Read Online Make them Cry by Keven O’Brien - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Keven O’Brien
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metal door was heavy, but swung open easily. A button fixed to the door frame triggered the catacomb lights—a series of bare, low-watt bulbs that hung several feet apart from a cable down the center of the tunnel-like cavern. A few of the bulbs had burnt out. Jack directed his flashlight at the dusty cement floor. More shoe prints.
He couldn’t believe that anyone in their right mind would want to have sex in such a god-awful, creepy place. Then again, these were horny teenage boys. They entered this place with a friend, a sex partner, and it was an adventure.
Jack figured that he must be the crazy one, sneaking down here alone at night. He trained his flashlight toward an alcove on his right. Floating dust caught in the beam of light like tiny moths. In the alcove, a cement crucifix served as the grave marker for a priest who had lived from 1872 until 1921.
Jack moved deeper into the recesses of the catacombs, all the while aiming his light on the trail of shoe prints. They bypassed a number of alcoves on either side of him. With a glance over his shoulder, Jack checked the door in the distance behind him, but he could barely see it anymore.
He followed the shoe prints as they diverted from the dimly lit center pathway. A niche on his left seemed to be the lure. Jack pointed the miniflashlight on a long slab of marble, two feet high. The marker for the final resting place of Monsignor Thayer Swann (1859–1931) almost looked like a bed. A couple of burnt-out votive candles had been left at the foot of the slab. Jack picked up one of the votives. The candle was pine scented.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something shiny behind the head of the stone. Jack trained the light on it. Bursting at the seams, a black plastic trash bag had been crammed between the catacomb wall and the head of that grave marker.
Jack nudged the trash bag with his toe. It felt soft. He unfastened the twist-tie. Inside the bag were two pillows and an old, pale blue comforter. The boys weren’t exactly roughing it down here, with their scented candles and soft bedding. And Monsignor Swann wasn’t complaining.
Jack started to shove the bedding back into the plastic bag, then he heard something. It sounded like a door shutting. But it couldn’t have been the door to the catacombs; the lights would have gone out.
Quickly, Jack tied up the bag. He started to pull out the tiny flashlight again, but he heard another noise—louder this time. He dropped his light on the dusty floor. It illuminated the side of the marble slab and a series of rust red specks. Something had splashed on the side of the grave marker, something that looked like blood.
Jack remained very still for a moment. He waited for another sound, but didn’t hear anything.
He took one last look at the dried crimson stains, then ducked out of the alcove. In the dim light, he couldn’t see the door at the far end of the cavern. On either side of him were the shadowy grave sites, one after another. “Is anyone there?” Jack called. He heard a tiny scraping sound; it could have been a rat or something upstairs. The acoustics in the place were crazy.
Jack started walking faster toward the open doorway ahead. But he stopped in his tracks as a large shadow swept across the wall. “Who’s there?” he called.
No answer, not a sound.
He moved toward the open door. The shadow continued to dance across that wall in a rhythmic pattern. Then Jack saw it was one of the hanging lights, the second from the doorway, swaying back and forth. He wondered why none of the other lights were moving. Why just that one?
“I know someone’s here,” he announced, stepping toward the door. The shadows and light kept rippling against that wall. “Talk to me,” he said.
Again, no response.
Jack emerged from the catacombs. He was almost relieved to see old, demonic-looking St. Joseph again. He pulled at the door. “I’m locking up,” he said out loud. “If anyone’s
He couldn’t believe that anyone in their right mind would want to have sex in such a god-awful, creepy place. Then again, these were horny teenage boys. They entered this place with a friend, a sex partner, and it was an adventure.
Jack figured that he must be the crazy one, sneaking down here alone at night. He trained his flashlight toward an alcove on his right. Floating dust caught in the beam of light like tiny moths. In the alcove, a cement crucifix served as the grave marker for a priest who had lived from 1872 until 1921.
Jack moved deeper into the recesses of the catacombs, all the while aiming his light on the trail of shoe prints. They bypassed a number of alcoves on either side of him. With a glance over his shoulder, Jack checked the door in the distance behind him, but he could barely see it anymore.
He followed the shoe prints as they diverted from the dimly lit center pathway. A niche on his left seemed to be the lure. Jack pointed the miniflashlight on a long slab of marble, two feet high. The marker for the final resting place of Monsignor Thayer Swann (1859–1931) almost looked like a bed. A couple of burnt-out votive candles had been left at the foot of the slab. Jack picked up one of the votives. The candle was pine scented.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something shiny behind the head of the stone. Jack trained the light on it. Bursting at the seams, a black plastic trash bag had been crammed between the catacomb wall and the head of that grave marker.
Jack nudged the trash bag with his toe. It felt soft. He unfastened the twist-tie. Inside the bag were two pillows and an old, pale blue comforter. The boys weren’t exactly roughing it down here, with their scented candles and soft bedding. And Monsignor Swann wasn’t complaining.
Jack started to shove the bedding back into the plastic bag, then he heard something. It sounded like a door shutting. But it couldn’t have been the door to the catacombs; the lights would have gone out.
Quickly, Jack tied up the bag. He started to pull out the tiny flashlight again, but he heard another noise—louder this time. He dropped his light on the dusty floor. It illuminated the side of the marble slab and a series of rust red specks. Something had splashed on the side of the grave marker, something that looked like blood.
Jack remained very still for a moment. He waited for another sound, but didn’t hear anything.
He took one last look at the dried crimson stains, then ducked out of the alcove. In the dim light, he couldn’t see the door at the far end of the cavern. On either side of him were the shadowy grave sites, one after another. “Is anyone there?” Jack called. He heard a tiny scraping sound; it could have been a rat or something upstairs. The acoustics in the place were crazy.
Jack started walking faster toward the open doorway ahead. But he stopped in his tracks as a large shadow swept across the wall. “Who’s there?” he called.
No answer, not a sound.
He moved toward the open door. The shadow continued to dance across that wall in a rhythmic pattern. Then Jack saw it was one of the hanging lights, the second from the doorway, swaying back and forth. He wondered why none of the other lights were moving. Why just that one?
“I know someone’s here,” he announced, stepping toward the door. The shadows and light kept rippling against that wall. “Talk to me,” he said.
Again, no response.
Jack emerged from the catacombs. He was almost relieved to see old, demonic-looking St. Joseph again. He pulled at the door. “I’m locking up,” he said out loud. “If anyone’s
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