Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: A Suspense Magazine Anthology

Midnight in the Garden of Death Heather Graham

“They say she came to life each night after midnight; she traveled like the wind, coming back into town, feeding upon a new person each night. Then, they would awaken in the morning, spitting blood, choking on that blood... dying, in a pool of their own blood!” Marcy announced.

Hayley listened to her cousin, silently shaking her head as she and their friends stood in the old cemetery, staring at the vault that held the remains of the local “vampire,” Elizabeth Barclay.

Those remains were, not surprisingly, in the Barclay Cemetery.

Hayley knew the legend, too. She’d grown up here — or partially grown up here. Her parents had moved a bit east to New Orleans when she’d been twelve. But Marcy’s father, Hayley’s uncle, was the manager and groundskeeper of the small cemetery, and Marcy had spent all seventeen years of her life living in a home that bordered the cemetery.

And she loved the legends — and doing her best to scare others, boys especially.

The wind seemed to breathe out a rush of cold air as Marcy’s words settled on their small crowd. The trees in the center lane of the “city of the dead” where vault after vault arose in majestic lichen-covered splendor rustled, as if someone moved around them.

Yes, Marcy was good.

But her cousin smiled then, saying, “The townspeople found a way to end the horror! They marched to the cemetery with torches. They broke the gate to the vault and battered down the old wooden door. They broke open her tomb and wrenched the coffin from the vault, dragging it back outside. And there, while her poor mother watched and screamed and cried, they opened her coffin. Horrible scratch marks ripped through the lid of the coffin, revealing what was inside. There she lay! Elizabeth, fresh as the day they had buried her weeks before, her beautiful face a soft shade of alabaster, eyes sweetly closed — and blood, yes, blood, a trickle of it, running from her ruby red lips!”

Marcy paused again for effect.

Her little crowd was silent at first; Mary Boucher, pretty and petite, seemed to be shivering, though it was a warm Louisiana night. Tommy Hilliard, captain of the football team, had a crooked smile on his face, but Hayley wondered if even he might be a little bit unnerved. Next to him were Frank Legrand and Art Richard, also on the football team.

Tonight, Marcy’s guests were the cream of the crop of the local high school. She had three of the best players on the football team, and the guest list rounded out with little Mary Boucher — captain of the cheerleaders — and, of course, Hayley.

Marcy wasn’t always in the elite group, though she had managed to stay on the edge of it — and tonight, of course, she’d been able to come up with a great play to get such an illustrious group together — her father was out of town. She’d invited them all on a bit of a dare and an adventure that might not come their way again.

She’d had a crush on Tommy Hilliard forever, and he’d recently broken up with his girlfriend, Tiffany Myers.

Tiffany hadn’t been invited. But just as Marcy had pined for Tommy Hilliard forever, she had hated Tiffany. But then, to be fair, it had always seemed to Hayley that Tiffany had gone out of her way to be cruel to Marcy, mocking her as the “grave-digger’s dirty daughter” and other such names.

Tiffany hadn’t been nice to anyone, really. She was rich and — in her mind, at least — entitled. It wasn’t being rich, Hayley had decided, since she knew other rich kids were darn decent and good to others. It was the way that Tiffany had of mocking anyone poor, anyone with a handicap — anyone she didn’t like or want in her circle.

Hayley had heard Tommy talking earlier; he’d told Frank and Art that he’d probably wind up back with Tiffany. In truth, Tiffany was a stunning blue-eyed blonde with a perfect body that didn’t stop — Tiffany worked hard to keep it that way. Her legs were legendary.

As Tommy told his friends, “She could wrap those legs around a man in a way that couldn’t even be imagined.”

Hayley had tried very hard to explain this to Marcy, but Marcy was convinced that she had her chance. Tiffany was a silly, shrieking shrew — while she had at least some semblance of decency and intelligence. Tommy would see that.

And he hadn’t even suggested Tiffany be invited that night. That was a sign, as far as Marcy was concerned.

