Wendigo, a death note fanfic

Stranger by whom these words be read,

Weep for the living, not for the dead.

-Irish tombstone inscription

.X.

Sounds of the night seemed to fade into a dulled quiet in Meiishima Cemetery; traffic of the highway beyond the gates was muted almost entirely, only a faint murmur filtering through the thick trees devoid of life. Some animals shifted in the dark, an owl called out once in a questioning, reverent tone, then retreated into silence.

Dead silence. Yagami Light smirked dryly to himself, adoring that particular cliché. His camera sat untouched and unassembled in his waist sack, the tiny oil lantern unlit and tucked beside it. He'd thought another cemetery shoot might inspire him, and it did… just not to take pictures. It was more of a "wander around, feeling like a misbehaving teenager again but without the dopey friends to admire your bravado" kind of inspiration.

He stepped around a tilted, moss-covered headstone, gazing at it in disinterest. By scarce moonlight he envisioned the ways he could position the lantern for dramatic lighting, angle the shot for an interesting picture. Only vague ideas came to his mind. He sighed, glancing at the full-waning moon in muted irritation. So his career was on the line—he couldn't make himself care. Nothing was interesting right now.

The stone was one of the older ones he'd seen. Should have been one of the most photogenic; probably was. He let his fingers trail over the roughened edge, feeling for the warmth and texture of the weathered granite. The name and dates had been long worn to smoothness, its only remains of a defining feature a small circular portrait. A young, scowling face tapered to a round chin had been cut out of the rock, expression identical to all mid-century men, it seemed. Its black stone eyes sunk in their chiseled hollows, gazing reproachfully at the ghost of a craftsman's tool.

Light felt his eyes wandering from the stone to others in its row, glancing abstractedly to their multitude of shapes. Even the curiosity about the man in the portrait was faint and quick to pass. At the height of his artistic passion, the face would have lingered in his mind and align itself into many fictional tales and speculations of the mysterious life and early death. Now, his fantastic and slightly morbid daydreams were as absent as his drive to capture the world through the revealing eye of a lens. His apathy only vaguely worried him.

So he wandered.

The cemetery had only one entrance he knew of, a rusted wrought iron gate off the highway, concealed by overgrown trees and several yards of gravel drive. He'd never seen its boundaries. The property was huge, woody and shadowed, unlike newer more upkept graveyards with polished white stones in rows and grass like manicured plastic. He'd always hated those. Who wanted a grass cutter riding over their final earthy resting place? They were annoying enough to the living, who deserved no reverence or respect.

This place, though, was a treasure. Even during the day, peace reigned here. Light found himself making the several-hour drive with his equipment whenever he was in need of beauty, serenity and solitude, and whenever he got sick of the city, which was often. A photographer with no photographs was in dire and immediate need of inspiration and he'd thought he might find it here, as he'd never seen it at night and hoped the change would bring new vision. All he found, though, was silence. Which was fine.

He sighed, stepping over a row of low, broken markers mostly obscured by tangled thorny foliage. The trees lacing together overhead blotted out the moonlight almost completely, and he had to duck to avoid their lower branches. This took him through a tiny path, no more than a gap between bushes, really, and into a shallow clearing. Bright patches of moonlight contrasted sharply with the shadows cast by trees. His artist's eye appreciated the vivid black-and-white image.

The stones here were erect and white in even rows, obviously a newer section. Their uniformity was pleasing. For a moment he felt the stirring need to assemble his camera and capture the vision, but it passed as quickly as it came. The results would be artistic and inventive, yes, but lacking in the candid flair for the overdramatic his employers had come to expect. It would not be Light's type of photograph. Something was just missing.

Another terrible cliché...

He wandered between the rows. Some of the plots were bare earth: recently buried. He looked at them the longest. Visions of dropping to his knees in the dewy soil and sifting through it with his hands invaded the apathy of his mind, of cracking open a coffin's fading wood and exploring what he found there. That, he knew, would be photography material. The urge grew strong, but it, too, passed quickly.

It seemed this night held nothing for him. The thought was depressing enough to make him turn and start back the way he came.

It was at this point that the moon grew slightly brighter, and a black patch on the ground grew more apparent. He stopped and blinked at it, squinting in the darkness. A cloud set was coming in, he should probably get around to lighting his lantern so as not to get helplessly lost—was one of the plots empty?

