Church Street Cemetary: Short Story

I wrote this story about 5 years ago now, when I thought that I was going to be a writer. I just located it on an old website that I never use any more.

Church Street Graveyard

Nathan ducked through the ragged gaping hole, where a car had smacked into the wall of the Church Street Graveyard, pulverizing 200 year old brick and creating a way for anyone to enter; day or night.

The driver of the car had apparently thought that Church Street went straight, when it actually curved. This accident had opened a passage through which a few homeless people entered at night, to sleep. Not a whole lot of them, as there are people in this world who aren't OK with sleeping on a tombstone.

More peace and quiet for me, thought Nathan, who slept upon the tomb of Elizabeth Williams, b. 1809 d 1829...yellow fever, thought Nathan...

The tombs were all raised above ground level, away from ants, level and just a sleeping bag from being comfortable. Nathan thought that the bodies interred almost 200 years earlier, must surely have been reduced to dust, so that it wasn't like sleeping on top of a corpse. There was nothing but fertile soil under all those tombstones.

He thought about Ms. Williams at times as he drifted off to sleep, sometimes saying out loud: "Goodnight, Elizabeth" beforehand.

Then, he found the pictures.

He was looking for a place to stash some of his stuff that he wanted to keep but didn't want to carry around in his backpack, when he found a few loose bricks in the 3 foot high wall that propped up the stone.

Removing these revealed an enclosure big enough to hide his extra backpack, clothes, books and toiletries.

The backpack wouldn't fit through the gap until he emptied it, and then fed all the items in, one at a time.

Then he reached his arm in as far as he could, in order to slide the pack into the corner of it, so that if some other person came along and happened to dislodge the same bricks, his stuff wouldn't be blatantly visible. Homeless people are notorious for stealing from other homeless people what little they might have.

He was doing this when he felt what turned out to be the pictures, wedged between two decrepit bricks, having been protected from the elements these (?) years, by the tombstone.

The pictures were in black and white and looked to be from the early age of photography. They were of a beautiful woman. She was wearing the garb of the 1820's, with bodice and headdress.

At first this didn't lend itself to any particularly lustful thoughts in Nathan's mind; the clothing not actually being what he had been conditioned to think of as sexy, having grown up in the late 20th century; though, he tried to picture the lady the way a man of that period might see her, and found himself beginning to get an erection.

He replaced the bricks, but held on to the pictures.

He sat and smoked a joint. This was one of the more secluded parts of the graveyard. He had smoked weed there before, sat there spaced out and day dreaming and, because pot made Nathan horny, had even jerked off to a Victoria Secret catalogue or whatever a poor homeless guy could get his hands on, right there in the cemetery. Sigmund Freud may have been on to something with his sex and death themes, thought Nathan.

He looked around to make sure nobody was in the graveyard.

He went back to the pictures, as he slowly started feeling stoned. ...Elizabeth? Is that you?

This occasion was no exception to the rule of pot making Nathan horny.

Soon, he was rubbing his dick and drinking in the beauty of the lady in the ancient photos with his eyes.

Why not?, he thought.

He looked around again to ascertain that he was out of sight, and then began to slowly stroke himself, with the aid of some baby oil that he had stashed in the tomb; the photos spread out in an array on the ground in front of him.

He was soon having imaginary conversations with the woman, telling her how beautiful she was; seducing her, imagining making love to her, all the while bringing himself to a sexual excitement that was new to him.

The pot was kicking in. His eye lids began to flutter, producing a strobe light-like effect, and making the vision jump around and become animated, like the frames in an old celluloid movie.

The pretty woman, with each blink appearing in a slightly different aspect, causing her to MOVE. Her expressions were even changing. Did she just wink at him? Are the corners of her mouth hinting at a mischievous grin?

Nathan had learned how to let go and enjoy good pot. When he had first smoked it when younger, there were times when he thought that he was going to die, and the fear almost led to panic. But, after having had the feeling so many times, yet not died, he had learned to not worry any more, and just let his mind drift.

Nathan felt like he was having sex with a live woman. It was almost as if she were seducing HIM. He spoke to her again, praising her beauty; and she seemed to be present. He closed his eyes, but could still see an after-image of her. Talk about some good pot...

His climax was incredible, and in the throes of intense ecstasy, his eyes still closed, he felt something soft press against his lips. He might have unconsciously raised a hand to his mouth, so vividly was he imagining kissing her.

There was a perfume hanging in the air around him as he was catching his breath and he opened his eyes. The fragrance was very real. I must be smelling some flowers from around here, somewhere, thought Nathan. But then he discovered that it was coming from the shirt he was wearing. It was as if it had been splashed with it.

Later on, that evening, Nathan went downtown.

He was coming out of a coffee shop, pretty drunk because they served more than coffee there.

He had just stepped onto the sidewalk, and almost bumped into a young lady.

She stepped closer to him, met his eyes with hers, smiled and said: "Hey," in a soft and sultry voice.
She was wearing modern clothing, but it was her. The recognition stopped Nathan in his tracks.
He had just hours earlier had the most intense orgasm of his life while staring at "her" and actually talking to "her"; closing his eyes and feeling her presence so strongly. Just as he was feeling it now. It was her.

He wanted to say something, to ask her if she had ever had old style black and white photos taken of herself wearing period garb. ...'cause I think I may have found them if they were misplaced...

Before he could gather his thoughts, she quickly hugged him, and planted a kiss on his cheek. At the same time it hit his nose. The scent was unmistakable. It was the same perfume!

The feel of her body started to kindle an oddly familiar mesmerism in him.

"This is SO amazing. This is incredible!" she gasped.

He was about to ask: What? What is so amazing? but was transfixed by her eyes, which were all the more beautiful for being in color; more than he ever could have imagined.

They bore into him imploring, pleading, desperate, begging, with tears beginning to well up.

She had grabbed him by the upper arms.

"Oh, please do bring me out again tomorrow, please!" she prayed breathlessly.
Then, she left another quick kiss on his lips before ambling off in the direction of the Church Street Graveyard.

Epilogue: After covering a few yards, leaving him standing there, his head light and spinning with incredulity, she stopped abruptly, as if a thought had just struck her. She turned back towards him to say: "Whatever you do, don't bring Clara Thompson out!" and then disappeared around a corner.

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