by Scott Howard Phillips (Beneath~Shady~Devastated)
Andrew Wyatt hated rain. It always rained whenever he had to engage in unpleasant business, and today was no exception.
Wyatt was walking down a sidewalk in a run-down neighborhood, dressed in an expensive three-piece suit and carrying a large, black umbrella. He had parked his car in a parking garage and decided to walk the rest of the way; seeing the neighborhood get progressively worse convinced him to park his car where people with lockpicks and hot-wiring skills couldn't get to it.
Wyatt stopped and pulled out his smartphone. According to the GPS installed on it, the man he was meeting lived three more blocks away. Muttering curses, Wyatt put the phone away and looked around. Nothing greeted him except several boarded-up houses and the ubiquitous graffiti.
Wyatt continued walking. His mind drifted back to the conversation he had over the phone. He had talked to the man's secretary, explaining to her his problem. She told him to meet the man today. It all sounded shady, but if it could help Wyatt--
The smartphone beeped. Wyatt pulled it out and looked at the screen. He had arrived.
Wyatt turned, and was greeted with a boarded-up house that would have been connected to a rowhome, had not the houses on either side crumbled to the ground. The house itself, with the exception of the boards, was gray.
Wyatt shuddered. The house reminded him of a tombstone, and he had seen plenty of them recently—especially one. Normally he would have turned around and left, but what needed to be done was far too important.
Wyatt walked up the twelve steps to the house and knocked on the door. It opened, revealing an African-American lady dressed in a suit.
“Hi,” she said, smiling. “I'm Mrs. Patton. You must be—”
“Mr. Wyatt, yes,” Wyatt said, shaking her hand.
“Why don't you come in and have a seat,” Mrs. Patton said, “and I'll let him know you're here.”
“Thank you.” Wyatt closed his umbrella and followed Mrs. Patton inside.
Wyatt breathed, noting the musty smell, and looked around. He was standing in what appeared to be a reception area. There were six chairs in the room, with a small rectangular desk that had old magazines stacked on it. There was another, larger desk in the room, which had a corded phone, a desktop computer, and paper and pens scattered all over it. In the left corner of the room was a staircase.
Mrs. Patton closed the door behind him. “I'll be right back,” she said, and walked up the staircase.
Wyatt placed his umbrella in an umbrella stand and sat down on a chair. After several minutes, which consisted of Wyatt fidgeting in his seat, Mrs. Patton returned.
“He's ready to see you now,” Mrs. Patton said. “Follow me.”
Wyatt got up and followed Mrs. Patton up the staircase. While the first floor was well-lit, the second was pitch black. “Why are the lights off?” Wyatt whispered.
“He prefers it that way.”
They reached the second floor. Mrs. Patton led him to one of the rooms and stopped. “Knock, and enter only when he allows you to. Address him with the utmost respect; if you don't, he'll throw you out. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Wyatt said. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Patton left Wyatt. He turned to the door, and after a moment's hesitation, knocked three times.
“Come in!” a voice boomed.
Wyatt grabbed the doorknob, twisted it slowly, and entered the room. Unlike the second floor, the room had some candles lit to provide illumination. A chair sat in front of Wyatt. He slowly closed the door.
At the opposite end of the rectangular room sat a man dressed in black. At least, that was what Wyatt believed; the room was too dark to see him clearly. Wyatt thought the man was wearing a large hat, which, with the help of the darkness, concealed his face.
“Are... are you the Bokor?” Wyatt asked.
There was a pause. “I am,” the man said, slowly. “Why don't you have a seat.”
Wyatt sat down carefully.
“Now, then,” the Bokor said, “what are you here for?”
Wyatt breathed, gathering his wits together. “My wife died recently.”
Silence.
“I heard,” Wyatt continued, “that the Bokors can bring the dead back to life.”
Silence.
“Some of us do possess that ability,” the Bokor said.
Silence again.
Wyatt swallowed. “I want her to live again.”
There was a pause. “I do possess the ability to raise the dead,” the Bokor said, “but you must understand it is exceedingly difficult.”
