He came upon a sign indicating that the “Robber’s Grave” was somewhere to the left of the main pathway. There was no problem finding it, a heap of soil and weeks where there should have been level ground, a crude wooden crucifix lying atop it, designating “Robbers Grave.” Had somebody dug down to exhume the remnants of the corpse or else had it risen by itself?
‘Jesus Christ!’ Sabat muttered. He had no need of his torch for a ray of moonlight lit up the digging. Then somewhere within himself he heard sneering laughter. Most certainly this was Quentin’s evil work.
Sabat bent, lifted up the crude cross. It was lightweight, doubtless a replacement for the original which had rotted over the years. Maybe some local had put it there, an apology from the ancestors of those who had been responsible for the injustice.
Yet weeds had established themselves in recent times, contrary to Davies’ statement from the gallows that the soil would reject natural growth as proof of his innocence.
Could it be that his skeleton no longer lay buried down there and he had risen from his burial place, aided by Quentin Sabat? An icy shiver trickled down Mark’s spine and even as he looked around him he sensed his brother sneering within him.
Up ahead something moved, hidden in the shadows, like somebody was treading through the undergrowth, uncertain of their balance on the uneven ground. Sabat froze, clenched the crucifix with one hand, his silver neckpiece with the other.
‘Prepare to meet the one you are seeking, Mark. Prepare to join him. The dead shall walk again!’
Suddenly a figure moved out into the moonlight, Sabat gasped aloud at that which he saw. The features were near skeletal, strips of flesh peeling from the head; holes where there should have been eyes, glowing. Mucus stringing from the place where once flesh had covered a nose. A snarling toothless mouth agape, drool oozing down the chin. The body was bent and stooped, rotting clothing hanging from it in strips. The bare feet struggled for balance. Undoubtedly this was John Davies, a rusted carving knife clutched in a bony hand, raised from his final resting place by Quentin Sabat and seeking revenge upon those who had sent an innocent man to the gallows.
Sabat wished fervently that he had been carrying his revolver. One silver bullet would have ended the other’s zombie existence. He held up his silver crucifix but Davies only advanced another couple of unsteady steps, his knife raised. Angry grunts came from the slobbering mouth. Somewhere Quentin was sneering.
Sabat gripped his crucifix, the only weapon which he possessed. They were now face to face, Davies raising his knife, preparing to deliver a fatal blow. Instinctively Sabat wielded that frail cross, struck with every ounce of strength which he could muster. It found its mark, shattered and splintered on that peeling skull.
An inhuman scream of agony rent the night air. Davies crumpled to the ground, not so much as a twitch from the remnants of his splayed body. Somewhere Quentin was cursing but Mark ignored him, leaning against a tree trunk for support.
Now all he had to do was to return John Davies to his last resting place. A search around the area of the disturbed grave revealed a spade, obviously the one which Quentin had used for the exhumation, doubtless stolen from somewhere. Fortunately the soil was soft from its previous disturbance. Sweat soaked his shirt as he dug and scooped until the cavity was large enough for the pathetic jumble of bones. He tossed the broken crucifix in before scraping back the earth and levelling it.
Quentin was silent, subdued in defeat once again.
‘May you rest in peace, John Davies,’ Sabat made the sign of the cross and walked away, carrying the spade. He would dispose of it somewhere, leaving behind him another mystery for the superstitious locals.
Grass had grown on The Robber’s Grave but now it was gone. Tomorrow he would call McCaulay. Doubtless this night’s events would remain a secret between the two of them; nobody would believe them, anyway, and the search for the murderer would remain on file for evermore.
It was best left that way, Mark Sabat concluded. Only he and McCaulay would know the true facts and the latter would not be revealing them. Right now Mark’s forthcoming retirement was more appealing than ever.
Gallery
The following pages show the original covers to the Graveyard Rendezvous that featured the stories within this collection.
Graveyard Rendezvous No. 1 featured Shooting on the Moss.
Graveyard Rendezvous No. 2 featured The Ghouls.
Graveyard Rendezvous No. 4 featured The Lurkers.
Graveyard Rendezvous No. 6 featured The Executioner.
Graveyard Rendezvous No. 9 featured Cannibal Island.
Graveyard Rendezvous No. 14 featured Mr. Strange’s Christmas Dream.
Graveyard Rendezvous No. 16 featured The Case of the Ostrich Slasher.
Graveyard Rendezvous No. 19 featured The Werewolf Legend.
Graveyard Rendezvous No. 35 featured The Howling on the Moors.
Graveyard Rendezvous Summer 2009 featured Hounds from Hades.
Graveyard Rendezvous No. 40 featured I Couldn’t Care Less.
