“Night Burial”
by Ken Seibert
The June night was black and calm. Terry checked his digital watch and the red
numerals glowed 10:00. Good. He and Steve should reach the cemetery by 10:30 and be
finished digging by midnight.
His idea had taken shape earlier that year when his American Lit. class had
studied Poe’s short story, “The Premature Burial.”
When the plan had been in the talking stage, Steve had been enthusiastic. It was
just nuts enough to be fascinating. Making the plan real, however, was something else.
“This is sick,” Steve said. “Why don’t we forget it?”
“No way,” Terry answered, “I’m all psyched up and besides, I’ve made excuses
with my parents to be gone overnight.”
They checked everything on Steve’s truck—blankets, full canteen, a length of 4inch diameter heavy rubber tubing, pillow, cassette recorder and tapes, shovel, Coleman
lantern, hammer, nails, and a makeshift pine coffin, slightly oversize.
“How about taking sandwiches?” Steve asked.
“No,” Terry said, “it’s not a picnic exactly,” and he smiled at Steve as a father
might smile at a slightly dense but lovable child.
“You could get hungry,” Steve persisted.
“Listen, I want it as real as possible,” Terry explained patiently. “That’s the
whole point. I even thought of leaving the water behind.”
Steve slowly shook his big head. Maybe he was the one who was crazy. Terry
seemed so matter-of-fact, as if he were simply going to dissect a frog.
“Everything is there,” Terry said finally. “Let’s go.”
They climbed into the old pickup and took a seldom-used secondary road running
10 miles to Hillcrest cemetery, a pioneer burial ground long since fallen into disuse. The
truck labored along the winding road, its headlight beams a soft, hypnotic shade of
orange.
“Sure this’ll get us there?” Terry asked.
“To the moon and back,” Steve answered proudly.
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Terry laughed with a touch of sarcasm. “Forget the moon,” he said. “Just be sure
this thing gets you back to the cemetery by 8:00 in the morning.”
Terry had always been amused at man’s stupid love affair with machines, as if
there was some sort of special relationship. “Put your trust in nature,” Terry would
always say. “Trees and plants and flowers. They will be around long after their
machines have smeared themselves from the face of the earth.” No one was ever sure
whether to take him seriously.
A cloud bank moved in and switched off the moon. Suddenly the night was dark.
Steve grew increasingly uncomfortable. He kept hoping that Terry would change his
mind but knew in his heart that his closest friend would never back out. Terry was a
strange person; he didn’t think like other people.
Then why help in such a crazy scheme? Steve thought to himself. He tried to
work it all out as the truck bounced along the old road. Maybe it was because Terry was
unusual. He had different ideas—and different ideas were what made the world go
round. So if a person had the guts to try a new idea and put himself on the line, he
deserved help.
Still, there was no point in being foolish.
“Why don’t I stay there tonight?” Steve asked. “I’d feel a lot better.”
Terry ran a hand through his long blond hair with sudden irritation.
“You still don’t get it,’Hook,’” he said. “I want total isolation. It’s a very
important part of the plan. Knowing you were there would wreck everything. A crowd
might as well be hanging around, digging me up every five minutes to see how I was
doing.”
Steve was rubbing his crooked nose unconsciously. No one else dared call him
‘Hook’ to his face. But with Terry it was different.
“How about that air tube?” Steve asked, ignoring Terry’s growing irritation.
“Quit worrying will you? There was enough air aboveground, wasn’t there?
Why should it be any different with a foot of dirt over it?”
“Man, Steve said, “you’re really something. I’d be having severe problems with
my nerves about now.”
“Well, it was my plan,” said Terry, “and I’m not about to chicken out now.” He
felt his heart really speed up for the first time, and he ran through the idea again.
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It would be the ultimate contest between logic and emotion. That was the point.
If he could remain calm and didn’t panic, buried there for eight hours, he could logically
handle any stress later in life. Nothing would ever match the psychological pressure of
this experiment. That was the purpose and the hoped-for result.
After all, logic was on his side. He would only have to lie there eight hours. No
one was more reliable that Steve. Steve would know where he was and when to dig him
up. Even if the schedule got messed up for a while, there would be enough water if he
rationed it. The air hose had worked quite well during the test aboveground.
