HAUNTINGS: The Dead Sell Their Tombs to Me

By Nikki Bausch

The deceased stand ready by their open tombs, like salespeople at mall kiosks. They’re misunderstanding the point of my visit to their old cemetery in the southern part of Munich, as the dead tend to do, as I’m walking through rows of tombs. The ornate 19^th century tombs have been thrown open, empty and pristine, as if the last two centuries had never passed. Their lush, spotless interiors are an illusion—a clever sales gimmick. I have so many questions about how the dead could clean up after themselves. Technically, they’re decaying, and wouldn’t that add to the mess? Well, I can only speculate. Maybe it was magic spells uttered for hours in a haunting chorus that removed the stains, candles burning to the ground until the wind snuffs the flames out like a timer. Maybe the ghosts can possess the strongest bodied of the living to scrub their tombs with lye until the job is done.

In the caskets, there are only damp, golden leaves, which are falling from the trees. A storm shakes the flora around us. My camera with its expensive lens is still around my neck. I know I’m dreaming, because I would never be so careless about my camera in real life. I’m restless, my body lying in Vienna, but my soul has been transported back to this old cemetery I visited months ago.

I know I shouldn’t be walking around in pursuit of photos all night in Bavaria. I need to be well-rested so in the morning I can get up and go to my classes. Despite this awareness, I’m stuck in my shooting mindset. I’m trying to keep an eye out for the gate to leave, but this situation gushes with “spooky aesthetic”, so I am stuck in a loop of “Carpe Diem.” The owners of the tombs step in front of me trying to mingle, as if we’re at a cocktail party with no cocktails. We don’t speak the same German anymore due to major linguistic changes, so the dead must rely on grand gestures to communicate with me.

I’m approached by a man in an elaborate three-corner hat complete with ostrich feather. I yell over the wind, which is picking up, “Ich schaue nur.” I’m just looking. The raindrops plopping on my head are also disorienting. He shrugs and looks down at his silk stockings. I realize he’s shy. He must not believe in the product he’s selling, or this is only a summer job for him.

An elderly woman nearby stops me. She wears a too-white coif with wiry, gray curls visible beneath. This disheveled hairstyle clashes with her floral-print, lavender Rococo gown and its wide pannier accentuating her hips. It seems as if in the hundreds of years that have passed, she has lost the elaborate wig intended to complete her very trendy look. Her grip, as she grabs my arm is ice-cold and it startles me. She leads me to a tomb along the wall marked by two cherubs, who may have lost their heads but at least nobody had clipped their wings. Her movements are like a court dance, as she attempts to call to my attention the burgundy velvet interior—like the padded chairs in a palace—and the dainty, peach silk pillow.  She smiles and nudges me toward her tomb. She’s charismatic, even without a voice. Yet, there is a darkness about her, something not quite right. I realize, studying her for a while longer, that she has no eyes. I glance around and see the others also only have dark pits where their eyes should be. This sight is not disgusting, over-the-top gory. It’s unsettling though, like staring down a well.

I move on to the next tomb, hoping the gates will come into view soon. The residents along the walls plead for my attention. I know they want me to lay down, test the firmness of each coffin, roll around to see if it’s to my liking, and I don’t want to. I don’t trust the sales-ghosts. I bet they would even bamboozle me into buying the extra warranty too. Is this my punishment for all the years I wasted in retail, selling cheap junk at a mark-up to the unwitting, future stars of TV docuseries about American hoarding? There are plenty of other tourists of the macabre, some with cameras hanging off straps around their necks like me. The dead peddle their burial plots to these other wanderers too. I think, I would have sold my soul to Mephistopheles for this kind of foot traffic in my salesgirl days, if only to get the district managers off my back.

“Look, I just want to make it to the Naschmarkt in Vienna and eat my weight in falafel for dinner time tomorrow,” I hear a 50-something-year-old man say, “Plus, I still gotta visit Falco.” I turn in the direction of the New Jersey-accented voice. The man’s jorts and green-stained, lawn-mowing sneakers seem out of place in this setting.

I agree with this man. I wouldn’t want to be riding the train to Vienna with my mortality on my mind either. I’d rather be dreaming of apple strudel and Wiener Melanges in the morning, and Schnitzel with liters of beer in the evening. If there were a comment box for suggestions for the sales-ghosts, I would have told them they’d have better luck selling postcards or magnets, things that would fit in hand luggage. A tomb is a bit too much of a long-term commitment for someone on holiday.

            The world spins around me like I’m on a cobblestone carousel. Instead of mirrors around the ring gear, the platform circles around the red brick lapidarium and its arched entrances. The busts of historical figures within stare out at me with countenances of stoic indifference, as the platform turns. The platform stops and another resident of the cemetery ushers me away to look at his used eternal bed. He is confident like he thinks I have his name on my dance card . . .or even a dance card. I’m drowsy and my body is heavy. I’m quickly losing control over the situation.  

This man has dark hair pulled back in a tiny ponytail with a satin ribbon. He wears tight, knee-length breeches, a double-breasted blue velvet jacket with tails. There are buckles on his pointed-toe shoes like the pilgrims of my Pocahontas nightmares. He leads me to his double tomb, the lid vaulted with pulleys like door knockers, which hang inverted like nipple rings, as the lid rests, thrown open. A lion statue stands on a pillar, frozen yet forever pacing, and there to guard the occupants like the family dog. Suddenly, I’m being laid to rest, staring up at the sky as it turns violet, like we’ve skipped over a scene. I don’t remember lying down. Raindrops continue to fall on me, and they should be blurring my vision. I can still see as the residents gather around the tomb, as I sink lower. Their motions are celebratory. Some partner up and waltz. Others leap up and down, in giddy silence, their silk stockings falling around their ankles. We’ve made another sale, I imagine them cheering. Hades can’t deny us our bonuses again this month.

This isn’t a fate or plot I would have chosen for myself. If I could have chosen, I would go for a tomb with a giant, feminine angel sitting atop it like it’s her throne, wings outstretched and dripping with mildew, her expression as fierce and confident as I have wished I could be over the years—and most important, something ground level. I’m so annoyed because this dream experience doesn’t help with my fear of being buried alive. Still, I don’t want to be a Karen and make a scene.

—

Nikki Bausch is from St. Louis, Missouri and has been pursuing her masters degree in Vienna, Austria. She is a visual artist currently working on a cemetery documentation project for temporary graves, and has written work forthcoming in Cauldron Anthology, Burnt Breakfast, Bandit Fiction, and Peculiars. She also writes in German and translates from Czech to English.