Even in the Grave

Introduction

Ghost stories grow from the deepest roots of horror fiction.

Perhaps the earliest form of scary stories, they sprang from the minds of people trying to make sense of frightening experiences: death, the dark, the missing, the unexplained, and other mysteries. These universal experiences fostered ideas about ghosts and spirits in every culture in the world throughout history. From disembodied voices whispering on the wind outside the light of a campfire to spirits who decided if crops succeeded or failed; from Jacob Marley’s ghost clanking his chains to Patrick Swayze’s spectral pottery class; from psychic mediums and spiritualists to the contemporary gold rush of ghost hunters and paranormal investigators, ghosts—or at least the idea of them—have literally haunted us for all of human history.

Why shouldn’t they? They explain the unexplainable. They provide reassurance that, perhaps, existence does not cease with death. They offer hope for the living to reconcile with injustices or unfinished business from the past. Whether you believe ghosts exist or not, they embody fundamental notions and questions about the nature of the human spirit. Too often, though, the answers are inconclusive or unsatisfactory.

Have you ever seen a ghost?

In some circles, that’s the perfect cocktail party ice-breaker. As a writer of horror stories, I’ve been asked that more than a few times, and I’ve heard many others answer it. That’s what it comes down to in the end. If you’ve seen a ghost, you’re more likely to believe in them regardless of what mundane rationale might explain your experience as a quirk of shadows, light, and air. If you’ve never seen a ghost, chances are you’re open-minded but dubious at best and a full-on skeptic at worst. Those ghost chaser shows haven’t proven a thing in decades on the air. No one really believes in ghosts on the basis of a photograph alone, especially ones of mere blobs of light more suggestive of passing dust motes than apparitions. Belief seems to require a personal, tactile experience. Seeing a disembodied face while standing in a sudden cold spot. Hearing voices where none should be. Finding items in your home a touch out of place with no obvious explanation for the movement. Feeling an invisible presence over your shoulder. Very few people experience these things in a ghostly sense, and not all who do attribute them to ghosts. Yet many of us readers love ghost stories whether or not we believe in the reality.

Tales of specters, phantoms, and haints run a constant thread through horror fiction, one that branches heartily out to classic literature and to pretty much every other genre and sub-genre in some form or another. We know well the stories of restless spirits who only move on when their bones receive a proper burial, the departed who linger until the one who wronged them in life receives their comeuppance. We all know stories of angry ghosts, who seek revenge on the living, or hungry ghosts beseeching the living to sustain them. We all know those ghost stories that defy convention or usher us into the spectral world in unexpected ways. Fritz Leiber’s classic story, Smoke Ghost, brought ghosts out of graveyards and creaky old mansions and brought them into the heart of urban life. Toni Morrison’s novel, Beloved, brought ghosts into the horrifying world of slavery. Films classics, such as Ghostbusters, put ghosts squarely in the pop culture arena, and there they remain today.

The ghost story is a deceptively adaptable type of tale. Writers and readers love to discover new ways to stretch its boundaries, reinvent it, place it into new and surprising settings, and create new ideas about ghostly manifestations. They love experiencing this old favorite in new designs. Ghost stories have come a long way from table-tapping seances and ectoplasmic projections. Yet the ideas those tropes represent—our desire to communicate with the dead, to see a manifestation of the afterlife in the living world—remain.

For Even in the Grave, Carol Gyzander and I asked authors to give us their vision of a ghost story. We placed no requirements on time, place, type of ghost, or any other story element except for one ironclad rule: the story had to include an actual ghost. No Scooby-Doo endings where we unmask old man Withers running around in a glow-in-the-dark ghost face to scare people off the old carnival grounds. Without exception, the stories in this book are ghost stories. Beyond that, they are each author’s personal and inventive way of approaching this classic sub-genre and exploring themes of life and death, past and present, and where the boundaries and intersections between them lie. They take place in different times and locations, feature different types of ghosts, and range from humorous to melancholy to darkly frightening.

They and their authors remind us again why we love ghost stories.

