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There’s power in superstition. I’ve never been too superstitious, but I can tell these three kids out hiking in the middle of the night got a strong streak of it running through ‘em. Why else would they be going out to the mesa on a full moon?

  Well, for one, they’re hiking out there to try and scare the new kid. But I can tell that in each of ‘em there’s some small sense of belief. And a little bit of fear. They’re a little high off it. Even the redheaded one who likes to whisper for effect. He says not to be too loud if they don’t want the dead to hear them. I like this kid.

  Hiking through the sagebrush, the new kid catches his foot on something and stumbles forward into the tall kid.

  “Get off me, man,” the tall kid says. “You tryin’ to feel me up or something?”

  “You wish,” the new kid says.

  “Personally, I think you both wish,” the red-headed kid says. “Now shut up. We’re gettin’ close.”

  “Sorry, Jake,” the tall kid whispers.

  “This is stupid,” the new kid says, but I can tell he doesn’t think it’s stupid at all. “How do you even know it’s a person up there? You dig it up or something?”

  “It’s under a pile of rocks, idiot,” Jake says. “You think I’m gonna start pulling out rocks and stick my hand in a pile of rotten flesh? I just know, okay?”

  “Well, who is it?” the new kid asks.

  “I heard it was some Indian,” the tall kid says. “The Big Chief or somethin’.”

  “There it is,” Jake whispers and points to the small mesa rising out of the earth about a hundred yards in front of them.

  Funny thing about the full moon. Everything’s real bright, but nothin’s real clear. It’s easy to pick out the five-foot pile of stones on top of the mesa, but the black granite side they’ll have to climb up is shrouded in shadows.

  Seeing this shuts up the new kid. I can tell he’s scared. Got a little Indian blood himself, but he hasn’t told anyone.

  Them Indians got lots of superstitions. You want to see superstition in action, go see an Indian. They’ll show you its power. That belief can make things happen. And you don’t need no full moon, either.

  When they start walking again, the new kid doesn’t say anything, because he’s got that belief that puttin’ words to something gives it power, like speaking it aloud will bring it to life.

  As they climb the rocky slope, I’m tempted to take at least one of them. It’d be so simple. A misstep on loose rock, a shoelace caught on some scrub brush. All this sharp granite.

  But I wait. ‘Cause I got a feeling my time’s gonna come.

  The top of the mesa is narrow, only maybe twenty feet at its widest. At one end is the mound of stones.

  “What are those for?” The new kids points at two circles of rock on the ground, about eleven feet across, nearly overgrown with time.

  “I dunno,” Jake says, and I sense the slightest chink in his confidence.

  “I don’t think you wanna step in them circles,” the tall kid says.

  “This is stupid,” the new kid says again, but his voice cracks this time, like he’s back in puberty.

  “Then you shouldn’t be scared,” Jake says. “All you gotta do is get three stones off the top of the pile.”

  The new kid stares at him a moment, like he’s weighing his options… and his courage. Finally he starts over to the pile, careful to edge around the rock circles, until he’s at the mound.

  He tries to reach the top stones, but the pile is sloped enough that he can’t lean far enough forward to grasp one. He’ll have to climb on it.

  He puts one foot on the pile, and the stones immediately shift. He hesitates, one foot still on solid ground, then shifts his weight and pushes forward, getting another foot up. He gingerly puts one hand down on the rocks and reaches with the other.

  Just as he gets hold of a stone, something jumps up from behind the pile shrieking. The new kid only gets a glimpse of tangled black hair and a grotesquely deformed face before sliding backward in panic. He pushes away and falls on his ass, but the thing is moving around that pile quick. He notices that he has fallen into one of the rock circles and lets out a little whimper before scrambling to his feet.

  He starts to run, but stops when he sees Jake and the tall kid in hysterics. Then he hears laughter behind him as well and turns to see the monster pull of the mask, revealing a blond kid.

  “You assholes,” the new kid says.

  They’re all laughing now, but I’ve been given my opening. For a moment, the new kid truly believed that the dead had come for him. It was enough to let me in.

  Insects are easiest to control, and I send out a swarm of winged ants that have nested in the rocks, a reddish-black cloud that descends on the other boys. All except the new kid.

  The ants don’t bite, but having them crawling all over is enough to send the boys into a panic, swinging their arms around, running in circles. Jake trips over a stone and there’s a loud crack as his head comes down on another rock.

  The new kid can only stare in horror, but I’ve saved the best for last.

  There’s nothing special about the Indian buried on that mesa, but I reanimate the corpse, and it starts to drag itself out of the rocks.

  There’s power in superstition. It can bring things to life… even if that thing is Death. And now I’m here for the new kid. And I give him the death he expected.

