The Burial of Swans

Edwin Duvall climbed the grandstands alone. Normally he and Joyce watched their grandson's little league games together, but his wife had taken ill. The stands mostly full, he took a seat next to a girl in a wide brim hat.  She didn't regard him, her head buried in a book.

Underneath the sounds of baseball, Edwin was alerted to a soft, frantic tapping. Too rhythmic to be natural, he looked next to him to find the girl drumming a stubby pencil over a crossword page. Upon closer inspection, it appeared she had just started. The puzzle was Sunday-edition complex, only a few blacked-out spaces and many long words. Edwin figured this was no little girl, she had to be much older than he first estimated.

Her tapping stopped abruptly. She cocked her neck towards him, although the wide brim of her hat still hid her face. Embarrassed, Edwin quickly looked away. She was right; he should be minding his own business.

A heat measuring scale

Her voice was waxy. Edwin knew the answer. He saw no harm in responding.

"Scoville."

She paused before scribbling the answer.

Scratch. Scratch.

Edwin recoiled at the noise of the friction between graphite and wood pulp. He was surprised that no one else around him seemed to hear the harsh sound that cut through the chatter of the field.

His grandson came to bat. Edwin clapped and leaned forward, the more nervous of the two. However, the woman next to him didn't regard his interest.

Cursed actress who they decapitated

His mind swam, distracted from the game. What kind of crossword was this?

Nine letters, forth letter S.

His grandson swung at strike one, but Edwin barely noticed.

"Mansfield."

Pause.

Scratch. Scratch.

For the final three innings, she sporadically read him clues in her toneless manner. It made him uncomfortable, but he politely answered each:

Crepuscular. Baal. Strychnine. Rubella...

Although not completing even half the puzzle, he quickly left after the last out, glad to be away.

***

The phone rang at two o'clock in the morning. Edwin was sleeping light as always when alone. He anticipated it to be the hospital. He hoped for good news, Joyce having been admitted overnight, but feared the worst. He picked up before the second ring.

"Hello?"

Silence. As he was about to hang up, a slippery voice, neither young nor old, spoke.

Those aroused by the night

Of course, he knew the answer.

"Nyctophilia."

Pause.

Scratch. Scratch.

Lovecraftian College

"Miskatonic."

Scratch. Scratch.

How love lost tastes

Edwin didn't answer. He wanted her to restate the clue, but she was too precise. He knew she read it word for word, no possibility for error. He hung up before she could ask it again.

***

The phone calls continued, both his wife's health and the crossword vying for his attention. Edwin had few answers concerning his wife, but he had all the answers for the waxen voiced woman.

Misanthrope. Asmodea. Regicide. Camus. Guillotine...

Sometimes she took a seat behind him in the café.

Dante's boatman, eight letters.

"Phleygas."

Scratch. Scratch.

Sometimes she appeared behind him in line at the market, her floppy hat, as always, pulled down over her face.

Moor murderer, Myra.

"Hindley."

Scratch. Scratch.

Sometimes she whispered to him when he fed the pigeons in the park.

Original sadist's final asylum

"Charenton."

It was as if his whole life had been lived to gather this otherwise useless trivia. He was only stumped by the one clue. She kept asking it, but despite more and more letters uncovered, he still didn't have the answer.

***

Joyce died on a Sunday. The phone rang often, but it was only family, friends, and the funeral home. Edwin expected her to call late at night, he even wished for it, but it was as if she and her crossword never existed.

After the funeral and maudlin reception, Edwin drove back to the cemetery. The setting sun fought through the trees spilling its dying light on the new headstone. He silently read it over and over until behind him, a glassy voice interrupted...

How love lost tastes

He didn't turn around rereading the headstone again, a lump rising in his throat.

-Here lies the beloved, Jocelyn (Swan) Duvall -

She asked again.

How love lost tastes. Thirteen letters, third and fourth letters 'P'...

He cut her off yelling the answer. However, there was no fulfillment or joy, only the taste of blood he couldn't erase from his memory. He fell to his knees grabbing at the loose sod as if he were to try and change places. Why did he have to know?

Scratch. Scratch.

Pain stabbing at his chest, Edwin whipped around intending to rip the hat off the Siren's head and look into those dead, rotting eyes. But she was gone, his crossword complete.