?”
Henry's tirade quickly attracted the attention of other students, who gathered around, anticipating a fight.
“Can't you just leave people the fuck alone!?”
Eric saw Henry's anger as an opportunity to further taunt him and leaning in towards his face, delivered one more humiliating blow.
“Aw, is Henry in love?”
His tone was patronizing and instantly drove Henry into an enraged insanity. He dropped his day pack on the floor as his rant continued, but this time it was followed by one well executed punch.
“You fuckin' cocksucker!”
He stepped in as he launched his fist, striking Eric across the face. The crowd around them began cheering as Eric bent down, cradling his quickly bruising face in his hands. He wasn't bleeding, but the resulting bruise would be with him for at least the next week, and with his ego equally injured, Eric turned and walked away. For the rest of the day, Henry's conscience struggled between two opposing thoughts. Eric was clearly a bully and was bound to be put in his place. But, Henry had never hurt anyone. He wasn't so much worried getting into trouble but that he may have caused more damage than just a bruised cheek.
As school let out that afternoon, Samantha caught up to Henry, who had walked to the science fiction bookstore. He thought that perhaps, a quiet perusing of its UFO section might serve as a distraction from the day’s earlier confrontation. As his mind began to drift off, Henry was startled by the sound of her voice.
“Henry,” Samantha began. “Are you alright? I heard you got into a fight with Eric.”
“I'm fine,” Henry replied.
Samantha continued with a tone of concern.
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
She assumed that because of Eric's tendency for pushing people around he had the upper hand. But this was not the case.
“Actually,” Henry began. “He never got the chance.”
Samantha became confused. If Henry didn't get hurt, maybe it was simply a verbal confrontation. She would never tell him, but she believed that Henry would never be able to hold his own against anyone in a fight, and if during an especially brutal assault, Henry would likely limp away with his face beaten into raw meat.
“Look,” he continued. “It's over. I'm not hurt. So can we just forget about it?”
Samantha was still concerned, and seeing his somewhat sullen mood stepped in closer.
“Henry, what happened?”
He was still angry and displayed it as he offered an explanation.
“Eric started talking shit about you,” he began.
He tried to keep his voice down so as not to create a disturbance in the bookstore.
“That asshole. He fuckin' saw us having pizza and started teasing me about it by talking shit about you.”
Now, she understood that Henry was, in fact, defending her honor, and while she was struck by what she saw as a noble act, she also thought it unnecessary.
“Henry, you don't have to do that,” she began. “Eric's a douche bag. Just walk away. Next time, you might not be so lucky. Then, you're going to get hurt.”
Henry was not in the mood to be scolded, and his response was not well thought out.
“I don't care,” he began. “If he talks about you like that again, I'm going to kick the shit out of him.”
Up until the day they had lunch together, Samantha had known almost nothing about him. She had passed him many times in the hallways, and taken some of the same classes with him but never seemed to have the time or desire to find out who he was. However, there was one thing she had always known about him. Henry was the shy type, and rarely stood out from other students. While others were involved in sports, cheer leading, and school clubs, Henry would disappear into a protective antisocial cocoon. In fact, Henry was just as much a loner as Samantha, so punching Eric across the face was something no one expected.
“Look,” Samantha began. “I really admire what you did, but promise me you won't ever do that again, please.”
Their bond of friendship had, through an act of chivalry, grown significantly that afternoon, and Samantha, seeing that Henry was still upset, thought it might be good to get him outside, perhaps to walk off some of his anger.
“C'mon,” she began. “Let's go for a walk.”
Henry didn't see much point in this, but he did want to spend more time with her. He knew there was no chance for anything more than a friendship, but if she changed her mind, Henry wanted to be there as the first person she went to. But for now, he was just happy to be spending some time with her.
“You know, it's Friday,” he began. “You want to go to the cemetery?”
Samantha's eyes lit up with excitement at the idea of sitting amongst the interred dead. Perhaps, they might glimpse an unearthly shadow darting from grave to grave, creeping across the ground toward the hedgerow at the cemetery's edge. It is believed by many that the souls of the dead are particularly active at night. Perhaps the air is clearer, allowing even the faintest sounds to be heard. Or maybe the rising darkness awakens something primal, a deep seated instinctual guardian, protector of the night, keeping watch over both the saintly and the damned. And then there are those unable to move on due to some trauma that has cursed their existence, tying them to the world of the living, stirred into a rage by the prying eyes of curious fools who dare invade their ethereal lives.