“She means a lot to me—”
The Bokor raised a finger. Wyatt fell silent, his heart pounding.
The Bokor spoke. “The facts are the only thing that matters. Now, where is she buried?”
“Eternal Rest Cemetery.”
“And when does it close?”
“Eleven O'Clock.”
“I will meet you there at midnight tomorrow night. Then, we will attempt to resurrect your wife. I trust the payments have already been made?”
“They have,” Wyatt said, cold sweat running down his back.
“Then I will see you soon, Mr. Wyatt,” the Bokor said, “and you will be joined with your wife.”
Silence.
“You may go now, Mr. Wyatt.”
Wyatt left the room, trembling. Throughout leaving the Bokor's house, walking back to his car, and driving home, one thought ran over and over again in Wyatt's mind: This was a bad idea. I should never have come.
*****
If Wyatt hated one thing more than rain, it was the cold. He had stood outside the cemetery for half an hour; if there was one thing the business world taught him, it was to be early for every meeting.
A bell tolled. Midnight had arrived, and with it came the Bokor, pulling up his car in front of Wyatt.
The Bokor got out of the car. “Good evening, Mr. Wyatt,” he said. “Are you prepared for what needs to be done?”
“I am,” Wyatt said, shivering.
The Bokor smiled. “If you were, you would have brought shovels!” He took out his remote car key and opened the trunk. “Come get the shovels!” he called.
The car doors opened, and three men stepped out. They slowly walked to the trunk, as if in a stupor, and retrieved the shovels. After closing the trunk, they walked towards the Bokor.
The Bokor gestured to them and said, “These are my servants. Zombies. Do not be alarmed,” he added, noticing Wyatt's alarmed face, “they will not harm you. These are not the flesh-eaters you see in the movies, but servants that obey me. But enough of this; let us walk to the grave.”
Wyatt and the Bokor pulled out flashlights and entered the cemetery. They walked for several minutes until they arrived at the grave of Angela Wyatt.
“Begin digging up the grave,” the Bokor commanded. Instantly the zombies obeyed.
While they were digging the grave, Wyatt, in a nervous chuckle, said, “You know, I'm surprised there are Bokor in Pennsylvania. I thought they were only in Haiti or Louisiana!”
The Bokor turned to him, unsmiling. “The loa are everywhere; therefore we must serve them everywhere.” He turned to the zombies and said nothing.
Several minutes later, the zombies had uncovered the coffin and lifted it up. The Bokor opened the coffin and looked inside. He then turned to Wyatt. “Come and look at her.”
Trembling, Wyatt walked to the coffin. Angela Wyatt lay there, as beautiful she was the day she died. The hands of Death had not yet begun to tear at her flesh. Wyatt sighed, relieved.
“She has not decomposed yet. This is good,” the Bokor said. “Resurrecting bodies in the process of decomposition is difficult, and when it does succeed, creates complications in their second life.”
“So what happens now?” Wyatt asked.
“Now,” said the Bokor, “we begin the difficult work of bringing her back to life. I must speak to the loa, Papa Legba and Baron Samedi. You are not required for this part; therefore, keep watch while I work.”
Wyatt backed away from the coffin and looked around for any lights or movement. There was none. The Bokor began intoning in a language unknown to Wyatt. After speaking for a minute, the Bokor waited several more before calling back Wyatt.
“Baron Samedi,” the Bokor explained, “has agreed to return your wife's soul to the living. He has given me the power to accomplish this, which is necessary in resurrection. Now I must work with more material elements. You may watch what I do.”
Wyatt stepped back to the coffin. The Bokor placed a skull talisman around Angela's neck, and began brushing powders on her skin. After several minutes of doing this, the Bokor lifted her up and poured a potion down her throat.
The Bokor turned to Wyatt. “The process is almost complete, but there is one more step that must be taken, and it involves you. Stand at the head of the coffin.”
Wyatt smiled and obeyed.
“Now,” the Bokor intoned, “you must bend down, kiss her on her lips, and stare into her closed eyes for one minute.”
