Gripping her purse tightly, she turned towards the center of the cemetery and walked slowly down the paths between the rows of crypts in the direction of her home. The only sound was the soft crunch of her steps on the footpath. Large oak trees stood silently like sentinels at attention among the tombs with their long leaf covered branches hanging down like raggedy, torn curtains. Inky blackness surrounded her, and the ever present graves provided a chilling reminder that death was permanent.

The hot, dark, June atmosphere reminded her of chasing the kittens in the spooky, old barn on the farm. She had found them all just by softly saying, “Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty. Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty.”

He came at her from behind as she passed a large obelisk. She struggled in a frantic attempt to retain her balance while being pulled into the deeper darkness between the tombs. “Don’t scream,” he snarled. His nails were long and dug into her face. A reminder of how the kittens had scratched her.

She wrestled against his strength, and slipped her hand into her purse. Then just as she had done with the kittens, she struck him once, twice and a third time before he lost his grip. She turned to face him.

He was holding his side as she stuck the long ice pick in the center of his chest, then his stomach. “Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon,” she sang as she continued to stab. She remembered singing nursery rhymes to drown out the plaintive mewing of the kittens when she was stabbing and killing them on the farm.

He bent over, and she stabbed him again and again between his neck and shoulder. As he fell forward, she backed away, then knelt down smiling and continued to stab him in time to the rhyme until he quit moving.

“Mother told me to kill all the kittens. It’s what’s best for them,” she whispered softly. She wiped the ice pick on his clothes and stood to survey the scene. Picking up her purse, she slipped the ice pick in before walking away.

***

Two days later, an article on a back page of The St. Louis Post Dispatch stated, “Yesterday morning Jessie Barrett, a caretaker, discovered an unidentified body of a man in Calvary Cemetery. The victim had multiple stab wounds about the torso, was white, five feet nine, approximately 145 pounds, wore a dark brown jacket, and blue jeans. Police are canvassing the area for witnesses, and anyone who may have known the man. Detective Ray Collins of the St. Louis Police Department is heading up the investigation.” With no leads to go on, Collins quickly pushed aside the case.

***

“Hey Denise, give me another - will you?”

“Sure, Charley. Same way?”

“Yeah, a double on the rocks. Thanks a lot babe. Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are?”

“All the time, Charley. Just wish someone would mean it sometime.”

“Well I do darlin’! Why don’t you and I go to a place I know after you close this dump?”

“And where is that, Charley? Your apartment?”

“What’s wrong with that? I’ve got all the booze there you want. We could have a good time, just you and me.”

“I gotta hand it to you Charlie, you’re a real smoothie. You get right to the point. Maybe some other time, but not tonight, okay? You’ve had too much to drink. I’ll call a cab for you.”

“Aw, no I haven’t. Just let me show you. Come on, what do you say?”

“No! I’m calling a cab. Now get going. Hey, Jimmy! Help Charley get a cab. See you, Charley.”

Ten minutes later Jimmy poured Charley into a cab, and returned to the bar. “Well I got rid of him for you, Denise. He’s on his way if he can remember where he lives.”

“Thanks Jimmy. It’s about time to close.”

A half hour later, she was walking home along a dark, narrow street with faintly glowing streetlights here and there where vandals hadn’t broken them.

A shadowy form appeared in the dim, murky light. She slipped her hand into her purse and continued straight ahead. “Hey Denise! Is that you? It’s Charley.”

“Charley? I thought you were on your way home. What are you doing here?”

“Hell, I couldn’t remember where I lived; so I had the cabby drop me off a few blocks from the bar. Why don’t I go home with you?”

“Charley, you’re drunk. I don’t want you coming home with me.”

“Aw come on Denise. I promise I won’t be any trouble. Just let me sleep it off at your place. I’ll leave in the morning, I promise.”

“No, Charley you can’t stay the night. I don’t live alone.”

“Come on Denise. Think how you’ll feel in the morning if you read about me being involved in an accident and killed. I shouldn’t be driving in my condition.

Denise withdrew her empty hand from her purse. “Okay, but only to let you sleep it off. Then you’ve got to go. No fooling around.”

“Sure, whatever you say Denise. Do you live around here?”

“A couple of blocks down and over some.”

“By the cemetery? Boy! That’s creepy. Doesn’t that give you the crawly fears at night? I mean living so close to all those dead people. Aren’t you scared just a little bit?” he said, slipping his arm around her waist.

“What are you doing Charley? I told you I didn’t want to fool around.”

