---
Chapter I
---
If there was one thing Stanley hated about funerals, it was that he hated to dress up for them. His collar was killing him, and he knew it.
There were actually several things Stanley detested about funerals, but if he had to name one, it would be the suit. No doubt. The place he had rented it from had starched this thing way too much, and it felt like walking around in a cardboard box. He could barely move, let alone stand in the hot August sun and feel comfortable. He was sweltering. Would the suffering never cease?
Still, he felt he needed to be as respectful as he could. He owed that much to the old man. He'd been Stanley's favorite uncle as a child, even if he was a great uncle. He'd been such a spry fellow too, always full of energy and humor, even as he got on in years. They'd lost touch as Stanley had grown up, yet he was impressed that his uncle had reached such a ripe old age before passing on.
Stanley wasn't grieving like some people were, but he still felt a bit of a tug to his heartstrings. He would miss the old man.
One reason this whole affair seemed off to Stanley was that this wasn't quite what his uncle had requested. He'd once told Stanley that he thought being buried at sea would be entertaining, but apparently had either changed his mind in later years or had been badgered by relatives for a more traditional burial, with a coffin and a priest and all the boredom that one could expect. It was more appealing to be thrown into the ocean; Stanley had mused to himself, than to be put in a box and sent six feet under. He preferred being eaten by fish than by worms.
Shrugging to try and get those images out of his head, he wiped some sweat from his brow and watched as they slowly lowered the casket into the ground. "Sorry, Uncle Yale," he whispered. "I hope this is what you wanted." And he sighed.
He really did hate funerals.
***
The reception afterward wasn't much better. Stanley had always been a bit uncomfortable at family gatherings, being a sort of black sheep in comparison. The occasion only made it worse. Weepy relatives, some he barely even knew, would come up and talk to him, and he felt like he was nine-years-old again with all their comments: how much he'd gown, how they hadn't seen him since he was in diapers, how his blond hair had darkened slowly over the years. Weird things like that. It was like they didn't realize he was a twenty-five-year-old man who really wished he wasn't here.
There were a few people he recognized, and while some he did his best to avoid – for instance, by ducking behind the buffet table – others he actively spoke to in order to catch up. His cousin Valerie was there, still as pretty as ever, and he got into a decent conversation with her about the times he'd visited her up in New York when they were kids. He'd never admit to her he'd had a small crush on her when he was twelve, but it amused him when he thought about it. He also saw his parents, who had come down from Connecticut to pay their respects. As usual, his mother was critical and his father was jovial, so things still seemed to be going well there. They told him they planned on going to Walt Disney World in October, and he was welcome to come along. Stanley doubted he could afford such a venture, but he told then he'd see what he could do.
But the most interesting encounter of the day was when he was getting some refreshments at the punch bowel. He happened to glance to his left as he was taking a sip and noticed an out-of-place shape among the black suits and veils of the gathering. It was a baseball cap, one that bore a picture of a grinning gargoyle on the back of it and the initials "GG & G" just below that. The person under the hat had bright red hair, and he wore an equally out-of-place blue Hawaiian shirt, with flowers and everything. Top that off with khaki shorts and a pair of flip flops, and even from behind Stanley was pretty sure he knew who it was.
Bemused, Stanley made his way through the group toward the man in question and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Martin?" he asked. "Is that you?"
The man addressed spun around quickly, revealing a youngish face and bright blue eyes behind a pair of geeky-looking glasses. Martin blinked for a moment, and then grinned. "Stan! Hey! Good to see you, cuz!" He enthusiastically took Stanley's hand and shook it.
Stanley hadn't seen Martin since they had been teenagers, but there was no doubt it was him. Martin was one of the most eccentric people he knew. He wasn't the sort to simply follow the beat of his own drum; he had to be the drummer and pound rhythms so sporadic that Gene Krupa would have been confused. He had an uncanny bit of charisma about him because of this, but he didn't always have the best sense of things, as evidenced by his choice of clothing on this occasion. Stanley had never understood Martin.
"You too," replied Stanley, his hand still being shook with such vigor that he had no control over it. He was beginning to wonder if he should have come and said hello at all. "It's been awhile. How have you been?"
"Pretty good, really," Martin replied, and Stanley noticed that Martin was talking to him and yet glancing in various directions, as if he were looking for something. Before Stanley could ask, Martin added, "Say, you haven't seen Uncle Yale around, have you?"
Stanley gawped a little. "Uh…"
"Ah, I'm not surprised," Martin seemed to conclude. "He's probably invisible. Ghosts tend to do that."
"Aha…Yeah. Ghosts." Stanley had nearly forgotten Martin's most bizarre fascination with the supernatural. He himself didn't believe in such, but Stanley decided to humor his poor cousin. "What makes you so sure Uncle Yale is a ghost?"