Marcy’s father was out of town. She was about to graduate; she was an adult, eighteen in a month, and he could trust her, of course. And Marcy was responsible. Usually. She’d even told her dad about having a slumber party. She just hadn’t told him she was hosting a slumber party that wouldn’t be in the house — she’d have it in the cemetery.

Marcy swung around to look at Hayley, grinning with triumph. “Hayley, finish the story.”

Hayley smiled weakly. “They thought poor Elizabeth was a vampire. They dragged her from the coffin, cut out her heart, and burned it — before her poor mother’s eyes.” She hesitated. Mary Boucher looked really frightened. Hayley chanced her cousin’s wrath by continuing with, “Of course, the poor young woman had suffered from ‘consumption,’ or tuberculosis, a disease which couldn’t be cured at the time. The saddest part of the story is they weren’t always embalming people back then and it’s most likely that she was buried alive. The disease had spread, causing others to contract it and those people might well awake spitting blood. And the scratch marks on the coffin... I can only think how horrible that must have been, except, hopefully, she was barely conscious in there, or... died quickly without even being aware how desperately she’d scratched against the coffin to get out.”

Marcy gave her a stern frown. She was supposed to be scaring people — not reassuring them.

“Yes! Imagine! Being buried alive in Louisiana in such a vault where, they say, in just a year and a day the sun will burn down, scorch, and bring flesh and blood and bone truly back to basics, nothing but man — or woman — as dust and ash!”

“Good story,” Tommy Hilliard said, pretending to suppress a yawn.

“Shush,” Marcy said suddenly.

“Why? What? A zombie is coming?” Tommy asked, laughing. He was almost eighteen — solid as a rock and inching over six-feet tall. He had already been recruited by a dozen colleges.

“No,” Marcy said, grinning. “Officer Claymore — hurry, let’s get back into the house — he always comes by here right at midnight, making sure no vandals are running around.”

They headed quickly through the small open gate which led to the rear of Marcy’s house. Her yard was enclosed as well with the same brickwork that surrounded the cemetery, except that, in most areas of the cemetery, the wall was only about two-and-a-half feet tall.

The doorbell rang just as they came in. Marcy murmured something and hurried to it, smiling sweetly as she opened it.

It was indeed Officer Claymore. “You all right, Marcy?” he asked, looking beyond her to the group inside.

“Fine, Officer Claymore — and thank you.”

“Yeah, I heard your dad is out of town,” Claymore said. He was a middle-aged man with something of a round look. He tended to smile — but Marcy had seen him in action when a couple of thugs had tried to rob a local bakery.

He was pudgy maybe, but he could be damned fierce.

“My friends are keeping me company tonight,” Marcy said.

“Good.” He looked around at the group.

“There’s a strange man hanging around town,” Claymore told them. “From what I hear, sounds like a harmless fellow, carries a sign that he’s a veteran and needs help. Scruffy-looking fellow, long, unkempt hair, big coat.”

“We won’t bother him if we see him,” Marcy said.

Claymore grinned and shrugged. “Either that — I mean he’s a harmless old guy — or he’s the ghost of Ethan Fray, fellow shot down and killed in the streets after he got back from active military duty. I’ve heard he runs around attacking people in the shadows.”

“Funny, funny,” Marcy said softly, smiling. “You trying to scare us, Officer Claymore?”

Claymore suddenly drew serious, frowning. “Kids, you have to be smart and careful. Keep doors locked. This is serious. They had a couple of murders in New Orleans in the last weeks. They think there may be a serial killer loose — he slices up his victims and leaves them displayed bizarrely. They’re calling him the City Slicer. So, yeah, I’m serious.”

“New Orleans,” Art said. “All the crazies go to New Orleans. We’re, like, more real out here in the bayou country.”

“Please, we’re good kids, honest,” Marcy said.