James Chambers

February 2022

Northport, NY

Ghosts have intrigued me since Casper the Friendly Ghost was one of my buddies when I was a kid. I was an only child of only children. With no siblings, aunts, uncles, or cousins around, I spent a lot of time with my nose in books and comics, and developed a vivid imagination—why couldn’t he come to play with me and be my friend?

As a student at Bryn Mawr College a decade later, I majored in anthropology, the study of a people’s culture. Religion is one aspect of culture that shows a group’s sense of cosmology and the role of individuals in their world. Ghost stories, while less formal than religion, also help to explore what happens after we are gone—both for those who have departed and the ones who remain.

I had the occasion to experience this myself when my grandmother, Alva, passed away. She was the one who taught me how to play cards, met my wacky humor with her own, and encouraged me to break out of my shyness. I was devastated by her loss. Alva appeared to me as a ghost, sitting at the kitchen table and dealing out a hand of gin rummy. Seeing her engaged in our favorite pastime was comforting and made me realize she still loved me even though she was gone. And that I wasn’t alone.

My family also has a story about my other grandmother, Mother Evelyn. She had been in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s but would frequently try to escape, saying she must get to the train so she could get home. One of my distant relatives dreamed he was visiting our great-grandmother, who had already passed away. They had a delightful visit until she heard a train whistle and said it was time for him to leave because Evelyn was coming. He woke up from the dream in the middle of the night—at the exact time that Mother Evelyn passed away. So, she was reunited with her family and wasn’t alone, either.

Stories like these come out of the real world. Now imagine what happened when James Chambers and I sparked the creative minds of our local author friends and asked them to create a tale involving ghosts. Turn it up to eleven!

The result is this wonderful group of ghost stories. They span different locations and time periods, look at friendly as well as hostile ghosts, warm and encourage your heart—and some may stop it dead and cold.

Gather your courage and read on!

Carol Gyzander

February 2022

Bergen County, NJ

The Final Experiment of Eugene Appleton

Allan Burd

I thought I’d seen everything.

Then Eugene Appleton walked into my office.

A slight man with neatly combed, genuine silver hair, he wore a casual, button-down shirt neatly tucked into cuffed khakis, and rubber sole shoes. His pale complexion indicated he spent a disproportional amount of his time indoors. Nevertheless, he looked good for his age, which I approximated in the mid-fifties. A real professorial type, who I pegged as anything other than a college professor. I stared at his hands—clean fingernails, though not manicured, no callouses—and added post-graduate education to my assessment, figuring somewhere along the way he had earned a doctoral degree in something.

You’re Douglas Bowden, the bounty hunter? He asked it as a question but meant it as a polite opener. He already knew the answer. My picture was all over the ads I ran. Broad shoulders, bulky frame, bushy hair, resting scowl face… you could say I had the look. No one who came to see me ever had to ask my name.

I flipped the lid off my cup of hot coffee and took a sip. I prefer apprehension specialist. What can I do for you?

Apprehension specialist… I like that. Perfect, in fact, as I would like to hire you to help me apprehend something.

He had a brazen gleam in his eye when he said it. I didn’t like brazen. "Something. Not someone? I’m in the people business, Mister…?"

Appleton. Dr. Eugene Appleton.

I got the doctor part right. He extended his hand across my desk. I set my coffee down, rose out of my chair, and shook hands. Nice to meet you, Dr. Appleton.

He looked at the wall behind me, which held mounted animal heads: an elephant and leopard, both from Africa, a buffalo, a rhino, and a lion. You like to hunt?

I did. All I hunt now are fugitives.

Big game. All of the big five. Very impressive.

I pulled up my sleeve and showed him the long scar on my forearm. The lion almost got me. The bastard covered the hundred yards between us in under five seconds. My first kill almost killed me. One more second, and my head would’ve been in his den.

He chuckled. Yet that didn’t stop you from going on to kill the next four. You are a man who lives life unafraid.

The man had me chest-puffing, but I stayed humble. It was a good life lesson, taught me to do better research ahead of time. This scar is a constant reminder to always be prepared. I leaned against my messy desk. "Which brings me to ask… what’s this thing you need my help in apprehending? Because I don’t hunt animals anymore, and I don’t reclaim property. I’m not a repo man, and I’m most definitely not a burglar."

