The Fallen Chronicles: Episode 28


paper[] The sound of returning flocks of birds mingled with the distant wail of sirens in the streets of Centralia, a restless city in Southern Illinois. Mike, Greg, Aurelia, and Davin stood near their car at the entrance to Elmwood Cemetery. Their rusty, dark blue Toyota Corolla sported a bumper sticker reading “Necrophilia is Dead” in yellow, skeletal lettering. Casey the Coydog sniffed debris in the nearby curb, every few minutes stopping to scratch her patchy, gray fur.

“With Emmet at an Enslaved concert, I’m glad the rest of you decided to join me,” Mike said as he wiped the dust off his glasses and checked them for blemishes in the glittering sunlight.

“Where would we go?” Greg replied. “There hasn’t been a good show on TV since Twin Peaks. Besides, we picked the one pleasant day in April to come down here.”

“TV?” replied Mike. “Life is more exciting than any TV show. Take Elmwood Cemetery, for example. According to legend, the statue of a young girl holding a violin comes to life in this cemetery.” He paused and looked around. “But where?”

“I’ll give you two guesses where it is,” Davin said, and he pointed toward a black sport utility vehicle parked deep inside the cemetery.

Casey the Coydog’s ears perked up, and she growled.

“Crowley’s ass,” Mike cursed. “Who is it?”

The quartet could not read the letters stenciled onto the SUV’s door, but its passengers’ motivation was obvious. They did not come to the cemetery to mourn a loved one or admire the scenery. The Fallen saw five figures unloading equipment from the back of the SUV.

Elmwood Cemetery in Centralia, Illinois. Photo by the author.

Elmwood Cemetery in Centralia, Illinois. Photo by the author.

“Let’s see what they’re up to,” Mike suggested, frowning. He buried his hands into the pockets of his black, leather trench coat.

Aurelia, who wore a long black skirt and a black hooded sweatshirt, smirked. “What do you think they’re up to?” she asked rhetorically. “They came here for the same reason we did—to investigate the story of Violin Annie.”

“And to get themselves on television,” Davin added while trying to straighten his dirty white t-shirt.

The Fallen walked toward the black SUV, and Casey the Coydog obediently followed. The team of paranormal investigators hardly noticed the Fallen approach, until they were about ten yards away and Casey began barking furiously. The two groups squared off around a large monument featuring the statue of a young girl holding a violin.

The paranormal investigators looked middle-aged. Three of the five were women wearing black t-shirts and denim jackets. The oldest man sported a horse whisker mustache, and his hair was greasy and unkempt. He wore a purple felt coat.

“Is this a LARP session?” Greg snorted.

“Oh, fiddlesticks, is that –?” a woman whispered when she noticed the Fallen approach. She tugged on the mustachioed man’s felt sleeve to get his attention. “The Pan-Continental Paranormal Research Society warned us about you!” she shouted.

“Oh yeah?” Mike replied. “What did they say about us?”

“They said to keep you away from our investigations. They reported you to the Paranormal Police, you know. You’re in big trouble.” The woman tried to appear intimidating, but the various cameras around her neck made her look like a tourist at Disneyland.

Oh no,” Greg blurted, feigning concern. “Now we won’t be on the Christmas card list!”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Who are you?” he asked. “What gives you the right to tell us where we can and can’t go?”

“We’re the National Association for the Advancement and Study of the Paranormal, or N.A.A.S.P. for short. We have over ten years of experience between us. We’ve gotten mountains of evidence, which is more than you can say.”

“Oh, yeah?” Greg asked. “What evidence?” He quickly calculated the woman’s estimate. It worked out to two years of experience per person.

The woman scoffed. “Well, we have hours of videotape.”

“What’s on it?”


“What’s on the tape?” Greg insisted. “What paranormal phenomena have you recorded?”

Elmwood Cemetery in Centralia, Illinois. Photo by the author.

Elmwood Cemetery in Centralia, Illinois. Photo by the author.

“Well, uh… we…” the woman stuttered.

“We have EVPs,” the mustachioed man said.

“Lots. And Linda is psychic. She’s personally helped several spirits over to the other side, haven’t you, honey?”

“I’m sure the National Academy of Sciences would be more than happy to review your evidence,” Greg said. “Clearly you’ve made the discovery of the century. I can’t wait to see what you find here.” He mockingly scratched his head.

“Mainstream scientists reject what they can’t explain,” the mustachioed man spat. “Besides, screw you. We’re the professionals here. We don’t have to share our evidence with you.”

“Oh, yeah,” Greg said with a hint of sarcasm. “Wouldn’t want anyone independently verifying your claims. That’s not part of the scientific method.”

While they argued, a strange black squirrel bounded from behind the headstones and perched itself on a monument. Was it spying? Casey the Coydog caught its scent and took chase. The two animals disappeared into the depths of the cemetery.

“The paranormal is spontaneous and otherworldly,” Mike said. “Its nature is unknown and hidden. You can’t measure it with mechanical instruments. In no way that’s ever going to stand up to scientific scrutiny, at any rate.”

“Mike, Mike,” Greg interrupted. “There’s no use trying to reason with them. They’re the experts, remember? I’m sure they’ve captured tons of paranormal phenomena on their gadgets.”

Mike grinned and took Greg aside, ignoring the N.A.A.S.P. members, who fumed with indignation. “Let’s give them something that will blow their minds,” he whispered.

Backs to the crowd, Mike and Greg conferred secretly for another moment, then turned and nodded at Aurelia and Davin. The two instinctively understood. The Fallen gathered around the statue of Violin Annie. They joined hands and closed their eyes.

“Hey, get away from there!” the mustachioed man yelled. “This is outrageous!”

As the Fallen began to hum in unison, a large cloud passed under the sun, blanketing the cemetery in shadows. The temperature dropped, and some members of N.A.A.S.P. tried to check their thermometers, only to find the numbers wildly rising and falling.

Bagahi laca bachahe; Lamac cahi achabahe,” Mike, Aurelia, Greg, and Davin chanted. “Karrelyos. Lamac lamec bachalyos; Cabahagi sabalyos. Baryolas. Lagozatha cabyolas; Samahac et famyolas. Harrahya.”

As they repeated the incantation, the veil between this world and the next parted. A sweet, pleasant smell filled the air, followed by the sorrowful tones of a violin. The eerie music echoed throughout Elmwood Cemetery and the laughter of a young girl filled the air from beyond the grave.

The spell broke, and the Fallen smiled.

The N.A.A.S.P. members stood dumbfounded as the clouds broke and the temperature returned to normal.

“H… how did you do that?” the mustachioed man stuttered. “That’s impossible!”

“Did you get that on video?” Greg asked with a smirk.

“W… what?” the woman replied.

“Aw, you missed it?” Mike teased. “That’s too bad. Hey, guys, I’m tired, I think we should go back to the motel.”

“Yeah me, too,” Aurelia agreed, pretending to yawn.

“Wait!” the woman yelled. “Do it again! You have to show us how you did that. I… I don’t even believe it.”

“You can report that to your Paranormal Police,” Davin spat.

Greg looked for Casey and whistled. After a few minutes, the coydog raced to his side. The Fallen left the bewildered members of N.A.A.S.P. behind as they casually returned to their car.

[New episode every Friday…]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This page is copyright, 2016. You do not have permission to copy this for any reason. Please learn how to cite your work.

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