Whispers in the Night (37 page)

She laughed—a low, throaty chuckle. “I asked first.”

“So you did,” he said. He motioned behind him. “I live in a condo near here. I'm a writer and . . . uh, well, I guess I was looking for some inspiration.”

“Why would you of all people need to visit a cemetery for inspiration? Andrew Graves, the most exciting new horror writer of the decade?”

She laughed at the surprise on his face, and then took his hand.

“Come with me, sweetie,” she said. “We've got some things to talk about.”

Okay, this could be the plotline for a story,
he thought.
A horror writer crippled with writer's block wanders into a nearby graveyard seeking inspiration. He foolishly walks into an empty grave, and is rescued by a beautiful woman who thinks he's brilliant.

But then what happens?

Feeling like a hapless character in one of his own tales, Andrew followed her.

 

 

A dozen yards away, a black granite sarcophagus stood about six feet high. The woman climbed on top and invited him to join her. There, as if in the midst of a picnic, she'd spread a blanket on which stood a bottle of Merlot, a wine glass, a leather-bound notebook, and a shiny Waterford pen.

Her name was Alexandria, and she didn't work at the cemetery. She was a writer, she said, and the solitude of a graveyard, at night, stimulated her creativity.

Andrew realized that many writers were eccentric, but he had never heard of a writer regarding a cemetery as the ideal place in which to write. It was strange as hell.

He would've made up an excuse to leave, but he stayed for three reasons: one, she claimed to be a huge fan of his, and he needed an ego boost. Two—he felt an instant and profound chemistry with her that had nothing to do with her good looks. Three—well, she
was
heart-achingly beautiful. He made his living with words, and he could not describe the startling impact her beauty had on him. Although he loved his girlfriend, when he looked at Alexandria he found it hard to remember what Danita even looked like.

He'd never been under a magic spell, but it must feel exactly like this.

“I've read your novel three times,” Alexandria said. “You're so talented, amazingly so. Why would you need to come here for inspiration? That sort of thing is reserved for amateurs like me.” She laughed, took another drag of her cigarette.

Ordinarily, he didn't like to be around smoke, but her smoking didn't bother him. In a way, it added to her appeal, as though she were a film star from decades ago when famous actresses smoked and it was considered glamorous, sexy. Alexandria had an air of grace and sophistication that recalled those fabled silver screen goddesses.

And she'd read his book three times! Now, that was flattering—after completing the book, he hadn't wanted to read it even once.

“The first novel came very easily,” he said. “Maybe too easily. I got spoiled. Writing this second book is like being thrown in a tub of cold water—having to face the reality that writing isn't always easy. It's work.”

“You're damn right it's work.” She tapped her leather-bound notebook. “I've been working on this novel for two years, and I'm nowhere near done.”

“What's the title?” he said.

“A Midnight Haunting,”
she said. “It's a ghost story, and a love story, all wrapped up into one wondrous, Gothic tale.”

“Sounds interesting. I'd like to read it when you finish.”

“
If
I ever finish. When I'm most frustrated with it, I think of hiring a ghostwriter to complete it for me. I simply want to be done with it! But I doubt I could ever do that. A ghostwriter would have to be completely filled with my spirit to do any justice to the story. Know what I mean?”

“Definitely. Our work can be so close to us, so personal, that we have to write it ourselves.”

Her eyes were dreamy, her voice a whisper. “My only wish is to complete the novel before I die—and if I die before I'm done, then I'd want to have my ghostwriter finish the tale. But I like to think that I have a full life ahead of me, and that I have plenty of time. I don't have a real deadline like you have.”

When she saw him frown, she giggled and said, “Oh, sorry. I'm sure you didn't want to be reminded.”

“That's okay.” He sighed, looking around. Although fog rolled across the gravestones, and the night was as dark as ever, the graveyard did not seem quite as forbidding as before. “You know, I've never hung out at a cemetery. How long do you usually stay here?”

“Until I'm ready to leave.” She refilled her wineglass. “I didn't bring another glass since I wasn't expecting company. Would you like some?”

“Sure.” She was a relative stranger to him, and here they were drinking from the same glass. He and Danita had not drunk out of the same cup until after they had been dating for a month, at least.

He sipped the wine. It was dry, yet smooth. Delicious warmth spread across his chest. As he reeled in the drink's potency, Alexandria unloosened the belt straps of her jacket and shrugged out of the garment.

Andrew almost dropped the glass.

She wore a black lace slip that barely reached past the top of her thighs. Her cleavage swelled out, adorned with a tiny silver crucifix that glittered in the moonlight.

Although the night was cool, probably fifty degrees, Alexandria raised her head to the sky and stretched languorously, as though luxuriating in the moon rays.

“I love night in the cemetery,” she said. “To be here with you, my favorite writer, in my special place, is like a dream.”

“Is there a caretaker here?” he said. “Someone who might . . . see us?”

“You don't need to worry,” she said. “It's only us, and the dead.” She laughed.

He laughed, too, much harder and longer than he should have. He felt drunk—intoxicated by the wine and by this bizarre, fabulous woman.

They talked long into the night about books, movies, traveling, their families, and countless other subjects. She was fiercely intelligent and shared deep insights that challenged him, moved him. She laughed at his dry wit, and she amused him with her comedic timing.

When their conversation finally dipped into a lull, Alexandria slid closer, pressed her body against his. She took the wine from him and ran her tongue across where his lips had touched the glass.

“You inspire me,” she whispered. She placed her hand against his thigh, squeezed. “I want to be your inspiration, too, my brilliant writer.”

He closed his hand over hers, brought her slender fingers to his lips, and kissed them.

