The Crimson Cravat

Craig Dimson and his crew of three crooks, crept through acres of farmland crops one humid summer night like a pack of wild, hungry wolves.

They traveled to graveyards at the darkest hour when the yellow moon was the only light that lit their path, and the twinkling North Star the only navigator they needed.

     They made a living robbing large graveyard mausoleums of wealthy people. Craig was the master mind of it all. First he’d read obituaries in the newspapers, then he researched the net worth of the dearly departed. He documented the trust funds, inheritances, property ownership, and charitable foundations.

     He took note of family members left behind. The less family, the better. That meant less attention and visitors would suspect any evidence of foul play.

     The time to strike when the iron was hot was the night of the entombment. Dressed from head to toe in inconspicuous clothing, and with sacks on their shoulders big enough to hold a 70 pound body, they pried the heavy mausoleum stone walls open with toe jacks and clamps. Once inside they’d slide the flat rectangular tomb stone covers aside with their own human strength, and then with crowbars popped the coffins open like a cork popping out of a bottle.  

     They snatched all kinds of treasures like heirloom diamond necklaces, emerald head dresses, embroidered crystal gowns, and bags of gold bars and coins.  Craig would go to extreme lengths if necessary to steal valuables. Like the time he used a utility knife to slice off five fingers from a dead woman because he couldn’t slip off her gem stone rings. There was also the time he used pliers to pull out a dead man’s top row of teeth because he couldn’t remove the gold and diamond grillz that encased them.

        On this particularly hot and humid night, Craig pointed the crew members in different directions for tombs to open. He snatched a fine, silk, crimson cravat himself from the suit neck of a dead Creole man that laid before him. It wasn’t all that valuable. He just used it to wipe the sweat off his brow before he helped himself to the man’s Rolex watch. But before the material could slip from Craig’s fingers and reach the marble mausoleum floor, the Creole man sat up like a wound up doll. His head rotated a full 360 degrees right before Craig’s eyes. He drew his jaws wide open, and began to croon with a craze…OUUUAAAHHHH!

     The mausoleum walls began to rumble. The ceiling began to shake. The thieves shielded their heads from falling concrete stones. The longer the creole man crooned, the more the walls cracked like growing angry spiders. The ground trembled like the dead knew what was going on. The stone walls finally gave out and crashed into a smoky heap to the ground.

     The next morning the criminals’ bodies were discovered by the groundskeeper.  Their bloody, black and blue bodies were contorted. Their bones crushed. Each crook had limbs missing. Craig had all of his, but there was no sign of his skull. The Creole man laid there in his open coffin without a crumb of dirt or dust. He was in the exact same position he had been upon burial, but this time, in his stiff cold hand, he clutched his fine, silk, crimson cravat. 

 

 
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