The Midnight Mess Trilogy: Part 2 (Morning Mess)

The cemetery lay silent beneath a cold moon that skipped in and out from behind dark clouds that raced along on a risk November wind. Below, the muffled sound of digging echoed into the night. A man stood knee-deep in an excavation among the flat plainly-marked graves, anxiously sinking his spade into the soft earth and tossing it onto a growing pile beside him. Every so often, the man would stop his work, listen and then hearing nothing, continue digging.

SWEENEY: "I thought there was something screwy about this whole set-up. Right from the beginning, I felt it. Now I'm going to find out for sure."

The man furiously spaded the black loam out of the veer-deepening hole, all the while mumbling to himself.

SWEENEY: "'The Grateful Hoboes' Society'! Hmmph! It smelled funny from the start. An experienced reporter learns to sense these things. And I sensed it that first day. At the press conference in the mayor's office."

'I remember how pompous old Mayor Merk stood before us and wheezed out his announcement.'

MERK: "Gentlemen! Our fair city has long had the problem of disposing of it's derelicts and homeless ones who pass away with no friends or relatives to properly bury them. Heretofore, these wretched unfortunates have been laid to rest by our city in potter's fields maintained by your taxes. Now, this sad responsibility has been taken out of your city's hands. Gentlemen, may I present Felix J. Copehard, representative of 'The Grateful Hoboes' Society', who will tell you of the wonderful offer his organization has made. The offer I have graciously accepted. Mr. Copehard.

'I remember shifty-eyed Mr. Copehard, smiling, soft-spoken.'

COPEHARD: "Gentlemen, 'The Grateful Hoboes', Outcasts and Unwanted Layaway Society' - 'The Grateful Hoboes' Society' for short - was formed by a group of successful business and professional men who felt that they owed a debt of gratitude to this fair city. All the members of this organization came to this city as down-and-outers, drifters, derelicts, or just plain bums. But here, they found opportunity. Here, they found financial success. And so, in gratitude, they have banded together to aid and endow other drifters and unwanteds. They have purchased a small parcel of land in one of our city's suburbs. Landscaped it and have turned it into a cemetery. A beautiful cemetery where the poor outcasts who have not been as fortunate as they may be laid to final rest in dignity when they pass from our mortal world. 'The Grateful Hoboes', who prefer to remain anonymous, have created an endowment fund, through mutual contributions, with which all funeral and cemetery upkeep expenses will be met. No longer will your taxes be needed for this purpose. No longer will shoddy potter's fields mar the beauty of our fair city's surrounding countryside. No longer will..."

'Yes, it smelled funny, alright. I remember listening to Mr. Copehard rave on, expounding upon the wonderful group of philanthropists he represented and I remember finally asking...'

SWEENEY: "My question, Mr. Copehard, is: Why should a group of rich men suddenly become concerned about some derelicts' funerals?"

COPEHARD: "I explained, sir. All of these men..."

SWEENEY: "Yes, yes, they were all once bums themselves. You explained that. But why wait until these derelicts die before helping them? Couldn't the money be put to better use by rehabilitating them while they are alive?"

COPEHARD: "'The Grateful Hoboes' are all self-made men, sir. They received no help when they were down. The present condition of the derelict in our city does not concern these men. Let the derelict rise up as they have done. But when the derelict can no longer rise up, when he passed on, then let him be raised in final rest."

SWEENEY: "I still don't get it."

'I remember attending that first funeral and seeing 'The Grateful Hoboes' Society's' cemetery for the first time.'

REVEREND: "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."

MAN: "Nice place, Sweeney!"

SWEENEY: "Yeah, beautiful. It almost pays to die penniless."

'And I remember in the years that followed, returning from time to time and seeing the rolling lawns with the simple grave markers.'

SWEENEY: "How come no grave mounds?"

OLDER MAN: "I only work here, mister. The Society says this is the modern way a cemetery should look. So I do like they say."

'But after a while, the work of 'The Grateful Hoboes' Society' became stale news and I turned to other things. Then, this morning, my editor called me in.'

EDITOR: "Sweeney, you covered the opening of 'The Grateful Hoboes' Society's' cemetery for outcasts and unwanteds, didn't you?"

SWEENEY: "Yeah, chief. What's up?"

EDITOR: "Well, according to the Obit Department, they're burning the thousandth derelict today. Take a run out and cover it for us, huh? It ought to be worth a paragraph or two."

SWEENEY: "Sure, chief. Hey, did you say the thousandth derelict?"

EDITOR: "Yeah, why?"

SWEENEY: "But that's impossible! It could't be."

EDITOR: "Why couldn't it? It's been almost seven years. This is a big city. We got a lot of bums."

SWEENEY: "You don't understand, chief. I'll see you later."

