White Roses

Terri Lynn Coop

This year’s Halloween dare is a piece of cake. I’ll be done in an hour. Honestly, Thursday’s full moon should make it easier.

 

As I slipped through a gap in the stone fence, I realized I’d made a mistake not bringing a flashlight. Deep in the oldest part of the cemetery, the giant oaks blocked most of the moon and cast eerie shadows. I picked up my pace. I wanted to get this done.

 

The Sinclair family burial plot is protected by a wrought iron pavilion topped with a lacy metal dome. The corner posts supported an ancient tangle of snowy white climbing roses twining around the iron braces creating a fragrant woven roof over the brooding graves of generations past.

 

However, I wasn’t here for a history lesson. At the peak is an elaborate copper-plated cross.

 

First, I’d claim bragging rights for the year and then I’d off it to an antique dealer for a bundle.

 

Piece of cake.   

 

I used the trunks of the roses as a ladder and crawled out onto the dome. I swore as thorns tore at my hands and the century-old iron creaked under my weight.

 

Okay, maybe not cake. But still worth it.

 

The cross was within reach. I shifted my weight and my knee slipped off the support strut, sending me face first into the roses. Cradled in the tangled vines, countless thorns bloodied me.

 

I tried to grab something for leverage, but every time I moved; I sank farther into the barbed agony of the bower. If I broke through, I’d end up skewered on the iron crosses below.

 

I screamed when I heard the first crow. My granny always told me that hearing a crow at night is a harbinger of death. When the first two landed, I buried my face in the cloying blooms.

***

Tuesday morning after Halloween weekend dawned cold and clear. The cemetery sextant fumbled the ornate key around in the rusty lock.

 

“Sorry. It’s been a while since we’ve had a Sinclair kick off. You pick the spot and I’ll get the gravediggers working.”

 

The funeral director looked around and said, “No worries. The funeral’s not until Friday. This really is a lovely place. Look at these roses; I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an incredible shade of red.” 

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