Horror logo

A Ceaseless Buzzing

And too many voices

By Ashton HarrisPublished 3 years ago 7 min read
3

The quiet of the cemetery is such a comfort to me that I don’t know what I would do without them. That’s a morbid-sounding thing to say, but it’s simply true: I need cemeteries to survive. The problem with living people is that they don’t ever stop; from the moment they can open their eyes they have thoughts after thoughts after thoughts cascading down like a multi-tiered fountain of directionless information and ideas and desires that can’t be meted out or fulfilled because often times the thoughts as so nested into the psyche that the person doesn’t even know they have them.

The dead don’t have that problem. In truth, though, I don’t know what problems the dead might even have; my particular prognosis isn’t inclined to give me insights toward the deceased.

I have telepathy. I can hear people’s thoughts, and I can’t make it stop. Cemeteries are one of the few—or, more often, only—respites I have from the living. People aren’t as awful as I might have made them seem. I don’t hate people, and there are some that I actually enjoy spending time with, but I just started college, and everything is just so loud now. The droning chatter of people in a mess hall can be pretty bad from what my friends say, but they don’t hear all of the conversations I hear. Guys and girls flirting and appraising each other for dating, people trying to dig themselves out of debt by pursuing an education, children being thrust into adulthood unprepared for the various layers of reality hanging over them like a wet blanket, it would be enough to drive a person insane.

Thankfully I grew up with this affliction, so I stopped questioning my sanity a long time ago. I either am and I’m not, and there’s no point agonizing over it.

I stood in the middle of the arrangement of headstones, and they stretched out around me for a good few hundred feet in all directions. I’d been here for about a half hour now, and the lack of pressure from human consciousness was a breath of air at the end of a run, satisfying but not enough. Knowing that I had to return to society and wouldn’t be able to go deep into a jungle to live as wild man was always a damper on my mood, but it was one I could carry fine enough.

Far off to one side of my refuge was a funeral. A group of people, all clad in blacks, and a reverend of some fashion stood in an inward-facing huddle. I turned and slowly made my way toward them because easing myself back towards people and their minds was always easier than suddenly being thrust into the throng of everyday life. Like wading into a pool from the shallow end first versus cannon balling in from the top of a high dive.

I heard the reverend’s voice around the same time I started hearing the people’s thoughts; mostly mournful, some angry, some bitter. I slowly listened in from one person to the next. Jean, the man who had passed on, had not been a particularly kind man; his wife had preceded him into the earth by half a decade, his children were bitter for the estrangement between him and they, and his grandchildren were upset to see their parents in anguish more so than for their lost grandfather. The oldest of the grandchildren, Evelyn, was the only of her generation that was truly in anguish for all of them; she had been the only of the grandchildren to be close to Jean, if you could say he had been close to any of his grandchildren; she was old enough to see the real hurt in her parents and aunts and uncles, that they had only wanted love and approval from him, but he’d been too hard to give it to them, and all of her cousins would only grow up with tales of their grandfather rather than get to know the man she had seen in their shared vacations and those few, solitary moments of true kindness.

For not having the same ability as myself, I thought Evelyn was as openminded and openhearted as I was.

I spent the rest of the service with the grieving family, tuning out the particular voices and basking in the general emotion and gentle hum of shared experience in what they were going through. I wasn’t reveling in it, I wasn’t taking pleasure from their hurt, but for myself, a funeral can be a less-than-awful experience because, typically, every mind is focused on one subject, every heart string tuned to the same chord, and even if it’s a somber one, it’s easier for me to listen to.

The reverend finished his speaking piece, commemorating and finalizing Jean’s descent and rest in the Earth. People began shuffling by in a procession in front of the family, whispering platitudes and niceties that contrasted or paralleled their actual thoughts and feelings.

Guess it’s time to get going, I told myself without moving. A slight buzzing was coming from somewhere, maybe a beehive tucked up in a nearby tree. I watched the procession a little longer before turning to go.

I cannot wait to feel your blood, Evelyn.

I froze, rattled by the words that just echoed in my head.

I looked back to the group of mourners, heart beating, blood cold. Had I actually heard that? The words were so matter of fact, flavored by a desire of genuineness for what they said, for what they meant, colored with a base desire of satisfaction for one simple thing: someone here wanted to murder Evelyn Hart.

I didn’t realize I was walking toward the group, but the volume of their thoughts grew louder and louder, a steady chatter that filled my head alongside my panicked, buzzing thoughts. Who here wanted to hurt a family already in pain? Or was it more specifically about Evelyn? They were all family, or friends close enough to be so. How could someone hurt their own family? Who could it be?

“Do we know you?” The external voice shook my from my mind, helping me focus on the world around me instead of within me.

I looked to my right to see a tiny old lady, wrinkles of smiles and worry etched on her like words on a page. Her white hair was pulled back into a bun, and her eyes showed me curiosity but not suspicion.

“Hi—sorry—I was late, I—” I started but didn’t know where to finish. What was I doing? I had never interfered with people like this, never used what I overheard to my advantage.

The older lady smiled, that kind of smile where you don’t have anything left to give and accept what is. “It’s okay, dear.” She patted my shoulder. “We’re all a little late sometime. Best just not to be late to the important things. If you’re here because of Jean, you’re welcome to meet with us ate Margaret’s home.” Without further explanation she made her way back to her family, who had begun to depart from the grave toward their vehicles.

Beyond the elderly woman was a set of bright blue eyes that I couldn’t help but be transfixed by. I don’t know if we stared for hours or seconds, but it gave me a longing for a place to call home behind them.

Evelyn put her arm around her grandmother Frieda, still looking at me as they turned to go. She looked as struck as I did but recovered with her grandmother on her arm and made her way with the rest of her family.

I realized I was alone at the gravesite, the bees still buzzing from somewhere nearby. It had been a tense few moments, and it felt like the bees were buzzing on the side of my head. I would probably have to forego my class this afternoon and get the notes from Carol tomorrow to make up for it.

I turned, pulling my phone out to text her when I saw the man.

He was standing beside a tall headstone, not far from Jean’s gravesite, facing me. His funeral-like suit, with a black overcoat down to his calves, made for a narrow build, accenting all of the angles between his jawline, cleft chin, and prominent cheekbones. Black finger-length hair, a shaved face, and his hands hanging freely, he had a relaxed-and-tense rigidity to him that told me something was wrong, but I couldn’t place what it was.

Then I saw his eyes.

They were black too, no distinction between iris and pupil. They were flat, depthless, and hollow.

The silence from him was blood-chilling, and I realized two things.

I didn’t hear any thoughts from the man, and the buzzing I’d been hearing wasn’t coming from inside my head.

fiction
3

About the Creator

Ashton Harris

Martial Artist. Father and Husband. Christian. Screaming Cowboy.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.