Death On Stone

This Is The Full Story 

Death on Stone

When Mother died, it was a tragic year for all of us. We had known that she was destined to die in the early weeks of January, but she departed this world in the middle of December, three days before Christmas time.  The gloom hung in the wintry day, when the snow fell, and my mother died.

It wasn’t unusual for a plague to catch on that quick, and take someone’s life. Mother just didn’t know she had it until it was too late. Her heart stopped beating, and Charles had to run into our neighbor’s house, screaming, “I need Hank, the doctor! I need Hank, the doctor!”

The door opened and my poor frightened brother scrambled in to find Mr. Hank Leverman, the neighborhood doctor.

 “What is it, my dear child?” he questioned Charles as he pushed him out of the freezing weather of December 22, 1856. 

“It’s my mum! Hurry! She is in dire need of a doctor! Her pulse is gone, sir!”  Charles cried out into the warm house.

Mr. Hank Leverman’s face suddenly turned serious and pale. “Where is she?” he asked.

“No!” another voice cried in another room in the house, “you can’t leave me!”

“Yes, your right…” Mr. Leverman said quietly.

“Who is in there?” my brother asked.

“Mrs. Filburnging.  She has lost her eyesight this morning…I can’t leave her, and yet I must. Your mother must get to over to this house right away! Charles! Young man, will you bring your mother over to my house?”

 Charles nodded, out of breath. He knew that every second counted. “Then go, young man, and return with haste!” But it was already too late. When Charles came back, he saw that Father and I were crying into each other’s shoulders, not daring to look at what was just below us. Charles gasped as he saw his dead mother, lying on the floor. All of the blood from her usual cheery face was gone, and she was as pale as ice.  New York in 1856 was a terribly cold year from start to finish. Many people had caught the flu and died, suffering long hours of torturous medicine down their throat, but nothing could stop the plague from finishing off whatever it started.

Mother wasn’t the first to catch it. In fact, Mr. Windlesbottle had caught it first in the section of New York City that we lived in. He had died shortly after receiving it, because no one knew what he had. He had to die painfully, and when our family went to his quite, little funeral, there wasn’t much to say because he was not a very social man. He had never done anything amazing that made him stand out.  He was always just that man that lived on the corner street of Olive South and Rose Berry Drive.  

It was hard to accept the fact that Mother was gone. When Mr. Leverman asked about the funeral date, it surprised father so much that he ran and hid under his blankets, back at home.

Funeral. It came as a shock. Funeral. We had to prepare for it.

The Winding River Cemetery graciously offered a spot for Mother to be put down to rest.  We had been driving our stagecoach around the country part of New York, looking for a proper cemetery for Mother.  Yet, it seemed as if every cemetery was full. Except for Winding River.

The Winding River passed through the cemetery just on the southeast side of it. The cemetery itself was a perfect square, congruent on each side. Graves and tombstones littered the area, and we knew that this is where Mother would have wanted to be layed to rest.

 The date. What day would we do it? We sat down with the morgue owner and we settled with a Sunday morning, January 4, 1857. 

Snow fell lightly on that cold, January morning.  I wiped a frozen tear off of my face and continued to stare at the lowering casket.  I felt Father put his hand around my shoulder, and I leaned into him, hugging him. Mother’s body slowly went deeper, and deeper into the earth. There was something about saying good-bye that just didn’t make sense. How could they say good-bye to Mother, when she had been there all of those years, feeding her two sons and husband. Where was she now? Was she in Heaven, where everyone claimed she was?

 As she went lower and lower, I whispered to Father, “Father, is Mother in Heaven?”He didn’t answer for a long time. At last, when the casket was on the ground, six feet below our feet, he answered, “Yes, Danny, she is.” Six years ago, I had been ten years old.  I knew that I wasn’t anything more than a poor farmer’s boy, but Mother thought otherwise. She knew that I was going to grow up and be a famous writer because of my hobby of writing short stories. It was she who had taught me how to read and write, because Father and Mother didn’t have enough money to send Charles, who was a year younger than I, and I to school.

I loved to show her my latest work of my stories. They were usually about castles of a far, distant land, and princes who had to slay a dragon to rescue the beautiful princess. Mother thought that I was a natural. I grew up that way, under her guidance and inspiration. While Father and Charles worked on the ranch, I stayed in with Mother and she taught me how to better my talent. Charles was at often times, jealous because of Mother’s undivided attention to me, and not to him. He didn’t think that it was fair that he had to be stuck working with Father on the ranch, while I stayed in and learned valuable skills.

I used to love the sound of my feet crunching on the soft, newly fallen snow. But not today. Today I loathed every sound that my shoes made on the soft snow. The whiteness of it made me even angrier, and I kicked the snow, hoping that it would all go away. But it didn’t.

