The stone slabs of the mausoleum doors ground against the ground as Simon forced them open. He checked around again, to make sure a night patrolman hadn't picked the cemetery to patrol. He sucked in his stomach and sidled into the gap, reaching back out for his pack of tools and lantern.
Simon pushed the doors back closed, ever so quietly and caught his breath. It smelled of old death, rats, and mildew. He struck a match and lit the lantern. Its flickering light threw shadows on the walls, inky black settling into the carved words of names and dates. A bench stood just inside. A place for quiet reflection and remembrance. The family could still come to pay their respects. They didn't need to know the rest.
If the plans he found in his great uncle's office were to be believed, the back wall hid a keyhole that would take him further down into the earth. A doddering old man, he liked that Simon took an interest in his old stone masonry designs. It was dangerous work at times, his great uncle said, wanting to recount the tale of his missing assistant. Simon said he couldn't stay long after his great uncle said that maybe Simon could finally really make something of himself. His great uncle didn't need to know the truth, either.
Simon searched the wall, dragging his fingertips along the chilly surface. Every so often he'd feel a dip or a divot that he had to investigate. Finally, he found it, the metal tarnished and covered in dead moss. A good sign. The family didn't find the need to come down here often. He slid a file into the hole and loosened the grime. It hardly took him a moment to insert the lockpick and feel the tumblers release. There was a satisfying click and the wall pulled away. He might just be able to get this done in enough time to grab a drink or two in celebration.
Pushing the door open, Simon lifted the lantern high. Stone steps descended into darkness. More spaces for the dead lined the walls. These could hold rarer valuables, but he assumed the best goodies were kept in the deepest, darkest part of the tomb.
He carefully tread down the stairs, watching his feet for rogue rats or slick patches. It wouldn't do to fall and hurt himself. Would certainly cut into profits, at least. Simon continued. And continued. Eventually the graves stopped, bearing names and dates marred with muck. He leaned against the last grave and gave it a tap, thinking.
Simon peered down the stairwell. It kept going. The steps beyond looked like they were carved out of the earth itself. "What do you think?" he asked the gravemarker. "Keep going? Or do you want to dance?" He considered it. His great uncle's plans were helpful, but he hadn't been able to steal them and he couldn't remember if anything else lay beyond. It was colder, clammier, down here. But he was a graverobber. Spooky was the name of the game. You've just got to be spookier, he said to himself.
"A coin flip," he said. He dug a penny from his pocket. "Call it," he said to the grave. He flicked the coin and caught it, slapping it onto the back of his hand. "Tails," he said. "Further we go."
Simon stepped down and went on down the tunnel. Tree roots had pierced through, dangling above him, dragging along his head and getting caught in what little hair he had. He ducked, not liking the feel of roots, like fingers, tugging at his head.
He finally reached the end of the staircase. He heaved a great sigh and dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. He checked his timepiece. So much for that drink.
Walking on flat ground now, the tunnel walls started to gradually grow narrower. Eventually, he was on his hands and knees. Well this is pointless, he thought. What could the family have possibly kept down a tunnel no bigger than a man's shoulders? But then again, that might be exactly what they hoped a thief might think.
Biting the lantern's handle, Simon crawled further into the tunnel. There was that wretched feeling again. Roots snagging in his hair, along his clothes. Like the ground was trying to cop a feel. Eventually, he reached a point where he had to wiggle through, pushing the lantern ahead, then dragging himself through on his elbows. It was getting harder to breathe. And those damn roots were getting tougher, tearing his shirt and maybe even breaking skin.
With a sigh of relief, Simon reached the end of the tunnel. It opened up into a larger room. At least one he could stand in. He squinted, not sure what he saw against the wall. Metal bolts, a chain threaded through circular eyes. He followed the chain down onto the ground and started. A man, or what remained of him. Curled in the corner, his mostly decayed face was turned to look over his shoulder.
The roots above barely touched Simon, making him jump. He turned about, holding the lantern high. He'd cut the damn things down. Simon stepped back. And again, slamming his back against the wall.
They weren't roots, but fingers. Flexing and groping towards him. The chains rattled as the man's corpse stood, bones falling away and clattering onto the ground. The fingers lifted him up off the ground, wiggling into his mouth to move the jaw and act as a tongue. "So glad to have you here," a voice said from all around Simon. "I haven't had a new friend in ages."
Simon fell to his knees, a high pitched whine escaping him. He tried to crawl back through the passage. The fingers lining the inside of the tunnel were laced together now, brambles and thorns made of skin and bones. The body behind him took a step, then another. "Get back!" Simon said, throwing the lantern. It clanged against the skull then shattered against the ground. There was a brief, bright burning and then darkness.
"Where are you going?" the voice asked, "Don't you still want to dance?"
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