The Last Handful of Clover - Book 2: Gifts Both Light and Dark

2.44 Emo, Emo, Emo...

June 14, 8:30 am

The legend, which Howard believed utterly as a credulous pre-teen, was that if you circled the Moritz Mausoleum three times, while chanting, "Emo, Emo, Emo," then when you looked through the blue steel grating, you would see Emo's red eyes staring back at you.

Howard Gunderson had grown up not far from the Salt Lake City Cemetery, where Richard Pratt's ashes were now buried. His family had not lived in the Avenues—they had been far too poor for that—but in an apartment on 5th East, close to Liberty Park. His two favorite summer playgrounds had been the park, and when he and his friends wanted to do something at least a little forbidden, The Cemetery up in the Avenues.

Howard's feet had now brought him back here, as if they had a mind of their own. And as soon as he stepped foot into the cemetery he remembered the Mausoleum, and the strange curse and legend that had so thrilled them all as children.

"Emo, Emo, Emo..." he muttered to himself, as he cut into the cemetery at the corner of 4th Avenue and N Streets.

The reason he could believe the legend so utterly back then was that he and his friends had never built up the courage to actually test it. They had gotten as far as circling and chanting, but then none of them ever had the guts to boost themselves up to the window and actually look in. One of them would usually scream or jump-scare the group, and they'd all run off into the cemetery, giggling in terror they only pretended wasn't real.

Now, as an adult, the only thing Howard remembered about the Moritz Mausoleum was that it would make a perfect hiding place—if he could only get inside. It was off the beaten path, in the Jewish section of the cemetery, and it had a thick steel door, which even when he was a kid was corroded and looked as if it needed to be replaced. If it was the same old door, he just might use the leverage of the tire iron to pry it open.

If it wasn't for the gray rain and the fog, they would have caught me already, he thought. Twice, on the way to the cemetery, he'd had close calls with squad cars cruising through the neighborhood.

I'm either really lucky, or somebody is looking out for me.

Now deep in the deserted heart of the cemetery, Howard made his way toward the Moritz Mausoleum. But as he crested a small rise and began to cross through the sea of headstones, he had a sudden jolt.

There, ahead of him, were dozens of people, wandering through the cemetery as if they were looking at the graves. He ducked quickly behind a tall headstone and looked around. Through the fog and the drizzle he could see that there were about twenty or thirty people in his field of vision, but he was surprised that there were no cars parked along the roadsides, and no low hum of conversation creeping across the misty grounds.

Then he noticed that several of the figures were naked, most of them were old, and many were wrapped in sheets or clothed in hospital gowns. His mind struggled to wrap itself around what he was seeing, but then it dawned on him with such clarity that he literally sank to his knees on the grass in wonder.

They're dead, he thought. The cemetery is full of ghosts! Then he started to laugh. Well, of course it is!

For a moment, he totally forgot that he was on the run, and walked slowly, and strangely unafraid, into the dozens of dead that were scattered like wandering shades around the graves. Their faces were universally blank, and often they just stood in silence, staring at a headstone, or at the sky. From time to time one would seem to see him, and would even move out of his way as he passed.

Without thinking, he reached up to one and placed a hand on the thing's shoulder. She was, or at least had been, a middle-aged woman with a kind face. There were bandages wrapped around what appeared to be a wound on her chest, visible through her open hospital gown. One perfect breast hung free in the gap left by the pink gown. She seemed lovely to Howard, with a kind face that was too young to be motherly, but a body that still spoke of age and experience. He placed a hand on the woman's shoulder and was surprised that he couldn't feel it. To him, it was like his hand was hovering in midair. But when he pushed, the ghost moved, as if his hand was an unstoppable force.