Tiny Horror

The iron gates of Riverside were chained shut, the heavy links cold and slick against Jim’s gloved hands. He parked his sedan two blocks away on a quiet residential street, feeling every bit the amateur criminal. The rain had settled into a fine, persistent mist that clung to his coat and threatened the electronics in his bag.

He hopped the low stone perimeter wall where it bordered the park, his boots landing in a soft, sucking patch of mud. He clicked on his tactical flashlight, keeping the beam aimed low at the ground. At 1:00 AM, the cemetery was a different world. The rolling hills were gone, replaced by a claustrophobic maze of gray monoliths and weeping angels that seemed to lean toward him in the dark.

The hike to the Blood plot took twice as long as it had in the afternoon. He navigated by memory and the occasional flash of his screen, his heart hammering against his ribs at every snap of a twig or gurgle of the nearby river.

As he neared the northern ridge, Jim clicked off his light. He didn’t want to draw any attention from the patrol cars that occasionally cruised the parkway. His eyes adjusted to the gloom, the mist acting as a natural diffuser for the distant glow of the city lights.

He was fifty yards from the massive oak when he saw it: movement.

Jim froze, dropping to one knee behind a headstone that bore the name VOIGHT. A figure was standing over the Blood monument. It was a silhouette in a dark, hooded windbreaker, the hood pulled low. The figure moved with a methodical, unhurried grace, holding a large plastic container. Jim watched as the figure paused to tilt their head at a sharp, deliberate angle—a bird-like, inquisitive movement—before pouring a thick, viscous liquid over the granite.

The liquid cascaded down the face of the stone, looking black as ink in the moonlight. The figure stayed for a moment before capping the container and melting back into the trees toward the river fog.

Jim waited five minutes, his thumb hovering over the shutter button of his Nikon. When the silence of the cemetery returned, he crept forward, his curiosity overriding his caution.

He reached the grave and stood paralyzed.

The stone was drenched. A deep, shocking crimson covered the gray granite, dripping slowly from the rounded corners like fresh paint. Jim felt a surge of professional triumph. The Midnight Hoaxer, he thought. Someone was actually maintaining the legend. Some local eccentric, or maybe a kid looking to keep the tourists coming.

He raised the D700, framing the shot. Through the viewfinder, the red was electric against the gray gloom. He adjusted his settings, playing with a long exposure to catch the way the liquid pooled at the base. It was exactly what Artie wanted: vivid, haunting, and terrifying.

But as he leaned in for a macro shot of the name, the triumph evaporated.

He expected the chemical scent of latex or the cloying sweetness of corn syrup and food coloring. Instead, the air around the stone was warm. It smelled of copper pennies and salt; the unmistakable, iron-heavy scent of a butcher shop.

Jim hesitated, his hand trembling as he reached toward the stone. He didn't touch it, but he could feel the heat radiating from the granite, a low fever-pulse in the cold spring night. Looking through his lens, he saw something that defied his analyst’s brain. The liquid wasn't just sitting on the surface; it was being pulled into the microscopic pores of the stone via capillary action.

Was it... drinking?

With an organic, rhythmic efficiency, the granite was absorbing the red, the stone's gray surface turning a bruised, dark purple as the thirst was satisfied.

Jim didn't wait for the figure to return. He threw his gear into his bag and scrambled back toward the stone wall, the sound of his own panicked breathing the only thing he could hear over the rushing of the river.

The tale continues...