“You already are,” he said.

 

 

Sometime later that night—Andrew had lost all track of time—he made his way back home. He stumbled through the door, exhausted, yet excited, his nerves jangling. What an incredible night. It had been beyond anything within his ability to imagine.

Now he needed to write. He had to write. This very minute.

Trembling, he raced to his office and switched on the computer. It began to go through its boot-up cycle. He drummed the desk impatiently.

This wasn't right. He couldn't do this on a machine. That was the problem with this book. It demanded to be handwritten—a purer method of writing.

He found a spiral notebook in the desk drawer.

His Mont Blanc pen, which Danita had given him as a Christmas gift, was in a case on his desk.

With paper and pen in hand, he rushed to the glass dinette table. He uncapped the pen and tore open the notebook.

He wrote nonstop until dawn.

 

 

“Drew, you look like you need some rest,” Danita said. “Your eyes are bloodshot.”

They were at Danita's town house, reclining on the living room sofa. They'd ordered a pizza and were watching a movie; some sappy chick flick that Danita had insisted on renting. Although Andrew's eyes were on the screen, he saw only mental images of the story he was writing—and breathtaking visions of Alexandria.

Danita tapped his shoulder. “Did you hear me? You've been zoning out all evening. Are you okay?”

He glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty. He had a date that evening. At midnight. In the cemetery.

“Drew!”

He looked at Danita. “What?”

“What's wrong with you? You aren't yourself.”

“The book is coming to me. Finally. I was up all night, spent most of the day on it, too. I don't even remember whether I slept or not. The book is blocking out everything.” Everything except Alexandria, that is.

“I see,” she said carefully. “So, did you take my advice and visit the cemetery?”

“Not yet.” He looked away. The cemetery would remain his secret. “The book hit me last night and has been flowing ever since. I've never felt a flow like this. This is unreal.”

“Hmm.” Her eyes held a trace of suspicion, and then she sighed, her suspicion giving way to resignation. “This is what I get for dating a writer. Occasional weird moods and temporary obsession. But I love you anyway.” She leaned forward and kissed him.

He quickly broke off the kiss and stood up. “Danita, I've gotta go.”

“To write?”

He nodded fervently. “It's taking me over, calling to me. I don't know how else to explain it. I'm . . . under a spell.”

“I won't pretend that I understand, Drew,” she said. “Because I don't. But go handle your business.”

Driving back to his home, he swung into the parking lot of Tom's Beverage Depot. He bought five bottles of Merlot—the same French label he and Alexandria had shared.

He also bought a carton of Newport cigarettes. Her favorite.

 

 

At midnight, they found each other at their special meeting place: the empty grave he had fallen into the first night they met.

“I missed you,” Alexandria said, pulling him into her embrace. He wound his fingers through her silky hair. He could hold her forever. He never wanted to leave her. She inspired him. She excited him. She understood him. She loved him.

Before meeting Alexandria, if anyone had asked him whether it was possible to fall in love within minutes of meeting someone, he would've called that person a hopelessly romantic fool.

Now he knew better.

Wrapped in each other's arms, they went to their spot on the big granite tomb.

Later, when he returned home, his creative batteries more powerfully charged than ever, he scribbled in his notebook for twelve hours straight.

 

 

For five consecutive days, the book was Andrew's world, and Alexandria was his sun.

They met each night at midnight, always in the cemetery, always at the same location. Once they embraced, time spun out like spools of thread, became meaningless. They drank wine, talked, made love, drank wine, talked, made love . . .

Within five days, he had filled the notebook's five hundred pages with words. The novel was done.

He couldn't wait to tell Alexandria.

A few minutes before midnight, he dashed out of his condo and into the woods. He followed the path that he had created during his previous trips, and then jumped over the barbed-wire fence and wandered into the cemetery.

It was midnight when he arrived at the grave, their meeting spot. But Alexandria wasn't there. Odd. She was always on time.

He also noticed that the hole was no longer empty. It had been filled, a gravestone embedded at the head, and a wreath of bright flowers placed atop it.

Well, it was about time someone was buried there. He could've broken his neck when he'd fallen into it on that first night.

Out of curiosity, he flicked on his flashlight. He focused the beam on the headstone.

Reading it, he was seized by such shock that he dropped the flashlight.

“No,” he said, in a choked voice. He bent to retrieve the flashlight—and crashed to his knees.

“No, no, no, no, no.” Like a blind man, he crawled across the grass, fumbling for the light. He grabbed it, shone it on the inscription.

Hot tears scalded his skin. Had to think. This would've been the sixth night he had spent with Alexandria. They had first met around midnight of March 7 . . . two days after she had died....

“Impossible,” he said. He fought to stand. Staggering, he went to the black granite monument on which they had spent so many hours. He peered over the top of it.

The surface was bare. There was no blanket, no wine, no cigarette ash.

He had touched her, kissed her, loved her. Here. Right. Here.

“Impossible!” he shouted.

He ran out of the cemetery.

 

 

Danita was knocking at the door of his condo when he ran out of the forest.

“Where are you coming from?” she yelled. “Jesus, Drew, I've been worried sick about you. You haven't returned my calls, you've been acting distant, I haven't seen you in days. What's going on?”

He didn't answer, just unlocked the door and brushed past her.

Danita slammed the door. “Damn it, Drew, talk to . . . what have you been doing in here?” She gasped, looking around the living room.

Blinking, he scratched his head—and saw what had been invisible to him for days. Wineglasses and bottles of Merlot littering the coffee table. Empty packs of Newport cigarettes scattered everywhere. Saucers, bowls, and cups brimming with ashes and cigarette butts.