Logically, Terry would be as safe as he would be at home in bed…almost. It was
impossible to erase the “almost” completely. But Terry had great confidence in his
nerves. Besides, certainty would make the whole thing pointless. There has to be an
“almost” for his plan to mean anything.
So there is was. If he surrendered logic even slightly, he might panic and give
way to some desperate need for quick escape when quick escape was impossible. If that
happened, he could be a mental basket case by the time Steve came.
He must try to tape-record his reactions as much as possible. In a sense the
experience would have to be a controlled nightmare. When it was all over, he would play
the tapes in the comfort of his bedroom and coolly analyze the results.
Turning onto a trail, they followed it to the end and stopped. They had been deer
hunting in the area many times and knew the little cemetery and its surroundings by
heart. The place where they would dig had been picked in advance.
“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” Steve said, turning of the motor. “We
need a couple of straitjackets.”
“You think it’s crazy, and I don’t. It’s an exploration.”
They got the Coleman lantern, took it to where they would dig, and put it on the
ground as a guide for when they returned with the coffin and equipment.
The cemetery lay in a small clearing near a stand of pines trees. Terry noticed
with some interest that he would be lying closest to Rufus James, 1850-1899, according
to the tombstone. That grave alone seemed to have been tended recently.
The warm June earth was easy to dig. Taking turns, they went down about 2 ½
feet. After resting for a while, they put the box minus the lid down into the “grave” and
lined the bottom with two folded blankets. The pillow went in next.
“OK,” Terry said, “Let me check it out.” He stepped into it and lay down.
“Give me all the stuff.”
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Terry placed the recorder and the rest of the things where they would be handiest.
There would be just enough room to lie on either side or on his back without rolling over
everything.
He climbed out, and they pushed the stiff rubber tube snugly into the hole in the
lid. It was a perfect fit. No dirt could come in around it.
“That’s it, I guess,” Terry said. “I’ll see you at 8:00, old buddy.” It was just a
few minutes past midnight.
“It’s not too late to back out.”
“Come on, Hook. Let’s not start that again. I’m counting on you.”
“OK, you stubborn idiot. You must have some spell over me to make me go
through with this thing. See you in the morning.”
“You’d better,” Terry smiled, “or I’ll never speak to you again.”
This attempt at humor made Steve wince. They shook hands, and Terry went
back down and got everything arranged again. Lying there, looking at the moonless sky,
he felt a sort of kinship with anyone who had ever explored anything first.
Steve frowned as he placed the lid on and hammered in a nail at each corner.
Four would be enough. The air hose struck about a foot above ground level. As he
slowly covered the coffin with dirt, he was sure he must really be insane for doing so.
When he finished, he knelt down and spoke into the tube.
“Are you OK?” He put his ear to the tube, listening.
When there was no sound, he started to panic.
“Terry,” he yelled, “say something!”
The answer came at once.
“Have a nice day.”
Steve knelt there shaking until his mind began to fall into place again. It had been
a pretty sick joke. He stood up and slowly looked around at the simple tombstones and
crosses, bathed in the pale light of the lantern. For the first time he began to feel the
sense of violating sacred ground. Before, he had been too preoccupied with other
thoughts.
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It was now Sunday, Father’s Day, Steve remembered. This made him think about
someone doing the same crazy thing next to his own father’s grave. If only he could dig
his father up too and find him safe and well. In some puzzling way, Terry was a father
substitute, even though he was almost a year younger. Steve couldn’t really analyze his
feeling s about it all.
He thought of checking the tube again, then sleeping in the truck overnight. Terry
would never need to know. Then he could check at intervals for any sounds. But Terry
had said no emphatically, and that was that. No way could he betray Terry’s trust.
Picking up the lantern and hammer, Steve went to the truck and left for town.
Terry lay in the black confinement, sweating from every pore. The heat! Mistake
number one. There was enough air to breathe, but not enough to evaporate the sweat. He
kept brushing the sleeve of his sweater across his forehead and eyes.
He tried fanning himself. As long as he kept it up, things were a little better.
When he stopped, he was right back where he started. He pressed the button on his
watch, and the little red numerals sprang at him in the blackness, 1:10. Only an hour?
