The Giggler Learns to Dance - Shortlisted - Open Novella Contest 2020

Chapter Eight - Birds of a Feather

Chapter Eight

Birds of Feather

Alice was not surprised to find that Topher was right. The gates of Glasnevin Cemetery were slightly ajar, a fact which did little to settle her anxiety. The chain was hanging loosely off of the lefthand gate.

"What if there's someone else in there?" She said in a hushed undertone. 

The stone arches over the wrought-iron gates were lit by winking streetlamps and in the silence, Alice could just about make out the sound of the music from the band in the Square, turning tinny and shrill before cutting off altogether.

She looked down to see that that the hairs on the back of Topher's neck have risen. 

"Then we brave it," Topher, the nine-year-old with more courage than sense said as though this was the only logical next step. The Giggler took Alice's hand, interlacing his fingers with hers, giving her a nervous but somehow reassuring smile. 

"Then we brave it," Alice agreed, taking the first step through the cemetery gates. 

When they stood at the graveside of the closest graves, an obvious problem became apparent. The graves seemed endless, a sea of misshapen headstones that surrounded them on all sides. Or they would have been if it wasn't sure the glass-fronted visitor's centre, offering information about the internments. Like the rest of the town, the lights were still on and gentle lamp-posts were now littered throughout the graveyard. Just like the rest of the town, there wasn't a single adult to be seen. 

Alice couldn't fathom the number of people who must be buried here. It had to be in the millions, perhaps. The horizon of headstones seemed to go on for miles.

Perhaps if it had been earlier in the evening, she would have felt her stomach sink and the defeat would settle into her shoulders. This Halloween night had been bizarre and was not even halfway over, but she knew that the boy and man on either side of her were her friends and she was not alone.

Topher held out a hand to Alice and she handed him the folded up information sheet from the museum. He laid it out flat on the tarmac path at the beginning of the graveyard trail, under a lamp-post. He examined the sheet for several moments, biting his lip to the point of drawing blood. Alice crouched down next to him whilst the Giggler fidgeted clumsily with the hem of his suit jacket, watching the gates fearfully.

Alice read over Topher's shoulder, trying not to cast a shadow over the discoloured page. 

The Dance Necromancer is a mythical figure long since associated with County Dublin and the nearby town of Ryndale. Though his origins are unknown, he has largely been believed to be the Dublin man, Jeremy Bloom, known for the brutal murder of his younger brother on Halloween night or as it is also known, Samhain, in 1911. After the death of Bloom's brother, it was several years before anyone saw or heard from him, as he fled from the law. When he emerged into society in the early 20s, Bloom established himself as a conman, thief, and smuggler of underground Dublin City, sporting a top hat with a soon-to-be infamous purple sash. He is thought to have committed a further fifty murders during the remainder of his lifetime.

There was more, of course. Details of the brutal murder of the Mance's brother and who his parents had been. It was the name that had struck Alice dumb. Jeremy Bloom. The Mance was once just an ordinary man, not a magical, all-knowing being. She forced herself to read down the page, to the section marked Death and Myths.

Although Jeremy Bloom is considered to have lived a long life as one of Dublin City's most notorious gang leaders until his late seventies, his memory has traveled beyond that of a petty criminal. It has been reported that from the first Samhain after his death, rare sightings of top hats began to litter the town of Ryndale, the original home of Jeremy Bloom. Since then, the public of Ryndale has also been reporting enticing and inescapable music haunting their dreams, leading to uncontrollable dancing for some. This has been reported each year, leading to the myth of the Dance Necromancer. To this day, the town of Ryndale leaves offerings of replica top hats outside of their homes, often in lieu of traditional Halloween decorations. Many believe that this action will keep them safe from the murderous wrath of Jeremy Bloom's spirit.

Alice froze when her eyes reached the final line of the sheet at the same time Topher did. He grinned like a cat. 

The remains of Jeremy Bloom are interned at Glasnevin Cemetry in Dublin, within St. Brigid's Garden.

"Bingo," Alice whispered and Topher smiled. 

"Let's go, guys," Topher declared, looking up at the signpost for the direction of St. Brigid's Garden. 

The pathways within Glasnevin Cemetry were well paved and clean, only strewn with yellow and orange leaves from the few trees that lined the pavement. It took longer than Alice would have anticipated to walk to St. Brigid's Garden. The Giggler followed behind Topher and Alice, still apprehensive and fidgety. Alice wondered if she should ask him if he was okay, but decided against it. Putting him under more pressure to speak might be the opposite of helpful as the act seemed to strain him so greatly. 

"What exactly are we hoping to find? What clues to a top hat will be at an old grave?" Alice asked Topher, eyeing up the flock of ravens that were seemingly following them, perching on headstones, creating a guard of honour. Or more likely, of horror. 

"I don't know," Topher admitted. "It seemed as good a place to start as anywhere else." 

He stops under the nearest lamp-post and casts a glance over the sheet once more. Alice's spied the small image next to the statement that the Mance was buried here. It is a minuscule map of the graveyard. His plot is circled and marked to be number twenty-eight. Thankfully, they locate the plot within minutes. 

The grave shows its considerable age. The headstone has sunken into the earth and the ground over the grave is covered by cracked slates and has depressed into the ground. It is the limestone statue behind the grave that is unnerving. A tall, towering man stands with both arms outstretched as if greeting an adoring audience. In his left hand, a concrete top hat is perched. The statue is covered in white carbonated spots and speckled with moss. Still, the likeness is undeniable. 

Alice turned to show the Giggler but found him curved in on himself and whimpering, some steps away. 

She had not taken more than two steps toward him when a high-pitched cackle shattered through the night air and she fell to the ground in fright, clapping her hands over her ears.

"Well, well, Cottontail, you've found my resting spot," It is the unmistakable croon of the Mance. 

Alice looked all around, tugging Topher close with a jerk. She saw nothing. Nothing, but even more, birds landing all around them. There were crows and several magpies. More were soaring over them in a tornado of black wings. 

The Giggler looked up at her, his eyes are red and filled with anguish.

"He's...coming.." He bleated weakly.

With a single, razor-sharp talon, a magpie swept down from the sky and sliced Alice's cheek open. 

A peel of murderous laughter sounds throughout the air. 

Word Count: 1294

A/N:

Hello, dears, 

I enjoyed this chapter mainly because of my love for Glasnevin Cemetry. It is a fascinating place!
I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I am thoroughly enjoying this challenge and competition. 

Jens x