Martin adjusted his glasses, and Stanley knew some farfetched explanation was coming. "Well, to be honest, I'm not entirely sure. Sometimes a ghost lingers for a little while in order to make sure everything is going OK. There's been quite a few cases where a spirit has been seen at his own funeral, and I was just thinking that might be the case with Uncle Yale. You know how much he liked spooky stuff, eh?"
Stanley nodded. Yale had also been Martin's favorite uncle, and they used to spend time together with him when they were kids. One of the reasons Martin was so fond of the old man was that Yale was a font of ghost stories and superstitions. Martin ate that stuff up, and Stanley…Well, Stanley liked to think he was the sensible one. It was entertaining, sure. But there were no such things as ghosts.
"So I had just thought," Martin went on, "that maybe Uncle Yale would humor us with an appearance from beyond the grave. It seems like something he would do. But I haven't seen anything yet. You might want to keep your eyes peeled."
"I'll try," Stanley lied.
Martin grinned, displaying his set of oddly shiny teeth. "Cool, cool. But hey! I haven't seen you while! What are you doing these days, Stan?"
Stanley shrugged. "Oh. Nothing interesting. I'm working as a construction manager now, mostly for highways and things like that. It's not much, but it works."
Martin wrinkled his nose a little and nodded. "Yeah. Don't know how you'd manage something like that. I couldn't do it…What's so funny?"
Stanley turned his chuckle into a cough. Damn right you couldn't, he thought. "It's nothing, Sorry. Some punch when down the wrong pipe." He cleared his throat and took a sip of said punch, which tasted more like flavored water than anything fruity. "Anyway, what were you saying?"
"I was just going to ask if you're still living around these parts." Martin smiled and continued looking around in hopes of seeing something, oblivious to the sour looks he was getting from the other people there.
"Yeah, I'm still here," answered Stanley. "Louisiana's where I'm staying. You couldn't make me leave for good if you tried." He paused for a moment, than thoughtfully added, "What about you, Martin?"
"Hmm? Me? Well, I'm all over the place these days. I'm a reporter now. I write articles for a magazine and a website."
Stanley allowed a smile. "That's great. Who do you write for?"
Martin smirked and turned his baseball cap around so the gargoyle and the initials could be seen. "Ghoulish Ghosts & Graveyards! You might have heard of them. They're the biggest website dedicated to the weird and macabre out there! I've been a field journalist for them for three years now, and I've never regretted it!"
How Martin could be so enthusiastic about something like that, Stanley couldn't understand. It was all hogwash, anyway, and some people just took it too seriously. Still, if Martin was happy about it, then why was that a problem? Why did it seem to badger his ego? Was it because he thought he was superior to Martin?
He was more down-to-earth. Martin's head was always in the clouds. Therein lay the rift.
All he could manage was a weak nod. "Good for you. Always nice to have a line of work you enjoy."
Martin chuckled. "You betcha. So anyway, I really was hoping to see Uncle Yale before he passed on. I figured there would always be time for it, but he was getting on years."
"He turned a hundred a few months ago, if I recall," Stanley pointed out.
"Seriously? A hundred? Sheesh! Where have I been?" Martin's cheery nature seemed to dull a bit at that news, but not by much. "Had I known, I would have made the effort to get away from my writing and seen him."
Stanley patted Martin on the shoulder. "I know. I miss him too. We always regret not having taken that extra time, huh?"
For a third time, Martin's bespectacled gaze swept the reception space. "He can't be all gone," he whispered, and then a sly grin appeared on his face. "Not yet, at least. I know Uncle Yale. He wouldn't have left us without some sort of surprise."
Stanley, for the sake of Martin's feelings, didn't try to debunk him. After all, they were cousins and, to a degree, friends. But he hadn't seen Martin since he was seventeen, and his interests had changed.
Thankfully, the moment was interrupted by a woman who stepped up to them, with dark hair and a serious expression. "Mr. Vine? Mr. Ralkson?"
The cousins both turned to her. "That's us," Martin chimed. "What can we do for you, miss?"
The woman, who wore an outfit more befitting a business meeting than a funeral, leaned in close and spoke in hushed tones. "I'm Linda, Mr. Evens lawyer. I'm sorry for you loss."
A nod in response.
"I just wanted to inform you," she went on, "that your great uncle has included you both in his will, and the reading will take place soon after the reception. You'll both need to stay afterward. He requested that this all be kept private, so not everyone should know about it. So I would appreciate it if you kept this to yourselves."
"No problem," said Stanley, and Martin gave a small thumbs up in response, though his expression had paled a little. With that said, Linda moved away.
"I told you," Martin whispered, and he chuckled, but he didn't seem terribly pleased. In fact, neither did Stanley. And he couldn't quite place why.
***
The reading took place at Uncle Yale's home, a nice house that was somewhat off the beaten track. It stood on the edge of a marsh, and the fireflies were just beginning to stir on the edge of the property as those entitled to the will arrived. By the time the reception had cleared, the afternoon had been waning toward evening, and now twilight was settling over the property. Martin kept looking in the direction of the dark marsh and absently scratching at a bit of chin stubble he had. Stanley, for his part, just wanted to get the whole thing over with so he could go home and take his horrible suit off.