“Okay, so we’re not New Orleans. That doesn’t make us safe. I’m hoping you’re all smart enough to be careful, not scared,” Claymore said. “You see a ghost — well, scream like hell. You see a poor fellow down and out who needs help — well, leave him be. I say, if you see him trying to sleep by one of the tombs, leave him alone — good idea if he’s a ghost or a real man, right? You should never be in that cemetery at night, anyway. If you see anything—”

“Like the City Slicer?” Art asked.

“Scream blue blazes and run like hell. Look, yes, any city seems to draw more crazies. That doesn’t mean that weird or bad things can’t happen here.”

Tommy Hilliard barely suppressed a laugh. “Like a ghost — or a vampire rising?” he asked.

Officer Claymore looked at him. “Who knows about Ethan Fray, hmm? But I guess it was before your day, Tommy Hilliard. While legends may be legends, what people do with them can be bad. Trust me — nothing good happens after midnight in that cemetery.”

Art let out a soft laugh. “Ah, come on, Officer Claymore! No disrespect intended, sir — but it’s a cemetery.” Art was getting tall, too, but he had a lean build. He could run like a rabbit, and he had done the community proud with many an amazing touchdown.

“Right,” Frank Legrand said. “The dead don’t really come back to life.”

“No?” Claymore asked, smiling slightly. “There’s been a saying for years — don’t go into the old cemetery after midnight.”

“Someone cursed it, right?” Mary asked nervously.

“Of course!” Marcy said.

“Ah, come on,” Art said. “Every good cemetery should have a curse. Even an ‘after midnight’ curse. I mean, we’re all creeped out by death.”

“Mr. Richard—” Claymore began, using the customary pronunciation of the name.

“Ree-chard,” Art corrected. “Old Cajun family,” he told Claymore, shaking his head and looking around. “Not Art Richard. Art Ree-chard.”

Claymore nodded. “All right, Mr. Ree-chard. The curse supposedly came with our famous vampire, Elizabeth Barclay. She supposedly came back to life — even with her heart cut out and burned — and warned people to stay out of the cemetery after midnight. And in 1923, cops back then found a pair of lovers with their throats slit in front of the Barclay vault on a fine, sunny morning — they’d last told friends they were heading into the cemetery for real privacy.”

“A century ago,” Frank murmured. He smiled. “But that’s cool, Officer. We’re here to just have a slumber party in the parlor — you know we all graduate and go off soon, and this is... well, you know, we’re going to just kind of have some quality time before going in different directions.”

“1950,” Officer Claymore continued. “Someone strung up a man like a scarecrow — on the side of the Barclay vault. And in 1980 — not long after the vampire craze hit New Orleans and surrounding areas — we found an unidentified woman drained of blood and left... left right by the gate to this house. Maybe she was trying to escape the cemetery and the curse and just didn’t make it. She wasn’t found in the yard — her body was in the cemetery. So, hey, I’m a logical man. But I still say, don’t go fooling around in the cemetery now. Is the cemetery cursed, or do crazy killers just like cemeteries? I don’t know. Just watch out now because it is after midnight.”

“Thank you so much, Officer Claymore,” Marcy said. She smiled brightly. “We’re all in for the night.”

He nodded to them briefly and turned to go.

Marcy closed the door and leaned against it. “At last! Give him ten minutes and then we can go out and set up our little tents and tell more tall tales.”

“Maybe he’s right,” Hayley said. “Marcy, maybe we should just stay in.”

Frank made a squawking sound and acted like a chicken.

“Hey!” Mary protested.

“Ah, come on,” Art said. “Claymore was making fun of all of us — he’s probably laughing his ass off right now, thinking he’s scared the shit out of us and we’ll just stay here, quaking or running on home. Let’s do what we came to do — sleep in the cemetery!”

“Let’s do it,” Frank said. He smiled and headed to the back of the house; the canvas sacks containing their sleeping bags and two pop-up tents they’d acquired from an on-line shopping source waited there, out of sight from the front of the house.

“He’s right. Let’s do this,” Tommy said, striding after Frank.