Oh, it’s neither of those things, he said. This is something… unique.

Well, I never take a case without knowing the specifics, so you might as well spill whatever water you’re holding. Before you tell me, though—and I’ll be right up front about it—I won’t do anything illegal, nor will I take a job I deem unethical.

His expression didn’t change. It’s neither amoral nor illegal. Though I can’t tell you what it is without you immediately dismissing me. It’s best if I show you.

I was about to dismiss him anyway, making our brief acquaintance even briefer, when he pulled out a check with my name on it for $10,000.

That’s incredibly generous, but no amount of money is going to make me do something I don’t want to do.

This is just for tonight. The show. Immediately afterward, I’ll give you the tell. He handed me his address along with a legal contract. You’ll either accept the job or you won’t. But I think you will. Just be mindful, I’m not looking to hire you just for your obvious skills. I’m also hiring you for your discretion. Pick me up at midnight. I’ll show you what you need to know to make an informed decision. Then, even if you decline, as long as you’ve signed that non-disclosure agreement, the money is yours. However, if you accept, I’ll give you ten times that amount on completion of the task.

After he left the office, I Googled him. The first thing that came up was his picture on the cover of multiple science magazines. One of the covers named him Scientist of the Year for 2036. Dr. Appleton was a Doctor of Physics, a renowned quantum physicist, to be precise. A year ago, an unfortunate car accident cost him his wife. Tough break. One that seemed to remove him from the spotlight.

I reviewed the legal document, a non-disclosure agreement to ensure my silence. It was standard stuff, and as a matter of principle, I never talked about my cases anyway unless required to do so by the law. Whenever a client asked me to sign an NDA, it usually meant more business with them down the road. I used my lucky pen and had my secretary deposit the check.

That night, I went to his place in my pickup truck, and I went heavy—a Glock 26 around my ankle and a Taurus PT-111 tucked in the waistband under my shirt—just in case there was more to this guy and the situation than met the eye. Two hours later, I reached the address and made a right through wrought-iron gates onto a black-topped road which led up a mile-long hill to a brick-laced Victorian mansion with a well-manicured front lawn, including some stylish topiary. Appleton wasn’t just rich; he was rich rich.

He came out of his house wearing the same outfit he had on in my office and hoisted himself into the passenger seat. In his hands he held two pairs of high-end goggles with an overkill of tech. There was a touch screen on the frames along with a digitized readout that currently displayed triple zeroes beneath a flattened sine-wave line.

Where are we going? I asked.

A place just outside of town. I’ll direct you along the way.

When I got to the bottom of the hill and passed back through the gates, he instructed me to make a left. A few minutes later, we hit a main road, and he pointed straight ahead.

I’m not big on surprises, I said.

This one may change your mind. Tell me, Mr. Bowden, do you believe in the afterlife? he asked.

His face was partially covered by shadow. I couldn’t get a good read on him.

For real?

Yes.

His cadence told me he was serious. Fine. I’ll play along. I do not.

So no to ghosts, spirits, phantoms?

I don’t put much stock in the paranormal. I’m a down-to-earth kind of guy.

After a long pause, he said, I am going to show you something… unusual. Something that conventional science doesn’t explain. I trust you’ll keep an open mind. Make a left here.

I pulled onto a tertiary road. Whatever else Appleton may have been, he was a man of science. Nothing about him screamed whack job. I looked over at him. I’ll deal with whatever it is just fine. Ghosts?

An entity that can’t be seen by normal means.

Is that what the goggles are for?

They allow their wearer to view into a narrow band on the electromagnetic spectrum in a way that’s never been done before.

Like night-vision goggles.

Exactly… though these prototypes are far more advanced than that.

He pointed, and I made another left. Almost immediately, I noted the hundreds of rows of tombstones off the side of the road. Seriously… you weren’t being facetious with the ghost analogy. Pretty cliché, though.

