Cemetery Spooks (Original Fiction)

Shoe Noises

There was nothing but the harsh thwack thwack of two pairs of shoes slapping on damp pavement. That's a bit dramatic, there was also the angry industrial sounds of distant traffic and the buzz of lazy activity on these back streets.

But Alton's thoughts focused on the shoe noises. It was better than thinking about the god they were about to meet, and far, far better than talking to the teenage... vampire? zombie? that walked besides them. Scrimshaw was probably a vampire actually, while the date on his grave was weathered away it was only fair to assume from the graves around it that he died in the 1800's, and no zombies flesh could be so perfectly preserved after two hundred years. Unless of course he knew a witch, or worse, a warlock. There really is nothing like the unfortunate mix of magic and masculinity to ruin your day. Some warlocks handle it with grace, those are the scholars, the geeks and nerds of the magical world. No, it's the Magic Jocks that you have to look out for, the bastards.

This train of thought led them through a few cobblestoned snickets with foliage spilling down the walls, making them cramped. The vines reached out and grabbed at their clothes, tugging at their oversized denim jacket as they walked.

"So, what are you?"

"What?" Alton turned to their partner in annoyance at having their peace disturbed by such a vague question.

"What are you, to be summoned by a God?"

"Just a person, unfortunately."

"Just a person?"

"Yeah."

"Then how'd you get mixed up in the supernatural?" His brow scrunched in confusion.

"I don't even fucking remember dude, I've just always had ghosts and fae appearing to me, being bastards."

"Bastards, indeed." Scrimshaw nodded with all the wisdom he could muster, which wasn't a lot.

And before they knew it they reached the top of the hill, panting slightly from the effort. You would expect the Thunder Brothers to live in a White Marble Palace at the peak of a grand mountain. Instead they lived in a red brick terrace house at the top of a big hill, with a neat little garden.

"And here we are, remember, don't speak unless you are spoken to."

"Of course not." Scrimshaw smiled.

"I'm serious, on pain of death."

"On pain of death." He echoed

Alton sighed heavily, and trudged to the front door, hesitating before knocking. Scrimshaw watched the tension in all of their movements, possibly from fear, but he didn't think they were prone to fear. Having the manner of a tired noir detective who was never really cut out for the work and has become desensitised to the gore and tears of the job. On the flip side, Alton viewed Scrimshaw as a juvenile annoyance that has imprinted on them, an undead duckling perhaps. 

As soon as Alton's fist rapped on the uniform, black door, it swung open revealing a large red haired man, with fierce eyes and a full beard. He was wearing a huge smile and a "kiss the cook" apron. Scrimshaw wasn't sure if he should be intimidated or not, after a moment of internal turmoil however, he decided that when in doubt you should be afraid. Alton gave a forced smile as the giant man scooped him up into a hug. 

Really, this guy was huge, he was the kind of guy that loomed without even trying to loom, that's just how he stood. The apron was tiny on him and you could just sense that he had a six pack. He wore modest clothing, dressing like a lumberjack really, with jeans and a red plaid jacket which he wore open over a white t-shirt that stretched over his muscles comically. He constantly ran the risk of emasculating any man brave enough to stand directly besides him. He was just fucking huge. The kind of guy that could wrestle a hippo and win. He was so buff. Besides being the epitome of manliness, he had these fierce, kind eyes. Brown, and soft as if they had never held a glint of malice, but strong, the eyes of a leader and a man untamed. He was a sight to behold.

Alton was dwarfed by the stranger, in every way smaller and less intense. Apart from the eyes, while the man's eyes were doe like, Alton's were sharp and wicked, a pale, inhuman blue that practically screamed "piss off" every time they landed on you. They both had shoulder length hair pulled up in a similar fashion, half up half down, a good way to keep hair out of your face, according to every high fantasy television character.

"Hello, Magnus," Alton straightened their shirt and thrust their hands into their pockets. They craned their neck around the large man, looking into the house. "I believe Ezio is expecting me?"

"Ah, he waits for you upstairs, Little One." The red head boomed, without trying to boom, that's just how he spoke.

"Thanks... Big One."

Magnus stood to the side and allowed them in. The house was decorated with very little taste, definitely the abode of two bachelors. The front door took them straight into the living room, which was full of mismatched chairs and art, everything from Early Baroque paintings in ornate frames to a poster for Disney's Hercules were hung on the walls, only allowing the slightest hint of the atrocious 70's wallpaper to peak through. Alton started to make their way towards the stairs.

"What of him?" Magnus questioned, gesturing to Scrimshaw, who still stood on the pavement, unmoving and a bit miserable, coughing occasionally. Alton stopped and turned, actually having forgotten that Scrimshaw was there.

"Oh yeah, uh, you have to invite him in, I think." They scratched the back of their neck, they were still unsure if Scrimshaw even was a vampire, but it seemed too late to ask now.

"Oh! Come in, there are cookies in the oven and video games in the living room."

"Video games?" Scrimshaw questioned under his breath, so far the modern world was proving quite perplexing. He hesitated as he stepped over the threshold, in a way that made Alton sure the lanky teen was actually a two hundred year old immortal.

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-Lazarus 📖🦇