“I’m not fooling around,” and he pulled her to him and began to kiss her full on the lips. For a few seconds she resisted; then she whispered in his ear, “I know just the place where we won’t be bothered. Follow me.”

In a few minutes, they were in the cemetery slipping through a break in the fence. “If you live so close, why don’t we just go to your house?”

“Charley, you don’t understand. I live with my sister. We don’t want her bothering us do we? I know a much better place. Follow me. Here kitty, kitty, kitty, here kitty, kitty, kitty,” she murmured.

“What’s that, Babe?”

“Oh, nothing, Charley. Just another few minutes before we get there, and I promise I’ll you a night like you’ve never had before.”

The blackness of the cemetery, as ominous as Death’s hooded cloak. She stopped at a stone monument shaped like a large daybed completely surrounded by towering oaks. The area was shrouded with immense shadows.

“Here, this is the place,” she said as she sat and put her purse on the ground.

“Now you’re talking Darlin’,” and he pushed her down getting on top of her. His weight pressed her hard against the monument. He was hot, and perspiring. He slid his wet, beefy hand under her bra and began to fondle her breast. Then he put his mouth over it. His sudden intensity amused her. She slipped her hand down to her bag, and grabbed the ice pick.

“Hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck one, the mouse ran down! Hickory, dickory, dock.” She sang and stabbed him in time to the rhyme.

She pushed him off. He hit the ground in a sitting position and looked at her in wonder. The next blow was to his neck, and then he was down on his back. She stabbed him repeatedly in the chest. “Oh Charley, you were the prettiest little kitten of all, but Mother said I had to kill all of them. It was best.”

As before, she wiped off the ice pick on his clothes, picked up her purse and went home.

***

“Police Baffled,” read an October lead on page three of The St. Louis Post Dispatch. “A second body found in Calvary Cemetery within a year. The victim, tentatively identified as Charles Higgenbottom, was found with multiple stab wounds to the back, and chest. There were no witnesses to the brutal crime, and Police are asking for anyone with any information to contact Detective Ray Collins.”

Again the investigation languished without leads, clues or interest from the public, and Collins was assigned other cases.

***

My name is Sam Beideman. I’m an investigative reporter for The St. Louis Post Dispatch with a column appearing every Wednesday and Friday. Ray Collins and I have been drinking buddies for fifteen years; and every once and awhile we get together to drink and talk about things off the record. Tonight was no exception.

“You know, I can’t help but think about the two murders in Calvary Cemetery last year. I’ve always felt they were done by a serial killer who’s still out there somewhere,” Collins said as he swelled another beer.

“What makes you think they were the work of a serial killer?”

“Because the slayings were so similar. Both victims were men, their bodies were found in the same cemetery, and both killed by multiple stab wounds made by what the coroner thinks was the same type of weapon, an ice pick.”

That got my attention. Ice picks are handy things. I remember how my dad always had an ice pick in his tool box, however, he never used it to kill anyone.

Collins went on, “No one saw the killer. No murder weapon, motives or links to the cemetery were discovered. Both bodies were found after early morning rains, so no footprints, or clues were found. It’s as though the killer were invisible.”

“There was no connection between the victims. The first guy, Earl Wilson, was a petty thief, but Charles Higgenbottom, the second victim, was a salesman with no record. He was last seen alive drinking at the Devil’s Bite bar where he was put in a cab. The cab driver dropped him off about four blocks away. Two hours later he was dead. All the bar personnel were questioned, and all had solid alibis.”

An idea for a column came to me. “So the investigation is at a dead end?”

“Yeah for now, but there’s no statute of limitations on murder. However, there hasn’t been a murder like those for almost a year. I figure the murderer moved somewhere else and is someone else’s problem, died or just quit.”

“Died maybe, but not quit. Serial murderers don’t just quit. Sometimes they go for years before striking again. Mind if I poke around to see what I can learn?”

“Be my guest. You won’t find anything, but if you want to waste your time, go ahead.”

“Hey, that’s what I get paid for, remember?”

“Is that why they pay you? I thought you were sleeping with the editor’s wife.”

***

The following day, Collins showed me his file, and I spent the next several weeks going over the information. He was right. There was nothing in the file that pointed to any suspect or motive. The type of murder weapon was consistent - a long slender pointed object similar to an ice pick. The other consistency was the Cemetery. Coincidences like that are hard to explain.

What was left? The first victim had a record of muggings and theft, and it figured he would meet a violent end sometime. The wounds in his side would have been enough to allow the victim to get away. However, the other wounds were more than what would have been required for self defense. Still it may have started out that way.