'So I drove out there this morning.'

MAN: "Something I can do for you?"

SWEENEY: "I'm Sweeney from The Globe. Come out to cover the funeral today."

MAN: "Oh! I see. Well, the gravediggers are over there now, preparing the grave."

SWEENEY: "I'll just mosey over and watch, if you don't mind."

'I watched them dig the six foot hole.'

GRAVEDIGGER #1: "Okay, that's it!"

GRAVEDIGGER #2: "And just in time, too. Here they come."

'I watched the whole ceremony. A few derelict friends of the departed one had come along to pay their last respects to their fellow.'

REVEREND: "Lower the coffin."

DERELICT'S FRIEND #1: "He wash a shwell feller."

DERELICT'S FRIEND #2: "...*schniff*..."

'After the ceremony, the gravediggers returned and shoveled the dirt back into the hole and mounted it up neatly.'

GRAVEDIGGERS: "There. That'll do. C'mon!"

SWEENEY: "Hmmm..."

'After the gravediggers left, I stood a while looking out over the rolling lawns with the simple markers and the new fresh grave-mound jutting out like a sore thumb.'

SWEENEY: "That's strange. Very strange."

'I started pacing. I paced along the gate on the west side of the cemetery. Then I paced along the gate on the north side.'

SWEENEY: "I'm right. I know I'm right!"

'I went back to the car. I started scratching away on my memo-pad, figuring.'

SWEENEY: "Just what I thought. There isn't enough area in that cemetery for a thousand graves."

'There was something fishy about this set-up. I knew it. I took a last look at the single mound amid the greenery.'

SWEENEY: "They must be stacking them! One above the other! Unless..."

'And drove to the nearest shopping section. I stopped at a hardware store.'

SWEENEY: "I'd like to buy a spade."

'I drove back to the cemetery and hid my car. I scaled the fence, picked a hiding place and waited, watching it grow dark.'

SWEENEY: "I'll find out. I'll find out what this is all about."

'And then something happened. Something weird and frightening. The mount, the single grave-mound, sunk down into the earth. Sunk down until it was level with the surrounding grass.'

SWEENEY: "Good lord."

The cemetery lay silent beneath a cold moon. The muffled sound of digging echoed into the night. The man mumbled to himself as he dug furiously.

SWEENEY: "So I'll find out what this is all about. I'll find out. Why should a grave mound just sink down? Just vanish? Why?"

The sound of metal striking metal reverberated in the deep hole the man had dug. He looked around, confused.

SWEENEY: "Metal? That's funny! The coffin was wood. And...hey! I'm a good six feet down. I should have hit the coffin long ago. This isn't the coffin!"

The man cleared the soil away from the metal floor of the grave.

SWEENEY: "The coffin is gone! This...this is a door! A door that opens downward!"

The man stood up in the grave. He stared at the old house nearby, beyond the cemetery gates. There were lights on inside it, shining shaded windows.

SWEENEY: "Now I get it. Now I get it! 'The Grateful Hoboes'-"

Suddenly, the metal floor beneath the man's feet collapsed and he plummeted downward.

COPEHARD: "Good evening, Mr. Sweeney. I thought I heard you knocking."

SWEENEY: "Copehard!"

COPEHARD: "It is too bad that you discovered our little secret, Mr. Sweeney."

SWEENEY: "This is how you can bury a thousand bodies in a cemetery that couldn't hold six hundred."

COPEHARD: "Exactly, Mr. Sweeney. And now, if you will lead the way, minding this gun I have here, I will show you our intricate underground network."

SWEENEY: "But why? Why all this?"

COPEHARD: "As a matter of fact, Mr. Sweeney, we got the idea from a comic magazine. Notice that there is a steel trap door beneath each grave location. All this eliminates digging, you see."

SWEENEY: "That's why the mound sink down! You say you got the idea from a comic magazine?"

COPEHARD: "Yes. A horror magazine. 'Tales from the Crypt', I believe. In it was a story called 'Midnight Mess'. Up those stairs, please."

SWEENEY: "'Midnight Mess'? What was it about?"

COPEHARD: "It was about an organization of vampires who established a restaurant where they could get the blood they needed. Through that door, please."

SWEENEY: "The Grateful Hoboes are vampires?!"

COPEHARD: "Oh, no, Mr. Sweeney. We merely applied the story to our own needs. All we did was buy this house and...in there, please."

SWEENEY: "Good lord!"

There were twenty or thirty of them sitting about the huge banquet table, patting their mouths with their napkins.

COPELAND: Meet the 'Grateful Hoboes', Outcasts and Unwanted Layaway Society', Mr. Sweeney. We are what our initials stand for."

SWEENEY: "...*choke*...G.H.O.U.L.S.?!"