“I don’t... I don’t like it,” Mary said.

“You can go home,” Art suggested. “I mean... we’re all here, but if you’re afraid in a group of six, well...”

Mary shook her head. “No, I want to be with you all, but... okay, let’s go.” She looked at Hayley, maybe hoping that Hayley would protest.

“There are six of us,” Hayley said.

She wasn’t sure why she had an uneasy feeling. But then, she’d thought it a strange thing to do from the get-go. Even after moving to New Orleans, she’d come back frequently to spend the weekend with her cousin.

She’d grown up with the cemetery as part of her family life.

Maybe she was just being like Mary — spooked by the legends, or by Officer Claymore. She knew, of course, that the things he had told them were true. Her uncle knew, too, but he didn’t believe in curses — he believed in bad people doing bad things.

As she followed the others out, she looked up to the sky. There was no rain forecast; it was spring, and the night was just right, hovering around seventy degrees. Here, even the nights could sometimes be sticky hot once summer was in full bloom, but tonight...

The temperature was beautiful; there was a light stir of breeze in the air. And overhead...

It was a full moon. A shimmering, bright full moon. As beautiful as the weather, except... tonight, it made her shiver.

“A full moon!” Mary breathed, walking beside her.

Frank, just a bit ahead, heard her. “Hey, the place is cursed by a vampire, Mary, my love.”

“Right,” Tommy called. “Sorry, the place is home to no werewolves.”

Hayley gasped suddenly, looking through the tombs in their neat rows, noting that the moon had certainly made the night brighter — but it had also allowed for strange shadows to form. And...

She thought she’d just seen a shadow move.

“What, what, what?” Mary asked worriedly.

Hayley laughed. “Sorry, I just... I think I dropped my ring. I’ll be right back.”

She was an idiot. No, she knew this place, had grown up knowing this place...

Still, dumb! It was after midnight!

What the hell am I doing? She asked herself.

Well, running through the vaults alone because you saw a shadow. Brilliant.

She’d only gone two rows in and stood in front of the McCafferty vault when she saw her “shadow.”

The vault was unusual in that it had an open alcove, an area before the giant gated door that was covered and offered two benches in front of a statue of St. Francis. Hayley’s history had taught her that Judith McCafferty had loved animals and brought about some of the first laws that punished human beings for cruelty to animals. She loved the vault; she sometimes brought flowers herself for the metal holders that held them while they were fresh and living and allowed them to be easily removed when they were not.

Her shadow was there; she thought at first she had come upon an unknown form of monster because she just saw a dark form seated on one of the tile benches. Then she realized it was just a man. A bearded and somewhat scraggly-looking man, slightly bowed as he sat, hands in prayer as she came upon him.

He looked up fast, as startled as she was.

“I... hi!” Hayley said.

She saw him wince, saw the weariness in his sad eyes — powder blue, she thought — as he looked at her.

“I’m sorry; I can get out. This alcove here... it shields you from the wind and rain. When there is rain. I know I can’t be here. You’re the caretaker’s daughter.”

“I’m his niece, but... no. You’re fine there, sir. Please, feel free to rest.” She hesitated and indicated the family tomb. “One of the ladies interred here was super kind to people — and, of course, animals.” Hayley wasn’t sure why, but she felt a tremendous empathy for the man. He was so down and out. So down and out that he had to sleep in a cemetery. “Please, I’ll just slip away. And I’m sorry, my crazy cousin is having a slumber party, so there will be some noise.”

She had an unopened water bottle stuffed in the pocket of her jacket. She pulled it out and set it at the end of the bench, smiling at him. “Have a nice night,” she said. “And try to ignore us.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Hayley hurried back out to the main lane in the cemetery, ready to catch up with her friends as they set up for the night in front of the Barclay family mausoleum. Tommy was busy using the little plastic hammer that had come with one of the tents to get the stake to stay in the ground just off the gravel path.