The second murder seemed planned. There were no stab wounds in the side of the second victim, just the back, chest and shoulder areas. All were made by the same kind of weapon as in the first case.

I felt whoever was doing the killings worked or lived in the area, because of the difficulty of moving a body to the cemetery. What purpose did it serve? No, somehow the victims and the murderer were already in the cemetery.

The police had questioned everyone at the bar. However, there were witnesses that said the victim was put in a cab alone. The cabby also said he didn’t drop the victim anywhere near the cemetery, and radio dispatch logs verified this. A waiter, Joe Stewart, said Denise didn’t leave the bar for another half hour and time clock records confirmed it. Denise’s sister also confirmed Denise was home ten minutes after she left the bar. It took an officer nine minutes to walk from the bar to Denise’s home. This was another dead end.

I checked out where Denise lived, and found her house faced the cemetery and the bar was in the immediate neighborhood. Was this just another coincidence? I decided that the bar was going to be my favorite drinking place for the next several weeks. Going there would allow me to meet and observe the staff informally without arousing suspicion.

Since my picture doesn’t appear with my column, few individuals recognize me, including those at the bar. It was my habit to sit where Denise could wait on me; and after a week, I’d developed a good rapport with her. “Hi Denise! How’s everything going tonight?”

“Fine, Sam. Whatdaya have?”

“A Busch.”

“Coming right up.”

She brought the beer and began to wipe down the bar. Tonight wasn’t very busy; so I decided to continue talking to her. “You been here long?”

“You mean in St. Louis or at this bar?”

“I guess both. You seem to know your way around a bar pretty good; so I figured you’ve been doing this for awhile.”

“Yep, I guess you could say that. I’ve been here around four years. Tips are good.”

“Lots of tourists?”

“No, mostly locals. This isn’t a place the tourists would hear about, but the money’s good.”

“Where did you work before here?”

“It was a real hole, but it was a job. It was called The Mustache. I don’t even know if it exists anymore.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Boy! you’re nosy tonight. Why do you want to know?”

“I’m sorry. I’m just passing the time. No reason, really. You don’t have to tell me.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t talk. I’m just surprised you’re interested. You must really be bored. I guess you miss your wife?”

“I’m not married. I don’t know anybody except some of the staff here. Sorry I was so nosy.”

“No problem. I didn’t like the way the customers were always hitting on me at The Mustache. It was a tough place. That’s why I left. Oh, I’ve got another customer. Talk to you later.”

I finished my beer, put down a big tip, and left. I had what I wanted and there was no reason to stay any longer. It might look suspicious.

***

The next afternoon, I asked Collins if there were any murders in the vicinity of The Mustache four or five years ago. “I thought you were poking into the cemetery murders. What’s this place have to do with that?”

“Nothing probably, but I’m checking out another angle.”

“Oh, yeah? What?”

“Nothing really, but Denise Whitcomb worked there before she went to The Devil’s Bite.”

“So? You’re barking up the wrong tree. She had a sister that backed up her story about the time she got home. Besides that, the waiter and the cabby told us that Higgenbottom left before she did and the time clock records back them up.”

“I know, I know. I’ve read your notes, remember? Just find out if there were any murders.”

Two days later, Collins called to say that there were no murders, but a purse snatching and a rape case occurred in the vicinity of the bar.

“Who was the rape victim?”

“Boy! You really are a pain in the ass. I thought you would ask me though, so I made some notes. It wasn’t Denise Whitcomb. It was a Mrs. Charlotte Bolin.”

“What happened?”

“Geeze! You want all the details don’t you. Simple, Mrs. Bolin was walking to her car after getting off work from the bar and got grabbed by a heavyset man with a mask. He forced her into an alley, shoved her down behind a trash dumpster, put a knife to her throat and told her to take off her clothes. When she refused, he beat her, ripped off her clothes, raped her, gagged and tied her up, and threw her in the dumpster. Two days later, a homeless man found her while rummaging through the trash for something to eat. She was lucky to live. As it was, she was in the hospital for two weeks before she was considered well enough to be discharged.”

“What happened after that?”

“She just disappeared like so many others. The police could never find her to make any identification of likely suspects. The case was dropped since she wasn’t around anymore.”

“Thanks. I’ll call you later if I need any more help.”

Well, that was a dead end. I was no further along than the police. I reread all my notes and just got more frustrated. It was nine o’clock, and I thought that I might as well go to the Devil’s Bite for one last drink before I called it quits. It was too bad, because the cemetery murders would have made a great story.

