Come Hither

Diane walked across the huge graveyard, her eyes still puffy and her mascara ruined by a single unwinding thought. It had been over a year, but the pain was still as raw as when she looked down at Eleanor's casket for the first time. She still remembers the raw pain she felt the last time she saw her light blue eyes. It comes to her at home when she looks at their wedding photos, it comes when she looks at the empty side of the bed and reaches for thin air, it comes to her when she sits alone in the backyard sipping wine, and it came to her at the gate as she carried her bag full of memories and let the weight of tragedy hit her again.

Some days she could barely stand. Life felt so hollow without her. She didn’t know where to put her hands, what to do in the evening after dinner, how to continue being happy when the love of her life had been taken from her. Nothing felt worth doing, nothing mattered. She had become thin and empty, and Diane didn’t know how to move forward with herself.

“But I have to try,” she told herself, “I have to,” She felt the dry grass rub beneath her feet with every step, and the wind blew the long stretches of her white dress with all the ferocity of autumn. In front of her, Diane could see the grave had been untouched. She looked to her left, out at the rows of cold stones and started to feel somewhat at ease. There was a stray cat roaming the aisles, and the grounds keeper was carrying a shovel away from the far side of the field, toward the empty plot ahead of them.

“So much death around them, yet they live on,” Diane said to herself.

“I wish I knew how to do the same.” She arrived at Eleanor's grave–hands trembling, chest tight. She wiped away her tears and reached into her bag, summoning all the courage she had left.

During the season of Hallows Eve, it was possible for one, if they so desired, to tap into ancient powers harnessed long ago by more malevolent forces, and use them to bend the laws of nature to their will. Diane had consulted those that specialized in magic and divination, and spent the last two week gathering everything required. 

Diane had become a recluse, and had disappeared from the lives of those close to her. Everyone she knew had called and wrote, telling her that she needed to do something other than drink wine and cry over old photographs. And now, for better or worse, she had finally listened.

Diane looked around, making sure the gravekeeper was gone. He was digging, far enough for Diane to begin the ritual. From her bag, she took a bundle of white flowers. She knelt down on the ground and set them gently next to the headstone. They were camellia, Eleanor's favorite. As Diane got into a comfortable position, she leaned forward and traced the engravings on the stone. It read:

Eleanor DeVeaux

1953-1985

A beautiful wife, a sweet daughter, a lovely poet.

Diane thought back to the long nights Eleanor spent in her office, toiling away at her desk. She always missed her, even though she was only ever a few feet away.

“Eleanor, come hither!” she would call from the edge of the bed, still wrapped in the duvet. Diane would watch the light disappear in the hall, and shortly after Eleanor would emerge from the dark, carrying her journal, and climb into bed. She let Diane be big spoon while they read the day's work, and fell asleep in each other's arms, listening to the other breathe as they let comfort envelop them.

Another tear fell as she drew back from the gravestone.

Diane forced a shaky smile, and reached into her bag again. This time, she took out a silver necklace with a crescent moon attached to it. She continued to draw an assortment of items, including polaroids from their trip to Venice, the first poem Eleanor wrote Diane, and her favorite fountain pen among other things. Diane picked up one of the old crinkled pieces of paper and glanced over the faded lines of ink. Over the years, she came to realize that nothing was as special as having been written about. Gifts and gestures were nice, but knowing someone would put in the effort to find the right words to describe how much they care made her feel so loved. Those were the things she missed the most. Kisses and hugs, kicks under the table and pokes in her side, notes with her breakfast, lipstick on her cheek. All the many ways she said “I love you”. All the things life was so fruitless without.

“Okay,” Diane whispered as she put the page down, “I’m ready.” There were only two items left in the bag: a small iron dagger with a handle the length of Diane's hand, and a roll of bandages. The blade had been sharpened to a point, making the cut smooth and nearly painless. As she drew the dagger, she felt the wind pick up on her back, and the sorrow in her heart turn into desperation; cuts and blood were nothing new to her, but if this didn’t work then… then she would have nothing but bloody bandages, fading memories and an empty bed. And that was something she couldn’t live with. Not anymore.

“I’m ready,” she said to herself again. Diane drove the blade into the middle of her left hand, deep enough for her to bleed but not to cause any lasting damage. She moved the dagger down and stopped just before her pinky. The cold wind stung the open wound as Diane called to mind their last days together. Dancing in the rain in their driveway, picking apples to make cider, reading underneath dying trees; even then she still looked so lively, so pure.

“Oh Eleanor,” she almost choked on her own words.

Blood fell onto the items beneath her, staining the white edges of the photographs and coving the papers in spots of red. She made sure everything had met her blood. Then she put the knife down and reached for the roll of bandages. She stood back up and started wrapping the cut in strips of gauze. As she looked out at the gravestones, at the open fields and treeline beyond, she started to feel dismal.

"It has to work," she thought to herself, "it has to,"

"I miss her. I want her. I need her. This has to work"

Diane stood up straight and looked out at the field; the trees were swaying in the wind and the leaves were making their slow descent to the ground below. She mustered all the love and courage she had, and called out into the open air.

