Dirge - Beth Byrne

He rounds a corner of the path without a backward glance, and as the rain intensifies visibility is worse and you lose sight of him through the scant trees. By the time you reach that point he's gone, but you can't shake the sensation of eyes on you.


The path leads to one the larger stone caskets; impressive for its size but not particularly embellished. From here it looks like a dark and scored sacrificial altar.


It looks like someone has left something on the lid, something stark and white against the greens and greys of the rainy cemetery.
 
She picks up the pace, but for naught. At this point, her normally tangled hair is hanging in her eyes, dripping, but she doesn't have her umbrella and wouldn't remember it if she did. The man can't have disappeared into thin air, but this is where the path ends; a dark, plain casket, strangely free of markings but there's something there she hasn't seen before. Each step makes a splashing sound as she approaches the casket with curiosity, bending over to look more closely at whatever it is.
 
A single white ribbon is stuck to the lid, plastered down by rain. It looks like it could be from a bridal outfit or something of the sort.


The sarcophagus itself lacks any markings - faint scratches remain, worn by the years into illegibility.
 
She frowns and runs a finger along the edge of the ribbon before taking it into her hands, turning, and sitting on the lid - so help the soul of whoever is laid to rest in there. She glances up, wondering if she'll catch another glimpse of the man from earlier, head buzzing with the abundance of things which have disappeared from her view today. Beth Byrne does not see things unless they are there. Beth Byrne does not see things unless they are there. Beth Byrne does not see things unless they are there. It's like a comforting hymn to her. Odd somethings have not been an infrequent occurrence, but today is different. Today, Beth feels like she is on the verge of breaking through some membrane. There's an odd kind of stasis in the air, as if a prelude to disquiet. She knows some of it is her brain, directing its own narrative.
 
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There is only the hiss of the rain. The sodden fabric in your hands and hanging from your frame. The distant rumble of traffic.


And yet you feel that growing pressure, like bony hands pushing down on your shoulders.
 
She sits and waits for some time, convinced something is going to happen. When nothing does, she concedes with a sigh and stands, absent-mindedly tying the ribbon around her wrist and wandering off, planning to return to the campus and perhaps wander into some local stores along the way. She still has no enlightenment on any of the things she has seen so far; as with all unresolved items, they will go into her journal.


She refuses to forget them.
 
Days pass. Breakfast, class, study. Phoebe continues to avoid you, as if afraid. On Wednesday evening your phone rings.


Your grandparent's number.
 
Beth doesn't admit it, even to herself - uncharacteristic - but Phoebe's avoidance bothers her. She did apologize, right? Sort of? She hadn't even said anything that bad, it was an honest question.


Her cell rings, and seeing the number pushes ice through her veins. Quickly, she swipes at the green symbol and holds the phone to her ear. "Grandma? It's not Sunday, why are you calling? Did something happen?"
 
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"Everything is fine, Beth," comes the reply, with a hint of amusement, "your grandpa and I just felt like calling you. Oh - you aren't in a class or out with your friends, are you?" All concern, now.
 
Beth breathes a sigh of relief. "No, no, I'm not doing anything really." She minimizes her browser. After an awkward pause, she tacks on, "How are you?"
 
"Well enough!" she replies, and you can hear here smile. "Your grandpa took a bit of a tumble at the bottom of the staircase, but he was barely bruised. Can you believe it?"


"That'll be my hip gone, you said," comes his muffled voice from somewhere near the phone.


"I did say. I said he'd broken his hip, but only a little bruise," she says. "Anyway, we mostly just wanted to tell you that we love you."
 
"Oh." Beth is several things: concerned, annoyed, touched. On the one hand, she doesn't like to be bothered often, but on the other, it's such a genuinely sweet sentiment... The pair really do so much for her, care so much about her, and it's so rare that she does anything in return.


"...I love you guys, too. How did Gramps fall? Did you go to the doctor? Is he still in pain?"


A bruise isn't much to be concerned about, but the man is old. You never know.
 
"Oh, just a trip-"


"Tripping over my own toes."


A chuckle.


"He won't see a doctor," chides grandma. There's inaudible mumbling.


"But it doesn't look bad at all, and no pain, now. How are you, dear?"


There's another mumble.


"Oh, yes! I nearly forgot bingo. We'll have to go, Beth. You take care of yourself, hm? God bless."
 
She laughs with them. "I'm well, thanks. More of the same, you know." And then the pair is bidding adieu. "Bingo? You really are getting old. Have fun, grandma. Bye."