My claim to fame as a scientist is that I discovered a way to communicate at faster than light speeds, something previously thought impossible. Since my wife died, I shifted my focus to the possibility of communicating with those who passed. I broke one physical barrier thought unbreakable. Why not another? When one wishes to talk with the dead, you go to where the dead are. In doing so, I stumbled across something that fits the description of a ghost.

Your wife? Is this where she’s buried?

A somberness compressed his expression. No. She’s buried with her parents a few hours from here. This is the closest cemetery to my house. A logical place where I could easily test my equipment. They don’t lock the gate at night. You can drive right in.

I did, and he directed me to a section toward the back. We weaved along the narrow, paved paths, parked the car, then got out.

He handed me the goggles. We have to walk from here. Put these on. They’re preset to the correct frequency.

He put his on. I followed suit. Everything looked exactly the same except for a faint violet grid that overlaid the view. There wasn’t any magnification. They didn’t even have the green tint you had with night vision. Except for the barely visual grid, it felt like I had strapped on a pair of oversized swimming goggles. Appleton pointed up a slight incline, and we started walking.

Everything looks the same, I said.

The moon is bright, which obscures the initial glow. You’ll see it plain as day once we’re closer.

Halfway up the slope, I saw it: a faint pale radiance, as if someone had set off a dull magnesium flare. I lifted the goggles, and the glow disappeared. I slid them back on, and there it was again. Curiosity increased my pace. Appleton grabbed my arm to slow me down.

No need to rush, he whispered.

I nodded and slowed. Once we went over the incline, the light took shape: a washed-out humanoid silhouette with no more substance than a shadow, undecipherable as male or female, not even necessarily human, completely undiscernible. Its back was to us. Its body cycled with spiky oscillating protrusions, which made the thing appear as an out-of-focus blur. In the top half of the lenses, the sine wave stuttered with uncertainty.

Instinctively, I reached for the gun in my waistband. Once again, Appleton grabbed my arm and stopped me. That won’t do anything. The bullets will pass right through it.

We moved closer. The entity didn’t seem to notice us, or it knew we were here and simply didn’t care. About thirty feet from it, I got a closer look. A thick back hunched over a grave as spindly extended limbs phased through the ground as if reaching for whatever lay beneath.

You see, whispered Appleton. It cannot make physical contact with our world.

It certainly looks like it’s trying, I whispered back. And it’s directly over a grave.

For reasons unknown, it has an affinity, or perhaps a need, for human remains. I would like to discover why.

Curiosity overtook me again. I picked a pebble off the ground and tossed it at the entity. The pebble arced through the air and went right through it, landing on the ground at its feet. The entity stirred and swiftly spun toward us. Its blank oval head formed a black maw where a mouth would be as if an abyss had emerged from within it. Above the dark patch, hidden folds opened and flickered scarlet, like two blood-colored eyes. Its limbs pulled out of the ground revealing long finger-like tendrils that darkened from fluffy white to smoky charcoal. Then, with an unexpected burst of speed, it charged at me, maw widening as if releasing a silent scream, tendrils lashing out with terrifying intent.

I immediately thought of the lion. It was on me before I could react, yet the entity passed through me, sending a panicked chill through my spine. I stumbled back, fell on my butt, and instinctively grabbed the Glock from my ankle holster. Then I quickly got back to my feet and spun, scouting the area in search of my target, which was gone. All I saw was Appleton, hiding behind a granite tombstone.

Put that away before you accidentally shoot someone. Namely me. It’s gone, he said.

I was heaving breaths. My eyes darted about to make sure. Finally, I realized Appleton’s assessment was correct and holstered my weapon.

Appleton came out of hiding and took off his goggles. For the moment, I kept mine on.

How did you know? I asked.

Because every time I’ve disturbed it, that’s what it’s done. It won’t be back until tomorrow. Appleton smirked. So, what is your opinion now?

I looked around again, reconfirming the entity was gone, then took off the goggles. I caught my breath, glared at the advanced optical device in my hand, and thought it over. You programmed these, right? None of this actually happened. You planted a suggestion in my mind, then when we got here and reached a certain location, the goggles presented the visual you primed me to see.