Frank had come with a battery-operated “fire-log” and he was setting it up on the gravel. Marcy, giving instructions, was telling them tents would be on the grass next to the Barclay tomb, the fire “thingy” would be on the gravel, and whoever was telling the story would sit on a little mat by the light from the fire “thingy” and the others could lie on their sleeping bags in the tents.

She was just finishing her instructions when Mary, who had wandered a bit farther along the dirt and gravel central path, started to scream. Scream and scream.

“What the hell?” Tommy demanded. A stray cloud danced across the moon; what light they had paled — and the shadows seemed to darken and grow.

As he walked toward her, Mary turned and threw herself into his arms, half screaming, half shouting out gibberish.

“What, please, Mary, what?” Tommy begged.

“Oh, God! Oh, God, oh God!” Frank breathed at his side, pointing.

The stray cloud covering the moon had moved on. And they could all see.

There was rigging between two tombs, ropes that stretched from one small family tomb to another.

They were tied to...

A corpse. One that was barely real... bones, bits of flesh, pieces of cloth, and a skull with hair and ravaged pieces of cheeks and lips still attached. Hayley stared, stunned.

Tommy Hilliard, tough Tommy Hilliard, let out a scream that might have wakened the dead.

Then they all turned to run; Tommy was so rattled he pushed away from Mary who had been leaning on him. Mary fell, Frank leaped over her.

Marcy still gaped; Hayley came to and rushed for the fallen Mary, along with Art, who had also retained some of his senses. But even as they helped Mary to her feet, Hayley could hear laughter — high-pitched, delighted feminine laughter.

She stood still.

Tiffany Myers, unable to control her amusement, walked out from behind one of the tombs from where the body had been hung. She tossed her long, blonde hair over her shoulder as she appeared, followed by Bobby McGill, who dressed as the “wolf” mascot for their high school games.

Bobby was a sweet guy, but always on the periphery. He hadn’t made the team; he was a little bit pudgy and had never managed to clear up his acne.

And normally, Hayley thought, Tiffany wouldn’t have given him the time of day.

“You, oh, my God! You, Tommy Hilliard! That was hysterical. All of you! Big, brave kids — going to spend the night in the cemetery. Wow. Thankfully, I have this all recorded on my phone. Oh, my God! It’s going to be so wonderful!” She started to laugh again, and she turned and stared at Marcy, “Wow, honey, I guess your cemetery party is really — dead! You forgot to invite me but, hey, not to worry — I wouldn’t really want to be in here with this group of silly cowards. Oh, lord, Marcy, you should have seen yourself. Some grave-digger’s daughter you are.”

“People are interred here, Tiffany. My dad has never dug a grave.”

“Whatever. Oh, my God, that was too good. Bobby, come along now. You were a big help, but I have other things I need to do, other people to see... oh, that was too, too, funny!”

Shrieking with laughter, she started down the path that led to the main gates, followed by Bobby McGill.

Tommy started to go after her; Marcy caught his arm.

“Tommy—”

“Marcy, not to worry. That was sick; she’s had it with me. Maybe we will all go into the house for the night. But I want her phone.” He turned suddenly, wincing. “Mary, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to knock you down. I really did freak.” He stared at the corpse. “And it’s just a leftover Halloween decoration. I don’t know why I didn’t see that!”

“Guys,” Hayley said. “I’ll go after her. I’m not — well, you know. I’m not local anymore — I mean, I’m not in school with you guys. I’ll see if I can reason with her before she gets out. If I need to, I’ll threaten that I’m going to call Officer Claymore, or... I don’t know. Let me try.”

She hoped they listened to her — if Tommy accosted Tiffany, it might get nasty. Tiffany was in a mood.

Tommy was a big guy.

Hayley didn’t want anyone getting hurt.

She heard footsteps behind her and swung around. It was Art.

“Hey, Hayley, I’m not going to speak, just follow, make sure you’re alright, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Hayley had followed a path that led straight to the main gates. But she’d been wrong, apparently. Tiffany didn’t seem to be along the path anywhere. Hayley turned back to Art.