Wyatt bent down and gently kissed Angela. “I'll see you soon, Angie,” he whispered, and stared into her eyes. He thought he heard something being picked up from the ground, but ignored it. “Bokor, am I doing it right—”
Metal collided into the side of Wyatt's head, and he collapsed, falling into the grave.
“Fool!” the Bokor yelled. “If you did your research, Andrew, you would have known Bokors don't raise the dead, they only make people appear dead and wake them up!”
Wyatt groaned and turned over. He then noticed two things; first, the Bokor's voice had changed, and second...
“How do you know my first name?” Wyatt asked. “I never told you my first name!”
“You don't remember, do you?” the Bokor shot back. “Well, my name shall be the last name you remember. I am Brad Friedman!”
Wyatt blinked. “Yeah, and?”
“You still don't remember?! I used to work for you, Andrew, in your company!” Friedman shouted. “And then I saw something I shouldn't have. I saw your corrupt dealings. I saw the embezzled money, the stolen paychecks, how you were behind it all!”
Friedman paced around the grave, as Wyatt began remembering.
“You found me out. You not just fired me; that would have been too kind. You put my name in the papers. You blamed me for the corruption in your company and had me discredited! Because of you,” Friedman paused, gathering his breath, “I lost everything. I lost my home, my family, my possessions, everything! If it weren't for Mrs. Patton finding me and teaching me the ways of voodoo, I would have died because of you!”
“Okay, let's calm down for a minute,” Wyatt said, getting up. “If you want money, I can—”
Friedman smacked Wyatt with the shovel, and he collapsed.
“The only thing I want is your blood,” Friedman said.
“What? No! Please,” Wyatt cried, “I'll give you anything. I'll give you—”
“Silence!” Friedman said, his voice now shifting back to the Bokor's. “Tonight, you will be joined with your wife in the lands of the dead. Lower the coffin.”
“No, please, don't—” Wyatt began to say, but was cut off when the coffin was lowered on top of him.
Wyatt heard the Bokor say to the zombies, “Bury him.”
Wyatt screamed, but stopped after realizing the futility of it.
The last thing Wyatt heard was the cruel, mocking laughter of the Bokor.
Andrew Wyatt hated rain. It always rained whenever he had to engage in unpleasant business, and today was no exception.
Wyatt was walking down a sidewalk in a run-down neighborhood, dressed in an expensive three-piece suit and carrying a large, black umbrella. He had parked his car in a parking garage and decided to walk the rest of the way; seeing the neighborhood get progressively worse convinced him to park his car where people with lockpicks and hot-wiring skills couldn't get to it.
Wyatt stopped and pulled out his smartphone. According to the GPS installed on it, the man he was meeting lived three more blocks away. Muttering curses, Wyatt put the phone away and looked around. Nothing greeted him except several boarded-up houses and the ubiquitous graffiti.
Wyatt continued walking. His mind drifted back to the conversation he had over the phone. He had talked to the man's secretary, explaining to her his problem. She told him to meet the man today. It all sounded shady, but if it could help Wyatt--
The smartphone beeped. Wyatt pulled it out and looked at the screen. He had arrived.
Wyatt turned, and was greeted with a boarded-up house that would have been connected to a rowhome, had not the houses on either side crumbled to the ground. The house itself, with the exception of the boards, was gray.
Wyatt shuddered. The house reminded him of a tombstone, and he had seen plenty of them recently—especially one. Normally he would have turned around and left, but what needed to be done was far too important.
Wyatt walked up the twelve steps to the house and knocked on the door. It opened, revealing an African-American lady dressed in a suit.
“Hi,” she said, smiling. “I'm Mrs. Patton. You must be—”
“Mr. Wyatt, yes,” Wyatt said, shaking her hand.
“Why don't you come in and have a seat,” Mrs. Patton said, “and I'll let him know you're here.”
“Thank you.” Wyatt closed his umbrella and followed Mrs. Patton inside.
Wyatt breathed, noting the musty smell, and looked around. He was standing in what appeared to be a reception area. There were six chairs in the room, with a small rectangular desk that had old magazines stacked on it. There was another, larger desk in the room, which had a corded phone, a desktop computer, and paper and pens scattered all over it. In the left corner of the room was a staircase.