I could have done all that, and your skepticism is well-founded. However—assuming you researched me after I left your office—you would know I’m a principled man of science. What you saw, however bizarre, however unbelievable, was as real as you and me.

I’ve been around people long enough to tell when someone is lying. Every instinct I had told me Appleton wasn’t. I shook my head. Fuck me. We started walking back to the car. You’re really going to tell me that was a ghost, an honest-to-god ghost?

Are you familiar with quantum entanglement?

I shook my head.

Appleton continued. It’s a phenomenon in physics. The physical laws we see every day, how objects move and react to other objects, all work differently at the quantum level. Picture two distinctively separate particles. By all accounts, they appear to have no connection to one another. However, in truth, they are connected, entangled on a quantum level by an invisible force that’s too undetectable to see. So, what you do to one directly affects the other, no matter how far apart they are. Imagine spinning a tennis ball here, and a tennis ball in China spins with it, without ever having been touched.

That makes no sense, I said.

"Einstein called it spooky action at a distance. It’s the phenomenon I used to develop technology that allows for faster than light communications. Now, imagine the body and the soul are actually two separate objects similarly entangled. Because atomic particles also act like waves, I theorized if I could find the right quantum frequency on the deceased, then, perhaps, I could make contact with their souls. A few months back, I stumbled upon that… thing. I’ve been back at least four nights a week ever since, observing its movements. Every time I’ve tried to communicate with it, it reacted to me the same way it reacted to you. But it always comes back the following night. It doesn’t always appear in the same place, but when it moves, it tends to linger awhile, as if it has a connection to the grave it hovers above."

This is crazy.

No… this is groundbreaking. Having seen it, Mr. Bowden, will you help me apprehend it?

As nice as the money was, suddenly, dollars became a secondary concern. I had to know what it was. I had to see this through. I will, I answered.

Appleton patted my shoulder and waved a finger on his other hand in the air. Together, we will catch the biggest game of all.

The following evening, I showed up at his place an hour earlier so he could instruct me on how we’d be apprehending something that neither of us was able to touch. He unfurled a tightly knit high-tech net. It had a rectangular shape, and each twine was interlaced with thin filaments of fiber-optic wiring that filled the gaps. The much thicker perimeter featured conductive coils, numerous grips, and two digitized touch-screen control panels.

This net bridges the gap between our frequencies. The outer portion resonates normally, while at the push of a button—he tapped the display and a sizeable circular section on the inside glowed with a faint violet light—the inner portion resonates out of phase with our perception of existence and into the frequency range where the entity exists.

Seems pretty simple, I said.

Simplicity is the soul of modern elegance, said Eugene, proud of his genius.

Have you tested it?

Only on myself. Appleton dragged the net toward him then pushed his arm through the inner section, which no longer seemed to exist, as if there were a large round tear in the net’s center. Then he tapped a button, causing the violet glow to disappear, and he grabbed the part of the net that was immaterial just a second ago.

I shook my head in disbelief. You could give Houdini a run for his money. Or orchestrate one hell of a jailbreak.

Only if the bars were solely made with neutral atoms and infused with treated ionic wire.

Just what I was thinking, I muttered.

He instructed me on how to operate the net on my end. It all seemed easy enough, and if for any reason the net failed, all that would happen is the ghost, if that’s what it was, would get free. And even if that happened, I’d still earn my full payment because faulty equipment on Appleton’s part didn’t nullify our deal. We loaded all the gear into Appleton’s van, along with the goggles, and went on our way.

We reached the cemetery around 1:00 a.m. The weather was clear with a slight breeze. The crescent moon was bright enough to light our way. We donned our goggles, grabbed the net, and walked toward the graves where we saw the entity last night. There it was, in the same position, seemingly digging into the same grave. Its back was toward us, its oval head down.

We each grabbed one side of the net, spread about thirty feet apart, and cautiously approached. We tiptoed, careful not to disturb it prematurely and alert it to our presence. Appleton powered up the net, then without hesitation, just as it turned toward us, we