Agnes
by Louise Norlie © 2006
Agnes Kilfer opened the squeaking wrought iron gate of the graveyard. It was twilight. She reminded herself that there would be no real difference in the graveyard between now, when it was still dimly lit, and an hour from now, when the heavy shades of night would cover all.
Agnes reassured herself that she only had to spend one night here to gain admission to the sorority. How hard could it be? She had a 4.0 GPA in college. There was nothing to be afraid of. This was just a game of mind over matter. Once she found a good place to lie down, she would close her eyes and pretend she was at home in her warm bed.
Agnes clutched her pillow and sheets that she had brought to rest on. She knew it was silly to have taken fine satin sheets to lie in the dirt, but she wanted to be very comfortable as she endured the night.
Agnes approached a life-size statue of a hooded androgynous figure. The figure was seated and held a finger over its lips in a mysterious gesture of eternal silence. As part of the dare, Agnes had to sit on its lap. She did so until she felt the cold from the icy marble seep though her clothing. Agnes then stood up quickly and observed the statue contemplatively before shrugging her shoulders in dismissal and walking away.
Agnes wanted to find a good place to sleep before she could not longer see to find it. Although she had assured herself that she was not afraid, she wanted to find a resting place as far away from the old graves as possible. She must do so soon; the sun had already set and only its dying reflection on the clouds provided any illumination.
The outline of a gnarled tree waved twisted arms into the dusky sky. Perhaps beside its wrinkled trunk she could find a good place to curl up for the night. She headed toward it in a beeline of purpose and confidence.
Agnes felt a slight shiver. Mind over matter, she reminded herself. She tried mentally to block out her surroundings. As she went along, she accidentally brushed against another piece of mortuary art. Without looking at it, she hurried to the tree where she laid out her blanket. Once she was on the ground she wrapped her sheets around her. She took one look at the circle of the full moon then drew her cover almost completely over her face.
Sleeping was difficult on the uncomfortable ground, but Agnes seemed to doze for brief fits. After a while, she felt compelled to peek at her surroundings although her sense of sanity begged her to refrain.
It was not as dark as she had imagined. The moonlight cast a weak glow on the cemetery. But it seemed that something had changed. It seemed like a bite had been taken out of the moon. Impossible! she thought.
Nothing had happened to the moon. It was merely the edge of a mortuary statue blocking it. Yet, it did not seem that anything had been in that position before.
Dismissing the perception which she attributed to her strained nerves, she pulled the sheet around her and clamped down her eyelids tightly.
This time she could not even doze. Agnes thought she heard a strange grinding sound alternating with squeaking laughter. She was trembling and felt absolutely frigid. In her attempts to sleep, she lost track of time. Minutes or hours may have passed.
Agnes peered out at the cemetery again. What she saw made her heart almost stop beating. Half of the moon was now obscured by the cemetery statue. Had she rolled away from the tree without knowing it? No. The trunk was still firmly behind her.
Undeniably, it was moving closer. The statue revealed itself to depict an angelic young woman with flowing robes and wings.
Agnes shut her eyes. Her heart started pounding. She imagined that when she looked again the statue would be pressed against her face, its cold, rough granite grating against her soft cheek. With frenzied determination she scrambled to her feet to meet the statue wherever it stood. She almost laughed to see that it had not changed from when she saw it last. It still blocked half the moon.
Slowly, she approached it. The delicate features of the angelic young lady who stood on top of the marker had been weathered by decades of rain. She examined it closely. It looked harmless enough. There was a slight resemblance between the angel’s face and her own. But then again, this could be all in her imagination, for she remembered that she had a very ordinary face. She leaned down to look at the inscription.
AGNES KILFER.
She shrieked. She put her hand to her mouth to muffle the sound.
Agnes almost fainted when she touched her face. Instead of smooth skin, Agnes felt something hard and dry. She rubbed it. A chunk of something seemed to fall off in her hand. She stared at it by the insipid light of the moon.
It was a piece of her own flesh. Clotted with dried blood and reeking of decay, she threw it to the ground in horror.
Agnes glanced at her hand. The skin was deeply wrinkled, dry and peeling. The outlines of her bones were coming into view in hideous detail. Thousands of flies and maggots buzzed and crawled on the surface of her body.
Turning to run, Agnes’ foot was suddenly caught on something. With a short stifled cry, she fell to the ground, sprawled lifelessly in front of the angelic statue.
At last, Agnes rested in peace.
The End