Death-love: In Oakland Cemetery


(Horror Poetry: a strange poetic prose story of death meets love in Oakland Cemetery—face to face—in St. Paul, Minnesota, November, 1971)



We were alone, her and I (she was twenty, I twenty-four), beyond a mound or two, two-hundred yards east of us, were gravediggers; almost everyone had gone, left the cemetery, and the gates were locked (they lock the gates at 5:30 PM sharp to the front entrance of Oakland Cemetery, the side gate would be used by the diggers, to go home; the arc lights had just come on. She, Isabella de La Ree, had a bag; it had weight to it, Isabella looked at me, as a wolf would to its prey, if ever a face showed imminent death, hers did (almost a sorry face, with grim, slim wrinkles of love)! Then I noticed her crucifix was upside down, rays with images of anguish, of orange, purple and red, fell on them, from the lower world I’d guess. I looked towards the gravediggers they were gone (there was such a stillness, quietness in the cemetery now), I could hear the last sounds of their footsteps—as if descending down a spiral stairway, leaving us alone, for it was a full moon, and they knew something was stirring in this prodigious night.

I pulled out a flashlight from my jacket pocket, it was fall, and a chill was in the evening air (tons and tons of leaves everywhere, piles of them, racked by the caretaker, I could even smell some burnt leaves, the smell is indistinguishable, and very suitable to me); it would be dark soon, near winter, the sun has a menial task, it rises quick, and descends fast, and twilight, without a word glares like a lamp of mist, half full, flickering rays of rose-colored clouds, sandy moon above it, it is like a stammering drunk, and the lamp lit moon, this evening, seemed to full, and wanted to fall, it was right over us, over our heads, with sharp-looking teeth—carved by the shades and shadows that crept through its light.

Then a cat began to cry as if it was fighting with a rat, which squealed a long agonized weeping squeal, both as if in pain, as if in a love and death exchange, another and another cry came, seeping into the wind, almost in echoes surrounding the cemetery, they were somewhere beyond the grasp of me, in this gloom of the night. And they became louder and sharper cries, that of a ripping-death, as if flesh and more flesh were being ripped to shreds. Then the sounds died down, and I seemed to sink into a morbid chill.
(From the street, beyond the side gate of the cemetery, I could now hear the sounds of the tires of cars going down Jackson Street, a grim silence prevailed in-between, I looked helplessly about with eyes of terror, every side of me seemed to have caliches of death. I looked and could even see the drivers in their front seats driving, and disappearing, and then I shook my head and suddenly became more conscious to the task at hand.

The contents of her bag, seemed to wiggle as if something was alive in it, a rounded shape something, then came sounds of rattling teeth, clanking teeth.
“Let’s do what we came for,” she said (a flame burned in her eyes) knees bending, a groan from within her chest, her inner spirit, noisily making her head twitch, like a puppet, came out of her mouth, words jagged I didn’t understand.
“She must be in a trance,” I said out loud, as if talking to myself or someone who wasn’t there, for surely she heard (as massive bolt of chills, ran up and down my arms, legs, and spine.)
For a moment I thought she was carrying a bomb, I stood in silence where not knowing what to do, or say, then suddenly, I heard a whisper come from the bag, as she started digging next to a gravestone, on her knees and elbows, with a pocket shovel, one normally used for a garden.
“Is this really necessary?” I asked her.
“Just wait a while and you shall see, and judge for you…” she groaned, and mumbled, as her face grew harder, as she stared longer at the moving bag.
I took a step forward, towards her; I was a few steps back. The instant I did, she motioned in gesture, not to step to close to the bag, she moved it impulsively towards her knee, holding out her hand to stop me, should I venture beyond a threshold she had created in her head, I’m sure I would have been dead, her face now as cold as ice, likened to the palm of death, saying:
“Don’t come closer for inside this bag is love and death!”

