“I dunno,” Hutch replied, restlessly rising and lowering on the balls of his feet. “What did you expect, a big gay ghost?” asked Putter. “Well,” said Hutch, after a minute passed. There was no sound but the crunching of leaves under their feet. They exhaled together, the plumes of their breath mingling in the air over the grave. Midnight Malcolm.” It was stupid to feel a chill in the small of their muscular backs over this, but they did. The three jocks exchanged nods, inhaled and together said the words. “Close enough,” said John, digging his fists into his frat jacket pockets, his sturdy legs shifting in place in snug sweats. John and Hutch snickered, but Putter just glanced at his watch. The lower slab had the same lettering etched into it. None of the trio wanted to admit how on edge the night time cemetery left them. Hutch and Putter laughed, and John shook his head and joined in. “Asshole,” John muttered, quickly regaining his composure. Hutch jerked his elbow forward into John’s back suddenly, provoking a startled gasp from his frat brother. The fog was just rolling in low over a blanket of fallen leaves in the long neglected corner of the cemetery, and the full moon glowed. John, Putter and Hutch stood before the headstone and the pink marble slab covering the grave. Boymercuryx: MIDNIGHT MALCOLM by Boy Mercury XĪrt by This story also appears on the Nifty Archive