It was. This was odd; there were some pre-dug graves at the end of the rows, but this wasn't rectangular or nicely shoveled, and a scattering of dirt was flung haphazardly at its edges. A tiny jolt of excitement jumped in his chest as the word graverobbers rose in his mind. Everyone had heard of these, but he'd never exactly gotten what one robbed from a grave. Did anyone really bury heirlooms with the dead anymore?

These thoughts rolled idly through his mind as he weaved through the white slabs to get a closer look. Yes… the dirt in tiny piles was indeed still dirt, and it had rained two days before. The hole had been dug since then. Approaching it, hand inching toward his camera-pack out of habit, he glanced at the headstone. Tsuushiro Ishima. She had become deceased this year. And been buried, perhaps, within the month; only juvenile blades of grass peered through the undisturbed soil. The buzz of excitement grew and he knelt by the hubcap-sized hole, squinting. The moonlight, of course, didn't touch it. He might as well have been staring into a vat of black paint. It was deep, though… perhaps six feet? Would his light reach that far?

He stood, set the lantern on Tsuushiro Ishima's headstone and lit it. Behind Tsuushiro Ishima's headstone, another grave was dug up, the hole wider and illuminated now with the small oil flame. The gleam of a polished coffin could barely be seen outlined within. Also behind Tsuushiro's headstone, directly between the two graves, a kneeling figure looked up.

Light momentarily forgot how to breathe. His throat constricted and burned.

The face staring at him from directly beyond the small lantern did not look surprised; it did not register any emotion at all, though its mouth moved slightly, chewing the strand of something long and glistening that dangled from its lips. Its skin was mottled and stretched wrongly over its cheekbones, dotted with dry abrasions and running streaks as if it were dry leather with old stains. Its eyes barely touched the light, so deeply were they sunk into its misshapen skull. Thin lips stretched from its visible gums, revealing a row of perfectly formed teeth. It didn't have a nose.

He'd fallen asleep. The thought came to him reassuringly, and he agreed with it. He was dreaming. He was not, in fact, staring down a zombie in the middle of Meiishima Cemetery.

But his body told him to run.

It took a moment to unlock his legs, and the moment stretched. His oil lantern flickered a little. The figure behind Tsuushiro Ishima's headstone stood up almost erect; it tilted slightly. Wet chunks dripped from its hands and fell to the pile over which it had crouched. Light's eyes slid of their own accord to the mess at its feet, crucified across the grass and glistening blackened orange in the lamplight. It was unmistakably the shredded remains of a human corpse.

Well, of course. Everybody knew zombies eat people. Was it their brains or their flesh…? He couldn't remember, and deliriously deliberated this as the thing took a slow, almost cautious step in his direction. His brain started up again and he felt his spine go rigid with fear. He turned, stumbled, and ran.

He'd barely gone the length of Tsuushiro Ishima's ruined grave before a skeletal hand caught his shirt and flung him to the ground. Damn but the thing was fast. And strong… he flung his hands in front of him to act as a feeble shield and felt them immediately locked in a bony vicegrip, brittle but steely fingers digging into his flesh with force that felt as if it might puncture. He was pinned brutally into the dirt, vision hazing for a moment as a rasp of foul breath hit his face, dank with rotting interior and the acidic flavor of blood still recognizable from the consumed corpse. He could see shreds of red flesh clinging to the dead thing's leathery skin.

It stared him down for a long moment as if waiting for the violent thrashings of a struggle, gelatinous eyes dull yet wary, like the motion-sensitive optics of a bird of prey. Light was still, out of fear or a sense of hopelessness in fighting or a subconscious, despotic curiosity he wasn't sure. The creature's hands on his arms felt clammy as if covered in a slippery film, and its body emitted the kind of heat created by decaying refuse. He avoided looking at its jellied eyes.

It suddenly twisted his arms painfully above his head; he felt them scrape across rock. His back heaved as he was pushed over the hole in Tsuushiro Ishima's grave, arms pinned against her headstone. Through the heightening giddy terror, Light let himself feel a moment of remorse and apology to poor Tsuushiro Ishima… even if she was lying in a state of mutilation several feel away, no one could enjoy having a dead photographer shoved into their earthy tomb. The hole was under his back, all his weight placed on his legs and the ironlike grip on his arms. He noticed, though, that the creature had released his arms, but he still couldn't move them: the same clammy wet feeling glued them to the stone. He didn't chance to look. The dead thing still stared at him fixedly, as if waiting, as if, perhaps, confused.