We had met the night before, at a nightclub in downtown, St. Paul, Minnesota, from there we strolled drunk, uphill to Summit Avenue—or at least I was halfway drunk, feeling the walk would do me well, if not wake me up—walking though old mansions, folks unbelievably would forget to lock their doors, and she knew this, and in the last house we walked through, a woman came, appeared out of a room, beautiful as a painting, she came out of a side space asked what we were doing in her home, Isabella said calmly,
“We’re lost, and just happened to walk in…not sure why, but the door was opened” (it was, after she opened it, but she didn’t add this) and she just looked amazed at us, as we readied ourselves to turn about and leave—but before we did, the other woman whispered something like this to Isabella de La Ree,
“Come back you will be my guest, but without him…”and I thought in my mind, perhaps she was a lesbian, and left well enough alone, for she was not speaking to me, and I said, interrogatively, to Isabella, after a moments time, after they stood looking, gazing into each other’s eyes (both strange as the day is long, both seemingly with well-lit eyes, as if there were passageways I never knew of in each of them, I let my sigh within my chest escape as if a door was just opened,
“What did she say?” I asked.
She didn’t even look at me, but courtly replied to the strange lady of the house, “The night air is chilled, I shall return.” (But when was in her eyes now.)
“Good,” replied the other women, “I shall see to your comfort upon your return.”
I was still standing there with eyes of pretest, yet said nothing, for Isabella and I had—if you remember—just met. And that was that, and now this.

At this point, she was turning into to waking nightmare for me, and all she really was, was a pretty and shapely…girl (her face was strong, very strong indeed, with a soft straight bridge for a lightly thin nose, and small nostrils. An arrogant domed forehead, with long black, almost straight hair, thick around the temples, with thick eyebrows and dark eyes, and sharp looking white teeth, now they even seemed to protrude, I think I was imagining them for I could not remember them being this way the night before, but one must remember, I was semi drunk, and sobering up: her lips were thick, with a remarkable dull, deathly red, and a spirit inside of her with vitality beyond a mans. She had a pliable straight, thin chin that came to a peak and dull flat looking cheeks that once were firm and softer, all in a days notice. All in all, she seemed a tinged changed from a day before, one that was of a rosiness flesh, was now one of a dim paleness.

When I had met her at the nightclub (folks dancing about) we, she and I, so I felt, wanted to have company, and not be alone (as simple as that), and so we drank and talked, and I spoke of my adventures in San Francisco in 1968 and ’69, and she was interested among one, how I had met a trying, and huge ghost, thinking she’d find it entertaining, and be in disbelief, but it was to the contrary, she wanted to know more about I escape. This was surely a strange happening, I had kept to my soul, so I could sleep well and dream well—and go on with life, but with a courteous bow of her face, she showed no doubt, nor fear, but said, “You are lucky to have said what you said when you said it,” which was “In the name of the Lord, whomever you be, be gone from me, and Lord be my protection.”


The Grip Spirit

(My description of the ghoul was even more fascinating for her, and she would not part with out knowing its dimensions, character. I explained in as descriptive detail as I could remember. It was to me a grim spirit, who perhaps did not know much about weapons per se, for I lived in a dojo and held it a bay with a fighting stick, it was past midnight, it woke me up this one evening—although it was not a quite spirit at all anyhow—made the dojo tremble, its food steps made the wooden floor sink a centimeter or two as it paced back and forth, and then become visible. It was a foul smelling foe, a creature that came from who knows where, more on the Giant Finn of Ireland, order, or perhaps the Grendel order, of the Scandinavian lands of the 5th Century or so. A pondering evil I lived with for three months in the dojo, an ere fiend, with flame coming from its eyes. And I could tell it had a sudden grip, for when it tossed the chairs about and around the dojo, it smashed them hard. It was huge, perhaps 400-pounds, and eight feet tall, a monster who could have devoured me, now that I look back, and there I slept where no other black belts would dare sleep, for they told me the place was haunted. I did not seek to trap him, I explained to him, we needed to put up with each other for a time being, and that was that, adding, I leave him alone if he left me alone.)