“Eleanor!” she called out in her strong, ethereal voice. 

The wind blew on her chest in response, beginning to lift the frills and stretches of her dress once more.

“Eleanor!”

Diane looked down at the random assortments of items, and then up again at the field in front of her.

“Eleanor!” she said stronger this time, letting her voice boom through the air. She looked around, thinking some angel would come down from heaven, carrying her lost love. Or maybe she would come up from the Earth, digging and clawing through dirt to reunite with her. But alas, nothing happened. Nothing moved. Nothing changed.

“Oh… oh no,” she whispered to herself, and as the words left her lips, her tears came in a steady stream of defeat. Her head throbbed, and Diane gave into the weight of it all as she fell to her knees screaming and wheezing. From across the field, the groundskeeper looked at her with sympathy. He would have offered his condolences, but he knew better than to disturb those grieving.

“Eleanor please!” she forced herself to scream again. It shook the trees, and again sent worry through the stomach of the caretaker. She lifted her trembling hands, and as the bloody, poorly bandaged palm met her gaze, she couldn’t help but cry out in agony.

You idiot. She's dead. She's dead she's dead she's dead.

“No… no no no,”

Yes. She’s dead, she's really dead. She's dead she's gone she’s-

“No, no dammit no!” she held her head in her hands, hoping it would suppress the truth she couldn’t accept.

“Come back, please! Come back my love!” The wind blew again, now picking up speed. Stray leaves flew past the graves, curving to avoid her. And as she watched them pass her by, her wretched thoughts turned hopeful, ever so slightly. A thought had occurred to her, something desperate, something to prove that Eleanor was still here, that she could hear her. As Diane stood up again, she couldn’t help but feel stupid. She looked down at all the bloodied photos and stained jewelry and felt foolish and crazy.

But she thought of being in bed, listening to soft hums from the pillow next to her, the smell of lavender when they hugged, slow dancing to old jazz records in the backyard, and all of a sudden it didn’t matter. Not her wounded hand, not the ruined pages, and not the crushing pain. All that mattered was Eleanor.

So she stood tall, and looked to the trees with a glimmer of hope. And from the top of her throat, she yelled “Eleanor, come hither!”

Her mind flashed with images of the candle light flickering and Eleanor heaving into bed. She felt her eyes burn as she stared out into the distance.

“Eleanor, come hither!” and as she spoke, the wind blew with all its might, carrying away Diane tears. As the power began to flow through her, she hovered a few inches off the ground, her dress flowing beautifully behind her. Far off in the distance, the leaves danced in a circle and the wind began to gather itself in a funnel.

“Eleanor. Come hither!” She felt the echo of the words ring through the air, and in the field she could see something begin to appear, a figure taking shape in the funnel of wind. It was a person of pale complexion, with short dark hair and a thin stature.

“Eleanor?” Diane fell back to the ground and walked eagerly toward it. Suddenly her heart was alive again with passion. Her steps turned into strides as her walk became a run, and with glee she ran toward her lost wife. The figure came toward her too, slowly. It stepped carefully and walked with its arms stretched out, as if coming to embrace her.

But as she drew closer, Diane could see it better. Her eyes were blank and milky, and the skin on her face was cracked and flaking off in the wind. Her face was sunken, and her skin was so pale, Diane thought she could see through her. Her whole body was dry and shriveled, like a piece of fruit left in the sun. Diane faltered for a moment, horrified by what she was seeing. She tried to deny it; maybe this was someone else. Or maybe this ghoul was going to take her to Eleanor. Maybe she had raised the wrong person, and needed to go back, try again.

While she tried to use speculation to calm herself, the grave keeper witnessed this wicked ritual and started walking toward the corpse.

“Ma’am. Ma’am, are you alright?” he called out. With his weak eyes, he could see that she was distressed, and limping. He approached her with good will, wanting to help.

“I… it’s okay, miss. Death can be hard but you-” he stopped in his tracks. She turned toward him with an evil stare. There was something sinister in her eyes. It wasn’t hatred, or malice. It was something worse. It was… hunger. Her mouth gaped, black spit dripping down her chin. It flowed heavily as she gave a deep grunt. The man realized then that he had made a grave mistake. The person he was talking to was not human, not anymore. He felt dread in his heart as she lunged forward, and his life was over as she sunk her yellow teeth into his neck.

Diane watched it all in excruciating horror. Eleanor ripped the flesh from his neck and sucked at his innards like a ripe fruit. She ripped him apart like a dog, savoring every chunk of skin and meat. Diane fell to her knees with dread, shaken by the creature she had brought into this realm. Her skin turned stark white as she looked down at the ritual materials and sobbed with regret. Grief couldn’t compare to what she felt now. That creature was not her love, it was evil. An evil of her making. As it devoured man, blood covering her lips and meat stuck under her nails, Diane jerked with terror and sorrow. She had lost Eleanor forever, her love was truly gone.