 I looked behind me and saw Charles and Father talking about something. I didn’t care. There was nothing I cared about anymore. I kicked some more snow. I even grew angry at a cross that had a woman’s face on it, and I ran over to it, and kicked it as hard as I could. A chunk of it flew off, and landing a few inches away.

“Good,” I thought to myself. I was glad that I had broken it. It didn’t deserve to remain intact.

Snow was on the cross of the T that the cross made, and I wiped it off. Had I been seeing things? It couldn’t have said what I thought it did.

 I wiped the other arm of the cross off and brushed the letters that were engraved on the front of the cross:

  DANNY CHASE 

OCTOBER 3, 1840- JANUARY 5,1857

“What?” I asked myself. What did this mean? Was there another Danny Chase? But, there couldn’t be, because it said that I was born on October 3, 1840, and that was my birthday. What was going on?

There was one other thing that caught me by surprise. It was the death date. January 5, 1857. That was one day from today.

Was someone trying to pull a prank on me? I knew kids from the town that would do something like this, but would they really go this far?

“Father! Come, quick!” I yelled to my father, who was walking back to our stagecoach. Father turned his head and then he pointed to the horses and the carriage. I shook my head.

“Father! There is something I need to show you!” I yelled.

My father continued to walk away. I grunted and ran over to the stagecoach, and saw that the horses looked very dreary and tired, just like I was. I also noticed that I was out of breath.

“F-father! Please! There is something you need to see!” I cried again, but he shook his head and stepped into the carriage. I looked back over to the grave that had my name on it. Snow covered it once again.

 I sighed and stepped into the carriage, just behind Charles.  

That day really scared me. Was I really to die in one day? Who would have done such a thing? Why would they go that far to scare me?

I didn’t talk about it to Father or Charles again. I knew that they wouldn’t believe me. I scarcely believed myself. How could someone have known that I was to die?

Were there such things as fortunetellers and gypsies?

 I shivered and closed my eyes, my head resting against my warm pillow, back at home. It was a very cold day, and some of my remaining relatives were downstairs, silently mourning for Mother. They rarely ever talked, and when they did, no one wanted to listen because they were all deep in thought and memories of their sister, or daughter.

 January fifth. I hoped with all of my heart that I would live to see that day go by. But would I? 

I slipped out of the back door. It was midnight, and I knew that if Father realized that I was out of bed, he would surely whip me with his belt, for a punishment. I had learned this art from Charles, for he did it almost every week. He had the bruises to prove it.

I tiptoed into the shed out back, and opened it. A mothball rolled into the cold, freezing snow that was layered upon the earth. I took a step inside the shed and shivered. It was freezing cold! I knew that I should have grabbed my nice, thick coat that Mother had made for me last Christmas. Mother…oh Mother. Why did you have to go?

I took a few more steps in and found was I was looking for. I wrapped my fingers around the long, wooden pole of a shovel. I was ready.

I slowly shut the barn door and locked it, and then I walked silently over to the horses. I would just take Henry, a dark brown mare, because he knew the way, and he didn’t make as much noise.

I stepped inside of the horse stall. Rupert, the white mare, was asleep. Henry was looking the opposite way. I whistled very softly, and the horse jumped, and looked over to me.

“Hello, Henry. Fancy taking a little midnight run, do you? I didn’t think so.” I said quietly. I quickly fastened a saddle up onto the horse, strapped the shovel onto one of the holes in the saddle, and opened the pen gate.

“To the cemetery, boy,” I whispered to him, and then pushed my feet into the sides of Henry’s hind legs. He leaped forward, almost bucking me off, but I held on.

The ride was cold and terrible. The midnight winter air struck my face as I held on to the saddle, and I smothered my face in Henry’s hair. The horse didn’t seem to enjoy the ride either, but the job had to be done. I had to know who was buried in that grave.

It had been at least an hour or so since I had left the house. It was still very dark when I tied Henry up to the front gate. “Stay here, boy, and I’ll be right back.” I whispered to him.

Then it occurred to me that the gate was locked. I tried to see what locked it, and saw a chain that linked together, forming an unbreakable lock. I even tried hitting it with the shovel, but that didn’t work. It resulted in me climbing the fence.

I looked up at the big, long gate that I had to climb. It was at least twenty feet, and I knew that I could do it, but the question was, how?

I threw the shovel over the fence and it thudded down on the other side. “Okay…” I muttered as I put my foot in a hole in the fence. I placed my hand on a higher hole, and pulled myself up.

The climb was difficult, because the gate was metal, and it was freezing cold. Henry grunted a few times, as if to say, “Just come on! I want to get home!”

Slowly, I put my foot down on the fence, and I let go with one hand. The instant I did it, my foot slipped off of the hole and I was sent flying to the ground.

“No!” I cried to no one. I stuck my hand out, and it hit the fence and flew off of it. I tried to grab it again, and this time my fall suddenly stopped, and I swung my foot into another hole, and then my other foot into a hole.

