Pretty Things

A New England Tale

This story is based on an actual event. Names and places have been fictionalized.

Autumn winds howled relentlessly through the corridors of Wentworth Hall. The old dormitory had housed youths attending the university for almost a century. They often complained about the icy cold that found its way into the old structure, when skies turned grey with dark cloud, ushering in the harsh reality of a Massachusetts’ winter.

One of the new young inmates of Wentworth, Maurice Beeken, was tiny for his age. At seventeen, when all his peers had shot up in height and girth, Maurice had languished at a mere five foot, and weighed in at 125 pounds. His diminutive stature had been the cause of many a joke, and although he tried to brush off insensitive remarks, they did in fact hurt him.

October, in Blenhem, Massachusetts, brought with it, along with swirls of golden wind-blown leaves, a sense of eerie anticipation. A new academic year; teachers, new and old, freshman faces, and hazing. The town folks had long been accustomed to this yearly tradition. Older gentry frowned, but put up with the shenanigans and pranks. Some made sure that their doors were locked, shades drawn and lights turned down.

Maurice knew that he would have to take part in the initiation that was mandatory for a ‘new boy.’ To refuse, would have only added to the references of his small stature. What indeed had they planned for him? He nervously entered the great dining hall and sat with a group of new students. After a dinner of roast beef and buttered string beans, names were called out in alphabetical order. Maurice was the second name to be called. “Your task,,Maurice  Beeken, is to go to Blenhem cemetery after midnight. You will bring with you this large metal spike and hammer. When you go through the cemetery gates, you are to turn right and walk about five minutes to the non-consecrated grounds. You will come upon three large nameless gravestones. You will hammer the spike into the middle stone. We will check this in the morning, to make sure that you have fulfilled  your assignment..”   

A north east wind had blown off the Atlantic Ocean that evening, and the temperatures had become nothing less than bone chilling. Maurice sat in his sparse dormitory room wrapped in two sweaters and a scarf. Reading would help pass the time, and make the midnight hour come quicker. He listened to the clangs of the old church clarion, marking each passing hour, and at the stroke of midnight, he put an overcoat over his two sweaters, wrapping his long scarf firmly around his neck, leaving the two ends hang loosely over the back of his shoulders. He had heard stories of Blenheim cemetery. An area known for 17th century witch burials. The unconsecrated ground.

A cloud filled night did not allow for a moonlit journey. The quiet of the very early morning was interrupted only by an occasional hoot owl. Maurice made his way along the one main street leading from the university to Cemetery Road; about a twenty minute walk all told. The bitter cold wind hurt his forehead and cheeks, and he shielded his face with this warm woollen mittens. He could feel the large hammer thump in this pocket against his leg, with each step that he took.

The cemetery gate was slightly ajar, when Maurice arrived. Even without the proper lighting, he knew that he could use the iron railing to guide himself to the non-consecrated grounds. He turned right, entering a place that was known for  the agony of the restless spirits that inhabited this part of the burial grounds.

The three boulder type stones lay straight ahead, just as he had been told. A slight break in the clouds had allowed the moon to reveal their resting place. Reaching into his deep pant pocket, he grasped the heavy hammer with one hand, and from the pocket of his coat , produced the long metal spike. The moon had disappeared. Spike and hammer in hand, Maurice completed his task with all his might. Three heavy blows, and the spike was driven deep into the hard rock. He knew that his accomplished task would serve him in good stead with the other boys. Turning on his heels to retrace his steps along the guard rail, the thing that grasped him from behind, holding him back, made his senses reel. It had caught him by the neck causing him to choke. . He struggled violently as spittle ran down the corners of his mouth, and his eyes bulged in desperate fear.

After breakfast the following morning, when the task master, along with a few other seniors, made their way to the cemetery to check on the deed, they found Maurice on the ground, lying against the unmarked gravestone, his dead eyes bulging open, staring at nothing in the early morning mist. He had completed his task.

The ends of his scarf, had been hammered into the bolder - like stone.