The far corner of the country cemetery was heavily over grown. Fruit trees, almost barren in their neglect, arched their twisted branches over what might once have been hedgerows. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine, which knotted its way into the uplifted boughs. Late summer grasses, golden and grown to hip height, waved their flag like seed heads in the gentle breeze, and the sound of crickets was so loud it almost drowned out the chattering birds. The old gold rush town to which this bone-yard belonged had long since dwindled to a handful of households. Most were farmers, too busy with the daily grind to pay much attention to the civic upkeep memorials to forgotten forefathers. A few of the headstones and family mausoleums had been vandalised but most had simply suffered from the ravages of weather, weeds and burrowing rabbits.
It was the cool shade offered by those neglected fruit trees that attracted her to this seemingly deserted corner. She'd ventured into the disused and all but forgotten graveyard in order to research the history of her ancestors, the Everett family. Initially the sorry state of the place had been depressing, but it's worn and wild charm was growing on her and she was had become engrossed in her task of cataloguing the graves one by one, noting the names and dates wherever these were visible. The project was likely to take several hours, especially given the summer heat, and she'd bought with her a simple picnic lunch and a flask of ice tea. When it came time to take a break this shaded spot seemed like the perfect place to take refuge from the hot afternoon sun.
Apparently she wasn't the only one who thought so for, as she approached, a hare darted from the towering grass and disappears into the thorny undergrowth. It was then that she noticed that the mound of earth from which the abundant jasmine sprang was in fact a mausoleum, almost buried by the untamed vine. Scraping away the tangled mass, she found stonework, worn but intact, and a low iron door still in place. Frustratingly there were no markings or inscription to indicate the family to which it belonged, so, with her curiosity peeked she had returned the following day she bringing a few candles and a crow bar, with the intention of searching the crypt. She doubted there would be any trace of coffin or corpses after so many years, but there might be some evidence of who had been laid to rest here. None-the-less her heart beat a little quicker as she prised open the ancient, rusted door.
Inside the vault was cool and dry, surprisingly spacious for a memorial of this type, and smelled inoffensively of earthworms and musty soil. She lit a candle and waited for her eyes to adjust but as they did she was astonished by a most unexpected sight. Before her was what appeared to be a gothic style tomb; a large marble sarcophagus was surmounted by a reclining statue carved in full relief. This was the sort of thing you'd find in a cathedral, or a large parish church, but not some out of the way country grave yard. Stepping closer she brushed the dust and cobwebs from it's face and her astonishment changed to utter incredulity. This was no statue, but a corpse, unlike any corpse she had ever seen. He, for it was a man, was as perfectly preserved as if he'd died that very morning. The flesh, though deathly white and almost translucent, was flawless and unbroken, and his long flowing hair , was dark and silken. She gently blew the dust from his eyelids, almost expecting them to flutter open, and noted that every eyelash was perfect and intact.
Her first instinct was to run, but her feet refused to cooperate. She stood, rooted to the spot, not sure whether to feel horror or fascination. Having not expected to find so much as a bone, a fresh corpse was simply over whelming. Eventually fascination won out and she tentatively touched a hand to his pale and apparently lifeless cheek. It was cold, as cold as the stone on which he lay, but surprisingly supple. The cheek of even a fresh cadaver should be flaccid, the eye sockets sunken and the skin turning leathery over stiffening muscle, but every thing about him was as pump and perfect as if he'd simply fallen asleep. The accumulation of dust and cobwebs indicate he had lain here for quite some time, and yet.... how was that possible?
She stared, dumbstruck, for several minutes before moving to examine him more carefully. He must have been about thirty-five when he died. His clothing was old-fashioned; a studded shirt, a black waistcoat and black wool dress pants. His shoulder length hair was dark and straight, and lay around his head like a sprawling lions mane. He had been, and still was for that matter, a prince of a man to look at. His brow was broad, his nose straight and hawkish. His upper lip formed a perfect cupids bow, whilst the lower was full and pouty. His eyes turned down a slightly at the corners, making him seem a little sad, but his cheeks showed a hint of crows feet creases; he'd clearly known a lot of laughter. His short beard and moustache were neatly trimmed and the nails on his large and manly hands carefully manicured. Curious, she reached for his wrist, searching for a pulse, but there was none. Feeling suddenly dizzy, she realised she'd been holding her breath, and stepped outside to get some fresh air.
Evening was coming quickly. It would soon be dark and she had some distance to walk to the small country pub which she'd made her temporary home. Retreating from the crypt she secured the door and covered it with some fallen branches, then made her way back to the hotel in somewhat of a daze. Thoughts of her discovery haunted her and as a result got very little sleep. The run down little hotel offered few facilities, even the TV was broken, so she sat at the open window, letting the warm night breeze drift over her and puzzling over her find. When she did managed to doze the most bizarre thought crossed her mind, one she thought herself mad to entertain. Nevertheless she returned to the crypt the following day with a hypothesis to test.
Creeping though the low door she half expected to find him gone; a mere figment of her imagination, or some demented dream resulting from too much sun. But there he lay, as perfect and uncorrupted as before, beautiful, fantastic and utterly still. She approached, with her heart in her mouth, looking for any change, any hint that he had might have moved during the night, but nothing, no signs of life what-so-ever. She laughed at herself for coming up with such a ridiculous theory, however just to discount the possibility entirely she leaned over, brushed his pale mouth with a delicate finger and lifted back his upper lip. What she found was what she'd half dreaded finding, a fang.