Quite a fair amount of the family was there, including his parents, his grandparents on his mother's side (his father's parents were both deceased), Uncle Terry, Aunt Jean, and the cousins: himself, Valerie and Martin. There was also an older, hawkeyed fellow who said he was a close friend of Yale's. Compared to everyone, family and friends, who had been at the reception though, this was small.
They had all gathered in the well-furnished sitting room, a high window in the back offering a view of the landscape outside. Linda, who still radiated an aura of rather soulless business and seriousness, was reading off the names of everyone who would be included in the will, making sure all were in attendance. Stanley couldn't help but notice Martin was still casting his eyes about hopefully, and it was a wonder to Stanley how someone like Martin could hold his own in the world and still be so governed by folktales.
"Good. I think everyone's present and accounted for," stated Linda, and she looked over the top of her glasses at everyone as if she were sizing them up. Then she produced a sealed envelope. "I had specific instructions not to look at this until everyone mentioned was able to hear it, so I do not know what this contains."
"Don't must people have video wills these days?" Valerie inquired, and she glanced at Stanley. He shrugged.
The older, hawkeyed man grunted. "Yale was an old fashioned kinda guy. He'd prefer it like this."
Linda slit the envelope neatly open with a long, glossy nail and produced the will, which she read aloud. "Alright then…To my survivors. Sorry to leave you all in such a state, but it's inevitable that I go at some point. One doesn't live to be my age and not expect the creek to rise on them. So it is only thoughtful that, before I go, I leave my earthly possessions to the few people in this world I actually liked."
That produced a chuckled from the collective. Yale had always been a bit reclusive, hence why he probably would have lamented at his own funeral for all the busybodies that showed up. Stanley had always liked that about him.
The reading went fairly quickly and with each survivor receiving something significant from Uncle Yale. Stanley's parents were given the old grand piano ("I know how much Ruth loves to play music.") plus a fair amount of cash. The grandparents received all of his mint dishware and silverware, including the fine china ("This is antique stuff, so be careful with it!"). Uncle Terry and Aunt Jean got his vintage 1940's Royce ("Be REALLY careful with that one, alright you two? I've kept it in good shape all these years."), and Valerie was bestowed five acres of open land in Missouri ("It's high time you headed back south, young lady!"). The hawkeyed man, who's name was learned as Abner, got the house they were all sitting in ("because you were always complaining about how nice my house was compared to yours, you can keep the damn thing.").
It soon came to Martin. Linda looked up at him, blinked as her expression remained coolly neutral, and then returned to the will. Martin sat back on the couch he was sharing with his cousins and smiled.
"To Martin," the lawyer read, and it was strange to Stanley hearing words that Uncle Yale would have said coming from another person's mouth. "You've always been a fun guy. I must say, I admire your optimism and sense of character. You know what you want in life, and you're not worried what other people think. I may be totally off the mark here, but that's always what I've thought of you. I know how much you enjoy reading. And I hope that, by the time you hear this, you're still into all those ooky-spooky tales. I hereby leave you with my entire collection of books, including all of the ghost stories I've compiled over the years. Have fun with them."
Stanley glanced across at Martin. He looked like Christmas had come early. It didn't seem like much, but to Martin, it must have been huge. He kept opening his mouth and closing it, trying to find words that weren't there. Finally he grinned and sat back, pulling his baseball cap low over his eyes, probably to hide the waterworks that were starting.
"Lastly, to Stanley," Linda pressed on, and Stanley watched the lawyer with interest. What could Uncle Yale possibly want to give him, when it seemed all the most treasured possessions of his deceased great uncle were had already been given to everyone else.
"Compared to a lot of people I know, you're as sensible as they come. That's a rarity in my book, and you should guard it well. However, don't be afraid to lighten up a little. You always struck me as being a bit serious, and I hope you temper your will with some positivism. It's because of your nature that I have something special in mind for you."
Pausing, Linda's eyes scanned the will, and then she produced a second envelope, which was addressed to him in Uncle Yale's handwriting.
Stanley stood, a little awkwardly, and crossed the room to take the envelope. He stared at it for a moment, then with deliberate slowness opened it and studied the contents.
It contained to folded strips of paper. One was dusty and yellowing with age, and Stanley thought it might fall apart in his hands. He put it back in and instead drew the other, folded slip of paper. Setting the envelope down on a coffee table, he unfolded the letter. It read:
I, Yale Evens, hereby bestow upon my great nephew, Stanley Vine
legal ownership of the Gracey Family Estate in New Orleans, including
on the property the Gracey mansion, the mansion grounds, and the
family cemetery. Hence forthwith, he will be considered master of
this estate and disposed to all the legal rights of any previous
owners, including the perpetual waiver of taxes to the estate.
Below this was a small footnote, apparently intended for him:
Keep your head, and keep a stiff upper lip!
~Uncle Yale