I was beginning to feel like a regular customer at the place as I made my way back to the bar as usual. “Hey Denise! How are you tonight?”

“Hey Sam! The usual?”

“Sure, why not?” She came back with the frosty Busch in her hand and placed it down on a cardboard coaster. “Say, since you worked at The Mustache, I was wondering if you knew a friend of mine there by the name of Charlotte Bolin,” I said out of the blue.

She stared at me so coldly I felt as though Father Death was measuring me for a coffin. Something flicked in her eyes as she responded, “Never heard of her,” and she turned away to serve another customer. I’d hit a nerve. While we talked occasionally through the night, it was the other bartender who waited on me, not Denise.

I left the bar just before closing time and got in my car to wait and watch. For some reason, I wanted to see Denise leave. Around two, she came out the back entrance and walked towards the cemetery. When she got there, she walked along the fence until she came to a tree. There was a space between the tree and the fence that she squeezed through and disappeared. I decided to follow.

I entered where she had. Beyond the fence it was pitch black. I had no idea which direction she had taken. The hairs on the back of my neck and on my arms began to stand on end as I picked a direction and walked into the maze of monuments and tombs. The ever present shadows were unnerving and transmitted a chilling preview of death.

Police are always warning tourists not to go into the cemetery at night. The two murders I was investigating were good examples of why not. By staying in the deep shadows, it would be easy for someone to slip up on me as I passed. This wasn’t for me. It would be foolish to continue. I turned around and left, counting my blessings that tomorrow’s headline in The Post Dispatch wouldn’t read, “Staff Reporter Found Dead In Calvary Cemetery.”

***

“Hey Collins, can you get a picture of Charlotte Bolin for me? You know, the woman who was raped four years ago.”

“Why do you want that?”

“Just a hunch, that’s all. How about it?”

“What kind of fishing expedition are you on? How is Charlotte Bolin related to the murders in the cemetery?”

“Look, you guys got nowhere. Quit your bitchin’ and get me the picture. Surely, you took pictures for evidence if you caught the guy? I just want to see her face. I’ve got a hunch that’s all.”

“Boy! This is the last time I ever tell you about a case. You’re a real pain. I’ll get back to you.”

The next night, Collins stopped by the newspaper with Charlotte’s picture. “Here. Have any more requests?”

I looked at the picture. The woman was hit in both eyes, her nose broken, her lower lip split, but she was still recognizable. She looked like a badly beaten up Denise.

“Collins, look at this picture carefully. Who does it look like?”

After a minute he looked at me and said, “Denise Whitcomb?”

“You got it. I think Denise Whitcomb is your missing Charlotte Bolin.”

“So what? That don’t prove she murdered anybody.”

“You’re right, but it does provide a motive.”

“How do you mean?”

“Suppose Denise was walking through the cemetery on her way home after work. What if Wilson tried to mug her and she fought back. The stab wounds in his side are a funny place to stab somebody. You would expect wounds in the chest, stomach and even in the shoulder if he came at her from the front. But if he grabbed her from the back, she wouldn’t be able to strike him in the chest or stomach. If she had an ice pick, for example in her purse, she could strike him in the side. After Wilson turns her loose, she strikes him in the chest and stomach.”

“Interesting hypothesis, Sherlock; but why continue to stab him? Why not just run away when he goes down?”

“She snapped. Maybe it brought back memories of the previous rape. I don’t know. I think it started out as self protection, but changed somewhere along the line.”

“Okay then, why Higgenbottom?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t stabbed in the side at all. All his wounds were either in the front or back. They were also more severe. Maybe he was pestering her at the bar and that caused her to snap again.”

“BS. Remember, they put him in a cab? The cab driver dropped him off four long blocks from the cemetery. The coroner estimated his time of death as more than an hour after Denise got home. Your theory just doesn’t fly. Stick to writing. You’re no detective.”

“You’re wrong Collins. I saw something change in her last night when I mentioned the name of Charlotte Bolin. She’s hiding something.”

“Think what you want. When you have proof, give me a call. I gotta go do something productive.”

“Hell, all you ever do that’s productive is take a crap. See you around.”

***

I spent the next couple of days researching who Mrs. Charlotte Bolin was before she married. Through a friend at the State Marriage Bureau, I found out her maiden name was Charlotte Denise Whitcomb. Bingo! The same woman brutally raped four years ago was the bartender at the Devil’s Bite.

Next, I decided to visit her at her house. Don’t ask me why, but I just wanted first hand confirmation of my suspicions. Within the hour, I was knocking on her door.

