The Old Blog in the Desert

He was looking forward to a chilled tumbler of Scotch, his deep recliner and  newest book, ‘The Call of Cthulhu and Other Stories,’ by H. P. Lovecraft, as he, the night manager, turned the key in the restaurant’s backdoor lock. He had two days off and looked forward to the coming respite.

Hobarth Stonegrinder lived only a mile away, less if he took the short-cut that led through the local cemetery. Since he was in a hurry, and since it looked like it might storm, he quickly walked to the corner and up the hill into the cemetery.

He was a quarter of the way through the quiet place when he heard a set of voices coming from behind him somewhere in the absolute darkness. He quickened his pace as he heard a louder voice say, “There’s one now. Get it!”

Hobarth took off at a sprint, fearful that some smart-aleck kids were intending to run him down and do whatever kid’s do to people they found in graveyards. Ten, 20, 30 steps – and suddenly the earth fell out from under Hobarth and he toppled into space.

The fall had been into a recently dug grave site, left half uncovered and completely unseen by the now dazed Hobarth. He had slammed into the packed clay with both knees and smashed his face into the side of the hole, barely missing the thick plywood that lay at an odd angle across the far end of the fracture.

Gathering his senses, he moved into the deeper darkness of the well provided by the cover of the plywood. There, Hobarth Stonegrinder huddled, listening to the voices as they searched about, trying to find him.

He quickly glanced at the luminescence of his Timex: 12:41. It was practically the only light available at the moment.

His nose began to throb and he felt the area, realizing he was bleeding, “Must have happened when my face hit the side.”

Whereas he had been certain he’d heard footfalls mashing down and swishing through the dew shrouded grass surrounding his accidental hide-away, all sounds had died away, save for the frogs which joyfully chirped their night-songs in the distance. Hobarth took this to mean that the ‘coast is clear,’ since the rhythm of the frogs appeared totally undisturbed.

Quietly, Hobarth created foot-and-hand holds in the compacted dirt wall before him. He eased himself up until he could reach out and grab a fist full of grass with his right hand.

With his hold secure, he shot his left hand out, grabbing for another clump of grass. Instead his hand seized on something canvass and as he realized what it was, it was too late.

As he thought, ‘shoe,’ a piercing scream of unbridled terror cut through the dark, with the unmistakable words, “It’s alive!” close behind, followed by a multitude of bright and white and yellow flashing stars. Hobarth Stonegrinder had not seen either the person nor the foot to which the shoe belonged, as they violently lashed out with a well-placed punt.

Nor did Hobarth know that his body had arched backwards from the unseen blow, causing him to clock the back of his head on the cock-eyed board that half-covered the empty well, as he helplessly flopped back into its depths. For the next few hours, he slipped in and out consciousness, never becoming fully aware of either time or place.

He was shivering with a damp coldness and was completely soaked as he tried to open his eyes. He couldn’t tell if he were blind or if he simply had dirt caking them closed.

He gently felt them; puffy and as sensitive as an egg souffle. He further felt his plugged nose and realized it was like the thick end of an uprooted tree stump.

It was raining, how long he couldn’t even think clear enough to hazard a guess. But it was enough to fill the bottom of the hallow with at least an inch of water and leave his black suit, white shirt and black tie both soaked and stained a muddy brown.

Slowly, Hobarth sat up, having to rest his left hand on the side of the crater to steady his swooning head. The violent twisting of his balance threatened to toss him back into the mud as he rose, still leaning on the wall, to his feet.

Dizziness over took Hobarth Stonegrinder as he stood holding the dirt side of the chamber, then he heaved violently, but nothing came up. He stepped back under the board and leaned in the corner.

With time and more rest, he grew stronger and more confident that he could finally make it out of the vacuity. Again, he placed his feet and hands in the previously dug-out holds and lumbered upward.

He threw his right arm over the lip of the grave, grasping a large clump of grass and pulled. It took much of his strength as he clawed for another handful of grass, dragging himself further out of the cavity.

To his surprise, before him stood a man, leaning on a shovel waiting to begin his work day. Having not spoken for several hours, the first sound to come from his throat was not the word, ‘help’ as he intended, but more like an ‘ack.’

The working man jumped and spun following the unhuman sound. He cried in his native tongue, “¡Jesús sálvame!,” and after witnessing too many ‘dia de los Muertos,’ as a child, using the flat-edged spade as a weapon, slammed it on top of Hobarth’s barely visible head.

The blow, dropped Hobarth into the bottom of the cistern as if he were a sack of unwanted bricks and with as much gravitational force. As for the man with the shovel, he raced away in an unholy terror and before his supervisor could learn what had scared the otherwise stoic man.

When Hobarth next awoke he was puzzled about where he was. “You’re in the hospital,” a nurse told him as he attempted to ask after realizing his tongue was half-bitten off.

“You’re in Intensive Care,” she said, “With a skull fracture, a broken nose and a double-concussion, among other injuries. Now get some rest.”

After she left, Hobarth, shifted slightly, wiggling further down into his fresh and clean bedding, and finally relaxing, enjoyed the softness of the pillow beneath his shattered and scabbed, but stapled head, dozing off. Hobarth Stonegrinder’s respite didn’t last long, as another nurse came to his bedside, a large medicine-filled syringe in her gloved hand.