  The End

  ABOUT THE DEATH HE EXPECTED.

  From the author:

  Hmm. Where to start. Well, again, I must give credit where credit was due. Around my birthday last year, my parents gave me The Book Thief and told that Death was the narrator (I’m thoroughly enjoying it, by the way). Before I could start reading it, though, I knew that I wanted to tell some sort of story from the point of view of Death (you did figure out it was Death, right?). But I didn’t want it to be obvious until the end, so I tried to make it seem like they might’ve been being stalked by a serial killer or something (although I tried to put in some details that either would make the stalker very astute in the area of human nature or very sneaky to be so close to them without being seen).

  For the story itself, I’ve actually been to this mesa with my archaeologist father-in-law. There are petroglyphs on some of the rock faces on the slope, which was the actual reason we were there. He didn’t know about the circles on top or the pile of stones. And while he didn’t actually climb to the top with me, the thing with the ants really did happen when I accidentally stepped into one of the circles (something that immediately gave me a bad feeling) and neared the pile of stones. Not to the extent in the story where I was covered by them, but I had enough on me that I hotfooted it off the plateau swinging my arms.

  Should I be concerned? Or am I just giving in to a little superstition. My father-in-law told me he didn’t know anything special about the mesa besides the petroglyphs, and much as I’ve wanted to, I haven’t pushed him to look much deeper. They’re probably already worried enough about whom their daughter married.

  Oh, and since I’ve talked about names for the other pieces, I’ll tell you that names were tricky for this one (especially when I was trying to be conscientious of word count… saying “the red-headed kid” every time instead of just a name adds up). I decided for some reason that I didn’t think Death would necessarily know their names, so considering the fact that Jake’s is the only name spoken aloud (and he’s kind of the ring leader), that’s the only name we find out.

  Thanks for reading, and if you have any questions or comments, please feel free to email me at [email protected].

  And of course, special thanks to my parents, wife and family.

  Another Oldie but Goodie

  Margaret Daniels awoke in the night to music that only she could hear. She sighed and wondered if she could go through with her plan, even though she knew she didn’t have a choice. The singing was only getting lou
der.

  At being close enough to ninety that she didn’t bother counting anymore, Margaret was supposed to be finally allowed some peace, but she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since first hearing the music almost a month ago.

  The Brookfield Retirement Home wasn’t much to write home about, even if one of the residents still had kids who cared to hear from them. The walls were paper thin, and Margaret could swear she knew more about her neighbors’ kids than she knew about her own. Consequently, the first night she woke to the muffled sounds, she blamed Barbara Young. Barbara’s husband had recently passed. Margaret assumed the music was part of her mourning, but after three nights, she complained to The Management. Barbara claimed innocence, and Margaret had been further infuriated when The Management told her (rather smugly) there hadn’t been any other complaints.

  It wasn’t until she started hearing the music elsewhere-- still very distant and muffled but somehow familiar-- that she got nervous. She even considered talking to the Resident Quack, but when the song grew loud enough to finally discern the tune, and when Margaret finally looked at a calendar, she discovered what no doctor would be able to decipher. Except for maybe one of them voodoo doctors.

  As a teenager, Margaret had loved the song “You Are My Sunshine.” What girl hadn’t? But the song took on new meaning when Herbert (God rest his soul) sang it to her on the night he proposed. Ray Charles had released his version that year, and when Herbert took the stage in a packed jazz club, it was in Ray’s style that he sang before asking for her hand.

  Margaret had already been through one bad marriage and wasn’t necessarily ready for another, but she agreed. Herbert sang “You Are My Sunshine” again on their wedding day. He bought her the record for Christmas. And on their first anniversary, Margaret awoke to find her bed covered in daisies and Herbert serenading her, dancing around in his boxer shorts, as smooth as if he had been back in that jazz club.

  There hadn’t been a second anniversary.

  But now, almost 48 years since his death, Herbert was singing Margaret’s song once again. The first night she awoke marked exactly 49 years since Herbert had proposed. And tonight would’ve been their 49th anniversary.

  Margaret climbed out of bed and got dressed. After making sure she had everything, she slung on her oversized shoulder bag, grabbed her cane and crept out of her room. She found Bobby The Intern asleep on one of the chairs in the lounge.

  She prodded his leg with her cane. “Do you have everything in your truck?” she asked.

  Bobby cracked one eye. “That depends,” he said. “You got my cash?” Bobby The Intern was a lazy slob, but like most lazy slobs, it only took the right amount of money for them to do something most others wouldn’t.

  Margaret pulled out a wad of bills and waited impatiently while Bobby counted. Satisfied, he smiled. “Let’s go.”

  As they drove, the song grew louder in Margaret’s head. “I’m coming, dear,” she murmured, ignoring Bobby’s sideways glances.