Light found himself wondering if it could talk, and if he could reason with it. Couldn't imagine how anything that ate a dead human had any mind to speak of, but it was worth a try…

The creature lurched to its feet, using the headstone for support, and loomed over him as if trying to look menacing. Light opened his mouth and drew the breath to speak, but it darted a bony hand to clutch his jaw with the same steel-trap grip, cutting him off to a choked gasp. It had to be thinking something, his mind insisted breathlessly as it darted around in his head. These weren't animalistic behaviors. But the presence of a mind behind that despicable face only made it so much more terrifying, and Light's guts heaved into his chest as the liquid eyes visibly wandered his body, perhaps sizing him up and finding him, sadly, lacking. Its skeletal hand tightened brutally over his mouth, smearing its sticky skin over his teeth and making him gag, choking on the gummy oil and his own spit. His eyes squeezed shut.

And then it was abruptly gone, the acrid, oppressive weight lifting from his taught limbs, trembling with the strain of keeping himself from falling into the grave. The wind chilled the wet, sticky film on his skin where it had touched him. Light had to fight with himself to open his eyes, darting them around to keep the beast in his sights. It had backed off a few feet, hunched over so that its knees crackled and its hands dragged in the dirt, and looked sullen. What? What the hell was it thinking? Did he not look edible enough? The creature turned its head to the side and let out a creaking, catlike yowl in the direction of the trees, and Light nearly cried- it had to be calling others, inviting them to share its prey. THINK, YAGAMI, THINK

He couldn't think. Light was going to die, he's going to die, he didn't want to die, god.

An answering scream, spine-grindingly inhuman, sounded from the treeline, and Light's eyes of their own accord darted to the side, seeing the dark moving shapes among the leaves, with the moonlight gleaming on their eyes.

The beast at his knees howled, and was joined by the others, their combined wails seeming to rattle the trees, and Light, his wrists still stuck fast to the headstone, couldn't bear to hear it, couldn't survive much more of the fear. His heart gave a shuddering lurch in his chest and he went slack, unconscious, with the skinless things circling his motionless form.

.X.

Beyond Birthday was a creature of sublime culture and impeccable tastes; he liked his meat rare and his coffee sweetened and a certain amount of light to filter through his sheer silver curtains at certain times in the afternoon. That last was important, because he usually painted anywhere from four in the evening to the early morning hours, and the varying degrees of sunset helped him watch his work progress.

He did not, however, paint often, as a result of an acutely distractable temperament. He simply got bored easily, and often. Most of his evenings were spent pursuing a variety of other pleasures.

Tonight was one of the vaguer outings, because he was restless. The sharp autumn bite in the air stirred his blood and made inertness seem detestable, which had led to a good hour of roaming around the house with the distinct sensation of cagedness. He'd eventually draped himself in a jacket—basic black, as usual, or who would believe he was an artist?—and walked downtown, letting the stagnant chill rake through the wild strands of his hair and whisper pleasantly through the thin fabric of his sweater.

He lived on the border of Shibuya district, the tall blocky mansion-homes of the wealthy suburban-folk who wanted status and serenity, yet still couldn't bear to be far from the dirty glamor nightlife upon which the city preyed. He enjoyed the parallel; Shibuya was the underside of Tokyo, full of teenagers who thought themselves jaded and adults trying desperately not to be, filling the streets with the ugly neon-lit grime under which he did his best work.

And the fact that it contained one of the largest gay districts in Japan was certainly not a disadvantage. Beyond's was a face well known on the Shibuya club scene.

Tonight, he and his destination knew each other well. Diabolos; a suitably ominous name that sounded even more foreboding when mispronounced on the Japanese tongue, was a large-enough nightclub built to mimic the darker Western pubs that he'd so loved in Europe. Modified, naturally, for the buzzed-up laser-light populace, it managed an odd, surreal blend of mahogany and glitter that he enjoyed, and it attracted a clientele that he enjoyed even further.

He was greeted halfway to the bar, though perhaps assaulted would be more fitting, with the patented sense of ego and sex appeal that only teenagers exuded. It was barely eight, but the sea of bodies already glistened with sweat- another circumstance he found fitting.

"B," the boy said, giving him a brief gift of human flesh sheathed in leather and sweat, disguised as a moderately sober hug. Here was a perfect example of the androgynous teenaged beauty that he admired so – slim hips and long limbs, and they way they looked under pale flashing lights.

