Bloody Quentin

​  Lance was already dripping sweat and breathing heavily. It was a poor sign, as the hard work hadn’t even started. He slowed, eyes scanning the dark cemetery. On his two late-night visits scouting the place, this area stood out to him. Space sold for a premium in this upscale cemetery, and the graves were practically stacked on top of one another. Yet here stood a bizarre patch of empty ground, right in the heart of the place. It was perfect. 

​  He stopped and dropped the handle of the wagon he dragged behind him. Stepping over to it, he frowned, realizing he’d planned poorly for this part. 

​  “Pardon me, mama,” he said. 

​  Lance grunted as he used one hand to partially lift the body bag, clearing enough space for him to reach in with his other hand and grab his shovel. Once the shovel was clear, he lowered the body bag back into place.    

​  The air was still and silent as he moved into the middle of the empty area. Slowly, he stepped off the dimensions of the grave, using the tip of the shovel to cut lines into the grass. For the grave to remain undiscovered, he needed it to be perfect. Only the best for his mama.

​  Satisfied, he got to work digging. By his calculations, he had four hours to dig the grave. That would leave him just enough time to get mama laid to rest, then fill the space back in with dirt. So he worked hard and fast, ignoring the burn in his muscles. There would be time for rest later. Finishing this in the dark without getting caught was all that mattered right now. 

​  Two hours into the dig, the shovel struck something hard and metallic. Lance froze. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone buried here, and even if there was, he was only three feet down. Kneeling, he wiped dirt away, trying to get a glimpse of the object. His confusion deepened as he uncovered it. It was a cross. Multiple alloys had been twisted together to create the intricate cross. Lance marveled over the craftsmanship as he uncovered more of it. It belonged in a museum, not in the ground. 

​  His curiosity stoked, he continued probing the dirt around the cross. Why would someone bury such a gorgeous piece of art? The answer presented itself. There was more. The cross was affixed to something. Using the shovel, Lance dug around the edges, revealing the rest of the item. It wasn’t large enough to be a coffin. Constructed from solid steel, it was a box, about twice the size of a briefcase. 

​  Lance placed his hand against the box. He screamed. Images of death assaulted his mind. Flashes of gore and mayhem. A tidal wave of blood that swallowed an entire city. It took every ounce of his strength to pry his hand away, and he fell onto his rear as it finally came free. Mercifully, the images stopped. Tears poured from his eyes, and he pulled his knees up to his chest. It had been a while since he talked to God, but he whispered a brief prayer into the night, begging for protection from whatever evil he’d uncovered here. 

​  It was clear what had to happen next. There was no one that Lance loved more than his mama. It’s why he was willing to go to such lengths to get her buried in this place, trying to fulfill her only deathbed wish. But she would want nothing to do with evil like this. Maybe it wasn’t too late to sneak her body back into the funeral home’s mortuary. 

​  He stood, eyes locked on the wicked silver box. Before he left, he needed to rebury it. He tried to climb from the hole, but his tired muscles protested. Lance took the shovel and placed it against the bottom of the hole, then put his weight on it and pushed off, giving himself a boost. When he did, it sank deeper into the dirt, scraping along the edge of the silver box. A loud CLICK filled the air, and the side of the box popped open. Tired muscles forgotten, Lance scrambled out of the hole. His mind screamed at him to run, but the cold night air itself seized him, and soon he felt his body twisting back around to face the hole. His eyes were wide with terror as he watched the box open fully. 

​  His body trembled. He’d been wrong. The box was a coffin. A sick and twisted one. Inside was a man, folded multiple times over so his form could fit in the box. Somehow, against all that should be possible, the man stirred. With the cracking of bone and the groaning and popping of ligaments, he began to unfold. Slowly, he rose, a vision of death and evil. His body was emaciated, with pale skin stretched so tight that his veins were visible. He wore a blue, colonial-style jacket, and his red eyes stared directly at Lance. 

​  The unseen force holding him in place broke, and Lance turned and ran. The thing was on him in an instant. It dragged him to the ground. Freakishly strong, it flipped him over and pinned him. He screamed, which brought a wide smile to the creature’s face. It had four long, protruding fangs. 

​  “You addle pate. Why have you unleashed Bloody Quentin upon the world?” it asked. 

​  Its voice was like a hissing serpent. Lance screamed. Bloody Quentin leaned closer, its fangs just inches from his neck. 

​  “I demand a response!” 

​  “My-my-my mama!” Lance forced out. “I wanted to bury her in this nice cemetery!” 

​  “You dishonor her with your actions, fusty luggs. A hard week’s labor would be enough to cover the cost of a proper burial,” Bloody Quentin said. 

​  Lance shook his head, tears leaking from his eyes. 

​  “I do work! But I can’t afford the fifteen thousand dollars for all the funeral and burial stuff. I can barely afford food!” 

​  Bloody Quentin relaxed his grip.   

​  “Fifteen thousand dollars? Are you mad? Surely you mean fifteen!” 

​  Lance dug in his pocket, then pulled out the sheet of paper with the funeral home's quote. He held it up. 

​  “See for yourself.” 

​  Bloody Quentin stared at the document for a moment, then shook his head. 

​  “I could buy three mansions for fifteen thousand dollars,” he said. 

​  “Not anymore you can’t,” Lance said. 

​  Narrowing his eyes, Bloody Quentin stared down at Lance. 

​  “What year is this?” 

​  “2026.” 

​  Taking a moment to process the information, Bloody Quentin nodded. 

​  “And in this 2026, where would I find the one demanding such a sum from you to lay your mother to rest?” he asked. 

​  Finger shaking, Lance pointed at the funeral home in the distance. 

​  “I don’t know where he lives, but that’s his business up there.” 

​  Bloody Quentin exploded into a cloud of mist. As it drifted away, his voice spoke. 

​  “Remain where you are,” he commanded. 

​  As soon as the mist was out of sight, Lance got to his feet. He grabbed the wagon handle and ran as fast as he could. Several times the wagon almost tipped over, and every time it bounced or jiggled, he cringed. 

​  “Sorry mama,” he cried out. 

​  But he didn’t dare slow down. It took him ten minutes to work his way through the dark cemetery, then sneak through the broken fence back out onto the side street where he’d left his van. He wheezed, wiping sweat from his face as he opened the back of the van. As gingerly as he could, he lifted the body bag and slid it into the van. 

​  “I’ll get you in somewhere nice mama, I promise. It just can’t be here,” he said as he closed the van door. 

​  Lance turned around and came face-to-face with Bloody Quentin. 

​  “You disobeyed me. Under normal circumstances, I would demand your life for such an act.” 

​  He wanted to reply, to beg forgiveness, but Lance couldn’t force out the words. Bloody Quentin was covered in blood. It stained his teeth and dripped from his chin. When he moved, Lance cried out and leaped backward, slamming into the back of the van. But no attack came. 

​  “Hold out your hands,” Bloody Quentin commanded. 

​  Trembling, Lance did as he was told. Bloody Quentin pulled money from his coat pocket and stacked it into Lance’s hands. It was wet with blood. 

​  “Fifteen thousand, one hundred and twelve dollars, and forty-three cents,” Bloody Quentin said. “Use it to honor your mother with the burial she deserves.” 

​  Bloody Quentin leaned close. 

​  “And then flee as far from this place as your legs can take you, for soon I shall visit death and darkness upon these lands. I will create rivers of blood and generations of sorrow until another comes along with the power to lock me away once more.” 

​  “Y-y-y-y-yes sir,” Lance mumbled. 

​  Bloody Quentin exploded into mist, and Lance collapsed to the street and cried.