“Hi Denise,” I said when the door opened.

“Oh, Sam! What are you doing here?”

“I got your address from the bar manager. I lost my watch, and I was wondering if you might have found it when you were cleaning up the other night?”

“Really? What’s that on your wrist, a compass?”

“Uh, oh this is my spare watch. The other one, the one I lost, was a given to me. I thought you might have picked it up.”

“No, I didn’t see it. Sorry.”

“May I come in for a minute? It’s awfully hot, and the air conditioner in my car doesn’t work. I could sure use a glass of water.” I had to get inside. I wanted to see what the place looked like.

“Sure, come in.”

I followed her back to the kitchen where she invited me to sit at the kitchen table while she got the glass of water. She spread out a newspaper on the table in front of me, opened the freezer section of the frig and removed a big chunk of ice. She put it on the paper. Then she got something out of a kitchen drawer and returned. It was an ice pick. As she raised it up, I jumped off the chair and was halfway across the kitchen before I heard her laugh.

“Mercy! What’s gotten into you? I thought you wanted some ice in your water?”

I sheepishly looked back at her. “What’s the ice pick for?”

“For chipping ice, silly. Don’t you think that fresh ice is so much better than those stale, old, little bitty cubes that come out of a tray?”

“I never thought about it.”

“Well, you get right back over here and sit down while I chip some ice for your water. It’ll taste much better with fresh ice, you’ll see.”

I carefully seated myself at the other side of the table while she chipped away. I watched every movement of her hand wondering if she was the murderer of two men. If so, was it the same ice pick? When she finished, she wiped the ice pick off on her aprion and put it on the counter. Then she put the block in the frig, took the chips and put them in a glass of water. When she handed me the glass, she was smiling and said, “The heat’s sure got you jumpy. Sit here a spell and sip that cool water while I go about my chores. Alright?”

“Oh, I don’t want to keep you from doing your work. This water’s great. You’re right about fresh ice making all the difference. I feel better already. I’ll just finish it and be on my way.” I had decided being there was a very bad idea.

“Oh no, no. You don’t have to go. I’m just finishing up some dishes. Sit down and relax. You look like you need it,” and she turned towards me with a smile while drying off silverware.

“What did you say your last name was?”

“Beideman.”

“Sam Beideman. Why is that name familiar to me?”

“I don’t know. I’m just a salesman. Maybe you’re getting me confused with someone else. Look, you’ve been very kind. I shouldn’t have bothered you, but you lived so close to the bar I thought I wouldn’t wait until the next time I was in the bar to see if you found my watch. I’ve got to go.” I got up and started for the door.

“My you are in a hurry. Wait a second, I’ll show you to the door,” and she put her towel down.

“I hope your husband isn’t the jealous type.”

“Jack? Oh, Jack’s dead. Has been for almost six years now.”

“Oh look, I didn’t mean to pry. I was just making conversation.”

“Oh I don’t mind.”

“I’m sorry. Now I really feel bad,” I said as I passed through the living room. I noticed several pictures. One showed her standing in front of a large Victorian mansion. “Your former home?”

She giggled like I’d just told the funniest joke she had ever heard and said, “Mercy, you are funny. No! Danielle took that when we were coming up here from New Madrid after my divorce. That’s the Glenn House.”

“Danielle? Who’s Danielle?”

“She’s my sister. She and I live here. She’s out right now or I’d introduce you.”

I smiled. Once outside I turned and said goodbye.

“See you.” She smiled and closed the door.

***

“Collins, I need your help again. I need to find out how a Jack Bolin died about five or six years ago in New Madrid...It does so. I think it has everything to do with the cemetery murders...How? It’s a hunch right now...BS! If I’m right, you’ll get a promotion for solving more than just the cemetery murders. I think Jack Bolin was also murdered, and I’ll bet it was with a long, slender object similar to an ice pick...Look, I know you think I’m crazy, but I tell you, this is real. Just do it for me, will you? I’ll owe you one...Whatever, if that’s what you want. Just find out how Jack Bolin died. I’ll bet he was stabbed to death.”

A week later, Collins came over to my office with the information. “You were right. Jack Bolin and a girl by the name of Amalie Gallier were found in a car partially submerged in a gravel pit five years ago. Both bodies were stabbed with what appeared to be an ice pick. They never found the murderer.”

I gave Collins my information. “I don’t know. What you’ve found out doesn’t prove that Denise was involved in the cemetery murders, or murdered her husband. All you got is a bunch of suppositions and a hunch. I can’t present this.”