After hanging up, she glances at her textbooks, thrown carelessly into the corner of her room. She stares, face blank, then walks over and picks one up, pulling a half completed assignment from between the pages and sitting at her desk.


She can do this much, at least.
 
The week passes so fast you hardly notice, so buried in your studies. Your roommates intermittently take the time to loudly make fun of you in the next room, but you barely notice - and even if you did, would you deign to acknowledge it?


The weekend comes at the end of another Dincan class - Philosophy of Art, but this time a subject of apparent personal interest; philosophy as expressed in literature, with a little Jung thrown in for good measure. Even more surprising, Dincan suggests a comicbook as optional reading.


And then Friday night is upon you.
 
She takes to the streets.


Comic books have never interested her; make-believe stories in general have never interested her, though she can appreciate allegory as much as the next student of philosophy. She supposes she could keep an eye out for a store that may stock the reading as she wanders.


She walks the commercial streets lined with little shops, and unless she finds a comic book store before she reaches it, she will stop by the small ghost tour office and peer into it with some measure of self-directed disgust, wondering if she'll see the anachronistic figure she hasn't quite been able to shake from her head completely.
 
Out of season, you guess; no one in the office right now, though it looks recently open.


But you do find a small shop - "Nerdronomicon" - that looks like it's been there all of a month. Converted from some older business - a more mundane bookstore, maybe, all narrow aisles and tightly packed shelves.


The guy behind the counter is reading some of his own product. Clean shaven, fauxhawk, thick-rimmed glasses. His t-shirt has a stylized skull on it. Doesn't look up as you enter.


The suggested reading appears to have pride of place on a rack over to the left; volumes neatly lined up, collated by number, pristine.
 
Nerdronomicon? Really, guy?


Despite her derisive thoughts, Beth enters the store and quickly locates her quarry.


She sighs huffily, standing in front of the shelf and running calculations as she flips through one of the books on the shelf. She hadn't realized how expensive a hobby comic books could be - there are several volumes here, each with several issues. At no lower than sixty dollars for a single volume, none of these are coming home with her. Even when making an obligatory effort to be a good student, she has her limits. In a last ditch effort, she approaches the counter - and, unfortunately, the guy sitting behind it, who presumably is responsible for the store's name.


"Hey." She jerks her thumb over at the display. "Those Sandman comics, do you sell individual issues? I just want the first one."
 
He looks up, smiles, and is instantly less insufferable looking.


"Seeing if it's for you before you get the set, huh?" He closes his book - Rousseau, it turns out - and glances over his shoulder.


"I should have all the paperbacks around here somewhere, but stocking shelves..." he makes a face, holds up and hand and tilts it. "I only have so much patience. Lemme take a look for you."


He takes a step back through an open door, into a dim and crowded storeroom. So crowded, from the look of it, it's functionally a short corridor. He starts flicking through comics arranged in boxes.
 
"Mm. Sure," she says, privately thinking she's more likely to illegally download the rest if indeed it is for her.


She taps her foot as she waits, gaze falling and staying on the book. She leans over to get a better look at the title. Beth isn't a big fan of Rousseau - putting such irrelevant things as "morality" over science is a bit of a turn off.


Come to think, he said the same drivel about art, as well. What's a comic store owner (Employee? It's unclear.) doing with a thinker like that?


"You have poor taste in reading materials."


She's vaguely aware that it could have come out much better, but she internally shrugs it off. If he gets offended it's his own fault for being so thin-skinned.
 
He continues searching.


"Can't criticize what you haven't read," he says, mildly, then glances over at you with a grin. "And there's a lot to criticize."
 
She snorts. "Doesn't stop most." Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she glances around the store. Conversation makes her uneasy - a minefield of intricacies her head-on nature doesn't comprehend. Nuance is something she needs to study, plan. Is she obligated to say anything further? Does she care? Clenching her teeth, she falls into silence.
 
"But you're not among them, huh?" he asks, still searching.


A moment later he returns with the first issues.


"Alright, so I have five here - but hear me out; the first one is a little ropy, doesn't find its feet right away. You won't regret it by the end. And since these aren't the moneymakers anyway, I can sell them at a discount."
 
Beth brushes her fingers over her wallet in the pocket of her leather jacket and pulls the garment tighter around herself. It's a sales tactic, she's sure, but maybe it's a worthwhile one. "What's the discount?"
 
"Call it... twenty percent. Thirty bucks for the lot," he says, stroking his chin and scanning the covers.
 
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