Art shook his head. “She really thinks she can do anything to anyone. I keep hoping that graduation will make a change — get Tommy away from her. Tommy is really okay, you know?”

“I, um, I guess,” Hayley told him. “I’m not in school, but... I mean, anyway — we need to find Tiffany. Right now, I want to deal with her and not Tommy.”

“You know the place, right? Which way?” Art asked.

She hesitated. “She could have cut across to the entrance on Lafitte Court. There’s no street that way, just an alley and then the back of some houses. But if her car is on the road—”

“She would just have to walk down the alley to reach it. Of course, she could crawl over the wall in some places,” he said, pausing to grimace, “but she might break a nail.”

Hayley smiled. “We can cut through here.”

Barclay Cemetery was, from the air, laid out in a cross. There were two main paths through it — one with the center tomb being the Barclay tomb, and the one that crossed. Hayley led Art in a zigzag to reach that center path down from where Marcy and the others waited.

She didn’t want to report failure yet.

The moon was riding high again. Hayley had known the cemetery forever, but she still noted, by the moonlight, the beauty of the tombs, built more like a Colonial or Victorian house than homes for the remains of the dead. Most of the vaults or mausoleums were clean and painted; on some, the owners were far away and long gone from the area. Hayley’s uncle tried to keep up with them, but the space was large, and while there was only an occasional burial now and then, it was an active cemetery, and he tended to be a busy man.

Here and there, the tombs were covered with the darkness of age. Every now and then, a rusty old gate swung open on its hinges; weeds grew up around the tombs, and the atmosphere of death and decaying elegance was heavy. And still...

“She’s done it again,” Art said, shaking his head. “Bitch! She knew we’d come after her. Well, hell, I’m not screaming or staring like a fool again!”

Hayley stopped in her tracks. He was looking toward the gate. Between the last family tombs in the row, connecting ropes were stretched out again. Gargoyles, crosses, any piece of funerary art had been used for the anchors.

A body hung between them.

This one fresh.

“Oh, God — no, no! She’s fooling around,” Art said.

Hayley didn’t think she was. Compelled, she moved forward, and as she did, a horrified scream froze in her throat.

It was Tiffany... the body was Tiffany. Her eyes were still open, but it seemed a river of blood poured from her throat and down her shirt and her jeans... still dripping to the ground. She was strung out with arms and legs fastened to the ropes, like a creature caught in a spider’s web...

A creature with a gaping wound at the throat, so deep it almost severed her head from her body.

Hayley had the sense to shove her hand into her jeans for her cell phone.

“Oh, God! It’s real this time!” Art breathed. “There, oh God, there... on the ground. There — it’s Bobby McGill... on the ground, but not strung up yet, and...”

“We have to get him; he may not be dead.”

“Oh, my God, oh, my God—”

“Stop!”

She wasn’t sure if it was an instinct or something she had seen in a movie, but Hayley slapped him hard in the face, shoving her phone at him. “Dial 911 and get the others out! 911, now, and be coherent!”

“They won’t believe—”

“When they hear the sirens, they will.”

“He’s still in here. Whoever did this, he’s still in here!” Art whimpered.

“Go!” she snapped, and she hit him again. “Dial.”

The second hit did it. Art dialed 911 as he walked, and then ran, away. Hayley barely noticed; she was staring ahead, but Bobby seemed to be alone on the ground.

Of course, shadows were everywhere.

It was after midnight in the Barclay Cemetery.

She moved forward, carefully at first, keeping her eyes on Bobby where he lay on the ground and not on Tiffany — where she remained in the air, dripping blood.

She reached Bobby. There was no blood on him; he just lay there, as if he had been hit.

“Bobby! Bobby!” she whispered fervently.

His eyes opened. He stared; then he screamed.

“Bobby, stop! He — whoever — they’ll hear!”