The cemetery lay at the edge of town, away from the daily hum of human activity. Its stones, monuments, and markers stood quiet and noble as testimonials of the lives once lived by those interred beneath them. On their way, Samantha decided to stop at home, leaving Henry to wait outside. After only a few short minutes, she returned carrying a small day pack.
“What's in there?” Henry asked.
Samantha grinned slightly as they walked toward the street with the day pack slung over her shoulder.
“You'll see,” she replied.
Her evasion of Henry's curious question left him that much more inquisitive and twenty minutes later, they found themselves walking into Norway's only cemetery. The entrance road passed under an arched iron gate that, over time, had fallen into disrepair. This added a touch more darkness to an already dim place and passing under it left both Henry and Samantha with the feeling of crossing over into a forbidden world, one that should only be trod upon by those delivering the newly dead as well as those caught up in grief. Samantha stopped suddenly and turned to Henry with a wide-eyed expression.
“Shit,” she whispered. “Did you hear that?”
Henry froze with a panicked look on his face, his ears focused on the air around them, searching for some almost silent unearthly sound.
“What is it?” he asked.
Samantha giggled at his expense and revealed what was, to her, a well-timed practical joke.
“Nothing,” she said. “I'm just messing with you,”
Henry saw no humor in her attempt to tease him and protested with a tone of irritation.
“Jesus Christ!” he whispered. “Don't do that. I almost pissed myself.”
Samantha giggled again.
“I know,” she replied. “You should've seen the look on your face.”
Seeing the look of frustration on Henry's face, Samantha couldn't help but feel more than a little guilty.
“Henry,” she began. “I'm sorry. No more jokes, okay?”
With her apology, Samantha discovered that Henry was quite sensitive and not at all receptive to humor expressed at his expense. In fact, it made him feel as though he was being picked on or bullied. Now, Samantha knew where the line was and she would never cross it again.
They made their way to the back of the cemetery where the oldest graves were located. The engravings on most of the headstones were worn down by time and the elements, leaving them nearly unreadable. But if one remained very still, the voices of those long dead might be heard whispering on the gentle breezes, drifting through the cemetery, weaving their way around the stone sign posts of eternal slumber. Samantha picked a place near the pond and dropping her day pack on the ground sat with her back against the granite column of an old casket sized crypt.
“C'mon, have a seat,” she said.
Although it was his idea to visit the cemetery, Henry was visibly uncomfortable with the thought of sitting so close to the grave.
“Isn't it supposed to be, like, bad luck to sit on someone's grave?” he asked.
Samantha understood his anxiety. After all, everyone fears what they do not understand, especially death.
“Well,” Samantha began. “I'm not really sitting on it. I'm sitting next to it and I don't think anyone would mind.”
Henry cautiously sat next to her and tried to relax.
“Yeah,” he replied. “You're probably right.”
With the cemetery to their left and the woods to their right, Samantha and Henry sat with the late afternoon moon rising just above the trees. Still sensing his tension, Samantha expressed her concern as she opened her day pack.
“Henry, you need to relax,” she said.
Rummaging through her day pack, she removed a sealed sandwich bag with what, at first, appeared to be clumps of dried weeds.
“What's that?” Henry asked.
As Samantha took out a ceramic pipe and a lighter, Henry realized what was in the bag.
“Are you fucking me?” he said. “Is that what I think it is?”
Samantha responded with a nonchalant tone.
“Dude, it's just a little weed.”
She broke one of the dried clumps in half and filling the bowl, lit it and watched the remnants of the dried plant brighten into a glowing ember. Drawing the smoke in, she filled her lungs and held her breath, allowing its effects to quickly sooth her mind. She passed the pipe to Henry who, initially, refused to even touch it.
“Are you shitting me?” he began. “I can't go home wasted. My mom will kill me.”
Samantha continued to hold the pipe out towards him.
“Henry, you're not going to go home wasted,” she said. “This stuff's called 'Black Alaskan'. It wears off after only a couple of hours, so don't worry about it.”
Henry cautiously took the pipe, continuing to express his anxiety. This would be the first time Henry had smoked pot, but he trusted Samantha that her knowledge of this strain was accurate and inhaling deeply his first reaction was a series of violent coughs. Until this point, he had only once tried cigarettes, and that experience quickly led to the worse case of nausea and vomiting he had ever encountered.
At Samantha's insistence, Henry took another deep draw as the contents of the pipe achieved a steady red glow. This time, he was able to hold most of the smoke in as its effects quickly relaxed his tense nerves.
