The Monstrumologist by Rick Yancey Page B

The light danced upon the codger’s weathered features, casting deep shadows into the crevices cutting his cheeks and brow.

    “How did you find the grave?” the doctor asked.

    “Oh, I knew where the Bunton plot was, all right, Doctor,” replied the grave-robber.

    “No. I mean, was it disturbed at all? Did you note any evidence of digging?”

    Erasmus shook his head. “Wouldn’t have bothered with it in that case, Doctor.”

    “And why is that?”

    “I would take it to mean somebody had beaten me to the prize.”

    Something had beaten him to the “prize,” of course, which was the whole point of the doctor’s inquiry.

    “So you noted nothing out of the ordinary last night?”

    “Only when I opened up the casket,” the old man said dryly.

    “No holes or mounds of dirt nearby?”

    Erasmus shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing like that.”

    “No unusual odors?”

    “Odors?”

    “Did you smell anything odd, similar to rotten fruit?”

    “Only when I popped open the casket. But the smell of death is not so odd to me, Doctor Warthrop.”

    “Did you hear anything out of the ordinary? A snorting or hissing sound?”

    “Hissing?”

    The doctor forced air through his closed teeth. “Like that.”

    Erasmus shook his head again. “It was a normal operation in every way, Doctor, until I opened the casket.” He shuddered at the memory.

    “And you noted nothing unusual until that point?”

    The grave-robber replied that he had not. The doctor turned away to contemplate the grave, the family plot, the grounds beyond, and the line of trees to his right that bordered the lane beside the stone wall, hidden now behind the dense brush.

    “Most curious,” he muttered a second time.

    He shook himself from his reverie, his tone abruptly changing from contemplative to crisp. “The mystery deepens, but doesn’t bear upon our errand tonight. Dig it up, Mr. Gray. And you dig with him, Will Henry. We’ll return at daybreak and pray our fortunes rise with the sun. Perhaps the light of day will illuminate what evidence the night’s shadow conceals! Snap to, Will Henry, and make short work of it.”

    He abandoned us then, hurrying toward the trees, torch held low, stooping over as he went, swinging the fire left andright and all the while muttering to himself.

    “I wouldn’t go into those trees if I was him,” Erasmus Gray said dourly. “But I’m not the monster hunter, am I?” He clapped a calloused hand upon my shoulder. “Let’s snap to it, as your master says, William Henry! Many hands make light work!”

    Twenty minutes later, my lower back and shoulders aching and the tender flesh of my palms burning, at only three feet closer to our goal, I thought I could take issue with his proverb, for four hands did not seem that many in this circumstance, and the work proved anything but light. The soil of New Jerusalem, like most of New England, is rocky and unyielding, and despite having been turned the night before by Erasmus Gray in his quest for macabre riches, the soil of Eliza Bunton’s grave gave itself up stubbornly to our spades. As I labored, I thought of the enormous male
Anthropophagus
, who, with no tool but his steel-hard claws, had somehow managed to tunnel his way through the hard ground to reach his prey. Like the doctor, I found it most curious that we found no evidence of his invasion and that Erasmus claimed to have found none the night before. Could the old man have missed it in the dark? Had he simply failed to notice it in his lust for booty, and obliterated the evidence in his haste to retreat with his monstrous find?

    We could hear Dr. Warthrop in the trees fifty yards away, stomping through the underbrush and the detritus of fallen leaves from the previous autumn, the sound punctuated nowand then by soft, incoherent cries of consternation, the first of which caused Erasmus Gray to raise his head in alarm, thinking, no doubt, that the doctor had found—or had been found