With the flick of a switch
The graveyard stood silent and empty except for one small group huddled beneath umbrellas
around an empty coffin sized hole. The young minister stood to one side, his low monotonous tone
muffled by the rain that fell in a constant insistent drizzle from the ominous grey sky. There were six
mourners in all, gathered around one side of the gaping hole that had been expertly cut into the
sodden ground. Opposite, the dark-wood coffin stood wet and waiting on a metal trestle, ready to
be lowered to its place of final resting. Of the mourners, five were men, all wearing dark suits,
staring stone-faced and silent, their jackets wet and crumpled by the inclement weather. The sixth
mourner was a woman dressed in gothic black, her pale face hidden by a long black veil attached to
a fashionable hat. Beneath it, tendrils of dark red hair coiled and twisted hanging loosely on one
shoulder. One of the mourners stood mutely next to her holding an umbrella above her head,
ignoring his own discomfort as he protected her from the weather. She held a crumpled white
handkerchief in one hand, her shoulders shaking silently as the minister concluded his speech. In
the other, she held a single red rose that stood out like a splash of blood against her outfit.
The final words had barely been completed when the minister turned slightly and nodded towards his assistant standing wet and uncomfortable next to the silent coffin. Rain spattered and ran from the polished wood and, with the touch of a button; it began to lower into the hole. The motor sputtered slightly then caught again as the minister grimaced and turned his eyes
heavenwards and offered a silent prayer. The motor stuttered once more then continued to smoothly lower the coffin into its final resting place. The motor was turned off leaving only the sound of the rain hitting the wooden lid and the raucous sound of ravens from the trees that lined the graveyard. The woman stepped forward, and with a flick of her wrist sent the red rose tumbling to land on top of the casket. She began to recite what sounded like an ancient prayer. The man holding the umbrella joined in, it was hypnotic.
“Of blackest night, soul seeped in blood red sin, go forth now to rest in this hallowed
earthen tomb. May death take no hold of your immortal soul; and shall the sun never rise upon you.
Under midnight skies I will call your name; Ryder of the White Court! Until you wake and leave this
graves embrace, and join me once more in life’s sweet blood fanged grace. Arise now and be free
from Deaths eternal womb.”
Awakening from the trance and realizing that his job was almost done the minister wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a change of clothes, but he needed to first provide some final words of condolence or comfort. The other mourners had already moved away leaving only the woman and the umbrella holder standing over the grave. The minister stepped closer, failing miserably to keep his eyes from appraising her shapely form in the tight black dress. Her long stocking clad legs held his attention as he found unsolicited erotic thoughts and visions clouding his mind. Images of sex and sudden violence! Thoughts that had not assailed him since he joined the priesthood. He bit down hard on his lip trying to force the unwelcome visions away until a flutter of wings distracted him. A raven or crow landed on one of the nearest gravestones, followed by a second and then a third. They perched on the weathered stones watching the group silently through black expressionless eyes. In control of his emotions again, the minister took another step toward the woman and leant forward, closing his eyes at the intoxicating smell of her expensive perfume. Her head turned towards him, deep green eyes holding his, full lips curling into a slow inviting smile. Long pale fingers each tipped with a blood red nail brushed the skin of his bare wrist. His gasp was almost inaudible as her fingers slowly caressed his skin like a razor cutting through silk. He wanted nothing more than to take her, to tear off her panties and spread her thighs on top of that wet coffin. He wanted to bury himself inside her, feel the wet heat as her legs wrapped around him pulling him deeper, rutting like animals. In that moment he would have forsaken his God!
Her fingers slipped away and the moment was gone, the vision broken. Somewhat belatedly the minister realized that his cock was fully erect. Embarrassed, he stepped away, convinced that everyone could see his rising excitement. His hand dropped to cover the obvious arousal and he took a step back. His heel slipped on the wet earth he tottered precariously on the edge of the grave before a large hand grabbed him painfully by the wrist and pulled him back. The minister’s eyes were wide and staring, his face pale as he stumbled away from the edge, dropping to his knees. He finally managed to catch a shuddering breath, his heart pounding painfully like a jack hammer in his chest. He glanced up and realized the woman was walking away leaving only the umbrella-holding man for company. The man reached down and hauled the young minister to his feet. “My mistress had requested that you join her at the wake.” He smiled revealing a mouth lined with sharp teeth like that of a shark, the smile of a predator. A ripple of fear crossed his face as the minister tried to pull back but the man’s grip was too strong and held him easily. The smile disappeared.
“She hates to be disappointed!”
The minister glanced up as the woman climbed into a long black limousine, the movement pulling her skirt up to reveal the flash of a pale thigh above the stocking clad legs. He shuddered with sudden anticipation, watching as the door closed and the car pulled away. “I’ll be there.” The man nodded as though he expected nothing else and began to walk away.
“Wait!” the minister called and the man turned back to face him. “What is the name of your
“Amber!” He smiled again revealing the shark-sharp teeth. “Her name is Amber Cherry!”
Copyright Rayven Angel. All rights reserved. No part of these publications may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author.