My hearth was beating really fast and I tried to calm myself. I knew that I had just about been killed, because I was not careful enough. I looked down and saw that the ground was just a few feet below me.

I jumped and landed on the ground. The shovel was just a few feet past the fence, and I ran and picked it up. Now, where was the grave?

 I looked around, but I didn’t recognize anything. Where was Mother’s grave? I knew that it was by the Winding River that ran through this cemetery. I started to walk along the fence line, hoping to find another gate that led to the Winding River.

I suddenly stopped. I heard voices talking, and then silence. I spun around and fell against the fence. My eyes spun around in my head, trying to find out who had just talked. But no one was there.

I was still breathing hard when I pulled myself up. I was not alone in the cemetery. Some one was out there, in the dark. But I couldn’t see them. And they couldn’t see me. Right?

I listened more, but the talking was gone. Slowly, I started to walk again. I heard no voices.

This was really started to creep me out. I was hearing voices in a cemetery. I wanted to go home, and then I remembered my intentions for even coming here. I needed to find out who had been buried in my grave.

I suddenly burst into a run, hoping that my sudden movements would scare off whoever was behind me. I listened. They seemed closer. I ran again, now shouting, “Go away! Go away!” And still, they seemed to advance on me. I stopped and pressed my back against the gate. The voices came closer, and then I heard footsteps. I shrunk against the gate, trying to hide. Could they see me?

Suddenly, the footsteps and voices stopped, right in front of me. I held my breath. What was going to happen?

Silence. Eerie silence.

I suddenly screamed, picked myself up, and ran. The footsteps didn’t start again, and I ran into the center of the graveyard, with the shovel still firmly in my hand.

I looked behind me to see if I could see anyone, and then something hit me hard in the pelvis. I gasped and bent down, gasping for breath.

I was facing a grave. I was facing a cross. I gasped again. It was my grave! I had found it!

I suddenly forgot about my pain and stuck the shovel in the ground, still looking behind me to see if I could see anyone. I lifted the shovel up, and dumped the snow and dirt to the right of me.

The ground was a lot harder to get through than I had thought. It required heavy-duty work to get through it. I pulled as hard as I could, and finally, I felt something under my shovel that wasn’t dirt.

I looked down the hold and saw a brown piece of wood. It was the coffin!

I shuddered and kept digging around the casket. The pile of dirt that I dug out had to be taller than me when I finished. I looked down the hole once again. The coffin had an X at the top of it, and then I wondered how I was going to get down there and back up.

I slammed my shovel into the ground, creating a ladder. I excitedly climbed down it, and then I reached the coffin, six feet below the ground. I was really cold down here, and I grew very anxious to open the coffin.

Who would I find in there? Would I see myself? Would I see—?

 Suddenly, I felt dirt land on my shoulder. I looked up. It was nothing.

I bent down and put my fingers over the coffin lid. I pulled.

And pulled.

And pulled.

At last, the coffin lid pried open, and I gazed fearfully down into it.

Another handful of dirt fell on my shoulder, but I didn’t look up. I kept staring in the coffin.

NO ONE WAS IN IT.

I sighed and then closed the lid once more. I looked back up towards the sky and saw a boy. I screamed as if I had never done before. The boy was me! He held the shovel that I had brought and started to scoop dirt down into the hole, and I caught a glimpse of his face.

Blood stained his face and he was missing both eyes. His skin was white and deathly, and I knew that that kid was me. He had to be!

And then I realized what he was doing. He scooped another shovel into the grave, and I gasped. He was burying me!

“Hey!” I cried and started to climb back up the ladder I made, but it was gone! I looked back up, my face white. Dirt flew into my face and my eyes, and I bent down, screaming to myself, “Ah! Ah! Help!”

I felt something sharp in my neck, and I jerked up, and felt more pain. “Argh!” I cried. I looked up through all of the dirt that was being poured on me, and I saw blood

dripping down from my neck. The boy was standing right next to me, and the dirt was flooding in! The cave was caving in!

I screamed when I saw the boy. The no eyed kid then pulled out a knife, razor sharp. I backed away to the wall of the grave. The boy looked up and then screamed, and he plunged the knife into my face, right in my eye.

I screamed the highest scream as I could, when I felt the tremendous pain. It was just unbearable, and then I felt the knife slide out of my eye, pulling my eye right out of its socket.

Tears streamed out of my other eye and then I felt the pain again, this time in my one, remaining eye. Blood dripped freely from my face as I bent down into the dirt that was rising above my waist.

 I felt movement around me and the kid was gone. Everything went black. Both of my eyes were gone, and I was screaming in terrible pain and blood poured down my face and into my clothes. I felt the dirt rise to my chin, and then up to my eye sockets. I screamed once more and then never again.  Six feet above me, on a cross read the words:

  DANNY CHASE 

OCTOBER 3, 1840- JANUARY 5,1857