“How did I know that Bolin was stabbed?”

“Good point. How did you know? If I didn’t know you, I’d say you just implicated yourself in a murder. But you’ve got bumpkiss on the cemetery murders. Lots of people have ice picks and lots of them use ‘em to chip ice. The fact that Denise has one means nothing. I’ve got one, and I use it to chip ice among other things. Big deal. All you’ve got is a string of circumstances that you’re putting together to make a story. Give it up, there’s nothin’ here.”

I could have given it up as he suggested but I said, “I’ll get you the proof. I’ll be in touch.” He left.

***

The next night I was at The Devil’s Bite. I’d stuffed myself at home with greasy pasta in preparation for a night of drinking. Over the years, I found if I ate a lot of heavy food, I didn’t get drunk easily. I planned to put on a show tonight, and I wanted to be as sober as possible.

I slid on an empty barstool at Denise’s part of the bar and began. “Hey Denise, how the hell are you tonight?”

“Fine, Sam. How have you been?”

“Okay. Give me a Busch with a double whiskey chaser. It’s been a tough day.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Does it ever give you the jitters that your house faces a cemetery?” I said as I quaffed down the double and started on the beer.

“No, I like the quiet and solitude of the cemetery in the day when I need to get my sleep; and it gives other people the jitters so there’s no crime in the neighborhood. I feel comfortable there.”

“You live so close, do you ever walk home?”

“All the time.”

“Give me another, will you?”

As she slid the boiler maker to me she said, “You better watch out. I’ll have to call a cab to get you home.”

“I’d rather stay here and talk to you. You know you’re very pretty?”

“You’re getting drunk. I’m going to have to call a cab.”

“Aw now, don’t do that. I just want to talk to a pretty girl like you. I’ll sober up before you close, just watch.”

“Then what?”

“You won’t have to call a cab. Hell, I’ll be so sober, you’ll let me walk you home.”

“That’ll be the day! I’ve got another customer. We’ll talk later.”

We continued the riposte until almost two. Everybody had left the bar now except for me; and Denise and I were getting risqué. I’d tell her a dirty joke, she would have a comeback. She was a good flirt and maybe more. I figured it was now or never. “Hey, let me walk you home tonight.”

“Maybe.”

“What about a night cap at your house with some of that fresh ice of yours?”

“You really liked that, huh? Okay. No funny business, though.”

“Hey, that’s fine with me.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you out back in a few minutes. I have to close out.”

“Sure.” As I got up, I exaggerated an unsteady walk for show. I didn’t want her to think I was sober. I was far from sober, but I definitely wasn’t as drunk as I appeared. In a few minutes, Denise came out the back door.

We crossed the street and began walking towards her neighborhood. The street lights of this hobgoblin neighborhood glowed weakly here and there, but mostly it was getting darker and darker. An infrequent low moaning wind from nowhere was the only sound that broke the eerie quiet.

We turned the corner, crossed the street and entered her shadowy neighborhood. Even though I had been to her house before, the impenetrable darkness at night made everything look much different. The street was deserted. There were no barking dogs, or passing cars, or porch lights to quiet my nerves. The broken street lights made the walk sinister and dark. There was nothing but an ominous feeling that slid down my spine like an ice cube.

“I know this sounds kind of kooky, but why don’t we take a stroll in the cemetery?” she said.

Goose bumps began to pop out on my skin. “Why?”

“Because it’s so quiet and peaceful there,” she said laughing, pulling through a break in the cemetery fence.

The sky pressed down on me like a shroud, and I felt swallowed in an even deeper blackness than before. I became lost as she led me farther into the unrelenting and pitiless maze of crypts and graves while I wondered why I had ever decided to do this.

There was very little light. It was as though the moon had hidden its bright face so as not to be a witness. The atmosphere was growing oppressive. I sensed this netherworld was going to be the site of some wickedness tonight. Was I going to be the next victim? She stopped at a large flat tomb that resembled a settee and sat down.

“Come here and sit beside me for a minute.”

When I did, she continued. “I can’t wait until the sun goes down because I know in a few short hours my world will be awake. In the blackness of the night, when all other people are safe at home and no one is around, I come alive. Do you like the night?"

I don’t know why, but I thought of vultures stealthily approaching and waiting for the kill. I just muttered, “uh huh,” as she lay back on the smooth stone. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty. Here kitty, kitty, kitty.”

“What’s that? What did you just say?”

“Nothing. I was just remembering calling the kittens, that’s all.”