Mrs. Patton closed the door behind him. “I'll be right back,” she said, and walked up the staircase.
Wyatt placed his umbrella in an umbrella stand and sat down on a chair. After several minutes, which consisted of Wyatt fidgeting in his seat, Mrs. Patton returned.
“He's ready to see you now,” Mrs. Patton said. “Follow me.”
Wyatt got up and followed Mrs. Patton up the staircase. While the first floor was well-lit, the second was pitch black. “Why are the lights off?” Wyatt whispered.
“He prefers it that way.”
They reached the second floor. Mrs. Patton led him to one of the rooms and stopped. “Knock, and enter only when he allows you to. Address him with the utmost respect; if you don't, he'll throw you out. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Wyatt said. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Patton left Wyatt. He turned to the door, and after a moment's hesitation, knocked three times.
“Come in!” a voice boomed.
Wyatt grabbed the doorknob, twisted it slowly, and entered the room. Unlike the second floor, the room had some candles lit to provide illumination. A chair sat in front of Wyatt. He slowly closed the door.
At the opposite end of the rectangular room sat a man dressed in black. At least, that was what Wyatt believed; the room was too dark to see him clearly. Wyatt thought the man was wearing a large hat, which, with the help of the darkness, concealed his face.
“Are... are you the Bokor?” Wyatt asked.
There was a pause. “I am,” the man said, slowly. “Why don't you have a seat.”
Wyatt sat down carefully.
“Now, then,” the Bokor said, “what are you here for?”
Wyatt breathed, gathering his wits together. “My wife died recently.”
Silence.
“I heard,” Wyatt continued, “that the Bokors can bring the dead back to life.”
Silence.
“Some of us do possess that ability,” the Bokor said.
Silence again.
Wyatt swallowed. “I want her to live again.”
There was a pause. “I do possess the ability to raise the dead,” the Bokor said, “but you must understand it is exceedingly difficult.”
“She means a lot to me—”
The Bokor raised a finger. Wyatt fell silent, his heart pounding.
The Bokor spoke. “The facts are the only thing that matters. Now, where is she buried?”
“Eternal Rest Cemetery.”
“And when does it close?”
“Eleven O'Clock.”
“I will meet you there at midnight tomorrow night. Then, we will attempt to resurrect your wife. I trust the payments have already been made?”
“They have,” Wyatt said, cold sweat running down his back.
“Then I will see you soon, Mr. Wyatt,” the Bokor said, “and you will be joined with your wife.”
Silence.
“You may go now, Mr. Wyatt.”
Wyatt left the room, trembling. Throughout leaving the Bokor's house, walking back to his car, and driving home, one thought ran over and over again in Wyatt's mind: This was a bad idea. I should never have come.
*****
If Wyatt hated one thing more than rain, it was the cold. He had stood outside the cemetery for half an hour; if there was one thing the business world taught him, it was to be early for every meeting.
A bell tolled. Midnight had arrived, and with it came the Bokor, pulling up his car in front of Wyatt.
The Bokor got out of the car. “Good evening, Mr. Wyatt,” he said. “Are you prepared for what needs to be done?”
“I am,” Wyatt said, shivering.
The Bokor smiled. “If you were, you would have brought shovels!” He took out his remote car key and opened the trunk. “Come get the shovels!” he called.
The car doors opened, and three men stepped out. They slowly walked to the trunk, as if in a stupor, and retrieved the shovels. After closing the trunk, they walked towards the Bokor.
The Bokor gestured to them and said, “These are my servants. Zombies. Do not be alarmed,” he added, noticing Wyatt's alarmed face, “they will not harm you. These are not the flesh-eaters you see in the movies, but servants that obey me. But enough of this; let us walk to the grave.”
Wyatt and the Bokor pulled out flashlights and entered the cemetery. They walked for several minutes until they arrived at the grave of Angela Wyatt.
“Begin digging up the grave,” the Bokor commanded. Instantly the zombies obeyed.