Incredible. He began to record.
“One-ten, and all is not exactly well.”
He was startled by his voice, so hollow and alien, but he was pleased with the
irony of his little town crier joke. Any irony always pleased him. It was the pulse of life.
Few people his age, he knew, even bothered to think of such things. He always had.
“The heat is fantastic. I’ve got to squirm out of these clothes as much as possible.
The air smells pretty bad by now. I can breathe well enough, but I’m melting. More
later.”
Sweat was running in rivulets, stinging his eyes and puddling up in his ears. Then
he felt a sudden sharp cramp in his right calf, and a reflex made him rise up quickly and
crack his forehead on the lid. It hurt some, but the pain in his calf was the main concern.
He tried to massage the aching muscle, but couldn’t reach it. After a time, the pain
slowly began to ebb away.
Twisting back and forth, he tried to get out of his sweater and T-shirt. The
struggle depleted the air too quickly, and he started to black out. Giving it up, he lay
motionless, slowly regaining his senses. His head began to throb from the crack he had
given it, and his clothes were drenched and clinging like a leech.
When his head had cleared, he looked at his watch again through watery eyes.
The tiny numerals danced and wavered like a red mirage. Two o’clock. Six more hours.
He mustn’t struggle. Getting enough air had become a serious problem, Or was it a
problem? Maybe the whole thing was in his imagination brought on by his
claustrophobic confinement.
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He reached for the canteen, took a long drink, and got some relief. He had never
felt so wrung out. He cursed himself for misjudging how hot it would be. Stupid. If
only he had some salt tablets. Maybe that would be stupid too. It was getting more
difficult to think clearly.
He ignored the recorder completely, and the point of the whole thing was
escaping him. One thought persisted: He must not move. Then the air would last.
Edith James drove to Hillcrest Cemetery in her old Dodge, with her poodle,
Misty, and a potted plant to put on the grave of her grandfather, Rufus. By the time she
got there, it was 6 a.m. and the sun was filtering through the pine trees. She loved this
part of the day best of all, and she wanted to get there early so she could get back to study
her Bible lesson for the class before church.
It was Father’s Day, but her father had died in World War I and had been buried
somewhere in Belgium when she was 11 years old. She could never bring him flowers,
but she could honor her grandfather who had died before she was born. He was the only
one left in her family whom she could honor on the special day.
She drew up to the end of the trail and stopped.
“All right, Misty, go have yourself a good run,” she said, opening the door, and
the dog leaped at the chance. She primped for a second in the rearview mirror, patting
her gray hair carefully into place. Then she took the plant and followed him out.
Even with rapidly failing eyesight she had no trouble finding the grave. It was the
only neat one there. She felt it was her family duty to come out on occasion and look
after it. Placing the plant with its pretty blossoms next to Rufus’ tombstone, she was just
beginning to pray when she thought she heard a faint voice. Turning her head, she saw
nothing but a freshly dug grave with some kind of curious projection at one end. NO one
had been buried in the cemetery for years, she knew, so it must be some pauper’s grave
dug on the sly.
She walked over to it, forgetting the faint sound that had first caught her attention.
Noticing no headstone or marker of any kind, she shook her head sadly.
“And what a pathetic flower holder,” she sighed. “And so empty!” She reached
down and touched the projection tenderly.
“You won’t be forgotten today. I’ll see to that.”
While Misty chased squirrels, she took a walk and started to pick a bouquet of
wildflowers from a field nearby.
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Terry had drifted in and out of dreams all through the night and no longer knew
which dream was which. His throat was raw, as if he had been yelling, but he
remembered nothing about it. He fumbled for his canteen and managed to get it to his
lips. There was enough to slake his thirst—almost. Steve. There was something about
Steve. He thought he heard movement and quickly forgot what he was thinking. His
chest ached dully. Why was it so difficult to get all the air he needed? And he drifted
away again thinking, hang on.
Edith James returned with a bouquet and stuck the thick mass of stems down the
projection—so many that she couldn’t fit one more.
“There,” she said, as she finished and stood up to admire them. “That certainly
brightens things up!”
Smiling with satisfaction at her kindness, she called the dog and drove away to
Bible study. It was only 6:45, and she still had plenty of time.
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