"Mello," he replied simply, hooking an arm around the thin shoulders in greeting. A drink materialized in his hand instantaneously and mild observation yielded its carbon off-color, the hint of added chemical intrigue. You didn't make friends in places like these and expect not to be drugged at the first available opportunity. Beyond considered the lack of warning to be an intimately personal touch, and smiled to show his thanks.

The youth in his arms was older than he looked, or perhaps younger—age was a permanent lie in Shibuya. "Mello" was his attractive pseudonym, and Beyond preferred it to his real name if only for the mystery. Flaxen blonde, fair-skinned and overall distinctly Aryan, yet with an exotic grace and power that undercut his beauty with danger. Everyone knew him and everyone wanted him, which seemed to be all it took to make the boy's life whole.

"You're here early," he said to Beyond over the deep diaphragm hiss of the club's speakers. The underlying tone was "you're here, I thought perhaps you'd died." B liked to keep his visits sporadic to sweeten the impact—he'd been labeled eccentric since his first night in Tokyo, and he didn't have any problems with the image. It got him into places.

He shrugged, flowing through the shimmering masses to reach the bar and shake away the vertigo. "Got lonely."

Mello's sky-blue eyes positively sparkled, though whether more from humor or the delightful drugs surely coursing through his blood it wasn't clear. "I don't think you're the lonely type, B."

"Got bored, then," B conceded, swallowing his inexplicable cocktail. Definitely a bitter acidic tinge there… perhaps a hit of LSD. He wouldn't mind that at all, though he'd have to wait until the room started swimming to know for sure.

It didn't take long, though, and there was a pleasant blur in his vision by the time the boy spoke again. "Are you looking for a model?"

"Not tonight," said Beyond before he really thought about it. He loved painting Mello, but he'd never be able to concentrate on a night like this one. The buzz of energy was still pulsing in his fingers and his thighs, outpacing even the drum of drugs and music, willing him to get out and move around. He distinctly wanted to break something, and he set his glass safely on the bar before anything came of it. "I think I'm going to get going, anyway."

"Aw, you tease." Mello hopped up and perched on the bar to sulk in a classier position. Several of the seated patrons on either side of them turned to get a better view as his slim, bare midriff was suddenly rendered eye-level. "You disappear for weeks at a time and then you don't even dance with me. Half of Shibuya thinks you're a creep, you know," he added with no small amount of mischief, stressing the unspoken and the other half just keeps their mouths shut.

Beyond laughed lowly, marveling at the effect it had on his contentedly whirling brain. "They're right."

"I know." The blonde grinned, crossing one leather-clad leg over the other and swaying softly; not in time with the pounding music but with some more internal machination. God, but he was one pretty drug thug. "You're still welcome on my side of the quarter, though. Come by more often."

"I will." He wouldn't. Mello only smiled and gave him another brief hug, saying some vague generic farewells and a thinly-veiled invitation before disappearing into the crowd like smoke into rain. Watching him go, Beyond let his eyes slide once to the red glimmering halo that crowned the pale head.

Less and less every time they met. Beyond liked Mello, as far as teenagers went; he was clever and vicious, while at the same time admirably nihilistic. It was a shame that the boy would die so young.

No… no, he smiled dreamily, feeling the distancing of his mind from his blood. It wasn't. Mello was artwork. Beyond wouldn't want to spoil that burning beauty with the troubles of age.

He didn't leave immediately, shutting his eyes and watching the black pulse behind his skin. The drugs certainly weren't doing anything to calm his nerves, and masking his restlessness made him feel inherently dangerous. Perhaps he should have brought Mello home, after all. Now he didn't know what to do with himself.

"Are you alone?"

Ah, yes… sometimes he forgot how attractive he actually was. It stood to reason that once the prince of the club left his side, someone else would move in. Beyond let his eyes slide lazily open to appraise the new addition to his evening; not as young as Mello, but close, with dyed red hair and violent makeup slashed across a soft, pretty face. His lips melted into an acquiescing smile.

"Not anymore."

The boy smiled the smile of the unrejected, introducing himself by a false name. Beyond more or less ignored him, though the location of his gaze gave the illusion of interest, as he read the numbers dancing above the boy's face and internally did the math. Not tonight, nor tomorrow… but the number would be zero within a few days.

At first, soon after he'd figured out what the phantom figures actually meant, he'd been perplexed at how the ones with the lower numbers always seemed to gravitate toward him. As he'd grown and started to entertain lovers, the amount leapt substantial amounts. Typically, around half of the people who approached him were due to meet Death within a month. Eventually, though, he'd figured it out.