And the noisiness in the karate dojo, where I lived in San Francisco, went silent, in the clap of an eye, in the middle of the night, and the beast that appeared, that shook the building and chairs, and window sills, had gone, disappeared.
And now here we were, I stimulating and bracing for some kind of a thrill,
silently and quietly next to twilight waiting for a bag to be opened, as she dug deep into the earth, I guessed to seal the fate of what was in that bag.

I told myself, now leaning against a gravestone, making a graceful sigh, ‘I shall pray to make it out of here alive,’ knowing somehow I’d regret, having come with her this evening if I did not, absolutely, for my part I knew not why I remained, for all it seemed to me to be, was someone observing the insane. I knew in a heartbeat, there would be no more tomorrow’s with her and I, and perhaps for the better.
At this point I had wished I had finished supper, which I had not—for I was getting hungry even with such bleak happenings around me, and had rushed to meet her for this journey, this discreet and morbid journey, which humanity would have forbid, had they known it was as it would be.
For the first time, I had now noticed her nails were long, and those of her thumb, on the right hand, was pointed, thick as a knife: this somehow brought a horrid feeling of nausea, it came over me like hard bark on a tree. There silent for a moment I stood staring again, at the bag, seeing in the black cloth that now covered its contents, with the moon’s light shinning on it, I could see some kind of expression, indented expression, as if a face to be, then I knelt to her level and said,
“I am getting quite tired. I must leave, I live but a few blocks from here, perhaps tomorrow we can meet, I shall let you finish alone whatever it is you must do.” (I lied of course, I never wanted to see her again, to be quite frank.)
And with a courteous bow, more of a nod of my head I stood back up to leave (being in a deep sea of wonder, yet in a high fear of the unknown, and not wanting to face or endure the strange things that were about to creep forward out of this night), I did pray, “God keep me safe,” if not only for my loved ones dear to me!
I did not leave though, my mind had went absent for a while, and I forgot what I had said, and my intentions to leave, somehow evaporated in my head. Perhaps a spell she place upon me, this beautiful and costliest witch.

My body shuddered from her witch and devilish scorn she seemed to born upon her face and limbs, for the dead in this cemetery— if anything I felt I should salute her for her bravery, and hearty way she was handling this mysterious night—so tranquilly.
“What are you doing,” I asked inquisitively, and she whispered in a most horrid voice (with a vibrating haunting echo) as if it was not her voice:
“Digging a tomb!” the voice replied.
“For what or whom?” I asked, holding my breath.
And she pointed to the sack… and she then opened it, inside was a living head, and she said to me, in a most bewildering intonation,
“I can’t kill it!” And she rolled it out, and into the dirt tomb, the newly dug grave, and then stood up; strolled about it, as if mad (it was that lady I had seen from the house yesterday, I told my mind’s eye).
I knew I had said all I could say about leaving, so I just looked. Isabella now looked up at me, said,
“You may go anywhere you wish now,” but my mind was locked into this moment, adding, “All things are as they are, even if you wish to understand them, and you cannot. And there is reason for all things to be as they are.”
“I am sure of this,” I replied, “our ways are different to say the least.”
“Not too different, from what you have told me,” she responded, as she paced and kept out of the way of the head, observing it.
Then Sara cried, it was evident the head wanted to speak, but only said “Nay,” as if it did not want to be buried alive, for Isabella kicked sand it her mouth, saying,
“Foul head, of the demons, loathing nightmare, voluptuous bloodstained mouth, lay where yea be, and be silent, for none will pardon thee, fall into the hole, my friend, my death-love.”
And the head looked up at me, as if it wanted to plead. Then cried Isabella to me,
“Come now, my friend, let her rest in peace, I can do no more, this is all
death-love can offer a demonic whore, however visible she may be, she is captured inside of a dead beauty, preserved by habitable bleeding, and receiving; I can’t kill it, she belongs to the un-dead, and she will not leave the body, so I severed the head, she has immortality, but I can keep her head from her body, so she can no longer multiply—so now she must remain in the grave or go back to her evil world.”