“Dead, dead, dead, Tiffany... he slammed me on the head, he wrenched her away. I saw it while I was falling, oh, I saw it, saw him rip up her throat, oh, God, oh, God—”

“Bobby, get up. We need to get out of here. The cops will be here soon, but we must get out now, okay, come on, come on!”

“Out to your cousin’s house, can’t go that way!” Bobby said, indicating the closest exit. “I think he went that way, came in that way... has his stuff, his rope, whatever, that way. Oh, God, Tiffany!”

“Come on, Bobby, come on!”

Half-leading him, half-carrying him, Hayley got him to move. She headed straight down a path at first, moving fast.

But she sensed something, someone behind her.

She angled in among the tombs, taking a winding path, barely aware of the funerary art now — the angels and saints, guardian dogs, flower urns, and gargoyles.

Bobby started to trip in a nest of weeds; she straightened him and realized they were coming up on the Judith McCafferty family vault and she prayed silently the killer had not come upon the lowly veteran seeking shelter there.

She paused, gasping, leaning against the enclosure there for a minute. Bobby was heavy; he was trying to move, he was just staggering, probably from the knock on his head. She could see blood on him now; a thin trickle that fell from a big knot on his temple.

Bushes were rustling near them.

The killer, she thought, had discovered Bobby gone.

And he was coming.

She eased out carefully, and then she froze. He was there. Right there in front of her, just feet away from the plaque that honored Judith McCafferty.

She didn’t know what she had expected. A human being, yes, but one with jagged teeth and drool sliding from his lips. Ugly and frightening in appearance...

He wasn’t ugly; he was just a man. Maybe six-feet-even, with brown hair now slightly askew over his forehead, light eyes, and an easy smile that seemed especially heinous as he was dotted in blood. His shirt was flannel; he wore jeans. He was perhaps twenty-something, maybe thirty... and, without the blood, he might have been appealing, charming even... someone Tiffany wouldn’t have hesitated to speak with.

He carried a huge knife. The moonlight caught upon it, but it didn’t shimmer.

It was covered in Tiffany’s blood.

“Well, hello there,” he said softly. “So, you’re the one who stole chubby-boy from me while I was setting up my trap. Well, that means some really special care for you.”

Bobby slumped in her arms.

She wasn’t sure if it was his injury, or if he’d just passed out cold.

She stared at the man, the killer in her midst, torn.

Her desire to live was almost overwhelming. And yet somewhere inside she knew if she left Bobby to die, she might not ever be able to really live again.

“Hi there, yourself,” she managed. “Sorry I stole fat boy. But, hey, not to worry — the cops are on their way. You might want some more fun, but you don’t have time for any more fun. You need to run — now!”

“Leave this lovely cemetery?” he asked her. Then he laughed. “You really think any of your idiot friends managed to call the cops?”

“Yes,” she said. “Now, I can see where you doubt that, but... really. You need to run.”

He smiled. A deep, deep, self-pleased smile, and he took a step toward her. She backed against the wall of the tomb, unable to hold Bobby. She needed to run, run fast, but...

“Oh, I am going to have so much fun—”

He broke off abruptly. He just stood there; Hayley had heard something, but she didn’t know what. Something, a strange sound, as if...

As if he had been the one struck on the head.

She stared at him, barely daring to blink. He suddenly fell forward, and in his place, she saw the shaggy homeless veteran she had spoken with earlier.

“Go! Grab your friend and go,” he told her. “I don’t know how long he’ll be out.”

“Thank you! Oh, thank you—”

“Go!”

She nodded and reached down for Bobby, determined she was going to get him to go on a diet. She slapped him — she was getting good at slapping — and he groggily came to.

“We have to go.”

He nodded.

He got to his feet. And with him, Hayley ran the best she could. But as she reached the center of the “crossroad” in the cemetery and saw the gate to Marcy’s backyard not far ahead, she heard sirens screeching through the air.

Art had managed to dial 911. Help was coming.