  When they arrived at the cemetery, Margaret told Bobby to wait in the truck. She shouldered her bag and climbed out, shuffling slowly through the headstones until she came to Herbert’s. As if on cue, a hand broke through the soil. As if keeping time, the fingers snapped while Herbert used his other hand to claw out of his grave.

  Margaret had come to expect this, but she hadn’t planned on Herbert looking as handsome as the day he died. She dropped her cane and walked up to Herbert. He engulfed her in his arms and they kissed. The singing finally stopped in her head.

  Then the stench hit Margaret. Worse than the time her daddy’s dog hid all those dead rats under the house. When she pulled back, she found Herbert looking more as she had imagined he would, the way someone should look after being embalmed for nearly 50 years. And exposure to the air wasn’t helping. He was decomposing more by the second… until she barely recognized him. Only the eyes bulging from their sockets were familiar.

  “I’m here to take you with me, my sunshine,” he gurgled.

  “I know you are, dear.” He tried to pull her back toward him, but Margaret reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a chef’s knife. In what was probably the fastest she’d moved in months, she slashed through Herbert’s neck. His head lolled back, splintering his brittle spine, then the corpse dropped to the ground, and the head rolled back into the hole.

  “Maybe you’ll stay dead this time,” Margaret said and spat.

  Bobby walked up carrying a shovel in one hand and holding a vinyl 45 record, still in its paper sleeve, in the other. “Sweet Jesus,” he said when he saw Herbert.

  “I told you to wait in the truck.” Margaret shook her head and sighed. “Well, quit lookin’ stupid,” she said. “You knew this was part of the deal.”

  Bobby stared at her, and she could tell he was considering giving her back the money and returning to the retirement home, maybe without her. Then he must’ve remembered what he could do with that money, and he shrugged. “Whatcha want this old record for?” he asked. “You want me to bury him with it?”

  “That was the plan.” Margaret took the record and pulled it out of the sleeve. It was Ray Charles’ You are My Sunshine. She flipped it up in the air, and it spun a couple times before landing on Herbert’s chest. The B-side was facing up. Hank Williams.

  Your Cheatin’ Heart.

  The End

  ABOUT ANOTHER OLDIE BUT GOODIE.

  From the author:

  Stephen King has said that he often thinks of himself more of an archaeologist than a writer… that the stories are like artifacts. They are already out there; he is just unearthing them. I’ve always liked that. And this story felt like one of those artifacts, the creation of it coming together in one of those amazing moments of synchronicity.

  It started with my grandmother who told my father back in September that she had been hearing “Ave Maria” at various times throughout the day. Don’t be mistaken. She may not move very fast, but she’s still sharp as a tack, so this was pretty weird. It didn’t stick around for more than maybe a week, and she just celebrated her 99th birthday, so obviously it wasn’t anything to worry about medically/mentally. But as a horror writer, it definitely caught my attention.

  Thus the story was born. However, as opposed to “Ave Maria,” I knew that I wanted Margaret to be hearing Herbert singing to her, and I knew that Herbert cheated on her and she killed him as a result. Now it just became a matter of finding the right song that would work for the time period.

  “You are My Sunshine” was the first one to come to mind. A little research proved that it would’ve been out when Margaret was a young girl. Then came the question of which version she would’ve been listening to when she met Herbert. My original intention was for it to be a country version. I found one by Johnny Cash, but the timeframe wasn’t working.

  Then I found the version by Ray Charles, and when I saw what was on the B-side of the single, I had that moment of synchronicity. Every bit of it worked. Using this version also dramatically changed the tone of the piece (and the relationship between Margaret and Herbert). It added more soul and life. Basically, it made it work where the country version wouldn’t have.

  The next morning after posting Another Oldie but Goodie to my website, I sat down and opened up Pandora on my computer. Using the random feature to mix the probably 15 different stations I had--Ray Charles being one--you’ll never guess what the first song was to start playing. Almost as if in confirmation that I had unearthed an artifact with this one, a story that was meant to be told. I was only acting as the conduit.

  Thanks for reading, and if you have any questions or comments, please feel free to email me at [email protected].

  And of course, special thanks to my parents, wife and family.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

  Paul D. Dail is the author of The Imaginings, a supernatural/horror novel, as well as several short stories. Writing has
always been his passion, and while he will quickly tell you that the people he has met in the many places that he has traveled have been the best schooling he could get, Paul received his formal education in English with a Creative Writing emphasis at the University of Montana, Missoula.

  Currently Paul teaches Language Arts and Creative Writing at a performing arts high school in southern Utah. You can follow all of Paul’s rants, rambles and reviews at his blog: www.pauldail.com, a horror writer’s not necessarily horrific blog.