Stealing From the Dead

As I sat out by the pool tonight, playing with my pugs, I recalled something from my past when I glanced up at the full moon partially covered with pregnant clouds.

I have mentioned many times that Halloween is my favorite holiday. There was little or no crime during my childhood in Vivian, Louisiana and the parents allowed us to stay out until the wee hours on Halloween night. Despite the darkness, I can only recall being frightened on one occasion.

Darkness comes early in late October and it was well after dark when Rod, Wiley and I left my house, intent on collecting lots of candy and treats. Parents didn’t accompany their kids when I was young. They didn’t need to. The three of us had hit every house on our block. We were moving east when we first encountered a church group engaged in a scavenger hunt.

“We have to get a flower from the cemetery,” a girl’s voice dressed as a witch told us in passing.

“Let’s get that piece of obsidian from the graveyard,” Rod said. “You’re not scared, are you?”

“Not me,” Wiley said.

“I ain’t scared,” I said. “But we shouldn’t steal from the graveyard just because it’s Halloween.”

“You’re a wus, Eric. You wait here and Wiley and I will get the obsidian.”

“You ain’t going no place without me,” I said. “We’ll see who the wus is.”

Louisiana is always humid. Halloween night had a rare full moon that year, but rapidly moving clouds covered much of the stars and moon. Vivian is hilly, the town cemetery at the top of the highest hill. The pumpkin moon had just disappeared behind a cloud when we reached the top of the hill and headed for the obsidian grave. When we reached it, we found something unexpected.

There is no obsidian in Louisiana, at least not natural obsidian. Someone had placed a large chunk of the rock at the foot of someone’s grave. As an amateur rock hound, I lusted after it. I had talked about it so much that both Rod and Wiley also coveted it. Stealing it from the dead was another matter. I had the big hunk of obsidian in my hand when I noticed someone kneeling in front of the headstone.

The person looked like a witch and at first I thought it was the girl on the scavenger hunt. When the person stood and faced us, I realized that it wasn’t.

I was close enough that I could smell the dank fabric of the dark clothes the woman wore. When she turned to face me, I thought she was wearing a mask. As I stared at her, I realized that she wasn’t.

Rod and Wiley didn’t hang around; they ran away when they realized the person was not a trick-or-treater. I looked at the ugly old woman, my heart racing, still holding the hunk of obsidian in my hands. When she raised her hands over her head and took a step toward me, I screeched at the top of my lungs and started running. I didn’t stop until I was at the bottom of the hill where I found Rod and Wiley.

“Did you get it?” Rod asked.

“No thanks to either of you.”

I kept the hunk of obsidian for two days, but my conscience wouldn’t let me keep it. I returned it to the cemetery, placing it at the foot of the grave where I had found it. I forgot about the old woman until tonight when a full moon cloaked by pregnant clouds reminded me again.

Louisiana Mystery Writer