“Fuck,” he said. “That was fast. Are you sure this is just pot?”
He passed the pipe back to Samantha who, opening the bag, took out another piece of the colorful buds and refilled the bowl.
“Feel better now,” she asked.
Henry tipped his head back against one of crypt's granite columns and let out a deep sigh.
“Fuck,” he said. “Does your mom know about this?”
Samantha giggled slightly as she lit the bowl.
“Are you kidding?” she replied. “This is my mom's weed. She said she'd rather see me smoking a little weed once in a while than drinking.”
Henry was more than a little surprised. Until now, they had rarely spoken, but through observation, Henry came to the understanding that she was likely someone who was uncomfortable living in her own skin. So, to see her relaxing while smoking her mother's weed left him with the realization that he, in fact, knew nothing about her.
“I've got to tell you,” he began. “I'm kind of surprised. You always seem so tense and here you are smoking weed. I mean, holy fuck, I never would have guessed.”
He reached over for the pipe as Samantha was, once again, drawing a deep hit.
“C'mon, don't hog it all,” he said.
Samantha exhaled a plume of smoke with a smile on her face and handed him the pipe. “Congratulations,” she began. “You're officially a stoner.”
Taking the pipe, Henry drew another long hit, holding in the smoke even longer.
“Fuck, dude,” Samantha said. “You're an old pro at this already.”
Henry exhaled a column of smoke as the marijuana tightened its grip around his senses.
Half an hour later, they found themselves lying on their backs next to each other, staring up at the glittering night sky. From the back of the cemetery, the lights of Norway were diminished enough that the starry band of the Milky Way stood out against the glittering nocturnal background. Samantha had returned the bag of marijuana to her day pack. Her mother allowed her smoke weed, but that didn't mean she could be irresponsible about it. Getting a little high was one thing, being constantly wasted was another.
“You know,” Henry began. “Every time I see you in school you look so stressed. Even when I saw you going to the library, you seemed really tense. Does school stress you out that much?”
Samantha took a few moments to compose and answer.
“It isn't that I don't like school,” she replied. “It's the pressure. Everyone's expected to choose a college and take the SAT's and do great things with their lives and change the fucking world. What if I don't want to change the world? What if I just want to tell the world to fuck off? That, and I just don't do well around people.”
Henry was more than a little buzzed, but he did understand. He felt the pressure, too. Maybe not as intensely, but it was something that, by tenth grade, everyone seemed to experience.
“Yeah, I hear you,” he said. “My mom's after me to choose a college, and I'm not even sure I want to go. It would be really fucked up if I got a degree and ended up flippin' burgers for seven bucks an hour, wouldn’t it?”
They sat in the cemetery's dark windless air, their eyes occasionally glancing from grave to grave, unconsciously searching out dark specters, born out of imagination and primal fear. Henry had finally been able to relax as the moon settled high in the night sky. They took in the evening's cool air, letting time pass without a word. With the absence of daylight, the air smelled cleaner, sounds were louder. A leaf tumbling beneath the mid-day sun would go unheard but in the cool night air, it would gallop across the ground like hoof-beats pounding against the earth. Henry took a deep breath and stretched out his arms.
“You're right,” he began. “That doesn't give you a very long high, does it? Maybe I should head home.”
“Oh, come on,” Samantha said. “It's Friday night.”
It didn't take more than a few seconds for Henry to reconsider.
“Yeah, I guess I can stay a little longer,” he replied.
They continued lying on the ground as the dark silence wove its way through the cemetery. The woods that bordered the back of the burial ground had become quiet to the point of discomfort. This, however, was broken by the rhythmic symphony of small frogs, chirping almost in unison and like a lullaby, pulled both teens into weariness. But as their minds lay on the edge of the land of Morpheus, they were suddenly shaken back to their senses by an unexpected sound. Something vague. Something that left them guessing if they had heard it at all.
“What was that?” Henry whispered.
Samantha focused her senses on both the woods and the burial plots behind them.
“I don't think it was anything,” she replied.
They continued to speak in whispers, debating as to what, if anything, they may have heard.
“Maybe it was just your imagination,” Samantha said.
She was trying to calm Henry's nerves, yet she had heard it too.
“Bullshit,” he began. “You heard it too.”
As Samantha was about to offer a more plausible explanation, the nondescript sound, again, drifted out of the woods. This time, it was accompanied by a soft growl and it was closer.
“Fuck!” Henry shouted. “What the fuck was that!”
Their eyes quickly searched the woods, then turning around, searched the graves sprawled out through the unlit cemetery. Samantha exercised calm and caution as she gently spoke to him.
