White Elephant

It's almost midnight and the moon is still full. Conditions couldn't be any more favorable, with the one exception of my current location.



This is the first time I've visited a cemetery in almost five years.



The last time was my friend's funeral. Before that, it was my foster parent's.



There's an upside in playing host to a demonic presence, but it's more of a white elephant than a useful tool.



Even though I was somewhat jealous of his natural purity, my friend often spoke of how he wanted to become a better person, and well, now that he's in the ground, maybe this is his way of accomplishing that. He would tell me how he felt attuned to some higher calling, as if he wasn't meant to be a part of this world, and maybe this was what he meant. although he was never any part of our circle, he always seemed to have this way of just knowing things about us.



This is my last resort, believe me, I'm terrified of ghosts more than I'll ever be of this demon that I possess. I mean the demon that possesses me. I mean, I'm scared of demons too, just not my demon. Well, not until recently anyway. The dead have no concept of time passed whatsoever and they continuously beckon you to join them. and by join them they mean die. Outside the cemetery gates you won't see very many lost souls to speak of, at least not the dead kind anyway. You might see the odd poltergeist, or someone whose soul genuinely has unfinished business, stuck, wandering the ethereal plains for the rest of eternity, but every once in a while. . .you come across the ghost of someone who denied ascension simply to stick around and fuck with people.



Meet my friend Grant. Well, what's left of him anyway.



Ghosts have this way of manipulating your subconscious regardless of their cause for remaining here, and from what I can gather most enjoy messing with your thoughts while you're asleep by controlling your dreams. Or nightmares. I've heard some can even distort your perception even if you're wide awake.



A few years back I had a run-in with a spirit who fancied giving me his own brand of sleep paralysis nightmares on a near-nightly basis. He was exceptionally gifted at what he was doing to remain undetected and off of my radar, and I never even knew he was there. I chalked it up as another side effect of playing host to a very spiteful demon and nothing more. Needless to say, I moved out the very day he finally revealed himself to me after four months of hell.



Nine times out of ten when you think you've got a poltergeist or a demonic entity harassing you, it's one of these spirits who refused to pass over. Every great once in a while it really is a poltergeist though. Or a loose demon.



I'm not sure if grant refused ascension or if he has unfinished business, but seeing as he went out of his way to terrify me in the middle of his own eulogy five years ago is clearly suggestive of the former.



Grant was always catching me off guard or sneaking up on me or jumping out of nowhere just to scare the daylights out of me back when we were children, and if his funeral antics were anything to go by, not much has changed except for the fact that he now has the potential to be infinitely better at it.



A few months ago someone called in an anonymous tip to report some suspicious activity in this cemetery. The police found a man digging in the middle of the night and took him into custody. After searching his house they learned he had been doing this for quite some time. They found over two-hundred human bones.



All female.



Upon further investigation they discovered the bones were all stolen, not murder victims, and that his genetic profile was prevalent in every last sample that they tested. A few more tests revealed that the bones were being used as his own personal sex toys. He confessed to regularly vandalizing random graves--almost weekly--for the better part of three years because the voices in his head kept telling him he had to do it. Of course he plead insanity and was institutionalized, but he may not have always been this way. The time and energy and planning that it takes to get away with something like that unnoticed requires at least some level of intelligence that most people lack, as well as some demented sense of passion.



He was a slave just like me.



A slave to his own sick perversions.



After a grave becomes purposely desecrated, regardless of whether you return the stolen bones or material items, the soul of that particular occupant loses connection to this plain and becomes trapped forever in a plane deeper than limbo but not exactly hell.



After a few eons, you have a newly formed demon. Apparently having your former mortal vessel desecrated without a loved ones consent or against your will places you in the same category as fallen or rebellious angels. Demons are like wine in the way they get stronger with age. There's no way to make amends once a spirit has been desecrated and banished to the this deeper realm. What's done is done as far as that goes and this also explains why there are very few specters roaming within the gates of this cemetery.



I would kiss that strange necrophiliac if he were here right now. With tongue.



On my way to Grant's tomb, it's nothing but the usual: Temperature drop, goosebumps, shortness of breath, whispers in the dark, glowing eyes fixated on you from every shadow near and far, muscle spasms.



I've always been afraid of ghosts and try to avoid them at all costs, I just kind of got used to the demon.



I dust the dead grass away from Grant's tombstone and knock on it three times.



I step back a little just in case.



I haven't spoken with him since the day before his suicide, and I'm feeling a little awkward so I rest against a small tree not far from his headstone.



I keep checking to make sure the moon is still full.



I begin wondering if my views on death are entirely accurate. I believe when you die, that should be it. You die, you either go to hell or you pass over and go to heaven. I'm not obligated to mourn for your loss if you still exist in some form other than a warm memory, and would have done so willingly, had that been the case with Grant. Maybe the empty space that should have been there in his sudden absence would have been, had he not been so cruel and inconsiderate in my darkest moment, the moment I realized my best and only friend was gone and I would never see him again. Maybe I was still a little pissed and still genuinely shaken by his funeral stunt. I told myself that I would never step foot within a cemetery again. His spirit will be oblivious to the time passed since then. To him it will be less than the blink of an eye and even if he could notice I haven't visited his grave in five years, it serves him right. Five years of mental exile in exchange for the five years he undoubtedly knocked from my lifespan seems more than a fair trade.



After a few moments of waiting uneventfully, the wind begins to stir and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight.



A thick cover of dark clouds block the moon out entirely.



Everything turns pitch black minus all the glowing eyes unblinking in the distance, hovering above their respective tombs. The air turns to rot and I have to hold my breath to keep myself from gagging.



Something is wrong.



An unmistakable feeling of imminent danger and uncontrollable fear wash over me. I look toward the hidden moon and to my horror I discover the source of my apprehension and dread, hiding between the highest branches of the tree that I've been resting against: two glowing eyes staring solely at me.



This is very bad.



I suddenly realize I'm doomed and almost lose the contents of my stomach in the process. The eyes are glowing red-hot, the color of a very hungry demon. I try to run away but my legs fail me.



I fall onto my back and watch helplessly as the demon lands in front of me and releases a piercing screech into the night sky.