This was getting hairy. I could barely see in the inky blackness. What if the murderer wasn’t her? What if it was her sister, and she was just waiting for the right moment to strike? I sensed an imminent hovering, looming presence and looked over my shoulder. It was like looking into an ink well. Nothing.

I turned back and she was gone.

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty. Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” I heard her say. Her voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Where had she gone? I turned around quickly and stared back where she had been. What the hell? Why does she keep calling her cat? I backed away looking everywhere at once and saw nothing. My stomach climbed into my throat. I saw the dim blob of a massive tree, and quickly put my back up against it and listened for a sound Nothing. I had to get out of there. This was Denise’s playground - not mine.

“Sam, what’s a smart newspaper man like yourself doing interested in me?”

The question caught me off guard. Did she really know I knew her secret? “I don’t know what you mean,” I said as I turned my head at her voice.

“You don’t work for the St. Louis Post Dispatch as a reporter? Let’s see, columns every Wednesday and Friday, right? I’d be proud if I were a writer. I’m just a poor little girl that everybody tries to take advantage of. Even you. You’re out here right now hoping for some sex. That’s the only reason you followed me into my maze. You know, ice picks come in very handy for a number of uses don’t you think? They can be used to chip ice or....” She stopped there..”

“Or what? Finish what you were going to say.” By now, I had corkscrewing chills running up and down my spine like a centipede. I was in trouble. I heard the soft sound of footsteps on the gravel behind me, and I dodged left towards a towering shadow of an obelisk. I stopped with it to my back. Someone was slowly coming around the tree I’d just left. I even thought I detected a slight movement of a shadow against a shadow, but I couldn’t be certain.

I crouched and stared where I thought I’d seen the shadow. I looked up at the sky. It was as black as my surroundings, and I felt as though an executioner had put a black hood over my head before he released the trapdoor beneath my feet. I had no idea the direction from which she might come. I straightened up pressing my back against the cold granite stone wishing to melt into it and be one with its surface. Then maybe she wouldn’t be able to get to me.

I felt a presence. Nothing I could see, but an impending sense of disaster caused me to shift to the left when a shadow, not quite as black as the night, came at me from around the obelisk on my right and drove something into my right shoulder. Searing pain shot through my shoulder crippling it as my other hand came up in self defense. I ducked down moving to the left, and the next stab hit the stone behind me where my neck had been. Adrenaline shot through me like a lighting bolt; and I jumped, and in a staggering run, zig-zagged between huge shadowy crypts, obelisks and burial vaults.

My right arm throbbed and swung uselessly at my side as I clutched at my shoulder. The pain was intense, and I felt light headed, but I couldn’t faint because she’d have me.

I didn’t know which way to go. Everywhere I looked it was only one shadow after another. Suddenly, faint moonlight shown through the leaden clouds. In the murky light, I saw her behind me but looking the opposite direction.

I was frozen in fear. I started to move for the cover of a monument, but she turned and saw me. As if on cue, the clouds thinned more and both of us were bathed in moonlight. The ice pick was in her right hand, and she slowly started to advance towards me. Her eyes glistened, and her tongue nervously licked at her lips. She wasn’t in any hurry as she slowly continued towards me.

I could hear her saying, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty. Here kitty, kitty, kitty.”

Why I didn’t move I don’t know. There was something mesmerizing about her and her sing-song chant. She stopped licking her lips and clamped her barred teeth together as her face became contorted in a deranged grin. Her right arm went up slowly, ready to strike out with the ice pick.

She ran at me, and I ducked to the side and lurched towards a large tomb running behind it. Any second the ice pick would plunge into my back. I dodged between two other massive shadows and into a stand of trees. I darted, and dodged my way through until I came to an open field, and stopped with a tree at my back.

I looked at the shadowy field. This must be an area reserved for expansion. I was almost out of the evil place. Just then, I heard a train whistle and knew where I was. All I had to do was cross that weed filled field and somewhere out there in the blackness was a fence that separated the cemetery from the railroad right-of-way. There would be an industrial park beyond that.

I waited an eternity before menacing clouds covered the moon and the field disappeared into blackness. Looking behind me one last time, I slowly slipped out of the cover of the trees and began a crouched run towards where I thought the fence might be. Part way out, the moon began to make its appearance, and I dropped to the ground. Slowly, I raised my eyes until they were just above the tops of the weeds and looked back the way I had come.