While they were digging the grave, Wyatt, in a nervous chuckle, said, “You know, I'm surprised there are Bokor in Pennsylvania. I thought they were only in Haiti or Louisiana!”
The Bokor turned to him, unsmiling. “The loa are everywhere; therefore we must serve them everywhere.” He turned to the zombies and said nothing.
Several minutes later, the zombies had uncovered the coffin and lifted it up. The Bokor opened the coffin and looked inside. He then turned to Wyatt. “Come and look at her.”
Trembling, Wyatt walked to the coffin. Angela Wyatt lay there, as beautiful she was the day she died. The hands of Death had not yet begun to tear at her flesh. Wyatt sighed, relieved.
“She has not decomposed yet. This is good,” the Bokor said. “Resurrecting bodies in the process of decomposition is difficult, and when it does succeed, creates complications in their second life.”
“So what happens now?” Wyatt asked.
“Now,” said the Bokor, “we begin the difficult work of bringing her back to life. I must speak to the loa, Papa Legba and Baron Samedi. You are not required for this part; therefore, keep watch while I work.”
Wyatt backed away from the coffin and looked around for any lights or movement. There was none. The Bokor began intoning in a language unknown to Wyatt. After speaking for a minute, the Bokor waited several more before calling back Wyatt.
“Baron Samedi,” the Bokor explained, “has agreed to return your wife's soul to the living. He has given me the power to accomplish this, which is necessary in resurrection. Now I must work with more material elements. You may watch what I do.”
Wyatt stepped back to the coffin. The Bokor placed a skull talisman around Angela's neck, and began brushing powders on her skin. After several minutes of doing this, the Bokor lifted her up and poured a potion down her throat.
The Bokor turned to Wyatt. “The process is almost complete, but there is one more step that must be taken, and it involves you. Stand at the head of the coffin.”
Wyatt smiled and obeyed.
“Now,” the Bokor intoned, “you must bend down, kiss her on her lips, and stare into her closed eyes for one minute.”
Wyatt bent down and gently kissed Angela. “I'll see you soon, Angie,” he whispered, and stared into her eyes. He thought he heard something being picked up from the ground, but ignored it. “Bokor, am I doing it right—”
Metal collided into the side of Wyatt's head, and he collapsed, falling into the grave.
“Fool!” the Bokor yelled. “If you did your research, Andrew, you would have known Bokors don't raise the dead, they only make people appear dead and wake them up!”
Wyatt groaned and turned over. He then noticed two things; first, the Bokor's voice had changed, and second...
“How do you know my first name?” Wyatt asked. “I never told you my first name!”
“You don't remember, do you?” the Bokor shot back. “Well, my name shall be the last name you remember. I am Brad Friedman!”
Wyatt blinked. “Yeah, and?”
“You still don't remember?! I used to work for you, Andrew, in your company!” Friedman shouted. “And then I saw something I shouldn't have. I saw your corrupt dealings. I saw the embezzled money, the stolen paychecks, how you were behind it all!”
Friedman paced around the grave, as Wyatt began remembering.
“You found me out. You not just fired me; that would have been too kind. You put my name in the papers. You blamed me for the corruption in your company and had me discredited! Because of you,” Friedman paused, gathering his breath, “I lost everything. I lost my home, my family, my possessions, everything! If it weren't for Mrs. Patton finding me and teaching me the ways of voodoo, I would have died because of you!”
“Okay, let's calm down for a minute,” Wyatt said, getting up. “If you want money, I can—”
Friedman smacked Wyatt with the shovel, and he collapsed.
“The only thing I want is your blood,” Friedman said.
“What? No! Please,” Wyatt cried, “I'll give you anything. I'll give you—”
“Silence!” Friedman said, his voice now shifting back to the Bokor's. “Tonight, you will be joined with your wife in the lands of the dead. Lower the coffin.”
“No, please, don't—” Wyatt began to say, but was cut off when the coffin was lowered on top of him.
Wyatt heard the Bokor say to the zombies, “Bury him.”
Wyatt screamed, but stopped after realizing the futility of it.
The last thing Wyatt heard was the cruel, mocking laughter of the Bokor.