And even as she dragged Bobby forward, Tommy and Frank came running out of the yard, taking him from her, yelling that they needed to get in, lock the gate, lock the doors!

They did so, locking the back door just as the first police car ripped into the front yard.

It turned out their haste at that point hadn’t mattered. The police had found their serial killer, Matthew Marin, back at the McCafferty vault, right where he had fallen.

He had been alone.

Hayley wanted to know where her homeless friend had gone. She explained over, and over again that he’d saved her and Bobby by cracking the killer over the head with something.

A piece of a broken gargoyle, fallen from the arch over the McCafferty vault.

There was no sign of anyone else in the cemetery. Police combed the place — there was no homeless man.

She insisted that there had been. But they were all exhausted and reeling. Parents were on the way; the police had finished with the questioning; the medical examiner had to come, which somehow seemed like an oxymoron to Hayley — coming to a cemetery to do a preliminary examination on a corpse.

The corpse was Tiffany. No, they hadn’t been friends. It was still tragic. Everyone had someone who loved them and the murder was horrible.

Marcy seemed to remain in shock. Hayley put blankets around her; she made her hot tea. Mary was oddly calmer now; the worst had passed.

The boys were quiet and thoughtful. She knew Tommy felt as if he had been a failure; he was ashamed of himself. They tried to assure him the shock of the situation had gotten to all of them.

Detectives were on the case, of course, but as time wore on, it was Officer Claymore who stayed with all of them, almost like a mother hen, watching them, helping with anything — coffee, water, tea, pillows, whatever.

“Water,” Hayley told Claymore at one point. “The man in the cemetery — I gave him a bottle of water.”

“We did find an empty water bottle,” Claymore told her, but he still looked at her sadly.

“A real person drank it,” she said.

“Maybe one of your friends, maybe Tiffany before...”

“Why can’t you believe me? I wish I’d had the courage to stand up against such a monster, but I’m telling you—”

“Maybe there was a man who saved you. Maybe, in all the trauma, you don’t know what really happened; Hayley, it doesn’t matter. You couldn’t have saved Tiffany; others are alive, you’re alive!”

She knew that. She should just be grateful.

But she wanted to be grateful to the stranger.

Claymore stayed with Hayley and she sat with him while she waited; her father was on the way. He’d be taking her and Marcy with him back to New Orleans.

New Orleans would be fine now. The City Slicer had come here. He had been taken away with a serious head injury; he might or might not live. Whether he did or didn’t, he’d be safely locked away.

Claymore looked at her, smiling gently. “You’re a strong one, Hayley.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not trying to be a pest, but I wish they could find him. I know that everyone questions me on whether he was real or not. I know that he was. Whoever he is, he saved our lives.”

“Hayley, I’m afraid if he was there, he’s disappeared.”

“Well, I wish he hadn’t disappeared,” Hayley said.

“Are you absolutely sure you didn’t throw that piece of gargoyle sculpture yourself?”

No, she hadn’t. Or had she? Was she losing her mind?

No. She’d seen him, as clear as day. Even by moonlight. He’d been real; her savior had been real. He had spoken to her. She’d left him her bottle of water.

“He’s gone now,” Claymore said. He offered her a grimace. “Hey. Maybe you were saved by the ghost of Ethan Fray. Anyway, I thank God that with that madman loose here we only lost one; it could have been so much worse.”

Hayley just gave him a weak smile. It was still sad; so tragic. Tiffany had been a jerk, but no one deserved what had happened to her.

And still, Claymore was right. It might have been so much worse.

She knew she was grateful to be alive. And eternally grateful to the man — living or dead — who had helped her.

She saw her father’s car pulling into the front yard; saw his face — the love, the fear, and the concern.

She ran to be taken into his arms.

She knew only one thing.

Never again. She would never, ever be in that cemetery again after midnight.

Because she knew now that, curse or no, nothing good happened there after midnight.

No, nothing good happened after midnight. Even in a garden of death.