It was to instill a sense of opportunity in him. Beyond could be fulfilled in the knowledge that if he didn't kill them, something else would on the same hour. The wheels of their destinies turned in favor of the informed.

The conversation, for what it was, passed dazedly in B's mind. He kept ordering drinks for himself and his company, talking about something, art perhaps, and the boy's eyes gleamed when he heard "nude models," pleading silently for an invitation, and Beyond took his time to deliver.

Eventually – after a lengthy stall, by Diabolos standards – they slipped out the side together, eyes around them downcast but approving, if jealous. B was considered a catch nowadays, he figured, a story for his evening consorts to tell to their friends.

Would this one be telling any stories? Would any of the others?

B caught a cab, not wanting to bore the boy with a crisp walk back to his midsize suburban hovel, which was looked at with delight. His home didn't display any special amount of wealth, but it was elegantly tasteful, and it wasn't a dirty hotel somewhere, which were both points in its favor.

He offered his date a drink when they arrive, and continued to do so, the duty of any good host to ensure his guest's glass remains full as they enjoyed each other's company, and a few of his guest's numbers ticked by as his eyes began to dull.

.X.

Light's face was sunburned.

He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, trying to angle his face away from the damaging light. It was autumn, but the sky was cloudless today, and had been pouring sun on him for –… some time.

Everything inside him suddenly flared to life, a rolling tidal onslaught of hurt centering around his spine, which had been painfully angled. He curled, trying to stretch out the crippling cramp, and scraped his equally-reddened forearms, also propped toward the sky, against their rough granite support.

His eyes were blurred and there was a waterfall in his head. What…

He coughed, glancing up as he did so to painfully scan the area around him. The cemetery looked very different during the day, all waving trees and chirping birds. He might as well have been in someone's slightly unkempt backyard, not a nightmarish hole surrounded by…

There was nothing lurking amongst the trees. The hole in the ground that he'd partially fallen into was still there, but it wasn't as deep as he'd thought it was, only around two feet. There was a spot on the grass that looked a little dark, but there was no horror there, no bloodied mess, nothing.

Light made it to his feet, looking around with a dry mouth and hurting bones. His wrists felt matted, and he could see the dried remains of some organic waste, like a slug trail, circling them. He was damp from the drying morning dew.

"What?" He asked the bright grove, his voice creaking. It didn't give him an answer.

His camera wasn't around his waist. He found it lodged in the hole, which made his heart thump, but it was mercifully undamaged – that was the most expensive thing he owned! – and still in its case. Light scraped a hand over his eyes, trying to make sense of everything. Had it happened…? It must have, unless he could think of another reason he was passed out on a tampered-with grave, and he didn't feel hungover, so he couldn't.

He wasn't dead.

This thought took some precedence in his mind, staying there firmly as he picked his way back through the sprawling property and found his car, in the gravel drive where he'd left it. Inside, instinctively locking the doors, he took the moment to stare blankly out at the highway for a long time, hands loosely clenched on the wheel.

He tried not to think about it on the drive home, getting the feeling that thinking really wouldn't do him much good right now, but it was a long drive, and he chewed his lip even with the radio on as high as it would go. Should he call the authorities? Had he been assaulted? The graveyard was closed at night, so technically he'd been trespassing himself, but the gate didn't even have a lock. What in hell had those things been? Where had they come from? Were they the deceased of the cemetery, animated from their graves?

Why was he still alive?

He stopped halfway along the highway for gas and, draining a bottle of water while standing at the pump, tried some more not to think about it. He didn't like the direction his mind was going, as he eyed his camera in the passenger's seat apprehensively.

He knew he hadn't gotten any interesting shots, as it hadn't even been out of its case once in the evening, but if he had another chance… if he could get that on film, somehow capture the horror that he'd felt last night and display it to the world…

Well, he could quit his job at the newspaper, that was for sure.

Light cursed quietly under his breath. How the hell could he go back there, hell, even into any similar grove of trees, knowing those things were there somewhere, hidden between them? He remembered the refuse smell of rot too close to his skin, and the cracked-bone gore of a ripped body on the grass. This was danger, true danger, of a kind Light had never known before and knew nothing about. It wasn't worth it. He had to stay away, and warn others to do so as well.

He arrived at his empty home as morning ticked into afternoon, and spent another few minutes motionless behind the wheel, thoughts turning, before he went inside.