There she was. She was just at the edge of the woods. I could see her move along the tree line, darting from one tree to the other and pausing. The moon disappeared behind the clouds again, and I began to crawl along the ground. I noticed the ground began to slope upwards and had less cover. The higher up on the hill, the more exposed I felt.

There it was! The fence. I’d made it to edge of the cemetery. So far, I was in the clear; I didn’t see her behind me, but I knew she was. She couldn’t let me live. I knew her secret.

How was I going to get over it? It was a six foot chain link fence. Thank god it didn’t have any barbed wire on top. I looked back towards the field and saw her. She was in the field walking slowly, turning this way and that, but she hadn’t seen me yet. It wouldn’t take her long to spot me. I sank into the shadows as much as I could and preyed she wouldn’t look my way. She was still about hundred yards away and walking slowly in my general direction.

I had one chance. I had to make it over the fence before she got any nearer. I leapt for the fence and began to climb. They say fear is a powerful motivator, and I couldn’t have been more fearful. My arm hurt, but not as much as I imagined an ice pick in the back would.

She heard the noise and saw me climbing. “Kitty,” she screamed and ran towards me.

I was quick. With my fingers and tips of my shoes, I climbed the fence and threw myself over the top. Something got caught momentarily as I hung in mid-air; then there was a rip and I plunged to the ground. I remember seeing her strike where my leg had been just seconds before as she hit the fence in her run. That’s all I remember, because now I was rolling down the steep rock filled embankment towards the train tracks. I didn’t stop rolling until I hit the rails. I shook my head and looked at the fence. Denise was climbing over it She wasn’t going to stop until she killed me.

I got up and started to cross the tracks when I saw another fence just on the other side of them. My arm hurt so much I knew that I couldn’t climb over it to escape, so I started running down the tracks. Suddenly, I my foot was caught, and I fell. My shoe was stuck between rails, and I couldn’t pull it loose. The moon must have come out from behind the clouds because everything was bathed in a bright light.

I saw Denise sliding down the embankment on her bottom looking right me. I could see the gleam from her teeth and the glint of the ice pick. She reached the bottom and started to run along the tracks towards me.

Whoooo. Whoooo. I started at the sound of the train whistle. What I thought was moonlight, was really the bright light of a locomotive coming down the track towards me. I yanked at my foot, but it wouldn’t move. I looked over my shoulder and saw Denise, bathed in the train’s light, coming down a parallel set of tracks towards me. Her face was distorted in a demonic smile and her arm was raised high above her head.

Whoooo. This time the deafening blast of the horn nearly knocked me down. I yanked and yanked, but the damned shoe wouldn’t move. I grabbed the laces and yanked them apart. The train was almost on me.

Whoooo. I felt my body vibrate from the intensity of the whistle, the ground was shaking, and I was blinded by the locomotive’s light. The track moved and I fell backwards as the train rumbled past. To my horror I noticed I was still on tracks, but the train was just a foot away rushing past me on another set of parallel tracks. I clawed backwards using hands and feet as the monster engine continued past with a great blast of wind and noise. Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought I heard a scream.

There was the deafening squeal of metal against metal and great sparks leapt from beneath the wheels. My back was pressed up against the fence as I continued to push myself backwards away from the train. Finally, it stopped with a banging of cars against each other all the way down its length.

***

My fuzzy mind told me I was on my back on something soft. The ceiling was white, and as I turned my head slowly to the left, I saw a partially pushed back curtain and beyond that an open door. I could see nurses pass back and forth in the hall beyond. Turning to the right, I saw that the curtain went around me. My right arm was bandaged. I was in a hospital. Which one, I didn’t know. Presently, a nurse came in and smiled at me.

“How are you feeling?”

“I ache all over. Where am I?

“You’re at Barnes. I’ll be back in a minute. I want to tell the doctor that you’re conscious, and a Detective Collins wants to see you. He’s been here all morning,” she said with a bright and chipper voice.

After the doctor left, Collins ambled in and sat his oversized body in the one chair. “How are you feeling?”

“Banged up. How would you expect? Where the hell were you? You were supposed to be following me.”

“I know. We lost you both. It was just too dark in there. Then we got a call from the Railroad that one of their trains had hit someone who was standing on the tracks. When we got there, the engineer was incoherent and going on about a man and a woman who were on the tracks. He said he sounded his horn but the man appeared to have his foot stuck in the rails, while the other was standing on the siding. He applied the breaks and activated the track to move the rail so he would go down the siding and miss the man on the main line assuming the woman would move. She never did and the train hit her.”

“We found her and the ice pick. Congratulations Beideman, you damned near died, but you solved the case.”