“Henry, stand up. Slowly. Turn around and get a look at the cemetery. But do it slowly.”
They both stood with Henry staring out among the shadowy graves as Samantha continued to scan the woods. Suddenly, something caught Henry's eye and looking in that direction, detected a glimpse of a dark silhouette flitting from gravestone to gravestone.
“Hey Sam,” he whispered. “Over here.”
Samantha's emotions were creeping up from beneath her calm facade, and spinning around, her eyes were wide with panic, her face white with fear.
“What?” she replied.
Fearing what had quickly disappeared, she also continued speaking in whispers while side-stepping around to the far edge of the above-ground crypt.
“Over there,” Henry said.
He pointed to the last place he'd seen the formless shape darting through the cemetery. Now, it was gone. Henry dropped his arm and continued searching the darkness.
“Fuck,” he said. “It was right there.”
“What was it?” Samantha asked.
“I don't know,” Henry answered. “But I thought I heard it growl. Maybe it was a coyote.”
“That's not good,” Samantha said.
She had gone from cautious and afraid to shaking and terrified.
“What do you mean?” Henry asked.
They were still whispering while huddled together behind the crypt.
“Because coyotes travel in packs,” Samantha replied. “So if there's one, there's going to be more.”
Henry raised his head eye level with the top of the crypt. Its polished surface reflected the light of the waning moon peering down on the eerie silence of Norway's burial ground.
The shadow had disappeared, but was replaced by a sudden, chaotic choir of yips, screams, and cackles breaking through the tree line behind them, not more than one hundred feet away.
“Fuck!” Henry yelled.
He grabbed Samantha's hand and pulling her out from behind the crypt sprinted towards the front of the cemetery, with the distant street lights as their goal. But somewhere along the way, Samantha's hand slipped away from him. He looked back to find her on the ground, having tripped over a short, nearly invisible gravestone that lay hidden in the shadows of others surrounding it. The barks and howls of the coyotes became reduced to growls as they launched their assault, trotting out from the woods towards their human prey. Henry grabbed Samantha by the hand and pulled her to her feet. Her nose was bleeding and her lip split upon contact with the small granite marker. Their only option was to run, but in the dark and with Samantha injured, they would never be able to stay ahead of the pack. Unless God saw fit to deliver a miracle, both would die horribly as clothing was torn and flesh ripped to the bone while their blood pooled onto the ground, leaving it to be lapped up by the marauders still chasing them through the night.
The two started off again, running toward the street light near the cemetery's entrance. It seemed so far away. Fear, it seems, can greatly alter ones’ perception of their surroundings as well as the passage of time. But as much as fear also sharpens the senses, it does not make the night any less dark and with his next few steps, Henry tripped over his own feet, sending both tumbling to the road's loose gravel. With their palms and elbows scrapped and bleeding, Henry and Samantha froze face down, too terrified to scream, too catatonic to think. Mounting a defense against the malicious four-footed specters would only prolong the inevitable. They were only heartbeats away, close enough for the two to hear their hungry panting when the air over their heads exploded with a momentary burst of light as a shot pierced the coolness of the night. The pack quickly turned and bolted back into the safety of the woods, except for one. The lead coyote lay dead on the road only a few yards from Samantha's feet, its skull blown open by a .306 round with pieces of bone and brain matter strewn across the ground, spattering gravestones nearby.
The shot faded into the distance as the voice of an old man unemotionally commented on his most recent kill.
“Fuckin' coyotes,” he began. “Can't get any rest even in a goddamn bone yard.”
His name was Frank. He lived in a small rundown house not far from the edge of the cemetery's edge and was considered by many in the town to be somewhat eccentric. People went so far as to warn their children against making eye contact with him, and more than a few believed that his isolated life may have driven him insane. With Henry and Samantha still frozen from what would certainly have been a horrific demise, Frank stepped around them and walked up to the carcass that only moments before, was one leap away from being first in line to partake in an especially grisly meal. Looking down at it, he nudged its open head with the toe of his boot as a crooked smile etched its way across his face.
“Heh, gotcha right in the fuckin' head.”
The two looked back at the shadowy figure while crawling behind a large monument, hoping to convince the man that they had escaped. But Frank was not so easily fooled, and knowing they were hidden nearby, called out to them.
“Don't worry about nothing,” he began. “Now get on home before the sheriff gets here.”
A gunshot will generally attract a great deal of attention, and the two teens had no desire to participate in that.